Anne Barbour (6 page)

James gaped at the man who approached him, right arm slightly raised in a salute. He turned to glare at Lady Hilary, noting irritably that even in her disreputable, sodden state, she looked like a youthful sprite out for a morning frolic in the forest.

A visitor? Good God, what kind of May game was she playing with him now?

Was the fellow got up for a fancy dress ball? If so, he’d done a bang-up job. Was he an antiquary? What had she called him? Minimus Something.

James observed that the stranger was gazing at him with what seemed to him an exaggerated curiosity. Tentatively, he fingered one of James’s brass coat buttons and muttered something under his breath. James started. Was that Latin?

“Now, see here,” he began, slapping away the stranger’s hands. At this, however, the man stiffened and—yes, he actually growled.

The man turned to Lady Hilary and spoke again. Or, rather, bellowed.

“Ego tempun satis effundi cum te et tus amico absurdis. Me oportet ire!”

James stared at him, stunned, as he stalked away in the direction of the gig. Before he could mount the vehicle, however. Lady Hilary spoke softly.

“Jasper.”

Immediately, the dog sprang to his feet and raced to stand before the armored stranger, growling far more menacingly than had the man. Since Jasper stood waist-high, James was not surprised when the stranger halted. He swore, but he halted.

Lady Hilary approached him. She spoke falteringly—and, thought James uncharitably—ungrammatically in Latin.

“Minimus, I know this must seem very—odd to you, but please be patient. Something has apparently happened. Something very strange, and you are going to need help. Please let me confer with this gentleman.” She waved a somewhat disdainful arm toward James.

Leading the unwilling stranger, precisely, thought James in some amusement, as though he were a recalcitrant guest at a formal reception, toward a low stone wall, she bade him be seated, leaving Jasper to guard him. The man subsided with a sullen air, glaring balefully at the dog standing purposefully before him. She then turned back to James.

“Now, then, Mr. Wincanon,” she said crisply. “Please sit down. I know I am banished from your precious site, but I believe that what I have to tell you will change your mind.”

She drew a deep breath. “You see, as I was on my way home, lightning struck the—”

“Yes, I heard the crash from here. Surely it didn’t—Are you all right? It sounded as though it must have brought the sky down.”

“Well, it didn’t. But it did bring something almost as astonishing.”

Lady Hilary described the events following the lightning strike in succinct but complete detail. At the end of her narrative, she put her hand to her head, as though suddenly overwhelmed.

“I know this all sounds incredible, but I simply didn’t know what to do next—so I brought him to you.”

James stiffened, but said not unkindly. “And just what is it you wish me to do?”

At this. Lady Hilary stared up at him. “Why—why, talk to him, I suppose. Try to ascertain—”

“Come, come now, dear lady.” Mr. Wincanon smiled in what Hilary could only describe as a patronizing manner. “I acquit you of any part in this—this taradiddle, but surely you cannot expect me to take this charlatan’s tale seriously.”

Hilary sighed. “I can’t blame you for your skepticism. I certainly felt the same myself. But to what purpose would a man perpetrate such a monumental—and complex—fraud?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, but he must have some nefarious plan in mind. People, after all, do not stroll about the corridors of time as they would on an afternoon tour of the British Museum. Or, perhaps he is mentally deranged.”

“If he is, he possesses a great deal of knowledge about the Roman occupation of Britain. Does he look like a scholar to you? And the coins—oh yes, wait until you see the coins.” Briefly she described their apparent veracity. “Where could he have come by them? When you see them, I am sure you will judge them quite authentic—and recently minted. Mr. Wincanon,” she finished, “all I’m asking is that you talk to him and draw your own conclusions.”

She grinned suddenly. “And just think. What if he really was hurled from the first century to the nineteenth by a lightning bolt? Would you not enjoy a conversation or two with him?”

James gazed thoughtfully at the young woman before him. Good Lord, she must be all about in her head to approach him with such a piece of nonsense. Or perhaps simply gullible. Just look at her. She moved with a youthful, coltish grace and her wide, amber eyes were those of a complete innocent. She claimed to be an expert in antiquities, yet she gave the appearance of the veriest schoolchild. On the other hand, she seemed to have some familiarity with the subject. And she did speak fair Latin.

