Читать книгу Felix Taylor Adventures 2-Book Bundle - Nicholas Maes - Страница 10

Felix rolled onto his back and exchanged stares with a ceiling. He had slept like the dead and, in his first waking moments, had trouble recollecting where he was. Wrestling back his panic, he pieced his memories together.

He was in … Italy, 71 BC. Check.

At Pompey’s prompting, his slave Flaccus had piled them into a wagon. Check.

They had travelled along the Via Nomentum to Rome, at which stage they had left the wagon and followed Pompey when he’d passed behind the Servian Walls. Check.

Inside Rome they had wandered the Via Longus, with its towering apartment blocks on either side, whose ground floors had exhibited a hive of stores, each buzzing with crowds of noisy shoppers. As they had walked between the Quirinal and Viminal hills, he’d descried the temple to Jupiter on the Capitoline’s crest. Check.

At the foot of the Esquiline, Pompey had turned up a steep, winding alley. After a gruelling hike, he had led them to a spectacular domus on the southeast slope. Check.

Entering the house, they had been welcomed by a crowd of slaves. Advising them that dinner would be served before sunset, Flaccus had led them to separate rooms. Check.

After dismissing his slave, a Spaniard named Fuscus, Felix had washed using a pitcher of water, then stretched out on a bed and fallen asleep, overcome by the heat and the strangeness of time travel. Check.

And now Fuscus was due to arrive at any moment and conduct him to the triclinium where dinner would be held. Check.

He shook his head wearily. It defied belief that he was present in Republican Rome, and was rubbing shoulders with one of its most famous sons. On the one hand, he was smiling with pleasure; on the other, he was aware they had a mission to complete. Never mind his encounter with Pompey; they had to find the lupus ridens and …

A knock rang out and Carolyn entered.

“You look upset,” Felix said.

“A slave wanted to wash me and help me dress,” she complained. “Are people so helpless they can’t manage these tasks for themselves?”

“We’re not much different. We rely on our machines.”

“Programming a machine isn’t the same as bullying humans. But never mind that. Have you figured out a way to escape this place? We’ve got to track that flower down.”

“I know. I’m hoping Pompey will escort us there himself.”

He explained that, if he remembered correctly, Pompey had just returned from a campaign in Spain. Within a week, having tidied up his affairs in Rome, he would march his army south to join the struggle against Spartacus. They would proceed along the Via Appia and pass within a short distance of Panarium.

“Will he take us along?” Carolyn asked.

“We’ll persuade him to. If not, we’ll think of something else. In the meantime, let’s try to blend in with these Romans.”

He would have added more but Flaccus appeared just then to take them to dinner. Stepping into the main hall, they walked toward the rear of the domus. The dying sun was entering through a hole in a roof (it was called a compluvium) and a dozen lamps were casting light from a variety of alcoves. Three servants stood with buckets at hand, just in case a fire started.

En route to the dining room, they passed a chamber that exhibited lines of masks on its walls. The features on each were detailed and realistic, and the collection created an eerie impression, as if a multitude of spirits were watching them pass.

“Why the masks?” Carolyn whispered.

“They are portraits of Pompey’s ancestors. Some go back hundreds of years.”

“They’re … peculiar.”

“Shh. We’re here.”

They were standing with Flaccus at the doorway of the triclinium. Boisterous voices were coming from within, and a crowd of servants were streaming back and forth, carrying wine and platters of food. Two slaves seated Felix and Carolyn on stools, washed their feet, and provided them with slippers. This operation done, they were ushered forward.

They gasped at the sight before them. They were in a room whose length was twice its width and whose walls were painted a mix of cheerful colours. There were lamps everywhere, and two more servants to prevent a fire from starting. Most peculiar were the dining arrangements. Instead of a regular table and chairs, three couches had been arranged to form a square with one side missing. The space in between contained three long tables, with sufficient room for slaves to pass into the middle. And instead of sitting straight, the guests were reclining on their sides, their faces turned toward the central space. All in all, it was a cozy setup.

