Laughing Wolf

by Nicholas Maes

  Regaining his composure, Felix finished his recital and lowered his arm.

  “I hope you accept these lines of verse,” he spoke, “as an apology for my inopportune remarks.”

  “How is it,” Cicero finally spoke, “that a native son of Prytan could compose the finest Latin verse I’ve ever heard?”

  “The gods are speaking through this boy,” Metellus agreed.

  “He has breathed such honey from his lips,” Crassus cried, “that he has more than made up for his earlier poison.”

  “Be seated,” Pompey finally spoke, holding his goblet up in Felix’s honour. “Adopted son of Aceticus, never mind your unconventional views. I am honoured that you are here beneath my roof. Tomorrow we shall attend a munus and I shall grant you any wish you desire. And now, back to our feast.”

  Bowing low, Felix retreated to the couch. Reclining next to Carolyn, he grabbed her goblet and drained it of its water. Her face was full of questions, so he explained that Romans were crazy about poetry and he had recited a few verses from the greatest poet of them all, Publius Vergilius Maro.

  “Of course,” he added with a grin, “his Aeneid won’t appear for fifty years.”

  He then said that Pompey had promised to grant him a favour. Assuming the general was heading south with his troops, he would ask his permission to accompany the army as far as Panarium. Although they would have to attend a munus first.

  “What’s a munus?”

  Instead of answering, Felix helped himself to some chicken. With a sour look he ripped apart the bones and sunk his teeth into the tender flesh.

  Chapter Nine

  A blast of trumpets split the air and seemed to shake all of Felix’s bones. He was sitting in a front row of the Circus Maximus, the city’s largest venue for mass entertainment, and felt small in a crowd of some thirty thousand people. Everyone was in excellent spirits: the munus would be starting soon and promised to be magnificent. For his part, he felt sick to his stomach.

  Not that the morning hadn’t had its moments. After breakfast, he and Carolyn had joined Pompey on a stroll through the city. For several hours they had toured numerous districts, being careful not to approach a line of chalk-white markers. When Carolyn had asked why Pompey was avoiding this boundary, Felix had told her it was something called the Pomerium and marked the original outline of Rome: once a general crossed it, he would be stripped of his office.

  They had taken in a multitude of sights from a distance. These had included a host of temples, shops, public buildings, and, visible on the Capitoline, the Tarpeian Rock: it was from here that criminals were thrown to their deaths. After lunch in a taberna, they had walked along the Via Tuscus, past the Forum Boarium (or cattle market), and into the vast circus itself, where they’d been sitting for the last half hour.

  It would have been glorious had they not been faced with a munus.

  Another clarion call erupted, this one more piercing than the first. When its final note died, Pompey climbed to his feet and waved regally to the crowd around him. Nearby spectators yelled his name, then the people beside them picked up the cry, and so the roar spread from tier to tier, until the entire building quaked with shouts of “Pompey! Pompey!” He was nodding, waving, and perspiring slightly — and clearly enjoying this thunderous applause. And why not, Felix thought. Wasn’t he footing the bill for this show, to express his thanks for his triumphs in Spain?

  “Pompey! Imperator!” the mob kept yelling, and Pompey grinned at this title of acclaim. Imperator, conqueror, the title pleased him greatly. But even as he stood there, vigorous and full of life, Felix couldn’t help but shudder. In contrast to this triumph, the hero would die a lonely death years later, stabbed in the back and swiftly beheaded.…

  “If they’re happy now,” he commented, “just wait until the show begins.”

  “I’m sure it will be impressive,” Felix said, suppressing his knowledge of the general’s fate. “But can I remind you of your promise at dinner last night?”

  The general laughed. “That depends on what I promised.”

  “You said you would reward me.”

  “I remember,” he nodded, with a serious expression. “What would you like?”

  “We would like to join you when you march south with your troops.”

  “You could ask for gold,” Pompey said. “but prefer to visit a war zone?” He laughed again.

  “I have my reasons. Anyway, that is what I wish.”

