“Jove bless you, no!” exclaims the Centurion kindly. “The Divine Augustus has been dead these twenty-five years or more. We’ve got Caligula now.” He hands you back the pass and a papyrus map of Rome. “Little gift from the Tourist Office,” he explains, saluting. “Enjoy your visit.”
Looks like Jupiter screwed up again, probably on purpose this time. But there’s nothing you can do about that now. “Sic biscuitus disintegratus,” you murmur without benefit of the Mercury Phone, having picked up this useful bit of Latin during one of your many deaths.
The Centurion looks at you blankly. “Pardon?”
“Sic biscuitus disintegratus,” you repeat. “It means That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
“No, it doesn’t,” says the Centurion.
“No, it doesn’t,” whispers your Mercury Phone.
The Centurion frowns. “That’s just pig Latin like Caesar et sum jam forte, Brutus et erat, Caesar sic in omnibus, Brutus sic in at. Doesn’t mean anything at all. “
“But how do you translate ‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles’?” you wail, desolate that you could have been fooled for so long.
“Search me,” shrugs the Centurion.
You thump your ear, but your Mercury Phone seems to have gone asleep.
Look, I know Latin is important in certain circumstances, but just at the moment you’ve got bigger problems than translating ‘That’s the way the stupid cookie crumbles.’ It’s obviously too late to stop Caligula being born now, so it looks as if you’re just going to have to get rid of him somehow. Maybe a good place to start would be to study your new map and visit a few places.
Places of Interest in Rome
Go to...
151 145 138 112 99 87 5 76 57 15 47 34 122
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26
He bites his lower lip thoughtfully and frowns. “I’m sure I remember you,” he repeats.
“No you don’t,” you tell him. “You’ve never set eyes on me before. If you think you have it’s probably my twin or somebody else who looks a bit like me. Or you may be confusing me with a statue. I bear an uncanny resemblance to some of the early busts of Julius Caesar. Or you may -”
“You’re the young person who successfully answered every question in my Quiz of Death!” Caligula exclaims. “How good of you to come and see me. Sit down here beside me - we’ll watch the games together.”
“Actually, sir, I’d prefer it if you popped out with me for a moment. I’ve a friend who’d really like to get your autograph.”
“Of course I’ll pop out with you,” Caligula says jovially. “But only if you can answer one more question in my little Quiz of Death. Same rules as before, of course.”
“I -” you begin to protest.
“The question is this,” Caligula presses on inexorably. “How many letters are there in the name of my sainted mother? VII? Or VIII?”
Do you even know the name of his sainted mother? Can you spell it if you do? Can you work out the difference between the numbers VII and VIII? This is life in the fast lane of Ancient Rome. If you think the answer is VII turn to 139. If you think it might be VIII turn to 149
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27
You can see bright sunlight at the end of the tunnel, you can hear the swelling roar of the crowd and, frankly, you can also catch the heavy smell of blood.
You hesitate, wondering what possessed you to come back to this ghastly place of your own free will. Whatever the movie industry may have done with it in your own day, the Roman Games were always about death. There’s some vague memory at the back of your mind that they actually started out as funeral exhibitions.
Still in no hurry to go into the arena again despite your earlier decision, you pull out your faithful Brief Guide to Ancient Rome and look up Games. Sure enough, the book confirms that gladiators originally performed at Etruscan funerals. The idea was to give the dead man armed attendants in the next world, so the fights were to the death. Even the very name ‘gladiator’ came from the word ‘gladius’ which your Mercury Phone wakes up briefly to translate as ‘sword’.
In Rome these exhibitions became wildly popular. To give you an idea how popular, the Guide mentions that the very first exhibition, the funeral of a noble named Brutus in 264 b.c., had three pairs of gladiators fighting. By the time Julius Caesar snuffed it in 44 b.c. a funeral wouldn’t have been a funeral unless you had three hundred gladiators fighting to the death.
After a while, of course, the funerals were no longer needed as an excuse. Games started to get held just for the fun of seeing people killed. It became a very popular spectacle. The shows that started as one-day events gradually stretched until some of them literally ran for a quarter of a year. The Triumph celebrations held for the Emperor Trajan used up 5,000 pairs of gladiators.
You’re about to put the book away when you notice there were various sorts of gladiators. The samnites fought with a large oblong shield, a visor, a plumed helmet, and a short sword. The thraces had a small round buckler and a dagger curved like a scythe. The mirmillones were armed in with helmet, sword, and shield.
You even find a description of your very first opponent, who was obviously a retiarius or net man. There were many more types, including one that fought on horseback blindfold.
