“Lovely,” she said, turning to investigate the flask instead.
It was full of the same watered-down, vinegary sort of wine the nurse had given her. The lump turned out to be a small wrapped packet of olives. She wondered if the offerings were an ancient Roman version of a hotel wet bar, handy and overpriced. But she was hungry. Starving, actually. She gobbled the olives—surprisingly salty—and drank the wine, which was much more appealing now that the olives had made her thirsty.
But vinegary wine turned out to be not so great for quenching thirst, so she decided to go back out again in search of one of those public spigots with clean running water. At least, she hoped it was clean.
She carried the now-empty flask downstairs and found a spigot where she got in line behind other people filling waterskins and amphorae. Once hers was full, she traipsed back toward the insula only to see Quintus returning. He looked tired and dejected, like he, too, had discovered the truth about his wife and son.
DaVinci had just cleared her throat to greet him when he looked up and saw her. As soon as he made eye contact, his expression changed from dejection to anger.
He shouted something at her in Latin, then closed his eyes and exhaled, muttering one of the salty graffiti words before addressing her in English.
“Upstairs with you. Now.”
DaVinci blinked. The imaginary Quintus she’d been feeling sorry for all day had vanished to be replaced by the real-life Quintus who was addressing her. Rudely, forcefully, and like he owned her. DaVinci bristled, the tenderness she had felt for him obliterated.
“It’s lovely to see you, too, Quintus. Hard day at the office?”
Her sarcasm apparently made no impression on him. He grasped her by the arm and started hauling her up the stairs.
DaVinci’s response was visceral and automatic, her free hand instantly balling into a fist. Although she stopped short of actually popping him one, she did yank her arm free while shouting, “Not okay!” Her heart was pounding. If he touched her again like that, she would pop him one.
Quintus made a noise that combined growling and exhaling but didn’t try to grab her again. However, as soon as they reached the fourth-floor apartment, he launched into a lengthy chastisement.
“How could you think of going outside? Did you not understand my instructions? Were they not plain enough for even a simpleton to understand? Do you have any idea how dangerous this city can be for someone with your appearance?”
He glowered at her as they crossed the threshold.
She glowered right back. “Just because I agreed to wear slave clothing does not mean you are in charge of me. I choose what I do. And if I feel like taking a stroll outside, I will. Whenever and wherever I please. And without consulting you!”
“You cannot do as you please here. Someone like you could cause irreparable damage to the time line—”
“I don’t see why the same isn’t true for you!”
“Because I’m not a . . . a . . . pulchra young woman.”
“Oh, now I’m pulcrous,” shouted DaVinci. “Well let me just grab my dictionary so I can figure out whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.” She flipped angrily through the Ps, went too far, and had to start over. She flipped past the Ps a second time. And a third. “Dammit!” She threw the book down and glowered at Quintus.
The room was thick with the silence that followed.
“Beautiful,” Quintus said at last. “It means beautiful. It is the most dangerous gift of the gods. Have you not heard of Helen of Troy? Men would fight to possess you and . . . and . . . do the sorts of things men desire to do with beautiful women.”
DaVinci’s green eyes widened. Did Quintus just call her beautiful? She blinked. Hadn’t seen that coming. Crossing her arms, she attempted to glare at him, but being compared to Helen of Troy was taking some of the wind out of her sails.
“It is your unusual appearance,” Quintus said in a softened tone. “What is rare and beautiful will always be desired by many and taken by the unscrupulous. Carelessness here is far more dangerous than carelessness in your own land.”
His words struck home more than she wanted to admit. She had been careless. But hearing him say it restored some of her indignation at being bossed around. “Well, I did go outside, and I’m fine, thanks all the same.” She wasn’t fine, not entirely, but that was none of his business.
“You should have stayed here.”
Up till now, Quintus had been pacing the room, back and forth. He paused, turned back toward the table, and pulled three lamps from a leather pouch. He lit them, bathing the room in warmer tones. It was a genuine improvement. Having completed this, Quintus spoke again.
“I arranged for food and drink to be brought to you,” he said. “And even a personal . . . latrina, so that you would not need to use the public ones.”
“Thank you,” said DaVinci, begrudgingly.
“But I told you to stay here,” said Quintus.
“Yup. Heard you the first three hundred times—”
“A child of five years would have displayed more sense,” Quintus continued.
“Wow. Thanks.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
“An uneducated slave would have known better.”
Anger roiled inside her. “You’ve made your point—”
“Even the most pampered and sequestered of Roman matrons would have consulted—”
Something inside DaVinci snapped.
“Well, unfortunately for you, I’m not a five-year-old.” She paused, breathing hard. She was done with sarcastic responses that didn’t convey her sentiments. It was time for clarity.
“You do not get to boss me around. Understand? You need to recognize that I am not your wife, and I am definitely, positively, not your property.”
“That much is plain,” Quintus shot back. “My slaves and my wife would not question a simple directive—”
“News flash: your wife and slaves don’t tell you everything that goes on when you’re not around.”
