The Shield of Time (7 page)

“Well, I’m sorry,” he said, “but we required an expert observer on the spot, and you’re it. Uh, as Chandrakumar, you’re a Buddhist pilgrim, am I right?”

“Not precisely. The vihara does possess a few holy objects, but nothing extraordinary. However, Chandrakumar seeks enlightenment, and the letters that his cousin Rajneesh sent from the silk dealership where he worked in Bactra, those decided Chandrakumar on studying the wisdom of the West as well as the East. For example, Heraclitus was approximately contemporary with the Buddha, and some of his thought shows close parallels. This is a good place for an Indian to learn about the Hellenes.”

Everard nodded. In one identity after another, normally separated by timespans of a length to preclude recognition, Benegal Dass spent years adding up into decades among the Bactrians. Each arrival and departure was by the slow, difficult, dangerous means of the era; a hopper, anything that might seem strange, would have destroyed his usefulness and run afoul of the Patrol’s prime directive. He had watched this city grow great, and he would watch it die. The end product of his labors was the story of it, deep and wide-ranging but never seen except by a handful of interested individuals within the corps or up in the far distant future. When he took
furlough in his native country and century, he must lie to family and friends about what he did for a living. Surely no monk had ever accepted an existence harder, lonelier, or more devoted. I
don’t have that kind of fortitude,
Everard confessed.

Chandrakumar laughed nervously. “Pardon me,” he said. “I delay matters. Long-windedness, the scholar’s disease. And of course I’m rather in suspense myself, don’t you know. What
is
afoot?” After a moment: “Well?”

“I’m afraid you won’t like this,” Everard answered heavily. “You’ve been put to a lot of trouble for what’s just a sideshow, if it’s that much. But the main event is so important that every bit of information counts, including negative information.”

It was hard to see whether Chandrakumar bit his lip. His voice went cold. “Oh, really? What is this main event, may I ask?”

“Take too long to explain in detail. Not that I know a lot myself. I’m only acting as a liaison with you, a messenger boy. What the Patrol has to prevent is several years uptime. A sort of … equivalent of the Sassanian dynasty … rising and taking over Persia. Soon.”

The little man stiffened where he sat. “What? Impossible!”

Everard’s grin was skewed. “That’s what we have to make it. I repeat, I can’t say much. In intelligence work, operatives don’t get told anything they don’t need to know. But, roughly, as I understand it, the plot they’ve uncovered is for King Arsaces of Parthia to be overthrown by a usurper who denounces the peace treaty with Antiochus, attacks the Seleucid army when it’s on its way back from India, routs it and kills Antiochus himself.”

“The consequences—” Chandrakumar susurrated.

“Yeah. The Seleucid realm would very likely fall apart. It’s always on the brink of civil war. That should give the Romans a leg up in the eastern Mediterranean, unless Parthians eager to avenge the humiliation Anti
ochus handed them sweep east through the power vacuum, restoring the Persian Empire three and a half centuries before the Sassanians are scheduled to do so. What could come of that is anybody’s guess, but it won’t be the history you and I studied.”

“This usurper … a time traveler?”

Everard nodded. “We think so. Again, I’ve been told hardly anything. I get the impression the Patrol has clues to a small band of fanatics who’ve somehow obtained two or three vehicles and want to—I don’t know what. Lay a groundwork for Mohammed and the ayatollahs to take over the world? That’s probably farfetched; though the truth may be farther fetched yet. At any rate, an operation is under way to forestall them, without tearing up the continuum ourselves in the process.”

“Caution, yes…. Of course I am ready to do whatever I can. Your role, sir?”

“Well, as I told you, I’m a field researcher too, though my area is military, Hellenistic warfare to be exact. I’d intended to observe this siege anyway. It is more interesting than you care to admit. The Patrol ordered me to change my plans slightly, same as it did you. I was to come into town, contact you, and take whatever relevant information you’ve gathered during this past year. Tomorrow I’ll leave, make my way to the invaders, and en-list with them. I’m too big for a cavalryman on present-day horses, but the Syrians make heavy use of infantry still—the good old Macedonian phalanx—and a pikeman my size will be welcome. In due course a Patrolman will contact me and I’ll pass your data on. After the peace with Euthydemus, I’ll accompany the Syrian army to India and then back west. A Patrol agent will have slipped me an energy weapon, and I’ll try to protect Antiochus’ life if things look desperate. Naturally, we hope it won’t come to that. We hope the usurpation can be smoothly aborted, and all I need do is collect details about how the Syrians manage a campaign.”

