Virginia Henley (8 page)

Diana heard men shouting and somehow she was outdoors with the sun beating down upon her face, blinding her to everything. She tried to stumble to her feet, but while she was still on her knees, she saw two huge horses pulling some sort of cart bearing down upon her. Instinctively she fell to the ground to roll away from their hooves. When the horses saw her in their path they reared up screaming and snorting and the wagon they pulled sounded like thunder as it rolled within inches of her head. She heard someone scream, then realized it was herself.

A man’s voice was shouting and cursing at her at the top of his lungs. She was vaguely aware of other horses and men gathering about, but her attention was held by the man doing all the shouting. As she stared at him, she thought he bore a resemblance to the Earl of Bath. He had the same black hair and dark eyes, the same hawklike hook to his nose, but a scar ran from his temple to his cheekbone, giving him a saturnine look. His shoulders were unbelievably broad, his chest heavily muscled and completely bare. He was wearing some sort of a costume that left his legs bare too and they were so hard and thick they resembled oak trees.

She glanced at the wheel that had almost rolled over her and saw that it belonged to a chariot. A wave of blazing
anger swept over her as she realized she had almost been killed by a bunch of ridiculous men dressed up as Romans racing silly chariots. “You bloody fools! Grown men playing at boys’ games. You should be horsewhipped!”

The dark man pointed a finger. “Seize her!” he commanded.

Two huge men carried out his order immediately. Diana’s teeth rattled in her head as she was pulled to her feet and held immobile until their leader reached her. He towered above her, gripped by a white-hot rage. “You female bundle of rags! You almost injured my horses. Who are you?” he demanded.

She stared up at him in amazement. Though he spoke a strange mixture of Italian and Latin, she understood every word.

“By Jupiter, you’ve stolen a helmet,” he accused as he reached out a massive hand and wrenched it from her head. He saw that the female’s hair was white and thought her an old woman. The filthy, bulky garment she wore covered every inch of flesh from her throat to her heels. She was the strangest-looking female he’d ever seen. “You do not answer me so I’ll answer for you. You are a spy—a Druid spy, by the looks of your strange clothing.”

What he said made no sense. Diana stared into his dark eyes and watched him gain control of his anger. “Get her off the track and keep her out of the way. Manacle her securely—I’ll interrogate her later.”

The men dragged her away. “Let me go! How dare you manhandle me? Is that swine Mark Hardwick?” She knew they understood what she said because they laughed, then replied, “No, the swine is Marcus Magnus, the Primus Pilus.”

The men handled her roughly, not caring that they were hurting her. Fear began to blot out her anger. They took her to a wooden wagon. One of the men reached for an iron collar, which he snapped about her neck, just as if he were leashing a dog that was being troublesome. “You cannot do
this to me!” she cried, but the men strode off, their minds on other things. She was instantly forgotten. She was a prisoner of these strange, cruel, and uncivilized men. She sank down in the dust and began to cry.

Once Diana began, she couldn’t stop; she sobbed until she got the dry heaves. Finally she realized that crying would avail her naught. No one took the least notice of her, so with a few sniffing shudders and much wiping of her face with dirty hands and blowing her nose on her sleeve, her sobs subsided.

She began to watch the panorama stretched out before her. A track had been laid out for racing chariots and every man in sight, whether participating in the races or not, was dressed as a Roman soldier. Regardless of their coloring, height, or weight they were all in superb physical condition.
They are what men should look like, but seldom do,
she thought.

The chariot racers were reckless to a man. Each looked as if he would rather die than lose. They paid scant heed to their physical safety, running the hubs of their wheels together in a supreme effort to win. The poor devils who tipped over their chariots had to scramble to safety as best they could, for no man slowed his horses to avoid inflicting injuries. It was every man for himself and winning was all. Yet Diana could clearly see they were enjoying themselves by the collective noise they made, laughing, shouting, boasting, or cursing.

One man stood out from all the rest. He could not be beaten. That man was Marcus Magnus. His team of white horses was as magnificent as the man himself. Diana’s hand went to her neck where the heavy iron collar held her shackled. She was hot and dirty and thirsty, yet there was absolutely nothing she could do about it until she was freed. When she was unfettered, she would bring the authorities to this place and have them all arrested.

She looked about her to see if she could pinpoint her location so that she could recognize it again. How strange
everything looked. She was up on the heights, but instead of looking down on Georgian Bath, the town spread out before her was totally different. An area of about twenty-five acres was covered by what looked like a huge military barracks. The rest was comprised of villas and temples. The larger buildings were pillared in the classic Roman style and yet it appeared to be Bath.

She could see the steam rising from the baths, but by the looks of it one of them was being pulled down. No, she was mistaken—it was being built! How could that be? Diana tried to recall what she had been doing before she found herself in this place. It was hard to remember exactly. She had been walking up on Lansdown Crescent. She remembered an antique shop. Had she gone inside? She was almost certain she had, yet the next thing she recalled was the galloping horses bearing down upon her.

Her gaze wandered to the south. The slopes were filled with what looked like flourishing grapevines. Vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see! If Diana didn’t know it was impossible, she would have sworn she had been transported back in time to when the Romans ruled Britain!

When the races were finished, Diana could see the sun had begun to sink behind the rim of the hills. Marcus Magnus was coming her way with a younger man who was extremely handsome.

“Your men are getting better at this,” she heard him compliment the young man. “As I told you, it’s all very well to dish out strong discipline, but if you don’t temper that with the outlet of recreation, you are asking for trouble.”