  Saying he would mull it over, the general chatted with Crassus, who was sitting one seat over. Felix told Carolyn that he had asked Pompey his favour.

  “Good. This place is maddening,” she growled. “No one has undergone ERR and the crowd seems unstable and capable of anything.”

  “You’re not used to humans in their natural state.”

  “… And then there are the temples you keep pointing out, not to mention statues of their so-called gods. These people rule the world and should have faith in their reason; instead they’re hysterical and superstitious.” She shuddered with contempt.

  “That’s because life is uncertain — they could die of disease or war or famine. Their faith in gods allows them to think the world is stable and their lives are worth living.”

  “But it’s so … ridiculous. I’ll bet these people rob for their gods, kill for them, and take slaves for them. I haven’t studied history like you, but I know about the wars in the twenty-first century, and how they erupted because of religion.…”

  “Religion has been toxic,” Felix agreed. “But at the same time it’s been a crucial stage in our development, introducing us to justice and the sanctity of life. My father often argued that without religion, our species would never have survived its childhood.”

  This mention of his father was like picking at a scab. He might have started brooding on his loss had a trumpet blast not sounded and roused the crowd to their feet. A band of men were entering the circus. They were armed but could not be confused with soldiers. Instead, Felix recognized the stock gladiator types. There was the retiarius, who was armed with a net and a vicious-looking trident; the murmillo, with his crested helmet and a long, straight blade; the hoplomachus, with his shield and massive spear; and the thraex, who carried a sword that was lethally curved at its tip.

  “What’s all this?” Carolyn asked.

  “You won’t want to watch,” Felix warned her.

  “Why? The crowd seems very excited.”

  At the sound of yet another trumpet call, the gladiators marched to one side, leaving two men behind to fight each other, a murmillo and a hoplomachus. The latter looked young, maybe twenty years old, and was lean and wiry; his opponent was older — his hair was grey — yet was muscular and vastly experienced (or so his many scars suggested). The pair faced Pompey, their arms upraised in a salute. Together they chanted, “Ave Imperator, morituri te salutamus” (“Hail general, we about to die salute you”). Pompey nodded and signalled them to begin.

  The pair drew apart, crouched low and circled each other, like two dogs warring over a cut of meat. The hoplomachus feinted with his spear, then lunged at his opponent, who blocked him with his shield but staggered back at the impact. He also missed his footing and had to catch himself quickly. The two men started circling again, as the crowd egged them on with catcalls and cheers.

  “The older man will win,” Carolyn said, considering the pair with a professional eye. “He’s pretending to be weaker.”

  “What did she say?” Pompey asked, remembering her prowess from the previous day.

  “She said the murmillo will win,” Felix translated.

  “I believe her.” Turning to Crassus, Pompey said he would bet a dozen aurei that the murmillo would triumph. The general smiled and accepted the wager, adding Pompey never learned his lesson and always backed the weaker party.

  The young man was closing in again. He kept thrusting his spear at his opponent’s face, causing him to duck from side to side. Pressing home his attack the
hoplomachus lunged and grazed the man’s forearm. The murmillo avoided further harm to himself by striking with his shield and shoving back his rival. He was standing more than thirty metres from Felix, but the blood on his arm was no less glaring than had it been on a snowbank.

  The crowd was ecstatic.

  “How far will they go?” Carolyn asked.

  “It’s up to Pompey to decide.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I told you not to watch.”

  The crowd’s cheers and the sight of blood stirred the young man’s zeal. With a bull-like roar he charged the murmillo and a dozen times his spear groped for his flesh, missing its target by no more than a hair. The mob was urging him on. “Skewer him!” cried a matronly woman near Felix. “Stab him like a chicken!” And his spear was poised for a final blow when the murmillo lashed out with his leg and swept the young man’s feet from under him. In the process the latter dropped his shield. He flailed wildly with his spear, but the contest was over. Knocking the heavy spear aside, the older man stabbed down and pierced his rival’s thigh.

