Myths of the Modern Man

by Jacqueline T Lynch

  Dr. Ford, however, was possessed of enough conscience and shame for both of them, as he clumsily tried to extricate himself from Dr. L’Esperance’s continuing embrace. Eleanor shot him a look of what she hoped was wry humor and careless open defiance, with none of the hurt she felt.

  She turned and left the room, without further look or any words. Passing by Milly’s workstation, she nearly bumped into Milly, who was returning from her break.

  “Here. Done with this,” Eleanor called to her, and pulled the disk from her pocket and flipped it to Milly like a Frisbee, without breaking her stride, and continued down the hall to her lab.

  Once in the secure confines of her lab, her first inclination was to lock the door, but quickly decided that would be an act of childish petulance, and she wanted above all to convey the proper attitude to Dr. Ford. She was still sorting out what that attitude was to be, when she heard his knock of propriety on the door, and he entered, quietly closing the door behind him, as if he were entering a sick room. She waited for him to tell her that Dr. L’Esperance had made advances on him, that he was merely fending her off in as gentlemanly a way possible.

  He said nothing for what seemed like several minutes.

  Eleanor cleared her throat, and did not look at him while she made a performance of rechecking her mission parameters one more time.

  “I will confess, Cassius, that I never considered damage control before. I suppose my sureness prevented me, and now General English is making a politician of me.”

  Dr. Ford raised his eyebrows. So, he was not to get a tongue-lashing. She was not going to be the nagging “wife.” His earlier comment had found its mark. He was pleased, more with himself than with her, and with relief announced with assumed authority,

  “You’re getting scared.”

  “I have no reason to be scared. Don’t make accusations,” she said in a low, crisp voice.

  He smiled. He admired her bravado. He had always admired the way she had clawed her way out of her poor childhood to become the nation’s pre-eminent theorist in time travel. It made her tough in a way he was not, and yet at the same time he knew she was still awed of his wealthy, well-bred pedigree, and he liked that because he really did not like to work too hard to impress people. He was a noted scholar in his own right, but his work in history did not require him to turn theory into practical application. At least, it did not until this Time Dimension department got underway. Now, more was expected of him and he was not certain he liked that.

  “All right,” Eleanor said, sighing, “let me put it another way….”

  “By all means. Use layman’s terms for my behalf.”

  She started.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t be angry. Your paranoia is very disagreeable at times, but then I suppose that is what makes you a survivor.”

  She glanced in perturbation down at her monitor, “Paranoia?” She felt he was goading her. She would not be baited, and let him continue.

  “Survivors are so in vogue now. They’re selling special kits in department stores and supermarkets. Special kits!” he laughed.

  “Sea levels rising every six months make the nuclear scare of the last century seem funny, doesn’t it? The droughts, the warmer temperatures are just beginning to make the populace anxious, the earthquakes along the Pacific Rim, and here you are in your clean white laboratory in your clean white coat, playing survival of the fittest in terms of budget cuts and fall guys.”

  He laughed, but it was not in derision. Cassius Carleton Ford wore his upper class heritage with ease and grace, and was never riled nor lowered himself to display bad manners. He left that to the scores of people hell bent on surviving. He preferred to place his luck in the concept of natural selection and a finely tailored jacket.

  Eleanor met his gaze of his dark eyes again, chiding, but warm. He always had the ability to make her feel utterly foolish and yet somehow lovingly forgiven in spite of it. She would have to analyze this in her next bath. Could she have a masochistic streak?

  “I don’t want to fight, Cassius.”

  “I know you don’t. You’re like me.”

  “So, what are we going to do about it?”

  He came a little closer.

  “We are going to push on, get past this, and do our jobs, and not let any of what’s happened affect our work or affect our relationship, because that is the kind of people we are.”

  She took a deep breath and looked up at him, thoughtfully.

  “Actually, Cassius, you’re wrong. That is the kind of person I am. I’m still not sure about what kind of person you are.”

