Fool's Paradise

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Pris . . . his beloved Pris, who never made him feel worthless as many others in the ton had. Who had accepted him as he was. Who had helped him find his heart so he could give it to her.

  No, he would not have drunk last night until he was floored. Then why did his head hurt so badly? He searched his memory and could not recall having more than a pint or two of ale at . . . The Rose and Thistle Inn!

  Memory after memory burst out of his mind, each one bouncing off his tender skull.

  Examining Beamish’s carriage and learning from the stable lad the name of a man who had worked for St. John.

  Pris obtaining even more names.

  The plan to talk to the men in the morning.

  Someone sneaking into their room in the middle of the night.

  Giving chase after a man whose face he never saw.

  An explosion of pain when he was struck from behind. All thought disappearing save for the fact that, in his enthusiasm to discover who had tried to sneak into their room, he had left Pris unprotected.

  Pris?

  Where was she?

  Where was he?

  As if he had spoken, he heard a female say, “Ah, you are awake at last. Welcome to Novum Arce.”

  “Where?” he tried to ask.

  The woman must have understood because she repeated, “Novum Arce.”

  He forced his eyes open to see a face surrounded by a spun white halo. He could not make out any features because his eyes refused to focus. Flowing white robes fluttered when she moved. She seemed to be carrying something flat and thin.

  Halo? White robes? And was that a harp she was carrying?

  What was going on? What was Novum Arce?

  “This cannot be heaven.” He was able to get those few words out of his dry throat. He sounded like a croaking toad.

  “Hardly.” A hint of laughter filled the woman’s voice.

  “Why are you dressed like a wingless angel?”

  He did not know if the woman was trying to avoid his question, but instead of answering, she ordered gently, “Tell me how you are feeling, Mr. Williams.”

  “Mister . . .” Neville halted himself before he could say something witless. For some reason, she believed his surname was Williams. He suspected the reason had to do with Pris. Who else would give him a fake name? And why had she lied?

  Where was Pris?

  He put the back of his hand to his forehead in an emoted pose worthy of the worst on Drury Lane and moaned. “Forgive me. What I meant to say is my head feels like the finish line at Newmarket track.”

  “What?”

  “As if a dozen horses are trampling on it at top speed.”

  “Oh.” She went to a small table near the foot of the bed and set down what he now could see was a tray with several dishes on it.

  The very idea of eating made Neville nauseated. He ignored his roiling gut and tried to sit, but moving was not a good idea. He propped himself on his elbows and waited for the dizziness to subside. More than once, he considered collapsing into the pillows. He fought the temptation, and it took several minutes for the room to stop swirling around him.

  The woman poured something into a cup and turned to bring it to him. He winced when she moved because she had blocked a bright flame in a low lamp. The light slashed at him, and he put his hand to his tender skull, groaning.

  “It will be all right,” the woman said.

  He squinted, glad she now stood between him and the light. She was elderly, her face a pattern of ravines, but she stood as straight as an oak. Her gray hair was drawn back in a simple bun at her nape. A loose white tunic was caught at both shoulders by simple broaches, and a sash at her thick waist held the garment in place. Over one arm, she carried a light green cloak. When he managed to focus on her feet, he saw she wore sandals that laced across the top and up beneath her robe.

  What was going on? Had he fallen asleep and woken in the midst of a costume ball?

  “Drink,” she ordered.

  “What is it?”

  “It will help with the headache.”

  Pain crashed through his head, and he grasped the metal cup with two hands. Anything to ease the agony. He downed the liquid in a single gulp. It sizzled on his tongue and scratched his dry throat. An acrid taste made him gag.

  “I know,” the old woman said. “It tastes awful.”

  Neville was about to reply the horrid flavor was not worth the help, but then the tight iron bands around his skull began to loosen. He had no idea what had been in the cup, but he would gladly drink more to banish his headache.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Drink this.” She held out a second cup, taking the empty one. “It will soothe your throat.”

  He did not hesitate as he drained the second cup. The liquid was sweet as if mixed with ripe strawberries. He wondered where she had found a summer fruit, but that was the least important of his questions.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Tulita Easton, but you can call me Aunt Tetty. Everyone here does.”

  “Here?” He looked around the room. The cot where he had awoken looked like something the army would use. A wooden chest had been pushed against the wall beside the table where she had placed the tray. A backless bench held a bowl and ewer. The mirror over them was the only decoration on the wall that showed signs of dampness where plaster had fallen in chips to the worn wooden floor.

  “Novum Arce.” She gave him a small smile.

  “That is what you said before, but it means nothing to me.”

  “I know.”

  He waited for her to go on, but she clamped her lips closed before she took the second cup and shuffled back to the tray. When she remained silent, he realized he would have to get a few answers on his own.

  Swinging his legs over the side of the bed almost sent him crashing to the floor. He waited for the world to right itself again. With care, he stood and went toward the window. He felt like a drunken sailor on a high sea. Gripping the edge of the sill, he forced his quivering legs to steady beneath him. He had to be patient, something he did not do well, while the scene cleared in front of him.

