“Nos morituri te salutamus!” the armed men chant again. But this time you hear it as, We who are about to die salute you!
What a strange thing to say during a religious festival. And how odd to have so many armed men in this delightful open-air church.
The group of armed men suddenly breaks apart and to your horror the men begin hacking at one another with their swords. One runs towards you wielding a net and a spear which he uses to poke you painfully. “Venas plebius, fac meum deum!” he grins wickedly.
“Come on, punk, make my day!” crackles Mercury’s simultaneous translator in your ear.
Your mouth drops open. It’s obvious you’ve just been challenged to a fight.
But what are you going to do about it - apart from closing your mouth, that is? You can run for your life at 10, try to reason with him at 90 or take your chances in a very one-sided - and quite possibly lethal - punch-up at 130.
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61
You climb up to the first sub-division of the tiers, noticing that the more sensible members of the crowd have brought their own cushions to protect their bottoms from the ravages of the stone benches. Not that it matters greatly to you since you can’t afford to stay here very long with the threat of Vesuvius erupting at any minute.
You look around you to discover the crowd itself seems to be seated in factions, rather like supporters at a football match. Groups of them wear the same colours, presumably in support of a favourite gladiator. Many of them, in all factions, are wearing brimless felt hats for some reason. You notice too that there is a definite class distinction in this crowd. There are several reserved areas near the front filled with men and women sporting pristine togas and expensive jewellery. The lower classes on the other hand are segregated by sex. The women are confined to a covered gallery so high above the arena it’s a miracle they can see what’s going on at all. The men are spread in their tribal factions all across the auditorium.
“Is this seat taken?” you ask an excited young man wearing a patched mantle and one of the ubiquitous felt hats.
“Naw, you’re welcome,” he tells you. “My mate was sitting there, but he drank too much wine so now he’s gone off to be sick. Always the same. He’ll miss the rest of the show like he always does.” He opens a small box on his knee and holds it across to you. “Boiled egg?”
“No thanks,” you tell him as you sit down.
“Suit yourself,” shrugs the young man. “Visne scire quod credam?”
You jiggle your Mercury Phone hearing aid. “Know what I think?” it translates the young man’s last words for you.
“No, what do you think?” Quis credas? Mercury translates back to him.
“I think the games have gone to hades since they started executing criminals as part of the entertainment,” he says. “No sport in that. No sport in that at all. Look, they’re going to slaughter a few now.”
You watch in horror as a bedraggled group of men and women are led into the arena chained together. A grim group of gladiators marches towards them, swords at the ready. Your stomach begins to churn.
“Sure you don’t want a boiled egg?” the young man asks.
You get up and make a run for the exit as the swords begin to flash in the sun.
As well you might. The Roman Games are no place for the squeamish. Best get back to your map at 150 and select another destination.
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62
It’s like the high point of a movie. Time slows. The trident sails gracefully through the air. The expression on Caligula’s mad face changes slowly from glee to horror. The trident comes closer and closer to his chest. Sunlight glints on its three wicked barbs. There is a stunned silence in the auditorium. You seem to register close-ups of shocked face after shocked face.
Time speeds up to normal. The speeding trident reaches the royal box. Caligula screams and clutches his chest.
The trident misses.
Your mouth falls open. You can’t believe it.
“Traitor!” screams Caligula. “Assassin! Guards, do your duty!”
The arena fills up quickly with armed men who waste no time at all in hacking you to pieces.
Collect up the bits and go to 13.
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63
This looks like another family room. It also looks as if it’s in the process of redecoration. A newly-tiled floor is only partly laid and while the walls have been plastered, you can see at once an extensive mural painting is far from complete. Couches, chairs and a heavy table have all been pushed together into one corner.
Nothing much for you here, so you turn to leave.
The numerals on the eastern door are XXII. On the southern door you have LXXIX.
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64
You pass through the arch and begin your climb along the tiers. As you do so, a small contingent of heavily armed men push their way arrogantly through the crowd in your direction.
“It’s the Praetorians!” hisses a fat man on your right. “Somebody’s in trouble.”
“Bet your life!” mutters his companion. “That’s their Tribune, Cassius Chaerea, leading them. When he’s about, somebody’s definitely in trouble!”
Do you imagine it might be you? You might try avoiding yon Cassius who has a mean and hungry look by making an Absolutely Anything Roll. If it kills you, go to 13. If you fail, you’d better await developments quietly at 17. If you succeed, you can slip away quietly from the auditorium and make your way to another destination via your tourist map at 25.
Of course if you’ve a clear conscience and a trusting nature, you don’t have to try avoiding the Praetorians at all. You can just sit there counting the sunbeams until they’re on top of you at 17.
