Myths of the Modern Man (27 page)

I thought about Boudicca and her quiet death and proper funeral, and of Taliesin with his violent death, his body lying in the mud in some rain-soaked midnight grove, and of the mare that never stopped. At least somebody got away.

Not me, though.

They bound me in iron shackles, on my hands and feet, married by a short length of chain to a string of other slaves. The teeth-grinding, shrill metal pounding of the blacksmiths lasted all night, until we were all secure, the property of Rome. Finders keepers.

No one I knew from the village was left. Around me slumped and staggered a ragged mixture of Iceni and Trinovantes, perhaps as many as eight or ten thousand new slaves for the Empire.

I stood in the holding area with the others. The suddenly heavy shower of rain dropped a cold curtain down upon us, which seemed to isolate us, each to ourselves, even though the chains bound us together. Our hair, our clothing hung drenched and heavy, and our skin tingled with the cold where it did not ache with pain.

I tilted my head back slowly, opened my mouth, and caught a mouthful of ice-cold rain. I swished it around my tongue and remaining teeth, and spit out gobs of blood. I repeated this three or four times, slowly, as an exercise in soothing my spirit, if not in healing my jaw. I kept thinking about Taliesin. I wondered if I had caused his death, or if the Romans would have caught him anyway. He had already been there in the grove with Boudicca, whether I had shown up on the scene or not. The soldiers were close by. They were probably tracking him. They probably would have caught him anyway.

Did I cause his death? What was Taliesin’s destiny meant to be?

I changed destiny. As surely as it had changed me.

I tried to review the events of this bizarre day, but my thoughts were confused, and I felt dead tired. The corpses I had to climb over to make my way to freedom. Cailte on the cross. Dubh. The blue mark I had drawn on Tailtu’s bicep.

The horse. The horse as it galloped away.

The rain pounded loudly, but behind me, all around me, I could hear the crying of my fellow slaves, cursing and calling upon gods as distant as my hope. I could hear the screams of at least one woman in agony giving birth to a child somewhere nearby. Life did not stop, even for tragedy, even for the rain.

I filled my aching mouth again with rain, and spit, like some dull mantra on which I could focus.

I should have let Taliesin kill me.

If Eleanor could have brought me back, she would have done it by now.

My mission was not supposed to last this long. I was here for good. I should have let him kill me.

A Roman soldier stood just beyond the ring of contraband slaves. If I tuned out the other sounds, the sounds of shower and pain, of the woman screaming through her contractions, of the wails of fear and despondency from the captives, I could just about discern the tinny patter of raindrops rupturing on his Roman helmet in a thin, but relentless rhythm.

I could not tell his age or his mood. The rain soaked the red cloak hung from his shoulder plates across his back like elegant drapery, and slapped against his muddy calves.

“
Is est locus miserrimus.” I said in a loud voice. This is a very wretched place.

He turned laconically and looked over his cloak at me. He might have been Roman, or a Gaul, or an Iberian. He was olive-skinned, and ruggedly built, and a very long way from home. His brown eyes were tired. He nodded, and then he turned around again.

“
Omnia tempus habent,”
I said, but mostly to myself,
“et suis spatiis transeunt universa sub caelo.”

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.

“
Tempus nascendi et tempus moriendi…”

A time to be born, and a time to die…

“…
tempus plantandi et tempus evellendi quod plantatum est…”

…
a time to plant, and a time to pluck that which is planted…

“…
tempus occidendi et tempus sanandi…”

A time to kill, and a time to heal…

The Roman soldier turned to look at me over his armored shoulder again. He swiped the film of rain off his forehead and his nose. I spoke to him only.

“…
tempus destruendi et tempus aedificandi…”

…
a time to break down, and a time to build up…

“…
tempus flendi et tempus ridendi…”

A time to weep, and a time to laugh…

He gripped his standing javelin with both hands and rested on it, watching me and listening to my voice, growing more hoarse.

“…
tempus plangendi et tempus saltandi…”

…
a time to mourn, and a time to dance…

“…
tempus spargendi lapides et tempus colligendi…”

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together…

The woman had stopped screaming in fatigue and deliverance, and the new baby cried.

“…
tempus amplexandi et tempus longe fieri ab amplexibus…”

…
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing…

“…
tempus adquirendi et tempus perdendi…”

…
a time to get, and a time to lose…

The baby stopped crying, because it had stopped breathing, and the woman began to wail and mourn.

“…
tempus custodiendi et tempus abiciendi…”

…
a time to keep, and a time to cast away…

“…
tempus scindendi et tempus consuendi…”

…
a time to rend, and a time to sew…”

The Roman soldier blinked the rain off his dark eyelashes. Not taking my eyes off him, I sensed rather than saw the blacksmith working a new chain at my feet.

“…
tempus tacendi et tempus loquendi…”

…
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak…

The blacksmith looked up at me a moment, distracted, cast a satirical glance at the soldier who was my bored audience, then went back to work linking a new slave to me.

“…
tempus dilectionis et tempus odii….”

A time to love, and a time to hate.

The rain slowed to a drizzle. The blacksmith lovingly protected his soldering iron from being extinguished. He tugged at the newly forged link. I could feel the bite on my ankle.

I looked down at him, and the leering creep grinned up at me. I looked towards the Roman soldier. He blinked again, and, hearing the approach of his centurion, turned his back to me, and stood at attention.

“…
.tempus belli et tempus pacis,”
I said, with practically no voice left.

…
a time of war, and a time of peace.

I tipped my head back again, filled my mouth with rain, swished it around, and spat. I glanced at the new slave forged to my leg.