As soon as the words were out, DaVinci knew she shouldn’t have spoken them. Her eyes widened slightly, and her hand crept to her mouth.
Quintus frowned at her, but he seemed to decide that getting the last word in was more important than questioning her about what she’d said.
“A simple directive,” he said. “I asked you to stay here. That was all I asked.”
She sat as still as she could, wishing she could drop through the floor. Hoping he would continue ranting at her instead of asking her what she knew about his wife and slaves. How could she have said that? She shouldn’t have let him get to her like that. She shouldn’t have let it slip. She was acting like a child. Heck, maybe she should have stayed put like Quintus said. It was his time and place, not hers. He’d basically called what had happened to her out there, not to mention, she wouldn’t be stuck hiding his dirty laundry if she’d just stayed inside.
Quintus, silent at last, must have decided he’d said enough. He reached for the flask DaVinci had just filled at the fountain. Finding it contained water and not wine, he cursed in Latin. After that, he gripped the table with both hands and leaned on it, seeming to focus on the empty olive packet. He took several slow breaths, in and out, his forearms rippling with tension. The table creaked ominously, and he straightened himself. And then, in much calmer tones, he turned and spoke again.
“With regard to my household, you ought not to speak ill of those whom you do not know.”
DaVinci gave a short nod, ready to agree to anything so long as he changed the subject. All the fight had gone out of her. She was even willing to imagine a world where she wouldn’t get into a shouting match with Quintus the next time he asked her to stay safe.
But Quintus, examining her face, seemed to sense that something was off.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing,” she said quickly. And completely unconvincingly.
Quintus’s brow furrowed. “You know something. What did you see w
hen you ventured forth?”
DaVinci shook her head. Tried to match his gaze. Tried not to blink. Blinked anyway. Blinked a lot.
After examining her with his clear eyes for a full minute, Quintus spoke. “Caesar employed me as a messenger for several reasons. I learn languages with ease. I travel swiftly and can fight to defend what I transport. Most importantly, however, he employed me because I am a good judge of when a man is lying or telling the truth. You are hiding something.”
DaVinci swallowed uncomfortably. Tried to avoid eye contact. But Quintus stepped closer.
“What are you hiding?”
“Trust me—you don’t want to know.”
“If it concerns my slaves or my wife, I have no wish to remain in ignorance.”
DaVinci winced at the conviction in his voice. Her stomach knotted.
She took a slow breath.
And another.
And told him everything.
40
• QUINTUS •
Rome, 53 BC
What the girl told him was impossible. His wife? To dishonor herself so? To dishonor him so? It was unthinkable. The girl must be lying. How could she be telling the truth? But her face . . . In her face he had detected none of the signs that betrayed liars. His stomach sank. A memory returned—his wife whispering to one of her friends at a party, pointing to another man. Refusing to repeat what she’d said when Quintus had asked, saying it was nothing. He had known her for a liar from that evening.
There had been rumors when he struck the marriage bargain, too, but he had ignored them. The alliance had been a good one for the Valerii.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl was saying. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Quintus had almost forgotten DaVinci was there.
How could Mucia have been so false? And for so long? To have lied about their son? A dangerous rage began to fill him. The child was not his son. He felt the truth of it. Had he always known? Always turned a blind eye?
“I shouldn’t have told you,” the girl said, speaking again. “You should just try and forget I said anything.”
“Forget? Forget what you have told me?” Quintus struck one of the lamps from the table. It made a satisfying thud before breaking into pieces. He needed an entire room of pottery to smash. “I shall divorce her.”
“You can’t do that—”
“I shall castrate her lover and then divorce her.”
“You know you can’t do that,” said the girl.
Quintus glared at her, his fists clenched. “I can and I will.”
The girl, who had been seated in a corner of the room, now stood. She crossed toward him until they stood toe to toe. Her jaw quivered.
“No. You. Will. Not.” DaVinci’s green eyes sparked like pale flames. “I made a mistake telling you, but I will not allow you to make an even bigger mistake.”
Anger roiled inside him. Summoning the tone that had once brought the leader of the Averni to tears, he spoke. “Do not presume to instruct me.”
The girl, though plainly shaken, nevertheless presumed.
“If you take revenge,” she said, “will it end there? Will Mucia’s family and her lover’s family just drop it? Or will they come after you next? And of course, they won’t know you are here—they’ll come after the other you. Is that fair? Bringing a fight down on the head of someone who doesn’t even know you exist?”
“He would be in agreement with me on this issue—”
“That doesn’t matter, and you know it. You, this you, does not belong here doing . . . things.”
“Perhaps the gods brought me here for the purpose of cleansing the name of the Valerii.”
“Maybe, but until Venus herself shows up with printed instructions, you have to let the Quintus Valerius who lives here fight his own battles. Anything else would be a colossal mistake.”
“The only mistake would be to allow the whore to continue parading her bastard as a Valerii.”
“That is not the worst thing that can happen. It isn’t your problem, Quintus. Not anymore. It may not be fair, and you may not like it, but it stopped being your problem the moment Jules Khan yanked you out of your time and place.”
