"Mmm..." said Peewee. "More like the helmet of my suit. Tougher, though-and I'll bet light passes only one way. I don't think he saw us."
"Okay, let's get back to our rooms. Maybe we can lock them."
She went on feeling that barrier. "Peewee!" I said sharply. "You're not listening."
"What were you doing talking," she answered reasonably, "when I wasn't listening?"
"Peewee! This is no time to be difficult."
"You sound like Daddy. He dropped that rat he was eating-he might come back."
"If he does, you won't be here, because I'm about to drag you-and if you bite, I'll bite back. I warn you."
She looked around with a trace of animosity. "I wouldn't bite you. Kip, no matter what you did. But if you're going to be stuffy-oh, well, I doubt if he'll come out for an hour or so. We'll come back."
"Okay." I pulled her away.
But we did not leave. I heard a loud whistle and a shout: "Hey, buster! Over here!"
The words were not English, but I understood-well enough. The yell came from an archway across the corridor and a little farther on. I hesitated, then moved toward it because Peewee did so.
A man about forty-five was loafing in this doorway. He was no Neanderthal; he was civilized-or somewhat so. He wore a long heavy woolen tunic, belted in at the waist, forming a sort of kilt. His legs below that were wrapped in wool and he was shod in heavy short boots, much worn. At the belt and supported by a shoulder sling was a short, heavy sword; there was a dagger on the other side of the belt. His hair was short and he was clean-shaven save for a few days' gray stubble. His expression was neither friendly nor unfriendly; it was sharply watchful.
"Thanks," he said gruffly. "Are you the jailer?"
Peewee gasped. "Why, that's Latin!"
What do you do when you meet a Legionary? Right after a cave man? I answered: "No, I am a prisoner myself." I said it in Spanish and repeated it in pretty fair classical Latin. I used Spanish because Peewee hadn't been quite correct. It was not Latin he spoke, not the Latin of Ovid and Gaius Julius Caesar. Nor was it Spanish. It was in between, with an atrocious accent and other differences. But I could worry out the meaning.
He sucked his lip and answered, "That's bad. I've been trying for three days to attract attention and all I get is another prisoner. But that's how the die rolls. Say, that's a funny accent you have."
"Sorry, amigo, but I have trouble understanding you, too." I repeated it in Latin, then split the difference. I added, in improvised lingua franca, "Speak slowly, will you?"
"I'll speak as I please. And don't call me ‘amico'; I'm a Roman citizen -so don't get gay."
That's a free translation. His advice was more vulgar-I think. It was close to a Spanish phrase which certainly is vulgar.
"What's he saying?" demanded Peewee. "It is Latin, isn't it? Translate!"
I was glad she hadn't caught it. "Why, Peewee, don't you know ‘the language of poetry and science'?"
"Oh, don't be a smartie! Tell me."
"Don't crowd me, hon. I'll tell you later. I'm having trouble following it."
"What is that barbarian grunting?" the Roman said pleasantly. "Talk language, boy. Or will you have ten with the flat of the sword?"
He seemed to be leaning on nothing-so I felt the air. It was solid; I decided not to worry about his threat. "I'm talking as best I can. We spoke to each other in our own language."
"Pig grunts. Talk Latin. If you can." He looked at Peewee as if just noticing her. "Your daughter? Want to sell her? If she had meat on her bones, she might be worth a half denario."
Peewee clouded up. "I understood that!" she said fiercely. "Come out here and fight!"
"Try it in Latin," I advised her. "If he understands you, he'll probably spank you."
She looked uneasy. "You wouldn't let him?"
"You know I wouldn't."
"Let's go back."
"That's what I said earlier." I escorted her past the cave man's lair to our suite. "Peewee, I'm going back and see what our noble Roman has to say. Do you mind?"
"I certainly do!"
"Be reasonable, hon. If we could be hurt by them, the Mother Thing would know it. After all, she told us they were here."
"I'll go with you."
"What for? I'll tell you everything I learn. This may be a chance to find out what this silliness means. What's he doing here? Have they kept him in deep-freeze a couple of thousand years? How long has he been awake? What does he know that we don't? We're in a bad spot; all the data I can dig up we need. You can help by keeping out. If you're scared, send for the Mother Thing."
She pouted. "I'm not scared. All right-if that's the way you want it."
"I do. Eat your dinner."
Jo-Jo the dogface boy was not in sight; I gave his door a wide berth. If a ship can go anywhere in no time, could it skip a dimension and go anywhere to any time? How would the math work out? The soldier was still lounging at his door. He looked up. "Didn't you hear me say to stick around?"
"I heard you," I admitted, "but we're not going to get anywhere if you take that attitude. I'm not one of your privates."
"Lucky for you!"
"Do we talk peacefully? Or do I leave?"
He looked me over. "Peace. But don't get smart with me, barbarian."
He called himself "Iunio." He had served in Spain and Gaul, then transferred to the VIth Legion, the "Victrix"-which he felt that even a barbarian should know of. His legion's garrison was Eboracum, north of Londinium in Britain, but he had been on advance duty as a brevet centurion (he pronounced it "centurio")-his permanent rank was about like top sergeant. He was smaller than I am but I would not want to meet him in an alley. Nor at the palisades of a castra.
He had a low opinion of Britons and all barbarians including me ("nothing personal-some of my best friends are barbarians"), women, the British climate, high brass, and priests; he thought well of Caesar, Rome, the gods, and his own professional ability. The army wasn't what it used to be and the slump came from treating auxiliaries like Roman citizens.
He had been guarding the building of a wall to hold back barbarians-a nasty lot who would sneak up and slit your throat and eat you-which no doubt had happened to him, since he was now in the nether regions.
I thought he was talking about Hadrian's Wall, but it was three days' march north of there, where the seas were closest together. The climate there was terrible and the natives were bloodthirsty beasts who dyed their bodies and didn't appreciate civilization-you'd think the Eagles were trying to steal their dinky island. Provincial... like me. No offense meant.
Nevertheless he had bought a little barbarian to wife and had been looking forward to garrison duty at Eboracum-when this happened. Iunio shrugged. "Perhaps if I had been careful with lustrations and sacrifices, my luck wouldn't have run out. But I figure that if a man does his duty and keeps himself and his weapons clean, the rest is the C.O.'s worry. Careful of that doorway; it's witched."
The longer he talked the easier it was to understand him. The "-us" endings turned to "-o" and his vocabulary was not that of De Bello Gallico -"horse" wasn't "equus"; it was "caballo." His idioms bothered me, plus the fact that his Latin was diluted by a dozen barbarian tongues. But you can blank out every third word in a newspaper and still catch the gist.
I learned a lot about the daily life and petty politics of the Victrix and nothing that I wanted to know. Iunio did not know how he had gotten where he was nor why-except that he was dead and awaiting disposition in a receiving barracks somewhere in the nether world-a theory which I was not yet prepared to accept.