Читать книгу Felix Taylor Adventures 2-Book Bundle - Nicholas Maes - Страница 9

Teleportation was usually a humdrum affair. The process was so blindingly fast that the passenger hadn’t time to feel his atoms dissolve, travel through space, and reassemble elsewhere. But Dispersion Portals were one thing, the TPM was something different.

While the machine’s operations were lightning-fast, they seemed to transpire in slow motion. As a result, Felix saw his surroundings “melt” into a single point, the TPM, the space station, the earth, the sun, the solar system, and Milky Way. A storm of sound engulfed him, a mix of roars, cries, laughter, and eruptions, as worlds were born and destroyed in an instant, coming to be and expiring in a flash, like an infant’s puny wail of frustration. A million points of light tore at his “fabric” and spread it over an impossibly great distance, kilometres — no — light years in length: his limbs, his torso, his head ran on and on, all connected to each other still, but stretched like taffy over time and space. His senses were intact and he controlled his movements, even as a force ushered him forward, along a path of light that was wobbling like jelly. His index finger was still in front of his nose and was long enough to reach the sun as well as every other star at large.

And then it was over. Like a stretched elastic snapping back to normal, his atoms reassembled in the blink of an eye. He inhaled deeply, coughed once or twice, and felt his limbs over to check that he was … solid.

It was dark around him. Before he could puzzle his surroundings out, he was struck from behind. Stumbling forward, he bumped into a smooth, hard surface. What …?

“Felix?” Carolyn gasped. “Where are you?”

He started at the sound of her voice, and realized just as quickly he was glad to hear it. Reassuring her he was there, he again looked his surroundings over. By now his eyes were adjusting to the dark and the object in front of him was coming into focus. It was a statue as far as he could tell, a female with a helmet and…. His body tingled.

“Is that what we’re looking for?” Carolyn asked.

“Yes,” Felix croaked. “It’s a statue of Minerva.”

“The Roman goddess of wisdom,” she said.

“We’re in a cella,” Felix said, ignoring the scorn in her voice. “That’s the inner room of a Roman temple and the place where the statue of the god is stored.”

“So we’ve arrived.”

“It looks that way. Let’s get out of here. Do you see a door?”

They glanced around. There. Five metres in front of them was a square outline of light. They moved toward it cautiously and worked the heavy planking open. Scouring sunlight poured into the room.

Blinking hard, they surveyed their surroundings. Before them was a stylobate or elongated floor that carried lines of marble columns. Above them was the architrave, or beams, that supported the temple’s elaborate frieze: these marble blocks were handsomely carved and depicted myths from the life of Minerva. Felix wanted to study them, but a shove from Carolyn brought him to his senses. There was work to be done. Inching forward, they reached the stylobate’s end and a flight of marble stairs. Both of them gasped.

The temple stood on a hill. Below them was a series of fields that rolled on forever, bursting with wheat and other produce. Far off in the distance, on the edge of the horizon, stood a line of intoxicating blue: the sea. A golden sun illuminated this landscape, its rays teasing the odd meandering cloud.

Neither Felix nor Carolyn could speak. While comfortable, their world was overcrowded. There were very few open areas left, where tracts of land greeted the eye and nature could assert itself so freely. Even the sun and sky were different, were richer in tone, more deeply hued, because they weren’t subject yet to human control.

Human control. A mile to their right stood a square-shaped town with a collection of houses and buildings at its centre. It was surrounded by a wall, with a gate on each side, through which multitudes of people were exiting and entering. An army had pitched its camp outside the town and the locals were anxious to trade with the soldiers. Lots of men were riding about on horses. Felix and Carolyn stood agog: horses were very rare in their world and found in only three or four zoos.

“Are we here,” Carolyn whispered, “or are we part of some virtual reality?”

Before Felix could speak, a voice called to them.

“Come away from there, you two!”

Felix glanced down. A man in a tunic was glaring up at them. He was short and wiry and was surrounded by goats — animals Felix had never seen in the flesh. More to the point, the man was addressing them in Latin.

“Don’t stand there like two dolts! Come away from there!”

“What’s he saying?” Carolyn asked.

“He wants us to come down. Look around for a field with flowers. Quickly. This guy is just about ready to explode. ”

Felix was right. The man was yelling and gesturing at the pair. Other people were gathering now, lured by the commotion. All of them were yelling as well.

“I can’t see any flowers,” Carolyn said. “What now?”

“We’ll have to search for it the hard way.”

“Maybe we’re in the wrong Panarium.”

“We can’t know that for sure. Let’s check things out.”

Felix descended the stairs, his gait somewhat awkward because his toga kept slipping. Carolyn followed, muttering to herself. The crowd confronted them at the foot of the hill.

“Explain yourself!” the first man cried. His face was burned a chestnut brown and he was missing two fingers.

