“Really?” she murmured. “I thought you could double back to a split second before or after any moment.”

  Shrewd, shrewd, “Sure we can. But—well, we in the corps have only so much lifespan to give. Sooner or later the Old Man is bound to catch up with each of us. And the Patrol has too much history to guard; we’re badly understaffed. And, okay, I personally have trouble sitting still like this when action is pending. I want to . . . to work my way to that point on my personal world line where the case is closed and I know we’re safe.”

  “I see,” she said quickly. Then: “It doesn’t begin or end with Don Luis, does it?”

  “No,” Everard admitted. “He acquired a timecycle because some bandits out of the distant future tried to hijack Atahuallpa’s ransom on a night when he was there. Those bandits are the really dangerous characters. For the present, though, let’s track down our Conquistador.”

  209 B.C.

  Like most well-to-do Hellenistic houses this far east, that of Hipponicus mingled Classical simplicity with Oriental lavishness. In the dining room, gilt molding framed walls on which frescoes depicted fanciful birds, beasts, and plants, gaudily hued. The same flowing lines graced the bronze candelabra whose tapers took over as daylight faded. Incense sweetened the air. Now in summer, a door stood open on the roses and fishpond of the inner court. However, the company reclined in Attic fashion, two on a couch, at a pair of small tables, wearing white tunics with little ornament. They watered their wine and ate food that was good but not elaborate, soup and soft bread followed by a dish of lamb, barley, and vegetables, lightly seasoned. The presence of any meat was somewhat special. Dessert was fresh fruit.

  Normally the merchant would have made his first supper at home a family occasion, the only guest his friend Meander. The next evening would have seen a stag party complete with girls engaged to play music, dance, and otherwise entertain. This time circumstances were different. He needed an early and accurate briefing on them. The message he sent ahead bade his wife invite certain men at once. Male slaves waited on them.

  He counted for enough in city affairs that the two who were able to come on such short notice did. Besides, what he had to tell from the northern frontier might be useful. They lay opposite him and Everard and, after the amenities, got directly to the way things were. It was not pleasant.

  “—the latest courier,” growled Creon. “The army should get here day after tomorrow.” He was a burly, scar-faced man, second in command of the garrison left behind when King Euthydemus departed.

  Hipponicus blinked. “The whole expeditionary force?”

  “Minus the dead,” said Creon grimly.

  “But what about the rest of the country?” asked Hipponicus, Shalten. He had hinterland properties. “If most of our men are bottled in this one city, Antiochus’ troops can plunder and burn everywhere else, unhindered.”

  “First plunder, then burn!” Everard recalled. The twentieth-century joke, which doubtless had a hoary lineage, was not very funny when the reality drew nigh, but a man was apt to grab at any straw of humor.

  “Fear not,” soothed Zoilus. Hipponicus had explained to Everard that this minister of the treasury had connections throughout the realm. Beneath the big nose, gaunt features creased in a pursy little smile. “Our king knows well what he does. With his forces concentrated here, the enemy must stay close by. Else we could send detachments out to take them from behind, piecemeal. Isn’t that right, Creon?”

  “Not quite that simple, especially over the long haul.” The officer’s glance at his couchmate added, You civilians always fancy yourselves strategists, don’t you? “But, true, Antiochus is playing it cautious. That’s plain to see. After all, our army is still in working order, and he’s far from home.”

  Everard, who had kept a respectful silence in the presence of the dignitaries, decided he could venture a query. “Just what did happen, sir? Can you tell us, from the dispatches you’ve gotten?”

  Creon’s reply was slightly condescending, but amicable, as one fighting man to another. “The Syrians marched along the southern bank of the River Arius.” On the maps of Everard’s milieu, that was the Hari Rud. “Else they’d have had desert to cross. Euthydemus knew Antiochus was coming, of course. He’d expected him for a long time.”

  Naturally, Everard thought. This war had been brewing six decades, since the satrap of Bactria revolted against the Seleucid monarchy and proclaimed his province independent, himself its king.

