Ides of March (Time Patrol)

by Bob Mayer

  Washington looked at Caldwell. “I know you hate the British, James. You have every reason to. Far more than most.”

  The information was there: Caldwell’s wife had been killed by the British during the Battle of Connecticut Farms the previous year, the last major attempt by the British to gain victory. A Hessian General had led an attack out of New York City toward Washington’s old encampment in Morristown, but had failed. The event of her death was also hazy in the download, as the records indicated she’d either been shot accidently; or had been targeted by the British who’d already put a price on her husband’s head.

  “More the reason to allow me to speak to the officers,” Caldwell said. “I can redirect their anger from Congress to the British.”

  “What good would that do?” Washington asked. “Our fighting is over. Men would die needlessly attacking New York City. It would violate the truce. If the British come back in force, they might well win back what they believe they have lost. The French have gone home. They have their own problems because of the war. They lent us quite a bit of money. Something else the Congress is unable to pay. Also,” Washington gave a low laugh, “I imagine the British government listens to their soldiers about as well as ours does. Which is to say, not much at all.”

  “Then let me appeal to the officers’ faith, sir.”

  Washington seemed to be considering it. “Remember, though, that you have enemies inside the ranks. We know that.” He indicated the empty sleeve.

  Eagle was invisible, a nothingness. A void whose only use was to fill glasses. His status made him inconsequential, not even human.

  “General,” Caldwell repeated. “We need to draw out the ringleaders.”

  “We do need to stop the discontent,” Washington said.

  “You cannot trust Gates, sir,” Caldwell insisted. “We have to find out who else is in his inner circle of malcontents.”

  Washington nodded. “You have a point. My loyalty blinds me at times.” He drummed his fingers on the desk in contemplation.

  Caldwell shifted in his chair, looked at Eagle with a frown on his forehead, as if he could sense the raging turmoil inside Eagle.

  “Perhaps,” Washington began, “it might be for the best if you addressed the officers. Appeal to their faith yes, but we must give them more than that. We must appeal to their hope for the future. Like you, many of these men lost everything in the war. Their homes gone. Their livelihood gone. They must believe they have not lost what they were promised in order to rebuild their lives.”

  “How will I do that, sir?” Caldwell asked. “We can make no promises beyond those that were already made.”

  “Tell them I sympathize with their grievances. Most know that, but they should be reminded. And words are not enough on my part. They must know that I am taking action. I will go to Philadelphia. I will make a personal appeal to Congress.”

  Washington never did that, Eagle thought. Of more pressing concern: Why was Caldwell still alive? Why was he so opposed to Hamilton? Why did he want to address the officers?

  Washington pulled a pocket watch out of his uniform vest. “The meeting will convene in under an hour. I will prepare to leave. Even though it is nearly dark, I will ride out, past the New Building, and they will all be able to see me depart, knowing that what you tell them is not only true, but being acted upon immediately. I will stop at the first inn on the way to Philadelphia and continue on in the morning.” Washington looked to the door. “Hercules!” he shouted.

  The door swung open. “Sir?” Hercules glanced over at Eagle, then back at Washington.

  “Prepare my valise. We depart for Philadelphia within the half hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eagle knew this was not how it needed to play out. Caldwell was a wild card, perhaps an agent of the Shadow? Perhaps merely saved by the Shadow, the musket ball that should have killed him, instead just taking an arm? What would happen if Washington were out of the Cantonment and Caldwell had free rein to say whatever he wished to a cauldron of unhappy officers? The wheels of history were sliding off the tracks.

  Washington stood. “Keep things in check until I return, James.”

  Caldwell got up. “Yes, sir.”

  Washington strode around the desk and out of the room. Caldwell stood up and gave a slight bow as the General passed him. Eagle was trying to determine his best course of action; but Caldwell didn’t leave. He stopped at the door, then swung it shut and turned back to the room.

  Eagle was gathering the various glasses, while trying to figure out how to get to Washington and change the course of action. He was surprised when Caldwell pushed by him to Washington’s desk and began rifling through the stack of correspondence.

