Fortuna

by Nicholas Maes

  “Keep … going!” Felix yelled. “Too … dangerous … to search!”

  As if to emphasize his point, two men drew near. Felix dispatched one with a roundhouse kick, while Carolyn easily handled the other. These “antics” only fuelled the crowd’s fury. A hail of missiles assailed the pair and they pressed on. Carolyn was cursing still.

  Felix looked around desperately. There was nowhere to hide. Not only was the mob hot on their trail, but people were also barring their housesto deny the pair safety and to save their property from the mob’s blind rage. More stones flew at them. Women were ululating and dogs were barking. Storage urns, stalls, chairs and tables, laundry, statues, potted plants: everything was being knocked about. And the crowd was screaming more heatedly than ever, “Romani, Romani!”

  And then Felix spied it, over in the distance. It was a strange-looking monument, grand but sombre. It was six stories tall and built of blinding-white marble. He couldn’t see the bottom half, but its upper one consisted of columns in a square, all surmounted by a pyramidal roof. It wasn’t a government building, a temple or palace. What on earth …?

  Felix grinned. This structure was a tomb! And not just any tomb, but …

  “Turn … right … next … corner!” he gasped, wiping sweat from his eyes. His throat felt like leather that has dried and cracked. Carolyn just nodded. She needed all the breath she had.

  The corner appeared and they dashed around it. Objects hit the ground in their wake: fruit, stones, sticks, pots, tiles, bricks, and several spears. The crowd was hurling anything at hand. “Romani, Romani!” their battle-cry continued. Unwisely, Felix glanced behind. He was shocked to see people flooding the street in a wave. They numbered in the hundreds now and all without exception were charging toward them. “Romani, Romani!” A cloud of dust arched over their masses and made it seem that they were part of a tornado. Here and there metal flashed: spears, swords, and knives. The yelling was so loud and persistent that it seemed to be erupting from some beast of prey, the mythological sphinx, perhaps.

  They pressed forward. They were panting heavily and on the brink of collapse. Both were soaking and half-dying of thirst.

  “Where … to?” Carolyn gasped.

  “There!” Felix croaked, steering her left. The tomb lay dead ahead of them and its bottom half was visible. It was built from marble blocks, stacked three storeys high. Stairs were chiselled into these heights. The tomb was thirty metres off. If they could just hang on …

  “Can’t … run …” Carolyn panted.

  “Almost … there!”

  Grasping their objective, the crowd pushed harder. More missiles flew. Dates, onions, and oranges assailed him and a stone bounced off his shoulder blade. A tile hit Carolyn square on her neck. She would have lost her balance if Felix hadn’t steadied her. Ten metres more….

  A guy man appeared beside him, a stick in hand. Felix swung and knocked him flat. Five metres … four…. Another lout came charging. “Romani!” he screamed, his face distorted with hate. He lunged with a dagger. Felix twisted hard and the man bit the dust. And … there! They were at the steps! Thrusting Carolyn ahead of him, he climbed the first storey then collapsed in a heap.

  He closed his eyes. While part of him was thinking they were safe for the moment, another was thinking a dozen hands would strike and spears and swords would cut him to pieces. He was expecting to be dragged in the dust and to hear Carolyn shrieking in pain beside him. He’d feel the blood leave his body and watch dogs skirmish over his limbs….

  Nothing. The only sound was of them breathing. He opened his eyes.

  The crowd was standing immediately below, three hundred of them, maybe more. Like Felix, they were breathing hard. They were eyeing these “Romans” with murderous lust, watching quietly, and fingering stones. But no one charged. No one. Without exception, they kept their distance.

  Some minutes passed. As the two slowly slowly caught their breath, Carolyn threw Felix a questioning look.

  “Why don’t they strike?” she asked. Her face was red, her hair was dripping and … she looked more alive than ever before.

  “Out of respect for this building. It’s lucky I saw it.”

  “What’s makes it so special?”

  “This is the tomb of Alexander, the city’s founder. In honour of his memory, you can’t hurt people seeking refuge here.”