My God. It was Tailtu.

CHAPTER 21

Dr. L’Esperance ordered Eleanor, gently but firmly, to take off her clothes.

Eleanor’s growing sense of panic reduced her ability to think clearly, and her near-hysteria took the form of a sudden helpless resignation to take orders. Eleanor undressed, wondering what she would say if General English suddenly entered the lab, but almost wishing he would, anything to delay or stop this. Dr. L’Esperance looked pleased with the tunic she lifted from the satchel in which it had been secreted to the lab and as she examined it, spoke again of Milly’s efficiency, which Eleanor again grudgingly acknowledged to herself was the truth. She had never given Milly enough credit for being a good administrative assistant. Now Eleanor was being sent to hell, otherwise known as 60 A.D., because of it. This is what happened to people who were not kind to their staff.

Dr. L’Esperance slipped the long, saffron-colored tunic of some coarse linen over Eleanor’s naked body, and gave her a gentle hug to comfort her, because Eleanor was shaking. She fastened a plaited leather belt around Eleanor’s waist to draw the baggy tunic in close to her slender waist. Dr. L’Esperance then draped a woolen cloak around Eleanor’s shoulder, and fastened it with a thin silver brooch.

“
They were quite vain, weren’t they?” Dr. L’Esperance said, “They loved their finery.” She placed a torque of twisted silver around Eleanor’s neck, to mark her as noblewoman and not peasant.

“
Sit down,” Dr. L’Esperance said, and Eleanor, weak with anxiety, lowered herself to a lab stool. Dr. L’Esperance cupped Eleanor’s face in her hand and began to remove Eleanor’s makeup.

“
My hypothesis about the staging area for captives is based on reports from this agency,” Dr. L’Esperance continued, “For you see, after your mission failed and Colonel Moore was not returned, as a way of deflecting public outcry against the agency, a follow-up mission occurred to save Colonel Moore, to attempt to retrieve him. Of course, you did not have the electromagnetic tracking technology then, so your operative’s mission was to remain for roughly half a year and manually search out Colonel Moore or information about his final status. His return was to be accomplished through a synchronized rendezvous point, in a similar arrangement to what you had with Colonel Moore.”

Eleanor glanced up into the luminous green eyes as Dr. L’Esperance delicately wiped Eleanor’s lips.

“
What happened?” Eleanor found her voice again.

“
Alas, the second attempt was also unsuccessful. That operative was also lost.” Dr. L’Esperance then brushed Eleanor’s hair, and the slow, soft stroking relaxed her to the point of recalling briefly her mother and her sister in the trailer park, the only other two important women in her life, and how she hated them, wishing now it were not so.

“
The…the only other candidate qualified at this time is Colonel Yorke,” Eleanor said, mesmerized.

“
Yes. Brian K. Yorke was also lost.”

“
I am responsible for two deaths.”

“
Not if we are successful. Tell me more about Colonel Moore. What sort of man is he?”

This reduced Eleanor to momentary muteness again, and Dr. L’Esperance jogged her once more.

“
He’s, he’s been with the agency a number of years…” Eleanor at last replied.

“
Yes, I’ve seen his file, what I mean is…”

“
You have? It’s classified.”

“
Milly is resourceful.”

“
Yes,” she sighed, “she is.”

“
What is he like?”

“
I don’t really know him that well. He’s…he’s a hard person to get to know.”

“
Is he friendly?”

“
I don’t know. I don’t know if I’d call him friendly. He’s sarcastic, especially with me.”

“
Why especially with you?”

“
We have a rather caustic relationship. I don’t know my authority threatens him particularly, or if he’s rude to everyone.”

Dr. L’Esperance knelt before Eleanor and laced her feet into leather caligae, closed and fastened over the top of each foot with a thin piece of leather.

“
What is his character?” she asked, “Is he trustworthy, does he have courage?”

“
Yes, I suppose so. There is a certain code of honor in him.”

“
A code of honor? Then do you feel there is at all a certain self-sacrificing element to his nature?” Dr. L’Esperance asked, standing, surveying Eleanor from head to toe.

“
I suppose. Yes, to be fair, I think so. His debriefing from previous missions shows a sense of striving for the greater good, or at least looking for it, though I am beginning to be uncomfortable with the increasing emotionality in his reports.”

“
Emotionality? You are uncomfortable with emotional displays?” Dr. L’Esperance looked incredulous.

“
We don’t all have the urge to share a lingering kiss on first meeting, Dr. L’Esperance,” Eleanor replied dryly.

“
Ah, now I think you are being sarcastic,” Dr. L’Esperance’s lips curved into a rueful smile, “Perhaps you and Colonel Moore have more in common than you realize.”

“
I think not.”

“
Your mention of the greater good, however, interests me. It is a deceptive phrase, and a ruse, I think, for merely subjugating the individual for the purposes of the group.” She took Eleanor’s hands and pulled her to a stand, turning her about so she could study her body from all angles. Eleanor’s unease returned, and she felt unusually self conscious.

“
Well, of course. That’s the very nature of the common good.”

“
But, you did not say common good, you said greater good. That implies a higher cause.” Dr. L’Esperance smoothed the coarse fabric over Eleanor’s hips and down her bottom with soft stroking. Eleanor tensed in surprise.

“
Well, yes…I guess…”

“
In my era the dignity and preservation of the individual carries the higher purpose over the group, for without the individual there is no group.”

“
One is never called upon to make individual sacrifices?”

“
No. The whole sacrifices or there is no sacrifice.”