Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  Kit nodded. curtly. "I'm fine." Hell would freeze before he admitted to broken ribs. He'd bribe Rachel Eisenstein, if necessary, to keep it quiet.

  Benson ordered his men to take Kynan to a holding cell. The Welshman looked as though he'd considered struggling, then glanced at Kit and settled down to trudge away in his hobbles.

  "You're standing mighty funny, Kit." In his late fifties, Mike Benson was solidly built, with thinning grey hair and cold blue eyes that had seen everything, sometimes twice. "How're your ribs?"

  Aw, held...

  Without asking, Benson peeled back his shirt. "Hmm ... Better have these x-rayed. I think he broke a few."

  "I'll take care of it," Kit grated

  "What was that guff he was giving you when I came up?"

  Kit explained.

  Mike Benson ran a hand across his short hair and gazed into empty space as though considering the wisdom of speaking. He glanced at Kit's ribs and spoke anyway. "Kit, that girl's been nothing but trouble since she got here. No offense, but she's a magnet for disaster."

  "Great. What else has she done I don't know about?"

  "Nothing illegal, if that's worrying you. Just ... well, watch out when she's around Skeeter Jackson and the occasional drunken billionaire aren't the only hotheads panting over her."

  Great. Just wonderful.

  A strained smile appeared around the security chief's eyes. "At least it's been more interesting around here since she arrived Sometimes herding tourists from gate to gate is like dealing with squabbling schoolkids. If I'd wanted that, I'd have stayed on the force in Chicago when they tried retiring me to crossing guard."

  Kit forced a laugh. "You'd have lasted six weeks. You thrive on La-La Land's unique brand of lunacy."

  Benson sniffed "Maybe I do. Maybe I do, at that: Of course, I could say the same. You might've retired uptime a couple of years ago. What keeps you hanging around this asylum?"

  Kit let his shoulders relax, which was something of a mistake. He hissed softly and adjusted his stance. "Search me. Sheer meanness, I guess. What'll you do with Kynan?"

  A wicked grin came and went. "Bull told me to watch out for that one. Almost confined him when he attacked Margo. I think about a month of restricted environment"-Kit mentally translated jail – "and community service for assault with a deadly weapon ought to change his attitude. The garbage pits are short of help just now"

  Kit winced. "Poor bastard. Sometimes I think it'd be easier on the down timers if we just drugged them until their gates reopened."

  Benson shrugged. "Yeah, but some never do. As you damned well know. Be sure Rachel looks at you."

  "Huh. I've gone to ground in hog lots with worse than this and survived Man'd think I'd turned into a mewling baby since I retired, the way people act..."

  Benson grinned. "Hog lot, eh? You must tell me that story sometime."

  Kit laughed. "Sure. You buy the beer and I'll tell all."

  "Deal. Stay out of trouble."

  Kit watched him stroll away, then winced. His ribs smarted "Well," he quoted a very ancient comedy team, "this is another fine mess you've gotten us into, isn't it?"

  He didn't feel up to tackling Margo's attitude toward education just now. Better go crawling to Rachel and deal with my injuries. With any luck, the promise of another down-time excursion would help repair this latest breach in his relationship with Margo. And the trip itself ought to go a long way toward convincing her she couldn't "fake it" down time.

  "What're you coming to, Kit," he muttered on the way across the Commons, "bribing your own grandkid with expensive down-time presents?"

  Kit knew-from first-hand experience–that once you gave in and paid Dane-geld, the Dane never went away.

  Well, it was a little late for that now. And she did need a lesson in coping with down-time languages and customs completely alien from her own. Of La-La Land's major gates which fit that bill, Porta Romae was by far the safest.

  Margo loose in Rome was an image of sufficient horror to sober even the most reckless of time guides. And Kit had never, in his entire professional career, been considered reckless. When, he wondered a little despairingly, does the worrying end and the enjoyment begin? Given the way his luck had been running of late, probably never.

  "Must be Malcolm's fault," he decided. "His luck's rubbing off."