  The crowd was standing and shouting itself hoarse. “Celadus! Celadus!” they screamed — the murmillo’s name. For his part, the hoplomachus had rolled over on his side and was facing Pompey with his thumb upraised.

  “Ask your sister if I should spare him,” Pompey told Felix.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She has won me twelve gold pieces. She will decide if this man lives.”

  With a pang of horror, Felix translated Pompey’s words. Carolyn was shocked when she heard his proposition.

  “You mean to say, this man could be murdered in public?”

  “I’m afraid so. Only this crowd doesn’t think of it as murder. Instead it has a religious meaning.”

  “There you have it! Religion again! Still, my choice is simple. I’ll let the man live.”

  “You can’t. I mean, you’re not allowed to decide.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We have to think about the butterfly effect. If you let him live, when he would otherwise die, you might substantially alter the future.”

  The blood drained from Carolyn’s face. She knew he was right and she could not intervene, but a man would possibly die as a result. With a look of pain and utter disgust, she covered her eyes and ears with her palla.

  “She seems upset,” Pompey commented. “She can’t make up her mind?”

  “Our traditions don’t allow us to meddle in life and death affairs,” Felix explained, concealing the catch in his voice. “It is part of our Druidic way.”

  “All right,” Pompey said, in an agreeable tone: like any good Roman he respected other people’s customs. “I’ll decide myself.”

  He stood and surveyed the mob in the stands. They were watching him in silence now, some with their thumbs upraised, a sign they wished the man to live, but the majority with their thumbs downturned. With a pitying glance at the figure in the sand, Pompey motioned downwards with his thumb. Murmuring parting words to his opponent, and stroking him with something close to affection, the murmillo stabbed him in the neck and killed him instantly.

  The crowd almost choked on its excitement. Felix had to struggle hard to keep himself from vomiting.

  “Is he dead?” Carolyn asked from under her palla.

  “Yes,” Felix croaked. “You were wise not to watch.”

  “There’s religion for you,” she sneered.

  “Yes. But it will be religion that brings an end to this barbarity.”

  By now two new gladiators were squaring off with each other, a thraex and a retiarius. Aware that Felix was new to this game, Pompey began explaining the techniques of the retiarius, and how it took colossal skill to make good use of his net. Halfway through his explanation, someone called his name. Glancing round, Felix spied Cicero approaching; he was dragging an older man in his wake. The fiery glint in his eye stirred Felix’s discomfort.

  “See whom I have found,” Cicero spoke, when he and his companion were standing beside Pompey.

  “This is indeed a pleasure,” Pompey exclaimed, clasping the old man’s arm with his hand.

  “Adulescens,” Cicero continued, addressing Felix this time “Surely you recognize our friend?”

  “No, domine.”

  “You don’t?” Pompey asked, “How’s that possible?”

  “And how about you, Sextus? Do you recognize this foreigner?”

  “I have never laid eyes on him,” the older man spoke, “Are you sure he claims …?”

  “Yes,” Cicero announced. “He claims to be your adopted son.”

  Felix felt his limbs stiffen to ice. There had always been a chance that his story would be seen through, but the odds had seemed incredibly remote. Now he was confronted by a group of angry noblemen who knew that they’d been lied to and were insisting that he explain himself. Indeed, the slave Flaccus had seized his arm and was forcing it backwards, to prevent him from escaping and to make him talk. Sensing a threat, Carolyn had bared her head.

  “Tell me who you are,” Pompey demanded. “Quickly and without subterfuge.”

  “I am Felix, son of Belenus. I am from Prytan. My father is a Druid.”

  “Where did you learn your Latin?”

  “And how did you know my name?” Aceticus asked.

  “I have read your book, magister.”

  “I am working on a book, but it is only half completed.”

  “Who are you?” Pompey repeated, as Flaccus slapped Felix on the side of his head.

  “Perhaps he’s a slave,” Crassus suggested. “That would explain his hateful comments last night.”

  “And it would explain why he asked me to conduct him south, into the thick of Spartacus’s lair. Are you spying for that gladiator scum?”