“I see.” Everard heard the reluctance. Waging war against Chandrakumar’s beloved Bactrians? However, he
could accept a necessity and inquire: “But I say, why so roundabout? This kingdom doesn’t seem involved. In any case, someone could simply arrive on a hopper in a discreet location and get in touch with me.”

“Precaution. The enemy may have a watchman here, who’d probably be able to detect an arrival or departure nearby. We don’t want to risk alerting anybody like that. If they don’t know we’re aware of their existence, we can more handily bag thern. And Bactria does have its role in history. While it exists as a military power, it helps keep the Parthians more cautious than they might otherwise be.”
That much, at least, is true. Now for more mendacity.
“Maybe, as part of the plot, the gang wants to undermine Bactria somehow. Or maybe not—they can only be a few individuals—but we’re coppering every bet we can. Before you left base, you were told to keep an eye out for any visitors who seemed peculiar. I’m here to get that information from you.”

“I see,” Chandrakumar repeated, but in friendly wise, now eager to help. The vision Everard presented terrified him, as it certainly should. He stayed calm, though, tugged his chin, stared into the dimness around them. “Hard to tell. This city is such a potpourri of races. I’d be sorry if I cause the corps to waste effort on quite harmless persons.”

“Never mind. Tell me everything. They’ll evaluate it uptime.”

“If you could give me some notion—”

“For openers: who stopped by this house, paid his respects, and in the course of chitchat found out what’s been going on—whether any
other
oddball strangers were in town, for instance?”

“Several, off and on. An establishment like this is a sort of verbal bulletin board, you know, and not only for Buddhists.”

Right. That’s why the Patrol quietly helped found it, half a century ago. In medieval Europe we do the same for certain monasteries.
“Go on. Get specific. Please.”

“Well, as per instructions, I have maintained myself
here, not moved to more comfortable quarters, so I have been in a position to pay heed. Generally, I would call them unsuspicious, those who dropped in. I do wish you could indicate a little better what you have in mind.”

“Individuals who don’t seem to belong anywhere in this milieu, whether racially or culturally or … any hallmark that struck your notice. I was told the gang may be a mixed bunch.”

Lamplight flickered over a bleak smile. “You, coming from when you do, think of Arab terrorists? No, there were a pair of Arabs, but I have no reason to believe they were anything but the spice dealers they said they were. Irishmen, however—Yes, conceivably two Irishmen. Black hair, marble-white skin as if this Asian sun had never touched it, fine features. If they are of that stock, they cannot well be contemporary, can they? The Irish at present are barbarian headhunters.”

Everard must struggle to show no more interest than Holbrook would in any other potential suspects. He trusted the Indian, but when you stalked such an enemy as his, you didn’t willingly add the slightest hazard to those you already confronted. The Exaltationists surely realized that at least one historical worker was intermittently in town. If they decided there was reason to take the trouble, they might well manage to identify him. Cover your own trail!

“What did they themselves claim to be, do you know?” he asked.

“I didn’t listen to their talk with Zenodotus. He’s a Greek convert, the most active mundanely of these monks. I tried to pump him afterward, but of course I was under orders never to show excessive curiosity. He did tell me that they had told him they were Gauls—civilized Gauls, from the neighborhood of Marseilles.”

“Could be. A long ways from home, but wanderings like that aren’t unheard of. Like this persona of mine.”

“True. It was mainly their appearance that set me wondering. Shouldn’t southern Gauls more or less resemble southern Frenchmen of our time? Well, perhaps
their family immigrated from the North. They told Zenodotus they liked this city and inquired about the prospects of starting a horse-breeding farm in the hinterland. I haven’t heard that anything came of the idea. Since then I have glimpsed them, or persons remarkably like them, in the streets a time or two. Judging by gossip, a courtesan who has recently gained notoriety may have been of their party. That is all I can say about them. Is it of any use?”

