Curse of the Purple Pearl

by Adrian Speed

  “No, my dear.” He smiled, snatched up his cane from against the wardrobe and rammed his top hat down upon his brow. “The mystery of the Purple Pearl.”

  Chapter II

  The smell of coal hung in the air; coal and engine oil and flames. I shoved the shovel into the coal heap with a scrape and hauled another load into the raging inferno of the boiler. It glowed red hot inside and the heat was like a wall on the cold March afternoon.

  “You know, I've said it before, but I'll say it again. I really thought time travel would be something more exciting than a steam engine,” I said when I paused to mop my brow. Coal dust mingled with sweat ran grainy rivulets down my skin. “Anti-matter reactors, nuclear fusion; I would have thought electricity at the very least.”

  “A chrononaut sails the oceans of time,” Sir Reginald said as he manipulated levers at the control panel. “There are many unsafe ports. How will an anti-matter reactor avail you if it should break in ancient Sumeria? Will you teach particle theory to gentlemen who have only recently realised the benefits of mixing together straw and mud to make bricks? No, my dear, a chrononaut must be self-sufficient in and of himself. Even if we travel as far back as the age of the dinosaurs we will still find fuel for our engines. Should any component break, it is a day's work with a hammer and forge to fix it. Though you may struggle to breathe in the Cambrian period, a body can still mine for iron ore, smelt it on the sands and rebuild the time-machine within weeks.” He paused and blinked at the memory. “Although I really cannot recommend doing that more than once.”

  We stood in the yard behind the shop, where Sir Reginald kept his time-machine, hidden from prying eyes by high walls and an ageing ash tree. A boiler nine feet long sat riveted to an iron base fifteen feet square. Plates of brass embossed with “Derby and Delaronde Time Travel Company” on one side and “Swindon Steamworks Company” on the other were riveted to the scarlet and black boiler. It would not have looked out of place on an old-fashioned traction engine. A metal wheel, as tall as the steam engine was long, rose above the engine and connected to the boiler by a network of gears and pistons. At the firebox end was a gap in which I stood, resting my arms on the shovel, in front of a tinder-box loaded with coal.

  To the left of the boiler was the machinery that I knew to be the real time-machine. Taking power from the boiler and the great wheel, a collection of gears and glass sprouted like the branches of a tree all along the other side of the time-machine. Controlling them was a table-length board of levers, buttons and switches. This is where Sir Reginald stood, watching the needles quiver inside glass dials and adjusting the levers as he saw fit. I watched whenever I got the chance.

  Over the top of it all was a metal canopy painted scarlet and gold to match the boiler. It covered the entire machine from the elements, leaving only a hole through which the chimney belched smoke. Hooks all around the edge of the canopy and the base plate allowed canvases to hang down and protect the machine in bad weather. They sat rolled up in a trunk for now, with the emergency supplies. Finally, closing off the last side was a bookshelf laden with dictionaries and grammar aids. The ability to travel freely in time did not allow one to magically learn the language. In my three years with Sir Reginald, I had been forced to cram ancient Egyptian, slightly less ancient Egyptian, Latin, Ancient Greek, Old English, Cantonese and French into my already over-stuffed head.

  “I appreciate,” I said between breaths as I returned to shovelling coal, “that you don't want to be abandoned in one of the more horrible parts of human history.” I shoved another load into the firebox and watched the coal almost instantly change from black, to red, to white hot. “But it wouldn't take so long to get up to pressure if you at least put in an anti-matter reactor and used the steam engine for back-up.”

  “Almost there.” Sir Reginald tapped the pressure gauge. “You may stop shovelling.”

  “Thank goodness,” I drove the shovel into the coal, closed up the firebox and took off my heatproof gloves.

