“It’s truly baffling,” replied Kay in awe.
“Enough,” demanded Flaccidus. Then he walked back to Arthur. “So these men are your boy-servants, then?”
“Excuse me?” said Bors.
“That’s insulting,” chimed Kay.
“Rather makes sense with that outfit you’re wearing, Arthur,” Flaccidus continued, clearly ignoring the knights.
“What?” Arthur said, looking down at himself. “No, it’s—”
“A costume party. Yes, I’m aware.” Flaccidus walked back to his bench and sat back down. “Now, King Arthur, tell me: Where precisely is your kingdom?”
“You may not want to say—” started Merlin.
“Britain,” Arthur answered proudly.
“Oh boy.”
“Is that so?” Flaccidus said with a twinkle in his eye.
“It is,” replied Arthur. “Is that of particular interest?”
“Oh, indeed,” answered the emperor.
“Why?”
“We’ve just always had problems with your country. But if you are the actual king, than I’d go as far as to say our problems are solved.”
Arthur squinted. “Sorry, but how so?”
“Simple, you fool,” Flaccidus said with a laugh. “If I execute you, your beloved Britain will no longer have a king!”
“I shall not stand for this,” claimed Bors in a strong voice.
“Sit, then,” suggested Flaccidus.
That seemed to confuse Bors. “Hmmm?”
“We’ll block your every attempt, to protect our king,” announced Kay, stepping forward strongly.
Flaccidus snapped up another grape casually and began to chew it.
“I can have one hundred guards brandishing swords with the snap of my fingers,” he stated flatly.
“Me too,” Slutius said.
Flaccidus reeled around. “What’s that?”
“Uh...” Slutius said, clearly catching herself, “I was just saying that it’s true you could have guards in here quickly.”
“Right,” Flaccidus said at length.
And that’s when Arthur heard the telltale sound that marked Sir Gaheris’s plan to begin battling.
“Gah, guh.”
Apparently his trip to the boulder hadn’t been sufficient enough.
“What’s that man doing?” Flaccidus said, pointing. Then he sniffed the air with a cringe. “And what is that infernal smell?”
Arthur dropped his shoulders. “You don’t want to know.”
“Is he soiling himself?”
“Yes.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yes.”
“Take them to the dungeon,” commanded Flaccidus. “Quickly!”
THE DATA
Lance-A-Lot was seated on the recliner, watching a spirited bout between two men in an octagonal cage. They were punching, kicking, twisting, and doing their best to bloody up each other. It was making him itch for battle.
That’s when he smelled something that reminded him of Sir Gaheris.
His son, Mitch Jr., was making goo-goo noises on his lap, seeming rather pleased with himself. Lance picked up the boy to see if the smell was resonating from him. Sure enough, it was.
“I believe the boy has made another gift,” Lance said to Allison.
“’Present,’” she corrected while keeping her face locked to the computer screen she’d been studying.
“Yes,” said Lance, confused. “I’m here.”
“No, I’m not asking you if you’re present,” she said, looking over her glasses. “I’m saying that the common vernacular for when a child fills its diaper is that they made a ‘present,’ not a ‘gift.’”
“Ah, yes.”
“So change him,” she said as if it were nothing.
Lance-A-Lot had been through many challenges in his life. He’d fought down ruffians, saved maidens, laid maidens—often the very same ones he’d previously saved, been stabbed twice—once due to the jealousy of an angry husband over laying a self-proclaimed maiden that he’d previously saved, and even catered a party for fifty aristocrats. He was quite the chef, after all.
But never had he faced the horrors of diaper-changing.
“Uhhh...” he said worriedly.
Allison sighed and crossed her arms. Lance-A-Lot always felt worried when she did that because it meant he’d either done something wrong, was doing something wrong, or was about to do something wrong.
“Mitch,” she said, using his actual name, “you can’t just sit around watching sports and soap operas on television all day. You have to pull your own weight around here.”
“Done that twice today already,” Lance replied proudly.
“I don’t mean it like that,” she said with a frown. “I mean that you have to do your fair share of the work.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, dear.”
“Now, you change the boy while I go over some data.”
It wasn’t a request and so Lance set about to his task. He’d seen both Allison and Mrs. Smith, his new mother-in-law, change the boy on many occasions, so he knew the ins and outs of it. But there was something entirely different between watching such an event and participating in one.
In order to keep his mind off what he was doing, he said, “What is data, dear?”
“You don’t know what data is?”
“Well, I know what it means, sure, but I only understand its use when dealing with the knights. They give me reports and I figure things out from it.”
“Same thing, just that my reports come from the computer.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. She never gave him much information.
Allison must have recognized that she wasn’t being very forthcoming, because she said, “Okay, I’ll give you an example. When we sent Arthur and everyone back in time, the system logged information on it. That’s data I can use to look at the efficiency of how many systems are running. From that I can derive if there are any needs for updates, performance enhancements, and so on.” She began typing away on her keyboard. “So, I can pull up the information on their transport and...” She paused. “Huh.”
“Something the matter?” asked Lance as he tried to keep himself from gagging.
