Irregular Verbs

by Irregular Verbs

  “We don’t have slaves anymore,” Geoffrey said.

  Marcus waved expansively towards the kitchen. “What are you talking about? Look in there, see how many slaves there are.”

  Geoff frowned. “Marcus—if someone is keeping slaves—”

  “No—machines, that do a man’s work. Robota, it means slave, you know this; and Capek, he too was a Slav, a slave by nature, as that sheep-fucker Aristotle said. When machines cook and wash dishes and do the work of a hundred, what is an ordinary man to do? He has no money to set himself in trade, so he gets himself in trouble for want of something to occupy him.”

  “Okay—assume you’re right,” Geoff said, putting up his hands. “How do you know that’s not happening to Fulvia’s son?”

  “Because he is the other kind of Roman—the kind who is missing his manhood. The ordinary fellow is happy with a day’s work for a day’s pay, but a man of good family needs leisure, time to give over to a profession. He needs to do his civic duty, contribute to his city, but where is it now? Buried and paved over, infested with Cisalpine rabble.”

  “So is that what I should tell Fulvia? That Attius can’t be in trouble because he’s missing his manhood?”

  “Well, maybe not like that,” Marcus said, cocking an eyebrow. “Listen, Geoffrey, this boy—he’s from a good family, he knows with his father gone he has responsibilities. He’ll be okay.”

  Geoff sighed, picked up one of the egg-mice and put it in his mouth. His molars cracked down on something hard and a hot, bitter taste washed through him. “I knew you were putting me on with these,” he said, his eyes watering. “Nobody ever ate this, Roman or not.”

  “Well, not the eyes,” Marcus said. “Those are cloves. What are you, a barbarian?”

  Geoff was starting up his car when he saw a figure by the restaurant’s back door, illuminated by the headlights. Geoff rolled down his window and called his name.

  Attius turned, looked at him and bolted for the street. Geoff fumbled with the handle to get out, but by the time he had the door open the boy was gone.

  Geoff stood in the parking lot, weighing Marcus’ words against what he had just seen. Of course, running wasn’t always a sign of guilt, but it didn’t look good. Still, Marcus was right about one thing—the idea of a kid like Attius running around with a gang, getting into fights, just felt wrong. He remembered Attius from his earlier visits to the Columellae: a serious kid, well enough integrated, small for his age but mature—not unlike Geoff himself had been. One of his success stories, he had always thought.

  The next afternoon Geoff drove to the high school Attius attended. It was a typical mid-sixties monstrosity, modified a dozen times in response to growing and shrinking enrolment; an added ring spurred off of the original square building, with portable classroom trailers clustered around the parking lot entrance. After checking in with the office, showing his ID and passing through the metal detector—this place had as much security as the Welcome Centre—he climbed up to the third floor and started counting down classrooms to 326. He knocked at the door, saw the teacher within glance up from the overhead projector and throw him a look of annoyance.

  “Sorry,” Geoff said, holding up the call slip the office had given him. The class had erupted in chatter as soon as the teacher’s attention was distracted, and he felt the weight of her gaze on him. “I need to see Attius Columella.”

  “They usually phone,” the teacher said, brushing her dark hair away from her face. Geoff shrugged, and she turned back to the class. “Attius, this man needs to see you.” Then, to Geoff: “Make sure he comes right back when he’s done.”

  Geoff watched the class as Attius rose, and listened: most of the chatter was in barracks Latin, half the boys in the class wearing toga tops or Not Fallen t-shirts. Attius did not share in either look: instead he wore a short-sleeved red shirt over jeans, and his hair was cut in a modern style.

  “My name’s Geoff—Galfridius,” Geoff said, closing the classroom door. “I’ve come to see your mother a few times, check on how you and she are doing. Do you remember me?”

  Attius nodded. “Is my mother all right?” he asked.

  “That’s not what I’m here about,” Geoff said. He half-crouched, looked Attius in the eye. “Why did you run last night? When I saw you at Mello’s?”

