HOME (The Portal Series, Book 3)

by Bowker, Richard;

  “Take the next step.”

  “Whatever that is.”

  “Yes.”

  The next step was to stay alive here. Find food, warmer clothes, a place to sleep. They saw a village in the distance and started walking towards it. How would they get what they needed without money, without being able to speak the natives’ language?

  The village was a small collection of wooden buildings lining both sides of a narrow street—it looked a little like a movie set for a Western. A few people were walking along the street. They men were dressed in dark jackets and flowing pants; the women wore wide-brimmed hats and long skirts. They all stopped and stared when they spotted Larry and Affron.

  “Smile, and don’t appear threatening,” Affron murmured.

  Larry did as he was told.

  They walked up to a man and woman. Affron began to speak, but the couple shook their heads and hurried away from him, disappearing inside one of the buildings. Everyone else was leaving the street as well, as if they were expecting a gunfight.

  Everyone except a stoop-shouldered white-haired man with bloodshot eyes and a scraggly gray beard who was sitting on a bench on the wooden sidewalk. So they approached him. Again Affron started to speak. The old man raised a hand to stop him. He rose with difficulty from the bench and gestured for them to follow him.

  He walked slowly along the sidewalk and paused in front of a door. Next to the door was what Larry supposed was a sign, in some indecipherable script. The old man looked back at the two of them, and then he opened the door. Inside was a large room. People were seated at long tables, eating. Was it a restaurant? The food smelled familiar. What was it? Finally Larry realized: potatoes. There had been no potatoes on Terra or Kravok-Li. How long had it been since he’d eaten them? His eyes swam with tears as he remembered the mashed potatoes his mother made back home in Glanbury.

  The people in the room were staring at them. The white-haired man pointed to a couple of empty spots at one of the tables.

  “Come on,” Affron said.

  They sat down. The people at their table said nothing to them. A child pulled on his mother’s sleeve and whispered something to her; she shushed him. Finally a man brought them plates of food. Some kind of meat, and boiled carrots and, yes, a potato. And a knife and fork. There had been only spoons on Kravok-Li.

  The food was bland and tasteless compared to the food on that world. His potato needed salt; it needed something.

  People started talking again after a while. “Any idea what they’re saying?” he asked Affron.

  Affron shook his head.

  After they finished eating, the white-haired man reappeared and motioned to them again. They rose from the table and followed him, this time through a set of swinging doors that led down a short corridor to a small room, empty except for a table with a candle on it and a chamber pot. Another man arrived with a couple of blankets. The man dropped them on the floor and left without looking at them; the white-haired man nodded to them and then shut the door, leaving them by themselves.

  “Now what?” Larry asked. “Do we just go to sleep?”

  Affron shrugged. “I suppose so. Then we see what tomorrow brings.”

  They lay down on the floor. Larry tried to sleep, but the silence bothered him. The incessant music on Kravok-Li had worked its way deep inside him, and he found that he missed it, along with the food.

  Was he homesick for that world along with all the others? Would every world he visited make him homesick?

  Eventually he fell into a fitful sleep. He awoke finally to a gentle knocking on the door. Affron opened the door, and the white-haired man stood outside, holding a pair of dark jackets that Larry had seen on most of the men. He handed one to each of them. They put them on. Then the man led them back to the long room where they had eaten the night before. No one was there except the man who had served them. He motioned for them to sit down and brought them plates of food, which was much like what they’d had the night before. He and the white-haired man stood in a corner watching them. When they had finished, the two men stepped forward. The server removed their plates; the white-haired man motioned to them to follow him.

  He led them out of the building. Outside, things had changed. Hundreds of people were lined up on both sides of the narrow street, holding torches. A pair of horses were tied up to posts by the building. The white-haired man gestured to them.

  “Tulf,” he said in a raspy voice, and he pointed to the left, to where the sun was just rising over a distant mountain. It was the first word anyone had spoken to them.

  “Tulf?” Affron repeated.

  The man nodded energetically, as if delighted at Affron’s cleverness. “Tulf!”

  And then the crowd began to chant the word: “Tulf! Tulf! Tulf!”

  “I think these people have gone through this before,” Affron murmured to Larry.

  “What do we do?”

  “I suppose we go and find Tulf,” he replied.

  Affron mounted one of the horses, and Larry mounted the other. The white-haired man smiled a toothless smile up at them. And they headed off down the street through the chanting crowd, riding slowly towards the rising sun.

  Twenty-Five

  Palta

  With Gratius dead, Palta had no reason to go to Hibernia—to search for people she didn’t know, who might not even be there, and who might not want her help. But she couldn’t bring herself to return to Valleia and Carmody. Gratius had been right: she needed to find a life for herself.

  So she decided to return to Roma. She was familiar with Roma; it was huge and exciting, and it would offer her opportunities. And she had been happy there, after a fashion, walking through its streets with Larry and teaching him Latin. Perhaps she could be happy again.

  She made her way back to Flendys, sold Renni to the stable there though it broke her heart, and booked passage to Britannia. In Britannia she found a ship that would take her back to Roma.

