‘An epically funny, original and exciting journey through the superstitions and landscapes of Ancient Rome. It made me want a sacred chicken of my own!’
JACLYN MORIARTY
‘An epic adventure that made me gasp and laugh out loud – sometimes at the same time. Fabulous fun!’
KATRINA NANNESTAD
First published by Allen & Unwin in 2020
Copyright © Text, Frances Watts 2020
Copyright © Illustrations, Kelly Canby 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
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ISBN 978 1 76052 556 9
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Illustration techniques: Blackwing pencil with digital colouring (cover); ink and pencil (internals)
Cover and text design by Mika Tabata
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www.franceswatts.com
To Mom and Mike, with love and cake.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
The Chicken’s Curse: An epic poem by Titus Magius
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
There once was a sacred chicken
Who thought grain was no good for lickin’
It would only eat cake—Oh, what a mistake!
For too much and the chicken might sicken.
Titus Magius
Chapter 1
‘Hey, look at that huge serpent over by the general’s tent!’
‘Wow, I’ve never seen one that big before. And it’s slithering from left to right. Um, isn’t that a bad omen?’
‘I thought it was bad luck if it slithered from right to left.’
‘No, no, that’s only when the moon is full.’
Inside the general’s tent, Felix glanced up from the helmet he was polishing. A serpent of extraordinary size slithering from left to right was a bad omen, he reflected gloomily. Yet another one! Bad omens seemed to follow General Fabius Maximus Porcius around like a bad smell. That very morning, for example, the general’s horse had started weeping. The general had said it was nothing, that the horse had allergies, but everyone knew a weeping horse was bad luck.
Felix glanced over at the couch where the general lay to see if he had heard the soldiers talking. Judging by his gentle snores, he hadn’t. Though even if he had, it probably wouldn’t have changed his mind about going into battle tomorrow against the Nervians who were gathered on the other side of the river. The general was as stubborn as he was unlucky. He had been ignoring all the bad omens, and all the bad signs and portents and auspices too – which was bad news for Felix. For if the general lost the battle, the Nervians would overrun their camp and Felix would be taken prisoner. He’d probably be made a slave and have to spend the rest of his life here in Gallia Belgica, the most cold and rainy corner of Gaul. His heart sank at the thought that he might never see Rome again.
As if to mirror his dark thoughts, a dark shadow appeared behind him in the polished surface of the helmet. Fearing some other sign of ill fortune, Felix turned his head cautiously. Behind him was a tall, thin broomstick of a man wearing a loosely draped toga and a tight frown. It was the augur, who interpreted the will of the gods. And though his expression was grave, Felix felt a spurt of hope. The weeping horse might not have convinced the general to call off the battle, but surely the augur could.
The augur waved his crooked wand at the general’s couch. ‘Wake him,’ he ordered.
‘Yes, sir.’ Felix stood up and approached the slumbering Porcius. ‘General?’
‘Hmph?’ The general rolled over. He opened his eyes and gazed at Felix blearily. ‘What is it?’
‘The augur is here, sir.’
The general heaved a sigh. ‘Is he, by Jupiter? I suppose I’d better hear what he has to say.’
The augur stepped forwards. ‘Sir,’ he intoned in a hollow voice, ‘I have been reading the skies.’
Felix didn’t see how that was possible – you couldn’t even see the sky. In the months since they had been sent to this soggy corner of Gaul, the clouds had barely lifted. Or if they had, it was impossible to tell because of the fog. Felix thought longingly of Rome’s blue skies and warm air.
‘Well?’ prompted the general.
‘The signs are bad. Very bad. It would be a big mistake to go into battle tomorrow.’
‘You’re sure you didn’t misread the signs? Perhaps you thought you saw a crow but it was actually a dove.’
‘I believe I can tell the difference between a crow and a dove, sir,’ the augur said icily. ‘The gods have been very clear: if you fight the Nervians tomorrow, you will suffer a terrible defeat.’
‘Maybe you were looking in the wrong direction,’ said the general. ‘Or you got your left and right mixed up. Maybe I should come and see the skies for myself, just to be sure.’
‘Very well, sir.’ The augur pursed his lips.
The general stood up and strode towards the tent’s opening. Almost immediately, he stumbled over a black cat passing the entrance.
The stumble and the cat were both unlucky, Felix noted glumly.
‘It’s another bad omen,’ said the augur as they stepped outside.
‘Forget your omens,’ the general said. He gestured to a unit of soldiers practising drills and formations. ‘Look at them. The Roman army is the bravest, most disciplined, most well-armed fighting force the world has ever seen, and the Nervians are just some raggletaggle Belgic tribe. Who cares if there are forty thousand of them and only twenty-five thousand of us?’
