Ides of March (Time Patrol) (20 page)

That was the name in the download. Ephialtes, a goat herder, who went to the Persians with word of the trail. Like Quisling, Benedict Arnold, and others, his name would become synonymous with traitor in Greece for future generations.

Apparently not any more.

Scout felt a tremor and for a moment thought earthquake, but realized it was inside her. A ripple. Had she already failed? History had already changed in this detail, inside this bubble, via this severed head in the box.

“The Persians will win regardless,” Pandora said, as if sensing her thoughts. “Even without—” she tapped the box with the tip of her bloody Naga. “It’s simply a matter of time.”

“But time is short,” Scout said.

Pandora smiled as lightning flickered. “Perhaps it’s already too late for you? I can tell you are upset by this.” Once more she indicated the box. “Which means you thought Ephialtes
would
lead the Persians to envelope the Spartans. That it’s the way history records events in
your
timeline.”

“What do you mean?” Scout asked. “You’re not of this timeline?”

“I told you,” Pandora said. “I am timeless. You could be too.”

I’m outta here soon
, Scout hoped. She had to hold on to that.

“The Persians will win regardless,” Pandora repeated. “The battle. But the war? No. They will lose. Leonidas and his men have held long enough. For both the Greeks and for you. And for me.”

“How is that?” Scout asked.

“I told you,” Pandora said. “I’ve already accomplished my mission here and now.”

“The baby.”

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

“That’s not important,” Pandora said. “It’s who comes forth from the baby’s lineage in one-hundred-and-twenty-four years according to the Prophecy.”

Scout had never particularly cared for math, and given they were B.C., not A.D., Scout took a moment to figure it:. “356 B.C.,” Scout said. “Alexander the Great was born that year.”

“And who is that?” Pandora asked. “It sounds as if the Prophecy in this regard was quite on target. The Great? What will he do that is so great? Will he stop men like that?” She indicated the Dagger’s body. “Will he stop war? Will he put mankind on a better path?”

Not exactly
, Scout thought, shutting down the spigot on Alexander’s various conquests. All of which ended up accomplishing what exactly in the long run, except etching his place in the history books? His empire did not last past his death.

“And what of your mission here and now?” Pandora pressed. “What will it accomplish?”

“I don’t know,” Scout answered honestly.

Pandora pointed at her box. “Perhaps I’ve done it for you?” She looked to the left. “Dawn beckons. Despite this,” once more she indicated the box, “your Spartans die today. But then the Persians lose anyway. How futile. Take your King back to his home. Let him, at least, live.”

Pandora faded back into the darkness, leaving Scout alone in the field of the dead. She went back, climbing the wall, not bothering to sneak in. As she clambered down, Leonidas was waiting for her, his sword drawn.

Scout didn’t react as Leonidas pressed the edge of his sword against her neck.

“Speak the truth.”

“I don’t know the truth,” Scout said.

The blade pressed deeper into her skin. “What happened?”

“I met Pandora,” Scout said. She decided to skip to the headline, or at least what Leonidas would consider the headline. “We killed Xerxes’ Dagger. He came after us. He wanted to kill us.”

“He and I have that in common,” Leonidas said, but the pressure from the blade lessened. “Xerxes Dagger? I’ve heard that name. An assassin. Drawn from the ranks of the Immortals. It’s said he had to kill one hundred other Immortals in single combat before he could be bestowed the honor.”

Scout wasn’t sure about the whole honor thing. She wasn’t sure of much at all.

“You killed him?” Leonidas asked.

“We killed him together.”

Leonidas pulled the blade back. “Why?”

Scout rubbed her neck. “He was going to kill us; well, me at least. Isn’t that what people called Dagger do?”

Leonidas chuckled. “That is so. And I am impressed that two women could take out such an opponent.”

“Oh, thanks.” But then she looked to the east and saw the growing hint of red over the water.

Leonidas’ humor vanished also. “It will soon be time.” He turned from her and gazed over his men. Those who weren’t on guard duty were gearing up, although few had actually slept. “Did Pandora go back to Xerxes?”

“I don’t know.”

“How could she after killing Xerxes Dagger?” Leonidas said, but his mind was already on what was to come. He shouted commands to his surviving officers.