  And that was the very best Kit could find to say about the whole mess.

  Chapter Fourteen

  PORTA ROMAE, THE Roman Gate, opened into the storage room of a busy wine shop on the Via Appia. Ancient Rome's "Main Street

  " ran from the Appian Gate to the great Circus Maximus where it turned north past the foot of monumental Palatine Hill, home of gods and emperors.

  The hulking Circus rose like a battleship from the valley floor, its bulk silhouetted against a brilliant white sky. In deepest antiquity the Circus had been merely an open sweep of valley where even the Etruscans had run sacred funerary races. Over the intervening centuries the Circus, with its towering monuments and soaring wood-and-stone bleachers, had come to dominate the valley between the Palatine and Aventine Hills, one of the most sacred spots in the city of Rome.

  The air of electric excitement which permeated the whole district when a games day approached was apparent the moment one stepped through the Roman gate and heard the screams of caged beasts, the shrill calls of high-strung racing horses, and the roar of Roman voices betting, arguing, laughing, and ordering food.

  For Malcolm Moore, the chance to step through Porta Romae, the first of the great time gates to be explored (and subsequently the first owned lock, stock, and barrel by Time Tours) was worth every moment of the heartache, the uncertainty and misery which accompanied the life of a freelance guide. Whenever he stepped through onto the packed-earth floor in a crowd of excited tourists, something in his soul came back to life again.

  Stepping through into the midst of the festival of the Magna Mater of Rome was simply icing on the cake.

  Malcolm had guided tourists through the Porta Romae many times.. But he'd managed to attend the Hilaria and the Ludi Megalenses only twice and this was the first year imperial decree would permit the Procession of Attis in its entirety through the streets of Rome. He could scarcely contain an idiotic grin.

  Margo, of course, approached the trip in much the same light she'd approached London. Young Margo had no concept what the next two weeks would entail. Given the glimpses he'd seen in London of a bright and thoughtful young mind struggling to overcome something terrible in her past and make something good and decent of her future, Malcolm found himself looking forward to watching her process of self-discovery in Rome. He hoped she would surprise him.

  Before new arrivals had finished clearing the gate, Malcolm reminded Margo to take a reading with her ATLS. He pulled her off to one side and put her through the drill of ATLS readings and log updates, then checked her work. He glanced carefully through her notations, double-checked her ATLS readings, and nodded. "Very good. You're getting the hang of it."

  She beamed

  He finished his own notations then put away his equipment in the carefully disguised bag he would carry. Malcolm then adjusted his slave's collar and scrutinized the drape of Margo's provincial garb.

  "I want her to look like a trader from somewhere really remote," Kit had said in the back room of Connie Logan's Clothes and Stuff. "Ideas?"

  "Roman Syria," Malcolm -had suggested at once. -Palmyra's perfect."

  "Why Palmyra?" Margo asked curiously.

  "Palmyrenes were almost unknown in Rome of A.D. 47. No one should question your complete lack of ancient languages-which also means they won't be able to question you about 'home.' And since they can't talk directly with you, I'll be able to `translate'-and I do know the answers. Palmyra was only incorporated as an autonomous part of Roman Syria thirty-seven years before A.D. 47, with very tenuous trading ties to Rome, at best."

  The costume Connie had come up with was delightful: draped folds of a Parthi
an-style tunic with voluminous trousers and leggings embroidered in wine-red designs. Metal "suspenders" supported the leggings, fastening them to the tunic's gold-embroidered hem. The trousers and even the long, narrow sleeves fell in a series of soft, U-shaped drapes down arms and legs. Overhanging the draped tunic came a cloak that fell in loose folds down the back. The shoes were elaborately embroidered "Persian" slippers. Capping off the costume came a cloth belt from which hung a scabbard for a long dagger.

  When Margo heard the size of the estimated bill, she actually paled. "My God! Why so much?"

  Connie grinned. "Any guesses?"

  Margo glanced at the half-finished garments strewn everywhere in Connie's design studio. Computer-controlled sewing machines dominated two whole walls. "I have no idea."

