Poul Anderson - The Shield of Time

Dazedly she heard the majordomo intone: “Signor Cencio, may I present Signor Emilius”—a stumble over the Germanic pronunciations—“van Waterloo?”

Volstrup bowed. The host courteously did likewise. He wasn’t really ancient, Tamberly decided. Maybe sixty. The loss of most teeth aged his appearance more than did white hair and beard. The younger man still had a full set of choppers, and his locks and well-trimmed whiskers were crow’s-wing black. He’d be in his mid-thirties. “Welcome, sir,” Cencio said. “Let me introduce my son Lorenzo, of whom my letter spoke. He has been ardent to meet you.”

“When I saw the party coming, I hastened to join my father,” said the young man. “But pray pardon our forgetfulness. In latine —”

“No need, gracious sir,” Volstrup told him. “My wife and I know your language. We hope you will bear with ours.” The Lombard version he used was not incomprehensibly different from the local Umbrian.

Both Conti registered relief. Doubtless they spoke Latin less well than they understood it. Lorenzo bowed again, to Tamberly. “Doubly welcome is a lady so fair,” he purred. His glance upon her made plain that he meant it. Evidently Italians today had the same weakness for blondes as in the Renaissance and afterward.

“My wife, Walburga,” Volstrup said. Everard had supplied the names. She had already noticed that when the going got tough, his sense of humor got extra quirky.

Lorenzo took her hand. She felt as though an electric shock went through her. Stop that! Yes, this is weird, history once more turning on the same man, but he’s mortal … He’d better be.

She told herself that her emotion was no more than an echo of the explosion in her head when first she read Cencio’s letter. Manse had briefed her and Volstrup as thoroughly as possible, but with no idea that Lorenzo was involved. For all he knew, the warrior never left that battlefield. The information the Patrol had was bare-bones. Ilaria di Gaetani should have married Bartolommeo Conti de Segni, nobleman of this papal state and kinsman of Innocent III. In 1147 she should have given birth to that Ugolino who became Gregory IX. Volstrup and Tamberly were supposed to discover what had gone wrong.

Everard laid a plan for them that called for approaching the Conti first. They’d need some kind of entry into aristocratic society, and he knew a lot about that family from his stay with Lorenzo in 1138—a visit that, now, had never occurred, but nonetheless was engraved on the Patrolman’s memory. The two had grown quite friendly and talk had ranged every which way. Thus Everard heard about the tenuous link to Flanders. It seemed to provide an excellent opening. In addition, his claim to being lately from Jerusalem had worked fine the first time, so why not repeat?

Could there be another Ilaria di Gaetani in town? Emil and I discussed that possibility. No, too improbable. We’ll find out for sure, but I know there isn’t. Nor can I believe Lorenzo is again the man on whom everything turns, by sheer coincidence. Touch hands with destiny, my girl.

He released hers, in a sliding slowness that she could interpret however she liked except that it wasn’t offensive. Not in the least. “A joyful occasion,” he said. “I look forward to much pleasure of your company.”

Do I feel my cheeks growing hot? This is ridiculous! Tamberly mustered what she had learned of contemporary manners. That was limited, but a certain awkwardness on the part of a Fleming should not surprise anyone. “Come, come, sir,” she replied. Smiling at him proved unexpectedly easy. “You have better anticipations, whose nuptial day draws nigh.”

“Of course I long for my bride,” Lorenzo said. He sounded dutiful. “However—” He shrugged shoulders, spread hands, rolled eyes upward.

“Ever does the poor bridegroom-to-be find himself mostly underfoot,” Cencio laughed. “And I, a widower, must do the work of two, striving to make such arrangements for the celebration as will not disgrace us.” He paused. “You know that is a labor for Hercules, under circumstances today. Indeed, I must now reluctantly return to it. We are having trouble about the delivery of sufficient flesh of worthwhile quality. I leave you in my son’s hands, hoping that at eventide I can share a cup and converse with you.” In a flurry of mutual courtesies, he went out.

Lorenzo raised a brow. “Speaking of cups,” he said, “is it too early, or are you too wearied? The servants will bring your baggage to your bedchamber and make all ready for you in a few minutes. You can take a rest if you so desire.”

This is too good a chance to pass up. “Oh, no, thank you, sir,” Tamberly answered. “We overnighted at an inn and slept well. Refreshment and talk would be delightful.”

Was he a little taken aback at her forwardness? Tactfully, he directed attention to Volstrup, who told him, “True, if we don’t presume on your patience.”

“On the contrary,” Lorenzo said. “Come, let me show you around. Not that you will see wonders. This is only our rural house. In Rome—” Mercurially, he scowled. “But you have seen Rome.”

Volstrup fielded the ball. “We have. Terrible. They actually levy a tax on pilgrims.”

Last year, led by the puritanical monk Arnold of Brescia, the city had declared itself a republic, free of all outside authority, Church or Empire. Newly elected Pope Eugenius III had fled, come back briefly to proclaim a new crusade, then been forced out again. Most aristocrats had likewise withdrawn. The republic wouldn’t fall, and Arnold burn at the stake, till 1155. (Unless in the mutant history—). “You landed at Ostia, then?”

“Yes, and proceeded to Rome, where we visited the sacred shrines.” And other sights. It was creepy seeing beggars, shacks, kitchen gardens, cattle paddocks among the relics of greatness. They might as well play tourist; those days established their identity, after the Patrol vehicle let them off in the seaport town.

Tamberly’s bosom sensed the medallion that doubled as a radio. It gave confidence, knowing that an agent waited hidden and alert. Of course, he didn’t listen in; continuous transmission would soon have drained the power. And if they yelled for help he wouldn’t pop up at that instant. On no account could he risk affecting events that maybe, maybe had not yet taken their bad turning. But he could probably figure some dodge for springing them loose.

We should be okay, though. These are nice folks. Fascinating. Yes, we are on a vital mission, but why not relax for a while and enjoy?

Lorenzo pointed out the wall paintings. They were naive but vivid representations of Olympian deities, and he showed his appreciation despite adding an assurance that this was acceptable to Christians. Too bad he wasn’t born in the Renaissance. That’s when he really belongs. Murals were a rather new fashion. “In the North we hang tapestries,” Volstrup remarked, “but then, we need them against our winters.”

“I have heard. Would that I might someday go see for myself—see this whole wonderful world, everything God has created.” Lorenzo sighed. “How did you and your lady come to learn an Italian tongue?”

Well, it was like this. The Time Patrol has a gadget —

“For my part, I have had business with Lombards over the years,” Volstrup said. “Although my house is knightly and I certainly not a tradesman, I am a younger son who must earn his keep as best he can; and you see I am ill suited to a military career, while also too restless for the Church. Thus I oversee certain holdings of the family, which include an estate in the Rhaetian highlands.” The locale was safely obscure. “As for my wife, on this pilgrimage we traveled overland as far as Bari.” Bad and hazardous though roads were, shipboard in this era was worse. “She not desiring to be mute among commoners, with whom we must generally deal, I engaged a Lombard tutor to accompany us; and when abroad, knowing we would return through Italy, we practiced on each other.”