The Time Travel Diaries

by Caroline Lawrence

  ‘That does my head in,’ I said. And then, ‘Three trips to the past? What happened to the travellers?’

  ‘Three trips but just one traveller. He’s alive and well,’ said Daisy. ‘And fabulously rich.’ He chuckled. ‘He actually is a Traveller.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s what they used to call Irish gypsies. A few of them still live a life close to that of the ancient Romans. They know how to milk a goat and kindle a fire. That kind of stuff.’

  ‘Do you think I could meet him?’ I asked.

  ‘Most certainly. If you pass the audition.’

  ‘Audition?’

  He gave me a piece of paper with an address. ‘I want you to go to this wine bar on Tuesday evening. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.’

  ‘I may look eighteen,’ I said, ‘but I’m only twelve.’

  Solomon Daisy gave a snort of laughter. ‘Once a month,’ he said, ‘a few grown-up Latin geeks gather there over dinner. They meet in a private room downstairs, so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting in. But you have to speak only in Latin – not one word of English.’

  He must have seen the look of panic on my face because he said, ‘They serve good burgers there.’

  ‘Optime,’ I said, which means ‘excellent’. I was trying to think of the Latin word for hamburger.

  ‘If you decide to audition for the gig, the phone is yours to keep, whether you pass or not. And if they give you their seal of approval, then you’re good to go.’

  ‘So I’ve got the job?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If the geeks give you the thumbs up, I’ll take you to meet our Traveller, and then send you back seventeen hundred years.’

  ‘When?’ I said. ‘When will I go through the portal?’ My mouth was suddenly as dry as fresh sawdust in a hamster cage.

  ‘Friday morning,’ he said. ‘Or as soon as Tuesday’s meal passes through your system.’

  ‘You mean next Tuesday’s meal with the Latin geeks might be the last food I eat before I travel back in time?’

  ‘Yup,’ said Solomon Daisy. ‘That will be your last supper.’

  9

  Trailblazer

  My decision to order a hamburger at the Latin Circle audition had proved to be a wise one. Every time one of the geeks asked me a difficult question, I would take a bite and chew slowly while I worked out what to say. If I didn’t understand the question I replied, ‘Minime,’ which means ‘Not at all’, and discourages further questioning.

  When I showed up at the Daisy Building on Wednesday morning, I found I had passed my audition with flying colours.

  ‘They especially liked your phrase for hamburger,’ said Solomon Daisy. I noticed there were two butter-soft leather chairs in front of his desk instead of just one.

  ‘Pastillum fartum!’ A smiling boy in jeans and a black hoodie limped out from behind one of the plinths where he had been lurking.

  ‘Yup.’ I grinned. ‘According to Google, pastillum fartum is Latin for hamburger.’

  ‘Alex, meet Martin, your predecessor,’ said Solomon Daisy.

  Martin was maybe a year older than I was. He had a long face, curly brown hair and eyes as black as his hoodie. He also had the beginnings of a moustache, which was probably why he was no longer a time traveller. He seemed a bit nervous, but his smile looked genuine and his handshake was firm.

  Solomon Daisy said, ‘Martin has been through the portal three times. He thinks he might have a clue about how to find the girl with the ivory knife.’

  The boy sat in one of the butter-soft chairs. I sat in the other, facing him.

  Martin said, ‘On my second trip to Roman London, I found a man named Caecilius who sells objects made of ivory.’

  ‘Caecilius like in the Cambridge Latin Course?’

  Martin looked startled and then shrugged. ‘I don’t know what that is. Anyway, his shop is on the south side of the river between a big bath house and a fullers’. Do you know what a fullers’ is?’

  I shook my head.

  Martin pulled an energy bar from his pocket and unwrapped it. ‘The word in Latin is fullonica. It’s where they clean clothes. They’re pretty smelly because they use urine as part of the soaking process.’

  ‘Urine?’ I said. ‘As in pee?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martin. ‘And they sometimes burn sulphur, which smells like rotten eggs. That means you don’t even have to ask directions; just follow your nose.’

