Laughing Wolf

by Nicholas Maes

  “What a bumpkin that boy is,” the pastry man chuckled. “Although I feel bad for his family. They fled here to escape Spartacus’s army and have lost their farm and all of their possessions.…”

  Felix was only half listening. He was explaining to Carolyn what the boy had said, and how they had in fact selected the wrong Panarium. Both agreed that they should return to the temple, and were turning to leave when the man snatched Felix’s arm.

  “One moment,” he growled, “Is that how you repay a favour? I helped you find that farmer Balbus, and the least you can do is buy a piece of my pastry. Your wife is thin and could use some fattening up.”

  “She’s my sister,” Felix replied. “But you’re right. A thousand pardons. We’ll take two servings of your pastry, optime.”

  “That’s more like it. I made them fresh this morning and they are full of honey. And at ten sesterces they are an excellent bargain….”

  “I can’t pay in cash.” Felix was loosening the string on his pouch.

  “You have no cash?” the owner groaned, “So what will you give me...?”

  “Cinnamomum,” Felix said, holding out a large pinch of the spice. With a look of incredulity, the vendor brought his nose to Felix’s fingers.

  “Cinnamomum! I don’t believe …? Here. Take as much pastry as you want!”

  “Two pieces are enough.” Felix laughed, sprinkling the powder onto the stall’s pitted counter. That said, he and Carolyn stepped away. The vendor was too excited to notice: he was gathering the spice and sniffing it ecstatically.

  Nibbling on the pastry, they hatched a simple plan. Now that they knew where to find the lupus ridens, they would return to their present and travel to the right Panarium. Balbus would be easy to track down — he seemed to be well known in the region — and once they had the lupus ridens, their mission would be over. All in all it seemed very straightforward. Felix was going to say as much, when someone seized him from behind.

  “Hey!” he cried, as he was shoved into a space behind an empty stall. Carolyn was being similarly handled.

  “Tace, amice,” one man spoke. He was powerfully built, burned black by the sun, and had a menacing, lopsided grin. His companions had the same hardened appearance. Felix saw that they were dressed in identical lacernae, short cloaks fastened with a clasp at the shoulder, and grasped that they were part of the visiting army.

  “Can we help you?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, you can. Hand us the cinnamomum and we’ll leave you alone.”

  “What do they want?” Carolyn asked.

  “It’s the cinnamon. They saw it when I paid for the pastry. I’ll give it to them.…”

  “You can’t. It could easily trigger a butterfly effect. With wealth like that, these men could alter the future.”

  “You’re right. What do you suggest …?”

  “Enough gibberish!” the leader barked. “Hand the loot over!”

  “I’m sorry,” Felix said. “I can’t.”

  “I’m not asking,” the man growled, pulling a dagger from his tunic. It was sharp and looked like it had been used before. “Give it to me now or …”

  By the time he looked behind him, Carolyn had knocked down all his friends, tempering her blows so she would only bruise them. With movements too fast for the eye to follow, she grabbed the dagger from the leader’s hand. The man cursed and threw a punch, but she ducked it easily and brought him to his knees.

  “Tell them to leave,” she said.

  Before Felix could translate, the men were up again and bent on violence. Three of them had daggers now and were closing in on Carolyn. Felix raised his fists, but she needed no assistance. Effortlessly, she had them on the ground again, with no damage afflicted but for minor aches and sprains. Full with rage, the men were going to rush her a third time. Before they could, a voice rang out.

  “That’s enough! Attention, all of you!”

  Felix glanced around. Other troops had gathered without his noticing, as well as a man who was mounted on a charger. His clothing marked him out as a general: he was wearing a breastplate, a leather kilt, and a blood-red cloak that reached his calves. Felix started. He recognized this man. He’d seen pictures of his bust before and … yes! As incredible as it seemed, he was poised before Pompey the Great, one of Rome’s greatest leaders.

  “Explain yourselves!” Pompey was directing his soldiers.

  “We were having a joke, dux.” the leader spoke, “We intended no harm.”