“It is best if you leave,” Leonidas said.

“Maybe we should both leave.”

“Never.”

“Take your men,” Scout said. “Lead them away from here. The Persians will be defeated eventually.”

“Is that another prophecy?” But Leonidas was already looking to where his Spartans were forming.

Scout wasn’t sure he heard her reply, before he headed off to command the final defense. “No. It’s a promise.”

Newburgh, New York, 1783 A.D.

EAGLE HEARD VOICES RAISED IN ANGER.
His ears were ringing, his head throbbing.

Déjà vu all over again. Much like after the IED; but at least he wasn’t on fire.

He opened his eyes. He was on his back. A rough plank ceiling above. It was dusk outside the dirty window, indicating he’d been out for a little while. He turned his head and heard the shattered bones grind in his shoulder as the pain stunned him with its intensity. He groaned and Hercules’ face appeared over his.

“Hush! Keep your voice down. Master ain’t happy.”

Eagle smelled something and it took a few moments to recognize it: axle grease. Eagle looked at his left shoulder: wrapped in not-so-clean linen.

“Did you get the bullet out?” Eagle asked.

“Went through,” Hercules said. “Hole on both sides.”

A door slammed open and Washington came into the room, Caldwell right behind him. “We don’t have time for this, General. I told you. The nigra tried to attack me. Your own man said he isn’t in the head. He needs to be put down like a mad dog. And you need to be on to Philadelphia.”

Washington folded his arms, staring down at Eagle. “He’s never given trouble before.”

Being talked about like he was a pet that had strayed pained Eagle as much as the shoulder. Hercules was glaring at him, eyes imploring him not to say a word.

“He was going through your correspondence, General, sir,” Eagle said.

Hercules grimaced.

“He’s a liar,” Caldwell snapped. “He attacked me.”

“Did you attack him?” Washington asked Eagle.

A red vein bulged on Caldwell’s forehead.

“No, General, sir,” Eagle replied. “Simply told him he should not be going through your private papers.”

“You’re questioning my word by asking a nigra?” Caldwell had pushed up next to Washington. The General shifted away from the intrusion ever so slightly.

Eagle noted the lack of military formality in the words and he was sure Washington noted it also. In the short time he’d been around the General, Eagle appreciated he was a man who observed everything.

“I’m trying to ascertain what caused my property to be damaged,” Washington said. “And how damaged it is, not just from your shot, but in the head. I will allow that he was acting strange in the barn earlier.” He shifted his direction of questioning. “Hercules. Where was Samuel when you entered my office? Was he attacking Colonel Caldwell?”

Hercules stood straight and didn’t answer right away.

Washington’s right eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “Hercules?”

“Didn’t look like it, Master. Looked like he was trying to get away. The Colonel was on the other side of the deck and Samuel was near the door and—”

“
My
side of the desk?” Washington asked.

“Yes, sir. But I don’ know what happened before then, Master,” Hercules added.

The General turned toward Caldwell. “An explanation, sir.”

“I don’t have to explain myself against the words of nigra, sir. This is out of line.”

“A simple question,” Washington said. “Were you on my side of the desk?”

“Yes, but I was at the window, looking out at the troops on the drill field. Concerned about your comment reference their demeanor. Then your boy here attacked me.”

“Why?”

Caldwell was outraged. “How would I know, General? Even you said he isn’t right in the head.”

“You might well be right,” Washington said.

Eagle opened his mouth to say something and was surprised to see the slightest shake of Washington’s head.

“I will deal with the matter,” Washington said in a cold, even voice. “I am distressed that you were put in such a position, Colonel. Please wait for me in my office, if you would.” It was not phrased as a request.

“I should be addressing the officers,” Caldwell said. “They’ve been gathered for a bit and you know how a crowd grows restless.”

“We’ll get to that matter,” Washington said. “I need to instruct Hercules on what is to be done with Samuel.”

“Should be hanged for attacking a white man,” Caldwell said.

“It’s a consideration,” Washington said.

Eagle noted that Washington’s tone was consistent, level, neither angry nor threatening. Not without affect, but affable. As if everything were no large trouble and could be dealt with. Eagle had experienced the same a few times before in his military career. Moms had it; Nada also.