  “I didn’t know that was you,” Attius said after too long of a pause. He glanced back at the classroom. “I thought it was some guys who were after me.”

  “Some guys,” Geoff said. “Anything you need to tell me about?”

  “No,” Attius said quickly. “It was just—you know, these jerks . . .”

  “Uh huh.” Geoff stood up to his full height. “You saw me before you ran. I called your name.”

  Looking away, Attius said, “I thought you were someone else.”

  “Are you working for Marcus? Mr. Apicius?”

  Attius said nothing.

  “It’s important you tell me, Attius. If he’s got you mixed up in something—”

  “It’s not like that,” Attius said, scowling.

  “Then what’s it like? It might not just be you in trouble here . . .”

  “What are they going to do? Deport us?” Attius said, looking up at him.

  Geoff took a breath. “Not every prefugee has it as good as you and your mother do—you go to school here, you know that. You could lose the subsidy on your apartment, your mother could lose her work permit . . .”

  “It’s not like that,” Attius said after a long silence. “He’s just—some of us want better, you know?”

  “You’re a smart kid, Attius. You can go anywhere in this world if you just stay focused.”

  “Yeah, in this world. What good is that? I go to college, get a job, turn into a modern like you—what good does any of that do to the ones we left behind?”

  Geoff sighed. It was a common enough attitude among the prefugees, especially the young boys: to succeed in the modern world was a betrayal of their own culture and people—better to spend your days drunk on the triclinium, blasting hex-hop on the stereo and dreaming of past glory. He was surprised to hear it from Attius, though. “So what were you doing at the restaurant?” he asked. “He sells you and your friends a little wine, you reminisce about way back in the day?”

  Attius looked at him for a moment, then laughed. “No, it’s nothing like that,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s going to take us home.”

  “Are you crazy?” Geoff asked, pushing open the door to Marcus’s condo.

  “Do come in,” Marcus said. He was wearing a house toga and sandals, took a careful step back from the doorway. “Make yourself at home; I do, but then I live here.”

  “Don’t,” Geoff said, pointing a finger at Marcus. “Don’t do that—that injured gravitas thing you do. This is important.” He paused for breath. Once through the door, Marcus’s apartment might easily have been a villa; the tiled floor was inlaid with a mosaic of a dog and the words CAVE CANEM, while three triclinia covered with red silk cushions were arranged in a triangle. Steam was wafting from one of the inner doorways.

  “I was about to have a bath,” Marcus said mildly. “Will you join me? The tepidarium is a bit small, but there’s steam enough for two.”

  “What are you trying to do? These kids, they don’t have enough money to make them worth grifting.”

  A tiny flicker of genuine concern crossed Marcus’s face. “You spoke to Attius, I suppose?” he asked. Geoff nodded, and Marcus crossed to one of the triclinia and sat down. “Well. Have a seat, then, and we’ll talk about it.”

  Geoff moved to a triclinium and sat on it upright, as though it was a bench. “Talk, then.”

  “Why don’t you start, Geoffrey? Just what did he tell you?”

  “He said—” Geoff paused, took a breath. “He thinks you can take him home.”

  “Ah.” Marcus reached up to scratch at his jaw;
he was, unusually, unshaven, and a shadow had covered his cheeks and chin. “Well. There it is, then.”

  “Wait,” Geoff said after a moment had passed. “You’re serious? The fissures don’t work that way, you know that.”

  “Do you?” Marcus asked. “Do you know it, truly? Or have you been told it?”

  “It can’t work that way. The paradox—”

  “Spoken like a modern. Some of us have faith in our gods to bring us home.”

  Geoff held up a hand. “Forget that for now, I need to understand this. You’re going to take a bunch of kids back and then—what? Nuke Carthage, shoot Goths with machine guns?”

  “Carthago delenda est,” Marcus said, not smiling. “You should know that. We don’t need to bring guns or bombs; once we’re home, we can build everything we need—enough, anyway. My boys have studied well for this.”

