“Silence!” commanded Quintus.
Even the crickets that had been chirping halted their song.
The girl, however, glaring at him, began again in her loud whisper. “Have you even heard a single thing I’ve been saying?”
“Against such an outflow of words, the very gods could hardly defend themselves,” Quintus replied dryly.
At this, the girl fell silent. Her cheeks colored brightly, highlighting the tiny freckles sprinkled along the tops of her cheeks. She was distractingly pretty.
To better order his mind, Quintus turned from her. A breeze wafted the scent of lavender past them, forcibly reminding him of his home, of the herbs his wife tended and dried.
His jaw clenched; he had to focus on present safety, not nostalgia.
Naturally, the girl chose that moment to resume her tirade.
“You don’t need to defend yourself from my words. You need to listen to them. There’s a big difference. Besides, everything I said is true. You can’t bring Caesar to Florida!”
That was her fear? This at least, he could allay.
“Caesar is not in Roma at present.”
She glared at him.
“Nor have I any plan to bring him to your land.”
At this, she made a grunting sound and crossed her arms over her chest, drawing Quintus’s attention to the region. His face warmed and he looked away a second time, fixing his gaze on the structure surrounding them. It was solid Roman concrete, variously brick-faced, white-painted, or frescoed, and achingly familiar.
“You must not be seen,” he said quietly to the girl. “And if you speak in a manner so . . .” He struggled for the English word and then gave up, using the Latin word in the hopes it would translate well. “So assiduis—”
“I am not the one behaving like an ass here, thank you very much!”
“You mistake my meaning. I was at a loss for the English word.” Quintus paused. Recalled the word. “I meant incessant. If you do not cease speaking, you will draw attention to us, which has the potential for damaging the historical time line.”
At this, the girl’s eyebrows rose. “So you are aware that’s a danger.”
“My actions will not endanger the time line.”
“Says you.”
With this, the girl bent down and retrieved something from the ground, which was tiled in a patterned mosaic. “You might want to make sure no one finds this lying around.”
Quintus frowned. It was his Latin-English dictionary. He recalled having dropped the book on the platform. Evidently, it had traveled along with them. Such an item—a bound book—was next to unknown in Roma, and certainly this format, with its brightly lettered cover and perfectly even printing inside, would have puzzled every scribe in the vast empire.
“Your caution is commendable,” he said, watching her tuck the bound book into her handbag. “Our return should commence shortly.”
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Attached to his belt by a strip of leather, he kept a four-minute hourglass—one that he and Everett used during trips to Alexandria. Because of the girl, Quintus hadn’t had an opportunity to start the timer, but he did so now, upending it and sending the sand rushing through the narrow funnel.
The girl seemed to have decided she’d said enough, and the two awaited the return journey in silence, giving Quintus an additional opportunity to observe her. In the moonlight, her fair hair seemed almost to glow. He had a sudden and melancholy remembrance of his wife, of her dark tresses as he’d lain with her, sleepless under a moon-bright sky following some fight or other. There had been many.
The girl beside him sighed. “How much longer?”
He consulted his hourglass. It was empty. The four minutes had passed. Quintus frowned. Something was wrong. Before he’d started the hourglass, many minutes had already passed. They should not still be in Roma. Something was wrong.
“Well?” demanded the girl. “How long?”
“I know not. Soon, I believe.”
The girl shivered slightly. Quintus, seeing her state of dress was unequal to the nighttime chill, began to undo the pin securing his cloak.
“Listen. I don’t know why you’re here,” said the girl, breaking the silence, “but since you didn’t already defend your actions with some story about Littlewood told me to, it’s pretty obvious you didn’t ask permission to use the machine.”
Quintus bristled. With such an object at stake, what need had he of permission? He had sworn an oath to Gaius Julius. Not that the girl would be capable of understanding what such a thing meant. He ceased attempting to remove his cloak for her use. She could shiver.
The girl grabbed several curls falling across her forehead and tucked them neatly behind her ear, which was tiny and perfect and pale as the moon itself.
“When we return,” Quintus said coldly, “you will depart and allow me to proceed on my mission.”
“It’s a mission?” she asked.
Quintus nodded in reply. He was well aware she would assume he had received his “mission” from Littlewood. But this suited his purposes, so he did not specify differently.
“Why didn’t you say so to begin with?” she demanded.
“I am not required to explain my actions to you.”
“Hmmph,” grunted the girl, as though she didn’t believe him.
Absently, she reached for a curl and began to twine it round and round a finger. Quintus wondered what its texture would be, run between his own fingers, and then berated himself for the thought.
“Shouldn’t we have been pulled back by now?” asked the girl.
Quintus’s frown deepened. Both his own internal sense of time and the hourglass said they should have, indeed, returned by now.
“Time seems this night to move at the pace of a stubborn ox,” he said.
“You mean ‘at a snail’s pace’?”
Quintus shrugged, uncertain what manner of beast a snail might be. He did not care to request the return of his dictionary to consult it. Instead, he began counting the passing seconds. When he had reached 120, he could no longer hold out hope that the machine was preparing to return them. Something had gone awry.
