by Bob Mayer
“I was in the back,” the Oracle said. “I don’t know how he got in.”
“Who did it?” Cyra asked.
“I only caught a glimpse,” the Oracle said, but she tipped the edge of the chalice toward Scout. “She says it was Pandora.”
Cyra’s eyes widened. “From Thermopylae? I have some memory of you, of us, meeting her. Why would she do this? Why would she come here?”
“I think she is an agent of the—” Scout paused, uncertain how much to say, not sure who, exactly, the Oracle or her daughter were. Was the Oracle a Time Patrol agent? It seemed so. But how was Cyra part of this? Another agent, to follow in her mother’s footsteps?
“The Shadow?” The Oracle finished the sentence. She nodded at Scout. “Yes, I am the one you are to meet. I sent the warning into time to get help. But you are too late.”
“Why did you send a warning?” Scout asked.
“I sensed trouble looming,” the Oracle said. She lifted a finger off the chalice and pointed at the body. “I was right, of course.”
“But this violates the Sacred Truce of Hierominia,” Cyra said. “All of Greece will hunt her down.”
“I’ll hunt her down,” Scout said. “If she’s still here.”
“Who is this Pandora?” Cyra asked, but she directed the question toward her mother.
“She’s like us, but not one of us,” the Oracle said. “There is much I have to teach you.”
“And this Shadow,” Cyra said. “What is that? How can you send a warning in time?”
Scout glanced at the Oracle, but the old woman didn’t answer her daughter’s questions. Scout could see where one could get a reputation as a psychic with such answers and lack of answers.
“She said we were sisters when I met her at Thermopylae,” Scout said.
“Pandora has the Sight,” the Oracle said. “I can sense you have it,” she said to Scout. “I have it. But there’s a divergence on how powerful the Sight is in each of us.” She tipped the cup toward Cyra. “She’s my daughter, and she has it, and I believe hers will grow more powerful than my own one day. She’ll sit in this blasted chair and have her ass rubbed raw, listening to every stupid question one could possibly imagine. Telling fools what they want to hear, and every once in a while, telling someone special something important.”
Scout opened her mouth to ask a question, but the Oracle wasn’t done, addressing both Scout and her daughter. “We are descended from the original priestesses of Atlantis. A place only we know of. The word means nothing to the world. Other than visions I get at times, I don’t know much of Atlantis. I know it was destroyed by the Shadow a long, long time ago, and some of its priestesses, our ancestors, escaped and scattered around the world. Tell me, girl,” she asked Scout. “In your time, what is known of Atlantis?”
“It’s only a legend,” Scout said. She accessed the download. “The first mention, and really the only source, is from a man named Plato. He—” She paused, realizing Plato hadn’t been born yet.
The Oracle leaned forward. “Yes?”
“It’s just a legend in my time.”
“You were going to say more.”
“There are things I cannot speak of,” Scout said.
“But we are sisters,” the Oracle said.
“That’s what Pandora says, too,” Scout noted.
The Oracle seemed to take it as an insult. “One must be careful, I suppose. Pandora is like us, but not one of us.” She gestured, and Cyra picked up the amphora, carried it over, then poured a generous portion into the chalice. Scout noticed the Oracle’s hand was shaking. Topped off, the Oracle took a deep drink before resting her hand, and the cup, on the arm of the throne.
“You must hold the secrets you must hold,” the Oracle said, sounding none too pleased about it. “I make it easy for those who come in here. I tell them we are descended from Helen. They know of her from Homer. That our line goes back farther than that, to Thera. That is far enough for those who need to be impressed. They know of Thera, and that it was struck with a great disaster a long time ago which wiped out that kingdom. Close enough. And that our priestesses traveled from there to Knossos on a ship with Apollo. And from there, to here. That’s a pedigree to impress even kings.”
“But Pandora,” Cyra said. “She is spoken of as a Goddess.”
