“You have everything?” the general asked.
“Yes.”
“You won’t change your mind?”
“Only if you have a better idea.”
“I don’t,” he admitted. “If your dad’s out to get us, you’re our only solution. And I misjudged you, Felix. I assumed the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I was wrong. Dead wrong. No hard feelings, I hope.”
“None whatsoever. Let’s get this show on the road.”
General Manes nodded and the pair shook hands. Felix turned and faced the sphere, his muscles tensing up. The doctor was at a console over on a catwalk. When Felix signalled him, the countdown would start and …
Wait. There was someone beside him. Not someone but … Carolyn. Like Felix, she was dressed in Roman garb. He was going to speak, but she shook her head decisively.
When he nodded to the doctor and the countdown began, his hand was steadier than it had been all afternoon.
Chapter Seven
The hoplomachus tried to strike the murmillo. The older gladiator blocked the thrust, but slipped and struggled to regain his balance. Thirty thousand voices screamed, producing a roar that almost burst Felix’s eardrums. He also thought his nose would melt. Many spectators hadn’t bathed in a while and the stink was awful. To distract himself from the mind-numbing stench, he gazed across the space before him, past its central spina of statues and pillars, its starting gates for chariot races, and its tiers that could hold two hundred thousand people. Not too shabby, he thought.
The last day had been peculiar. First, there’d been the projection itself. Hurtling through the cracks of the cosmos, he’d felt a billion unseen hands yank his particles down a path of radiation. His limbs had been stretched over a thousand light years and he’d witnessed the birth and death of galaxies, all within a heartbeat. Then everything had snapped together and he’d wound up, with Carolyn, in the cella of Minerva’s temple.
From the temple they’d journeyed to Panarium, a small town on the outskirts of Rome. Tracking down the vendor they’d met the last time round, Felix had purchased two pieces of pastry, paying with cinnamon from a hidden pouch. As expected, some soldiers had spied the spice and done their best to take it away. He and Carolyn had fought them off until General Pompey had intervened. Hearing that Felix knew Aceticus by reputation, he’d invited them to come to Rome, just as he’d done the last time around. They’d attended a feast where, among other things, Felix had quoted a few lines from Virgil (whose Aeneid hadn’t yet been written) and so impressed Pompey that the general had invited him to attend this munus. That’s why he was watching these men fight to the finish, fully aware the murmillo would win. As awful as this contest was, Aceticus was scheduled to appear when it ended.
“It’s like I said last time,” Carolyn said, eyeing the contestants, “the older man’s the better fighter.”
“What did she say?” a thickset man of middling height demanded. His face was wide and very good-natured, but his eyes contained an unpredictable fire. This was Gnaius Pompey Magnus.
“She said the murmillo is stronger,” Felix answered. To explain Carolyn’s awful Latin, he’d said she was visiting from Aquitania, a part of Gaul untouched by Rome. He explained that her father had died three months back and Carolyn had been forced to move in with his family.
“My thoughts exactly,” Pompey replied. He turned to the large man sitting on his right, a swarthy fellow with sagging jowls that gave him a comic, hang-dog expression. This was Marcus Licinius Crassus, a Roman general and the city’s richest citizen. He’d been hanging about since the evening before. “Crassus, twelve aurei say that the murmillo beats the hoplomachus. Do you accept the bet?”
“It amazes me, Magnus, how you never learn your lesson and unfailingly back the weaker party. I stake twelve aurei on the hoplomachus.”
Felix shook his head in disbelief. It was strange to know what was going to happen, what people would say, who would hurt whom, as if the entire population, a swarm of people, were actors in a drama and had memorized their lines.
But it was creepy knowing how this match would end. The hoplomachus had grazed his rival’s forearm and was stabbing left and right with his eight-foot spear. Felix glanced at a woman nearby. She’ll shout “skewer him, stab him like a chicken,” he thought. Sure enough, she suddenly yelled, “Skewer him! Stab him like a chicken!”
Felix smiled grimly.