  “So we’re safe so long as we remain on these steps?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What happens when we’re thirsty? We can’t sit here forever. I was such an idiot to drop that figurine!”

  Felix said nothing. Instead he climbed the rest of the stairs. They ended at the level that was lined with pillars. Squeezing between two of these, Felix stepped onto a porch-like structure. Spooked by the crowd, Carolyn joined him.

  “What a view,” he murmured, gazing west. Before him lay a wealth of buildings, a palace, a complex with multiple wings, a theatre, a gymnasium, shops, warehouses, and an endless harbour. It was thick with ships, mostly military vessels, triremes, tetrereis, and tessarakonteres. These last were over six storeys high and could carry close to four thousand sailors. And beyond these vessels was the glorious sea, blue and radiant; an uplifting sight. Most spectacular was a tower on a nearby island. Felix knew it instantly: the lighthouse of Pharos, a wonder of the ancient world.

  “I hate to interrupt,” Carolyn said, “but this is no time for sight-seeing.”

  “In actual fact,” Felix said, “I’m looking for something.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “There!” Felix cried, pointing left. “Wave your arms!”

  Below him and two blocks away was a group of Romans mounted on horses. They were poised before a massive gate, which Felix knew to be the Gate of the Moon. On the gate’s far side was the start of a causeway that led across the bay to Pharos Island. This is where the Romans were camped. Their ships were docked beside the causeway and along the island’s inner shore. There were also tell-tale tents in the distance, neatly arranged in rows and columns.

  “Milites!” Felix screamed, “Sumus cives Romani! Succurrite nobis!” He repeated this five times at least.

  “They’re coming!” Carolyn cried. “Whatever you’re yelling, it seems to be working!”

  “I told them we’re Romans and called for help. Let’s return to the stairs.”

  They left the pillared “balcony” and descended the steps. Many people had left, but a few dozen remained. They were seated in the dust and biding their time. When the two “Romans” reappeared, they smiled and rose to their feet, convinced the pair was about to surrender. As the two approached the end of the steps, the crowd drew closer, their eyes focused on the “Romani.”

  Their lust for violence had them so distracted that they didn’t notice the knights’ advance. One moment the square before the tomb was empty; the next it was full of charging horses, all bearing Roman knights whose spears were lowered and meant serious business. The clatter of hooves and trumpet blasts caused the lot of them to scatter. One and all they raced down nearby alleys, without any Roman having to strike a blow.

  “Quick!” the leader called to Felix. “Before the crowd regroups! Climb aboard!”

  Felix and Carolyn darted forward. Strong hands hauled them onto two chargers, and, as soon as they were settled, the beasts sped forward. A cloud of dust defiled the sky. As fast as they’d appeared, the Romans vanished.

  A minute later calm returned to the street. A cat stretched out in a pool of sun. The dust slowly settled in place, leaving streaks on people’s roofs and awnings. And the resting place of the great Alexander was once again steeped in the quiet of death.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sun was hanging low on the horizon. Within an hour it would touch the sea and either die in its waters or set them afire. The day’s heat was diminishing and a breeze was blowing in from the west. While the coolness was a welcome change, it meant the world had caught its second wind. The locals we
re stirring and their thoughts would turn to battle.

  Felix crossed the circular room to its eastern window. The Heptastadion was just south of him; it was the causeway that they’d ridden across with their Roman escort. Anchored alongside it was a fleet of Roman quadriremes, each with a prow of reinforced bronze. At the causeway’s end stood the Roman camp: the legionnaires were getting their dinner ready. They were wise to eat, Felix considered. They had a trying night ahead of them.

  Felix smiled as he saw troops scurrying below. They’d treated him and Carolyn well, providing them with food and water and tending their wounds. Felix had hoped that they’d forget the pair, allowing them to melt away when the coast was clear. Unfortunately, Caesar had discovered their presence and wanted to take a look at these strangers. After giving them time to catch their breath, a centurion had finally led them off, even as the legionnaires had wished them luck.