“I will castrate Khan and then castrate Mucia’s lover and then divorce her,” growled Quintus.
The girl opened her mouth to protest, but then shrugged, as if changing her mind. “That first idea has merit.”
Quintus crossed his arms over his chest. “You mock me.”
“Uh, no. I don’t.”
Her expression was gentle, even compassionate. “I think what happened is terrible,” she said softly. “And I, for one, one hundred percent agree your wife has it coming, and so does that jerk who won’t even stand up and claim the kid as his own.”
Quintus grunted. The girl spoke truth in this matter, at least.
“But you can’t go around meting out justice. It’s not your battle to fight.”
“Do not tell me,” said Quintus, his voice growing louder with each word, “what I already know!”
Suddenly, he felt he could not remain in his lodgings for another minute.
“I need air.” He swept from the room, ignoring the girl’s protests. And when she followed him, he didn’t try to stop her. Let her try to keep up with him.
The air outside was hot and still, a stifling Roman afternoon. The streets were at their emptiest while Rome took its ease for an hour or two. His wife would be at home. Napping, perhaps. He would rouse her and march her back to her father’s house, announcing the divorce then and there. He would strongly suggest her father exercise his right as paterfamilias and kill the unfaithful wretch before she brought further dishonor to her family.
Vaguely, he was aware the girl DaVinci was still following him and that she had been calling after him for some time.
“Cacat,” he swore under his breath.
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about. He turned onto the street where he had lived, his purpose firm as ever. But no sooner had he taken three strides than he heard the girl screaming, and this time it didn’t sound like she was shouting at him to wait for her.
Cursing again, he halted and retraced his steps. Rounding the corner, he saw the girl being hefted like an amphora of wine over the shoulder of a burly man while his drunken friends cheered, shouting among themselves over who should have her first.
41
• NEVIS •
Florida, July
Special Agent Nevis mopped his brow and continued scanning the files on Arthur Littlewood. Mopped his brow: there was a phrase he’d never understood until this past month.
About forty minutes earlier, he’d called the front desk to say his AC was malfunctioning. He’d called, again, thirty minutes ago. And twenty minutes ago. On each occasion, he’d been assured someone from maintenance was coming. Even though he was on his way out of Florida and wouldn’t be sleeping in the hotel tonight, Nevis had arranged for the FBI to pay for one last night so he’d have an “office” in which to work until he left. Having paid for it, he was damn well getting some AC.
He was under orders to catch a red-eye tonight to Louisville, having already extended his stay in Florida by a day, against his SAC’s wishes. He’d tried to get his stay in Florida extended by another two days, hinting at possible malfeasance—Littlewood operated on government money—but HQ had denied the request. So now Nevis was spending every last minute in Florida combing every last record he could access on Littlewood. Nevis wasn’t giving up yet. And he for damn sure wasn’t leaving the state without a visit inside Arthur Littlewood’s secret facility.
He’d cased it yesterday, after getting the address. Upon descending the stairs to the basement entrance, Nevis had noted a security camera. He made a point of staring into its lens. Let Littlewood fret about that.
The lights had been on inside, giving Nevis a decent view of Littlewood working away in a lab not so different from the one on campus. Nevis had been on the point of knocking to ask Li
ttlewood some questions, but something told him he should gather a little more intel first.
He’d spent last night getting exactly nowhere with the investigation, but today his luck had changed. In the past two hours, he’d turned up two interesting links connecting Littlewood to a man who had died under questionable circumstances.
And now here was a third link—a very compromising third link—to connect Dr. Arthur Littlewood with Dr. Jules Khan, formerly employed at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Nevis knew he’d been on to something with Littlewood. Oh, he was definitely questioning Littlewood about this former colleague. He typed out a few notes.
A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. He heard someone call “Maintenance” from outside in the hall. Swearing at the timing of the interruption, Nevis closed his laptop and rose to open the hotel room door. For the eight and a half minutes it took the maintenance man to unscrew a panel, do something that seemed to involve banging on whatever was behind the panel, and then replace the panel, Nevis paced back and forth, back and forth, awaiting the moment he could resume his research.
“That oughta do you for now,” said the man from maintenance.
Nevis thanked him and practically pushed him out the door. He had a mystery to solve. Khan and Littlewood had both been presenters at a physics conference in Santa Barbara in 2001. The two had corresponded in 2006 and 2007, disagreeing about something technical that Nevis couldn’t understand. After that, there had been nothing to connect the two, until a year ago.
One year ago, Littlewood had written a substantial personal check to Jules Khan. After this, there had been no further checks, but there was something even more damning. Littlewood had withdrawn cash from his bank in amounts identical to that check on the first of every month until December of last year: the same month that a death certificate had been issued in California for Khan. The body had never been recovered.
That same December, Littlewood had traveled to Santa Barbara. Things got stranger at this point. Following the trail, Nevis turned up a mention of Khan after his death. A bizarre incident involving a man who’d stolen a car from the estate of Jules Khan after an apparent attempt to impersonate Khan.
A Sword in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 3) Page 18