  ‘So there’s a man named Caecilius who sells knives near the pee laundry?’

  ‘Yes. He sells folding knives made of bone and iron. Some of the handles are shaped like different animals but they all had the same kind of blade. I asked him the stock question …’

  I recited one of the phrases I had memorised along with him: ‘Puellam oculis caeruleis quaero et cultro eburneo.’ I seek a girl with blue eyes and an ivory knife.

  Martin nodded. ‘Caecilius the knife-seller didn’t know her so I decided to ask if he had ever sold a knife with a handle shaped like a leopard. But I couldn’t remember the word for leopard.’

  ‘Panthera maculata,’ I said. ‘Or leopardus.’

  Solomon Daisy’s bushy eyebrows went up. ‘Have you already learned all the words on the list I gave you?’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve also been listening to the Latin podcasts you recommended and I memorised your map of third-century Roman London. Anyway,’ I said to Martin, ‘panthera and leopardus are both no-brainers.’

  He gave a lopsided grin. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I was pretty hungry. I’d been there for three days with no food and my brain was slow.’ He took a big bite of his energy bar. My mouth watered and my tummy growled.

  ‘Want one?’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out another one.

  I shook my head.

  ‘He’s on the prep fast,’ said Solomon Daisy, and to me, ‘By the way, Alex, don’t rely on nodding and shaking your head when you go back. Gestures have different meanings in different cultures.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘In Greece they tip their head back for no and it looks like they’re nodding.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Solomon Daisy. ‘Shortly after the Second World War an English tourist was swimming in the waters between Corfu and Albania. He lost his bearings. Armed Albanian soldiers were gesturing for him to go away and he thought they were beckoning him on, so he swam towards them.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘They shot him dead.’

  I swallowed hard.

  ‘That’s why I want you to lurk in the background. Just find the girl and observe.’

  ‘Rule three,’ I said, ‘as little interaction as possible.’

  ‘But you will have to ask Caecilius if he ever sold a knife with an ivory-leopard handle,’ said Martin. ‘That will be your best lead.’

  I said, ‘You found Caecilius on your second trip?’

  Martin nodded.

  I frowned. ‘Mr Daisy said you’ve made three trips back. If you had such a good clue, why didn’t you ask him on your third trip?’

  ‘I wasn’t quite straight with you,’ said Solomon Daisy. ‘Martin did go back a third time. But we had to cut his visit short.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Did something go wrong?’

  The two of them looked at each other. ‘You could say that,’ said Martin.

  ‘It was a few months later,’ said Solomon Daisy, ‘and in that time they’d raised the floor level of the Mithraeum by putting in a new wooden floor. When Martin arrived there the third time, the sole of his right foot fused with the oak planks and they had to amputate.’

  10

  Cold Feet

  ‘They had to amputate your foot?’ I asked Martin. ‘As in cut it off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ouch!’ I winced.

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ said Martin, and pulled up the cuff of his jeans. ‘They’ve given me a cyber-foot so at least I don’t need to use crutches or a wheelchair any more.’


  I tried not to seem horrified by the prosthetic ankle emerging from his shoe. ‘You lost your whole foot?’ I said.

  Martin nodded. ‘I managed to crawl back through. By the way,’ he said, ‘you have to go through the same side of the portal, like a revolving door. So I had to crawl around to the front and heave myself inside.’

  Solomon Daisy said, ‘We leave the portal on for five minutes in case you need to come back for any reason.’

  ‘OK.’ I was feeling queasy.

  ‘I left a lot of blood in the Mithraeum,’ said Martin, ‘but once I got back to our time, they stopped the bleeding and rushed me to the hospital.’

  ‘That’s terrible!’ I murmured.

  Martin gave a brave shrug and took a sip of coffee. ‘It’s OK. Thanks to Mr Daisy I’ve got millions in the bank. I’ll never have to work again. Also, every time scientists make an improvement, I can get a newer foot. It’s in my contract.’

  My stomach had been grumbling for breakfast. Now it shut up.

  I looked accusingly at Solomon Daisy.

