by Dave Weaver
He took a step back to consider the situation. His parents had always seemed devoted to each other but since the rushed move there had been heated rows over stupid little things, hurtful comments Jack had overheard that had never been part of their lives back in Nottingham. Southerners seemed a cold, unfriendly bunch and he was increasingly worried his father was turning into one. His mother would never change, though she used to be a lot happier than this. He made an instant decision not to tell them anything. A crazy son was the last thing they needed right now.
As the last of the sleep left his befuddled brain Jack considered the dream he had just woken from or at least the wisps of memory still clinging to his consciousness.
It had started with the usual one; he was scoring the winner for Forest against their hated rivals at an evening FA Cup tie in front of a packed City Ground. Then a new departure: the floodlights suddenly failed. When the lights returned the stadium had disappeared.
Now he was in a dense white mist. Towering out of its wispy swirls he saw a giant version of the gold coin in front of him with a huge letter T etched onto it. No longer the dull museum exhibit; the coin was gleaming. A voice came from behind him, one he recognised. He looked back to find Honour standing there, still wearing the white diaphanous dress.
“Walk into the coin, Jack.”
“What…?”
“Walk into the coin.” The second time she said it as a command. “Do it, now!”
As he turned back, the golden surface touched his face then pushed against it like putty, moulding itself around his features. The surface began to liquefy; he felt his eyes burn and his nostrils fill. He opened his mouth to breath and the syrupy liquid poured inside and down his gagging throat. Just before his ears were engulfed as well he heard Honour’s laughter.
Jack had sat bolt upright in bed. Calming himself with the knowledge it was just a daft dream, he’d taken the dull coin from the bedside table drawer.
One side was completely blank but the other had the capital ‘T’ on it, like in the dream, surrounded by a thin circle. It hadn’t been there before; he’d have sworn it. There was nothing else. No great Caesars or warrior chiefs, no dates, Latin inscriptions or hieroglyphics; just a T in a circle like some kind of car logo. What on earth could it mean? He’d only found it in the pocket of his school jacket when he was waiting in Outpatients with Ms. Timpson at the local hospital. Had ‘Honour’ put it there? Had he taken it himself? If the strange girl was just some random vision caused by his fainting fit then… then why had he gone to the trouble of stealing an historic coin without even realising it? He wasn’t a thief.
“What’s that?” Timpson had asked him, obviously bored and resentful at having to waste her precious time looking after the class oddity.
No he definitely wasn’t a thief. And they weren’t going to make him into one. “Nothing,” He’d replied. “You can go back if you like Miss; I’ll be okay on my own.”
As the London-bound commuters pushed past Jack, he remained deep in thought. Then his mood brightened, he actually smiled. Whatever had happened was over. He’d never have a full explanation so better put it down as one of life’s little mysteries. And as for the dream, well all dreams are weird, aren’t they. He wouldn’t be the first to be freaked out by one.
He’d turned off the main road and was now heading down the shortcut path to school that ran parallel to the top of the railway embankment.
A large figure Jack recognised only too well stepped out from a side alley, blocking the way.
He turned to find his exit barred by two other boys; Jeff Wilson, a small intense kid with hard eyes and spiky black hair, and Jamie Butt who was lanky, spotty and the thicker of the two. Bruce’s only mates they both wore a comical mix of menace and concentration as they forced Jack back up the path towards him. He turned to face his nemesis.
“What is it now, Bruce?” he asked in a weary voice that he hoped concealed his growing anxiety.
“You were laughing at me yesterday.” Bruce told him.
“What are you on about?” Jack could feel the other two’s pent-up aggression directed at him. They were just a couple of losers who wanted to get in with Bruce; a limited ambition that only served to confirm their stupidity. But Jack knew they could be nasty pieces of work.
“In the museum, when I knocked over that stupid spear.” Bruce continued, still sounding strangely hurt by the incident. “You were the first to laugh.”
This was untrue, at least inaccurate. But he had smiled nervously; Bruce always made him nervous.
“Don’t be so stupid!” Somewhere within his rising alarm Jack noted his voice had also risen higher.
“Don’t be so stupid…” Bruce mocked him in a reasonable approximation of a choirboy soprano. “We can’t all be as clever as you Jack; teacher’s bloody pet, class swot with your stupid memory taking the piss out of the rest of us.”
“I don’t take the piss, I’m not…”
“Couldn’t wait to tell your new girlfriend about it?”
“What?”
“That Honour tart.”
What did he just say? Jack staggered as if he’d been punched. Had Bruce sneaked back into the room, been watching the whole time?”
“What do you know about her?” he demanded.
“Who?” Now it was Bruce’s turn to sound surprised.
“Honour, about Honour; were you watching us?”
“Watching who? What are you talking about?”
“Honour: the girl at the museum. She was there, when I…fell over.”
“You weren’t with any girl.” Bruce replied. “You were the only one up there; we’d all gone and left you behind.”
“If that’s true, how did you know her name?”
“What?”
“You just said her name!” Jack felt he was starting to lose it.
Bruce seemed to sneer at him. “Fancy her do you?”