  “Is your life really so bad? This city is full of opportunities—”

  “Can you call it a city?” Marcus asked. “No gymnasium, no theatre, no forum? Where is the life a Roman man should lead?”

  “You really believe it,” Geoff said. “This whole thing, you really think you can do it.” He shook his head. “Just how do you expect to get into the Welcome Centre?”

  Marcus frowned, an actor’s impression of sorrow. “For that part, regrettably, guns will be necessary. But there’s no reason anyone has to be hurt, Geoffrey—”

  “You idiot,” Geoff said, rising to his feet. “If there’s even a chance that you’re right, the guards will have orders to shoot to kill—they let one person through and all of history could be changed.”

  “Regrettable, as I said. But I see no choice, and anyway Mars must always have his due.”

  “You—I work at the Welcome Centre, Marcus. I could get you in.” Geoff turned away. “You didn’t even ask me.”

  For a long time neither of them spoke, both watching each other’s faces.

  “You, Galfridius?” Marcus said at last.

  Geoff took a step towards the door, paused. “I’m still a Roman.”

  “You might have told the police.”

  Turning back to face Marcus, Geoff said “I haven’t, have I?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Will you?”

  “Are you—you’re really going through with this?” Geoff asked. Marcus nodded. “What I do, it helps our people, here and now. I’m not chasing some crazy revenge fantasy.”

  “I commend you for it. The great majority of our people benefit very much from what you do.”

  Geoff began to turn away again, stopped. “I can get you in,” he said at last. “Nobody has to get hurt.”

  “No,” Marcus said. “I can’t let you. Your job—”

  Geoff shook his head. “My job isn’t going to get any easier if a dozen Romans get killed breaking into a Welcome Centre. I still don’t think this is going to work, but I can at least keep any blood from being shed.”

  “Are you sure?” Marcus asked, cocking an eyebrow. “We can’t afford to have anyone who isn’t committed.”

  “I’ll do it—but you’re not bringing any kids. That’s my condition.”

  Marcus regarded Geoff for a long moment, nodded slowly. “All right, then,” he said. “How soon can you get us in?”

  Between visiting the Aemiliani, the restaurant, the school and Marcus’s apartment Geoff had been away from the office for most of two days; not an unusually long time, given the nature of his job, but long enough for a pile of message slips to accumulate on his desk. Flipping through them he found several from Fulvia Columella, on each of which both the PLEASE CALL and WILL CALL BACK boxes were checked. He picked up his phone and started dialling, stopped halfway through.

  “Problem?” Wayne said.

  Geoff shook his head as he turned in his chair. Wayne’s bulky shape filled the doorway, all straight lines and skin so dark it shone; though about half the case officers were resettled Romans like Geoff, everyone from Wayne on up were moderns. “No, just a bit behind.”

  Wayne did not move from the doorway, regarding Geoff with narrowed eyes. “You’ve been out a lot. Anything I should know about?”

  “Nothing unusual,” Geoff said, shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just checking on workload,” Wayne said, his tone suddenly casual. He absent-mindedly picked Geoff’s stapler up off his desk, pulled it open. “OT budget’s tapped for the quarter, you know.”

  Geoff rolled his eyes, nodded. “I know, I know,” he said; then, as Wayne slowly turned to go, “Hey, Wayne—where’s your family from?”

  “Toronto.”

  “No, you know—before that.”

  “Sierra Leone, on my dad’s side—his mother came over about forty years ago.” Wayne snapped the stapler shut. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” Geoff said. “You know much about it?”

  Wayne shrugged. “My dad took me when I was about ten.”

  “You ever think about going back?”

  “Nah. Dad used to send money home, when he could.”

  “How about you?” Geoff asked.

  Wayne’s brow furrowed into a slight frown. “I’ve got a family to take care of, Geoff. Wife and three kids—they’ve all got a life they wouldn’t have if my grandma hadn’t come here.”

  “I know,” Geoff said.

