A Sword in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 3)

by Cidney Swanson

  Krupnik bottle in hand, Littlewood made his way to the Church of Our Lady of Mercy. where he found Father Joe looking dead tired.

  “My good friend,” said the priest, embracing Littlewood and inviting him inside.

  “You look beat,” said Littlewood, a bit discouraged. The priest didn’t look up to a late night of sipping spirits.

  The priest laughed. “You should see the other guy!”

  Littlewood didn’t know if he should laugh or not.

  “I’m joking,” said Father Joe. “But there is actually someone I want you to meet. Give me a moment. I’ll be right back.”

  Littlewood made himself comfortable in the priest’s shabby little sitting area. He’d grown fond of the room, right down to the framed portrait of Pope Whoever-He-Was. Littlewood poured two glasses and raised one of them to the head of the Catholic faith. And then, thinking ahead, he found and poured a third glass for the mysterious guest.

  But when Father Joe returned, he was alone.

  “Poor kid fell asleep,” he murmured. Sitting, he exhaled heavily. After clinking glasses with Littlewood, the priest took a sip of krupnik.

  “You have a . . . kid?” asked Littlewood, after no explanation had been offered.

  Father Joe laughed. “I ought to have spoken more carefully. I’ve taken in a stray. A most singular young man.”

  Saying no more about the young man, Father Joe listened to Littlewood’s woes, his fears, his apprehensions regarding his safety, and his wish that he were wealthy enough to hire someone to stand guard at the lab.

  Father Joe promised to pray for his friend, and after that, the conversation returned to the priest’s young stray, who had learned a little English but spoke primarily in Latin. Father Joe praised Quintus, relating how helpful he had been today, despite his marked aversion to becoming a gardener.

  And then Father Joe paused. He hmm’ed to himself. His brows rose.

  “Goodness,” he said. “You just told me you were thinking of hiring a security guard, didn’t you?”

  Littlewood nodded gloomily. “I can’t afford one. It’s only wishful thinking.”

  Father Joe smiled. And then he poured himself another small allowance of krupnik. “What is that American saying? Ah yes, to kill two birds using a single rock. Allow me, if you will, to offer a solution to your concerns regarding the affordability of a security guard.”

  13

  • KHAN •

  Florida, March

  Later, Khan would tell himself that it was the combination of four days on a bus with little sleep and sheer bad timing that kept him from successfully breaking in to Littlewood’s lab in Florida on the Ides of March. But none of those was the real reason. The real reason had to do with sirens.

  Sirens had been troubling Khan ever since his narrow escape from the sheriff back in Montecito, California, right after he’d shot that kid and driven off in the stolen BMW. He had recurrent nightmares in which he heard the wail of police sirens and knew he should flee but couldn’t. Sometimes his feet weighed too much to move. Sometimes he was in a car, but he couldn’t locate the right key to start the engine. Sometimes he was trapped in a basement by a large couch wedged against the door and preventing his escape.

  He always woke before the sheriff or police or National Guard caught him, but waking up to find himself safe and sound did nothing to cure him of a steadily worsening panic response to the sound of sirens. Unfortunately, his apartment over the bakery in Kansas City was located just down the street from a fire station—a constant source of fresh alarm. Khan told himself these frequent exposures would lessen his fear over time. In fact, irrational as it sounded, the opposite seemed to be happening.

  Just after Khan boarded the bus to travel to Florida and break into Littlewood’s lab, a pair of police vehicles had roared into the bus loading zone, and Khan had experienced his first-ever panic attack. He was sure they’d finally caught up with him. Had it been mild-mannered Mark from Omaha who’d provided the missing clue leading to Khan’s capture after so many months? Should he run? The bus’s exit doors opened in the direction of the red and blue flashing lights. Khan’s heart hammered in his chest, and he suddenly felt as though someone was squeezing all the air out of his lungs. Was this a heart attack?