  “Sir!”

  Caldwell was surprised. He glared at Eagle. “What is it?”

  “That’s the Generals’ private—”

  “Shut up,” Caldwell said. With only one hand, he had to shove the papers along the top of the desk, scanning the parchments.

  Given that Caldwell shouldn’t even be here, Eagle wasn’t about to walk away. He could hear Nada’s advice when in an uncertain situation: look for the wild card. The one that doesn’t belong.

  Eagle looked down as Caldwell paused at a certain document. A letter. Signed by Alexander Hamilton.

  Eagle reached out. “Sir-“

  Caldwell drew a flintlock pistol from inside his frock coat, pulling back the hammer and aiming it at Eagle. “How dare you talk to me like that.”

  Caldwell stepped back from the desk, keeping the pistol trained on Eagle who was also backing up, around the desk, getting some space between them.

  “Open the door,” Caldwell ordered. “You say nothing, nigra, you get to live.”

  The muzzle of the flintlock was huge, fitting a round bigger than .50 caliber: a huge round ball of lead. Mass times velocity. At this range, Caldwell couldn’t miss. Eagle moved sideways, reaching out, grasping the latch and swinging the door open.

  “Hercules. Get in here!” Caldwell yelled.

  The chef appeared in less than 10 seconds, taking in tableau. “Sir. No need for that. Samuel, here, he got hurt in the head. He’s never been right since.”

  “He questioned me,” Caldwell said.

  “He was going through—” Eagle began, but then he saw Caldwell’s finger twitch.

  It happened in slow motion, as events like that happened when a surge of adrenaline exploded into a person’s system. The finger twitching, pulling back. The click of the release. The hammer rotating forward toward the priming pan.

  Eagle was moving, throwing himself to the side, toward Hercules.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the flash as the flint on the hammer hit the steel of the frizzen, then the spark struck the powder in the pan.

  The roar of the pistol reverberated in the office.

  The heavy lead ball hit Eagle, slamming him against the log wall.

  Ravenna, Capitol of the Remains of the Western Roman Empire, 493 A.D.

  ROLAND HAD THE LARGE MUG TILTED, the foul concoction inside passing for ale or beer or whatever, but he was peering around the edge at Eric. Who had his own mug to his lips, watching Roland.

  Eric gulped, and continued gulping. So Roland did the same. About halfway through, Roland realized this was a classic laying the schlong on the table, mine is bigger than yours, manly man sort of thing. At least that was how Neeley would describe it and dismiss it.

  But manly man things were important between men. So Roland matched Eric swallow for swallow.

  They went on until both mugs were empty. Eric slammed his down on the table, and Roland followed a second later.

  “Ah!” Eric exclaimed, wiping a dirty sleeve across his mouth.

  Roland didn’t both cleaning up. The download was trying to let him know that drinking anything fermented was actually healthier in this age than drinking the water because—Roland cut that irritating information off.

  The tavern resembled bars Roland had
been in before: a hole in the wall, dark, dingy, filled with the type of people who’d be drinking in the middle of the day, and made their livings in ways that allowed them to drink in the middle of the day and not be killing themselves trying to plow rocks into crops.

  They preferred to kill others.

  At least no one would be pulling a Mac-10 and spraying the room; like a bar Roland had been in once before in some crap-hole part of the world. But there were enough swords, spears, axes, and hidden daggers to make it dangerous enough.

  “They attacked you first, I assume,” Eric said.

  “Who?”

  “The Goths,” Eric said patiently. “Who you killed.”

  Roland had no idea. “Yes.”

  “They must have been waiting,” Eric said. “An ambush.”

  “How would they know where to wait?” Roland asked. “And when?”

  Eric shrugged. “As you said. That’s above my pay. From what I understand, the Shadow is resourceful.”