The shows were like early pop concerts. They were announced on wall posters that told you who was topping the bill and who were the supporting acts. The spectacle began with a procession of the gladiators through the arena, followed by a sham fight using wooden swords and javelins.
When the real fighting started, any reluctant gladiators were driven into the arena with whips and red-hot irons.
Fifty thousand people crowded into the Coliseum at Rome (which is just in the finishing stages of construction as you read all this) to watch the combats. The Games were definitely an equal opportunities employer. Sixteen years ago, in 63 a.d., female gladiators were introduced into the arena for the first time to the delight of the nutty Nero who was Emperor at the time.
Look, do you really want to get mixed up in this mess again? If you’ve had your fill of blood and guts, you can always return to your map at 150 and select another destination. But if you insist on taking your life in your hands again, you can do so at 78.
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28
You stand shivering slightly before a door on which somebody has hung a hand-written notice reading:
NOLI INTRARE
“What’s that mean?” you hiss at your Mercury Phone.
“Keep out,” it translates. “Sorry, I was thinking about something else.”
Permanently engraved on the door itself is what seems to be the Roman gamebook version of a combination lock. Your Mercury Phone causes the writing to shimmer and turn (mostly) into English:
If Jove is another name for Jupiter and Mars is the god of War, turn to XIV unless Imperator Caesar Augustus was the son of Emperor Tiberius in which case make that XXXXII. But if more than one of the previous statements is correct, ignore them all and multiply X by X, add L then subtract III and make at once for your answer.
Don’t you sometimes wish you’d never been born? This one beats me completely. You’d better decide whether to turn to XIV, XXXXII or (X x X + L - III).
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29
“Wrong!” exclaims Caligula delightedly. He grins wickedly. “Only kidding. Now, your next question in the Quiz of Death is this: Who is currently King of Judaea? Is it Herod Antipas? Is it Pontius Pilatus? Is it Herod Agrippa?
Goes on for ever, doesn’t it? If you think it was Herod Antipas, turn to 9 If you think it was Pontius Pilatus turn to 19. If you think it was Herod Agrippa, turn to 52.
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30
Surreptitiously you slip the Brief Guide to Ancient Rome from your pocket.
“Do you think the weather will stay settled?” you ask the mad woman casually.
She frowns. “I expect it will,” she says and stares up at the sky.
At once you leaf through the index while her attention is diverted. In all probability there was never such a person as Gaius Caesar Germanicus. It sounds just the sort of name somebody would make up for an Ancient Roman.
But to your surprise there is a reference to somebody of that name on page 28. Swiftly you turn to it.
According to the Guide, Gaius Caesar Germanicus was born on Aug. 31, in the year 12 a.d. at a place called Antium. His father was Germanicus Caesar, nephew and adopted son of the Emperor Tiberius, which made Gaius a member of the royal family.
He had a rough time when he was growing up, by the sound of it. The Guide says his father was probably murdered on the Emperor’s order when he was only seven. This was followed by the murder of his father and his two elder brothers, again probably on the Emperor’s orders.
You stop reading for a moment to reflect on how bloodthirsty Ancient Rome used to be and sympathise with poor little Gaius growing up under constant threat of death. But as you start reading again, you discover that not only did he survive, but he actually made it to Emperor in 37 a.d. Even as Emperor his bad luck continued. He became seriously ill just seven months after his accession to the throne.
Frowning, you try to remember an Emperor Gaius, but without success. Still frowning, you read on to discover Emperor Gaius quickly turned himself into a monster.
In 38 a.d. he executed Naevius Sutorius Macro, the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard who had helped him to the throne. Then he murdered Tiberius Gemellus, the grandson of Tiberius, who should have been the one to become Emperor in the first place.
The following year he executed his sister’s husband Aemilius Lepidus and a soldier named Gnaeus Lentulus Gaetulicus who was commander of the Upper Rhine armies. Since he quickly spent the huge sums the Emperor Tiberius had saved, he began a policy of extortion directed against prominent Roman citizens. When they didn’t pay enough, he confiscated their estates.
Early in 40 a.d, he marched into France, called Gaul at that time, and plundered the entire country. Then he did something very odd. He marched his troops to the northern shoreline ready to invade Britain, but ordered them to collect seashells instead. When he came home again, he announced he had conquered the ocean and the shells were booty.
It occurs to you this guy is beginning to sound seriously nutty and as you read on, your intuition is confirmed. He seems to have wanted to marry his sisters and there were rumours that he managed personally to murder one of them. He appointed his horse to the Senate and insisted it be treated with all the respect due to its high office. By 40 a.d. he’d decided he was God and ordered his own statue to be erected in the Temple at Jerusalem. The Jewish King at the time, Herod Agrippa, only just managed to talk him out of it.