  When the police vehicles pulled away ten minutes later without having arrested him, Khan’s shirt was drenched in sweat, and he was convinced he’d suffered a cardiac episode of some sort. Eight hours of Googling “heart conditions” later, he was reluctantly persuaded he’d suffered nothing more than a panic attack.

  “Nothing more,” he muttered.

  His second panic attack came four days later at 2:37 a.m. in Wellesley, Florida. He was hunkered down beside the door to Littlewood’s lab, hidden from casual view in the below-ground stairwell. A YouTube video on his phone was showing him three possible ways to disarm an electronic door lock.

  The moment he heard the wail of the siren in the distance, he knew it was coming for him. He knew Littlewood had been waiting for this moment. Of course, Littlewood had known Khan would return. Khan had been set up.

  He stood too fast, and all the blood seemed to drain to his lower extremities, leaving him light-headed and slightly nauseous. A moment later, his heart began to thunder in his chest. Another panic attack. He gripped the metal banister and pulled himself up the stairs, hand over hand, back up to ground level. It was then that he noticed the security camera. It was too late to do anything more than lower his head and feel thankful he’d turned his stolen stretch cap into a makeshift balaclava. Littlewood couldn’t prove it was him, as long as he got away.

  Damn that siren! Had the security camera alerted the police? Had he fallen right into a trap?

  The siren was much louder now. The vehicle was definitely turning into the warehouse complex. Stumbling, Jules Khan backed away, rounding a corner to take himself out of plain sight.

  The sheriff was chasing someone. Someone driving a truck. The driver lost control of his vehicle and slammed sideways into a pair of bollards blocking access to an alley between buildings.

  Khan watched all this without moving, hidden by night and his black apparel, but even when he could plainly see the county sheriff arresting this other offender, Khan didn’t make the mistake of returning to have another go at the door. Littlewood had taken all those precautions. The new lock. The camera. Even if the cops hadn’t been here for him, the door was monitored, as if Littlewood had known Khan would be back, as if Littlewood had been planning to catch him. Littlewood wanted him behind bars. Khan had been a fool to believe Littlewood’s earlier overtures had been genuine. Well, Littlewood wouldn’t catch him with his guard down a second time. He wouldn’t catch him at all. If there was one thing Jules Khan would not risk, it was incarceration.

  Khan began a slow, painful jog back to the bus station. He would figure out the schematics another way. He was twice the scientist Littlewood was. He could recreate all of it from scratch, despite his earlier failure. To hell with Littlewood and his machinations to put Jules Khan behind bars. To hell with them all.

  Three Months Earlier

  April–May

  14

  • QUINTUS •

  Florida, April

  Quintus accepted employment as a security guard for Dr. Arthur Littlewood for two reasons. Firstly, it had become evident to him that his host, Pater Joe, was impoverished, and thus in no position to share his meager meals with a man of large appetite such as Quintus knew himself to be. Secondly, if he were to someday purchase a sailing vessel and slaves to sail it, he would require an income. Littlewood had offered both a dwelling place and a salary, solving two of Quintus’s most pressing needs.

  So Quintus had taken his few belongings—all but his soldier’s gear were gifts from Pater Joe—to his new dwelling, located in a set of rooms separated from and just behind Littlewood’s main villa. Quintus unpacked, placing the gifted tunics and breeches in “drawers” after the custom of the Floridae, and then
he awaited the call to dinner.

  Quite late that night, Quintus determined it must not be customary for hosts to provide dinner for their guests, even though Father Joe had done so. Littlewood, at any rate, offered neither food nor watered wine. This was less troublesome in a land where the household water was at all times of year fresh and wholesome to drink.

  Pulling out a sack, Quintus examined Pater Joe’s final gift: sliced bread and something labeled peanut butter. The gift made sense now. The priest must have suspected Littlewood would not feed Quintus. So Quintus ate the strange paste spread over the soft bread. In a “week,” the seven-day equivalent of Rome’s eight-day nundinae, he would receive payment, which would enable him to buy other foods. Meanwhile, he set a few snares out of doors, hoping his new host would not upbraid him for eating the birds on his land.

