What if she blew it this time?
"Lady Samantha?" Hamilgart, still waiting for an answer.
Teal'c was the only one who hadn't asked so far. Now he fell in line and fixed her with a steady, level gaze. His equivalent for Aaand?
"Maybe," she said. "Maybe."
.sssumph!" She stifled the first sneeze of the day in the crook .of her arm.
Disgusting. And it probably increased the pressure on one's sinuses, although she felt less bunged-up now than she had last night. Some round, rosy creature in her forties had dished up a piping hot mellila zingiberque. At first she had refused it, unwilling to risk her life. The round, rosy creature had insisted, however, nearly popping out of her stola in the process. So she'd given in, lest something thoroughly appalling happened. The ginger brew had tasted surprisingly good, tart with just a hint of honey to take out the sting. It also had been accompanied by food. Cheese, bread, cured meat, olives, figs, and grapes.
She threw back a thick woollen blanket, sat up stiffly, and stretched. Muscles she'd forgotten she had were sore and angry and bit back, and her wrist ached. At least that goose egg on the back of her head appeared to be receding. Of course, she'd had the wits to pass on the refresher, hadn't she?
Speaking of refreshments, she'd kill for a toothbrush. Good Lord, she'd even attest to the academic brilliance of Matham. In writing! A toothbrush and clean clothes... Sniffing, she licked a finger and rubbed at one of the numerous stains on a formerly pink blouse. The stain spread. In the end she got up, tiptoed across freezing flagstones to a wall hook, and got her jacket. Although it concealed the worst damage to the blouse, the jacket itself was a write-off. One should complain to the manufacturer, really. Twenty years ago proper tweed would have withstood a little rain and salt water.
The centre of the room was occupied by a low table with last evening's leftovers. She picked a bit of cheese and bread and began nibbling. Some breakfast! The bread had gone stale, and the cheese had always been bland. Give her a nice slab of Wensleydale any day of the week... And her toes were icy. Maybe she should put on her boots? No. It'd be too noisy.
Instead, she quietly scooted a stool closer to one of the braziers in the room and sat down. There were four braziers, charcoal still glimmering in them, but by now their combined output of heat was being defeated by the dawn chill that poured in through narrow windows. No panes, of course, just neatly joined wooden grids; the Roman way of securing openings in a wall and allowing daylight and weather to penetrate. No wonder they'd abandoned the British Isles with their tails between their legs. Yorkshire could feel a bit rough after Tuscany.
Mind you, this was better only by degrees. About 5°C, at a guess.
"Hssssmphsh!"
Oh for goodness' sake!
What she really wanted to do was let rip, if only to vent her annoyance at this whole situation. A monster sneeze, loud enough to announce the Second Coming or bring down the Walls of Jericho. Regrettably it also might wake the pigheaded Irish fool, which would be a recipe for disaster. The longer he slept, the safer for everyone concerned.
Following that stupendous performance on the forum yesterday afternoon, the guards had dragged him in here and shooed her after. Then they'd slammed the door, bolted it, and taken up post outside. The curious part was that Kelly had expected to end up in chains in a dungeon. One should when irritating Romans. Not that she had irritated them.
She threw a glance at the occupied bed. How anyone above the age of five could sleep like this was beyond her. He literally was curled up in a ball. If she believed in all that Freudian mumbo- jumbo, she'd say he either had something to hide or was trying to protect himself. The latter being an art he should practise more often when awake.
He stirred, murmured something unintelligible, and Kelly held her breath. Once he rejoined the living, he'd be in a rotten mood, that much was for certain. As a matter of fact, untying his hands might have been a little foolhardy. This time she'd aided and abetted. Unlike him she remembered the smell of the poppy potion, and she'd helped coax it into him while he was still drowsy enough not to put up a fight.
More murmurs, and little by little he unfurled and turned on his back. The Professor readily admitted that male sleeping habits fell outside her area of expertise, but this was the oddest thing she'd ever seen. Like he was rolling through treacle, either moving against his will or impeded by something. Face pale and glazed with sweat under two days' worth of stubble, a steep crease on his forehead, he ended up spread-eagled on the bed, his body so tense it looked like it'd snap in two at the slightest provocation.