  He held up both hands, palms outward. ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure it won’t happen to you. But if anything does go wrong, I will cover all medical treatment needed for as long as you live. In addition to a five-million-pound compensation payment. Right, Martin?’

  ‘Right.’ Martin grinned. ‘I’ve bought a fleet of vintage Jetstream trailers for me and my family. The rest of the money is in the bank. I can live off the interest forever. Look!’ He pulled back the sleeve of his black hoodie and I saw a chunky watch on his wrist.

  ‘Rolex Skydweller,’ he explained. ‘Cost twenty thousand pounds.’

  Solomon Daisy leaned forward and said, ‘You don’t need to be hurt to get rich, Alex. Remember the four-mil bonus if you find the girl.’

  I nodded. I had been thinking of little else over the past few days.

  ‘Tell me more about Roman London,’ I said to Martin. ‘What do I need to know?’

  ‘Londinium is amazing.’ Martin scratched his curly head. ‘Everybody drives chariots and they all wear togas. You’ll see soldiers marching and gladiators fighting. Oh, and here’s how they shake hands.’ He stretched out his right arm. When I went to shake it he said, ‘No. Grab my forearm and I’ll grab yours.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I said, grasping his arm just below the elbow. ‘I think I’ve seen this in the movies.’

  ‘That’s right!’ said Martin. ‘It makes more sense than shaking hands,’ he said, ‘because you don’t pass germs and viruses to people.’

  I frowned. ‘I thought ancient Romans didn’t know about germs …’

  Martin’s smile vanished and he shrugged. ‘Well, that’s how they do it.’

  ‘Do you have any practical advice for me?’ I asked him. ‘Like where to get clothes?’

  ‘You’ll find stuff in a room just inside the entrance of the temple,’ said Martin. ‘It’s where the priests change. If you come through the portal during one of their ceremonies, stay hidden until it’s over and they’ve gone. Don’t make a peep. Even if you hear men cawing and roaring.’

  I gave him a sharp look. ‘Cawing and roaring?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Mithraism is a mystery cult and there are different levels, with a different avatar for each level, like the Raven, the Soldier –’

  I interrupted. ‘– the Bridegroom, the Lion, the Persian, the Sun-Runner and the Father.’ I had been reading up on what little was known about the cult.

  Solomon Daisy clapped and said, ‘Bravo, Alex! I knew we chose the right boy for the job.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martin. ‘And I heard them doing a strange thing where they click their tongues and whistle. Also, they shake rattles.’

  ‘Rattles? Like baby rattles?’

  Solomon Daisy answered for him. ‘We think Martin heard a type of Egyptian rattle called a sistrum. Plural form: sistra. They look like bronze egg whisks with tiny cymbals or rods. They jingle when you shake them.’

  I frowned. ‘Why do they shake them?’

  ‘We think some of the noises were to keep away evil spirits,’ said Solomon Daisy.

  ‘After they make strange signs and noises,’ continued Martin, ‘they perform a weird kind of ceremony. I was hiding behind the statue but I peeked. Some guys were wearing animal masks. I saw one that looked like a raven. And one man was naked and blindfolded.’

  ‘What?’ My jaw dropped.

  ‘We think it was part of their initiation rite,’ said Solomon Daisy.

  ‘Then what happened?’ I asked.

  Martin shrugged. ‘The guy with the raven mask turned his head, so I ducked back down. I was afraid if they saw me they might kill me.’

  ‘Kill you?’ My voice came out squeakier than I would have liked. ‘Like a human sacrifice?’

  ‘No. Because they might think I was a spy.’

  I swallowed hard.

  I had already started a list of Ways to Die in Londinium. Now I would have to add Death by Angry Priest of Mithras.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Martin. ‘I think I know one of their secret passwords: Deus Sol Invictus Mithras, which means “God is the Sun, is Unconquered, is Mithras”.’

  I nodded. ‘Invictus like invincible. I can remember that.’

  ‘I also heard some of them shout “Stella sum!”’

  ‘What? “I am a star”?’