“Look, just shut up about it okay!” Jack’s voice came out as a desperate squeal.
“Shut up about what? You’re really losing it pal, that pathetic fainting fit yesterday must have scrambled your huge brain. Maybe you’ll be like the rest of us from now on, instead of a big-headed northern tosspot.”
“I’m warning you, just shut it!” Jack moved towards him without realising.
“And what if I don’t?” Bruce did likewise.
“I’ll make you!”
“You and whose army?”
“Shut-up!”
“Sod off!”
The two boys were standing toe to toe. Jack sensed Bruce’s arm move. Without thinking, he shot his own out. The knuckles caught Bruce’s lip; blood spurted across the boy’s face and white shirt as he recoiled in shock. Bruce put a hand up to the swollen flesh, dabbed it and looked at his bloody fingers in total surprise. Then he stared at Jack, eyes hardening.
His mouth formed into a mockery of a smile. In that instant Bruce seemed almost psychopathic.
“I’m going to make you pay for that.” Bruce said, almost in a whisper, then “Get him boys!”
Jack turned to rush at Wilson and Butt who got in each other’s way trying to grab him. He tried to squirm through a gap in the wire fence above the railway track but his foot snagged. The next moment he was tumbling down the embankment’s slope, almost landing on the live rail as he sprawled at the bottom. He staggered up with a searing pain in his ankle. His three pursuers were still preoccupied, trying to get through the fence, pushing at each other.
“Get out of my way, idiot!” he heard Bruce shout at Wilson.
Jack turned to run along the track but found he could only manage a crawl; the pain was intense. He’d reached a mass of criss-crossing points when Bruce was by his side, face contorted in a wheezy grin. “Going somewhere?” Under his breath so the other two couldn’t hear he added, “Get off the bloody line!”
“Go to hell…” There was a loud clanking sound. Jack felt something crash against his right foot, pinning it in a vice. Th
ey both looked down. His foot was trapped between the outer rail and another which had slid across at an angle. The points had changed.
Jack looked up at Bruce who’d stopped grinning. “You idiot!” Bruce hissed, “I told you to get off ’em.”
Jack twisted his leg, trying to jerk the foot out. Nothing moved; foot or rail. He tried again, wincing with pain as the damaged ankle protested.
There was a blur of movement somewhere down the line. A signal further up tilted. Then the lights on the down-line bridge turned from red to green. Around a distant corner, where the station platform ended, the yellow dot of a train shimmered into view like a mirage. The mirage solidified rapidly. It was on the same line that his foot was stuck in.
Bruce still stood gazing at the coming train in horrified realisation.
“Get me out!” Jack yelled at him. Bruce jumped over the lines and began to pull at the trapped foot. He couldn’t move it either. He looked around as if searching for something then grunted what sounded like ‘Hang on!’ as he fled past Jack up the track.
It could equally have been ‘So long!’
However Jack twisted and turned, it was useless. The train passed slowly under the bridge then rapidly gathered speed. The driver hadn’t seen him yet, still an inconsequential dot further down the line. When he did it would be too late.
Jack tried to stay calm and think of a way out. There was none. Last visions flashed through his mind; Honour in the museum, the Roman soldier in the park… the coin! He fumbled in his pockets desperately trying to remember where he’d put the damn thing. He had one last ridiculous hope; that whatever had happened in the park would somehow repeat itself if he could touch the coin again. Not in his pocket, his jacket?
The ground vibrated. The metal giant grew nearer as diesel fumes began to fill the air. He could actually see the driver’s contorted face; the guy had seen him now and was desperately reacting but Jack already knew it was no good. His hand dived into the pockets of his school jacket, pushing past pens, memory sticks and old bus tickets until finally it touched what felt like the coin’s rim.
He grabbed it between his fingers and actually prayed.
‘Somebody help me; I don’t want to die…!’
For a long moment more the train ploughed on towards him, brakes screeching uselessly, then with a crackle of static and a blast of brilliant white light the world disappeared.
Chapter 3
The first thing he felt was a pain in the small of his back, like someone had just kicked him hard. As he opened his eyes the pain doubled, this time below his ribs. A figure stood over him framed in a moonlit sky. The pain was real enough to convince him that he wasn’t dead; he was fully conscious and aching. Two strong hands grasped him under his arms and yanked him to his feet. Swaying uncertainly he looked up into the face of his unexpected helper.
It wasn’t Bruce or one of the others. A young man’s face encased in a metal helmet stared back at him; anger flashed in the eyes. The hands pushed him away so that he staggered backwards. Standing before him larger than life were two Roman soldiers. They looked like the one in the park except that both wore heavy cloaks over silver armour. The one who hadn’t picked him up held a crackling torch. Both faces looked hard in its light. The other drew a sword in a silvery arc and pointed it at him.
“Don’t try anything!” The sword tip waved closer to Jack’s astonished eyes. “You wouldn’t last a second, believe me.”
The other spoke up. “Your identity papers and purpose here.” He stared at Jack as if seeing him properly for the first time. “What in Jupiter’s name are you wearing?”