  The Parthians had taken fire about the same time and done likewise. They were more nearly pure Iranian—Aryan, in the true meaning of that term—and considered themselves the heirs of the Persian Empire which Alexander had conquered and Alexander’s generals divided among each other. Long at strife with rivals in the West, the descendants of General Seleucus suddenly found an added menace at their backs.

  At present, they ruled over Cilicia (south central Turkey, in Everard’s era) and Latakia along the Mediterranean seaboard. Thence their domain sprawled across most of Syria, Mesopotamia (Iraq), and Persia (Iran), holding much directly, some in vassalage. Therefore language commonly lumped it under the name “Syria,” although its lords were Graeco-Macedonian with Near Eastern admixture and their subjects wildly diverse. King Antiochus III had drawn it back together after civil and foreign wars nearly shattered it. He went on to Parthia (northeastern Iran) and chastened that new power—for the time being. Now he was come to reclaim Bactria and Sogdiana. His ambitions reached southward from them, into India. . . .

  “—and kept his spies and scouts busy. He took position at the ford he knew the Syrians would use.” Creon sighed. “But I must say Antiochus is a wily one, and as daring as he’s tough. Shortly before dawn, he sent a picked force across—”

  The Bactrian troops, like the Parthian, were principally cavalry. That suited Asian traditions and, most places, the Asian land; but it left them terribly handicapped at night, when they always withdrew to what they hoped was a safe distance from the enemy.

  “—and drove our pickets back on our main body. His own main body followed. Euthydemus deemed it wisest to give ground, regroup, and make for here. He’s been collecting reinforcements along the way. Antiochus has pursued, but not closely. Fighting has amounted to skirmishes.”

  Hipponicus frowned. “That isn’t like Antiochus, from What I’ve heard of him,” he said.

  Creon shrugged, emptied his cup, held it out to a slave for a refill. “Our intelligence is that he was wounded at the ford. Not enough to disable, obviously, but maybe enough to slow him down.”

  “Still,” declared Zoilus, “he’s been unwise not to follow up his advantage immediately. Bactra is well supplied. These walls are impregnable. Once behind them, King Euthydemus—”

  “Can sit and let Antiochus blockade us into starvation?” Hipponicus interrupted. “I hope not!”

  Foreknowledge gave confidence for Everard to say, “That may not be what he intends. If I were your king, I’d make myself secure here, then sally forth for a pitched battle, with the city to return to in case I lost it.”

  Creon nodded.

  “The Trojan War over again?” Hipponicus protested. “May the gods grant a different outcome for us.” He tipped his cup and sprinkled some drops on the floor.

  “Fear not,” said Zoilus. “Our king has better sense than Priam. And his eldest son, Demetrius, bids fair to become a new Alexander.” Evidently he remained a courtier wherever he went.

  Yet he was not merely a sycophant, or Hipponicus would not have wanted him present. In this matter he spoke truth. Euthydemus was a self-made man, adventurer from Magnesia, usurper who seized the crown of Bactria; but he governed ably and fought cannily. In years to come, Demetrius would cross the Hindu Kush and grab off a goodly chunk of the decaying Mauryan Empire for himself.

  Unless the Exaltationists prevailed in spite of everything, and that whole future from which Everard sprang was annulled.

  “Well, I’d better see to my own arms,” Hipponicus said heavily. “I have . . . three men of fighting age in this household, besides myself. My sons—” He did not quite suppress a wince.

  “Good,” rumbled Creon. “We’ve reorganized things somewhat. You’ll report to Philip, son of Xanthus, at the Orion Tower.”

  Hipponicus cast Everard a look. Their forearms were in contact. The Patrolman felt a slight quiver.

  Zoilus took the word, a bit maliciously: “If you don’t care for a part in our war, Meander, leave at once.”

  “Not so fast, I hope, sir,” Everard answered.

  “You’ll fight on our side?” Hipponicus breathed.

  “Well, this takes me by surprise—” I lie like a wet rag.

  Creon chuckled. “Oh, you’d been looking forward to some fun? Spend your pay on the best, then. Drink good wine while it’s to be had, and do your whoring before the army drives every street slut’s price as high as Theonis’ is now.”