  "The chain-stitch sewing machine was invented in 1830. The lock-stitch machine came even later. Before that, all clothing was assembled by hand."

  "But not all your costumes are this expensive. Not even close. What are you going to do? Hand spin the thread for this thing?"

  Connie laughed. "No, although I've done that, too, on occasion, and spent hours at a loom hand weaving. Most costumes can be assembled by machine from the threads up. Even for pre-sewing-machine time periods, we can sometimes fudge. Take this."

  She snagged an extraordinary gown from a peg. In three parts, it consisted of a coat-like overdress, a wide, skirt-like affair, and a triangular piece that was evidently meant to go across the front of the bosom, tapering to a point at the waist.

  "This is an eighteenth-century English gown. One of our smaller gates opens into colonial Virginia every five years or so. It's due to open in about a month and a couple of researchers are going through for an extended sabbatical in Williamsburg." She chuckled. "Goldie Morran always makes a killing, exporting China metal to Williamsburg through whoever's going down time. The researchers carry the stuff through to help pay for their research trips."

  "China metal?" Margo asked. "What on earth is that?"

  "Ordinary nickel-silver," Malcolm grinned. "Not any silver in it, even. It's a base-metal alloy similar to German silver. It's used in cheap costume jewelry, junk trays and candlesticks, that sort of thing."

  "Yes," Kit chuckled, "but in colonial Williamsburg it was worth as much as gold." His eyes twinkled. "Much like Connie's gowns."

  Connie grinned. "Speaking of which ... This gown has seven-hundred eleven inches of seams alone, never mind hems for both skirts and the sleeves or the decorative stitching visible from the surface. I can do an average of ten inches of seam an hour by hand, against a few seconds by machine. If I fudge and set the computers to simulate the slight variations in hand stitching, I can assemble a whole gown in a few hours-except for decorative stitching, any quilting the customer wants, and so on. I can't do that by machine. Someone down time would notice. Fashion has always been closely studied, both by practitioners and by poorer folk who want to ape the newest styles in cheaper versions. So some of it can't be fudged.

  "Now, with your Palmyrene costume, I can't fudge anything. It'll take hours and hours of work to complete. I won't have to hand spin or weave, but the embroidery alone will be murder. I'll have to pull a couple of assistants off other jobs to finish it in time."

  "Which is expensive," Margo sighed. "I guess," she said, giving Kit and Malcolm a hang-dog look, "I'd better not get it dirty, huh?"

  Malcolm, like Kit and Connie, had laughed.

  But now, the overly cautious way Margo moved told Malcolm she was terrified of ruining Connie Logan's exquisite creation.

  "Margo," he said, "one piece of advice."

  She glanced up, trying to avoid a dusty stack of wine jars. "What's that?"

  "That costume is meant to be lived in. It may have been expensive, but it isn't a museum piece. Keep walling around like that and some Roman snob is going to think you're a puer delicatus for sale."

  Margo's face registered absolute bafflement.

  "Pretty boys brought twice as much at the slave markets as pretty girls, whether they were destined for a brothel or a private bed."

  Lips and eyes went round with shock.

  "This isn't Minnesota. It isn't London, either. Morals here aren't at all what they are up time. Not even remotely close. Neither are the laws. So don't go mincing around as if you're afraid to smudge your clothes. You're a wealthy young foreigner, son of a merchant prince in one of the richest caravan states the desert ever produced. Act like it."

  She closed her mouth. "Okay, Malcolm."

  "Study wealthy Romans on the street for body language. That isn't the same here, either. Neither are common gestures like nodding and shaking your head.

  To indicate yes, tip your head back. To indicate no, tuck your chin." He demonstrated. "Shake your head side to side and a Roman will wonder what s wrong with your ears."

  "What if I screw up?"

  "Intelligent question. Romans were notoriously rude about their cultural superiority. If you make any minor errors, they'll put it down to a rank provincialism without the saving graces of intelligence, manners, or culture."

  "Worse than the Victorians?"

  "Lots worse," Malcolm said dryly.

