Ides of March (Time Patrol) (22 page)

“It appears I must go first,” the redhead said when there was no reply. “I am Pyrrha.”

The download was fast: Pyrrha, daughter of Pandora.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” She asked Moms. “My mother at least? She always seems to get the higher billing. It’s really not fair considering I am, mythologically at least, the mother of all mankind after the Great Flood.” She stepped back from the knife.

Moms let her hand drop.

“A widespread tale, is it not?” Pyrrha asked. “The Great Flood? The deluge Zeus sent to cleanse the earth? Leaving only two people, one man, one woman, to repopulate the world. My husband, poor Deucalion, and myself. We were at a loss how to proceed once the water receded. We were all that remained of the human race, standing on Mount Parnassus.” Her voice held a hint of mocking her own story.

“The names change, the locations change, but the essence is there in all the myths and religions around the world. Ah yes, repopulate after a great flood. Why a God would want to kill everyone is the question no one seems to ponder too deeply in worshipping such an entity. And why one would want to
continue
worshipping the God that practically wiped everyone out, is another question worth pondering.”

“What—” Moms began, but Pyrrha wasn’t finished.

“So Deucalion and I threw stones over our shoulders. My husband’s stones became our sons, while mine, our daughters. Really, seems it would have much easier to simply copulate. Speaking of which—” She inclined her head toward the bed where Antony was entwined with the women. It wasn’t clear who was doing what to whom. “Men,” she said sadly. “Such simple creatures. Why we let them control things is beyond me.”

“What do you want?” Moms asked.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” Pyrrha said. “You’re not Scout. She’s younger.”

Moms’ skin went cold at the mention of her teammate’s name. Her hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger.

“You must be Moms,” Pyrrha finally said.

“I am.”

“It is an honor to meet you,” Pyrrha said.

“I don’t think so,” Moms said.

Antony’s voice was muffled, drunk, distracted. “The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interfered with their bones. So let it be with Caesar.”

The three turned toward the bed at the sudden change in Antony’s voice when he said the name. He got to his knees. Shoved one of the women away, sending her sprawling off the bed. The others scooted away. Confused. Wary.

Antony got to his feet, steadier than he was before. “The good is often interred with their bones,” he recited. “So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus—” Antony paused, looking about as if suddenly aware of his surroundings. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. “The noble Brutus. For Brutus is an honorable man. So are they all, all honorable men.”

The women scattered, running from the room as Antony leapt off the bed, snatching up a sword. “
Honorable
men?” He cursed. “Caesar was my
friend
!
Is
my friend. Faithful and just to me. But Brutus says Caesar is ambitious. And Brutus, oh yes,
he
is an honorable man. And he says Caesar is ambitious. Then why did Caesar turn down the crown I offered him at Lupercal? Three times I offered. And three times he refused. Is that ambition? He made me small with those refusals. If one should have a grudge, it should be I. And
Brutus
is an honorable man and
I
am not?”

Antony slashed with the sword. “But what do I know? You all love him. And not without cause.” He lifted the sword once more, to kill the invisible demons surrounding him, but he let it go, clattering on the floor. “What do I know?” He fell to his knees and cried out. “Oh judgment! Thou have fled to brutish beasts. Men have lost their reason. I have lost mine.”

Antony leaned over, forehead to marble, and sobbed. “My heart will be in the coffin with Caesar. It will be in there.”

He crumpled to the floor, sobbing.

“He could have saved him, you know,” Pyrrha said. “Antony’s sword at Caesar’s side. But now?” she indicated the wreck of a man curled up on the floor.

“What are you doing here?” Moms asked.

Pyrrha indicated Spurinna. “Fixing what your fool tried to do.”

“Why would you want Caesar to die?” Moms was confused. “Why not have him live? Change our timeline?”

“I tried,” Pyrrha said. “But there are things that cannot be changed. You’ll learn this, if you get the time. The Fates have made this a higher law.”

“The Fates? Who are they?”

“There is so much you don’t know,” Pyrrha said. A Gate opened behind her.

“Ah!” Pyrrha said, sensing Moms intention. “If you kill me now, then Scout will die the forever death.”