  “Whose?” asked Everard.

  Hipponicus’ grin was sour. “Never mind. She’s out of your class and mine.”

  Zoilus flushed. “She’s not for any oaf who brings a bag of gold,” he snapped. “She chooses the lovers she desires.”

  Oh-ho! Everard thought. The great official has his human side, does he? But let’s avoid embarrassing him. It’ll be tricky as is, steering this conversation the way I want even for a minute or two. Kipling’s lines passed wryly through his mind:

  “Four things greater than all things are,—

  Women and Horses and Power and War.

  We spake of them all, but the last the most. . . .”

  He turned to Hipponicus. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’d like to stand with you, but by the time I could be enlisted, me, a foreigner, the battle that decides the victory might well be finished. In any case, I couldn’t do much. I’m not trained to fight on horseback.”

  The merchant nodded. “Nor is it your fight,” he replied, more pragmatic than disappointed. “I’m sorry your welcome to my city is so poor. You’d better leave tomorrow or the day after.”

  “I’ll go around town among the metics and transients,” Everard said. “Somebody may want to hire an extra guard for his trip home. Half the world passes through Bactra, doesn’t it? If I can find somebody returning to some place I’ve never been before, that would be perfect.” He had been at pains with Hipponicus to build the persona of a man who tramped around not simply because of having gotten into trouble with his tribe, but out of curiosity. Such were not uncommon in this milieu.

  “You’ll meet none from the Far East,” Zoilus warned. “That trade has shriveled.”

  I know, Everard recollected. China’s been under the rule of Shi Huang-Ti, the Mao of his day. Totally xenophobic. And now at his death, it’ll be turmoil till the Han Dynasty gets established. Meanwhile the Hiung-nu and other nomad gangsters prowl freely beyond the Great Wall. He shrugged. “Well, what about India, Arabia, Africa, or in Europe Rome, Areconia, or even Gaul?”

  The others showed surprise. “Areconia?” Hipponicus asked.

  Everard’s pulse thuttered. He kept his manner as casual as it had been when he planted the word. “You haven’t heard? Maybe you know the Areconians under a different name. I heard mention in Parthia when I passed through there, and that was second or third hand. I got the impression of occasional traders from pretty far northwest. Sounded interesting.”

  “What are they like?” Creon inquired, still fairly genial toward him.

  “Unusual-looking, I was told. Tall, slim, handsome as gods, black hair but skin like alabaster and eyes light; and the men don’t grow beards, their cheeks are as smooth as a girl’s.”

  Hipponicus wrinkled brows, then shook his head. Zoilus tautened. Creon rubbed his own bristly chin and murmured, “I seem to have heard talk, these past months—Wait!” he exclaimed. “That sounds like Theonis. Not that she’d have a beard, whatever she is, but hasn’t she got men like that with her? Does anybody really know where she’s from?”

  Hipponicus went thoughtful. “I gather she set up in business about a year ago, very quietly,” he said. “She’d have needed permits and so forth. There was no fuss about them, no, nor any gossip to speak of. All at once, here she was.” He laughed. “A powerful protector, I suppose, who takes it out in trade.”

  A chill tingle passed along Everard’s scalp. Topflight courtesan, yeah, that’s how a woman could get full freedom of action in these surroundings. I sort of expected it. He bent his mouth upward. “Think she’d at least talk to a homely vagabond?” he asked. “If she does have kin-folk here, or if she herself thinks best to leave, well, my sword is for hire.”

  Zoilus’ palm cracked onto his couch. “No!” he yelled. The rest stared. He collected himself and challenged Everard, raggedly: “Why are you so interested, if you know so little about these . . . Areconians, did you call them? I didn’t think a hardheaded mercenary would chase after. . . a fairy tale.”

  Hoy, I’ve touched a nerve, haven’t I? Back off! Everard raised a hand. “Please, it was just a notion of mine. Not worth making a fuss about. I’ll inquire around town in a general way tomorrow, if I may. Meanwhile, you gentlemen have more important things to talk about, don’t you?”

