John looked at his hand. It was a fairly splendid hand, as hands went. Five trimmed and clean fingernails which, let’s be honest, wasn’t exactly commonplace at. Growing up in a wooden shack in Maryland did not lead one to naturally tend towards manicures. But John had grown up on the stage. Like his father and older brothers. They had taught him well that the measure of a man is not to be determined by his origins, but by his ability. In John’s case, that ability had been tremendous.

Horatio. Julius Caesar. Brutus, ah, Brutus, what a perfect role for what was to come. His favourite Shakespearean character, so conflicted in his thinking, yet so determined, so passionate in his actions.

And now, John reflected that he could hardly have accomplished these hallowed roles, brought down the ages by the shouts of thespians from Stratford-upon-Avon to New York, if he didn’t look the part. “The handsomest man in America,” they called him. “A muscular, perfect man,” said others. His hand played a part. How firmly it had gripped Horatio’s sword or Brutus’ dagger.

It didn’t show the same conviction when it held a gun.

His splendid hand, trim nails at all, was trembling. Not a mere quiver, either, a full-blown wobble. Useless. As he watched the tremors shake the gun, John knew he couldn’t bring them under control. He kept his finger off the trigger for fear of firing it. An accidental shot would give the game away altogether.

John could hear the players below. “It means that he is a true hero, and he loves you, you little rogue,” said the young beauty playing Florence. She could have been talking about him. They would acclaim John before the day was out. Some of them would. The right kind. The proper kind.

He tightened his grip on the butt of the gun. His other hand felt the reassuring weight of the knife in his coat pocket.

John waited a bit more. He hadn’t dared have a drink before coming to Ford’s Theatre, and he wondered if he should. Would the booze make the hand stop trembling? Or make the shot go wide?

There was time still to back out, he thought. But no there wasn’t. At this very moment, Lewis, so handsome and dependable, would be approaching the house of that accursed traitor, Seward. Maybe he’d already done the deed. If Georg’s nerve held, maybe Azeroth lay dead too. John couldn’t let them down.

He’d got the usher to let him in at least ten minutes ago. He’d wedged the door shut, that guard wouldn’t be able to get it, whenever he did return to duty. John looked at the second door. There was a convenient hole right in the middle to peer through. Curious. He hadn’t put it there. Peering through, the assassin saw four shapes. All had their backs to the door.

On the far right, the fine uniformed figure of Major Henry Rathbone. A veteran of the war, he had accounted himself finely at Antietam, John had heard. His presence was a problem. John wondered whether the first shot should be for Rathbone, but he swallowed the idea back. Focus on the target. The traitor.

Then came Clara Harris, the coy New York ingénue in a shimmering white dress. The couple sat at a crooked angle, allowing them to watch the play and converse naturally with their hosts.

To her left was the accursed woman who lay with the traitor. She’d borne him three children, although two of them were dead, thank Jesus, thought John.

And finally, the traitor himself. He turned to address his wife, whose hand he held tenderly, and in one horrific moment, his famous profile was outlined for John to see. The craggy features, the sweeping beard, the long arms, the unruly black hair for once devoid of any stupid stovepipe.

John could contain himself no longer. He listened for a moment, seeking if a comedic moment was nigh in the play. “Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal, you sockdologizing man-trap!" The audience applauded and laughed, and John pounced. With a low growl, John drew the knife and entered the box. Abraham Lincoln was just there, he could reach out and touch him.

Before the president could turn, John lifted the gun and fired. His hand was steady. He saw a crimson spurt to the left of the traitor’s head, near the ear. Lincoln collapsed.

Before John could consider what had happened, a cry of anguish and pain came from his right. Rathbone, the trained soldier, was up and lunging already. If Rathbone’s wife hadn’t been sat in the way, John might not have had time to react. The gun clattered to the floor and a broad slash of the knife drove the major back, a red line of gore down his left arm.

****Ooooooh, now that’s a nice touch. Quick fighter, reacts to a surprise attack. Multiple weapons.****

Driven by some mad impulse or dramatic flair, If the two are ever that far apart, John leapt up onto the front wall of the presidential box. The stage was a good 12 feet below and he steadied himself to jump. But Rathbone was not out of the fight yet. He lurched to his feet, spraying blood all over Clara’s white dress. The two women were screaming as Rathbone made a last-ditch grab for the killer. John felt a heavy tug at his coat but powered out and leapt, almost without looking.

Something was wrong. His left riding spur, which so beautifully adorned his cavalry boots and lent them an air of authenticity, snagged the edge of the flag draped over the front of the box. The eagle and the arrows it clutched seemed to mock John as he fell oddly. And landed painfully.

Rathbone’s distraction saw John land heavily on his left leg, which buckled under the impact with a sharp crack. Despite the pain shooting through his body, John was in his element on stage. Lifting up the dripping knife and taking a deep breath, he borrowed from his Shakespearean play. “SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!”

