Porthos works the wax open and digs out a little swiss army knife from his pocket -- a modern little invention that's come in handy -- as he rolls his eyes pointedly at Athos, cutting the wax and working out the cork with the bottle opener portion of it. "Just because you prefer to live back in our time doesn't mean I have to," he says, beckoning towards himself.

"Bring some glasses," he coaxes, settling the little pamphlet books on the table. He thinks it's some sort of manifesto from a political or religious leader, but the Latin's got him all mixed up.