Forty thousand Nervians! Felix repressed a gulp. How did the Nervians treat their slaves? he wondered.
The general tilted his head back to gaze at the sky. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s the problem? I don’t see any—’
Crack!
Felix winced as lightning crashed on the horizon.
‘The gods are unhappy,’ said the augur.
The general fixed him with a frosty stare. ‘You don’t say.’ He turned on his heel and strode back into the tent.
Felix followed reluctantly and picked up his cloth to resume polishing the general’s armour. It seemed nothing could stop the battle from going ahead now. If only the Nervians weren’t so famously fierce …
There was a discreet cough behind him.
It was the augur again, and with him was a man wearing a tunic covere
d in feathers.
‘Excuse me, General,’ said the augur.
‘You again?’ said General Porcius. ‘What is it this time? Did you hear the hoot of a murderous owl?’
‘No, sir,’ said the augur.
‘Has a magpie approached you from behind?’
The augur shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Have you seen a serpent of extraordinary size slithering from left to right?’
Felix opened his mouth then closed it again.
‘No,’ said the augur.
‘Then what is it?’ the general demanded.
‘It’s the chickens.’
The general frowned. ‘What chickens?’
The man in feathers replied, ‘The sacred chickens.’
The chickens – of course! All those other bad omens counted for nothing if the sacred chickens were in favour of the battle.
The general squinted at the feathered man and said, ‘You’re the one who looks after them, aren’t you?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘So you’ve released them, the sacred chickens?’
‘I have, sir.’
‘And?’
‘They won’t eat their grain.’
The general rolled his eyes. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Silly sacred chickens.’
Felix kept his eyes on his work, but inside he was elated. There was no way the general would ride into battle if the sacred chickens had refused their grain. History was full of examples of what happened to those who failed to heed such an auspicious warning. Take Publius Claudius Pulcher, who had ordered the sacred chickens to be flung into the sea when they refused to eat. ‘If they won’t eat,’ he had famously declared, ‘perhaps they will drink.’ The next day he had suffered a mighty defeat against the Carthaginians.
‘So, we’ll abandon the battle?’ the augur said.
The general crossed his arms. ‘No, we will not.’
‘But the chickens …’
‘May Jupiter strike them dead!’
Felix, the augur and the keeper of the sacred chickens all gasped.
‘The chickens are wrong,’ the general declared.
Wrong? Felix gaped at the general in disbelief. The chickens were never wrong! Just ask Publius Claudius Pulcher.
The augur and the chicken keeper left the tent, muttering darkly about the general’s foolishness. Yet far from being cowed by the chickens, General Porcius seemed to be filled with a new sense of determination. ‘Oi, Rufus!’ He snapped his fingers at Felix.
‘It’s Felix, sir,’ Felix told the general for what seemed like the thousandth time.
‘Don’t tell me what your name is. Roman boys with red hair are always called Rufus. You’re Roman. You have red hair. Therefore your name is—’
‘Still Felix, sir.’
‘Well, whatever your name is, I want you to fetch the centurions. It’s time to go over the battle plans. We’ll show those chickens what’s what.’
The general walked over to the table in the centre of the tent and unrolled a map.
Felix flung down his polishing cloth and set off to follow the general’s orders. He’d had it with the army. The general might dismiss the omen of the sacred chickens, but Felix couldn’t. There was nothing else for it – he would have to run away. Away from the ferocious Nervians and the unlucky general. Away from the grey skies of Belgica. Back to sunshine, and his mother’s cooking. Back to Rome.
Chapter 2
Later that night, Felix lay on the floor at the foot of General Porcius’s bed, shivering beneath the thin blanket.
Above him, the general was snoring and snuffling in his sleep.
This was his chance. Felix threw off the blanket, slipped on his sandals and his heavy felt cloak, and began to tiptoe across the tent. He was almost at the opening when the general’s snoring abruptly ceased.
Felix froze.
He stood motionless in the dark, heart pounding, until at last the general let out a giant belch then returned to his snoring.
When his legs had unfrozen enough to move, Felix resumed his tiptoeing. Carefully pushing aside the tent’s flap, he peered out.
The sentry who was drowsing in the entrance, leaning on his spear, opened an eye.
‘Urgent call of nature,’ Felix whispered. ‘I think the eels we had for dinner must have been off.’
‘Mmmph,’ said the sentry.
For once the moon was visible in the sky, cold and bright among a scattering of stars. The goddess Luna must be smiling on me, Felix thought. After a year in the company of General Porcius, it made a pleasant change to be favoured by the gods.