“No,” the Oracle said. “She is human. Not a Goddess. According to legend, she was the first human woman created by the Gods, molded out of earth, designed to be a punishment for humanity after Prometheus stole the secret of fire. The Gods conspired together, and each contributed a gift, a seductive gift, to her constitution.”
“They also gave her a pithos full of evils,” Scout said.
“Which she loosed upon the world,” the Oracle said. “She is why there is evil in the world. She brought it. She sows it.”
“By killing Pythagoras, she has already changed”—Scout paused—“the future.”
My past, Scout thought. I’ve failed.
“Perhaps you can redeem yourself.” The Oracle finally put the chalice down and pointed toward the cave entrance. “I can sense her. Pandora is still here. You must find her. Finish her. Finish her evil.”
United States Military Academy, West Point, New York, 6 June 1843 A.D.
“Dueling is forbidden,” Benny Havens said as he mixed together some ungodly concoction.
Ivar watched in disbelief as the barkeep added rum, beaten eggs, sugar, and a variety of spices into a blackened kettle on the bar. Havens pulled a red-hot poker out of the fireplace, then shoved it in and stirred. Ivar could see ashes from the poker float to the surface.
Havens was a big man, solidly built, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a craggy face. The download confirmed that a “hot flip” was Havens’ hangover specialty, a favorite among cadets, although Ivar thought that was more wishful thinking than reality. It was drinking over drunk, which every college student tried, even cadets at West Point in the mid-nineteenth century.
Ivar also now knew that he—or whoever they thought he was—had been brought down here to Havens’ bar to be the lackey, since every group needed a lackey. That was true in every college, as far as Ivar could remember from his undergraduate and even more numerous graduate student years.
If he’d been more introspective, Ivar might also have realized he’d been the lackey in all those colleges, so it might be ironic that he was one on a Time Patrol mission. But Ivar shied from introspection, because when he went too deep, he went back to the Fun in North Carolina, when he’d been duplicated a half-dozen times. Ever since, he’d never been quite sure if he were the original Ivar, or one of the duplicates.
Havens looked up, satisfied with his mixing skills. “The Superintendent finds out, they’ll both be booted from the Corps.” He lifted the kettle. “Hold that empty bottle for me, lad.”
Ivar did as requested, and Havens carefully filled it. For someone who was objecting to dueling, he didn’t seem deterred from providing refreshments for the event.
“What if one of them gets shot?” Ivar asked, focusing on more mundane matters.
“Pickett’s a hothead,” Havens said. “He’s challenged twice before, but it’s always come to naught. It’s a Southern thing, mostly. I’m surprised at Sam, though. He’s always been one of the calmest lads I’ve ever seen, but he was right in that he can’t imbibe. One draught, and he can’t see straight. Some men have that curse. Another bottle, lad.” He corked the first one.
“Sam can’t get shot or kicked out,” Ivar said.
Havens raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“It just is. He’s a good man.” Ivar thought that was weak, but Havens nodded.
“He has that sense about him,” Havens said. “I can tell you from my time in service in the war, that a good leader is one who can keep his head when things are getting hot.”
The download confirmed that Havens had served in the War of 1812, which Ivar figured was the war to this point, although a co
uple loomed on the horizon for the class of ‘43.
“But,” Havens said, “Sam did have two mugs of ale earlier. And he has a button when someone hurts a horse. Something to do with his father running a tanning mill. Horrible place.”
Ivar didn’t get the connection, but that wasn’t important right now. “What can I do?” Ivar asked as he held out a second bottle, and Havens finished pouring the rest of the hot flip into it.
“Only one fella could cool Sam down.” Havens put a cork in the second bottle.
“Who’s that?”
“Jim Longstreet,” Havens said, “but he graduated last year and is stationed out west at Jefferson Barracks.”
“Who here can calm him down?” Ivar asked, a warm bottle in each hand, hearing the voices of the cadets outside moving away.
Havens folded his arms and looked at Ivar. “Why not you, lad? You seem an odd sort, but I’ve seen the like before.” He smiled. “I remember when Poe used to come in. Edgar was a troubled lad with far too much imagination, and the Academy was no place for him. Imagination doesn’t flourish on the Plain. He also had a tendency toward the morbid. We had many a long talk through the night until we agreed he should depart for other things.”