  Roland considered it. Dane had mentioned that the Shadow made this bubble in time. So that meant any agent of the Shadow would have a good idea of when. And where? Perhaps they hadn’t been waiting for him, but for Odoacer? And Roland had just been in the way? But then it would have been just the four against the Twelve Protectors, and the four Infantrymen. Not a smart ambush.

  “How did you know who I was?” Roland asked the obvious.

  Eric shrugged. “Just felt it. Moment I saw you. Just knew it. You’re not of this time.”

  “Doesn’t that mean everyone else can feel it too?”

  “Everyone else can’t conceive of it,” Eric said. “When you can’t conceive of something, you’re blind to it. And, you have to remember, I was recruited to be a member of the Time Patrol.”

  Roland tried to process that but couldn’t. “How come I don’t feel that way about you?”

  “Because this is my time. I belong here. I’m like everyone else around you.” Eric pointed a finger, the nail black and half smashed off, at his own head. “I just know some things others don’t.”

  “How did you get recruited?” Roland asked.

  Eric smiled. “You have your time and your secrets. I have mine.”

  Roland didn’t buy that answer and Eric must have sensed it.

  “Listen, my friend. I know you cannot tell me of the future. You are from a different part of the Time Patrol. One that moves back and forth in time. Me? I’m stuck here. In this time. I was born here. Will die here. I’ll never travel like that. I have no idea how you do it. I don’t even really know why you do it, other than I was told it is for the safety of all of us through the ages. I know nothing of the time in which you live. How different it is. Whether the ale is better than this swill.” He indicated the mug. “And you don’t know much about me and my part of it. And that’s all for the best. We could only tell what we know if we’re captured.”

  That made sense to Roland. The standard of covert ops. The need to know. Roland already knew the joke would Mac crack reference that.

  “What now?” Roland asked.

  “Whatever is to happen at the banquet shortly,” Eric said, “we have to assume that the Shadow wants the opposite to happen.”

  Nada had also had a Yada about assuming, Roland remembered. One that wasn’t very original to him.

  Eric shifted in irritation or perhaps from fleas and lice. “If you would tell me what is to occur, we can make plans.”

  “One of them kills the other,” Roland said.

  “Which one?”

  “Which one kills? Or which one gets killed?”

  Eric stared at him, his good humor fading momentarily. “Are you that dense?”

  Roland now understood the cheap thrill Mac got from jerking someone’s chain. “One of the kings kills the other.”

  “Everyone in your time as funny as you?” Eric gestured. A few seconds later a woman who appeared to be in her sixties appeared with a large pot. She poured, none too carefully, filling both mugs. Giving the era, Roland figured she was probably in her late twenties. Her clothes were an amalgamation of rags sewn together. The skin on her hands cracked and dry. Her shoulders slumped, indicating her life was already defeated and she was only living because humans almost always fought to live, no matter the circumstances.

  Eric picked up his mug and began to down it, but Roland didn’t follow suit. He was watching three men entering the tavern. They were much too curious about checking out who was inside than looking for a place to sit.

  Halfway through, Eric realized Roland wasn’t drinking. That didn’t stop him from finishing the mug and slapping it back down on the table. “Too much for you? Head spinning? Used to finer drink? I imagine it is indeed much better in your time.”

  “There are three men near the door,” Roland said.

  Eric wasn’t an amateur. He didn’t turn to look. “Armored?”

  “Just leather jerkin. No insignia. They do have swords.”

  “Everyone has swords in here.”

  The bar ‘maid’ went to the newcomers and blocked their view of Roland and Eric. One of the men shoved her out of the way.

  Roland sighed. “They’re not here to drink.”

  “There’s a back door,” Eric said, glancing over Roland’s right shoulder. “Your choice.”

  “If they’re here for us then it’s better to deal with it when we can see them rather than an ambush.”

  Erich laughed. “’Us’? So we’re a team now? You trust me?”

  Before Roland could answer, the three were approaching, amateurs, bunched too closely. Eric picked the pending attack up from Roland’s eye movement. He threw his chair back, coming to his feet as he drew his sword. Roland slid the spatha out of its scabbard and shoved the trestle table out of the way.

