49
• QUINTUS •
Rome, 53 BC
Parrying Titus’s blows, Quintus cried out in Latin to the youth, “Release her, dog!”
The girl’s captor smiled. “I have other plans for her,” he called.
Fury boiled inside Quintus. He was losing his focus.
Titus, seeing Quintus’s shield sagging, responded swiftly. He leaped forward and drove the point of his sword over the top of Quintus’s shield, enlarging the earlier gash to Quintus’s bicep.
Quintus cursed at the pain and at his own inattention. It was the mistake of a raw recruit, letting his shield drop. He was out of practice. He was distractible, something he hadn’t been for years, and he was vulnerable because of it.
Titus, having exacerbated the weakness on Quintus’s left side, began training all his attacks on that weaker side, hammering blow after blow on Quintus’s shield, which now began to droop dangerously. A scratch had opened over one of Quintus’s eyes—he didn’t know when—and blood trickled down from it. He could not risk swiping his forehead with hand or forearm, but the blood was threatening to blind him on that side. He shook his head violently, clearing his vision, but for how long?
The youth who held DaVinci, meanwhile, continued his taunts from up the street where he stood with Titus’s three bulky companions.
“She shall be bathed with my hounds,” he called to Quintus. “To cleanse her from the reek of your stench.”
Bathe her? The wretch would not touch her!
Roaring with fury, Quintus charged, but Titus was there to prevent him from reaching the youth.
Quintus’s foe drove him back farther and farther, lengthening the distance between him and DaVinci. His left arm was losing strength, his shield felt as if it had doubled in weight. Titus slammed Quintus’s faltering shield with his own, a massive thing soldiers would have sneered at and mockingly asked Titus what he was trying to compensate for.
Quintus, however, had no time to deride his enemy. Something was wrong with his left arm. He heard rather than felt the moment his arm gave. There was a noisy thud as his shield hit the street. He could no longer lift it. For a count of two, he kept his grasp through the shield’s grip, dragging the rectangle of wood and leather along the cobbled street, but then, cursing, he abandoned it.
As it fell, Quintus heard DaVinci crying out, but he kept his focus on his enemy’s sword, flashing, darting, seeking his life’s blood. Then, in a single instant, the scales tipped once more. Titus’s right foot landed hard on the corner of Quintus’s abandoned shield. The shield had fallen with its curved side facing up, so that Titus’s foot seesawed unexpectedly and, for a moment, his balance was lost.
Quintus leaped forward, raining blows with both edges of his sword. He regained some of his lost distance and pushed back toward DaVinci, who was now hurling mangled Latin insults at her captor. Quintus regained another meter. And another, pushing his enemy back, back, back, closing the distance between himself and the girl for whose sake he battled.
Quintus now held a slight advantage; free from the weight of his shield, he was nimbler than Titus, whose shield was not only massive but also decorated with metalwork, further increasing its weight.
Close enough to observe the expression on the youth’s face, Quintus noted the exact moment it changed, blanching as Quintus drew closer, as he drove Titus backward again and again. One of the bulky men Titus had brought muttered that he hadn’t signed up for this and fled. The youth hurled threats at the retreating man, and, while the youth’s attention was diverted, DaVinci seized the moment. Slamming her foot on his instep, she then drove her elbow into his diaphragm, snatching his dagger as he wheezed and doubled over.
She spun and turned on the two men remaining by the youth. Hoisting a bench by one of its legs, she struck the man nearest. The man, staggering and seeing her upraised dagger, followed his fleeing companion. Quintus had heard gossip that Titus never joined company with able fighters, whom he would have to pay well. Evidently the rumor was true.
Quintus’s attention was pulled back to his opponent, who had apparently decided to abandon his weighty shield, hurling it missilelike at Quintus. Quintus spun clear, but his useless left arm didn’t respond to the sudden move in concert with the rest of his body and he nearly lost his balance. In the time it took Quintus to regain his footing, Titus had replaced his shield with a knife, so that Quintus had to be wary of attack from two blades instead of one.