What in the name of -
Just then he started talking again, more or less clearly now.
"... I don't know..."
Don't know what?
"... No mission..."
It was followed by a stifled cry that forced its way past clenched teeth and then a hoarse whisper.
"If I knew the name, I'd give you the damn name!"
Normally neither squeamish nor exceedingly sensitive, Kelly felt that bite of cheese curdle in her stomach. The Romans didn't have exclusive rights on barbarity, and she was unwittingly intruding on some private hell nobody should witness. She ought to wake him, but how to do it unobtrusively? Now that she could have used one, there was, of course, no sneeze waiting in the wings. Sod's Law.
"Don't!"
A whimper, barely human anymore, the awful sound of someone not quite broken yet, but so close that it could only be a matter of heartbeats.
Right. That did it!
Kelly kicked at the nearest brazier, knocking it off-balance. For a second it teetered on the edge of its base, then it toppled, hitting the ground with an almighty crash. She pasted on a look of guilty stupefaction and leaped from the stool, careful not to step on any of the embers that had scattered across the floor like disembodied red eyes.
The racket had pounded him awake, and he shot up with a gasp, fingers clamping the side of the bed as though he were afraid to fall. Despite the early-morning twilight that hung in the chamber she could see that he was trembling.
"Dearie me! I didn't wake you, did I?"
He winced at her voice, then relaxed a fraction. Racing to hide a panicked, distant look and slam the lid on that nightmare, he attempted a half-hearted glare at Kelly.
"What do you think?"
"Ever so sorry, duckie. Didn't watch where I was going."
Too much on the contrition. There wasn't a lot one could slip past him, even in this state.
His eyes narrowed promptly. "Was I... talking?"
"Surprisingly enough you actually shut up when you're asleep." Feeling heat flood her cheeks, Kelly turned away, snatched a wooden spoon from the table, and made a stiff-jointed production of scraping together the embers. "And even if you didn't, what makes you think I'd listen?" She nudged a piece of charcoal with her bare fingers and yelped for effect. "I don't bother listening to you when you're conscious. Which is a mercifully rare occurrence, I might add."
Under the pretext of righting the brazier, she risked a peek, received an indecisive frown. He wanted to believe her. Perhaps distraction would do the trick. With a little bit of luck he'd attribute any odd behaviour on her part to anxiety over the poppy potion incident.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked a trifle too sweetly.
The question hung there for a second or two, then she saw the blushing dawn of realisation. Well, in actual fact, it was more like the blood red dawn...
"You drugged me!" Dark eyes blazing, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up. "You drugged me! You and that" - before he could stop himself, his hands had cupped into the ageold male gesture signifying a triple-D cup - "Phrygian woman drugged me!"
Oh yes. Good lad! He looked almost alive now.
Straightening up, Professor Kelly sneezed. "Don't worry, dear! You were quite safe. I wrestled her down before she could have her wicked way with you."
"Have you completely lost your mind? What -"
"Oops-a-daisy!" Brandishing her spoon, Kelly scooped the offending ember towards the heap where its brethren were gathered, glowing merrily. "Must have missed that one. Sorry."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" he bellowed at her backside and slumped onto the bed again. "What the hell makes you think you've got a right to -"
"Self-preservation! Much as it irks to admit it, I need you to get out of here. You, however, insist on getting coshed for playing the knight in shining armour to old women and schoolchildren. I wanted some guarantee that you'd make it through the night without sustaining a skull fracture." Which, by ways of a change, was God's honest truth and tantamount to twisting the tiger's tail. "Lift your feet!"
"I don't believe this!"
The feet - uncommonly nice feet, she thought, to go with the hands - came up regardless, probably because he was too furious even to consider refusal.
"Tsk. Just a little red. Barely a blister. You'll survive."