  He put his hands in his pockets and considered the floor.

  “You and I are so clever with each other,” she said, “never trusting, only playing with each other like leopards in a zoo cage. It’s a game that suits both of us. But, suppose I took it up a notch? Suppose I didn’t want to share my cage with Dr. L’Esperance, and I got rid of her? Suppose I got rid of you, too, out of similar mistrust?”

  She read the disbelief melting over his features in place of where the superior smirk had been.

  “I have my own value, Eleanor. Surely you remember that.”

  “Being male? Yes. You have the good fortune to be a commodity. Colonel Moore is also male, and a hero, and far more valuable to this mission, to this department, to the public, and therefore, possibly, to me. I believe you said as much before? Perhaps I only need one male.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Colonel John Moore’s narrative:

  We rode north, making a wide sweep of Verulamium to the west and also avoiding the remains of the decimated IX Legion to the east. Ironically practically following a Roman-made road, we inched our way into the fringes of the kingdom of the Brigantes, where a messenger had preceded us to tell Cartimandua of our mission to retrieve her response to Boudicca’s offer of an alliance. The messenger, whoever he had been, had been undoubtedly as expendable as we were now.

  Dubh rode ahead in the lead, sullen, angry, and a little scared I think that his sister had cast him out on a mission that held more danger than honor. Unless he were successful and brought back a Brigantian relief force. Then all honor would be his as clan chieftain, brother of the queen, and leader of our little band of outcasts.

  Nemain rode his horse far enough behind Dubh to avoid being a target to whoever lay beyond the next hill or clump of trees, and would let Dubh take the first hit. I was surprised Boudicca would send him away with us. He was, after all, a high Druid priest. He had magic and power beyond the political.

  Unfortunately for Nemain, he had chosen to leave his sphere of celestial influence and dirtied his hands in a politically motivated act of reprisal. That made him less mystical in everyone’s eyes and more just like anybody else. An alliance with Cartimandua, however, would redeem him as well, for it would be all due to his magic.

  Cailte was perhaps the least frightened, but the most dejected. There was no way for him to regain his former stature with the tribe, with the inner circle of the Queen. Even if we were successful with Cartimandua, Dubh and Nemain would reap the honors.

  I rode with him on his horse, straddling behind him, with my arms around his muscled waist in a way that reminded me of the way he held Tailtu by force. I clutched him to avoid falling off the horse, and to show him I wasn’t afraid. I’m your shadow now, you bastard. Try and get rid of me.

  We did not speak. They wanted to kill me now that we were far from the tribe and they were free to do it, but that would no longer serve their purpose and none of them could return to the Iceni if they did. For my part, I was here because I was a liability to the Queen now that I had shamed her, so she had to get rid of me, and yet she must have felt that I was the most potentially useful member of this diplomatic corps because of my ability to see in the future. I could impress and scare Cartimandua into joining the Iceni, in a way Dubh, nor Nemain, nor Cailte would be able to impress or frighten. Boudicca was that vindictive, a
nd that brilliant.

  And now we were going off the script. Boudicca, history tells us, did not achieve an alliance with Cartimandua. History does not record that she ever sought one. But, here we were, and how much of this was due to me?

  Well before we even reached the village of Lindum, which in later years would be called Lincoln, we stumbled upon an unexpected army encampment. It was Cartimandua’s, almost as if she figuratively were here to meet us, but that was not the case.

  Cartimandua had heard news of the Iceni rebellion, knew the Roman response drew close at hand, and wanted to be mobile for the sake of survival. She traveled the length and breadth of her kingdom to keep two jumps ahead in a defensive move to avoid being involved at all in any skirmish between the Iceni and the Romans.

  I don’t think Dubh figured that out. When we were approached, disarmed, and brought to the queen’s tent under guard, he seemed to think the evidence clear that she was also on the march to fight the Romans, since clearly the brave Iceni had broken the Romans down for them. He strutted like a man who was about to get his terms.