From his periphery, Quintus saw that DaVinci, meanwhile, had leapt onto a table and was taunting the wheezing youth and remaining hired man. She was Diana, fierce and fearless. She was Justitia, casting down judgment from on high. She was Venus Victrix conquering her enemies. Gods above and below, but she was glorious.
Quintus, his gaze on her, had lost focus once more, giving Titus an opening that nearly ended the fight. Just in time, Quintus raised his sword to parry the blow aimed at his abdomen. In an instant, Titus switched tactics, diving with his dagger to slash the tendon behind Quintus’s left knee. Quintus turned in time to save his leg, but the turn, again, was clumsy, off-balance. Titus smelled victory, and, roaring, began a two-handed rain of blows that Quintus knew he could not withstand for long.
Instead of engaging each blow, Quintus now sought to avoid his enemy. Titus grew angry, calling him a coward, but Quintus held his course, dodging just out of reach again and again until Titus, piqued, threw his knife at Quintus.
Time seemed to slow as the blade sang past his ear.
At the same moment, all of Quintus’s muscles flagged, becoming as lethargic and unresponsive as his left arm. It was as if the connection between Quintus’s mind and muscles had been severed. He couldn’t even move his eyes to observe how DaVinci fared. He could only gaze in dismay at the approach of Titus’s sword, a blade sent to cleave Quintus’s soul from his body, to fulfill that final appointment Quintus had so many times escaped. Sight failed him, and his ears filled with a roar like that of a hurricane. As he fell into oblivion, Quintus’s last thought was a prayer to Venus Victrix that the fair-haired girl might triumph where he had failed.
50
• NEVIS •
Florida, July
Nevis was enjoying himself. He had the three right where he wanted them. Someone would spill the beans, and probably in the next few minutes. If only he could Skype his boss in for this triumph.
“Are you going to charge us?” asked the young woman, Jillian.
A joyless smile spread across Nevis’s face. “You know, I think I might simply shut you down instead. Unless someone starts talking, I can guarantee you won’t be getting approval to continue operating”—he gestured to the equipment—“whatever the hell this is. Alternatively, someone could start answering my questions.”
“I am not a threat to the government or the people of the United States,” Littlewood said, his voice rising. “The government funds my research. I depend on this funding. To suggest I’d bite the hand that feeds me is . . . is . . . preposterous.”
“If you’re not going to charge us,” began Jillian, but the professor cut her off.
“And as far as your threat to shut down my facility,” said Littlewood, “you can’t. I received approval status from your office just a few hours ago. And I categorically insist—”
“That’s not possible,” said Nevis. The professor had to be bluffing. He must be desperate. “That’s impossible,” Nevis repeated with more conviction. “It’s my investigation, and I haven’t signed off.”
Littlewood was walking to a desk. “Someone from your office, name of . . . The name escapes me, but perhaps you’ll recognize it . . .” He broke off, snatching a piece of paper from a fax machine.
“Here you are,” said Littlewood, triumphantly. “Now I really must insist you leave.”
Nevis grabbed the fax from Littlewood’s hands. As he read through it, he frowned.
“Something’s wrong,” he muttered. Scowling at the signature he knew all too
well, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the SAC.
“Are you at the airport?” asked his boss. “Because that is the only place you should be calling me from right now.”
“No, sir, I . . .” Nevis turned away from the group, suddenly wishing he’d made this call outside. He lowered his voice. “I was just shown a faxed document purporting to come from you to Arthur Littlewood—”
“Damned straight it came from me. I gave you very clear orders to drop that case and get your ass on a plane to Louisville. Are you informing me you’re not at the airport?”
“No, sir, I’m with Littlewood now, and I’m telling you—”
“That’s it, Nevis. This is the last straw. I have given you chances when no one else would have, but enough is enough. You are in direct contravention of my orders, and I want your gun and your badge on my desk Monday at 7:00 a.m. sharp.”