  The following evening, Littlewood took Quintus to his new place of employment, driving him there in one of the marvelous horseless chariots used by the Floridae. Overhead, the sky was shifting from pale purple to a deep charcoal. The road stretched smoothly before them. While Quintus found “cars” a marvel, the smooth road raised much deeper feelings of admiration for the Floridae, creators of “asphalt,” who, moreover, had the engineering skill to join this creation to the forging of such roads.

  They had just turned onto a road of lesser perfection when Quintus’s senses came to sudden alertness. The buildings looked familiar. He had been here before. His heart began to beat more swiftly. He knew this place! How was it possible he should return to the very place where he had awoken after Julius Canis had stolen him out of Rome?

  Some god had surely arranged this. He sent a quick prayer of thanksgiving to Mercury, a god who had favored him many times during his days as Caesar’s messenger. Quintus vowed that when his work hours ended, Mercury would have the best bird from his snares.

  For if Quintus was returning to where he had escaped Julius Canis, did it not stand to reason the wretched man might be found there? And if Quintus could bring the man to justice . . .

  “It’s a bit tricky finding your way through the buildings,” Littlewood said, interrupting Quintus’s thoughts.

  Quintus, attempting to steady his heart rate, returned his attention to his employer.

  “They all look alike,” said Littlewood. “I’ve been known to walk to the wrong door myself.” He gave a small laugh and seemed to await a response.

  Quintus gave a brief nod to indicate he understood.

  “These buildings have been in use since the Second World War, if you can believe it. Complexes just like this all over Florida, I shouldn’t wonder. I suppose there’s no money to be made in tearing them down.”

  Quintus experienced a sinking sensation. If Florida contained many buildings that had the same appearance, perhaps this was not the place in which he had roused from his drugged sleep. His jaw tightened. How he yearned to visit justice upon Canis. This desire was second only to his desire to deliver Caesar’s letter. Another hastily uttered prayer ascended to the god of travelers, and a second to the blind goddess Justitia: Please. Please.

  “Just look for the number painted on the side of the building,” Littlewood was saying. “You can park anywhere. Oh, I meant to tell you, you can use the old Honda parked behind your cottage. Father Joe said you didn’t have a car, so I thought . . .”

  Quintus was too distracted to reply. His heart pounded; how greatly this place resembled the one from which he had fled Canis. Would the evil man still be found within? Surely, surely . . .

  “You can drive, right?” asked Littlewood, exiting the car.

  Quintus, forcing himself to attend to Littlewood, exited and made his reply. “I cannot drive.”

  He returned his focus to his environs, his eyes darting about, seeking Canis.

  “Ah. Well—” Littlewood broke off. “I suppose I could drive you over.”

  Quintus was silent. The stairwell. The door with its small window. This was the place. He knew it with certainty.

  Mercury should have all the birds in his snares.

  “Maybe there’s a bus,” said Littlewood.

  “I walk,” said Quintus. The phrasing was incorrect; English was a maddening language. “I shall walk,” he said, amending his reply. It was hard to form his responses knowing Julius Canis might at any moment appear.

  “It’s three miles,” said Littlewood. “You’re not seriously suggesting you’d walk six miles a day, every day? Er, night?”

  “I shall walk,” repeated Quintus. In fact, the exercise, though of small distance, would do him good. He had grown soft in this strange land. Shame washed over him. If Canis was inside the building, Quintus would have ample reason to regret his laxness when he attacked.

  Together, they approached the door.

  “And another thing,” murmured Littlewood. “In your prior, er, security work, it may have been normal to call 9-1-1 first. Here, however, I’d prefer if you called me instead.”

  “I shall call you,” said Quintus, itching to wield his gladius—his sword.

  “Right. Ah . . . Father Joe indicated you had no cell phone, so I took the liberty of getting this for you.” Littlewood held out a cell phone—an uncanny device by which means the Floridae communicated with one another when they were too far distant to shout and be heard.

  Quintus accepted the device and fixed his eyes on the small window in the door.