He thought back to the lightning that had rent the sky. The resulting thunder had shaken the ground beneath his feet. According to Lady Hilary, Rufus had described a similar occurrence just before his alleged transference through time. If a man in another era were to be the victim of such a strike on the same spot where lightning would again strike a number of centuries later, was it possible ...?

No, of course it wasn’t. But James glanced speculatively at the older man, still fulminating where he sat near the gig. His gaze wandered over the armor plating and thickly studded boots. His garb was undoubtedly that of a Roman legionary stationed perhaps in Caerleon circa 100
A
.
D
. In addition, his garments and the metal strips that made up his armor showed signs of everyday wear.

James sighed. At any rate, it did not look as though he would be rid of either one of his visitors until he probed the matter further. He approached the old warrior, who glared at him with obvious suspicion.

“My dear sir,” began James in his best classical Latin, “we seem to have a most unusual situation here. The young lady”—he gestured toward Hilary—”says that you are in possession of a small quantity of coins. May I see them?”

Rufus’ expression of suspicion deepened. It took some effort on James’s part to assure him that he had no designs on the legionary’s pocket change. Grudgingly, the warrior pulled out his pouch and emptied it into James’s palm. Seating himself on the gig’s mounting step, James examined the little hoard.

“Mmp,” he grunted. The coins certainly did look authentic. One by one, he turned them over in his hand. There were two sestercii, six denarii, ten aes, and twenty quandrans. Just what one might expect a soldier to carry with him on a routine outing. All bore the heads of various emperors from Augustus to Trajan with appropriate details on the reverses.

James lifted his head to gaze penetratingly at the man who called himself Marcus Minimus Rufus. The older man did not flinch, but thrust forward an already pugnacious chin and stared back.

“My good fellow,” said James, only to be rewarded with a surly grunt.

“Minimus Rufus,” James began again. “May I ask you—what year is this?”

Minimum grunted again, this time in exasperation. “The little wench there asked me the same thing. It is the second year of the consulship of the Imperator, Trajan.”

“Oh, God.” James drew a deep breath. “Minimus Rufus, old man, I think you’d better sit down.”

At this. Minimus stiffened,

“Who are you calling old?” he asked belligerently. “I am in my prime—my forty-eighth year, if you must know. I’ve been—”

“Yes, yes,” interposed James placatingly. “I only meant— Please. Sit.” The legionary seated himself with a great show of reluctance on the remains of a stone wall. “Rufus, I must tell you that the year is actually eighteen hundred and eighteen in the Year of our Lord.”

Obviously, James’s words meant nothing to Minimus, for his response was a vacant stare.

“Um,” said James by way of explanation.

Hilary spoke up in irritation. “What he means to say. Minimus Rufus, is that the lightning strike you suffered some moments ago apparently propelled you forward in time. You have made a leap of approximately seventeen hundred years.”

Not unnaturally, this statement deprived Minimus of speech. His eyes bulged alarmingly and his mouth opened and closed several times.

“Lunatics!” he cried at last. “I am fallen in with lunatics! Leave me!” He struggled to his feet, ignoring Jasper’s minatory growls. “Let me be on my way!”

Casting a “now-see-what-you’ve-done” glance at James, Hilary stepped forward and set a hand on Minimus’  brawny shoulder. Jasper stepped up to offer his enthusiastic assistance, but it was several moments before Minimus subsided enough for James to resume speaking.

“No, no,” he said soothingly. “It is all true, and I believe I can prove it to your satisfaction. You stand now on my land. Come with me to my, er, villa.”

This produced another burst of invective from Minimus and this time it took much persuasion on the pan of both Hilary and James, to say nothing of Jasper’s persistent urging, to propel him into the gig. James, still unconvinced of Minimus’ authenticity, rode beside the gig as Hilary drove the short distance to the manor house. He did not speak, but listened carefully as Hilary interrogated the legionary. He did not know whether he was more astonished at the perspicacity of Hilary’s questions, and her ability to calm Rufus’ sensibilities or the man’s almost offhandedly correct answers. Answers that revealed a comprehensive knowledge of the world of ancient Rome and its colony, Britannia. James watched Minimus carefully as they rounded the last bend of the drive and the house came into full view.