  Three guys bigger than him pushed the moron to his knees before the queen. I smiled. Nemain dropped to his knees quite voluntary and stared obediently at the ground. Cailte and I stood quietly, calmly looking around like we were going to buy the place, and then both of us slowly knelt as casually as if we had nothing better to do. A little more solemnity by either of us and it would have appeared we were jointly kneeling to receive our marriage blessing. It sickened me to discover how much alike he and I were sometimes.

  Now I had to take something into account. If for some reason I did not get myself to the correct quadrants within southern Britannia by the end of October, which I would know because of the celebration of the Samhein, then Eleanor could not bring me back. I would be stuck here. There was a geographic element to the successful machinations of gravitational time travel, even if you were sent to a time with no atlases. Getting hung up far north of where I was supposed to be would seal my fate and keep me here for the rest of my life.

  Not that I really wanted to live the rest of my life in the late 21st century either, where survival fell into the hands of only those who could afford it. At least here, I stood as good a chance at living as anyone else here did. We all have to die sometime. It’s how you fill up your hours in the meantime that’s the big deal.

  Cailte did not look at the ground. He looked proudly, defiantly at the Queen being debriefed by her aides.

  Suppose I had to stay here? Could I find a way to buy Tailtu and Bouchal from him? Perhaps I could challenge him to a fight with them as the stakes, and put myself up as well. I would defeat him and take his servants, or become his servant myself if I lost. Either way, I would be with them.

  They would be my family.

  Maybe he wouldn’t go for that. No, he wouldn’t want me around. He’d sell me the first chance he got, and I would be separated from them.

  Bastard.

  “They tell me you are brother of the queen of the Iceni,” Cartimandua suddenly spoke in a shrill voice.

  “Tell me why I should not ransom you?”

  Dubh’s eyes opened wider, and he would have leapt to his feet, in anger or fear I didn’t know, but he was pushed down again, this time harder, this time until his face touched the floor. Cartimandua clucked a high, feminine giggle that struck me as such a contrast from Boudicca’s stoic ways.

  “And a Druid, and a bard. What manner of game is this?” Cartimandua sat comfortably on a jeweled throne, furs at her feet, and a thicket of guards all around her. Her gown, her jewel-bedecked hair indicated she was not a warrior, but a manager of warriors and of everything around her. She was older than Boudicca. She had been at this business a long time. Her hair had turned prematurely gray, but that was irrelevant with lime washings, jewels and headpieces. She was the grand dame of the barbarian world.

  “Will I speak before the Queen?” I said in a loud stage voice, but in deference to the Queen, addressed my question to the guard with the sword above my head. He looked to his queen for direction.

  Cartimandua raised her eyebrows, bemused, and gestured her permission.

  “The Queen already knows our mission. I will not trouble her further. I am here only to tell a story to the Queen, if she will hear,” I said, and sensed Cailte turning his head toward me, wondering at my boldness or stupidity. Perhaps he felt I was showing off again. Well, in a way I was.

  “Has Boudicca sent me two bards?” Cartimandua laughed, inviting her staff to laugh as well. It wasn’t that funny.

  “I am not a bard. I am a slave.”

  Murmurs of disdain and ridicule. Cailte seemed pleased it was clear now that he was the only bard here. Cartimandua cast an eye on her staff and guards, and noted their reactions.

  “Why would the queen want to listen to Boudicca’s slave? I have slaves of my own. They are not allowed to speak.”

  “I am not Boudicca’s slave, but a slave of the Romans.”

  They settled down, stopped all the stupid snorting, and since Cartimandua seemed like a person who had a very small attention span, so I got right to it.

  “I escaped from the land of the Romans, and journeyed back to the Iceni after many years.”

  But, she was not really interested in hearing about me. I sensed, intuitively, her favorite subject was herself.