  “Now then, Vindobona, military fort on the borders of the Roman Empire and last home to Marcus Aurelius.” Sir Reginald's hands rested on the controls. “Vienna, as it is currently known. Let's see, the spatial coordinates should be...” I watched his hands carefully to memorise his movements. Every time I thought I understood how he piloted the time-machine he seemed to change it. “And to arrive on 17th of March 180AD, early morning, we should give ourselves time to ride into camp as well. It wouldn't do to arrive in the time-machine. You can ride I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.” Once satisfied, Sir Reginald pulled on one of two brass levers in the centre of the machine, and with a click the controls locked into place.

  “Now my dear, do you speak Latin?”

  “I'm better at reading it.”

  “Then we must create a cover story for you.” He picked up his cane from where it rested against the controls and rolled it in his hands. It was an unusual design, jet black, with a silver pommel at its hilt, a grip like a hiking pole and slightly longer than one would expect a cane to be. “We will say you are a Briton; no, my mistake, no-one will believe that with your blonde hair. You are a German, my assistant, a freed slave. That will allow us to speak English and explain your unusual name. And, I am afraid to say, your wild ways.”

  “I'm not wild–” I began.

  “A woman wearing trousers with her hair loose?” He pointed a cane at my jeans. “My dear, the Romans will think you an Amazon of legend at best, and at worst, well, let’s simply say that as a freed German slave you’ll seem less out of place.”

  “As long as you're not trying to keep me away from the case.”

  “Heaven forbid I even try.” Sir Reginald bowed his head in humility. “I will ensure you have every freedom I enjoy amongst them. We must simply construct an illusion of lies that will allow the Romans to slot you into their pre-existing understanding of the universe. If Roman women wore trousers it would scandalise them, but barbarians do barbarous things by their nature.”

  “Anything else I should add to this web of lies?” I glared. “Maybe that I can read and write because of the divine intervention of Athena?”

  “While we're there you must call me Regulus.” He ignored my interruption. “That is the name the Romans know me by.”

  “As you wish, Regulus,” I said, trying out the name in my mouth.

  “Other than that we will be allowed near-total freedom.” He turned to the controls. “And our methods will not be questioned. They value my abilities. Our abilities. Do not feel the need to hold back. They are expecting something paranormal.”

  “Yes, Regulus,” I said, trying to get into the habit. It really didn't sound right.

  A tiny bell rang and we both peered at the pressure dial. The boiler was ready.

  “Very well then.” Sir Reginald tapped his hat on with his cane and moved a lever on the controls. Slowly the great wheel began to move. Gears ground and steam sang in its pipes. I watched it get faster and faster until the entire machinery was clicking like a sewing machine. “Anything you need before we depart?”

  “No, I'm ready.”

  “Then by your leave…” He grasped the second brass lever and hauled on it. The time-machine lurched into life as power from the boiler flowed into the other half of the time-engine. Sparks struck the air around the machine. I clung to the edge of the tinder-box as I felt my digestive system being pulled apart like a piece of toffee. The sparks exploded into flames, every colour of the rainbow bursting into life around the time-machine. London, the hum of the Edgware Road, the most boring, normal place in the universe, blurred and distorted. The firebox blazed and the gears and pistons clicked against each other, but there was no roar of engines, no scream of tearing time; it was as haunting as a ghost. The flames crackled with lightning and grew until they covered the entire time-machine, and with a faint pop the entire machine vanished; only a trail of coal smoke showed we had ever been there at all.

  Cha
pter III

  Dawn crept over the world in 180AD. On the furthest edge of the Roman Empire Vindobona squatted on the southern side of the river Danube. To the south lay refinement, elocution, indoor plumbing and the height of Rome's majesty and power. To the north lay the Germans, for whom indoor plumbing would remain an alien concept until well into the eighteenth century. Six thousand legionaries called Vindobona home, protecting Italy and Cisalpine Gaul from German invasion, and their number had swelled to thirty thousand with the legions of Marcus Aurelius. The late emperor had come to bring indoor plumbing to the German people, but alas, that dream died with him.