A smart person, though, would hear the undertone of a command.

Several seconds of silence ticked off before Caldwell finally accepted the inevitable and left the room.

“How is the wound?” Washington asked Hercules.

“Shoulder done, Master. He won’t be working the fields no more.”

“You stand by your words, Hercules?”

The General’s chef licked his lips, glanced at Eagle, then back at his master. “No, sir. I was wrong, sir. Never meant to speak against the Colonel. Sam, he was running. He might have gone after the Colonel for some crazy reason. Got the gun pulled on him and thought better of it.”

Eagle half-lifted up, the pain in his shoulder sharp rocks of pain grinding. “Sir! My shirt pocket.”

Eagle held the position despite the searing pain.

Washington reached down and slid two fingers into the pocket. He pulled out a piece of purple cloth with the word MERIT sewn on it, edged with lace. His eyes widened. Then he reached inside his blue frock coat.

“Hercules,” Washington said without taking his eyes off Eagle. “Leave me with Samuel for a moment. Be right outside.”

Hercules was trapped by his status, unable to protest. He slipped out the door.

“What is this?” Washington demanded, holding up the cloth.

Eagle didn’t say anything, slumping back onto the cot.

Washington pulled his hand out from inside the coat. An exact replica of the badge was in his hand. He compared the two. “They are the same. Exactly. Down to the stitching. That is not possible.”

This was a paradox. Eagle was suddenly aware of that. Because it was the same object. At the same time. In the same room.

What would Doc make of this? Roland? Eagle settled on somewhere in between; of interest, but not of importance at the moment.

“How did you get this?” Washington held up the one he’d taken from Eagle.

“A friend gave it to me, sir.”

“This makes no sense,” Washington said. “None at all. You have this, which you cannot. There was only the one made at my personal request.”

“Sir, the only issue right now is the officer assembly. You must give the speech.”

Washington would not have been a successful combat commander if he couldn’t regroup and gather himself together in a chaotic situation.

“A slave telling me what to do,” Washington said. “A slave trying to run off with some of my correspondence. The day is full of marvels.” He clenched the Badge of Merits in his fists. “What was Colonel Caldwell looking for?”

“The letter from Mister Hamilton, sir.” Eagle had to swallow to get enough moisture to talk. “Sir. He shouldn’t be here. Colonel Caldwell.”

Washington was still as a statue. “What do you mean Colonel Caldwell shouldn’t be here?”

“Sir. He should have died when the sentry shot him last year.”

“How do you know that?” Washington demanded. “We kept that quiet. You were back at Mount Vernon. The official report was that he was wounded by a British dragoon while returning to camp. Few know a sentry shot him. And we hung the man.”

Eagle remained silent.

“You’re not Samuel,” Washington said. “You look like him. But you’re not him. You don’t speak like him. You don’t act like him.”

Eagle felt as if he were over a void, ready to fall in a bottomless pit. “I am what you see, sir.”

Washington opened his left hand. He was running the piece of cloth through his fingers. “We haven’t awarded one yet. Yet now I have two.” He was almost speaking to himself.

Eagle felt faint. The wound. Being here. What was at stake. “’The road to glory in a patriot army and a free country is open to all’.”

“My own words,” Washington said. “It’s forbidden for slaves to read. How did you know them? If you knew Caldwell was looking at Hamilton’s letter, you can read. Who taught you?”

“That doesn’t matter, sir. You must make the speech to the officers. Not Colonel Caldwell.”

“Caldwell is popular with the men,” Washington said. “An effective orator. And he will use his Bible as a final persuasion.”

“The Bible?” Eagle couldn’t hold it in, forgetting the situation, the mission, spurred by the pain and shame of his current situation. “The Bible helps keep my brothers and sisters in chains. Keeps them for trying for a better life
now
, not in the promise of a next life.”

“Insurrection and sacrilege.” Yet Washington didn’t seem upset. “I can hear these words you speak and understand, but few can. I have had a higher cause for years now: this country.”

“The same with your officers, sir,” Eagle urged. “Appeal to their sense of duty. Honor. Their loyalty to the cause for which they have fought and suffered. If they are the men you believe them to be, that will be more than sufficient.”