Once more, the warrior’s mouth fell open. He gaped vacantly at the structure, constructed of the famous Bath stone that seemed to gather all the light of the afternoon into itself. After a long moment, he turned first to Hilary and then to James, fairly gabbling in consternation.

“It’s all right, Rufus,” said Hilary hastily. “This is what grand houses look like now. I know it must seem very large to you, but you need not be frightened.”

Immediately, Rufus jerked upright. “Frightened? I? A soldier of the empire? I have seen many buildings of this size, of course. Nero’s Golden House in Rome would make this place look like a thatched hut. However, I’ve not seen many so tall. And with so many windows. They appear to be glazed,” he concluded in some awe,

James chuckled. “Yes, we can make glass easily now, and quite cheaply. Of course, we have to pay a tax on our windows, but that is another problem.”

Rufus settled back in the gig, for the first time seeming to accept the possibility that James had told him the truth. His expression deepened to one of dismay and an age-old fear of the unknown.

When the odd little party drew up to the manor’s front door, James dismounted from his horse and assisted Hilary from the gig. Rufus also clambered down from the gig, and stood, with Jasper at his heels, surveying the manor house.

Hilary stepped up to him, murmuring encouragement. Watching her, James was forced to admit once again, that if one took the time to really look at Lady Hilary she was not unattractive. Her features were well-formed and that mop of red hair lent them a certain incandescent charm.

He frowned. Not that he was even slightly susceptible to feminine charm, no matter the erudition that lay behind it.

Not to his surprise, Rufus huffed for a moment, then allowed Hilary to place her hand on his arm. She smiled encouragingly as she led him up the stairs and, when the door was swung open by Burnside, the awe-inspiring butler inherited by James from Sir William, Rufus allowed himself to be ushered into the house with no further demur. Burnside, on his part, refrained from displaying so much as a flicker of ill-bred curiosity regarding the extremely odd appearance of one of his master’s guests, nor the fact that the other, though she was well known to him, should really not have been here at all sans chaperon.

“Send Mrs. Armbruster to me, if you please, Burnside,” were James’s first words to the butler. “And please send someone to Whiteleaves to fetch Lady Hilary’s abigail. As you can see, she was caught in the rainstorm that occurred awhile ago.”

“Very good, sir. And the, er, animal, sir?” Burnside indicated Jasper, who was attempting to insert his large form through the door as unobtrusively as possible.

“You may have it removed to the stables,” said James firmly. “Although he is not, as one might suppose, to be ridden.”

At a gesture from Burnside, a hovering footman ran to grasp Jasper by the collar, but the dog forestalled this indignity by the simple expedient of once more baring his teeth. The footman retreated to a prudent distance.

“We can simply leave Jasper outside,” said Hilary icily. “He will be no trouble—though he may howl a little.” She swept past James and the butler into the house.

Rufus, on his part, remained silent, absorbing his surroundings with fearful curiosity. Silently, his gaze wide, he took in damask hangings, crystal chandeliers, armorial bearings and heavily upholstered furnishings. By the time James ushered him into the library, Hilary trailing in their wake, he appeared ready to explode.

“Gods!” he exclaimed as James shut the door. “Tell me again where in time I am. And what is the language you speak now? Am I still in Britannia? Who are you? You cannot be citizens of Rome, but you do not look like Dobunnii. What—”

James raised a hand. “We will answer all your questions, Rufus, in good time. But first I wish you would answer some of mine.”

Rufus snarled. “I have done nothing but answer your questions since we met. Now, it is my turn.”

James remained unmoved. “I will tell you anything you wish to know, but I must also tell you that I am not at all convinced that you are the genuine article.”

“What?” gasped Hilary. “Good heavens, Mr. Wincanon, how can you doubt him? I will very readily admit that the situation is difficult to comprehend, but it must be apparent to the meanest intelligence that Rufus is precisely who he says he is—a simple soldier who somehow has been hurled through time.”

James’s chocolate-brown eyes narrowed, and once more Hilary was struck by the unnerving strength in his gaze. “But you see, my girl, I flatter myself that I possess a bit more than the meanest intelligence, and I am not easily duped. Anyone can craft the garb of a legionary, and—”