Anne Barbour (5 page)

He continued toward her, scattering tatters of fog in his wake. The momentum of his headlong flight from the tower carried him to within a few feet of her, where he stopped abruptly. Hilary caught her breath. The man wore a short, woolen tunic underneath a metal corselet fashioned from strips of metal. The strips lay horizontally across his chest and dropped vertically from his waist to his knees. The whole was cinched with two leather belts, crossed over his waist and hips. From one of these, on his right, hung a sheathed dagger, and from his left, another leather sheath, no doubt crafted to contain the sword that he waved threateningly above his head. Over all, he wore a heavy woolen cloak, affixed at his shoulder with an ornate pin. His feet were shod with sturdy, heavily studded sandals, laced with leather thongs. His head was bare, and pink skin shone through a sparse covering of graying brown hair.

What did he think he was got up as? wondered Hilary dazedly. What was a stranger doing stumbling about in the rain in this ludicrous fashion, dressed in the garb of a Roman soldier and wielding what looked like an eminently serviceable sword? Hilary shrank farther beneath the meager shelter of the gig, pulling Jasper with her.

At her movement, the man jerked his head in her direction. He stared wildly at the gig for a moment, perceiving Hilary almost immediately. He stumbled toward her, bellowing incomprehensibly. Reaching beneath the gig, he grasped her by one shoulder, and began pulling her from her shelter.

Jasper took immediate exception. With a snarl of outrage, he wriggled free from Hilary’s arms and lunged at the man, who raised his arm as though to cleave the hapless animal in two with his sword. With a cry, Hilary wrenched herself from the man’s grip and flung herself protectively over her pet. For an instant, she simply stared upward, her gaze a combination of supplication, fear, and anger.

The man stared back, and Hilary was surprised to find her emotions mirrored in his eyes. Except, perhaps for the supplication. For a long moment he stood above her, sword upraised, droplets of moisture flying from its blade. What seemed to be a stream of threats poured from his lips. At last, the sword wavered uncertainly. The next moment, he sheathed it and, silent at last, gestured for Hilary to come out from under the gig. When she merely thrust herself backward, he shook his head and put his hand out in a gesture that was more impatient than threatening.

“Ego tibi non nocebo,”
he said, in a tone whose volume was measurably reduced.

Good God, she could not understand a word he was saying!

“Who are you?” she asked in a quavering voice. “And what are you doing here?”

“Unh?”

Well, she understood that, at least.

“Who are you?” she said again, slowly and clearly.

She received the same response, followed by another gesture. At last, Hilary accepted the hand extended to her, shushing Jasper, whose suspicions were in no way allayed.

She noted distractedly that the man was fairly tall, and very broad. He was not obese precisely, but his style of dress certainly emphasized his barrel chest and considerable paunch. He surveyed her curiously, and glancing down at her gown, she blushed. Goodness, she must look like a drowned chicken, drenched through as she was, with her bonnet dripping into her eyes and her hair lying in sodden strands over her shoulders.

His gaze next moved to the gig and his eyes widened. Stepping closer to it, he ran his hands over the frame, then approached her horse, which still displayed its anxiety over the recent lightning strike.

“Quis tu es, et ubi hoc vehiculum insolitum nanciscisti?”
he asked in a rumbling voice.

Hilary bit her lip in exasperation. Why was the man speaking in gibberish? But... There was a faint familiarity in his words.

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I don’t understand you.” She pointed to herself. “I am Lady—that is, I am Hilary Merton.” She swiveled her finger in the opposite direction. “What is your name?”

“Cur in nugis dices, tu femina stulta?”
the man inquired irritably.
“Ubi hoc plaustrum nanciscistie? Et equus... Quid genus est?”

Hilary’s ears pricked up. Yes, she knew some of the words he spoke.
Femina.
Woman? And—
equus
meant horse—in Latin! What was going on here? Was he some sort of lunatic? An educated lunatic, perhaps. Although, he certainly did not give the appearance of an intellectual.

Clearing her throat, Hilary said,
“Ego sum Hilary Merton. Quid nomen tibi est?”

A look of satisfaction sprang into the man’s small brown eyes. He thumped his chest.
“Ego sum Marcus Minimus Rufus,”
he announced proudly.