  The voyage to Roma almost destroyed her. At the best of times her fear of water was barely under control. Twice in her life she had almost drowned, and now she had to sail through constant rough weather on an overloaded ship with a surly crew and leering fellow passengers. Every moment had been a nightmare, and every moment reminded her that she didn’t have to be doing this. It was a choice. But the choice had been made, and there was no turning back. She was headed to Roma, and a new life.

  Always a new life.

  After the long, difficult voyage the ship finally pulled into a busy wharf, and Palta set foot on land once more, tired and filthy but grateful to leave the water behind and still be alive. Now what? She stood on the wharf as the passengers pushed past her, and she considered. The first thing to do was to get away from the waterfront—the smell of the salt air was almost unbearable, and the port had its own bad memories for her—of being kidnapped and held in a warehouse here, waiting to be sold into slavery, until Larry saved her.

  Palta made her way into the city. She needed a place to stay and a good meal, but she had little money left. She would have to find work soon. But not today.

  She stopped at a tavern and bought a small meal of bread and olive oil; it cost far more than she had expected, and this worried her. While she ate at a table outside, she looked around. Roma seemed much as it had been. It was a hot summer day, and children played in a fountain. Women carried jugs of water on their heads. She saw banners flying by the fountain; she heard a band in the distance. The Pan-Roman Games were coming, she realized. Or perhaps they had already begun. More memories overwhelmed her: of attending the chariot race at the Circus Maximus with Larry, expecting that Affron was going to use his powers to destroy Tirelius after the race and begin the revolt against the priests. And, most important, give Larry the chance to go home. It didn’t happen, and at that moment they hadn’t known why; they only knew that Larry was trapped here on Terra. The two of them had left the Circus in despair, finally running in the rain through the streets of Roma because there
was nothing else to do, and she had felt so sorry for him. He had a wonderful home to return to, unlike hers, and now he had no way to get back to it. They stopped, in a colonnade finally, breathless and wet, and kissed as the rain poured down. That moment had been so sweet. Nothing was going right, but at least they had each other.

  And then the kidnappers had shown up, she was ripped from Larry’s arms, and nothing was the same again.

  Palta shook her head to rid herself of the memory. She was off the accursed ship. She was here in Roma. She was safe, for now. The bread was expensive but freshly baked; the olive oil was full of flavor; the summer heat was bearable. She had money enough for a few nights’ lodging, although inns would certainly be charging more for a room during the Games. She was young and healthy; she could find work.

  First, though, she would need to find a bed for the night. She rose from her chair and started walking through the city again. She heard a roar in the distance. It didn’t seem to be coming from the direction of the Circus. Perhaps it was some kind of performance—dancers, acrobats, musicians…They filled the city during the Games. She walked on, towards the roar.

  She realized that she was heading towards the Forum. What was happening there? A stream of people were heading in that direction as well—families; young women her age with flowers in their hair; fat, drunken men.

  They all seemed to be in a hurry. She started hurrying with them.

  The Roman Forum was a large, open square lined with massive buildings and a majestic temple dedicated to Via. Before the priests had built Urbis the Forum had been the center of power in the empire, and it was still the heart of the Roman province. And now the Forum was filled with people. Palta pushed her way through the crowds and up a long set of stairs leading to one of the buildings. Finally she turned and looked back.

  And that was when she saw the human heads, spitted on poles and displayed at the entrance to the temple.

  She gasped, unable to look away from them. Men, women. A dozen or more. Their eyes were closed but still they seemed surprised. Why am I here? they seemed to be saying. What did I do wrong? Why have I become a grotesque object detached from my body?

  What was going on?

  Someone was tugging at her sleeve. “Another one,” a woman next to her was saying, pointing out towards the middle of the square.

  Palta turned her gaze there. She saw a large platform surrounded by blue-caped soldiers. On the platform was a large stone block, stained red with glistening blood. Next to it stood a burly, bearded man holding a large ax. Two soldiers were dragging a young man howling with fear across the platform towards the block.

  The crowd howled back at him, shaking their fists, screaming for his death. “Occidere! Occidere!” Kill! Kill!

  His hands and feet were tied, and he could do nothing but writhe in despair as he approached the block. He was no more than a boy, really. What had he done? The soldiers positioned him on the block and held him in place. The bearded man raised his ax. Palta closed her eyes and put her hands over her ears, but still she heard the crowd’s roar when it happened. When she finally opened her eyes, she made sure to look away from the platform; she did not want to see what took place after the beheading. She was trembling; she felt as though she was going to vomit. She turned to the woman next to her. “Why are they doing this?” she asked.

  The woman was short, gray-haired, red-cheeked, stout. Her hands were gnarled; her robe was a dingy gray. She looked surprised at Palta’s question. “What do you mean, love?” she replied. “He was stealing our food, plotting against us. They all are. Prince Feslund has to stop them before it’s too late.”

  “What do you mean, ‘stealing our food’?”

  “You know what’s going on, love. We all do. The grain shipments from Egypt—they never come anymore. It’s all the fault of the priests and their followers. They pay off the Egyptians so they sell most of the grain to Barbarica, and the priests keep the rest for themselves and their favorites. That’s why prices are so high. That’s why honest folk like us are going hungry. The priests are trying to make the Gallians fail. The priests have always been against us.”

