Time Patrol (65 page)

15
A.D. 70.

The sun was newly down, clouds lay red and gold in the west, eastward the sky deepened while night rose in a tide over the wilderness. Light lingered on a treeless hilltop in central Germany, but already the grass there was full of shadows and warmth draining from the quiet air.

Having seen to the horses, Janne Floris squatted at the blackened spot in front of the twin shelters and began assembling wood for a fire. Some remained, split and stacked, from the last time the Patrol agents had used the site, a few days ago if you counted by the turning of the planet. A gust and thump brought her to her feet. Everard swung off his vehicle.

"Why are you—I expected you back sooner," she said half timidly.

He shrugged his heavy shoulders. "I figured you might as well do the camp chores while I did mine," he replied. "And nightfall is a logical return point. I don't want more than a bite to eat, but then a clock dial's worth of sleep. I'm wrung out. Aren't you?"

She looked away. "Not yet. Too tense." With a gulp, she made herself confront him. "Where did you go? You just told me to wait, immediately after we got here, and left."

"I guess I did. Sorry. Wasn't thinking. It seemed obvious."

"I thought I was being punished."

He shook his head more vigorously than his words would have suggested. "Good Lord, no. In fact, I'd a vague notion of sparing you a discussion. What I did was skip back to Öland, after dark on . . . that day. The kids were gone and nobody else was around, as I'd hoped. I lifted the corpses one after another, took them well out to sea, and dumped them. Not a fun job. No reason for you to be in on it."

She stared. "Why?"

"Isn't that obvious either?" he snapped. "Think. Same reason I shot the swine that you didn't get around to. Minimize impact on local people, because we've got too flinking many variables as is. I daresay they'll believe Edh and Heidhin, more or less, but they live in a world of gods and trolls and magic anyway. Material evidence or independent witnesses would hit them a lot harder than a doubtless incoherent story."

"I see." She twisted her hands together. "I am being quite stupid and unprofessional, am I not? I wasn't trained for this kind of mission, but that is no excuse. I am very sorry."

"Well, you caught me by surprise," he growled. "When you skited off into action, I was dumbfounded for a second. And then what could I do? Not mess around with causality anymore, for certain, nor risk Heidhin seeing my face, to recognize it in Colonia this year. Duck back uptime, get a different disguise from the one I used on the beach, and return to the same minute? No, it wouldn't do for mortals to see the gods quarreling; that'd confuse things worse yet. I could only play along with you."

"I
am
sorry," she said desperately. "I couldn't help myself. There was Edh, Veleda whom I saw among the Langobardi—no woman ever impressed me more—I
knew
her—but this was a young girl, and those animals—"

"Yeah. Berserk rage, followed by overwhelming sympathy."

Floris straightened. Fists doubled, she gazed squarely at Everard and said, "I am explaining, not making excuses. I will take whatever penalty the Patrol gives me, without complaint."

He stood a few heartbeats unspeaking before he made a crooked smile and answered, "There won't be any if you carry on honestly and competently. Which I'm sure you will. As an Unattached agent on this case, I can make summary judgments. You are hereby pardoned."

She blinked hard, rubbed wrist over eyes, and said unevenly, "Sir, you are too kind. Because we have worked together—"

"Hey, give me credit," he protested. "Yes, you've been a grand companion, but I wouldn't let that influence me . . . much. What counts is that you've proved yourself a crack operative, which the outfit is always short of. More important still, this hasn't actually been your fault."

Bemusement: "What? I allowed my emotions to take me over—"

"Under the circumstances, that isn't exactly to your discredit. I'm not at all sure what I'd've done myself, though maybe sneakier; and I'm not a woman. It didn't bother me killing those vermin. I didn't enjoy it, mind you, especially since they hadn't a chance against me, but as long as it had to be done, I'll sleep okay." Everard paused. "You know, in my salad days, before I joined the Patrol, I favored the death penalty for forcible rape, till a lady pointed out to me that then the bastard would have an incentive to murder his victim and no motive not to. My feelings stayed the same. If I remember right, you twentieth-century Dutch, in your civilized, clinical fashion, treat the problem with castration."