“You got Edgar Allan Poe to resign?” The voices were almost out of earshot.
“Oh, I didn’t get him to do nothing,” Havens said. “And he didn’t resign. He got kicked out. I hear he’s spreading a tale that he showed up for formation in just his crossbelts, under arms with his musket, and nary a stitch of clothing, but the reality is, he just stopped going to class. Can’t do that for long without something happening. And”— Havens nodded toward the door—“can’t be dueling without something happening. I agree with you. I don’t think Sam should get kicked out of the Academy. Perhaps you best go do something about that.”
“I’d like to talk to you later,” Ivar said as he hustled to the door.
“I’m sure you would, but you better be hurrying.”
Ivar ran out of the tavern. There was a hint of dawn over the Hudson River along with the rumble of thunder in the distance. Ivar paused for a moment to get oriented. He assumed “River Field” was by the river, and he cocked his head and listened. He could hear excited voices, and he headed that way, a bottle in each hand, taking care not to stumble on the narrow path in the dark.
“Took you long enough,” the cadet who’d been hazing Ivar said when he appeared at a clearing on the bank of the Hudson River.
“Give him a break, McClelland,” another cadet said.
At first, Ivar thought the name was McClellan, future General of the Army of the Potomac, who was here at the Academy right now, class of ‘46, but the download indicated he needed to add the D at the end, and it was Grant’s classmate, George C. McClelland. Ivar nodded to himself as he took in the data: McClelland graduated thirty-eighth in his class of thirty-eight, the “goat,” and his listing was short in the Academy’s register of graduates.: Brief and patchy career, dismissed for conduct unbecoming and drunkenness, four years after graduating; in civilian life, a merchant and farmer.
As McClelland uncorked the bottle then drank deeply, Ivar could see the young man’s future plainly laid out.
He turned his attention to the field. It was roughly forty feet long by ten wide, framed by thick trees on three sides and the river on the fourth. A marvelous weeping willow was on the north end, and a large, flat rock on the south.
Pickett stood next to the rock, another cadet with him. The two were arguing.
Grant was alone under the willow, arms folded, as still as the trunk of the tree. Jackson had the Hell-Beast off to the side, holding onto the bridle.
McClelland and two other cadets were observing off to the edge, not committed to either side of this altercation. “Here.” McClelland finally offered the bottle to the other two. He glanced at Ivar, seemed about to say something, then turned his attention back to the field, finding something more interesting than abusing a new cadet.
Pickett brusquely pushed aside the cadet who’d been arguing with him and strode a third of the way across the field toward Grant, who was looking off to the left. “Where is Powell with the pistols?” Pickett called out.
The three observers focused on the bottles rather than Pickett’s question. The Virginian looked at Grant, who had not moved. “You can apologize, Hiram, and we can forego this.”
He just lost, Ivar realized in a flash of understanding, having spent enough time around Moms, Nada, and the team to understand combat. Pickett had lost without a shot fired, because he’d given up control of the situation.
Grant didn’t say anything, allowing enough time for the victory to resonate, then he unfolded his arms. “It will be dawn and reveille soon. We"—” He stopped as a rider galloped up and slid out of the saddle, a wooden box in hands.
“’Bout time, Hill,” one of the cadets with a bottle said.
Ivar connected the two names in the download: Ambrose Powell Hill, known in history at A.P. Hill, but to his friends as Powell.
“Had to skirt the Duty Officer,” Hill said. He walked to the flat stone and opened the lid. “I’ll charge the pieces. I request that both party observe.”
Pickett looked from Hill to Grant, waiting for the latter to speak up, but Grant wasn’t going to yield so easily, not when he already held the upper hand. Pickett stiffened then turned watch Hill, although he was sobering up fast.
Hill was quickly done with his task, placing the pistols back into the box. He faced the field. “Gentlemen, please take your pieces.”