Jack tried to pick out the man’s features in the dancing light of the flames; a good fifteen years older than his partner, battle-scarred and muscled, sinewy, a viscous-looking warrior. Who nevertheless had a wide grin; Jack’s odd appearance obviously amused him. Then the realisation struck home; Jack could understand them both perfectly, even though their mouths made different shapes to the words they were saying. It had been the same with the other soldier in the park. So had that ‘dream’ been real too? The same thing was happening again, whatever that ‘thing’ was.
His own mouth was so dry with shock he could barely form a reply.
“I’m Jack… My name’s Jack Johnson.” He listened to his own words; he’d said them in English but been aware that his mouth had not made English shapes and the words had not been the ones that he’d thought he’d spoken, yet somehow he still understood them.
“Ye Gods, it speaks! Jack Johnson eh? And what part of this awful country might you be from, Master Jack Johnson? You don’t look like an idiot provincial; runaway slave perhaps…?”
“Iceni spy!” his partner chipped in, waggling the sword.
“Iceni haven’t bothered us since Queen Boudicca.”
“That bitch!” His mate actually spat.
“Yes ‘that bitch’ and a better warrior than half of you lot. He’s just some travellers’ kid.” He turned back to Jack. “How did you get through the North Gate at this time of night? The watch can’t have been that dozy. Where’s your family, boy? Somewhere down in the town?”
As the older man gestured with his sword Jack looked beyond them. Everything he knew had gone. He was standing at the bottom of a dry mud slope and although it was now dark, he realised that he was in exactly the same place as in the previous vision. There were the same wooden houses as before; beyond, the villas with their colonnaded courtyards and terracotta-tiled roofs, now glinting in the moonlight. Something was different though. A massive structure dominated the night skyline; a huge palace and some way beyond that a large circular building, maybe an amphitheatre. At the top of the slope a wooden gateway broke the town’s surrounding wall, framed by two stone towers with crackling braziers of fire at their base. He saw other soldiers patrolling the barred gates and pacing the ramparts.
Still the rational part of his mind wouldn’t give up. Was this some kind of film set or theme park? It didn’t matter; at any moment he’d flash back to the present and the train would be gone. He waited.
The older soldier stopped looking amused. “Look, you’d better talk to us! How did you get into the town after curfew? Are you a local or a traveller? Speak swiftly or you’ll feel the side of my sword!”
Despite the threat, Jack couldn’t help staring at the man’s mouth as he spoke, fascinated by the different shapes it made whilst still speaking English. He’d hesitated too long. The younger one shoved him again and Jack sprawled to the ground. They both grabbed him up again and frog-marched him up the slope.
“You’re coming with us, Master Jack.” The other told him. “A night in Fulchestorium jail should free your tongue. The Centurion can hear your story on the morn.” The grin was back. “Better make it a good one!”
At the top they turned away from the giant gates onto another track leading to a small fort nestling under the wall. Occasional firelight flickered from windows below but the only sounds on the still night air were his shoes dragging on the ground and the clinking of the soldier’s armour. The trio approached a large wooden door and the older stepped forward to rap a clenched fist salute to the sentry. Then the torchlight fell on Jack.
“God’s teeth! What have you got there, Marcus?”
“Appeared out of nowhere, by the North Gate. Not making any sense but I doubt he’s a danger to the empire tonight. Chuck him in the cells and we’ll let our glorious leader deal with him tomorrow.”
“We kill spies!’ The younger legionary called after Jack as the sentry led him away.
They entered a long torch-lit corridor with a row of doors down one side. In the tiny barred windows grimy faces stared out at him. They all looked baffled at what they were seeing.
A gruff voice broke the spell. “Who’s this pretty boy dressed up so fine?”
Laughter broke the tension.
“Shut up and go back to sleep!” The guard shouted back at them, taking random swipes at the jeering faces with a metal
bar.
“In here and keep quiet!” Jack was propelled across a room. A door slammed shut. The sputtering torches outside began to dim.
For a long time he just lay on the cold stone floor staring up at the rough plaster ceiling.
Why hadn’t the coin worked? The pain in his ankle had begun to fade so at least he hadn’t broken it. That was the least of his worries though.
So what had actually happened to him? The soldiers had said the name Fulchestorium; did that mean he really was back in the old Roman town? How was that possible? Maybe it actually was a huge film set he’d stumbled into and these jokers were extras having a bet on how long they could keep up the joke. He could sue the film company for false imprisonment.
He felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him. His eyelids flickered. There had been a train; a train that had struck him and tossed his body into the sidings of Fulchester railway station. Was this just a dream rattling around inside his head as he bled to death? He hadn’t time-travelled back to Roman Britain at all.
‘Wake up,’ he thought distantly, ‘get your eyes open again and go for help while you’ve still got a chance…’
Chapter 4
When he did eventually wake, it was to the sound of early morning birdsong. He was still in the prison. He refused to believe his eyes but there it was; still a prisoner in Roman Britain. Or still held captive by lunatic film extras. Whichever it was he would find out the truth soon enough.