  And he did not believe his eyes.

  Neville could not recall the last time words failed him, but every one fled his mind as he stared out at what appeared to be a perfectly recreated Roman village along the empire’s northern border. Buildings were laid out in an exact grid, the streets as straight as the flight of an arrow. Many of the buildings were small, only a single story high. He saw a few larger buildings. Like the lesser ones, they had been constructed of stone and whitewashed. What looked like slate roofs topped each building. However, every window had glass, and the wooden doors were edged with iron hinges.

  Men and women hurried past, intent on a task or errand. They wore the flowing clothes he had seen on ancient statues and cloaks in a variety of colors. The women’s clothing resembled styles that had swept England twenty years ago, loose robes lashed under and between the breasts. The men’s belted tunics hung over leggings and reached to the knee, but were not cut close to the skin like his knee breeches. Instead of boots, leather sandals rose to the ankle.

  The wind struck his face, and he heard a sharp snap. Overhead fluttered flags emblazoned with an imperial eagle, the symbol of the Roman army that had last flown in England a millennium and a half before. He looked up at the fells rising in every direction around the settlement. On a high ridge where once Roman legionaries might have stood watch, men patrolled. He could not discern if they were dressed as these others were in the ancient costumes.

  A shout came from his left, and he choked out a curse. Men in the white tunics of Roman legionaries practiced with shortened swords on the green between the stone buildings. Two men in the red of Roman centurions directed them.


  Was he dreaming, or had the blow to his head undone his hold on sanity?

  “It is real,” Aunt Tetty said. “There was a fort here when the Romans ruled. Not so much a fort as a supply depot I have been told, though we are supposed to think only of the past glories recreated in Novum Arce.”

  “Novum Arce,” he repeated.

  “Yes. I am told the name is Latin for ‘new castle.’” She laughed without amusement. “But Newcastle is a real city, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Newcastle upon Tyne. Ironic.”

  “What is ironic?”

  “The ancient Roman wall built by Hadrian has one end east of Newcastle upon Tyne, and here is another town with the same name not far from the wall’s west end in Bowness-on-Solway.”

  “You seem to know a lot about that old wall.”

  “Knowledge I never expected to have any use for.” He watched a child run past, his sandals slapping the grass. “How long have you been here, Aunt Tetty?”

  “It is Aprilis, isn’t it? We use the Roman names whenever possible.”

  “Yes, it is April.” He chuckled. “I mean, Aprilis.”

  “Then I have been here for quite a long time. Biennium.”

  Neville searched his mind for what he remembered of Latin and realized he could not recall much save a few phrases, but he guessed biennium meant two years. He had had no formal schooling in the dead language, for he had not had the luxury of a tutor or a classroom. Most of what he had learned back then was the language of the worst London streets. Later, though, he had studied Latin when he first played a part in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. Even though the play had been written in English, he had thought memorizing the speeches in the language of the characters would help him understand them better. He had discovered a fascination with languages, so he had learned more with Lazarus’s help.

  Usus est optimum magister. That was one phrase he remembered learning from Pris’s late husband. Experience makes the best teacher.

  He wondered what he was about to learn about a place called Novum Arce, but first he had to know where Pris was. “Was I brought here alone?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “People come to Novum Arce all the time. It is not my task to keep track of them.”

  Hope skittered through Neville. Maybe the men who had tried to break into their room had not noticed Pris. She could be safe at the inn or on her way to Duncan to get help. Though she would be frantic about him, she and their baby would be safe.

  “Is this the settlement established by Sir Thomas Hodge St. John?” he asked, refocusing on the situation.

  A smile teased Aunt Tetty’s lips. “An odd question from a man who has no idea where he is. What else do you suspect, Mr. Williams?”

  “Not much at this point, because I never guessed St. John’s obsession in creating a utopia would lead him to choose ancient Rome as his model.” He glanced again at the soldiers on patrol. The Prince Regent’s instincts had been right. St. John had built an army.

  The only questions remaining were: Why? And how long would it take Neville to sneak out past those soldiers to get the information to London?

  “He has his reasons for the life he has established here,” Aunt Tetty said, drawing his eyes back to her.

  “And they are?”

  “It would be better if you heard that from the Imperator’s lips.”

  “He calls himself the Imperator, does he?” That, as much as what he had viewed, gave Neville a hint of what was taking place in this strange settlement. Imperator had been the title given to a Roman commander before it was taken by the imperial Caesars as part of their title. St. John had set himself up as the absolute ruler of Novum Arce for both civilian and military matters.

  St. John had no military experience, and from what Neville had observed in London, the baronet disdained the company of military men. He had never imagined the reason St. John refused to speak to them was because he was jealous of their authority. And now the insane baronet was the leader of these crazy people who followed him.

  Crazy people? He cut his eyes toward Aunt Tetty who was smoothing the blanket on the bed. Was she as insane as St. John? Maybe Neville should have thought twice before he drank the so-called medicines she offered. It was too late to worry about that now. Instead, he had to gather more information and then find a way out of . . . what had she called the place? Novum Arce?