“When will this end?” Carolyn said through gritted teeth.
“We’re almost there,” Felix assured her, as the murmillo lashed out suddenly and knocked his rival flat. The crowd started shouting, “Celadus! Celadus!” as did the woman who, just seconds before, had wanted to see Celadus stabbed like a chicken.
On cue, the audience turned to Pompey. It was his right to decide the warrior’s fate. As before, he invited Carolyn to judge. Her preference was to save the hoplomachus, but this might have caused a butterfly effect. For a second time she refused this honour and so condemned the man to death. Pompey brought his thumb down and Celadus stabbed his rival. As Felix and Carolyn shuddered in horror, someone hailed them from behind. Felix turned and sighed with relief. The orator Cicero drew near with an old man in tow whose face was familiar: the historian Aceticus. How lucky that the “child” hadn’t got to him yet.
“It gets interesting now,” Felix whispered. “We no longer know how events will unfold.”
“I hope there’s no repeat of last year’s drama,” she said. She was referring to the fact that Felix had been stabbed at this juncture.
“There won’t be,” he promised. “I haven’t said I’m Aceticus’ son; just that I know of him by word of mouth. No one will think we’re up to no good.”
By now Aceticus had joined the group. While the historian was Pompey’s client, the general was inclined to treat him as an equal, describing him to Crassus as an old family friend. He motioned Felix forward and introduced the pair.
“Where are you from?” Aceticus asked, with a kindly smile. He didn’t notice Carolyn; as a female and non-citizen, she didn’t count.
“From Andes, outside Mantua, domine.”
“I’ve heard Mantua is beautiful,” Aceticus went on, “but have never seen it.”
“It’s off the Via Postumia and difficult to get to.”
“According to Pompeius Magnus, you are acquainted with my name?”
“That is correct, domine. Rumour has it that you’re writing a book.”
“Indeed I am!” he cried, his wrinkled face lighting up with joy. “It is the passion of my old age and the sole reason I rise each morning. If I had no such project, I’d be utterly lost. How delightful my Historiae are known beyond my study, even if they’re not yet complete!”
Some spectators were grumbling. A retiarius was fighting a thraex. The latter was about to move in for the kill. Pompey’s group was blocking the view. Hearing the complaints, the general climbed some stairs and headed to an exit. His friends immediately followed in his wake.
The group passed beneath a series of arches. Aceticus was asking Pompey about his time in Spain — the general had just returned from the province. Cicero was discussing Spartacus with Crassus, but the billionaire was listening in on Pompey: they were competitors and Crassus wanted to hear what his rival was saying. In fact, he went one step further. Calling the group to a stop, he invited everyone to his house for dinner, Felix and Carolyn included. He also offered them an escort home, or the choice of passing the night in his domus; walking the city after dark was a bad idea. After a moment’s hesitation, everyone accepted.
They’d passed the stadium’s western exit, which led directly to the Aventine Hill. Crassus’s domus lay on its slopes. Felix squinted in the afternoon sun. In the distance he could see the Tiber River and warehouses belonging to the Porticus Aemilia. The Temple of Mercury stood on his left. Carolyn had carried him here when he’d been stabbed the last time around. The memory caused his ribs to tingle. On his right was another temple, mod
est in size and with worn, Tuscan columns. A crowd had gathered out in front.
They were there in the thousands, pushing and straining. Off to one side was a wall of wagons, packed to the breaking point with baskets of grain. Three men were handing these baskets out, even as they enjoined the crowd to form three lines. The crowd barely listened and kept surging as close as they could to the wagons. A knot of soldiers was standing guard, but looked very uneasy.
“Is that Ceres’s temple?” Aceticus asked, squinting hard to take in the scene.
“It is indeed,” Cicero answered. “Believe it or not, this is a congiarium.”
“Let’s move in closer,” Crassus suggested, stepping ahead of the group.
The others followed. As the historian pressed forward, Carolyn and Felix stuck to him. At the same time, Felix explained the congiarium. The crowd was there to get a free handout of grain, enough food to last them a week or so. This dole was a common political tool. The people who’d received this gift would support the politician who’d provided it.