  “Is that true?” Pompey asked Carolyn. The epitome of calm when she’d been fighting, she looked lost and confused when the general addressed her.

  “It is true, dux,” Felix volunteered, aware that if he told the truth, the soldiers would be flogged and their wounds might lead to a butterfly effect, “They meant no harm.”

  “Who are you?” Pompey demanded, frowning at Felix’s accent. “And why does this girl not speak for herself? She fights for herself,” he added, with a look of approval.

  “She speaks no Latin, dux. And my name is Felix Aceticus, son of the Druid Belenus from Prytan, and adopted son of Sextus Pullius Aceticus.”

  “You’re Sextus’s adopted son?” Pompey asked, smiling suddenly. “Why didn’t you say so? The old bookworm is a client of mine, although it has been ages since I last saw him in Cremona. But I’m tired of talking in the open like this.” He called to a servant with enormous ears. “Flaccus! See to my guests. They will come with us to Rome this afternoon.”

  “Very good, dux.”

  Felix wanted to say they had business to look after, but the general had already turned his back on them. His soldiers followed after him, but not before their attackers looked them over, bewildered why they’d been let off so easy. Felix was hoping that he and Carolyn might escape in this confusion and return to the temple and the TPM, but Flaccus was keeping a close eye on them.

  “You heard the dux,” he said, leading them forward. “You’re coming with us.”

  With no choice in the matter, the pair stepped off. While Felix was thrilled at the thought of spending time with Pompey, part of him suspected that they were sticking their necks on a chopping block.

  Chapter Eight

  Felix rolled onto his back and exchanged stares with a ceiling. He had slept like the dead and, in his first waking moments, had trouble recollecting where he was. Wrestling back his panic, he pieced his memories together.

  He was in … Italy, 71 BC. Check.

  At Pompey’s prompting, his slave Flaccus had piled them into a wagon. Check.

  They had travelled along the Via Nomentum to Rome, at which stage they had left the wagon and followed Pompey when he’d passed behind the Servian Walls. Check.

  Inside Rome they had wandered the Via Longus, with its towering apartment blocks on either side, whose ground floors had exhibited a hive of stores, each buzzing with crowds of noisy shoppers. As they had walked between the Quirinal and Viminal hills, he’d descried the temple to Jupiter on the Capitoline’s crest. Check.

  At the foot of the Esquiline, Pompey had turned up a steep, winding alley. After a gruelling hike, he had led them to a spectacular domus on the southeast slope. Check.

  Entering the house, they had been welcomed by a crowd of slaves. Advising them that dinner would be served before sunset, Flaccus had led them to separate rooms. Check.

  After dismissing his slave, a Spaniard named Fuscus, Felix had washed using a pitcher of water, then stretched out on a bed and fallen asleep, overcome by the heat and the strangeness of time travel. Check.

  And now Fuscus was due to arrive at any moment and conduct him to the triclinium where dinner would be held. Check.

  He shook his head wearily. It defied belief that he was present in Republican Rome, and was rubbing shoulders with one of its most famous sons. On the one hand, he was smiling with pleasure; on the other, he was aware they had a mission to complete. Never mind his encounter with Pompey; they had to find the lupus ridens and …


  A knock rang out and Carolyn entered.

  “You look upset,” Felix said.

  “A slave wanted to wash me and help me dress,” she complained. “Are people so helpless they can’t manage these tasks for themselves?”

  “We’re not much different. We rely on our machines.”

  “Programming a machine isn’t the same as bullying humans. But never mind that. Have you figured out a way to escape this place? We’ve got to track that flower down.”

  “I know. I’m hoping Pompey will escort us there himself.”

  He explained that, if he remembered correctly, Pompey had just returned from a campaign in Spain. Within a week, having tidied up his affairs in Rome, he would march his army south to join the struggle against Spartacus. They would proceed along the Via Appia and pass within a short distance of Panarium.

  “Will he take us along?” Carolyn asked.

  “We’ll persuade him to. If not, we’ll think of something else. In the meantime, let’s try to blend in with these Romans.”