“The goddess is moody,” a woman added. She was dressed in a tunic that had been patched all over, two incisors were missing, and she had a bad rash.

“You’re not from here!” a third person yelled, brandishing a hoe.

“That is so,” Felix replied, anxious to test his Latin on a band of native speakers. “We’re priests from Prytan and wished to visit your goddess. We meant no harm.”

The crowd’s mood underwent a sudden reversal. From hostile and suspicious, they became friendly and servile. They had noticed how well-dressed their visitors were, how their skin was fair, and their teeth white and even. They were clearly well connected, to a senator perhaps. And they were priests! Maybe they would bring the town good luck.

“Is this Panarium?” Felix asked, addressing the first man.

“Yes, amice. It is the finest town in Italy, I daresay.”

“Do you know a farmer named Balbus?”

“No, adulescens. I have never heard of Balbus. But there are numerous households in this region, and our prefect may be acquainted with this person.”

“Many thanks. You have been most helpful.”

“The pleasure is mine, domine.”

“Curate ut valeatis.”

“Valete, both of you.”

Motioning to Carolyn, Felix led her down a narrow road toward the town’s sturdy ramparts. As they walked, he summarized his exchange with the crowd and suggested that they were best off consulting the prefect.

“I still say we’re in the wrong town,” she maintained.

“Maybe, but let’s make sure.”

They continued along the road in silence. While Felix felt vaguely pleased with himself — he hadn’t known how a Roman would respond to his Latin — Carolyn was irritable. Her lack of language frustrated her, and their surroundings were more alien than she had expected.

“Look at this road,” she finally spoke, after stubbing her toe for the fifteenth time, “It’s riddled with potholes.”

“It’s a secondary road, a via glarea,” Felix answered. “But in the eyes of the ancients, even a road like this is a marvel.”

“There are no lights. Imagine walking it at night.”

“You wouldn’t. Unless there were a full moon and you were properly armed.”

“And look at these fields. They’re empty. What’s the use of wasting land?”

“It’s not being wasted. The Romans don’t synthesize their food. This wheat you see will be turned into bread.”

“It’s so … so … primitive,” she observed. “Although the effect is very pretty.”

By now they had reached Panarium’s outskirts. The area was packed with legionnaires and merchants and market stalls full of various wares. Flies were swarming everywhere, and the gnarled and unhygienic crowd kept fingering the produce, even as the merchants told them to keep their filthy hands to themselves. Children had a free run of the place, and there were dogs everywhere, on the lookout for scraps. A withered man was playing a pipe, while a knot of soldiers, reeling with drink, danced to his plaintive tune.

“This place is unbelievable,” Carolyn observed.

“Let me ask someone where we can find the town prefect.”

Felix approached a stall that contained plates of pastry — grainy cakes of dough that were swimming in oil. He had to brush a dozen flies from his face as he confronted the owner, a big-headed man with piercing black eyes.

“What can I do for you, adulescens?”

“Where can I find the prefect, please?”

“Why do you want the prefect?”

“I’m looking for a farmer named Balbus and …”

“Balbus? I’ve never heard of him. Hey!” he called to several passersby. “Do you know a farmer named Balbus? Marcus? Octavia?”

A knot of people quickly formed. Again Felix couldn’t help but notice how tough they seemed, how gnarled and short and badly bruised by life. One had a facial scar, another an arm that was sorely misshapen, and a third was missing his right leg altogether. Glancing Felix over, they said no farmer named Balbus lived in the region. Felix was about to grimace in frustration when a boy came running up to his side. He was eight years old and cradling a hen — again this was an animal that was rarely seen in modern times.

“I know a Balbus,” he piped up. “He lives in my hometown, which is a five-day walk from here.”

“Then he can’t be the right Balbus, can he?” the pastry man sneered.

“But this Balbus is famous,” the boy persisted, “Instead of grain, his land is choked with flowers, that’s how much the gods detest him.”

“That is the Balbus I’m looking for!” Felix felt a surge of excitement. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from a hamlet called Canepria. It is one of several viculi that lie close together.… Ah! I understand!” the boy proclaimed. “A second Panarium lies three miles north of us. That’s the place you’re after, and not this oppidum here.”

He began to laugh at Felix’s mistake, as did the rest of the group. But the chicken in his arms took fright at this clamour, beat its wings vigorously, and escaped his arms. With a cry of anguish the boy set off in pursuit. Laughing still, the crowd went about their business.

“What a bumpkin that boy is,” the pastry man chuckled. “Although I feel bad for his family. They fled here to escape Spartacus’s army and have lost their farm and all of their possessions.…”

Felix was only half listening. He was explaining to Carolyn what the boy had said, and how they had in fact selected the wrong Panarium. Both agreed that they should return to the temple, and were turning to leave when the man snatched Felix’s arm.

“One moment,” he growled, “Is that how you repay a favour? I helped you find that farmer Balbus, and the least you can do is buy a piece of my pastry. Your wife is thin and could use some fattening up.”

