Laughing Wolf Read online

  “What do you propose?” Felix asked.

  “First,” the professor said, “you are brother and sister.”

  “They won’t believe it,” Carolyn snapped. “We don’t look at all alike.”

  The professor laughed. “That’s not quite true. Both of you are tall, fair-complexioned, and blue-eyed. The Romans will assume you’re from the north; indeed, you’ll claim to come from Prytan — that is, modern-day Britain — and say you are descended from a line of Druids.”

  “What’s a Druid?” Carolyn asked, with a touch of impatience.

  Felix told her Druids were leaders among the ancient Celts — he didn’t dare mention they were priests as well because Carolyn would resent this reference to religion.

  “Your father, Felix,” the professor pressed on, “has dispatched you to learn the Romans’ customs. You have spent three years with Sextus Pullius Aceticus who happens to live in Cisalpine Gaul — northern Italy, of course. This is where you learned your excellent Latin. Indeed, you have proven such an adept student that Aceticus has adopted you and rendered you a citizen.”

  “What about me?” Carolyn asked.

  “Ah yes. Your father died recently — the Druid and not the general — and that is why you have joined your brother. In your father’s absence, he leads the family. And before returning to Prytan, to become head Druid, Felix has decided to take a tour of Rome. That’s not a bad biography, if I say so myself.”

  Felix was impressed. This story would account for their overall strangeness and grant them a certain freedom of movement. He was pleased, too, that his “adoptive father” was the author who had led them to the lupus ridens.

  “Now then,” the professor went on, pointing to the two bundles before him, “after consulting my books, I have created two tunics for you — with help from an automated loom, of course. You have also been given a toga virilis, Felix, which will mark you off as a Roman civis.”

  “Do I get a toga?” Carolyn asked, inspecting her clothes with a hint of suspicion.

  “Women don’t wear togas,” the professor replied. “And that’s why I have provided you with a palla, or cloak. You’ll also find calcei, or leather sandals. As far as indumenta, or undergarments are concerned, we’ll dispense with the licium, an uncomfortable loincloth, and you’ll wear our modern products instead. If you’re asked about these, you’ll say they are worn in Prytan.”

  “Why do I smell cinnamon?” Felix asked. He was sniffing a leather pouch.

  With an elfish smile, the professor explained he’d had a stroke of genius. If the pair of them got delayed in the past, they would need some type of currency. Gold was impossible — the TPM would reject it — so something else would have to serve in its place.

  “Why cinnamon?” Carolyn asked.

  “Because back then cinnamon was very precious. A single pinch will buy you a bed for the night.”

  Rising from his seat, he said they should go to their quarters and try their outfits on; quickly, too, as they would be leaving soon. He removed his glasses and polished the lenses, resembling a mole as he eyed them both.

  “I envy you,” he said. “To think that you will escape our modern machines to gaze upon the Romans sends shivers up my spine. But be very careful. These people are as brutal as they are civilized.”

  The pair nodded. Shaking hands with him, they took their bundles and left the room. As they headed toward two changing rooms, both were thinking the moment of truth was approaching. They were wondering, too, if they would get along: Carolyn found Felix odd, while Felix found Carolyn brash and pushy. On the other hand, they were glad they wouldn’t be travelling solo.

  In his room, Felix stripped down to his Protek underwear and reached for the tunic, which was two linen squares sewn simply together, with two rough holes for his arms and head. Pulling on the garment, he bunched its folds around his waist and tied these in place with a thin, leather strap. His feet groped for the sandals, which fitted him well — instead of buckles, there were straps that he could tighten at will. That left him with the toga.

  He was acquainted with togas because he had woven one once, just to see what the effect would be. It was two metres long and a metre wide, with three straight sides and a semi-circular one. The trick was to secure one end to the shoulder and wrap its length maybe twice around the waist, draping the loose end in the crook of one’s arm. It took him half-a-dozen attempts before he felt its folds were decently arranged. As an article of dress it was ridiculous and cumbersome.

  He had barely finished dressing when a knock rang out. A moment later, General Manes walked into the room.

  “Hello, sir,” Felix spoke. “What do you think? Does the toga suit me?”

  “Very much so,” the general replied, attempting a smile but barely succeeding.

  “Is it time?”

  “I’m afraid so. Carolyn is waiting at the TPM and I decided to escort you myself.”

  “I see. That’s kind of you.”

  Following the general, Felix stepped into the hallway, his movements uncertain because the toga kept slipping. As they proceeded to the Vacu-lift, he could sense the general had something to say, but that he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

  “Is something on your mind, sir?” he prodded him.

  “You’re intuitive,” the general said with approval. “That’s one advantage of being ERR-free. I’m worried about my daughter, of course. Since her mother’s death four years ago, she is all I’ve got. She means the moon and sun to me.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep her safe,” Felix promised. “Although she seems pretty good at looking after herself.”

  “True enough,” the general agreed, with the tiniest smile. A grimmer expression quickly returned, “More to the point, the news from earth is very worrying. The infection rate stands at sixty-eight percent — it has increased by ten percent these last six hours. Not too many victims have died, but that will change within a week at most. I don’t mean to pressure you, son, but you’ve got to find that flower. Otherwise …” The general left this sentence hanging.

  There was nothing else to say. Felix accompanied General Manes the rest of the way in silence.

  A mere two minutes later, he and Carolyn were poised in front of the TPM. He felt like a sailor on the shore of the sea: on one side was the tranquil present; ahead was the future’s choppy expanse.

  Carolyn stood behind him. He could see her reflected in the TPM’s dome: her palla was a perfect fit and she was utterly composed: she reminded him of the goddess Diana. Her father was watching from a distant console, with the same detachment and self-control. He was possibly about to kill his child, but his gaze was unwavering and his features calm. Even as he envied them their ERR, Felix suspected that they’d been robbed of something crucial.

  A flashing light disrupted these thoughts. The TPM was primed and it was time to enter. With nods to the general, doctor, and professor, Felix inhaled deeply and crossed the threshold. His nose was itchy and wanted scratching but even as he raised his finger, a light burst forth and an electrical surge ripped through him.

  In the hollows of the TPM, Felix Taylor was no longer to be seen.

  Chapter Seven

  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 y
ears 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 wer
e 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.