He
was
speaking Latin, Hilary concluded disbelievingly.

“Where do you live?” she asked, in the same tongue.

“I am from—what is the matter?” the man queried abruptly as Hilary waved her hand.

“You must either speak more slowly,” she said haltingly, “or couch your words in English, please, or I shall not be able to understand you.”

“Ing-glish? Is that some sort of local, tribal jargon? It must be, for your Latin is awful. Are you from beyond the frontier then?”

“N-no, I—Where did you say you live?”

“I am stationed at Isca.”

The world seemed to spin in great, wobbling circles. Isca? That was the old Roman name for Caerleon.

“However,” continued Rufus, “I am currently part of a detachment maintained at Corinium.”

“Corinium,” echoed Hilary in a hollow voice. Corinium, in Roman times had been the second largest city in Britain after London and was now the quiet little town of Cirencester, located just a few miles from Whiteleaves. Walking unsteadily to the side of the road, she sat down with a thump on a handy boulder.

Rufus, meanwhile, was gazing about him once more. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “I had a horse tethered, but I don’t—” He stopped suddenly, his jaw dropping and his eyes bulging. “The tower. Gods, what has happened to my tower?”

He pointed a trembling finger at the tower, which had sustained remarkably little damage from the lightning strike and stood as it had always done, a lone, ruined sentinel near the Fosse Way.

“Your tower?” she asked.

“Yes. Well, no, not
my
tower, but—Gods, never mind that. What happened to it? It looks as though it was hit by a thousand loads of
ballista.
And my detachment—where are they?”

Hilary was having difficulty following all this, but she caught the gist. Evidently, Rufus knew the tower as a whole structure and was astonished to find that it was now a ruin. An uncomfortable train of thought was gearing up in her mind.

“Ah, Mr. Minimus—” she began hesitantly, uncertain as to how to proceed. “Can you tell me today’s date?”

He stared at her blankly.

“Ump, now that I come to think of it, it is the
nones
of
Septembrius
already.”

September. The
nones...
that would be the fifth, which was a little off, but still...

“What year?” she continued, holding her breath.

“Why, it is the second year of the consulship of Trajan.”

Again, the surrounding scene spun before Hilary. Good God, the man thought he was living in the year 100
A
.
D
. or so! She was in the presence of a dangerous lunatic. She darted a glance at Jasper, glad of the protection of his size and his teeth.

“Listen,” said Rufus suddenly. “I seem to have lost my transportation. I must get into Corinium and report the destruction of the tower and my missing men. Your rig seems serviceable. Will you take me into the city?”

“Me?” Hilary squeaked. “Oh, no. That would be—”

Rufus advanced on her and Hilary jumped nervously. Jasper bared his teeth. Rufus, however, merely removed a leather pouch hanging from his knife belt. Seating himself on another boulder, he opened it and withdrew a handful of coins. “I will pay you for your trouble, of course,” he said, picking through the coins. He finally proffered two of them, and Hilary gasped. Though not precisely new-minted, they were obviously recent in issue, and on them could be clearly discerned the heads of Roman emperors. Vespasian COS II, read one, and Titus, IMP XIII the other. Accepting them in trembling fingers, she examined them carefully.

“May I see the rest?” she asked, her voice ragged.

Rufus glared at her suspiciously, but he dropped the coins into her hand. Hilary turned them over carefully, one by one. She had seen their like many times, but mostly in sketches in history tomes. One was a duplicate of a specimen she had unearthed at Goodhurst. The coins she held in her hand, however, bore no trace of the ravages of centuries.

These were undoubtedly genuine and they had undoubtedly been minted within the last few years. Despite all reasoning to the contrary, they appeared to be ancient Roman coins, but they were not ancient. They were new. The implications of this concept surged through Hilary.

No, it was impossible. It was ludicrous. She was as crazy as the man standing before her to so much as consider such a notion. The idea of someone traveling through time from Roman Britain to pop up unannounced in the nineteenth century was—was insane. And yet... Her thoughts returned to the earth-shattering bolt of lightning that had struck the tower. Could such an eruption of a natural force have produced a rent in the fabric of time itself?