“So it’s a form of bribery?” Carolyn said.
“Yes.”
“It’s wrong to control a population this way.”
“But it’s not wrong to control them with ERR,” Felix countered dryly.
Pompey had climbed a wall and was surveying the scene. Crassus joined him, Cicero, too. Aceticus was flitting on the edge of the crowd, not trusting his balance to stand on the wall. Eyeing him, Felix wondered how they’d guard him day and night. If the “child” was out there, he could strike at will these next six days; after that his charge would expire. The question was how could they protect the old man day and night for almost a week?
“This won’t be easy,” Carolyn said, reading his thoughts. “He’ll ask us why we’re breathing down his neck.”
“I know,” Felix agreed. “We’ll have to think of an answer.”
He turned back to Aceticus. The officials were slow in distributing the grain and the crowd was growing restless. People were booing and yelling insults. These provoked further shouts, as well as laughter and bursts of song. The lines grew less orderly and people pushed toward the wagons. The soldiers tried to force them back, but their numbers were too few. Some bystanders managed to grab a few baskets. Their triumph further enflamed the crowd who, fearing the baskets would run out soon, dropped all semblance of order and forced their way forward. The soldiers were helpless to thrust them back. With laughter, shouts, jeers, and song, the mob knocked the wagons over and made off with the grain. The situation was potentially dangerous, but Felix had to grin. Everyone was so magnificently human.
“There’s emotion for you.” Carolyn sniffed.
Felix nodded then turned his gaze elsewhere. Someone else was watching the crowd from the temple’s raised stylobate. His tall, thin figure, senator’s robe, and perfect poise commanded people’s respect. He was smiling coyly, as if amused by the chaos. As the shouts got louder and the tumult increased, his hardened features broke into a grin.
“Do you know who that is?” Felix demanded, pointing the man out. Without awaiting her reply, he said, “That’s Julius Caesar.”
“Julius who?”
In a rush of words, Felix explained that Caesar would become the city’s chief politician, that he would subdue the untamed parts of Gaul, then turn his forces on Pompey and Rome. In some ways Caesar would save the empire, but at the cost of slaughtering many people. As he spoke, he saw Pompey had noticed Caesar, too. Leaving the wall, the general sailed into the crowd and stood beside Caesar on the temple’s platform. Hating to be left out, Crassus followed suit. The two were soon chatting with Caesar, who seemed happy to have the generals there.
“History’s being made,” Felix said. “The first triumvirate is taking shape.”
Carolyn wasn’t listening. With a gasp of panic she’d left his side and was racing toward Aceticus. Felix flinched then shot off, too. While he’d been busy watching Caesar, a man had zeroed in on the senior. This thug was very short and thin, much like a child. In his hand was a dagger.
Felix ran hard. He moved so fast that he and Carolyn hit the “child” at the same time, just as he was lifting his knife to strike. Felix swept his legs from under him, while Carolyn punched him twice in the chest. He dropped like a stone.
They grabbed him by his tunic. Ignoring the man’s cries, Felix said in Common Speak that the game was up and they were taking him home. His fingers were closing on his statue already, to whisk the guy off before he tried to escape.
“I don’t understand,” he gasped in Latin. “Speak Latin, if you can. And how was I to know the geezer was your friend? I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just wanted his purse.”
“You’re speaking Latin,” Felix said, momentarily nonplussed.
“What else would I be speaking?” the man practically spat. “Some of us were born in this city. We don’t use Greek or that cow speech of yours.”
“You were born here…?”
“On the Vicus Armilustri! Listen, domine, I’ve done no harm. There’s no need to get the vigiles involved …”
“It’s not him,” Felix told Carolyn. “He’s just a thief.”
“So I see,” Carolyn said.
“But the ‘child’ is here,” Felix said. “Or so my instincts tell me.”
“You just think that,” she said wryly, “because everyone here looks capable of murder.”