  They’d been taken to the lighthouse, where Caesar was quartered. This tower had taken Felix’s breath away. It was forty storeys tall and consisted of three levels. The bottom one was square in shape, twelve metres wide and eighty metres tall. It was fitted with dozens of rooms, all beautifully furnished. The second level was octagonal in shape, forty metres high and eight metres wide. Capping it was the final stage, fifteen metres high and circle-shaped. It was four storeys tall and they were standing in the lowest one. The tower was poised on a huge, stone platform and all of it was built from limestone blocks, each weighing a couple of tons. Felix had been in taller buildings, but the height of this one seemed more impressive.

  “It seems taller than our buildings,” Carolyn said, reading his thoughts. She was with him at the window and admiring the view. Below them was a harbour and … Alexandria. Lights from household fires were burning and the streets were starting to fill with people, especially the area nearest the docks.

  “That’s our target,” he observed. He was pointing to a complex with multiple wings. “The entire building is called the Museion. The library’s inside it, right next to the docks.”

  “It’s quite something,” Carolyn said, without her usual scorn.

  “It is,” Felix agreed. “Yet in just a few hours almost all of it will burn. There are a million scrolls inside and most will vanish. All of that learning. It will never be replaced.”

  “It’s strange that information can hang by such a thread.”

  “That’s why we’ve kept the Repository going. If Angstrom closes it, do you know how much culture we’ll lose? Poems, novels, recipes, songs, ideas, dreams, visions of the past. None of this,” he said, waving his hand across the city, “none of this will be remembered. It will be as if it had never existed.”

  Carolyn nodded slowly. For once she actually seemed impressed.

  “And what’s true of them is true of us, or so my dad always says. If we don’t remember the last generation, the next generation will forget us just as quickly.”

  Even as he finished speaking, he realized that he cared about the Repository’s books. His father’s guilt still troubled him, but it shouldn’t mark the collection’s death. If Angstrom tried to shut things down, Felix would fight him tooth and nail.

  A noise broke in on them — it was like an ogre snorting. It was followed by a roar-like hissing and Felix thought there was an engine running. Realizing what it had to be, he stuck his head outside and craned his neck upward. The sky was on fire, the patch above them at least. The dark had advanced and the lighthouse keeper had lit the beacon. It would burn continuously until the following dawn.

  “You mentioned your dad,” Carolyn said, once Felix had drawn his head back in.

  “What about him?” Felix asked, his smile quickly fading.

  “I’m sorry he’s in trouble. I liked him, until he cloned me, that is.”

  “To tell you the truth,” Felix said uncertainly, “I don’t think he cloned you. He might not be behind these attacks.”

  “I know he’s your father, but you shouldn’t make excuses.”

  “I’m not. I really think he might be blameless.”

  He explained his doubts. If his dad had cloned Carolyn, there were just two places he could have done so. After recovering from the plague, he’d spent his time at home or at the Book Repository. The house was out of the question; Felix and his mother would have caught him red-handed. As for the Repository, there’d been one possible room, but Felix had found nothing suspicious inside it.

  “That’s something, but it’s weak,” Carolyn said. “It doesn’t explain the pencil, the Zacron suit, or the shuttle’s log. And Dr. Lee picked him out …”

  “Do you know the professor’s wardrobe?”

  “In his office? Sure.”

  “The door is loose and keeps swinging open. When we were with him, I saw inside it. In addition to all sorts of junk, guess what I found?”

  “Tell me.”

  “A pencil stub.”

  “A pencil stub? That’s peculiar.”

  “And while I didn’t see a Zacron suit, I’ll bet he owns one. And even if he doesn’t, he could have lifted fibres from my father’s suit the last time we saw him.”

  “And the shuttle?” she demanded. “According to its log, it left your house and flew to the Station. Your dad was on it a few hours before.”

  “True. But while we were heading to the Space Hub to drop my mom off, the professor made a point of calling. He was wishing her good luck, but …”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And even if MacPherson were guilty, what’s his motivation? And what about the doctor? He’d have to be lying when he said your dad attacked him. It sounds pretty lame, if you want my opinion.”