"Nevertheless, I—"

"Get off that guilt trip. What are you, some kind of a liberal or something? Let's put sentiment on the shelf and think about the matter from a Patrol point of view. Listen. It seems fairly clear—do you agree?—those were merchant seamen who'd finished whatever business they'd done on Öland, if any, and were bound elsewhere, probably home. They happened to see Edh and Heidhin on that lonely shore and seized an opportunity. That sort of thing is common throughout the ancient world. Maybe they didn't intend to come back, or maybe it'd be to a different tribe—from the air, I got an impression the island's divided—or maybe they figured nobody would know. Whichever, they trapped the kids. If we hadn't interfered, they'd have taken Heidhin off to sell for a slave. Edh too, unless they injured her so badly it was only worthwhile slitting her throat for one last bit of sport. That's what would have happened. An incident like thousands of others, important to nobody but those who suffer, and they soon dead, forgotten, lost forever."

Floris crossed fists over breasts. The waning light glimmered in her eyes. "Instead—"

Everard nodded. "Yeah. Instead, we appeared. We'll want to seek out her home town, a few years after she left it, settle down for a while as visitors, ask discreet questions, get to know her people. Then maybe we'll have some idea of how poor little Edh became terrible Veleda."

Floris grimaced. "I think I do. In a, a general way. I can imagine myself into her. I think she was more intelligent and sensitive than most, yes, devout, if we can say that of a heathen. This dreadful thing came upon her, fear, shame, despair, not simply her body but her spirit crushed under those heaving, thrusting weights; and suddenly the veritable goddess arrived, to slay them and embrace her. From the bottom of hell, up to glory. . . . But afterward, afterward! The defilement, the sense of having been made worthless, it will not ever quite leave a woman, Manse. Worse for her, because in Iron Age Germany the blood, the womb, is sacred to the clan and a wife's adultery is punished by the most brutal death. They would not blame her for what she could not help, I suppose, but she would be contaminated and—and the element of the supernatural would rouse fear, I think, more than reverence. Pagan gods are tricky, often cruel. I wonder if Edh and Heidhin dared say much. Perhaps they said nothing; and that would itself make a tearing conflict in them."

Everard wished for his pipe but didn't believe he should go to his hopper's carrier box for it. Floris had become too vulnerable.
She never called me by my first name before, as careful as we've been to avoid entanglements. I doubt she's aware she did.
"You're probably right," he agreed. "At the same time, there the supernatural occurrence was. It had left them alive and free. If her body was degraded, her soul couldn't really be. Somehow, she was worthy of the goddess. It must be because she had a destiny, she was chosen for something enormous. Only what? Well, with Heidhin talking to her, over and over, full of male revengefulness—In terms of her culture, it would make sense. She was appointed to bring about the destruction of Rome."

"She could accomplish nothing on her backwater island," Floris finished. "Nor could she any longer fit into its life. She would wander west, confident of the goddess's protection. Heidhin went with her. Between them they scraped together enough goods to buy passage across the sea. What they saw and heard of Roman doings as they traveled fueled their hatred, their sense of her mission. But I think, in spite of everything, and rare though it is in their society, I think he loved her."

"I suspect he does yet. Remarkable, when it's pretty plain she never let him into her bed."

"Understandable." Floris sighed. "For her, after that experience—and he, if nothing else, he would not force himself on a vessel of the goddess. I heard he has a wife and children among the Bructeri."

"Uh-huh. Well, what we've found is the irony that our investigation of a disturbance to the plenum is what brought it about. To be quite frank, that sort of nexus is by no means unprecedented. Another reason for not condemning you, Janne. Often a causal loop has a powerful and subtle force to it. What we've got to do is prevent it from developing into a causal vortex. We have to forestall the events that would lead to Tacitus Two, while not unduly perturbing those that are described in Tacitus One."

"How?" she asked despairingly. "Dare we meddle more? Should we not appeal for help from . . . the Danellians?"

Everard smiled the least bit. "M-m, the situation doesn't look that bad to me. We're expected to handle everything we can, you know, economizing on lifetime of other agents. First, as I remarked, it seems wise to spend a while on Öland, researching background. Then we'll return to this year, the Batavi, the Romans, and—well, I have some preliminary thoughts, but I want to discuss them with you in depth, and you'll be vital to whatever we do."