  “Okay. Well, the lock is state of the art,” said Littlewood, indicating the door leading into the subterranean chamber.

  Quintus felt the back of his neck prickling. Was Canis here?

  Littlewood demonstrated the door’s locking mechanism. After Quintus succeeded in unlocking the door following Littlewood’s instructions, the two entered the room.

  “Nothing fancy, I’m afraid,” said Littlewood, flicking on the lights. “Just a basic lab.”

  As Quintus followed Littlewood inside, his hands clenched into tight fists. A dozen details of the room struck him, choking as a blow to the windpipe. He knew this place. He had awoken here when Canis had stolen him from Rome. Swiftly he drew his sword, seeking the man.

  “Good heavens!” said Littlewood. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Where is the man called Julius Canis?”

  15

  • LITTLEWOOD •

  Florida, April

  When it came to swords, Arthur Littlewood was out of his depth. When it came to Jules Khan, not only was he on solid ground, but he knew enough to proceed with caution.

  “How do you know Khan?” he asked his new security guard.

  It was a simple question, calmly asked, but it evoked a passionate response.

  “He stole me to this place and later attacked me, here in this room. I will exact payment.”

  “Ah,” said Littlewood.

  Things were coming together in his mind, which was now filling with dread. In this sudden revelation, Littlewood comprehended many things. It was as though the curtain of day had been suddenly swept aside, revealing starlight. It had been there all along, could one but see it. Quintus’s strange insistence on speaking only Latin. The odd habits Father Joe had mentioned. It all made sense. “Ah,” he said again. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his linen sports coat, nervously clutching the keys he found there.

  For a moment, the two men regarded one another in silence, and then Quintus’s gaze fell once more to examining the laboratory. It was an alert gaze, predatory. Quintus looked very much as if he expected—no, hoped—Khan would jump out and yell, Surprise!

  Littlewood reached for his phone and texted Everett. Then added Jillian in as well: Come at once! A time traveler from ancient Rome has arrived. Permanently arrived. Please hurry.

  After this, Littlewood tried to think of what he ought to say to this poor young man. He had an idea that this sort of news ought to be given gently, and the thought of doing it . . . well, wrong, made him quite squeamish. What if he bungled the whole thing? Honestly, he had no idea how o
ne broke such news.

  There was the matter of the sword, however, and the bloodthirsty—understandably bloodthirsty—expression on Quintus’s face. That, Littlewood might address.

  “Father Joe has explained to you, I trust,” he said to Quintus, “the amount of trouble that your . . . er, weapon could get you in? If you were to, say, attack someone with it?”

  Would Quintus have learned this from Father Joe? The priest led a very sheltered life, which meant Quintus would have had a sheltered existence since his arrival.

  “When I encounter Julius Canis,” said Quintus, interrupting Littlewood’s thoughts, “I shall do what is necessary to obtain justice.”

  “Ah, well, there’s necessary and there’s necessary, you see . . .”

  Quintus, hearing the air conditioner rattling to life, spun, brandishing his sword.

  Littlewood felt his mouth go suddenly dry. Oh dear. Oh dear. “Would you mind, just for now, putting that weapon away?”

  Quintus lowered his sword, frowning darkly. “Canis has done wrong things and must pay. The goddess Justitia cries out for it. I shall have the revenge that is my due.”

  Oh dear.

  Littlewood’s keys slipped through the hole in his coat pocket, jangling noisily as they hit the floor. He really needed to take his coat in for a repair before he lost something important.

  “Well,” murmured Littlewood, bending down to retrieve his keys, “let’s set aside the discussion of your revenge for just a moment. You say he attacked you and then brought you here?”

  “Somehow he overcame me and brought me by force to this place, though I cannot recall the journey,” said Quintus. “The man is too slight to have bested me in a fight. I am no believer in magic. Therefore, I conclude he used some drug to overcome me so that he might bring me here. In doing so, he has made himself an enemy of the state of Roma, upon whose business I was engaged.”