  “I suppose it does,” Felix said, shaking his head. “I’m only saying my father’s guilt doesn’t seem as iron-clad. There’s another piece of evidence, but it’s probably a long shot. Still, until his guilt is proven, I’m assuming he might be innocent. It’s the least I owe him.”

  “I guess that’s true.” Carolyn sounded doubtful. Abruptly, she changed the subject. “What are we going to do when we’re finished here? I mean, assuming we succeed, how do we get back? I could kill myself for dropping that statue!”

  For the next minute they discussed possible solutions. They could return to the stall and try tracking down the portal, but that would mean braving the locals again. Felix, too, could jump to the future, fetch a second portal, and return to the past, never mind the energy this would require. As they debated these choices, an official entered the room. He was of middling height and narrowly built, with fair hair, dark brown eyes, and skin so smooth it resembled a baby’s. There was something menacing about him and Felix eyed him closely.

  “Caesar will see you,” the man said in a nasal tone. “But you must be quick. The general is busy.”

  Felix knew who he was before he’d finished speaking. As the man left the room and motioned them to follow, he whispered to Carolyn, “That’s Marcus Junius Brutus.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “He fought with Pompey at Pharsalus. Caesar likes him. Too bad he doesn’t know the rat will one day kill him.”

  “Ah,” Carolyn said, “and you can’t warn him.”

  “No.”

  The pair followed Brutus up a flight of marble stairs. One floor up they passed a room like theirs in which a woman and three servants were seated. The lady had jet-black hair, a sculpted nose, and was garbed in Egyptian dress. Again Felix gasped. He only spied her for an instant — Brutus was calling — but realized this was Cleopatra, future queen of Egypt and Caesar’s “girlfriend.” He couldn’t wait to tell his father …

  His father. No. That wouldn’t work.

  “Go in. He’s expecting you,” Brutus said, when they’d joined him on the next floor. He was pointing to an open door. A servant sat beside it on a stool. There was a storey above them but it held the lighthouse beacon.

  They passed the servant and entered the chamber. Brutus close
d the door behind them. The space was circular, like the rooms below, and contained a bunk, a desk, and several chairs. There was also a frame holding a set of armour. In addition to the light from the dying sun, three terra cotta lamps cast pale yellow haloes.

  “Welcome,” a voice hailed them. A figure was at the window and gazing at the scene below. Before Felix could speak, the figure faced them: Julius Caesar.

  Felix and Carolyn almost jumped in shock. They’d last seen Caesar three days ago, but in actual fact, twenty-three years had passed; trying ones for Caesar, and the effects were telling. His chestnut hair had whitened and was drastically thinner. His body was lean, but moved less fluidly; his right leg limped, most likely from a battle wound. His skin was leathery, almost like a turtle’s, and his eyes, while intensely alive, betrayed weariness and resignation, as if time had tested all his ideas and they’d failed to pass muster. His left fist was clenched. There was something inside it.

  His gaze was focused on them. Without speaking he absorbed their presence, their fair complexions, their height, their perfect teeth. His eyes were bright and didn’t miss a single detail.

  “I know you,” he said in a flat, even voice.

  “I don’t think so,” Felix lied.

  “We dined together,” Caesar insisted. “Crassus was our host. This was when Spartacus was still at large. Your cousin ate with us — I recognize her scar.” He pointed to the mark on Carolyn’s bare shoulder. “The following day we went to the baths.”

  “How’s that possible, dux?” Felix asked, in a jocular tone. “Spartacus was active over twenty years ago. My cousin and I are all of sixteen so …”

  “Aceticus was there, the historian. Remember? He was stabbed in two places. I thought he would die, but he climbed to his feet after you worked your magic on him.”

  “You must be mistaken, dux. We know no magic and age like everyone else.”

  “The pair of you vanished,” Caesar said insistently. “Your cousin ducked into the crowd, while you melted like ice on a hot summer day.”