“Shouldn’t there be seconds?” Ivar called out, surprising everyone.
A.P. Hill nodded. “To be true, there should be seconds.”
“I’ll second Pickett,” McClelland said, staggering over.
Grant looked about, but neither cadet on the sidelines stepped forward.
“I’ll—” Jackson began, but Ivar beat him to it.
“I will stand with you, sir.”
Grant nodded.
Hill was back on course, rather eager for this to occur. “Since Mister Pickett issued the challenge, the choice is his. His second will select.” McClelland looked into the box, then drew out a pistol. He brought it to Pickett.
Ivar glanced at Grant to his side. “Want me to, sir?”
“It’s what we’re here for,” Grant said.
Ivar walked the thirty feet across the field, withdrew the remaining pistol, and brought it back to Grant, but he didn’t offer it to the cadet. Instead, he faced the others. “Did you know,” Ivar said in a loud voice that all could hear, “that the first duel in America took place at Plymouth Rock in 1621?”
McClelland glared at Ivar. “Shut up, plebe.”
Ivar ignored him. “I read that in Paris, some time back, there were these two Frenchmen who got into a row over a woman. She was a famous dancer, and the lover of one and the mistress of the other.”
A slight smile cracked Grant’s face, and with that, Ivar could tell his anger was gone. “Not even a wife to either?” Grant asked.
“No, sir,” Ivar said. “One challenged the other to a duel. But not just any old duel. They both believed they were more intelligent than other men. And they needed to duel in a way that befitted their superior intellect. So they agreed to have what they called an ‘elevated duel’ to match their elevated minds. Each got into a balloon with his second. A large crowd gathered to watch. The balloons floated up, above all the buildings. Maybe a thousand feet. They were about one hundred feet apart.”
“Rather far for a pistol shot,” Grant observed.
Pickett was still holding the pistol at his side. His face showed his complete befuddlement at this turn of events. Ivar was quite grateful to Edith for her love of the arcane. Ivar saw someone come out of the tree line in his peripheral vision, but he kept his focus on Grant and Pickett. “They were using blunderbusses.”
“Ah,” Grant nodded. “I have an idea where this might be headed.”
�
��One fired at the other dueler and missed. The second man did not aim at his opponent.”
“He fired at his balloon,” Grant said.
Something finally got through to Pickett. “Why, that lacks honor!”
“But shows some smarts,” Grant observed.
“Yes,” Ivar said, “the other dueler did indeed fire at his opponent’s balloon, a much more opportune target.”
“What happened?” Jackson asked from his position with the Hell-Beast.
“Oh,” Ivar said, “the balloon collapsed, and the first dueler and his second fell headfirst to the ground and died.”
“Despicable,” Pickett said. “No gentlemen would—”
“If you be gentlemen,” a voice called out, “then you best be getting back to the Academy.”
Benny Havens held an old flintlock pistol in his meaty grip.
Ivar could see rays of sunlight piercing the clouds over the hills on the far side of the river. But there was also the flicker of lightning approaching from the north.
Grant faced Pickett. “Perhaps you should ride York back to the stables, George, since you like to use your whip on him. I’m sure he’ll transport you quite safely.”
“Put the gun back in the case, Mister Pickett,” Havens said, waving his pistol thus giving the cadet a way out while saving some face.
Pickett did so, placing his pistol back in it and snapping the lid shut in frustration. A.P. Hill picked it up.
Just in time, as a pair of riders galloped up.
Ivar recognized the man in the lead from his painting: Major Delafield, the Superintendent of the Academy, his horse barely holding his portly weight. A cadet was with him, wearing a red sash and outfitted with a saber—the duty officer. A.P. Hill quickly shoved the box into a saddle bag then hid it on the other side of the rock. Ivar stuffed the pistol, not an easy task, into the back of his pants, wondering how, exactly, the damn thing worked, because even though he’d had extensive firearms training upon joining the Nightstalkers and Time Patrol, flintlock pistols had not been on the training schedule. An accidental discharge right now would not be opportune.