  Flaccus was poised to strike Felix again. As he lifted his hand, Carolyn caught it, twisted it down and forced him to his knees. Crassus grabbed at her, but she pivoted and tossed him on his back. Pompey seized her wrist and tried to slap her, but she performed a backwards flip, freeing herself and knocking him sideways. A nearby group witnessed the scene and applauded her for this show of gymnastics.

  “Let’s go,” she told Felix, tugging at his toga. She didn’t notice Flaccus: he’d drawn a dagger and was bearing down on her. Felix intervened. As he pushed Carolyn sideways, the blade plunged into him.

  It struck him in his left side, just below his ribs. He gasped. The pain was instantaneous and like nothing he had ever felt: it was as if he were being pummeled by an unending series of halo balls. He glanced down. He was bleeding profusely.

  “I’m hit,” he said, as the sky seemed to brighten and grow more remote.

  “Bloody cutthroats!” he heard Carolyn swear. She kicked Flaccus in the stomach and knocked him flat on his face. Crassus was about to throw a punch, but she shoved him into Pompey, who was looming up on her right. Using his toga as a sling, she bundled Felix on her back.

  “Hang on tight,” she gasped. “We have to leave this building.”

  With that said, she hopped onto a nearby stranger. Even as he crumpled beneath their weight, she vaulted from him onto a second pair of shoulders, then to a third, a fourth, a line of others, with such speed and precision that no one could respond to her movements. From behind they heard Pompey ordering them to stop. Felix was clinging to Carolyn’s back, and flinching every time she twisted: he was drenched with blood and trembling with cold.

  She was running toward an arch at the back that would lead directly to the building’s exit. Five guards were standing idly about. At the sight of her onrush, and the sound of Pompey’s shouts to stop the pair, the legionnaires formed a line to block her. But they weren’t fast enough. Feinting left, she knocked one soldier down, who crashed into his buddy and threw the rest of them off balance. A few seconds later they had escaped the building.

  “What now?” Carolyn gasped. “Felix! Stay with me!”

  “We’re on the building’s s
outh side,” he groaned. “Look in front of you. You should see a temple, not too far from us ….”

  The fire in his side cut his breathing short. By now his toga was horribly stained and he could barely keep his eyes from closing. But he was alert enough to hear the angry cries behind them.

  “There they are!” Pompey was yelling. “They’re heading for Mercury’s Temple! We’ll trap them there!”

  A furious chase ensued. Carolyn was starting to tire — Felix could hear her gasping for breath, even as she tightened her grip on the toga to compensate for his own slackening hold. His head lolled. Behind them he saw six men closing in. They were fifteen metres off, ten, eight, six…. One of them was smiling, like a predator about to sink his teeth into his prey.

  And then they were climbing a flight of marble steps. They had reached the temple precinct. Almost sobbing with the effort, Carolyn cleared the steps and approached the cella’s door. It clattered as she shoved it open — and struck their lead pursuer in the nose. She leaped inside and slammed the door behind them. The dark encompassed them like a suit of armour.

  A moment later their pursuers appeared. Although they did not dare to enter the cella — it was a space reserved for priests alone — they scoured the inner chamber for traces of their quarry. Confusion took the place of rage: apart from a trail of blood on the floor, there was no sign whatsoever of the mysterious siblings.

  Chapter Ten

  Although the process was uncomfortable, Felix was glad when the TPM engaged and hurled him into the distant future. One moment he could see his pursuers by the door; the next he was being stretched like putty toward a world in which these people had been dead two thousand years. For an instant, too, his pain subsided, only to resurface as his limbs snapped back to normal.

  But wait. Was something off …?

  He was on the floor and staring up at a ceiling. Instead of totalium, it was built of panelled stone. Beside him was the statue from Mercury’s temple, but there were many other sculptures, too, from Greco-Roman times. The TPM team was nowhere to be seen; a crowd was milling about instead, dressed in the strangest clothes and conversing in a language that wasn’t Common Speak.