No, of course not.

Still . . .

She gazed dubiously at the man calling himself Minimus Rufus, noting with dismay that his returning stare was increasingly wrathful. She wished above all things to be away from him, but she did not feel she could leave him here. He was obviously all about in this head and could not be left alone. Besides, what if he really—? She clamped her mind shut on this frightening line of thought and returned her attention to Rufus. With a muttered oath, he rose from his boulder and strode down the lane toward the Fosse Way.

“No!” she cried. “Wait!”

Rufus halted and turned expectantly. Hilary nodded her head and the problematic legionary hurried back to her. She hastened to the gig, and untied Sylvia from the oak. She led horse and vehicle back to the road, but when the soldier would have seated himself in the driver’s place, she indicated vigorously that she would take the reins. She gestured to Jasper, who sprang up into the seat, reinforcing his mistress’ wishes with one or two succinct growls. Scowling, Rufus slid his ample posterior toward the other side of the seat and Hilary took her place. She pulled the gig about, and in a moment, the two, with Jasper between them, moved smartly down the lane.

At this point, Rufus took umbrage once more. He might be confused as to his correct place in time, but he realized clearly that they were not headed toward his desired destination.

“No!” he roared, reaching across Jasper to grasp at the reins. “Corinium!”

Jasper promptly solved this contretemps by sinking his teeth into Rufus’ arm. It was protected by the leather wristlets he wore, but still the action proved effective. Rufus jerked back into his seat, reaching for the dagger at his belt, but, to Hilary’s vast relief, he seemed to think better of his action and subsided with a rumble of ancient oaths.

As they crossed the Fosse Way, Rufus looked up and down the highway, but Hilary proceeded straight across it.

“Via Martius?” he queried, swiveling his head around to keep it in sight.

“Via Fosse,” Hilary stated. Surely, if Rufus was pretending to be a visitor from Roman Britain, he would know the correct name of this most important highway. Then she recalled with a sinking feeling, that the Fosse Way was a fairly modem denotation. The road’s name in Roman times was no longer known.

Wordless, she concentrated her attention on her driving. She had turned the gig around without thought. She did not stop to ponder her reason for doing so. She did not know what to make of Marcus Minimus Rufus and his preposterous claim. She knew only, with an instinct as strong as it was inexplicable, where she must go now.

Chapter Five

The short journey with Minimus Rufus proved astonishing and informative, if one could be brought to believe his tale. To Hilary’s incredulous ears, he had divulged that he was an armorer in the Spanish Cohort of the Second Augusta Legion, and he was a Roman citizen. She felt herself growing positively dizzy as he told her that he was married—not legally, for under Roman law, legionaries were not allowed to wed until after retirement. However, he had lived with his Maia, a woman from Aquae Sulis, for a number of years and considered her his wife.

Against her will, Hilary was coming to believe that the man calling himself Minimus Rufus was neither a lunatic nor a fraud. Not only did he possess information shared by a very small minority of scholars, but it would have taken an actor of almost superhuman skill to portray a man from another time so skillfully. She watched as he seemed to grow more puzzled during the remainder of their journey. After awhile, his chatter stilled and he gazed about him in increasing unease until they pulled up at James Wincanon’s villa site in a spray of gravel.

To Hilary’s relief, Mr. Wincanon’s horse was still tethered there, and as they approached, the gentleman himself emerged from the shed. His eyes narrowed as Hilary drew the gig to a halt. They widened as his gaze shifted to her companion.

“What the devil—?” he began.

“Please, Mr. Wincanon. I know this looks a little odd, but—”

“My good woman,” he said gratingly, his gaze sweeping over her companion, “a little odd does not cover it by half. If you have some idea of further expounding on your expertise in antiquities—”

Hilary stamped her foot. “My good man,” she blurted, “if you can bring yourself to suppress your absurd prejudices for a moment, I have something of interest to relate—and someone I would like you to meet.” She gestured toward Rufus, who had descended somewhat stiffly from the gig. Jasper, who had evidently decided the stranger posed no further threat, romped at his heels.

“Mr. Wincanon,” she said formally, “may I present Marcus Minimus Rufus? He is a visitor from—from a great way off.”