  “And the Queen has had a very different life,” I continued, instantly shifting gears, “When Caratacus, king of the Catuvellauni fought his rebellion against the Romans, he sought refuge with the Brigantes, with Queen Cartimandua and King Venutius.”

  She started at the name, as did several of her guard. It happened ten years ago, and life had never been the same since for any of them. Some of the soldiers exchanged brief glances of wariness and discomfort. Cartimandua stared at me.

  “You offered refuge to Caratacus, but your sympathies, and your allegiance were with the Romans. The Romans, you felt, would reward you, and Caratacus was a fugitive in no position to grant rewards. So, you lured Caratacus to your protection, then deceived him and handed him over in chains to your Roman masters….”

  “Silence the slave!” Cartimandua shrieked, and several soldiers came toward me.

  “If you silence me, you will never know the end of this story.” I called over their heads to her, “Will I continue for the Queen’s pleasure, alone?”

  Cartimandua paused only a moment before she answered. She was so used to making deals that she figured this was just such a deal. She seemed more clever than curious, and like a good businesswoman, determined never to let an opportunity slip by.

  “Bring him to me,” she called to her guards, and then coyly over her shoulder as she left the tent, “In chains, like Caratacus.”

  In a moment I was bound in chains and led to a smaller tent, dark save for the ghostly wisps of tallow light, and a fire crackling from a round stone pit in the middle of the fur-covered floor. Cartimandua sat on what looked more to be a bed than the throne, swathed in pillows and draped in coarse fabric. I was placed on my knees on the far opposite side of the tent, with the fire between us. She dismissed her guards and kept only a personal female servant to attend her. The young slave pretended she was not present, while observing the queen’s every gesture for clues as to her needs and wants.

  “Has the story of Caratacus spread to Rome?” she asked, wary, but with forced amusement, “And has my fame spread as well?”

  “Do you want to know what happened to Caratacus, after you turned him over to the Romans?”

  “That does not interest me.”

  “He was brought to the great city of Rome and paraded before the praetorian guard.”

  “He was of course put to death. I know this.”

  “No. He was pardoned by the Emperor.”

  “He was pardoned for rebellion?”

  “He and his family will live out their lives in comfort. He impressed the Romans. His eloquence saved him, and his reputation for honor.”


  She scoffed. “Eloquence. When does eloquence save a doomed man?”

  “Is that why you betrayed him? Because he was doomed already for his rebellion, and of no use to you?”

  “There was no betrayal. He was nothing to me.”

  “He was a Celt, standing against the invaders.”

  “He was not of my tribe. His own people had been vanquished. I looked after my own tribe.”

  “You looked after yourself. Many in your tribe resented your alliance with the Romans. Many broke away from you and joined the Iceni in rebellion against you. Led by your husband, Venutius, who left you for your treachery.”

  “Look how they have failed. Now the boasting Iceni are also a doomed tribe. The Romans have taken their kingdom.”

  “The Iceni have vanquished the IX Legion. They have destroyed Camulodunum and Londinium.”

  “They have not yet vanquished the XX Legion, nor the II, nor the XIV Legions. Where are they? I will tell you something now. They are there in the midlands. They are waiting. They will come.”

  “The Brigantes are the largest, most powerful tribe of all. If you joined with the Iceni….”

  “The Romans sent an entire Legion to protect me…against Venutius and his shameful fight with me. Can the Iceni, can Boudicca do better?”

  It suddenly occurred to me that Tailtu had been sold into slavery to the Iceni about the time of the split between Cartimandua and Venutius. Tailtu’s family must have sunk into poverty after joining Venutius on the losing side. Those straggling outcasts of the Brigantes huddled in small villages along the border with the kingdom of the Iceni. The defeated were not welcomed into any other kingdom, and were too weak to form their own. Some gratefully sought servitude for a more powerful tribe. Some sold their children for the survival of the family. Could her family be so close by? Ten years had passed. That was a long shot.

  “Slave!” she shrieked, and her servant jumped, but she meant it for me, because I had been distracted.