At his side, the girl shivered again, more vigorously, and wrapped her arms around her torso.
“I understand not the nature of our delay,” said Quintus. And then he added gruffly, “Would you like my cloak?”
She shook her head, sending the ruddy-gold strands in a shimmering dance across her shoulders and down her back.
“I fear something is amiss,” he said, finally voicing his concern.
But before the girl could reply, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus crossed into view.
And saw them.
And changed course, heading straight for them.
32
• NEVIS •
Florida, July
Special Agent Benjamin Nevis was wrapping up his Florida investigation and nearly ready to grant official approval to Arthur Littlewood, PhD, as a heavy-use consumer of electrical power. Nevis had run a series of unexceptional background checks on all the students employed by Dr. Arthur Littlewood. He’d met with the professor a second time, and even followed him clandestinely one night when he’d had nothing better to do. Littlewood couldn’t have been more boring if he’d tried: dinner at Chick-fil-A, followed by an early lights-out at home.
Nevis’s remaining task was to ensure the manager of the local substation liaised with Littlewood regarding his peak usage schedule. The substation manager, Ronnie, welcomed Nevis, ushering him into a stuffy office with faux-wood paneling and an in-wall AC unit that dripped noisily. Nevis gave the manager a schedule from Littlewood’s USCF lab.
The substation manager examined the schedule, scratching his balding head at the same time.
“Hang on a minute,” Ronnie said. “Lemme check something.”
He shook his ancient corded mouse and then clicked a few times. And then, frowning deeply, he made eye contact with Nevis.
�
��Well, when it comes to Arthur Littlewood’s facility, sure looks to me like you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Exerting considerable self-control, Nevis only raised an eyebrow at the colloquialism, uttered in a slow drawl. Nevis couldn’t say goodbye to the South quickly enough.
Ronnie continued. “Whoever pinpointed Littlewood’s USCF lab as a peak consumption facility didn’t trouble themselves to do their homework.”
Nevis bristled. He had pinpointed Littlewood’s lab himself after being provided with only a name, a zip code, and an affected substation.
The manager scribbled a few lines on a sticky note.
“Here’s the address you want in conjunction with Littlewood and stressors on the electrical grid.”
Nevis examined the sticky note.
“That’s a private address,” said the manager, tapping the paper twice. “It’s a unit in a former orange juice processing plant. Old military facility before that.”
Nevis frowned. He didn’t need a history lesson on greater Wellesley.
Ronnie continued. “The buildings have been turned into storage and light industry. Arthur Littlewood owns one of them, and that’s where the high peak usage originates from. Not the university.”
Nevis’s pulse quickened. Why would a physicist of Littlewood’s caliber fail to recognize the difference in electrical consumption between his two places of operation? It wasn’t possible the professor was ignorant of the difference. So why hide the existence of the second facility? Suddenly Arthur Littlewood’s nervous behavior made sense.
A smile bloomed across Nevis’s pale face. The case had just gone from duller-than-dirt to interesting. Perhaps even . . . incriminating. This might prove to be the break he’d been looking for. Finally, a chance to do some real investigating. A chance to prove to the SAC and the bureau just what he was capable of, given the opportunity.
Arthur Littlewood, mild-mannered physics geek, was hiding something, and Special Agent Benjamin Nevis was going to find out what it was.
33
• QUINTUS •
Rome, 53 BC
In spite of his eagerness to deliver Caesar’s letter to Gnaeus Pompeius, Quintus’s first impulse on seeing the great general was to slip farther back into the shadows to hide the girl. Her presence complicated everything. He had no way of knowing why space–time had not yet returned them. And yet, he was here now, with Caesar’s message, and Pompeius was here now, walking straight toward him. The too-perfect opportunity overruled his impulse to hide.
“Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus!” Quintus called aloud. Then he shoved the girl farther back into the alcove, whispering, “Stay hidden!”
The great man halted. “Quis es?” Who are you?
Quintus felt a moment’s shock when he noticed himself mentally translating his native tongue into English.
“Est mihi, Quintus Valerius Posthumos,” replied Quintus, stepping out from under the portico and into the moonlight.
“Iterem?” Again?
Quintus had to force himself to stop mentally translating.
“As you see, sir,” replied Quintus.
“And did your commander order you to pester me until I delivered a different answer? One more to his liking?” asked Pompey.
“Forgive me, sir.” Quintus bowed, his heart pounding. He must have already delivered the letter—already received the reply. Or rather, his other self had done so.
Which meant he’d come for nothing.
But as soon as the thought entered his mind, he banished it. So long as the delivery of the letter had lain in doubt, there had been no choice: it had been his duty to return.
“Well,” said Pompey, “your general is as stubborn as a wild ass.”
Quintus felt his hackles rise but held his tongue.
“I shall not take his wife’s step-daughter’s brat for my wife. Is the general grown so great that he thinks the leavings on his plate are to my palate?”
Upon hearing the insults, it took all Quintus’s strength to regulate his features.
“Come, come,” beckoned Pompey, his countenance softening. “You shall have a cup of wine for your trouble. I hold you not responsible for Caesar’s obstinate nature. My own dear Julia was of such a temper . . .”