Trying to seem like someone in a desperate hurry to use the latrines – rather than someone in a desperate hurry to escape a battle that would end in certain defeat – Felix walked quickly through the camp. Past the tent containing the standards, long poles topped with silver eagles and flags representing each legion. Past the horses whickering softly in the stables. Along a row of tents in which the soldiers slept.
Ahead he could see the main gate, which looked north down a grassy slope to the river. On the other side of the river was the enemy. No, thank you, Felix decided. He would use the smaller western gate, from where it was only a short distance into the forest that surrounded the camp on three sides.
He continued moving silently between the rows of tents until he could see the gate, which was overlooked by a watchtower. In it, he knew, were two sentries standing guard. But though he watched for several minutes, there was no movement, no murmuring … it seemed the sentries must be asleep.
He waited a few more minutes, then, as the moon disappeared behind a cloud, Felix slipped through the gate.
‘Who goes there?’ The voice rang loudly in the still night.
Oh no!
Felix sprinted across the stony ground, heading for the cover of the forest.
Behind him, he could hear the clatter of footsteps as the sentries descended from the watchtower, spears and armour clanking.
‘There!’ said one. ‘I think I see him!’
‘Quick!’ said the other. ‘Don’t let him get away!’
Felix ran for his life through the dark night, stumbling over the stones he couldn’t see, heart thundering in his chest. General Porcius was merciless when it came to deserters; he would probably give Felix to the Nervians himself.
Oak trees loomed large in front of him. He was almost there!
‘Get him!’ shouted a sentry.
Gasping for breath, his lungs burning, Felix put on a desperate burst of speed.
And then three things happened in quick succession …
The clouds covering the moon parted again.
Felix dived into a bush.
The bush let out a loud squawk.
Time seemed to freeze. Felix lay panting among the leaves, expecting at any moment to feel the heavy hand of a sentry or the sharp point of a spear.
Instead, he heard one of his pursuers say: ‘Did you see that flash of red? We’ve been chasing a fox this whole time. And you know what that squawk means: he stole himself a chicken for his supper.’
‘I wish I had a chicken for my supper.’
‘We’d better get back before anyone notices we’re not at our posts. If we’re asked, we were chasing a spy, okay?’
‘With mushrooms and leeks.’
‘I don’t think we need to mention leaks. There wasn’t really a spy.’
‘Not the spy – the chicken. Why would you want to eat a spy?’
‘What?’
As the sentries bickered their way back across the stony ground to the camp, Felix lay still, his heart thudding. When at last their voices had faded, he extracted himself from the leaves – with what seemed like an extraordinary amount of rustling.
Standing upright, he was confronted by a hooded figure.
He screamed.
The hooded figure squawked, then said, ‘Quiet!’
It was a girl’s voice.
Felix stared a
t her in surprise.
She was wrapped in a cloak that, even in the weak glow of the moon penetrating the forest’s canopy, he could tell was made of fine wool. Certainly it was finer than his rough garment. She pushed the hood back to reveal long, dark hair and a long, straight nose down which she was staring at Felix – a remarkable feat, he thought, given that she was the same height as him.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘What does it look like? I’m a sacred chicken.’
He was so astonished by this declaration that he just goggled at her in amazement for several seconds.
‘You’re a chicken?’ he said finally. Obviously the girl was not in her right mind. She was clearly the daughter of a senator or a provincial governor or a consul – not the daughter of a rooster and a hen.
‘Not her, you fool – me. Down here.’
Felix looked down to see a rather annoyed chicken.
He looked up to see a rather annoyed girl.
‘You thought I was a chicken?’ she said.
‘I didn’t know chickens could talk,’ he protested.
‘I’m a sacredchicken,’ the chicken said emphatically, as if that explained it.
‘So who are you?’ he asked the girl.
‘I can’t see how that is any of your business,’ she replied in a voice as haughty as her stare.
Felix shrugged. ‘All right then. Well, I’ll be off.’
‘Wait!’ said the girl. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Rome.’
‘Why?’ she demanded.
Felix considered saying, I can’t see how that is any of your business, but realised that she might decide it was the business of the sentries. Floundering for a reason why he might be skulking in the forest in the dead of night, he said, ‘I’m … I’m carrying an urgent message for General Fabius Maximus Porcius.’
‘You’re a messenger,’ she said. There was a note of disbelief in her voice.
‘That’s right,’ Felix replied.
‘Where’s the message?’
She was looking him up and down, and Felix cursed himself for not having come up with a better excuse.
‘Don’t messengers carry scrolls?’
‘It’s a very secret and important message,’ Felix improvised. ‘So secret and important the general didn’t want to write it down.’
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