  At this Solomon Daisy leaned forward. ‘The whole point of the ceremony is to ensure that the immortal part of you, your soul, will go up to the stars after your earthly body dies. Have you ever heard of Plato’s Cave?’

  ‘No, but wasn’t Plato the ancient Greek who wrote dialogues about philosophy?’ I said.

  ‘Ita vero. He’s the man who made Socrates famous. Another person I’m obsessed with.’

  ‘Did Plato live in a cave?’

  ‘No. A character in one of his dialogues says our lives are like those of prisoners in a cave, watching torch-lit shadows on a wall and trying to make sense of the cosmos that way.’

  ‘Cosmos? As in universe?’

  ‘Yes. It’s strange, but one of their models for the cosmos was a cave. That may be why the temples to Mithras had no windows. In fact they called them Caves of Mithras rather than “temples”. One scholar believes the Mithraeum was like a driving simulator or a satnav. Lights and torches would show the worshippers the route their immortal souls needed to take after they died. Our young traveller here has thrown a lot of light on a very mysterious cult. Pun intended.’

  Solomon Daisy beamed at Martin and then turned the spotlight of his smile on me. ‘So! Are you still up for some time travel?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good.’ Solomon Daisy bent down and lifted up a battered briefcase. He put it on his lap, popped it open and produced a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s your contract. Read it carefully. As soon as you’re ready, just sign on the dotted line.’

  He handed me the sheet of paper and a fancy fountain pen, uncapped and ready to use.

  I took the pen and put the contract on the table so that I could give it a quick scan. I ignored all the tiny type and just looked at the main points relevant to me:

  Going through the portal – £1 million pounds.

  Finding the Blue-eyed Girl with the Ivory Leopard Knife – £4 million bonus.

  Loss of a limb – £5 million damages plus lifetime private care.

  Death or Non-Return – £10 million pounds to Mrs Katerina Papas.

  Seeing the word ‘DEATH’ alongside Gran’s name made my innards twist like spaghetti on a fork. She would be devastated if I died.

  I would be devastated if I died.

  I put the top back on the pen without signing.

  ‘Can I have a day to think about it?’

  Solomon Daisy’s smile faded from two hundred watts to about forty. Then he took a deep breath and screwed his smile back up to a hundred. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Take all the time you need. Just ring me when you’re ready to commit.’


  11

  Death List

  In the cold light of a tube train home I came to my senses.

  How could I possibly go back to Roman London? I was just a kid in Year Eight with a pathetic smattering of Latin words.

  Unlike Martin, I had no idea how to milk a goat or make a fire. I probably wouldn’t last an hour.

  I pulled a small notebook out of my back pocket and flipped it open to my list.

  Ways to Die in Londinium.

  1. Death by illness (no antibiotics)

  2. Death by infected cut (no antiseptic cream)

  3. Death by chariot (hit and run)

  4. Death by starvation

  5. Death by choking (no Heimlich manoeuvre)

  6. Death by fire (or inhaling smoke)

  7. Death by rabid animal bite

  8. Death by mugger

  9. Death by rampaging gladiator

  10. Death by misunderstood gesture

  11. Death by transporting into something solid

  I dug out my pencil stub and wrote: 12. Death by Angry Priest of Mithras.

  I sighed again. Knowing my luck, I would probably die of an infected stubbed toe. Yes, Gran would get ten million pounds, but I was pretty sure she’d rather have me. Especially as I was her only grandchild.

  I stuck the notebook back in my pocket and thought of what to tell her when I got home. I couldn’t eat anything until after I got back from my trip to the past. Although I was starving I would have to lie and tell her I didn’t feel hungry. But she might be suspicious.

  She had already asked why I had gone out on Saturday lunchtime and Tuesday evening. I told her the truth, part of it. That it was to improve my Latin. And I also told her we were going on a Latin-club trip to Bath Spa from Friday to Sunday. It helped that Miss Okonmah had sent an official-looking slip home for Gran to sign. But if I told her I wasn’t hungry she might think I was ill and she might not let me go on the ‘Latin-club trip’.