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65
Good heavens, it’s a temple with naughty paintings on the walls! Your eyes widen as you glance from one to the other and a hot blush climbs up your cheeks. You drag your gaze away only to find you are now looking at a life-size statue of a beautiful naked woman. You drag your eyes away from that and find yourself gazing at a beautiful priestess, fortunately fully clothed.
“Welcome to the Temple of Venus, Goddess of Love,” she smiles. “What can I do for you?”
You swallow and desperately try to stop your eyes drifting back to the walls. “Actually, I’m looking for the Sibyl,” you tell her. “I don’t suppose she’s here?”
“Not her temple, my dear,” the priestess tells you kindly. “You might try the Temple of Fortuna Augusta - that’s where she usually hangs out. Failing that, she sometimes pops into the Villa of the Mysteries.”
“Can you give me directions?” you ask.
“Of course,” the priestess smiles. “The Temple of Fortuna Augusta is at 125 and the Villa of the Mysteries is just a step or two away at 75.”
“Thanks,” you tell her gratefully. “Thanks very much!”
So is it the Temple of Fortuna Augusta at 125, the Villa of the Mysteries at 75 or do you want to be independent and return to your map at 150 and select another destination altogether? The choice, as always, is yours.
Please select an option from the previous page.
66
“Wrong!” exclaims Caligula delightedly. He looks thoughtfully into the middle distance. “Roasted alive, I think.”
After which painful experience, you can make your way to 13.
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67
There must be youngsters in this family. You’ve stumbled into what’s obviously a small playroom. There’s no real furniture, just cushions scattered on the floor and wood
en toys all over the place. Among them, to your astonishment, is a little rocking horse.
Somebody must have had the idea of trying to teach the children the first steps in arithmetic because the numbers on the doors are a lot larger than usual.
There’s a door to the north numbered LXXXIII and another to the east numbered LVIII. Doesn’t that make things easier?
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68
“Wrong!” exclaims Caligula delightedly. He looks thoughtfully into the middle distance. “Surgical amputation of the brain, I think.”
After which painful experience, you can make your way to 13.
Please select an option from the previous page.
69
“Thank you! Thank you!” you call to the woman, “but tempus fugit and to be honest, it’s fugiting rather quickly for me at the moment, so I’ll pass on the sacrifice if you don’t mind.”
With a huge feeling of relief you skip towards the narrower of the two barrel-vaults which make up this gate and run down the steep slope out of the city.
You’ve escaped! You’re out of Pompeii before the fateful eruption! Now all you have to do is get far enough away to make sure you’re safe when the volcano actually blows.
In moments you are at the water’s edge. This is getting better and better. With the money you earned in the arena you can probably hire a boat and with a favourable wind or a good slave at the oars you should be well -
There is a terrifying roar as the peak of Vesuvius splits open behind you and a black pine-shaped cloud erupts from the volcano showering massive red-hot cinders and great globules of molten lava.
“Arrrgh!” you howl as a great globule of molten lava lands directly on your head, burning off most of your face and eating its way through the bone of your skull.
After which it becomes quite difficult for you to continue your adventure. Go to 13.
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70
The politician is up on his feet again. “Fellow Romans,” he booms again. “This young gladiator has now won two fights. Shall I set him free? Please signify in the usual way.”
Anxiously you look up at the crowd as their arms come out to give the sign.
Roll two dice. Score 2 to 6 inclusive and a majority of the thumbs turn down, sending you to 2. Score 7 to 12 and the thumbs are up there waving like a little forest in a gale, encouraging you to go to 150.
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71
“Wrong!” exclaims Caligula delightedly. He looks thoughtfully into the middle distance. “Drawn and quartered, I think.”
After which painful experience, you can make your way to 13.
Please select an option from the previous page.
72
You enter the temple to find yourself in a large rectangular chamber lined with marble. Four tall niches have been cut into one wall, each housing a life-size statue. The nearest of them is of a stout, rather kindly-looking man, the inscription beneath which reads simply:
Parens Patriae
“Father of the Nation,” translates your Mercury phone respectfully, but not very usefully.
“There you are!” exclaims a voice so close that you almost drop your Sibylline Pass from the shock.
You spin round and find yourself face to mad face with the Sibyl.
“Where on earth have you been?” she demands angrily. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Don’t you know what day this is? Don’t you know what time this is? Don’t you know Vesuvius is going to erupt at any second, according to the ancient prophetic scrolls?”
“Where have I been?” you gasp, astonished by her sheer brass neck. “I’ve been fighting my way out of the Roman Games and finding I’m in the wrong city at the wrong time, that’s where I’ve been, thanks to you and that stupid god you’ve got as your transport manager!”