“What do you mean?”

Pyrrha stepped close, put her mouth next to Moms ear. “Beware the Ides.” Her lips brushed along Moms cheek and then she kissed her on the lips. Hard. Fierce.

Pyrrha stepped back and the Gate snapped out of existence.

Petrograd, Russia, 1917.

THE THREE MEN SPUN ABOUT
from the small fire as Krylo opened the door. They drew pistols and aimed them at Doc.

“Easy.” Doc held his hands up. “We come in peace.”

“You are not Russian,” the well-dressed man in the center said. He was obviously the Count, as the other two wore peasant garb. He was a tall man, over six feet, with a thick dark beard, streaked with white. He wore an expensive coat and a fur hat.

“I’m American,” Doc said.

“Then we speak in English,” the Count said, switching languages. “So only the two of us will understand. I assume you are the man I am here to meet?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are from—” he paused—“another time. Correct? Why else would an American be here? And now?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He bowed slightly at the waist. “I am Count Pyotr Golovkin.”

“Doc.”

Golovkin didn’t seem impressed with the name or the lack of title. “That is all?”

“That is all.”

“Things must be different in your time,” Golovkin said. “Is it short for Doctor?”

“It’s a name I was given.” Doc looked at the other two men. They had turned back to the fire, warming themselves. Krylo had joined them, and they were conversing in Russian in low voices, barely audible.

Golovkin rubbed his hands together. “So. Should we proceed?”

“With what?” Doc asked.

Golovkin cocked his head. “We are here for the same reason, are we not?”

“And that is?”

“To save the young Tsar, of course.”

“And you know this how?” Doc asked.

Golovkin appeared surprised at the question. “What other outcome could there be here? Nicholas?” He shrugged. “The Tsar was done before he ever took the throne. He never had the strength to rule Mother Russia. He’s already given up power. Today the Bolsheviks make it official. Put all the false stamps and signatures of the revolutionaries on the document. But young Alexei? He is the future of Russia. And we must get him out of here. The quiet in the streets is deceptive. Things are going to turn ugly very soon.”

“You are here to help me, aren’t you?” Doc asked.

“And you, me,” Golovkin said. “My men are good shots, but I think we can get out of the palace and through the city to the harbor without trouble. If we move quickly. I have hired a boat that will take us to England. It awaits. But we will have to leave the Tsar. That is the agreement I have worked out with the Bolsheviks and it is what King George finds acceptable.”

“But you don’t know what’s supposed to happen,” Doc said.

“I know what
has
to happen,” Golovkin said. “There can be no other path for Russia.” He took a step closer to Doc and lowered his voice. “One of my spies has informed me that the Germans are giving that pig Lenin money to fuel the Bolsheviks and are helping him to return to Mother Russia. He is a traitor to not only the Tsar but to Russia. He will be here within the month. I know Lenin. I met him in France. He is a very dangerous man.”

Doc knew what Golovkin was saying was true: Lenin
was
in Germany at the moment. He’d been exiled twice, once in 1900 after spending three years imprisoned in Siberia, and then again in 1907. He’d been against Russian involvement in World War I, for which Doc had to give him points: so far the Russians had lost more soldiers in the war than any country in any previous war. Ever.

The download further confirmed what Golovkin had just said: the Germans were going to return Lenin and his key men in a secret railway car in April. The German intent was to foster more anti-war fervor in Russia. In that, they would succeed. But Lenin would be forced to briefly flee once more, then return and finally depose the Provisional Government and proclaim Soviet rule in November. At which time he would make peace with Germany and the Russian Civil War between the Reds and the Whites would commence. And in the midst of all that, on 17 July 1918, Nicholas II, his wife, the four Duchesses, and Alexei, would be assassinated.

“You are to do what I tell you,” Doc said.

Golovkin frowned. “And that is?”

“Nothing. I’ve already taken care of what needs to be done.”

Golovkin took a step back and folded his arms across his chest. “What have you done? The Tsarina is trapped here with her children. The family has to get out. There is not much time. You say you’ve taken care of things, but as far as I can tell
nothing
has changed. Unless you can tell me differently.”