  "Too bad. It's a horrid thing to say about people who invented ... well, lots of things."

  Malcolm sighed. -Margo, you really have to study."

  "I know! I am studying. I'll study more when we get back! At least I can now tell you everything Francis Marion ever did, said, or thought!"

  Still a sore subject. He was sorry, indeed, that she and Kit had fought about it. All La-La land had buzzed with the gossip when Margo had walked out of the Delight and headed for the library in tears-leaving Kit so rattled a down timer, for God's sake, had nearly gotten the better of him in a hand-to-hand with a croquet mallet. That was the primary reason Malcolm was here: to convince her how important those studies were. Malcolm took his job seriously.

  Then he had to stifle a grin: If the Hilaria and Ludi Megalenses didn't convince Margo she needed to study, nothing would.

  A Time Tours guide opened the outside door again to communicate with employees in the wineshop proper. The roar of noise from the Via Appia just beyond caused a wave of excited laughter to ripple its way back through the tourists. The soundproofed door closed and the Time Tours guide stepped onto a crate to command attention.

  "As you know, we'll all be staying at the inn we've purchased in the Aventinus district, west of the Baths of Decius and southwest of the Temples of Minerva and Luna. That's very close to the Circus Maximus, in the heart of the sacred district, so we're not far from it now. We'll go there first. It's vital that everyone know how to find it. If you get lost, find the Circus and you can find the inn again. The most important instruction I have for you is simple: Don't get separated from your guides! There are more than a million people living in Rome right now, not to mention the thousands more who've crowded in for the Games of the Magna Mater.

  You don't know the language or the customs. If you lose your guide, you could find yourself in fatal trouble very fast. Our porters will carry your luggage, since neither free-born men nor free-born women carried their own parcels. You've already been warned not to venture out after dark. Rome is a deadly city by night.

  Not even the ruling classes walk the streets after dark.

  Now... are there any questions?"

  "What do we do after you show us the hotel?" a man near the center of the group asked.

  "You've already been assigned to your tour groups. Each group will follow an itinerary based on the selections you made at the time station. Today is the Sacrifice of Attis, with an historic first procession of the sacred pine, plus the regular annual celebrations and the dedications of new priests. Three days from now the Hilaria begins. The Ludi Megalenses games begin on April fourth and will continue through the tenth, with Circus games and races daily. Chariot races, horse races, and bestiaries are scheduled for the mornings, gladiatorial combats for the afternoons.

  "A
s you know, when the Games open, it will be arena seating"-another ripple of laughter went through the crowd at the silly pun-"so we'll need to find seats quickly to be assured of places. Be ready to enter the Circus by sunrise. The gate back to the time terminal reopens shortly after midnight on the eleventh. You'll probably be exhausted-so don't arrive late!"

  "What about the lottery?"

  The speaker was another man, near the edge of the crowd.

  "We've already drawn the winners of the Messalina lottery but we won't announce the results until tomorrow As you know, there will be only three winners and the liaisons have to be carefully arranged by our employee in the Imperial palace. With Claudius in town, these trysts have to be set up with care. The winners, as you know, are not guaranteed a night with the Empress Messalina has the right to refuse any lover she wants, but her tastes in men are generally broad enough we don't anticipate any problems. After all, she does sleep with Claudius."

  A titter of laughter ran around the room. Malcolm didn't join in. Everyone had been shown photographs in advance to prevent the disaster of someone laughing at the disfigured emperor should they accidentally stumble across an Imperial procession. Margo, not knowing any better, laughed too, then turned a puzzled glance toward him.

  "What's wrong, Malcolm?- she asked anxiously. "That was funny. Wasn't it?"

  "No. It wasn't."

  She studied his face for a moment. "Why not? You've seen him, haven't you?"

  "Yes. That's precisely why I don't find it funny."

  Margo's brows drew together, but she didn't respond flippantly. Good. She was learning. Up near the front of the room, the Time Tours guide said, "All right, everybody ready? Any last questions? Good. Let's have some fun!"