  Creon’s lips thinned. “We do,” he said.

  Nonetheless, throughout that evening Zoilus’ glance kept straying toward Meander the Illyrian.

  976B.C.

  After their attack on the Exaltationists, the Patrol squadron flitted to an uninhabited island in the Aegean to rest, care for the wounded, and assess the operation. It had gone as well as Everard dared hope: four bandit timecycles shot down, seven prisoners taken off the foundering ship on which they had left Phoenicia. True, three riders had flashed away into space-time before an energy beam could strike. His heart would have no real ease until the last of their breed was captured or slain. Still, there could be very few remaining at large, and today he had—finally, finally—nabbed the ringleader.

  Merau Varagan walked some yards off from the group, to a cliff edge, where he stood looking out over the sea. The Patrolmen on guard let him. They had snapped a neuroinduction collar around the neck of each prisoner. At the first sign of any suspicious move, a remote-control switch would activate it and the wearer would collapse paralyzed. On impulse. Everard went to join him.

  Water sparkled blue, flecked with white, dusted with radiance. Sunlight called pungencies out of dittany underfoot. A breeze ruffled Varagan’s hair, which sheened obsidian black. He had shed his drenched robe and stood like a marble statue newly from the hand of Phidias. His face might also have been the ideal of a Hellas not yet born, except that it was too fine-chiseled and nothing Apollonian dwelt in the great green eyes or on the blood-red mouth. Dionysian, perhaps. . . .

  He nodded at Everard. “A lovely vista,” he said in American English, which his voice turned into music. The tone was calm, almost nonchalant. “May I savor it while we are here?”

  “Sure,” agreed the Patrolman, “though we’ll leave pretty soon.”

  “Does the exile planet offer anything comparable?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t tell us.”

  “To make it more feared, I daresay. That un-discover’d country from whose bourn No traveler returns.” Sardonically: “You needn’t persuade me not to escape it by leaping off this verge, no matter how relieved some of your companions might feel.”

  “As a matter of fact, we’d cuss. It wouldn’t be nice of you, putting us to all the trouble of fishing out your carcass and reviving it.”

  “In order to subject me to the kyradex.”

  “Yeah. You’ve got a headful of information we want.”

  “I fear you will be disappointed. We have taken care that none of us shall know much about any other’s resources, capabilities, or contingency plans.”

  “Uh-huh. Natural-born loners, the bunch of you.”

  “And the genetic engineers of the thirty-first millennium set themselves to bring forth a race of supermen, bred to adventure on the cosmic frontier,” Shalten said once, “and lo, they found they had begotten Lucifer.” He sometimes talks in that vaguely Biblical style. Otherwise nothing about him is vague.

  “Well, I will preserve what dignity I can,” Varagan said. “Once on the planet”—he smiled—“who knows what may be possible?”

  Physical weariness and letdown after excitement left Everard vulnerable to emotion. “Why do you do it?” he blurted. “You lived like gods—”

  Varagan nodded. “Very much like gods. Have you ever considered the fact that that includes changelessness, trapped in a myth, ultimate meaninglessness? Our civilization was older to us than the Stone Age was to yours. In the end, that made it unendurable.”

  So you tried to overthrow it, and failed, but some of you had managed to seize timecycles, and fled back into the past. “You could have left it peacefully. The Patrol, for instance, would’ve been overjoyed to have people with your abilities as recruits; and for your part, I swear you’d never have been bored.”

  “We would have been what is worse, perverting our innermost natures. The Patrol exists to conserve one version of history.”

  “And you’ve kept trying to destroy it! In God’s name, why?”

  “So stupid a question is unworthy of you. You know quite well why. We have tried to remake time in order that we may rule it; and we have desired to rule in order that our wills may be wholly free. Enough.”

  Haughtiness departed, lightness returned. Varagan trilled a laugh. “The stodgy have triumphed again, it seems. Congratulations. You’ve done a remarkable piece of detective work, tracking us. Would you tell me how? I’ll be most interested.”