Doc tried to muster some inner Nada: “I’m not just telling you to do nothing,” he said. “I am ordering you.”

Golovkin unfolded his arms, reached out, grabbed Doc by the elbow, and pulled him out of the small room, away from the others.

“What are you saying?” Golovkin demanded. “That we leave the family to the mob? They will not last long. Only that fool Krylo remains from the Imperial Guard. And he is only good for shoveling coal and hiding. The Bolsheviks come and go as they please. Soon it will please them to come here and take the family.”

“They will be protected,” Doc said.

“By who? The Bolsheviks?”

“Yes.”

“Why would the Bolsheviks protect the very people they are overthrowing?”

Doc was relieved there was something he could answer honestly. “They will continue to protect them as they are already doing to keep the Russian people from turning against their revolution. If the Bolsheviks harm the Tsarina, and especially the children, think what will happen?”

Golovkin stroked his beard. “That is supposing many things. That the mob can be controlled. That the Bolsheviks continue to do as you say. Yes, it is the smart move for them, but they have done many things that are not smart. And they will hold the royal family prisoner, will they not?”

“Yes,” Doc admitted.

“And when Lenin gets here? I do not think he will be as merciful.”

“He will,” Doc said. “He has to. He is as much a prisoner of events as they.”

“But how will young Alexei regain the throne if he is a prisoner?” Golovkin didn’t wait for an answer. “Many of the royalty will fight the Bolsheviks. Once he is safe in England Alexei can be an inspiration to them. Their hope for the future.”

“They have to stay here,” Doc said.

“Then you are telling me that the revolution will not prevail? The Bolsheviks will fail?”

“We do not get to chose what will unfold,” Doc said.

“That is not acceptable,” Golovkin said, pulling his heavy revolver out.

“I am ordering you—” Doc began, but all went black as the butt of the revolver hit him on the side of the head.

Palos de la Frontera, Spain, 1493 A.D.

“’GUILT’?” GEERT REPEATED.
“What has de Cisneros done that he ought feel guilty?”

“It’s not what he’s done,” Mac said. “It’s what he’s getting ready to do.”

Night covered the town and the two ships. Dozens of lanterns illuminated the quay and both ships. Now that the Centre Suisse were gone, off with Columbus to La Rabida, Mac and Geert moved out from behind the building.

The Franciscan was greeting sailors coming ashore from both the
Pinta
and the
Nina
, blessing them as each rowboat load was discharged but he seemed distracted, constantly looking toward the
Pinta
.

“When I was a student in the Q-Course,” Mac said, “they taught me—”

“Q what?”

Mac was having trouble controlling his mind; and his emotions. His dark past boiled inside of him as he stared at the priest. “A school for soldiers. My specialty was targeting things. Figuring out the most effective way to attack something. We used a formula, sort of systems engineering. It was called—” he realized he was speaking Latin and the acronym didn’t carry over—“doesn’t matter what it was called. There were six things to look at.”

Geert was lost, but Mac didn’t care. Talking it out crystallized it. He held up a single finger. “Criticality. How valuable is the target? For the Shadow, their target is our timeline. That’s pretty valuable, especially to us.” A second finger. “Accessibility. Can the Shadow get to what it wants to achieve? It can today.” He indicated the ships and the priest.

“Friar de Cisneros is Shadow?” Geert asked.

“He’s either from the Shadow or he’s working for it.” Mac held up the last three fingers. “Recuperability, vulnerability and effect. Can we fix whatever the Shadow is doing today? Are we vulnerable to what it’s doing? How devastating will the effect to the timeline be of what it’s doing?”

“So
what
is it doing? What is the priest doing?”

Mac gave a grim smile. He pointed at the
Pinta
. A stretcher was lowered into a rowboat. “Recognizability is the last factor.”

Geert frowned. “One of the crew is sick? That is normal for a long voyage. Scurvy. There are many—”

“I’m not supposed to tell you of the future,” Mac said. “But in this case, the truth will be known in a few years anyway. Those men on those ships, some of them, brought back syphilis,” Mac said.

“They’ve brought back what?”

“A disease. One you get from sex.”