“Sir, you can’t fire me—”
“Oh, can’t I? Did I just forget my job title? Oh, look, here it is right on my door. SAC. I guess I can fire you. You’re fired.”
A jarring noise crackled in Nevis’s ear—his boss had slammed the receiver down. Nevis felt the vein over his left temple begin to throb. This was outrageous. It was unfair. It was humiliating! And he’d be damned if he was going to take it lying down, skulking out with his tail between his legs like some flea-bitten dog.
He needed that confession from Littlewood. The SAC had said badge and gun on his desk by Monday at seven. Fine. Today was Friday. He had the law on his side for another forty-eight hours.
“Right,” said Nevis. He placed his hands on his hips, flaring his jacket to give everyone a nice look at his shoulder holster and its contents. “I’m shutting this facility down and confiscating all property herein, effective immediately. Everyone out of the building.”
The three assumed identical expressions of disbelief.
“Now!” said Nevis.
“You can’t do that,” said Jillian.
“I just did.” He pulled out his phone. “And I’m placing a call to cut your power, so it’s about to get really dark in here.”
“Now, see here,” began the professor.
Whatever protest he’d been planning was cut short because, at that moment, Everett rushed Nevis, grappling for his phone, which flew through the air to crash spectacularly into the painted cinder-block wall. Ignoring the ruined phone, Nevis focused on the young man. Nevis might have been caught off guard, but he’d had twenty-one years of training in scuffles like this, and it looked like Everett’s only training had been with some hoity-toity boxing instructor. In under a minute, Nevis had him restrained and cuffed.
“Everett Randolph, I’m taking you in for assaulting a federal officer.”
God, he’d missed moments like this.
Littlewood blustered over and said, “You’ve been fired. You can’t arrest my student if they fired you.”
“Well, that would be true,” said Nevis, “except my change in status isn’t effective until Monday. What day is it today? Oh, it’s Friday. I guess I can arrest your student.” He half despised himself in that moment for imitating his boss, but it was surprisingly satisfying.
The professor, jaw hanging open, now whipped out his phone.
“Calling a lawyer? On a Friday afternoon?” asked Nevis. “Good luck with that.” He frog-marched his captive to the stairs.
“Everett!” It was the young woman. “Think of the time!”
“I know,” replied Nevis’s charge.
“No more talking,” snapped Nevis. What was think of the time supposed to mean? The time the kid would do for assault? Who knew. Who cared. Nevis opened the door and, shoving the young man ahead, stepped out into the sweltering heat of a Florida summer afternoon.
As soon as he reached the top step outside, Nevis realized he ought to have made everyone march out in front of him. Still, what were they going to do? Start cramming equipment into their stockings? Fine. That would give him a reason to lock up all three of them. Three separate interrogations? Three associates second-guessing who would turn first? He could live with those odds.
After stuffing Everett in the back of the car, Nevis remembered that the vehicle was a rental and not designed for transporting criminals. Well, his arrestee didn’t know that. Crossing to the front of the vehicle, Nevis activated the door’s child safety lock—better than nothing. Damn, but it was hot in the car. During the time he’d been in the lab, the car’s interior had warmed to the approximate temperature of freshly brewed coffee. Nevis frowned, and then he turned the car key far enough to activate the front windows, dropping them down several inches. Heat exhaustion wasn’t going to make the kid more talkative.
“Excuse me, sir?”
The young man’s eyes were a little wild. Panicking, possibly. Panic was good. Nevis could work with panic.
“Might I have a moment of your time?” asked Everett.
Hearing an insectlike buzzing, Nevis swatted the air near his exposed neck. All he needed from Florida was another of those yellow fly bites.
“I believe you’ll wish to hear what I have to say, sir,” said Everett.