“I dunno,” Everard grunted. “My job is only to pass whatever you tell me on to the real operatives.”
Cover up, cover up.
“What more? Any strangers who called themselves Libyans, Egyptians, Jews, Armenians, Scythians—any kind of exotic—but didn’t seem quite to fit the nationality?”

“I have paid close attention, round about in the city as well as at this house. Mind you, I am scarcely qualified to identify anomalies in most persons. Greeks and Iranians have ample ethnic complexities for me to cope with. However, there was a man from Jerusalem, let me think, about three months ago. I’ll give you my recorded notes. Palestine is under Ptolemy of Egypt, you know, with whom Antiochus has been at loggerheads. This man said nothing about difficulties in traversing Syrian territory—”

Everard half listened. He felt sure the “Gauls” and Theonis were the objects of his hunt. But he didn’t want to give Chandrakumar that impression. “—a half-dozen Tocharian tribesmen from beyond the Jaxartes, who’d come down through Sogdiana with furs to trade. How they got permission to enter—”

Somebody cried out. Feet fled down the corridor. Behind them, hobnails thudded and metal rattled.

“What the devil!” Everard surged to his feet. He’d come forth weaponless, as a civilian must, and his secret gear also rested in the house of Hipponicus, lest somehow it give him away.
It’s for you, Manse,
he cried to himself, crazily, foreknowing.

A hand ripped the curtain aside. Vague light shim
mered on a helmet, breastplate, greaves, drawn sword. Two other men hulked shadowy at the back of the first. Maybe more were in the hallway. “City guard,” rapped the leader in Greek. “Meander of Illyria, you’re under arrest.”

They’d’ve learned at the front door what room I’m in, but how do they know what name to call me by?
“Great Heracles!” Everard yelped. “Whatever for? I haven’t done anything.” Chandrakumar crouched into a corner.

“You’re charged with being a spy for the Syrians.” Law did not require the squad chief to tell, but the unease that harshened his voice made him talkative. “Step out.” His blade gestured. He’d need a single stride and a thrust to put it in the belly of a resister.

Exaltationists behind this, got to be, but how’d they know, how’d they arrange, and so fast?

He who hesitates is bossed.
Everard flung an arm around and knocked the lamp from its shelf. Oil blazed for half a second and went out. Everard had already shifted his weight the opposite way and dropped to a squat. Suddenly blind, the Macedonian roared and lunged. Everard’s eyes, adapted to gloom, found shapes in this deeper dark. He rose with the upward-rocketing heel of his hand. It crashed into bone. The other man’s head snapped back. His blade clattered free. He lurched against his followers and collapsed in a tangle among them.

A fist would have meant broken knuckles if it had connected wrongly, when Everard had only the barest vision and neither time nor room to maneuver. Across his mind flitted a hope that he hadn’t killed a man who was merely doing his duty, who doubtless had wife and kids—It was gone. His mass smote the confusion at the entrance. Seizing and twisting with his hands, levering with a shin, he got past them. Ahead of him a fourth guard yelled and flailed about, bare-handed, afraid his steel might strike a comrade but able to delay escape long enough for them to act. Light-colored, his kilt was a visible mark. Everard gave him the knee. His shouts became screams. Everard
heard another soldier stumble over him where he writhed.

By then the Patrolman was in a common room. Three monks scrambled aside, aghast. He charged by, through the front door, out.

The map in his head told him what he should do—turn left at the first corner, take the third lane beyond because it met an alley which joined a jumble of similar crooked paths—Distant halloos. A lean-to, booth for cheap wares during business hours, that looked fairly sturdy. Chin yourself up and lie flat on top, in case a pursuer comes past.

None did. After a while Everard descended.

Twilight was thickening into night. One by one, more and more, stars glimmered forth above shadow-cliff walls. Quiet had fallen; before streetlights, most people were indoors by dark. The air had cooled. He snatched it into his lungs and started off….

The Street of the Gemini stretched satisfactorily gloomy, well-nigh deserted. Once he passed a boy with a torch, once a man with a horn-paned lantern. He himself now went at the pace of a reputable citizen, belated unexpectedly and thus forced to walk by star-glow, trying not to step in too much muck. He did carry a flashlight, his sole anachronism. It lay among the coins in the purse at his waist, disguised as a religious charm. But it was for extreme emergency. Did somebody see it shine, he couldn’t explain that away as he could the rankness of sweat in his tunic.