  “How about you?” Wayne asked. He dropped Geoff’s stapler back onto his desk. “How come you don’t have all that Roman shit like the other guys do?”

  Geoff glanced back at his desk; the only personal item on it was the calendar illustrated with erotic frescoes from Pompeii, a gag gift from his colleagues. “Just not my thing, I guess.”

  “Know what you mean,” Wayne said, turning to leave. “You need help with anything, let me know, okay?”

  “Sure,” Geoff said. He watched Wayne go back out into the hall, counted to ten before turning back to his desk and the problem at hand. It wasn’t enough just to get Marcus’s people into the building; they had to be there when a fissure was open, when the Centre would be at its busiest. And, of course, even if he got them into the reception room there would be no way to get them back out again other than through the fissure. If Marcus was wrong. . . .

  Geoff’s phone rang, the call display panel showing Fulvia’s number. He briefly considered pretending to be out, keyed the call to go through to his wire. “Hello, Mrs. Columella,” he said.

  “Galfridius, it’s Fulvia Columella.” Some technologies seemed forever obscure to the Romans that had come as adults, call display among them. “Did you to my son talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, is Attius in trouble?”

  “I don’t think so,” Geoff said carefully.

  “It’s only I haven’t seen him,” Fulvia said, “not since the day you were here. Did he to you anything say, about somewhere going?”

  Geoff shut his eyes. “I’m sorry, Fulvia,” he said. “I saw him yesterday at school, but he didn’t say anything about not coming home.” Not exactly, anyway. “Does he ever stay over at a friend’s, maybe?”

  “I phoned.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Geoff said. “Was there anything else you wanted?”

  There was a moment’s pause before Fulvia said “No. No, Galfridius, thank you.”

  Geoff nodded—the wire would transmit it—hung up. He should call the school, he thought, find out if Attius had been in class. The thought of school started his mind down a suddenly obvious path, and he opened the second drawer of his desk and took out the emergency handbook. He had been thinking like a bureaucrat, when he should have been thinking like a student: his own high school had been just as paranoid as Attius’s, but there had been one thing sure to throw it into chaos.

  The warning tone sounded over the PA as the sensors detected a fissure forming. Geoff, sitting in his office, was on call: if his name came up his pager would let him kn
ow to go to the reception room. Without waiting for that, he picked up the phone and dialled.

  “It’s on,” he said as soon as the line picked up. “Twenty minutes.”

  Hanging up, Geoff got up from his desk and stepped into the hall. There was no visible increase in activity, but he knew that forces were mustering to keep the prefugees that would soon arrive in the reception room—and, more importantly to him, keep anyone else out: guards were on alert, doors inside and out automatically locked. He strolled casually to the southwest corner of the building, where most of the offices were unoccupied, checked his watch. When fifteen minutes had passed he reached up and pulled the fire alarm, and a piercing wail filled the air.

  Now the halls were busy: it had been months since the last fire drill, and few people remembered where their fire exit was. Geoff heard frantic steps echoing as the inhabitants fled. Only a few passed by him on their way out, and they were too busy to notice he was not following; once the halls were quiet Geoff went to the reception room. The most sensitive place in the building, its doors automatically stayed locked even when the alarm sounded—except when a fissure had formed; nobody wanted prefugees trapped in a sealed room during a fire.

  Marcus reached the door just a minute after Geoff did. A half-dozen young men followed him, each in teens or early twenties, all dressed in jacket, shirt and jeans. Geoff scanned their faces, felt only a little surprise at seeing Attius among them.

  “I said no kids,” he said to Marcus. “We had a deal.”

  “These are my soldiers,” Marcus said. “We couldn’t go ahead otherwise.” He put his hands on his hips, looked to left and right. “And you, Geoffrey, did you betray me? Are the police waiting for us in there?”

  “No,” Geoff said.

  “Then all our games are played, and we know who is the victor.” Marcus cocked an eyebrow, awaiting a challenge.