  “But—”

  “Tirelius is behind it all, of course. I never liked that one. But don’t worry, Prince Feslund has plans for him. They haven’t said anything, but everyone knows—tomorrow. At the Circus Maximus, after the chariot race, after the prince crowns the victor. Then he will do what they should have done long ago.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Execute him, love. With that weapon the gods gave the prince. In front of all of Roma. Oh, I’ll be there, that’s for sure. Look—they’re going to do another one.”

  Do another one. Palta did not look. Instead she turned away and walked up to the top of the stairs. She sat down behind a pillar, closed her eyes, and wept as the crowd howled in ecstasy at the next beheading.

  Kill! Kill!

  This cannot be happening, she thought. This was another nightmare, like all her other nightmares. She had returned to Roma to endure beheadings in the Forum?

  Kill! Kill!

  She should get out of the city. Right away. Find another ship. Return to Scotia, to Valleia and Carmody; it had been a mistake to leave them. Go anywhere but here.

  But she didn’t want to go to Scotia, or Hibernia, or anywhere.

  She didn’t know what she wanted, except not to be alone in this awful world.

  Twenty-Six

  Gretyx

  They brought the bride-to-be to Gretyx for approval of the dress she would wear to the Circus Maximus. Her absurd name was Bathanala, which Gretyx still had a hard time remembering. Everything about the girl was forgettable, actually. If she had a spark of personality, Gretyx had yet to detect it. The portrait her father had sent during the negotiations had been utterly misleading. It had shown a lovely young woman with rosy cheeks and lively eyes. In person, the girl’s skin was pale and splotchy, and her eyes were dull and fearful. Feslund was, of course, disappointed. But he would do his duty and put a son in her.

  “My dear, you look lovely,” Gretyx lied to her.

  Bathanala blushed and curtseyed. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Gretyx hated her curtsey. “Don’t do that,” she admonished her. “Simply bow. If someone is more important than you—like me—bow deeply. If the person is an inferior, simply incline your head. Do you see?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good.” Gretyx inspected the dress. “This shade of blue flatters you,” she said. “But the dress bares too much flesh. You are going to a chariot race, not a dinner party.” She gestured to Bathanala’s maid. “Find something to cover her shoulders,” she ordered. “A shawl, perhaps. She will be hot, but this is the kind of sacrifice one must make.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the maid replied.

  “Go then,” Gretyx replied irritably when the girl did not move.

  The maid bowed and left the room.

  Gretyx turned her attention back to Bathanala. “You know what is going to happen tomorrow,” she said to her.

  The young woman’s eyes widened in fear. “I…think so,” she replied.

  Gretyx stifled an urge to throttle her. She thought of her own daughter, and how smart and brave Siglind had been. Gretyx would not have needed to tell Siglind what was happening and what she had to do. “Tomorrow they will hold the chariot race in the Circus Maximus. We have talked about this, yes?”

  “Yes, my lady. It sounds very exciting.”

  “This will be the first time the people of Roma see you. It is vital that you make a good impression on them. Once you marry my son, you will be their queen. They are not used to having a queen. But they will love you if they see that you are beautiful and gracious and strong. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lady. Of course.”

  “You will walk by Feslund’s side across the field and sit in the royal box,” Gretyx went on. “You will gaze at him lovingly from time to time. You will smile at his jokes, if he man
ages to make any. But you will not laugh. Have you ever seen a chariot race?”

  “Yes, my lady. They are very popular in Aquitania.”

  “Then you know that there are collisions. The charioteers and their horses may be injured; some may die. The crowd will find this delightful. They will cheer every collision, every death. But you must not become too excited. Nor must you seem too squeamish. You must appear to be entertained, but you must keep your composure. Is that clear?”

  “I think so, my lady.”

  She thinks so. “Very well. Now afterwards. You know what is happening after the chariot race?”

  “Feslund puts the laurel wreath upon the head of the victor,” Bathanala said.

  “Yes, yes. After that.”

  “After that the pontifex is to be executed, my lady.”

  “Yes, very good. And do you know how it is to happen?”

  “My lord Feslund will kill him with the magical weapon.”

  “Correct. This will be different from the chariot race. Do you understand that? It will not be bloody. Tirelius will be there, and then Feslund will aim the weapon at him, and he will disappear. We do not know how the crowd will react when this happens. Perhaps they will be terrified. Perhaps they will roar their approval. In any case, you yourself must not react. You must stand next to Feslund like a queen and look solemn. He is dispensing justice, and you are there to support him. You believe in him, you love him; you love what he has done. It is for the good of the empire and its people. Do you see?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Bathanala’s eyes were watering, and her chin was starting to quiver. She looked as though she were about to faint from the stress of trying to remember all these rules. It was too much for her.

  It couldn’t be helped. She had to play her part, and she would do her best. Gretyx was more worried about Feslund, who might have his own ideas about the part he was supposed to play. She hoped he was smart enough not to trust his instincts and to obey his mother instead.

  “You may go, my child,” Gretyx said to Bathanala, as gently as she could. “Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be tiring for all of us.”