The diners barely noticed as Flaccus guided them to the couch on the left — by custom this was reserved for the lowest-ranking guests. They were too caught up in the conversation and, besides, two fifteen-year-old foreigners were hardly worth their notice. Felix looked round the room and almost flinched in shock. Besides Pompey, there were another five people, two of whom he recognized. Containing his excitement, he reclined beside Carolyn on the couch.

“So tell us,” Pompey asked the man on his right, a sign his rank was the highest of those present, “how’s the war with Spartacus going?”

“We have five legions and are assembling three more,” this guest spoke crisply, holding out his goblet, which a slave filled with wine.

“Eight legions to deal with an army of slaves?” Pompey laughed.

“Your attitude explains why we’ve been beaten thus far. Don’t underrate these slaves, Gnaeus. They are capable warriors.”

“But they are slaves, nonetheless,” a portly man spoke up. “Doesn’t Aristotle argue that some are slaves by nature while others are born to rule?”

“With all due respect to Aristotle,” the general sneered, “Spartacus fights for a most precious possession, his personal liberty. This is why his motivation is high, and why he has performed so ably. At the same time, he will learn to his discredit that it is sheer folly to defy the authority of Rome.”

“Do you recognize these people?” Carolyn whispered.

“Only two besides Pompey,” Felix replied, nodding his thanks as a slave handed him a goblet. “On his right is Marcus Licinius Crassus, the richest man in Rome; while the fat guy is Marcus Tullius Cicero, a very able orator.”

“I don’t know what they’re saying, but they seem pleased with themselves.”

“You’re right,” Felix said, discovering there was wine in his goblet. “As far as I can tell, they are all big players on the political scene. Still, if they knew what I know, they wouldn’t feel so smug.”

In a low voice he described how each character would meet his end. Pompey would die years later in Egypt, murdered after his defeat by Julius Caesar. Cicero would be killed by a follower of Caesar — the infamous Mark Antony. And Crassus would die in the Syrian desert after witnessing the destruction of his accompanying army.

“It’s eerie,” Carolyn commented, “how you know these men’s futures.”

Felix was about to agree — it was strange to know how a living person would die — but their whispering had attracted the guests’ attention and they were now the subject of everyone’s stares. To conceal his agitation, Felix gulped his wine.

“What language are you speaking?” Cicero asked.

“It is a dialect of Celtic,” Felix lied, aware that the orator couldn’t tell Common Speak and Celtic apart.

“Pompey tells us that you are from Prytan,” Crassus said, “and you are descended from Druids?”

“That is correct, dux.”

“Tell us about Prytan and your people, then.”

Aware that Romans were curious about the world, Felix had prepared himself in advance for this question. He briefly described the size and climate of England, as well as its tribes and religious practices, explaining how the Druids worship nature and consider fire a purifying element. As he spoke, he knew no one would challenge his account: no Roman would set foot in Prytan for at least twenty years.

“How fascinating,” a man named Metellus spoke up. “It is remarkable how varied the world can be.”

Crassus laughed. “How backward, too. The boy’s account just goes to show that the world is waiting for the Romans to fill it.”

“Perhaps Prytan will experience the force of Roman arms,” Cicero agreed. “And will be fortunate enough to become a province. How does that prospect strike you, boy?”

“Perhaps it will be conquered,” Felix assented, aware the emperor Claudius would turn it into a province down the road. Without considering the wisdom of the remark, he added, “But the student of history cannot fail to observe that empires eventually come to an end. Indeed, the larger their territory, the faster they contract.”

The room greeted his statement with silence. Pompey was holding out his goblet but moved it suddenly when Felix spoke, causing wine to spill all over. Crassus sat upright, knocking into Metellus, who dropped a succulent slice of lamb. The other guests were murmuring aloud, shocked by Felix’s observation. Sensing he had spoken out of turn, Carolyn curled into herself.