"So help me, Professor, you so much as think of doing anything like that again, I'll -"
The undoubtedly diverting list of things he intended to do to her was headed off by the rattle of bolts outside, then the door creaked open. In the frame stood a young man they hadn't met before. Just as well. The good Colonel's reaction to any of the friends he'd made yesterday might be somewhat less than constructive.
The young man wore trousers and a loose tunic in the Phrygian style - why couldn't these people settle for one culture at a time? - and took in the scene in front of him with evident bemusement. Kelly couldn't even begin to imagine what she must look like, hunkering on the floor, eye to eye with O'Neill's toes, spoon at the ready. The toes dropped rather hastily, and their owner rose and burst into rapid-fire inanity.
"Hi there! Gorgeous day, isn't it? Bracing! So how about letting us out of here? See, we've got an appointment with our marriage counsellor this afternoon, and I'd hate to miss it."
"Flavius sum Tertiusque me misit quia vobiscum loquere vult," the young man announced, remarkably unperturbed, which suggested that he hadn't understood a word. Then his nose crinkled. "Antequam autem lavabitis. Rancentes estis."
"His name is Flavius," Dr. Kelly translated dutifully. "He says somebody called Tertius has sent him because he wants to talk to us. Before that we're to wash, though. Apparently we -"
"Stink. I so agree."
What?
Kelly peered at him, then admonished herself not to be absurd. The grimace on Flavius' face had been quite eloquent enough, even for a pigheaded Irish fool. Behind the young man's shoulder appeared Round Rosy, beaming. Hopefully the separate female escort meant the facilities weren't unisex.
Several eons ago, Dr. Jackson had vowed never again to complain about military red-tape. Compared to this, the Pentagon was a shining example of well-greased efficiency.
"I am sure it cannot take much longer," Hamilgart predicted. "Your request is extraordinary, Lady Samantha, but so is our need."
"Indeed," answered the spirit. His expression remained stolid, but the tone revealed that all those years of studying advanced sarcasm under Professor O'Neill hadn't been wasted.
Lady Samantha said nothing and continued to pace all over the golden bull's head that formed the centerpiece of a colorful, elaborate mosaique on the floor. Hamilgart opened his mouth again, thought better of it, and closed his eyes, pretending not to notice.
They were loitering with intent in a lofty marble chamber that represented the foyer to the Synod Hall and was crowned by a cupola with a hole at its center. Through it stabbed a broad shaft of sunlight and kindled the bull's head and Sam's hair - the Tyrean idea of noon bells and a reminder that they'd already spent an eternity watching that beam slide down the wall and crawl across the floor.
Set into the northern sweep of the foyer was a large doublepanel door, covered in bronze reliefs depicting scenes of worship. At irregular intervals the door opened, and each time they jumped. Okay, so Teal'c didn't jump. He raised an eyebrow, and on the last three occasions he'd omitted even that. Each time an acolyte emerged from the Synod Hall, studiously ignored them, and glided off on some errand. At length he would come gliding back, clutching a bundle of scrolls. At one point he must have got the wrong scrolls, because thirty seconds after he'd entered he came cantering through the door again with his dignity as ruffled as his robes. Daniel had jumped and nursed a vague sense of satisfaction.
The door opened, and the acolyte glided into the foyer. Greeted by a total lack of reaction, he eventually cleared his throat. Daniel jumped, Sam stopped dead in her tracks, Hamilgart blinked, and the spirit's eyebrow twitched. The acolyte bowed.
"The Synod graciously welcome the Lady Samantha and her companions into their presence."
"Kandaulo's very words, I bet," breathed Major Carter. Aloud she said, "Thank you."
"That was quick!" exclaimed Hamilqart. Then he noticed their stares, shrugged. "I remember when Zinnridi, one of our bakers, asked to be heard. The Synod deliberated for two days."
«Why?
"He wanted permission to name a confectionery after the Lord Me1eq. Crescents of pastry soaked in honey, if I recall correctly. Zinnridi proposed to call them Meleq's Horns. In the end his request was denied unheard. The Synod felt it would be disrespectful, although they very much enjoyed the pastry, or so I am told. In your case, however -"
"Please, follow me." The acolyte bowed again.