Four months after his return from France, Gaius was murdered at the Palatine Games by a group of conspirators that included a tribune from his own Praetorian Guard.
What a wild life! And how very odd you’ve never heard of this clown earlier. He was the sort of Roman Emperor they should be writing books about and making movies.
Then a footnote in the Brief Guide catches your eye. Gaius Caesar Germanicus was more usually known by the nickname given to him by palace soldiers when he was a child. The nickname was ‘Little Boot.’
Or in Latin, Caligula!
Oh wow! This woman wants you to do something about Caligula, the maddest of all the loony Roman Emperors. So do you agree to help at 120 or politely decline at 80?
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31
Boldly you stride up the steps wondering what sort of idiot would pay any attention to a warning notice when the door of the building is wide open and there are no guards to stop you going anywhere you want.
Boldly you step across the threshold and look around the dim interior.
Boldly you begin to shake in terror as a vast supernatural figure appears suddenly before you in a thunderclap and lightning flash.
“I AM THE GODDESS FORTUNA AUGUSTA,” she roars in a voice that somehow seems to fill the universe, “AND YOU ARE HERE WITHOUT A PASS!”
Great writhing bolts of electricity leap from her eyes and curl about your body. You are lifted several feet off the ground. You develop a crackling blue halo. Your arms twitch, your legs jerk, your torso convulses. You scream in agony.
With a careless flick of her finger, the Goddess Fortuna Augusta tosses you all the way to 13.
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32
It’s some sort of store-room. The place is jam-packed with linen, cushions, bolts of material, spare furniture and several chests and boxes. This is obviously a very wealthy household.
Although you don’t know how much time you have to spare before the wedding ceremony starts, you take a chance and scrabble round a bit in search of anything that might be useful. To your delight, you find a short sword in one of the boxes.
Not a very good sword - it strikes at +3 - but better than nothing. There’s only one door out of this store and that’s the one you came in through in the south wall to VIII where you can check the italic section to find where you can go next.
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33
“Well,” Caligula shrugs absently, “you’ve survived the Quiz of Death, although in my opinion that was a sheer flook since you don’t look nearly intelligent enough to have answered all those questions correctly. But I’m a man of my word, as anybody will tell you and Sic biscuitus disintegratus as we Roman Emperors like to say.”
“What?” you ask abruptly. “What did you just say?”
“Sic biscuitus disintegratus,” Caligula repeats. “It means That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
“No it doesn’t,” whispers your Mercury Phone. “It’s pig Latin. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“No it doesn’t,” you tell Caligula. “It’s pig Latin. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Are you contradicting me?” Caligula frowns.
“Of course not, Your Majesty,” you say quickly. “I was absolutely wrong and I withdraw what I said unreservedly. Sic biscuitus disintegratus does indeed mean That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
“No, it doesn’t!” whispers the Mercury Phone.
“Shut up!” you whisper back.
Caligula smiles broadly. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses,” he says. “Now here’s your prize - a ticket for the Palatine Games at the Circus Flaminius. I’ll be in attendance myself a little later this afternoon, so I’ll probably see you there.”
With which he sweeps away humming a mad and merry little tune to himself.
Leaving you to exit double quick to 25 where you can select another destination.
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34
This is some building. The U-shaped structure seems to go on forever. There’s a notice outside the main entrance reading:
Circus Maximus
Seating Capacity
150,000.
Come early to
avoid disappointment.
You join the queue parading through the archway, but as you are about to enter, a sad-faced man stops you.
“Where’s your ticket?” he demands.
If you’ve got a ticket for the Circus Maximus, you can find yourself a seat at 51, otherwise you’ll have to return to your tourist map at 25 and pick another destination. Unless, of course, you want to
make like a gladiator and fight your way in at 148.
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35
“Excuse me,” you call politely to a passer by, “but where will this road take me?”
“To the sea” she tells you cheerfully. “This is the Porta Neptunia . You’ll find the Temple of Neptune just across the way if you want to make sacrifice for a safe journey.”
Look, not to sound superstitious, but when in Rome and all that - it might be a good idea to ask this puella for directions to Neptune’s Temple and maybe make a small donation for your safe journey at 12. As against that, Vesuvius may blow at any second, so an even better idea might be to get on your bike and head out of here quick as boiled asparagus, as the Emperor Augustus used to say, at 69.
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36
These old Romans were amazing engineers. You sort of think things like central heating and all that jazz had to be modern inventions, but that first room you beamed into when you arrived had underfloor heating and this little room seems to be the boiler house that drives it. Apart from the fact that it uses solid fuel, this set up wouldn’t be out of place in an ofch s-d in East Cheam.
RomanQuest Page 3