The Sibyl glances around her furtively. “Don’t call Jupiter stupid,” she whispers. “He doesn’t take kindly to disrespect. Has a habit of hurling thunderbolts.”
“What else would you call him?” you hiss back angrily. “I’m miles and years from where I should be and so are you!”
“He gets distracted,” the Sibyl explains. “I expect it was a pretty girl - that’s usually his problem. But there’s no time to lodge a formal complaint. We have to get you back to the time of the first Caesar without delay otherwise Caligula’s parents will get together and our whole plan is down the aqueduct.”
You frown. “Back to the time of Julius Caesar? Isn’t that a bit early?”
The Sibyl looks at you blankly for a moment, then her brow clears. “Oh, no, you don’t understand. Julius was the first Caesar worth talking about, but the first Caesar wasn’t the first Caesar if you know what I mean.”
You shake your head. “No.”
“Let me put it this way,” says the Sibyl. “Most people in your time think of the Caesars as Emperors, don’t they?”
“The Caesars were Emperors, weren’t they?” you frown, thoroughly confused.
“Yes and no,” says the Sibyl, adding to your problems. “When Julius Caesar was dividing up Gaul and crossing the Rubicon and doing naughty things with Cleopatra, Rome was a Republic. Julius made himself so powerful he was very nearly an Emperor - he called himself Dictator for Settling the Constitution - but the nobles didn’t like that. That’s why they assassinated him.”
“On the Ides of March,” you put in.
“44 b.c.,” says the Sibyl nostalgically. “I remember it well.”
“But if Caesar wasn’t the first Caesar - Emperor - who was?” you ask a little desperately.
“Octavian. Julius Caesar’s adopted son. That’s his statue you were admiring. Father of the Nation.”
“I’ve never heard of an Emperor Octavian,” you tell her.
The Sibyl smiles patiently. “That’s because he changed his name. He was still a teenager when Julius died, but he was a better politician than all the middle-aged Senators put together - and a far better general. In a few years he’d put down most of the opposition and after the Battle of Actium, Mark Antony committed suicide leaving Octavian the most powerful man in the whole Roman world. That was in 30 b.c. as I remember. Just three years later, on January 13, 27 b.c., the Senate gave him the name Augustus.”
“Jolly Good Fellow,” your Mercury phone translates.
“So Octavian became the Emperor Augustus!” you exclaim as light begins to dawn.
“He was called Imperator Caesar Augustus,” the Sibyl explains. “Those were his actual names, the same way you might have a friend called Jason Brian Brightman. But he was so highly thought of that all the later Emperors took the names as titles. Caesar was once just a family name, but after Augustus it became the same thing as the title King and the name Imperator became the same thing as the title Emperor. Lasted quite a long time as well. The Russian Tsars were called after the Caesars. So were the German Kaisers. Anyway, the point is I need to get you back to the time of Augustus now so you can do something about Caligula.”
“Caligula was around at the time of Augustus?”
“No, he wasn’t. At least not for all of it. Caligula wasn’t born until Augustus had been Emperor for nearly forty years. After Augustus you had Tiberius. He became Emperor two years after Caligula was born. And if you don’t stop him, Caligula gets to be Emperor in 37 a.d., just twenty-three years later.”
“So how do you want me to stop him?” you ask, your head reeling from this history lesson.
“Listen carefully,” says the Sibyl. “This is the really important part and it’s complicated. Caligula’s father was a grand-nephew of Augustus called Germanicus, who got himself adopted as Tiberius’s step son in 4 a.d. At about the same time, Germanicus
married Augustus’ granddaughter, Agrippina. Between them Germanicus and Agrippina had nine children, including Caligula who was born on August 31, 12 a.d. In theory, if we get you back to Rome a year or two before then, you might be able to stop Caligula happening, but I think it would be easiest if we get you back to 4 a.d. so you can stop the wedding of Germanicus and Agrippina in the first place.”
You look at her in horror. “How am I supposed to be that?” you demand. “How am I supposed to stop a high class Roman wedding?”
“You’ll think of a way,” the Sibyl tells you confidently. “I’ll have you dropped off in the villa where the wedding takes place.” Before you can stop her, she whips out her Star Trek communicator and says, “Sibyl to Jupiter. Two to beam back to 4 a.d.”
Instantly there is a ringing in your ears and the temple around you begins to shimmer. You watch in something close to panic as the sibyl turns into a sparkling pillar that fades, then disappears completely.
From somewhere far away a deep voice whispers through your skull, “Stupid, am I? I’ll show you stupid!”
Then your whole body transforms itself into a shimmering pillar as it is broken down into its constituent molecules and beamed away through space and time.
RomanQuest Page 6