“I love dealing with troublemakers, brother. That’s why I made centurion before I was nineteen and cohort centurion at twenty-one.”

Magnus cuffed the young giant affectionately. “Don’t forget, Petrius, you are dining with me tonight.”

One of the men who had shackled Diana saluted Magnus. “Shall I dispose of the prisoner, General?”

Marcus Magnus looked at him blankly for a moment, then recalled who the soldier was speaking of. “No. If you put her to death, I’ll get no answers.”

“You have a prisoner?” Petrius asked.

Magnus nodded toward the woman in the iron collar. “An odd-looking creature. Caught her spying on us.” To his soldier he said, “Take her to my villa so I can interrogate her.”

“Let me have the woman,” Petrius suggested. “I’ll soon get the truth from her.”

“If I employed your methods, her screams would upset the natives. There’s enough unrest at the moment.”

“I don’t know why the hell you worry so much about the natives. The uncivilized Britons are only half-a-step from barbarians. Fear is a weapon you should use more often.”

“Don’t tell your betters how to conduct their business,” Marcus said with a grin.

The soldier motioned for Diana to get into the wagon she was shackled to. She scrambled up just as he began to drive it downhill. The ride was surprisingly smooth considering the primitive cart she was in. Diana could see the downhill road they were on was very well built.
A Roman road,
Diana said silently.

She kept telling herself that she was dreaming, or more precisely having a nightmare, but she knew as well as she knew her own name that she was not going to awaken. This was really happening to her. She did not know why, she did not know how, but she feared she was no longer in the eighteenth century.

What was worse, much worse, was that she was a prisoner of the man in command. He and his soldier had spoken almost casually of putting her to death! Diana was filled with dread. She also had a sickening feeling that she was the author of her own misery. Of course this should
happen to her! How many times had she expressed disatisfaction with the times she lived in? She was forever daydreaming and looking backward to what had seemed more splendid times in history. She had scorned the men of her own generation, thinking them weak fops when compared to the Elizabethans or the mail-clad knights of the Middle Ages. What if Fate had decided to give her a taste of what real men were like? God help her, these Romans would make the Norman Conquerors look like polished gentlemen.

The wagon went through a gate into the walled garden of a villa. It came to a halt at what appeared to be the back door. An older man of medium height and build, dressed in a plain toga with a thonged whip in his belt, spoke with the wagon driver. He glanced at Diana with the hauteur of a prince. “Release her.” He made no effort to hide his distaste for what he saw. “Come,” he ordered. Diana rubbed her neck where the collar had chafed her skin, but she did not move from the wagon.

He pointed a long finger imperiously. “You—come!” His hand fell to the whip at his belt and the implication was clear.

Diana got down from the wagon and slowly approached him.

“I am Kell, the slave master in this household. You will obey my orders.” His eyes were a clear gray, colorless as a stormy sea. All Diana could read from his expression at the moment was excessive pride. “You will follow me,” he directed.

He led her down a long corridor with a tile floor. They went through an archway into a chamber that was sparsely furnished with slatted wooden benches. The tile of this floor, however, was laid out in a beautiful mosaic pattern.

Kell clapped his hands loudly and two women immediately obeyed his summons. They were dressed in plain, long linen tunics. They wore their brown hair pulled back and fastened at the nape of the neck. Diana noticed that
they were both unattractive, even coarse looking, but they were immaculately clean.

Kell spoke to them briefly in the same lofty manner he had used with Diana. They immediately bowed their heads and went to do his bidding. Kell pointed to one of the wooden benches. Diana sank down with relief. Her knees felt like water. Her nerves were so on edge she wanted to scream, yet she knew better than to expend her energy arguing with this slave master. She would need every ounce of her strength to deal with Marcus Magnus when he came, and come he would. She was sure of that, though she was sure of nothing else on earth at this moment.

Almost immediately the women reentered the chamber carrying food and drink. Diana was surprised that it was intended for her. She lifted the pewter drinking vessel from the tray and drank thirstily. It was a pleasant brew of honey-sweetened grape juice. Her throat felt so parched that she emptied the goblet. The woman refilled the vessel from a stone flagon.

The other woman set the food tray on the bench beside Diana. One plate held artichoke hearts, ripe olives, and soft white cheese. Another plate was heaped with thinly sliced cold meat and crusty white bread still warm from the oven.

Diana felt too apprehensive to enjoy food, but fearing she might be starved as a punishment, she put food in her mouth and began to chew. After a few bites she had had enough and could swallow no more, though the food was well prepared and tasty. She pushed it away and again took up the drinking vessel.

Diana shrank back as Marcus Magnus strode through the archway. A young woman appeared from nowhere carrying an armful of towels. Though she was a tall, well-made female, Magnus dwarfed her when she reached his side. When Kell approached him, the woman stepped back with deference.

“Will you deal with the captive before or after your bath, General?”

Diana saw the look of annoyance cross the general’s face. Once again he had momentarily forgotten her. Without wasting further time he addressed her directly in a tone of total authority. His black eyes swept over her with an insulting air of superiority. “Who are you?” His words and manner brooked no hesitation.

“I am Lady Diana Davenport.”

He gave a sharp bark of laughter that contained little amusement. “Ha! Diana. You think yourself a goddess?”

“No. Diana is my name. I am not a goddess, but I am a lady.” Her chin went up, “Who are you?”

He was taken aback at her high-handed tone.

“I am the man who decides if you live or die. You are my prisoner, my property. I want answers and I want them
now!”

Diana jumped in spite of her resolution to stand up to him. She swallowed hard. “You are a brute and a bully,” she said quietly.