****Translation? Always Thus With Tyrants? A tad dramatic but I guess he’s an actor. It goes with the territory. Speaking of territory, could we grab that flag? The one with the eagle? It’s pretty nifty. Scan it quick.****

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“STOP THAT MAN!” Rathbone roared over the hubbub and screams from atop the balcony. His right arm denouncing the traitorous assassin, his left arm dripping blood, his military uniform gleaming under the lights, the major screamed revenge as John fled.

****Sorry for another pause. That guy’s awesome. Not the assassin, the other one. He’s just the sort of martial hero we’d love to have. I don’t suppose he ever assassinated anyone? What’s that? He did!? His wife? The one next to him there? Outstanding!****

John was already running, another soldier who’d clambered out of the audience hot on his heels. Others followed. He had an advantage they didn’t. As an actor, he had performed numerous times at Ford’s Theatre and knew every nook and cranny. How else could he have reached the presidential box?

As John ran, ducking from a corridor to a changing room and running it past prop storage, he was guided by his memories of quick flings with pretty actresses. The German girl over there, Helen Western against that door. This wasn’t the time to think of that. He could hear his pursuers clattering through the rooms behind him.

There was a side door not far. Nobody should be using it at this time. He ended up back in the narrow corridor leading away from the stage and pelted towards the exit. A man, whom John might have recognized, was in his way. “Let me pass,” shouted John. But the blundering imbecile kept getting in the way. Another thrust with the dagger got the man to stumble aside and John had a free line for the door. 

Outside, the night was pleasant but for John, it was if the icy grip of winter had taken him. Cold sweat clung to his back, his hair was plastered to his head and bolts of pain shot through his left leg. Where was that bloody horse? There. But who was that holding its reins? Didn’t matter. In for a penny, in for a stab. As John leapt atop the horse, the young boy guarding it went to make a sign of protest. The butt of the knife met his temple and the boy crumpled.

John was away. He was free. The traitor was dead. Triumphantly, he yelled out into the night. “SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS! SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!” Windows clattered open as he galloped past. He felt like that silversmith Paul Revere. Awake, you craven Yankees!

John was so blissfully unaware that he rode, eyes closed, right into the blinding flash of light that engulfed him.

****Target J.W.B. obtained. Horse (Piebald) x1. Dagger (Used) x1. Set of clothes (Fine) x1. Purse of monies x1. Convert. Engage****

The tread of his horse had changed. Instead of the clatter of the hard-paved streets of Washington, it felt like it was riding on grass. John opened his eyes. The horse was riding on grass. That wasn’t all. It had grown much larger. Metallic plates covered the creature’s head and neck as it thundered next to some sort of painted fence in a field. A large crowd, dressed in garish colours, surrounded him. In sheer panic, John pulled back on the reins and dug his spurs in. Instantly, the horse’s head reared back and it began to slow.

John just had time to wonder why he could only see a thin sliver of the world around him when he was blasted him off the horse in a cacophony of metal, wood, and pain.

“What devilry befalls me,” John thought as he shook his head. He wasn’t sure if the avalanche of noise assaulting his brain was coming from inside his mind or from the crowd.

opened his eyes and tried to wipe them only to smack himself painfully in the face with a metal gauntlet. John groaned in pain and turned over to vomit. He’d never vomited inside a full-face helmet before. He was unlikely to try it again soon.

Screaming in shock and disgust, he grappled with the helmet until he managed to pry it off. Thin trails of puke decorated his face and he pulled up a huge handful of grass, swiping it across his face to wipe off the refuse.

A concerned face hovered over him. “Excuse me, old friend, but are you alright? That was a nasty shock.” A man with a stern, serious face and thoughtful brown eyes looked dow at him. A tuft of brown hair, on the verge of becoming unruly, helped give him a handsome, educated look.

“It was John, right? There we go, up you come.” The stranger gently grabbed onto John’s shoulder and eased him up to a sitting position. “The crowd’s concerned too. You should milk this injury for the ladies of the court.”

John looked around, his brain refusing to make sense of what his eyes could see. The newcomer, presumably the one who had smashed him with a lance, was wearing full-plate armour except for having removed his helmet. On his chest, his tabard bore a device of a laurel wreath pierced with a blade. On one side of a makeshift arena, a dais had been erected large enough for two dozen….nobles, John guessed they were. Hundreds more people, a mixture of knightly and peasant folk, ringed the hastily constructed arena, stood behind a rope.

“What is this place? Who are you? Where am I?” said John in a weak voice as he tried to clear his head.

“A touch of forgetfulness, eh?” said the man. “Never fear, happens to the best of us. It’ll be over in a second. Let’s take a stand and bow to the crowd. Mustn’t let manners fall by the wayside!”

John stood. It took a couple of minutes, drew more than a few laughs from the noble ladies, and required him clambering up his helper’s body like an overly friendly cat. But he stood.

“Wait, wait, wait,” said John, catching his breath and turning the stranger. “First thing, where the hell are we? And who the hell are you?”

The man in black smiled. “You’re in the realm of Avalon, at the court of our good King, Uther Pendragon.”

“AND WHAT IS MY NAME?” he roared, as he turned to the crowd and flung out his arms wide.

“BRUTUS!!!!!!!!!!”