“It’s just that something looks...” Allison paused again. “Oh, shit.”
“You can say that again.”
“I sent them to the wrong time,” she whispered.
“You mean like night or something?” said Lance as he powdered the boy’s bottom.
“No, I mean like...” She began typing and clicking. “Oh boy. They’re in 72AD.”
Lance finished changing Mitch, Jr. and smiled at his handiwork. While it hadn’t been pleasant, he was proud he’d accomplished something. Actually, the last time he’d felt this good about himself since moving in with Allison was when he’d successfully loaded the dishwasher.
He picked up Mitch, Jr., holding him for Allison to check out the accomplishment, but she was busily carrying a look of dread. That’s when Lance replayed her last sentence over in his head.
“Are you saying that my king is in trouble?” he asked, feeling his body temperature instantly rise.
“I don’t know,” she replied, “but considering where they ended up, I’d say there’s a strong possibility they are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they didn’t just go back in time, they also landed in Ancient Rome.”
Lance’s eyes went wide. “What?”
TURKEY LEG
Doonan walked up the path that opened into Camelot. It didn’t look all that different to him than his home kingdom, except for the litany of merchant carts lining the streets and pushing their wares. There were large ones, small ones, colorful ones, and plain ones. Some had wheels and some were clearly built for permanency.
He kept his head down, not wanting to engage anyone just yet. With any luck, he’d spot a soldier who would be able to help him find the king.
“You there,” called o
ut a merchant as Doonan stepped in a puddle, soaking his foot.
Doonan stopped and looked up at the merchant. It was a middle-aged man with a round face and beady eyes. He was standing behind a cart that had pieces of meat dangling from wires, and he was holding up a gigantic turkey leg.
Feeling rather self-conscious, Doonan pointed to himself questioningly.
“Yes, you in the skirt,” said the man. “Come over here and try a delightful turkey leg.”
“It’s a kilt,” said Doonan, stepping over.
“No,” replied the merchant, looking at the haunch of meat, “it’s a turkey leg.”
“I mean me skirt,” explained Doonan. “It’s called a kilt.”
“Ah, well, glad that’s cleared up.” The merchant began wrapping up the foodstuff with a batch of brown paper. “Now, that will be three silver pieces for the turkey leg.”
“I’m not after wantin’ any turkey leg,” Doonan said with a grimace. “I’m here on a mission to find me king.”
“But you said you wanted the leg and I’ve gone and wrapped it.”
“I’ve said no such thing, ya batty cart-pusher!”
A large man approached them. He was wearing a soldier’s outfit that seemed similar to the one Doonan had seen the knights wearing when the king of England had visited a while back. But something didn’t quite fit. This fellow had the look of a man who hadn’t slept in many days, and the stench of alcohol that permeated from his being masked the merchant’s delicacies in an instant.
“Okay, okay,” said the man in a tired voice. “What’s going on here?”
“Who’re you?” asked Doonan.
“I am Sir Bedivere, a Knight of the Round Table.”
“Truly?” Doonan said, appraising him once more.
“Yeah, why?”
“Ye just look like yer after bein’ a fella that failed at sleepin’ off a hangover.”
“Well, that’s about right,” Bedivere replied with a nod, “but it’s too early to start drinking again just yet. Now, what’s going on here?”
“This man said he wanted a turkey leg and so I wrapped it up and now he won’t pay,” claimed the merchant.
“I dinnae want any damn turkey leg,” Doonan argued. “Who’s after eatin’ somethin’ like that this early in the morn?”
Bedivere glanced over at the merchant. “He’s got you there.”
“You’re siding with him?” the merchant shrieked. “I’m a tax-paying citizen of this town. I pay your wage, man! This skirt-wearing fool is obviously an out-of-towner.”
“Which means he’s a tourist,” Bedivere said pedantically. “The king always says that we could use more tourists to raise up our income.”
“By selling turkey legs, I bring in money for the kingdom,” the merchant was quick to note.
“Not if there aren’t any tourists to buy your food,” countered Bedivere.
“Bah,” said the merchant. “Other people buy it all the time. I don’t need any stinking tourists to pay me for turkey legs.”
“I guess that makes the matter settled, then,” Bedivere said with a satisfied smile.
“Damn,” said the merchant, unwrapping the turkey leg and putting it back with the others. “I’m going to complain about this, I will.”
“You do that,” acknowledged Bedivere as he motioned Doonan to walk with him down the path. As soon as they were away from the grumbling shouts of the disgruntled merchant, Bedivere said, “You’re from Scotland, yes?”
“How’d ye know?”
“Aside from the accent, you mean?”
“I have an accent?”
“It was your skirt that originally tipped me off.”
“Kilt.”
“Ah, right. Sorry.” Bedivere rubbed his temples. “As you said, I’m still trying to clear my head from last night’s boozing. Why are you here?”
Doonan felt that this man may prove helpful to his cause. He had been searching for a soldier, after all, and while this one appeared to be on the wrong-end of a beating, he also seemed decent enough.
