Free Megiddo's Shadow by Arthur Slade

and entered the courtyard to find a majestic three-story stone house, with lights on in several rooms. Vines trailed up the sides and around the windows.
    As I stood at the front door I wondered if Dad had ever been in this very spot to lift the brass knocker.
    A well-dressed servant opened the door—an Indian, like Gunga Dm. His eyes were steady. “I presume you are Monsieur Bathe.” He had an accent I didn't recognize. Perhaps he had been raised in France.
    “Yes, that's me.”
    “Monsieur Hilts is expecting you.”
    The man took my greatcoat and, limping slightly, led me into the study. Rows of books filled oak shelves, and a large ticking clock showed the time to be 7:12. Above it was a black bear's head, mounted with its mouth open in a roar, flanked by a wolf and a tiger. A tiger!
    A banner hung over the fireplace with the image of a lion standing firmly on a crown, below which was a ribbon with the words THE ROYAL DRAGOONS and the motto SPECTEMUR AGENDO. My father had once translated it for me: “Let us be judged by our actions.” He had charged into battle with those words on his lips.
    “Ah, the old glorious regimental flag.”
    I spun around. Colonel Hilts stood there in his uniform. Even though I'd spent extra time shining my buttons andbadges, the colonel outshone me. “Once a dragoon, always a dragoon. How are you keeping, Edward?”
    “Good, sir. You have a grand house.”
    “Thank you. It's been in the family for years. Would you like some brandy? I know it's traditionally an evening drink, but I find it invigorates me before a meal.”
    “Yes, I'd appreciate having some.” I hoped I sounded mature.
    The servant appeared with two snifters and poured us each a drink.
    “Thank you, Kulbir.” Hilts raised his glass. “To the King.” I mirrored the gesture, then sipped the brandy, startled by its burning sweetness. The smell reminded me of the time Hector and I had crouched in the stairwell, listening to Dad and Hilts. A hundred years earlier.
    Kulbir replaced the lid on the carafe and limped away.
    “Kulbir is the heart of this household. He was my batman; one of the greatest Gurkha fighters ever.”
    “He's a Gurkha?” I whispered. They were the deadliest soldiers in the British Indian army.
    “He had the necessary killer instinct and was a great horseman, too, until a saber severed his foot. He has a wooden one now. We used it to smuggle papers out of Syria.”
    “Really!” This was the kind of derring-do I'd read about in
Boy's Own Paper
. Perhaps Paul could get himself a wooden foot. If an Indian could overcome such a loss, Paul could, too.
    “Ah, it was all in a day's work.” Hilts waved his hand. “So, what are your impressions of England?”
    “I quite like it, sir.”
    “Please, Edward, don't call me sir, call me Uncle. I'd appreciate it, and I'm sure your father would, too.”
    “I will, uh … Uncle Nix.”
    “Thank you.” He smiled. “So what do you think of the war effort so far?”
    “According to the papers we're doing well.”
    “Hard to separate fact from fiction, isn't it? The newspaper lords are doing their bit with their heroic stories. My favorite headline is still
The Great and Glorious Retreat from Gallipoli
. When can a retreat be called great? The navy botched the operation from the beginning. And the army should have known that the Turks would be tough nuts to crack.”
    I listened intently because someone like Uncle Nix knew the real reasons for victories or defeats.
    The door swung open. “Sahib, dinner is served.”
    “Ah, good, come along, Edward.”
    In the dining room was a table that could seat at least forty, polished so that it reflected several golden candles. Tureens, china plates, and silver cutlery were set out in perfect order. We sat, and Kulbir splashed a bit of wine into the goblet in front of Uncle Nix, who tested it and nodded his approval. Kulbir filled our goblets.
    “The gramophone, please, Kulbir.”
    Kulbir crossed the room and