He led them through the wretched door at last and into a hall of breathtaking proportions. The ceiling, supported by sixteen massive columns, soared so far above their heads it disappeared in shadow. Between the columns stood tall fire baskets, their light licking along the flanks of the pillars and skittering over the floor. At the far end a huge burnished bull's head hung suspended from the ceiling, its horns jutting out across a third of the length of the hall. You could see why a comparison with honey-soaked pastry might be considered rude.
Arranged in a semi-circle below and between the tips of the horns were eleven chairs - thrones, really - of richly carved cedar wood, their backs and armrests inlaid with gold and semiprecious stones. On them resided the Synod, adrift in the vastness of the room. The middle chair was larger than the others and occupied by Kandaulo. The seat to his right remained empty; his successor hadn't been chosen yet.
"Welcome again, my friends," the High Priest intoned. "I trust you are aware of the honor bestowed upon you, Lady Samantha?"
Lady Samantha looked as if she were contemplating one of those slick O'Neill moves. Like shout Shotgun, fling yourself on the spare throne, and see what that'll do. Daniel winced at the prospect. To his undying relief, she trod on whatever notion had insinuated itself.
"I humbly thank the Synod and shall endeavor to prove myself worthy of their forbearance and that of the Lord Meleq." After this mouthful Major Carter bowed.
Several members of the Synod sat up a little straighter, interested all of a sudden. Among them was a wizened mummy whose purple complexion rivaled his robe and who yesterday had done his best to torpedo every syllable coming out of Daniel's mouth. His name was Tendao.
"At least she has proper manners," he screeched, bony fingers rattling in front of him like twigs in a winter storm. "Approach, girl. Approach! Say what you have come to say. It shall make little difference, but say it anyway. The one with the eyeglasses, stay back. You bored me yesterday, and you should more than likely bore me today."
Nice to be appreciated.
But if truth be told, the one with the eyeglasses wouldn't plunge into depths of despair over not getting to cross swords with Tendao again. The old ogre displayed a level of obstinacy even Jack could only aspire to. Obediently, Daniel followed Hamilqart and his fellow acolyte to a vantage point behind the thrones.
Sam and Teal'c soberly ma
rched towards the Synod. Nobody said a word, and in the silence the echo of their steps cascaded from the walls and ceiling. It seemed to go on forever. Daniel could have sworn that it hadn't stretched this long yesterday. The distance from the door to the area in front of the chairs was some twenty meters of cold and indifferent stares, designed to impress the futility of their request upon the fainthearted.
With Teal'c poised behind her like a bodyguard, Sam took off her backpack and retrieved her laptop, which caused a round of befuddled looks.
"I could do with a table," she murmured, shrugged, and set the computer on the floor, crouching beside it. "Never mind..."
To a man, the Synod leaned forward in their seats, and befuddlement changed to alarm when she booted up and all kinds of colorful images started flicking over the laptop's screen.
"Ha!" squawked Tendao. "I told you dolts that Hamilqart spoke true when he said Meleq had sent them. Meleq gave her that box. It is obvious." The maze of wrinkles on his face dilated with greed. "Is it a gift, girl?"
"I'm afraid not, my Lord Priest."
"Hmph," said Tendao, losing interest.
"We should let her proceed without interruption!" snapped Kandaulo. "Be quiet. All of you!"
The priests gave soft grunts of assent. Tendao cackled. Daniel wondered for the umpteenth time if they'd made the right call on this. Originally, the idea had been for Sam to waltz in here and start talking, at the risk of the Synod a) not understanding and b) not believing a word of what she was saying. After all, that wasn't unheard of, even with representatives of slightly more advanced cultures - Senator Kinsey, for instance. Then Daniel had remembered Hamilgart's reaction to the bird of Meleq and suggested that, if they were going to blind the priests with science, they should do it properly. All things going according to plan, it would happen right about... now.
Stargate SG-1: Trial by Fire: SG1-1 Page 11