  By the time he did that, Eric had already spitted one of the three through the heart with the point of his sword. But the man went down awkwardly, turning, twisting the sword in Eric’s hand. He didn’t let go soon enough and was pulled off balance. Roland was a second late trying to block the center man’s slash at Eric. The edge of the blade hit Eric’s armor on the shoulder, skidded and sliced into the neck.

  The swordsman didn’t have a chance to savor his success. Roland swung his sword so hard it took off his head and had enough momentum to sink into the shoulder of the surviving attacker. Roland jerked the sword out and stepped back, reassessing the situation.

  The first two attackers were dead. Eric was sitting with his back against a bench, hand trying to stem to the flow of blood from the cut on his neck. The last attacker was on the dirt floor, moaning in pain, holding his shoulder. Roland knelt next to Eric and checked the wound.

  Eric nodded ever so slightly toward the man he’d killed. “He died funny.”

  Roland knew exactly what Eric meant. “He did.” The man should have gone down the exact opposite of the way he had. Dead meant dead, and a dead person usually dropped straight down like a stone, but that man had died, and fallen, as Eric said, funny.

  It happened at times. The vagaries of the variables in combat.

  Roland grabbed a dirty rag off a nearby table and pressed it against the wound. Eric looked at his hand, at the blood.

  “Too deep,” Eric said. “Black blood.”

  Roland wished he had a medkit with a Quickclot; he wished Doc were here; he wished he didn’t have to see another warrior he’d fought beside die, even if they’d only just met.

  “You are not very good,” Eric said.

  “I moved as fast as I—”

  “No,” Eric said. “Not that. You’re a good fighter.”

  “What am I not good at?” Roland asked, trying to keep Eric engaged.

  “Your face. As soon as you saw the wound, before I even saw the black blood, I knew I was a dead man. You didn’t hide it in your face.”

  “My—” he almost said girlfriend, which seemed inappropriate somehow, here, and now—” my friend says that of me. She says she can read me quite easily
.”

  Eric smiled, revealing blood on his teeth. “If she is still your friend, as you call her, then she must like that about you. A wench to hold on to.”

  The rag was soaked through with dark blood. In his peripheral vision, and by the growing lack of sound, Roland could tell the tavern was almost empty.

  “She is a good woman,” Roland said. He’d never been good at small talk, but from the first time he’d held a dying man, he’d known one had to keep speaking. A warrior could not go into the darkness with silence from the living next to them.

  “I am not your enemy,” Eric said. “I am what you thought I was. Your contact. Now you must do what must be done on your own. I know you can do that. Whatever it is.”

  “I will,” Roland promised. “But there is a Shadow agent here.”

  “How do you know?” Specks of red froth were on Eric’s lips.

  Roland nodded toward the two dead and one wounded. “Someone sent them. Someone sent the four who attacked me earlier. There was a fifth person there. But she simply disappeared. Must have been a Gate there. She was different than the others.”

  “Ah.” Eric’s eyelids were fluttering. “Tell me, fellow warrior. Which king dies tonight?”

  “Odoacer.”

  “I suspected so.” Eric managed a slight smile. “If you’d told me, I could have wagered on it and earned some decent coin. I also suspect the ale is better in your time.”

  And then he died.

  Roland lowered Eric to the floor, placed his hand on the man’s forehead for a brief moment. “Safe travels.”

  Roland stood, walked over to the wounded man, grabbed him by the neck and dragged him out the back door of the tavern into a narrow alley reeking of sewage and rotting garbage.

  The man was still moaning and whimpering like a hurt dog. Roland patted him down, finding a small pouch of coin.

  “How much were we worth?” He glanced in, but had no clue what the roughly minted coins equaled. He imagined it was in his download, and even as he thought it, the data began to flow, but he easily cut that off. He put the pouch into his belt.

  “Who sent you?”

  The man shook his head, but without much vigor.