Nevis paused, keeping the stairwell in his sights. Was the young man going to spill the beans on Littlewood and Khan? That would simplify his weekend. Not to mention improve his Monday morning. The bugs, meanwhile, were getting noisier. A damned bug convention. He should maybe slip inside the car. Turn on the AC while he was at it.
Swatting the air again, Nevis turned back to the driver’s side door, entered the vehicle, slammed the door shut, and cranked the AC. Then he faced Everett.
“Well?”
51
• EVERETT •
Florida, July
Everett had understood Jillian’s hasty warning. Not that he’d needed a reminder of what was coming. He’d been thinking of nothing but the time and how to get Nevis out of the way before the officer saw people appearing out of thin air.
Although ordinarily the machine’s noise was damped outside, Everett could hear it plainly. Probably as a result of operating at the higher harmonic. If the machine had fired up, everything was resting on Everett’s ability to keep Nevis outside for the next several minutes. Fortunately, Nevis had been intrigued by Everett’s seeming willingness to speak and had entered the car. Even more to Everett’s purposes, the officer had turned on the noisy air conditioner.
“I would like to know,” began Everett, “that is, well . . .” He paused. He needed to draw things out, but for how long?
“Any time now, son,” said Nevis, checking his watch.
Time. Yes, that was what Everett needed to know. “I should like to know the time, sir.”
Nevis chuckled. “You want to know what time it is? What, so you can tell your Facebook friends the time of your arrest?” Nevis held up Everett’s cell phone, which Everett did not recollect surrendering. The officer must have obtained it following that embarrassing episode of fisticuffs.
“Going to be tricky to use Facebook without your phone. Sorry, son.”
“I regret that I have no Facebook friends,” replied Everett, “however I should very much appreciate knowing the time. The precise time. if you please.”
After giving Everett a strange look (probably for his polite speech—Jillian was always warning him to tone that down), Nevis consulted his watch, checking it against his phone.
“The precise time is 18:07, Eastern.”
Everett nodded. Four minutes. The machine had fired up a minute earlier than they’d estimated. Not entirely unexpected given the experimental nature of the journey. Very well, then. To allow his friends to clear the first hurdle, Everett needed to keep Nevis here another four minutes.
“Thank you,” said Everett.
“You got anything else to say?” asked Nevis.
“Yes. Yes, I certainly do.” Three minutes and fifty seconds to go. That was . . . 230 seconds. He began to tap the seconds out by tens using his fingers, conveniently cuffed behind his bac
k and out of Nevis’s view. “What I should like to know is this.” He paused. Stretch the conversation for all it’s worth. He kept his eyes on Nevis, and the moment the officer’s brow signaled irritation, Everett spoke again. “In the case of an individual who has identified himself or herself with falsified documentation, what is the severest punishment awaiting such a person, if convicted?” Another fifty seconds down.
“You want to know how long someone does time if they use a fake ID?”
“I believe the charge would be for criminal possession of a forged instrument,” clarified Everett. Two minutes and fifty seconds to go: tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
“Yes, I believe it might, depending on the circumstances and the state in which such a person was convicted,” replied Nevis. “So what can you tell me about this purported individual? Does he or she have a name you can give me?” Nevis fumbled in a pocket and withdrew the notepad Everett had seen earlier in the lab. “A little cooperation goes a long way, son.”
Everett frowned as though considering his options. Two minutes to go.
“Okay,” said Nevis after only twenty seconds had elapsed. “There’s not a whole lot of cooperation happening. So are we done here?” he demanded. “Because as fun as this has been, I’ve got a laboratory to shut down.” He pocketed his note pad.
Another minute and three-quarters to go.
“This isn’t easy for me,” said Everett, his tone desperate. He had no need to fake that, at least.
Nevis rolled his eyes. “By all means, sit here and do some thinking about what is easy for you,” said Nevis, turning off the AC. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
“Wait!” cried Everett.
“Time and tide, young man.”
Nevis cut the engine, and with the decrease in noise, it became immediately apparent that something was going on down in the lab.
A Sword in Time Page 22