“Looking for me king,” said Doonan.
“Arthur?”
“It’s a good sign that you’re after knowin’ his name.”
“Named the same as ours,” said Bedivere. “Hard to forget.”
“Oh, aye. Seen him, then?”
“I haven’t,” admitted Bedivere, “but I recall two of the other knights saying that he was up in the wizard’s lair, so chances are he’s still there.”
“Where’s that after bein’?”
“It’s up there,” said Bedivere, pointing up the path. “I’ll take you.”
CHECKING IT OUT
Apollo landed the shuttle in its normal spot, just outside of town. The platform the Romans built as the landing site had the standard sculptures all around, but it was otherwise unadorned and flat. The view was barren except for straight ahead where the heart of the Roman Empire lay. Even at this distance the cityscape was impressive. For this era, anyway.
They used to land much closer in, but after burning a number of people alive and squashing quite a few others, the emperor had pleaded with the gods to use more caution and offered to build a special place for them to land farther away. They had agreed, not wanting to seem heartless, but warned they would only comply if there were a chariot waiting whenever they arrived.
Athena walked down the ramp ahead of him and stepped up into the chariot.
“Take us to the emperor,” Apollo commanded the driver, an unshaved man who was dressed sloppily.
The driver nodded and said, “That’ll be five bronze asses.”
“Pardon me?” said Apollo.
“The drive from the Chariot of Fire to the palace costs five bronze asses,” said the driver, pointing at a fee sheet that was stuck to the panel in front of them. “Not including tip.”
“You realize I’m a god, right?”
“Just doing my job, pal,” said the driver.
Athena gave the man a look of disdain. “We could snuff you out of existence without breaking a sweat.”
“Better that than getting fired and having my wife nag at me to find another job,” the guy said with a shrug.
“That bad, eh?” Apollo questioned.
“You have no idea.”
“All right.” Apollo reached into his change purse and pulled forth some Roman coins. “I can’t let a fellow suffer just on account of me.”
Athena’s look at Apollo was even worse than she’d given the driver.
“You do understand what it means to be a god, right?” she said with a scoff.
“Of course I do, but I’ve seen Mother nagging Father. I can’t have this poor man’s suffering through that be on my conscience.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Athena. “It is pretty horrible.”
“Here you go,” Apollo said as he handed over the coins. “Ten butts.”
“Asses, and thanks, pal.”
WHO ARE THEY?
Guard Clearlyachickus couldn’t help but think that the prisoners who had been brought down to the dungeon were on to her. At least the woman was, anyway.
“Psst...” she signaled to her partner, Probius, a very cute guard who had taken her under his wing ever since she’d been accepted into the force. He was easily fifteen years her elder, but he was fit and gentlemanly. Plus, she had rather a thing for older men. “Probius, any idea who they are?”
“No,” he said in a whisper, keeping his eyes on the wall in front of him.
“No word from the upper ranks?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on. You always hear—”
“Please leave me alone, Clearlyachickus,” Probius said pleadingly. “Last time I got into one of these long discussions with you, I ended up getting reprimanded by Dickus Headus.”
That was true. Supreme Guard Dickus Headus was a stickler for duty. There was to be no fraternizing with the prisoners, no discussions amongst the guards, and no women anywhere within eye shot, unless sh
e was a prisoner. It was him that Guard Clearlyachickus always feared because he could have her removed from duty if he ever found out her true gender.
“I think the one woman is on to me,” she said and then caught herself, remembering that Probius, too, was unaware of the real situation.
“You’re not dragging me into a discussion,” he said tightly.
It was a constant struggle for her because she wasn’t exactly what you would call uncurvy. In fact, she was quite voluptuous. This made it challenging to tape everything into place each morning and to stuff herself into the standard guard outfit. She also had to keep her hair cropped tightly, not get manicures, and avoid any form of makeup, which was the worst because dark eyeliner really brought out her pale green eyes.
But if that prisoner saw through the disguise, certainly others did too. Right? They must have. Especially since she was the only one playing at this game. Sure, there were a few of the guards who were chubby, but none of them in a feminine way. Well, maybe Guard Dudus Lookuslikealadius, and possibly Guard Manboobius.
“Probius?”
“I’m ignoring you.”
Clearlyachickus swallowed hard and then said, “Is there anything in particular that you think that woman may have noticed about me?”
“It’s like you just don’t care,” Probius said with a huff.
“Seriously, we’ve known each other for quite a while now and I need you to be honest with me.”
“I wish you would stop saying things,” he said at full voice. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
“Guard Probius,” Supreme Guard Dickus Headus called down in his haughty voice, “would you come hither, please?”
Probius looked away from the wall and at Clearlyachickus. It was not a happy look. It was the kind of look that conveyed that he was very unhappy. It was the kind of look that made Clearlyachickus tingle.
“Damn it,” he said. “Thanks a lot, Guard Clearlyachickus.”
“What did I do?” she replied innocently as he stormed up the stairs.
NOW WHAT?
Comedic Arthurian Bundle: The Adventures of Queen Arthur Page 24