  He would have added more but Flaccus appeared just then to take them to dinner. Stepping into the main hall, they walked toward the rear of the domus. The dying sun was entering through a hole in a roof (it was called a compluvium) and a dozen lamps were casting light from a variety of alcoves. Three servants stood with buckets at hand, just in case a fire started.

  En route to the dining room, they passed a chamber that exhibited lines of masks on its walls. The features on each were detailed and realistic, and the collection created an eerie impression, as if a multitude of spirits were watching them pass.

  “Why the masks?” Carolyn whispered.

  “They are portraits of Pompey’s ancestors. Some go back hundreds of years.”

  “They’re … peculiar.”

  “Shh. We’re here.”

  They were standing with Flaccus at the doorway of the triclinium. Boisterous voices were coming from within, and a crowd of servants were streaming back and forth, carrying wine and platters of food. Two slaves seated Felix and Carolyn on stools, washed their feet, and provided them with slippers. This operation done, they were ushered forward.

  They gasped at the sight before them. They were in a room whose length was twice its width and whose walls were painted a mix of cheerful colours. There were lamps everywhere, and two more servants to prevent a fire from starting. Most peculiar were the dining arrangements. Instead of a regular table and chairs, three couches had been arranged to form a square with one side missing. The space in between contained three long tables, with sufficient room for slaves to pass into the middle. And instead of sitting straight, the guests were reclining on their sides, their faces turned toward the central space. All in all, it was a cozy setup.

  The diners barely noticed as Flaccus guided them to the couch on the left — by custom this was reserved for the lowest-ranking guests. They were too caught up in the conversation and, besides, two fifteen-year-old foreigners were hardly worth their notice. Felix looked round the room and almost flinched in shock. Besides Pompey, there were another five people, two of whom he recognized. Containing his excitement, he reclined beside Carolyn on the couch.

  “So tell us,” Pompey asked the man on his right, a sign his rank was the highest of those present, “how’s the war with Spartacus going?”

  “We have five legions and are assembling three more,” this guest spoke crisply, holding out his goblet, which a slave filled with wine.

  “Eight legions to deal with an army of slaves?” Pompey laughed.

  “Your attitude explains why we’ve been beaten thus far. Don’t underrate these slaves, Gnaeus. They are capable warriors.”

  “But they are slaves, nonetheless,” a portly man spoke up. “Doesn’t Aristotle argue that some are slaves by nature while others are born to rule?”

  “With all due respect to Aristotle,” the general sneered, “Spartacus fights for a most precious possession, his personal liberty. This is why his motivation is high, and why he has performed so ably. At the same time, he will learn to his discredit that it is sheer folly to defy the authority of Rome.”

  “Do you recognize these people?” Carolyn whispered.

  “Only two besides Pompey,” Felix replied, nodding his thanks as a slave handed him a goblet. “On his right is Marcus Licinius Crassus, the richest man in Rome; while the fat guy is Marcus Tullius Cicero, a very able orator.”

  “I don’t know what they’re saying, but they seem pleased with themselves.”

  “You’re right,” Felix said, discovering there was wine in his goblet. “As far as I can tell, they are all big players on the political scene. Still, if they knew what I know, they wouldn’t feel so smug.”

  In a low voice he described how each character would meet his end. Pompey would die years later in Egypt, murdered after his defeat by Julius Caesar. Cicero would be killed by a follower of Caesar — the infamous Mark Antony. And Crassus would die in the Syrian desert after witnessing the destruction of his accompanying army.

  “It’s eerie,” Carolyn commented, “how you know these men’s futures.”

  Felix was about to agree — it was strange to know how a living person would die — but their whispering had attracted the guests’ attention and they were now the subject of everyone’s stares. To conceal his agitation, Felix gulped his wine.

  “What language are you speaking?” Cicero asked.

  “It is a dialect of Celtic,” Felix lied, aware that the orator couldn’t tell Common Speak and Celtic apart.

  “Pompey tells us that you are from Prytan,” Crassus said, “and you are descended from Druids?”