  The fort had been a complete rectangle once, but the river had its own ideas and had washed one corner away in a flood. A stone wall stood on top of an earthen rampart, visible for several miles around. Braziers lit the walls and rapidly became unnecessary as white morning light broke over the world. Six granaries stood larger than the outer walls, housing the weight of grain needed to feed a legion. Barrack rooms one floor high were full to bursting and a city of tents had grown up along the roadways of the fort. In the centre a modest palace, the principia, held all the officers and served as home whenever the emperor visited. A few soldiers stood guard, and some slaves stirred to start the day for their masters, but other than a few worried faces, the rest of the world was still asleep and unaware their beloved emperor lay dead.

  “Salve!” Sir Reginald called up in vernacular Latin to the guard on top of the gatehouse. He drew his horse up in front of the gate. I just about managed to rein mine in, whereupon it angrily pawed at the ground.

  “Salve,” said the legionary at the top of the gate. His eyes widened in surprise at the figure all in black in front of him, and his extraordinary companion. “W-what business do you have in Vindobona, traveller?” he stammered. His voice cracked in a way that hadn't happened since he was a teenager.

  “I am Regulus, and this is my associate, Hannah,” Sir Reginald called back, waving a hand at me, ignoring the troubles I was having with my horse. “My presence was requested by your General Quintinius Cassius. I have his letter here.” He withdrew the parchment scroll and waved it at the guard.

  “I’ll fetch the General,” the legionary stammered and disappeared, replaced by a similar man in armour.

  “My dear,” Sir Reginald said, “you said you could ride.”

  “I can ride,” I growled and pulled on the reins of my horse. “But I learnt to ride back in the twenty-first century when we had stirrups and a proper saddle, not just some leather on a blanket.” I finally managed to calm my animal down. “And I had a horse that wasn't the most ill-tempered animal in Europe.” I paused. “Although I did learn to ride in Canada, so it would be almost impossible to have the most ill-tempered animal in Europe.”

  The sound of running feet brought their attention back to the gatehouse. The red plume of the General came into view.

  “By Juno,” the General breathed. “The legends were true. Salve, Regulus.”

  “Salve, Quintinius,” Sir Reginald waved.

  “I scarcely sent the courier an hour ago.” Quintinius stared in disbelief. “I never thought it would work!”

  “Quintinius my friend, if that is the least astounding thing you see today I won't have done my job properly.” Sir Reginald tipped his hat to the General.

  “Open the gates,” the General ordered. “And take their horses. Our guests have work to do.”

  “Yes sir.” The legionary who first greeted us saluted in the Roman fashion and disappeared again. The wooden gates of the fort opened with a creak. As we passed through I stared up at the neatly dressed stone of the gatehouse stamped with the mark of the legion.

  Men waited to take our horses. Cursing the lack of any damn stirrups I slid off ungainly, tripped over my own legs and struggled for balance on just one toe. I just about managed to stop myself falling into the mud head first and pulled myself straight.

  “The legends always said, when you have a mystery to solve if you write to–” the General was babbling in front of Sir Reginald. “But for it to actually work–”

  Sir Reginald held up a hand for silence. “I am here to help, Quintinius. I understand the emperor–”

  “Not yet, not here,” The General waved a hand for us to follow him. “We don't want the news spreading – yet, if we can help it.” The General eyed his own men suspiciously. “Not until we know.”

  Sir Reginald bowed in the direction of the General's outstretched hand and followed him. “Come along Hannah,” he said in English to me while I regained my composure. “This is my associate,” he said to the General. “German. Freed slave. You understand.”

  “Regulus,” I said, staring in wonder at the fort, “you said this place was a fort. It looks more like a city!”

  “The soldiers of Rome bring the comforts of home with them,” he said as we passed under the shadow of one of the barracks buildings. A dome in the distance rose above it all, the principia building. “What point is there in going north to ravage the Germanic lands if they are not also taught the superiority of the Roman way of life?”

  Quintinius Cassius led us through the fort past the numerous barracks, past the palatial principia, and along to an open paved space. A stone staircase led down into the earth, wide enough for two men to pass, and at the bottom a guard straightened to attention when the General arrived. He guarded an empty doorway. Empty because the door sat in pieces on the floor inside, smashed off its hinges.