Here the great general broke off, paused, and swiped at his eyes. Pompey’s former wife, Julia, Caesar’s widely beloved daughter, was only recently dead. Quintus could easily believe no other woman, even one distantly related to Caesar, could take the place of Julia.
“Forgive me, sir. I intrude upon your rest. I shall depart,” said Quintus.
“No, no. You do not intrude. I sleep poorly of late. Come along. We will share a glass of Falernian wine. You shall not bear reports that Pompeius Magnus sends Caesar’s messengers away with parched throats.”
Quintus was about to reply that he would not dream of spreading such a rumor when the general threw an arm around his shoulder and began marching him away from the girl. At this proximity, Quintus could smell wine on the general’s breath; this would not be Magnus’s first glass of Falernian tonight. Quintus was still considering how to extract himself from the invitation when the girl cried out, loudly, and in English.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going without me?”
Quintus turned.
Pompey turned.
The girl stormed out of the shadows, hands on her hips, the fire in her green eyes visible even by moonlight.
34
• DAVINCI •
Rome, 53 BC
DaVinci had done what Quintus had asked. She’d stood there in the alcove, shivering to death, waiting for him to finish his conversation with Little Caesar in the toga (and no pizza to show for it, either), but when Quintus turned around and started marching off with the guy, there was no way in hell she was staying there, hoping he’d decide to come back for her the next time his calendar had an opening.
“Yes, you!” she shouted, after Quintus turned around. “Don’t even think about walking off and leaving me here in the Coliseum to get eaten by lions or whatever.”
Quintus stared at her.
Little Caesar in the toga stared at her.
And then Quintus smiled and, ignoring her, spoke in Latin to his new BFF wearing the bedsheet. The man asked a question. Quintus responded. The man laughed. Quintus laughed.
“I’m right here,” she said. “I can hear you even if I can’t understand you. Seriously, Quintus, what the—”
“Silence,” said Quintus, speaking to her in a tone she was already familiar with. And already hating.
“I’m not shutting up until you change your mind about leaving me here.”
“Silence, please,” said Quintus, an edge of desperation in his voice.
The little guy in the toga began talking to Quintus again.
She didn’t know Latin, but years of Christmases and Easters with Grandma Shaughnessy, who loved a good old-fashioned Latin Mass, told her that Quintus’s reply of, “Non, non,” meant he was telling the toga-dude no.
Quintus stepped away from the man’s side and spoke to her in hasty English.
“I’ve told him you’re my slave—”
“You told him what?” demanded DaVinci.
“Cease speaking and listen!”
DaVinci, who had already opened her mouth to tell Quintus no way was she pretending to be his fantasy slave princess, now saw something in Quintus’s eyes that made her shut her mouth. Quintus was worried. Like, really worried.
Quintus spoke in a hasty whisper. “If he thinks you’re a slave from Caesar intended as a gift to my wife, then Pompeius won’t assume you are intended as a gift for him.”
“The old guy in the sheet thinks I’m a . . .” DaVinci held up her hand. “No. Just, no.”
“Exactly,” said Quintus. “I need you to behave like a slave—”
DaVinci, rolling her eyes, said, “You are completely delusional.”
“Which includes not interrupting me whenever you feel like it and not
staring at Pompeius with those luminous green eyes.”
“Wait. ‘Pompey-us’ as in Pompey the Great?” Also, note to self: her eyes were luminous. Luminous. Who knew?
Quintus frowned. “Pompeius Magnus. You know of him?”
DaVinci shrugged. She knew of him if knowing of him consisted in maybe having heard of him once in some art history class when she was doodling instead of taking notes.
“Then you know—”
But DaVinci didn’t find out whatever she was supposed to know because Pompey the Great was calling Quintus again.
“Stay here!” ordered Quintus. “And stay quiet!” Having given his orders, Quintus turned to rejoin the “great” man, who was actually pretty small of stature.
DaVinci scowled. And then tried to wipe the scowl off her face, guessing there might be disincentives in place for slaves scowling at their masters. Then she changed her mind and scowled anyway, because if she had to pretend to be a slave, she sure as heck didn’t have to pretend to be a dutiful one.
After another few exchanges, Pompey approached her. She scowled harder. This, for some reason, made him laugh. He reached out like he was going to grab her hair, which was so not happening. She was just about to block him with some serious jujitsu, but then Quintus shouted something and Pompey the Great withdrew his hand. More like, jerked his hand back. DaVinci thought the correct term might have been recoiled, but she’d doodled her way through vocabulary lessons, too. In any case, Pompey-of-the-Great-Bedsheet walked rapidly away from her and seemed to be saying his goodbyes.
As soon as Quintus returned to her side, she muttered, “Finally.”
He was fiddling with a piece of jewelry holding his cloak together, and then, before she could say she was fine, thanks, he’d whipped off his cloak and thrown it over her shoulders. The relief was immediate. The cloak was delicious with Quintus’s body heat and even smelled faintly like him—leathery, which made no sense because the cloak was wool, if the itch factor was any indication.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she grumbled.
“Your garb is alien,” Quintus replied. “This serves to hide it. Also, you are plainly shivering with cold.”
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