“Pompeius informs us,” Cicero spoke, “that you have been adopted by Sextus Pullius Aceticus and trained in Roman customs?”

“That is correct, magister.” Felix glanced down at his goblet. In his nervousness, he had drained its contents.

“And yet, having received such instruction, you question our supremacy?”

“I meant no offence. I was merely pointing out that empires die, like all things human. Why are Babylonia, Assyria, and Egypt no more? Because they overreached themselves and committed terrible crimes.”

“Such as?” Crassus asked, his face a mix of ice and stone.

“Enslaving people is one example.”

The room started speaking at once. Someone was yelling that an economy without slaves was impossible; Cicero was quoting Aristotle again, how some populations are naturally servile; while Crassus was saying it was talk like Felix’s that encouraged slaves to rebel against their masters. Finally Pompey stared at Felix and demanded loudly, “Whose side are you on? Do you fight for Rome or is it Spartacus you champion?”

Felix was tipsy but realized he had gone too far. Somehow he had to fix this situation and regain these politicians’ good will. He stared up at the ceiling for some inspiration, where a painting of Venus looked down at him. Venus, the goddess of love, mother of Aeneas and … Aeneas! Of course!

A moment later the crowd was amazed when Felix left his couch and stepped into the centre. He raised his arms, closed his eyes and began to recite from memory:

Arma virumque cano, Troae qui primus ab oris Italiam fato profugus Laviniaque venit litora — multum ille et terris iactatus et alto vi superum, saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram, multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem inferretque deos Latio; genus unde Latinum Albanique patres atque altae moenia Romae.

Felix would later translate these lines into Common Speak for Carolyn:

I sing of weapons and the man. Fleeing Troy’s coast

he was fated first to reach Italy and the shores of Lavinia,

tossed on sea and land by divine violence,

because savage Juno was ever mindful of her anger.

He also endured the travails of war, until he should found the city

and carry his gods into Latium. From him come the Latin tribe,

the Alban nobles and the defenses of lofty Rome.

Watching Felix, Carolyn didn’t know what to think. Part of her believed he had lost his mind; another part admired him for his courage in confronting a throng of angry Romans; finally, part of her was full of wonder. It wasn’t only that his performance was breathtaking, even though she couldn’t understand a word he had spoken; it was his influence on the guests. They were staring at him in amazement. Whereas a minute earlier, Cicero had been contorted with rage, the orator was smiling and had his eyes shut tight, as if he were listening to his favourite piece of music. Crassus was waving his hand to Felix’s chanting, while Pompey, the battle-hardened general, had tears stealing from his eyes!

Regaining his composure, Felix finished his recital and lowered his arm.

“I hope you accept these lines of verse,” he spoke, “as an apology for my inopportune remarks.”

“How is it,” Cicero finally spoke, “that a native son of Prytan could compose the finest Latin verse I’ve ever heard?”

“The gods are speaking through this boy,” Metellus agreed.

“He has breathed such honey from his lips,” Crassus cried, “that he has more than made up for his earlier poison.”

“Be seated,” Pompey finally spoke, holding his goblet up in Felix’s honour. “Adopted son of Aceticus, never mind your unconventional views. I am honoured that you are here beneath my roof. Tomorrow we shall attend a munus and I shall grant you any wish you desire. And now, back to our feast.”

Bowing low, Felix retreated to the couch. Reclining next to Carolyn, he grabbed her goblet and drained it of its water. Her face was full of questions, so he explained that Romans were crazy about poetry and he had recited a few verses from the greatest poet of them all, Publius Vergilius Maro.

“Of course,” he added with a grin, “his Aeneid won’t appear for fifty years.”

He then said that Pompey had promised to grant him a favour. Assuming the general was heading south with his troops, he would ask his permission to accompany the army as far as Panarium. Although they would have to attend a munus first.

“What’s a munus?”

Instead of answering, Felix helped himself to some chicken. With a sour look he ripped apart the bones and sunk his teeth into the tender flesh.