Mt. Taygetus was located in Greece, above the plain of Sparta. Constantinople-his intended destination-was probably a good five hundred miles to the east by land, and not much closer by sea. It might as well be a million, for he definitely had landed in the wrong century.
Glancing down at himself, he took a swift inventory. His clothes were torn and muddy, still half-damp. He’d lost one of his sandals, but the rest of his belongings seemed intact. On his left wrist, his LOC had taken on the appearance of a hammered copper bracelet, very broad and heavy. His left arm still ached, with a faint, dull throbbing, reminding him of his nightmarish journey through the time stream.
He shivered. Travel wasn’t supposed to be like that. Even now, just thinking about it made a cold sweat break out across him. He was grateful to be anywhere right now, anywhere but still trapped.
He hesitated, considering the dwarfs, but it had to be asked. “What year?”
Thaddeus stepped back. “Aye, see? He’s mad! Come away, George, and leave him to the wolves.”
George, however, stood his ground. His weathered face turned sly and calculating. “Ye’ve got a heavy purse at yer belt, good sir,” he said. Holding his pointed stick like a spear, he said, “Hand it over with no trouble, and we’ll let ye go. We don’t like Latins here, but we’ve no quarrel with a pilgrim either.”
“George!” growled Thaddeus.
George frowned, but his gaze never left Noel, who turned cold with the realization of danger, real and immediate, right here in his lap.
“Hand it over now,” George said. ‘
The purse hanging at Noel’s belt was the salt Trojan had given him. His money was concealed within his clothing. Noel’s gaze watched both dwarfs while he considered his chances. Although he had his dagger in his hand, to throw it at one of them was to disarm himself and still leave him with a remaining opponent. These men were small and grotesque, but they had the cold, watchful eyes of fighters. Thaddeus held his own dagger in his small hand, and George had the crude spear as well as a knife. Only twenty feet away, a mace lay upon the ground, its sharp steel spikes clotted with dried blood and brain bits. Noel swallowed. If he could create a diversion and break around the dwarfs, he could easily outrun them and reach the weapon. They’d leave him alone then.
Slowly, being careful to make no move that might be misconstrued, Noel unknotted the pouch strings and pulled the salt from his belt. He hefted it a moment in his hand, aware that as soon as he handed it over they would guess the trick. Salt was heavy enough, but it didn’t sit in the hand like money.
“Now, no tricks from ye,” warned George. “Hand it over easy.”
With a quick motion, Noel tossed the salt between them. Both swung involuntarily toward it, and he took advantage of the moment to scramble to his feet and run for the mace, his dagger held ready just in case.
Just as he reached it and crouched down to grasp the handle, an arrow whizzed from nowhere and struck deep into the ground between his hand and the mace. George and Thaddeus howled like jackals behind him, shouting something too fast to comprehend. Noel whirled around with his heart pounding, aware that his knife was no defense against a bowman.
A figure stood on a rocky outcropping some distance away, silhouetted against the sun. Its bow was drawn in readiness, a second arrow nocked and aimed. Noel had the feeling the first shot had been a warning, not a miss. He swallowed, his mouth very dry, and stepped reluctantly away from the mace.
“Don’t stand there gawping, you two dunderheads,” shouted an angry voice in French. A woman’s voice. “Come away!”
Thaddeus ducked his big head and ran obediently. George hesitated, glancing at Noel, then followed. The archer lowered her weapon and slung it across slim shoulders. Jumping down from the outcropping, she met the dwarfs halfway. Her scolding voice carried upon the thin air.
“Out all night like a pair of tomcats. And with what to show for it? A half-dozen money bags, and how many of them full? Demetrius said you were to be back by dawn. Wasn’t it made clear to you?”
“Yes, Elena,” said the dwarfs meekly.
“It were the dark,” said Thaddeus, rolling his eyes soulfully and putting a whine into his voice. “What if their souls had still been lurking about? It be poor luck to rob dead men in the dark, Elena. What if they’d took our spirits with them to hell?”
“Hell is where you belong, all right,” said Elena without softening her tone. “I might have known you would sit about and scare yourselves without someone to watch you. And what about this one? Did I not tell you to make sure they were dead before you searched-”
“We poked him!” said Thaddeus indignantly.
George wasn’t making excuses. His gaze remained on Noel, who was keeping a wary distance and wondering how he could edge away without being noticed.
“He be slippin‘ off,” said George.
Elena’s head came up alertly. She stepped toward Noel with the grace of a gazelle and jumped atop a small boulder to give herself an advantage over him. Pointing an arrow at Noel, she said, “Hold your place, you shivering Byzantine dog, until we give you leave otherwise.”
At least his translator implant was working perfectly. It deciphered every word of her medieval French, despite the Greek accent with which she spoke.
Automatically he rubbed his ringer across a small depression on his bracelet to make sure it was recording everything.
His strongest impression of her was… legs. Slender, firm, curvaceous legs encased in dark green hose went up and up. She stood with them braced apart, boylike, her hands upon her hips. Her shoes were made of cloth, also green, and the tops flared from her slim ankles in a decidedly sexy style. A wide-sleeved shirt of linen belted at the waist and coming down to midthigh covered the rest of her. The drape of it over her breasts, which were as round and firm as apples, left him in no doubt that she wore nothing beneath it. Her low-slung belt supported a knife and a quiver full of arrows. She had hair that was a rich, lustrous auburn, curly and wild, flowing down her back in an uncombed, unbound mane to her waist. Her face looked like something from an old Byzantine portrait, oval with flat cheekbones and a narrow nose. Her lips were full, voluptuous, ripe with promise. Her eyes had a faint slant, like a cat’s. At this distance he could not tell their color, but her skin had the delicate ivory tint of an old cameo.
Gazing at her, Noel almost forgot to breathe. She was gorgeous, feline, untamed. Confused, he cast his mind through dim, preconceived ideas of medieval women: cloistered, draped in narrow gowns to their ankles, locked away in towers.
Elena, however, made him think of Diana, goddess of the hunt. In his mind he reclothed her according to the style of the ancients: a softly draped chiton in purest white, bow arm and right breast bare, standing in a chariot drawn by prancing stallions…
Only right now, she was hunting him. He’d better keep his mind on saving himself.
“Look,” he said, spreading out his hands to indicate peaceful intent. “I’m a-a pilgrim, a traveler. I’m on my way to Constantinople, and I-”
She spat at him. “Liar! I know your Byzantine tricks. You will say anything, do anything to save your pathetic skin. Last night we showed you that we want none of you here!”
“I had no part in the battle-”
“Why not? Did you scuttle for cover at the first charge?” she asked with scorn that was like the rake of fingernails. “Are you a pilgrim, or perhaps a scribe following at Lord Theodore’s heels like a trained dog to write his letters for him?”
Thaddeus barked and howled, throwing himself upon the ground and rolling about.
Hot-cheeked, Noel made no answer. She was dangerous in this mood. The wrong word from him could send an arrow flying to his chest. If he was going to get out of this situation, he’d better make them understand that he was no part of what happened last night.