"I will try."

They stood silent. The air grew colder. Night rose up the hillside. Sunset colors smoldered to gray. Above them kindled the evening star.

Everard heard a ragged breath. Through the dusk, he saw Floris shudder and hug herself. "Janne, what's the matter?" he asked, already guessing.

She looked out over the darkness. "All this death and pain, loss and grief."

"The norm of history."

"I know, I know, but—And I thought living among the Frisii had hardened me, but today, in this today of mine, I killed men, and, and
I
will not sleep soundly—"

He stepped close, laid hands on shoulders, murmured. She spun about to throw her arms around him. What could he do but the same? When she raised her face to his, what could he do but kiss her?

She responded wildly. Her lips tasted salt. "Oh, Manse, yes, yes, please, don't you yourself need to forget for this night?"

16

Sleet hissed, blown out of unseen heaven across a land that rain had already half drowned. Vision soon lost itself; flat acres, withered grass, leafless trees tossing in the wind, the burnt-out remnant of a house, dissolved in a noontide murk. As dank as the chill was, clothing gave little defense. The north wind smelled of the swamps over which it had roared, of the sea beyond, and of winter striding down from the Pole.

Everard hunched in the saddle, cloak drawn tight. Water dripped from the hood past his face. The horse's hoofs went
plop-squelp, plop-squelp
in pastern-deep mud. Yet this was the entryway through an estate to a manor house.

The building hove in view before him. In modified Mediterranean style, tile-roofed, stuccoed, it had been raised by Burhmund when he was Civilis, ally and officer of Rome. His wife was its matron, his children filled it with laughter. Now it served as headquarters for Petillius Cerialis.

Two sentries stood in the portico. Like those at the gate, they challenged the Patrolman when he drew rein at the foot of the stairs. "I am Everardus the Goth," he told them. "The general is expecting me."

One soldier gave his companion an inquiring glance. The latter nodded. "I've been instructed," he said. "In fact, I escorted the preliminary courier." Was he snatching at any scrap of pride, of importance? He snuffled and sneezed. Probably the first man was a last-minute replacement for a ranker who lay fevered, teeth chattering, in sick bay. Although they appeared to be of Gallic breed, both these were pretty wretched themselves. Their metal was tarnished, their kilts hung sodden, gooseflesh studded their arms, sunken cheeks spoke of short rations.

"Pass," the second legionary said. "We'll call a groom to stable your mount."

Everard entered a gloomy atrium, where a slave took his cloak and knife. Several men sitting slumped, staff with nothing to do, gave him stares in which, perhaps, a sudden feeble hope flickered. An aide came to conduct the visitor to a room in the south wing. He knocked on the door, heard a gruff "Open," obeyed, and announced: "Sir, the German delegate is here."

"Send him in," rumbled the voice. "Leave us alone but stand outside, just in case."

Everard entered. The door shut behind him. Scant light seeped through a leaded window. Candles stood around in holders. Tallow, not wax, they smoked and stank. Shadows bulked in corners and slid across a table strewn with papyrus dispatches. Otherwise there were a couple of stools and a chest that might hold changes of clothing. An infantry sword and its sheath hung side by side on a wall. A charcoal brazier had warmed the air but made it stuffy.

Cerialis sat behind the table. He wore merely a tunic and sandals: a burly man with a hard square face whose clean-shavenness revealed deep furrows. His eyes raked the newcomer. "You are Everardus the Goth, eh?" he greeted. "The go-between said you speak Latin. You'd better."

"I do."
This'll be tricky,
the Patrolman thought.
It wouldn't be in character for me to grovel, but he might decide I'm arrogant and he's not going to take any lip from any Jupiter-damned native. His nerves must be worn thin, like everybody else's.
"The general is both kind and wise to receive me."

"Well, frankly, by now I'd listen to a Christian, if he claimed he'd something to offer. If it turned out he didn't, I could at least have the pleasure of crucifying him."

Everard feigned puzzlement. "A Jew sect," Cerialis grunted. "Heard about the Jews? Another pack of mutinous ingrates. But you, your tribe's way to the east. Why in Tartarus are you running errands hereabouts?"