Laughing Wolf (10 page)

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.

Chapter Nine

A
blast of trumpets split the air and seemed to shake all of Felix's bones. He was sitting in a front row of the Circus Maximus, the city's largest venue for mass entertainment, and felt small in a crowd of some thirty thousand people. Everyone was in excellent spirits: the
munus
would be starting soon and promised to be magnificent. For his part, he felt sick to his stomach.

Not that the morning hadn't had its moments. After breakfast, he and Carolyn had joined Pompey on a stroll through the city. For several hours they had toured numerous districts, being careful not to approach a line of chalk-white markers. When Carolyn had asked why Pompey was avoiding this boundary, Felix had told her it was something called the
Pomerium
and marked the original outline of Rome: once a general crossed it, he would be stripped of his office.

They had taken in a multitude of sights from a distance. These had included a host of temples, shops, public buildings, and, visible on the Capitoline, the Tarpeian Rock: it was from here that criminals were thrown to their deaths. After lunch in a
taberna
, they had walked along the Via Tuscus, past the Forum Boarium (or cattle market), and into the vast circus itself, where they'd been sitting for the last half hour.

It would have been glorious had they not been faced with a
munus
.

Another clarion call erupted, this one more piercing than the first. When its final note died, Pompey climbed to his feet and waved regally to the crowd around him. Nearby spectators yelled his name, then the people beside them picked up the cry, and so the roar spread from tier to tier, until the entire building quaked with shouts of “Pompey! Pompey!” He was nodding, waving, and perspiring slightly — and clearly enjoying this thunderous applause. And why not, Felix thought. Wasn't he footing the bill for this show, to express his thanks for his triumphs in Spain?

“Pompey!
Imperator
!” the mob kept yelling, and Pompey grinned at this title of acclaim.
Imperator
, conqueror, the title pleased him greatly. But even as he stood there, vigorous and full of life, Felix couldn't help but shudder. In contrast to this triumph, the hero would die a lonely death years later, stabbed in the back and swiftly beheaded.…

“If they're happy now,” he commented, “just wait until the show begins.”

“I'm sure it will be impressive,” Felix said, suppressing his knowledge of the general's fate. “But can I remind you of your promise at dinner last night?”

The general laughed. “That depends on what I promised.”

“You said you would reward me.”

“I remember,” he nodded, with a serious expression. “What would you like?”

“We would like to join you when you march south with your troops.”

“You could ask for gold,” Pompey said. “but prefer to visit a war zone?” He laughed again.

“I have my reasons. Anyway, that is what I wish.”

Saying he would mull it over, the general chatted with Crassus, who was sitting one seat over. Felix told Carolyn that he had asked Pompey his favour.

“Good. This place is maddening,” she growled. “No one has undergone ERR and the crowd seems unstable and capable of anything.”

“You're not used to humans in their natural state.”

“… And then there are the temples you keep pointing out, not to mention statues of their so-called gods. These people rule the world and should have faith in their reason; instead they're hysterical and superstitious.” She shuddered with contempt.

“That's because life is uncertain — they could die of disease or war or famine. Their faith in gods allows them to think the world is stable and their lives are worth living.”

“But it's so … ridiculous. I'll bet these people rob for their gods, kill for them, and take slaves for them. I haven't studied history like you, but I know about the wars in the twenty-first century, and how they erupted because of religion.…”

“Religion has been toxic,” Felix agreed. “But at the same time it's been a crucial stage in our development, introducing us to justice and the sanctity of life. My father often argued that without religion, our species would never have survived its childhood.”

This mention of his father was like picking at a scab. He might have started brooding on his loss had a trumpet blast not sounded and roused the crowd to their feet. A band of men were entering the circus. They were armed but could not be confused with soldiers. Instead, Felix recognized the stock gladiator types. There was the
retiarius
, who was armed with a net and a vicious-looking trident; the
murmillo
, with his crested helmet and a long, straight blade; the
hoplomachus
, with his shield and massive spear; and the
thraex
, who carried a sword that was lethally curved at its tip.

“What's all this?” Carolyn asked.

“You won't want to watch,” Felix warned her.

“Why? The crowd seems very excited.”

At the sound of yet another trumpet call, the gladiators marched to one side, leaving two men behind to fight each other, a
murmillo
and a
hoplomachus
. The latter looked young, maybe twenty years old, and was lean and wiry; his opponent was older — his hair was grey — yet was muscular and vastly experienced (or so his many scars suggested). The pair faced Pompey, their arms upraised in a salute. Together they chanted,
“Ave Imperator, morituri te salutamus”
(“Hail general, we about to die salute you”). Pompey nodded and signalled them to begin.

The pair drew apart, crouched low and circled each other, like two dogs warring over a cut of meat. The
hoplomachus
feinted with his spear, then lunged at his opponent, who blocked him with his shield but staggered back at the impact. He also missed his footing and had to catch himself quickly. The two men started circling again, as the crowd egged them on with catcalls and cheers.

“The older man will win,” Carolyn said, considering the pair with a professional eye. “He's pretending to be weaker.”

“What did she say?” Pompey asked, remembering her prowess from the previous day.

“She said the
murmillo
will win,” Felix translated.

“I believe her.” Turning to Crassus, Pompey said he would bet a dozen
aurei
that the
murmillo
would triumph. The general smiled and accepted the wager, adding Pompey never learned his lesson and always backed the weaker party.

The young man was closing in again. He kept thrusting his spear at his opponent's face, causing him to duck from side to side. Pressing home his attack the
hoplomachus
lunged and grazed the man's forearm. The
murmillo
avoided further harm to himself by striking with his shield and shoving back his rival. He was standing more than thirty metres from Felix, but the blood on his arm was no less glaring than had it been on a snowbank.