  “Yes, he is our Imperator, and he wants to meet you as soon as you have regained your senses.” Aunt Tetty pointed to a pile of fabric at the foot of the cot. “I will leave you to clean up then I will escort you to the principia. It is the central building of Novum Arce.” She walked out, closing the door without giving him a chance to respond.

  Neville glanced from the towels to the men practicing with short Roman swords. Suddenly he felt totally disconnected from reality. This was a new world created out of St. John’s irrational mind. Just as Jocko had said.

  New world . . . a quote from The Tempest, his favorite Shakespearean play, whispered through his head:“O, wonder!

  How many goodly creatures are there here!

  How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,

  That has such people in’t!”

  He hoped the residents of Novum Arce would prove to be goodly, but as he watched the soldiers training beyond his window, he knew he must be prepared if they were not.

  Chapter Seven

  THE PRINCIPIA WAS set at one end of an avenue broad enough to drive three closed carriages abreast. At the other end, barely visible through the rain falling from clouds clinging close to the fells, stood a smaller building that was a mirror image of the grand principia with its row of white columns and pediments decorated with bas-relief figures Neville assumed were Roman gods and goddesses. He wondered where St. John had found skilled sculptors. Maybe he had bought the figures from some archeological site and moved them to his new community.

  Aunt Tetty did not speak as she led him to double doors that rose to over twenty feet. They were open, and she told him to go in and walk to the opposite end.

  “You will have your questions answered there,” she said.

  “Isn’t this a bit of an outrageous way to answer some very basic questions?”

  A faint smile tugged at her lips, but she slipped past him and into the building.

  Neville followed and found himself in a room as vast as the nave of a cathedral, but the ceiling was low and flat instead of arched. Like a cathedral, it had aisles on each side, set off by rows of columns. He recognized the simple lines and undecorated capitals as the Italianate Doric style favored by architects in the past century. However, no country house was crowded with people wearing Roman garb. His torn and dirty waistcoat and breeches and scuffed knee boots made him the odd man out, but he doubted he would find an odder group anywhere. The men stood on the left side of the room while women crowded together on the right.

  A familiar face, though her golden hair was swept up in curls beneath a sheer veil, caught his eyes. Pris! His heart fell. He had been hopeful she had not been taken from The Rose and Thistle Inn, that she had given him the name Williams when talking to the landlady there. However, the curs who had attacked him must have brought her here, too. More questions battered his mouth, but they must wait. For now, it took every ounce of restraint not to run to her and pull her into his arms.

  From where he stood, she looked unharmed. He nodded his head toward the door, a signal he hoped she would understand. If possible, he would meet her outside the building after whatever was going to happen here was over. She gave him a smile, then looked away as if he were a stranger who had intrigued her for a moment. He followed her lead, continuing to scan the room from its ceiling painted with a primitive depiction of the sun and moon and stars to the mosaic tiles under his feet.

  After every
thing else he had seen, it was no surprise to see a throne with an eagle banner hanging over it at the end of the long room. He almost would have been disappointed if there had been no sign of Imperial Rome. Beneath the banner was another flag with a bull in its center. It might be an emblem belonging to one of the legions that guarded the empire’s borders. He wondered how accurate St. John had insisted his utopia be.

  On the throne sat Sir Thomas Hodge St. John, dressed in the white toga of a Roman leader with a cloak of imperial purple draped around his shoulders. Would the man whose black hair was laced with silver recognize Neville, whom he had met on a couple of occasions? The last time, Neville had not spoken to him directly, so it was possible St. John would not remember him.

  “A newcomer, Imperator,” a voice intoned from behind the throne. Neville could not see who stood there, so the person might be behind the drapery.

  St. John squinted at Neville and motioned him forward. “I am told your name is Williams.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Leonard Williams?”

  He hoped this was not some test or trap. He shifted his eyes toward Pris. She gave the slightest nod, and he hurried to say, “Yes, sir.”

  “You look familiar, Williams.”

  He had to choose his lies with care. Anything he said could trigger a memory in the older man’s head. “I once served as a footman and guest valet for gentlemen who came to Lord Stoningham’s country seat near Newmarket to enjoy the races. Perhaps you saw me then.”

  “Possible, though I always have traveled with my own valet.” Raising his voice, he spoke to the whole gathering. “But that is part of the old world. Now we have this new world. You will be part of that, Williams, and you should be grateful such an honor has been granted to you.”

  “Yes, sir.” He had no idea what else to say. If he spoke the wrong word, would these pseudo-Romans toss him to the lions for their enjoyment?

  He realized St. John had not been waiting for an answer. St. John pushed himself to his feet and called out, “Here in Novum Arce, we have cut ourselves off from war, and we seek to live in peace. In pace. We have established a place to raise our children and their children and their children without interference from outsiders.” His pale eyes focused on Neville again. “Pax Romana. Do you know what it is?”