“She’s my sister,” Felix replied. “But you’re right. A thousand pardons. We’ll take two servings of your pastry, optime.”

“That’s more like it. I made them fresh this morning and they are full of honey. And at ten sesterces they are an excellent bargain….”

“I can’t pay in cash.” Felix was loosening the string on his pouch.

“You have no cash?” the owner groaned, “So what will you give me...?”

“Cinnamomum,” Felix said, holding out a large pinch of the spice. With a look of incredulity, the vendor brought his nose to Felix’s fingers.

“Cinnamomum! I don’t believe …? Here. Take as much pastry as you want!”

“Two pieces are enough.” Felix laughed, sprinkling the powder onto the stall’s pitted counter. That said, he and Carolyn stepped away. The vendor was too excited to notice: he was gathering the spice and sniffing it ecstatically.

Nibbling on the pastry, they hatched a simple plan. Now that they knew where to find the lupus ridens, they would return to their present and travel to the right Panarium. Balbus would be easy to track down — he seemed to be well known in the region — and once they had the lupus ridens, their mission would be over. All in all it seemed very straightforward. Felix was going to say as much, when someone seized him from behind.

“Hey!” he cried, as he was shoved into a space behind an empty stall. Carolyn was being similarly handled.

“Tace, amice,” one man spoke. He was powerfully built, burned black by the sun, and had a menacing, lopsided grin. His companions had the same hardened appearance. Felix saw that they were dressed in identical lacernae, short cloaks fastened with a clasp at the shoulder, and grasped that they were part of the visiting army.

“Can we help you?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, you can. Hand us the cinnamomum and we’ll leave you alone.”

“What do they want?” Carolyn asked.

“It’s the cinnamon. They saw it when I paid for the pastry. I’ll give it to them.…”

“You can’t. It could easily trigger a butterfly effect. With wealth like that, these men could alter the future.”

“You’re right. What do you suggest …?”

“Enough gibberish!” the leader barked. “Hand the loot over!”

“I’m sorry,” Felix said. “I can’t.”

“I’m not asking,” the man growled, pulling a dagger from his tunic. It was sharp and looked like it had been used before. “Give it to me now or …”

By the time he looked behind him, Carolyn had knocked down all his friends, tempering her blows so she would only bruise them. With movements too fast for the eye to follow, she grabbed the dagger from the leader’s hand. The man cursed and threw a punch, but she ducked it easily and brought him to his knees.

“Tell them to leave,” she said.

Before Felix could translate, the men were up again and bent on violence. Three of them had daggers now and were closing in on Carolyn. Felix raised his fists, but she needed no assistance. Effortlessly, she had them on the ground again, with no damage afflicted but for minor aches and sprains. Full with rage, the men were going to rush her a third time. Before they could, a voice rang out.

“That’s enough! Attention, all of you!”

Felix glanced around. Other troops had gathered without his noticing, as well as a man who was mounted on a charger. His clothing marked him out as a general: he was wearing a breastplate, a leather kilt, and a blood-red cloak that reached his calves. Felix started. He recognized this man. He’d seen pictures of his bust before and … yes! As incredible as it seemed, he was poised before Pompey the Great, one of Rome’s greatest leaders.

“Explain yourselves!” Pompey was directing his soldiers.

“We were having a joke, dux.” the leader spoke, “We intended no harm.”

“Is that true?” Pompey asked Carolyn. The epitome of calm when she’d been fighting, she looked lost and confused when the general addressed her.

“It is true, dux,” Felix volunteered, aware that if he told the truth, the soldiers would be flogged and their wounds might lead to a butterfly effect, “They meant no harm.”

“Who are you?” Pompey demanded, frowning at Felix’s accent. “And why does this girl not speak for herself? She fights for herself,” he added, with a look of approval.

“She speaks no Latin, dux. And my name is Felix Aceticus, son of the Druid Belenus from Prytan, and adopted son of Sextus Pullius Aceticus.”

“You’re Sextus’s adopted son?” Pompey asked, smiling suddenly. “Why didn’t you say so? The old bookworm is a client of mine, although it has been ages since I last saw him in Cremona. But I’m tired of talking in the open like this.” He called to a servant with enormous ears. “Flaccus! See to my guests. They will come with us to Rome this afternoon.”

“Very good, dux.”

Felix wanted to say they had business to look after, but the general had already turned his back on them. His soldiers followed after him, but not before their attackers looked them over, bewildered why they’d been let off so easy. Felix was hoping that he and Carolyn might escape in this confusion and return to the temple and the TPM, but Flaccus was keeping a close eye on them.

“You heard the dux,” he said, leading them forward. “You’re coming with us.”

With no choice in the matter, the pair stepped off. While Felix was thrilled at the thought of spending time with Pompey, part of him suspected that they were sticking their necks on a chopping block.