  “Here…is where...the event...took place,” Quintinius Cassius ushered us down the stairs, around the splintered door, and into a buried stone room. “This is the paymaster's vault,” Quintinius explained. “The emperor requested a space to work in solitude, and with the fort filled to bursting this was the only space.”

  The room was shadowy, lit only by the dawn coming through the doorway. It was about twenty feet wide on each edge, gloomy, and lined everywhere with stone. Shelving filled the room and locked boxes filled the shelves. I knew every single strong-box there would be a fortune of silver, enough money to last a man for a lifetime. Someone had moved the shelves aside in the centre to make room for a desk and chair. Slumped over it lay the body of Marcus Aurelius. He almost looked asleep, but sleeping people breathe. The papyrus scrolls by his mouth didn't stir. A small bronze oil lamp that had been providing light sat extinguished on top of a wood-lined wax tablet. The bronze stylus for writing in the wax was still in the emperor's hand.

  “An hour and a half ago the emperor's personal slave went to wake him, he liked to be woken early,” Quintinius said from the doorway. His shadow darkened everything in the room in the early morning light. “When he could not be found in the principia the slave searched here, to find the door locked from inside and no answer from within. He roused the guards, the guards roused me and I had the door broken down. At first we thought he was asleep,” the General trailed away. “We...I...went to wake him up, and he wouldn't.” The General's voice went very soft. When it returned it had the authority of a man trying very hard to stay in control of his emotions. “We would not have written to you except for the ring. It was a fool's hope at best, to find some villain who could have done this, but only Regulus, the Truth Tribune of legend, could–”

  “I understand.” Sir Reginald nodded. “Other than breaking the door down, has the room been disturbed in any way?”

  “I tried to shake him awake, but I didn't move him,” Quintinius said. “His stylus is still in his hand, look.”

  “When did the emperor retire here?”

  “Late evening, after supper.”

  “Was anyone in here with him, or did anyone enter here?”

  “A scribe came in and out a few times, we're interrogating him,” Quintinius said. “But the guard said the scribe left about an hour before the moon reached its zenith, and didn't return.”

  “And the guard saw the emperor alive at that time?”

  “Saw him and heard him talk, thanking the scribe for his h
ard work.”

  “Is there any way in or out of this room other than the door?”

  “Not unless you want to dig through twenty feet of earth and then drive a pick through the wall.”

  “I understand,” Sir Reginald said. “Then would you mind if we begin our inspection?”

  Quintinius nodded. “Please do. I’ll be outside if you need anything.” The General made to leave. “If you could please hurry, Regulus? The army will wake soon. They will want an emperor. I don't want us to proclaim his killer as the new emperor.”

  “We will see what we will see.” Sir Reginald stepped towards the emperor. “Although we would see more if we had some light.”

  “Of course, I will have a lamp brought down.”

  I, on cue, brought out my phone. Bright white LED torch burst into life and shone into the dark crevices of the room.

  “By the gods!” Quintinius's eyes nearly burst out of his head.

  “I would still like an oil lamp,” Sir Reginald said. “Not all of us have German magic at our disposal.”

  “I...yes. Yes. Of course.” The General disappeared.

  “Please don't do that again, Hannah.”

  “Sorry,” I said, but I didn’t extinguish the light. Instead I stepped carefully towards the emperor, making sure with every step I did not disturb some important piece of evidence.

  Marcus Aurelius was a tall man for the time, and taller than both me and Sir Reginald. He had a long beard that was, like his hair, starting to turn grey. I thought he dressed comparatively simply in a blue tunic with a purple sash, not at all as extravagantly or as garishly as I’d have expected from a Roman emperor, the most powerful man in the world.

  I ran my phone light over him and inspected him as closely as I could without touching him. His skin was clean. His throat was free of any bruising or marks of any kind, no blood or skin under his fingernails, none on his clothes. If the emperor had been attacked it could only have been by a ghost.