A flight of crows hovered overhead, riding the wind and waiting.
“This way,” muttered Everard. “Hurry up, for God’s sake! That line’s going to break any minute.”
The breath was raw in his throat as he jogged toward the standards of the Republic. It came to him that he’d always rather wished Hannibal had won. There was something repellent about the frigid, unimaginative greed of Rome. And here he was, trying to save the city. Well-a-day, life was often an odd business.
It was some consolation that Scipio Africanus was one of the few decent men left after the war.
Screaming and clangor lifted, and the Italians reeled back. Everard saw something like a wave smashed against a rock. But it was the rock which advanced, crying out and stabbing, stabbing.
He began to run. A legionary went past, howling his panic. A grizzled Roman veteran spat on the ground, braced his feet, and stood where he was till they cut him down. Hannibal’s elephants squealed and blundered about. The ranks of Carthage held firm, advancing to an inhuman pulse of drums.
Up ahead, now! Everard saw men on horseback, Roman officers. They held the eagles aloft and shouted, but nobody could hear them above the din.
A small group of legionaries trotted past. Their leader hailed the Patrolmen: “Over here! We’ll give ’em a fight, by the belly of Venus!”
Everard shook his head and continued. The Roman snarled and sprang at him. “Come here, you cowardly.…” A stun beam cut off his words. He crashed into the muck. His men shuddered, someone wailed, and the party broke into flight.
The Carthaginians were very near, shield to shield and swords running red. Everard could see a scar livid on the cheek of one man, the great hook nose of another. A hurled spear clanged off his helmet. He lowered his head and ran.
A combat loomed before him. He tried to go around, and tripped on a gashed corpse. A Roman stumbled over him in turn. Van Sarawak cursed and dragged him clear. A sword furrowed the Venusian’s arm.
Beyond, Scipio’s men were surrounded and battling without hope. Everard halted, sucked air into starved lungs, and looked into the thin rain. Armor gleamed wetly as a troop of Roman horsemen galloped closer, with mud up to their mounts’ noses. That must be the son, Scipio Africanus to be, hastening to rescue his father. The hoofbeats made thunder in the earth.
“Over there!”
Van Sarawak cried out and pointed. Everard crouched where he was, rain dripping off his helmet and down his face. From another direction, a Carthaginian party was riding toward the battle around the eagles. And at their head were two men with the height and craggy features of Neldor. They wore G.I. armor, but each of them held a slim-barreled gun.
“This way!” Everard spun on his heel and dashed toward them. The leather in his cuirass creaked as he ran.
The Patrolmen were close to the Carthaginians before they were seen. Then a horseman called the warning. Two crazy Romans! Everard saw how he grinned in his beard. One of the Neldorians raised his blast rifle.
Everard flopped on his stomach. The vicious blue-white beam sizzled where he had been. He snapped a shot, and one of the African horses went over in a roar of metal. Van Sarawak stood his ground and fired steadily. Two, three, four—and there went a Neldorian, down in the mud!
Men hewed at each other around the Scipios. The Neldorians’ escort yelled with terror. They must have had the blaster demonstrated beforehand, but these invisible blows were something else. They bolted. The second of the bandits got his horse under control and turned to follow.
“Take care of the one you potted, Van,” gasped Everard. “Drag him off the battlefield—we’ll want to question—” He himself scrambled to his feet and made for a riderless horse. He was in the saddle and after the Neldorian before he was fully aware of it.
Behind him, Publius Cornelius Scipio and his son fought clear and joined their retreating army.
Everard fled through chaos: He urged speed from his mount, but was content to pursue. Once they had gotten out of sight, a scooter could swoop down and make short work of his quarry.
The same thought must have occurred to the time rover. He reined in and took aim. Everard saw the blinding flash and felt his cheek sting with a near miss. He set his pistol to wide beam and rode in shooting.
Another fire-bolt took his horse full in the breast. The animal toppled and Everard went out of the saddle. Trained reflexes softened the fall. He bounced to his feet and lurched toward his enemy. The stunner was gone, fallen into the mud, no time to look for it. Never mind, it could be salvaged later, if he lived. The widened beam had found its mark; it wasn’t strong enough at such dilution to knock a man out, but the Neldorian had dropped his blaster and the horse stood swaying with closed eyes.
Rain beat in Everard’s face. He slogged up to the mount. The Neldorian jumped to earth and drew a sword. Everard’s own blade rasped forth.
“As you will,” he said in Latin. “One of us will not leave this field.”
9
The moon rose over mountains and turned the snow to a sudden wan glitter. Far in the north, a glacier threw back the light, and a wolf howled. The Cro-Magnons chanted in their cave, the noise drifted faintly through to the verandah.
Deirdre stood in darkness, looking out. Moonlight dappled her face and caught a gleam of tears. She started as Everard and Van Sarawak came up behind her.
“Are you back so soon?” she asked. “You only came here and left me this morning.”
“It didn’t take long,” said Van Sarawak. He had gotten a hypno in Attic Greek.
“I hope—” She tried to smile—“I hope you have finished your task and can rest from your labors.”
“Yes,” said Everard, “we finished it.”
They stood side by side for a while, looking out on a world of winter.
“Is it true what you said, that I can never go home?” Deirdre spoke gently.
“I’m afraid so. The spells…” Everard swapped a glance with Van Sarawak.
They had official permission to tell the girl as much as they wished and take her wherever they thought she could live best. Van Sarawak maintained that would be Venus in his century, and Everard was too tired to argue.
Deirdre drew a long breath. “So be it,” she said. “I’ll not waste of life lamenting. But the Baal grant that they have it well, my people at home.”
“I’m sure they will,” said Everard.
Suddenly he could do no more. He only wanted to sleep. Let Van Sarawak say what had to be said, and reap whatever rewards there might be.
He nodded at his companion. “I’m turning in,” he declared. “Carry on, Van.”
The Venusian took the girl’s arm. Everard went slowly back to his room.