Chapter Eight
Alighting on a birdbath, a sparrow drank some water and shook its wings. The afternoon light played upon its plumage, it harshness filtered by a line of trees and an exuberant rhododendron bush. Water splashed onto the mosaic floor and struck a marble bust in a corner. The bust resembled Crassus closely and Felix assumed it was a portrait of some ancestor.
The scene was enchanting. They were standing in a peristylium whose dimensions put the Taylors’ unit to shame. And it was only part of the two-storey domus, whose vestibulum, atrium, and other rooms were beautifully arranged. The hortus too was a feast for the eyes.
The sparrow was still drinking when an advancing presence caused it to take wing. Felix smiled as Carolyn drew near. They’d arrived at Crassus’s home shortly before. While the other guests were resting up, Carolyn, like Felix, wished to stretch her legs. She was adjusting her palla as she walked up to him.
“Want help?” he asked, as she fiddled with its folds.
“That’s okay. I can manage.”
But she couldn’t. She’d piled the material too much on one side and all of it suddenly slipped to the tiles, leaving her in nothing but a linen tunic. As she retrieved the cloak, Felix spied a scar on her shoulder. It was perfectly round and an inch in diameter. Only a precision instrument could have left such a mark.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“None of your business,” she snapped back. By now the palla was back in place and she was pinning its heavy folds together. For this, she had a wooden brooch in hand.
“I shouldn’t have asked,” he apologized. “This is quite some garden, isn’t it?”
“It’s pretty,” she conceded. Aware he hadn’t meant any harm, she explained, “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what it’s from. But it’s no big deal.”
“Okay.”
She would have said more, but they were interrupted. Emerging from a doorway that led to the cucina, three servants in aprons led a sheep into the garden. The beast was docile and ambled to a stone block in the corner. Felix and Carolyn were thunderstruck. Such animals were rare in their own day and age.
“I’ve never seen a goat,” she murmured. “Not even in a zoo.”
“That’s not a goat,” Felix corrected her. “I think it’s a sheep.”
They watched as the servants fed the animal grain and stroked its fur affectionately. One was carrying a fair-sized basket. They were laughing and talking softly together.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Carolyn said. Her eyes were on the sheep still and, while her ERR wouldn’t let her
smile, she was feeling something close to contentment.
“Do what?”
“How you negotiate this world. It pulls in every direction at once and barely gives you space to breathe. One moment it’s beautiful and people are charming; the next they’re doing despicable things.”
“I guess I’ve been taught to expect such complications. They’re what make us interesting, my dad always says. Our genius to build is matched by our desire to harm.”
“I guess.”
The sheep bleated plaintively. The men were gripping it tightly now and holding it over the shelf of stone. The beast hated being handled so and was putting up a struggle. Its angry bleating was loud and comical. Again Carolyn almost managed a smile.
“We could have been born in this age,” Felix observed, chuckling too at the sheep’s pathetic kicking. “All of this might have struck us as normal.”
“Normal doesn’t mean admirable.”
“Maybe. But you can’t dismiss it casually, either. It must have value….”
As if to sabotage this statement, there was a ghastly shriek from the sheep. One servant had drawn its head back and bared its throat to the world. A second had pulled a knife from the basket and, with one deft movement, passed the blade across its jugular. There was a spurt of blood and, with the last of its breath, the sheep was making a horrific sound, high-pitched, pained and full of panic. It was attempting to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come. It was kicking out spasmodically but the men held on tight. And there was no escaping the iron grip of death.
One of them caught sight of the pair. With blood from the sheep trickling from his chin, he cried, “You two will be feasting this evening!”
“I don’t care what you say.” Carolyn sniffed, her ERR barely hiding her scorn. “These people are barbaric. As soon as we’ve escaped this place, I’m going to delete these terrible memories forever.”
She stalked off. Felix was thinking along the same lines when he saw a servant lean toward the beast, whisper to it, and scratch its ears. It was like watching someone bid a friend farewell.
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