  “That is correct, dux.”

  “Tell us about Prytan and your people, then.”

  Aware that Romans were curious about the world, Felix had prepared himself in advance for this question. He briefly described the size and climate of England, as well as its tribes and religious practices, explaining how the Druids worship nature and consider fire a purifying element. As he spoke, he knew no one would challenge his account: no Roman would set foot in Prytan for at least twenty years.

  “How fascinating,” a man named Metellus spoke up. “It is remarkable how varied the world can be.”

  Crassus laughed. “How backward, too. The boy’s account just goes to show that the world is waiting for the Romans to fill it.”

  “Perhaps Prytan will experience the force of Roman arms,” Cicero agreed. “And will be fortunate enough to become a province. How does that prospect strike you, boy?”

  “Perhaps it will be conquered,” Felix assented, aware the emperor Claudius would turn it into a province down the road. Without considering the wisdom of the remark, he added, “But the student of history cannot fail to observe that empires eventually come to an end. Indeed, the larger their territory, the faster they contract.”

  The room greeted his statement with silence. Pompey was holding out his goblet but moved it suddenly when Felix spoke, causing wine to spill all over. Crassus sat upright, knocking into Metellus, who dropped a succulent slice of lamb. The other guests were murmuring aloud, shocked by Felix’s observation. Sensing he had spoken out of turn, Carolyn curled into herself.

  “Pompeius informs us,” Cicero spoke, “that you have been adopted by Sextus Pullius Aceticus and trained in Roman customs?”

  “That is correct, magister.” Felix glanced down at his goblet. In his nervousness, he had drained its contents.

  “And yet, having received such instruction, you question our supremacy?”

  “I meant no offence. I was merely pointing out that empires die, like all things human. Why are Babylonia, Assyria, and Egypt no more? Because they overreached themselves and committed terrible crimes.”

  “Such as?” Crassus asked, his face a mix of ice and stone.

  “Enslaving people is one example.”

  The room started speaking at once. Someone was yelling that an economy without slaves was impossible; Cicero was quoting Aristotle ag
ain, how some populations are naturally servile; while Crassus was saying it was talk like Felix’s that encouraged slaves to rebel against their masters. Finally Pompey stared at Felix and demanded loudly, “Whose side are you on? Do you fight for Rome or is it Spartacus you champion?”

  Felix was tipsy but realized he had gone too far. Somehow he had to fix this situation and regain these politicians’ good will. He stared up at the ceiling for some inspiration, where a painting of Venus looked down at him. Venus, the goddess of love, mother of Aeneas and … Aeneas! Of course!

  A moment later the crowd was amazed when Felix left his couch and stepped into the centre. He raised his arms, closed his eyes and began to recite from memory:

  Arma virumque cano, Troae qui primus ab oris Italiam fato profugus Laviniaque venit litora — multum ille et terris iactatus et alto vi superum, saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram, multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem inferretque deos Latio; genus unde Latinum Albanique patres atque altae moenia Romae.

  Felix would later translate these lines into Common Speak for Carolyn:

  I sing of weapons and the man. Fleeing Troy’s coast

  he was fated first to reach Italy and the shores of Lavinia,

  tossed on sea and land by divine violence,

  because savage Juno was ever mindful of her anger.

  He also endured the travails of war, until he should found the city

  and carry his gods into Latium. From him come the Latin tribe,

  the Alban nobles and the defenses of lofty Rome.

  Watching Felix, Carolyn didn’t know what to think. Part of her believed he had lost his mind; another part admired him for his courage in confronting a throng of angry Romans; finally, part of her was full of wonder. It wasn’t only that his performance was breathtaking, even though she couldn’t understand a word he had spoken; it was his influence on the guests. They were staring at him in amazement. Whereas a minute earlier, Cicero had been contorted with rage, the orator was smiling and had his eyes shut tight, as if he were listening to his favourite piece of music. Crassus was waving his hand to Felix’s chanting, while Pompey, the battle-hardened general, had tears stealing from his eyes!