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Saturnalia

12/4/2014

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“BEATRIX!”

The voice bellows in my ear. I jump and turn around to find the source, but realize it’s coming from inside my head.

“No need to yell,” I scold, somewhat grumpily. My stomach is churning, and I still dislike the blurred vision and spinning head that accompanies each time-hop.

“Sorry.” Matt’s voice is apologetic. “I’ve been trying to contact you for a while, but I couldn’t get a connection.”

“Well, I’m here, what do you want?”

“We’ve found the source of the virus,” he explains. “I’m running the clean-up program now, so it shouldn’t be long before we establish the recall link.”

“You mean you can finally get me back?” Relief rushes through me. I’ve been travelling for an eternity, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen my kids. At least, I think it’s been ages. I’ve journeyed across millennia, but I could have been missing mere hours back in my own time.

“That’s the plan. Just a couple more jumps, I think. You should be landing now.”

As if to confirm his words, my vision begins to clear. Yellow lights dance in front of my eyes, and voices rise around me as if someone’s turning up the volume.

“Make it quick,” I say to Matt. Although the thrill of travelling through time hasn’t quite worn off, I’d prefer the adventures to be my decision rather than being forced upon me.

“Over and out.” The shell in my head hisses, crackles, and his voice fades.

I blink, and the view before me sharpens into focus.

I’m standing at the edge of a crowd in a huge stone building. The ceiling is supported by large pillars carved and painted with vines and leaves. When I look down, my gaze falls on a mosaic floor made from tiny pieces of tile. The picture is mostly hidden beneath people’s feet, but they can’t hide the beauty of the craftsmanship. I’m pretty certain it’s Roman, although these floors have been found in Europe from Cornwall to Germany, so I could be anywhere.

I look around the building, and I’m stunned by the amount of candles I can see. On every statue, every wall, every shelf, there are hundreds of white candles, filling the air with flickering light and a veneer of smoke that drifts slowly to the high ceiling. The candles highlight everyone’s faces, and their eyes shine as they look up to the figure on top of the dais at the front.

I turn to look at him, and flinch as I see him holding up blood-covered hands. Something gross hangs from them—innards of some description—and my stomach clenches.

Next to me, a person sniggers. “You have turned whiter than milk. You have such a weak stomach!”

“It is the smell,” the person whose head I’m inside says in a deep, male voice. I have to agree—I’ve never liked the odour of fresh blood.

The man on the dais—a priest, I’m gathering, judging by the way he’s just sacrificed the lamb lying dead at his feet—declares the entrails to be clean and clear of decay, and the crowd cheers.

The sacrifice and the lettering carved around the building confirm to me my first thought—I’m in Rome. I’m standing in a temple, and I look around for signs of who it’s dedicated to. My gaze falls on the large statue next to the dais. The man looks a little like Father Christmas, with a thick curly beard, and he carries a scythe. Saturn, then—and this must be the festival of Saturnalia—the equivalent of our Christmas.

Normally, everyone would be wearing togas, but today these have been exchanged for colourful clothes, and everyone wears conical felt hats called pilleus. The priest’s head, however, is uncovered, and as I watch, he and a couple of others remove some wool bindings from the feet of the statue of Saturn. This, I know, symbolises liberation. Following this, the men lift the statue and lay it on an elaborate couch, as if Saturn himself is about to take part in the festivities.

“Come on,” the voice beside me mutters. “Before we get crushed in the crowd.”

I turn and follow the man through the throng of people. The front portico of the temple consists of eight enormous columns, and as we walk through them, I found myself in a huge open square—the Forum Magnum, and I know I am truly in Rome.

I glance up over my shoulder, and my gaze falls on the pediment above the pillars. It bears the inscription Senatus Populusque Romanus incendio consumptum restituit. I struggle briefly with the Latin—it means “The Senate and People of Rome have restored what fire consumed". It confirms to me that it is at least the late third century, as this is the third temple to stand here, rebuilt after a fire destroyed the previous one in 283AD.
Arch of SeptimiusSeverus
Ruins of the Temple of Saturn (eight columns to the far right) in February 2010, with three columns from the Temple of Vespasian and Titus (left) and the Arch of Septimius Severus (center)

The Forum is packed with rows of wooden tables heaped with plates of food, and the atmosphere is carnival-like. There are people singing and playing instruments, groups of others gambling with dice and knucklebones, and everyone is eating. At first glance, it looks as if everyone is dressed the same, but when I peer more closely, I see that those serving the food are wearing elaborate jewellery and their clothes are of a far finer material. Saturnalia was a festival of role-reversal, and the masters are serving the slaves, although I am certain the slaves would have prepared the food themselves.

“You want something to eat?” The man I inhabit seems oddly out of place here. He fidgets at the edge of the festivities, his hands behind his back, either nervous or uncomfortable, I’m not sure which.

“In a moment.” My friend also hangs back. I glance across at him. His gaze is distant, looking out to the hills. “Do you think they will come?”

I shrug. “Nothing is certain.” I hesitate. “But the priest predicts good news, so we should not worry.” I am conscious of trying to reassure my friend. I wonder to whom he is referring. Who is coming? And why are they not welcome?

“I miss my wife,” my friend says glumly. “She will have roasted a whole pig, and my son will have organised a play. Did I tell you he writes?”

“You did. I hear he is much to be admired.”

“He has talent, that is true. I am proud of him, although sometimes I wish he had a little skill with a sword. If the tribes do cross the Rhine, they will head for Gaul, and it would be good to know he was able to defend his mother.”

“They will have to get through us first, Gaius,” I say, somewhat fiercely. We are soldiers then, awaiting the hordes of barbarians who nibble at the edges of the Empire, trying to find a weakness.

Gaius nods. “They might not come.”

“No. They might not.”

Our silence suggests neither of us believes that.

Common thought is that the Vandals, Alans and Suebo tribes crossed the Rhine in 406, possibly on the thirty-first of December. If that is the case and it is indeed that year, then the soldiers are right and we are standing on the brink of an invasion, observing the Empire as it teeters around us, about to crash around our ears.

“I will be a grandfather soon,” I say. “I am expecting word any day now.”

“We grow old, my friend,” he says with a smile. “We have seen good times, have we not?”

“We have.”

We lapse into wistfulness, watching those around us celebrating, but the shadow of invasion hangs over our heads too heavily for us to join in. I muse that it has always been the same at this time of year. Everyone wants to be with their families, to watch their children and grandchildren grow up, and to be at peace.

“Come on,” my friend says eventually. “We grow morbid. Let us play at dice, and you can lose all your coins to me, and that will make me cheerful again.”

Laughing, we descend the steps, and lose ourselves in wine and dice in an attempt to forget the doom that hovers over us.


Freya
Polidoro da Caravaggio - Saturnus-thumb
Saturnus Polidoro Caldara da Caravaggio 16th century
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A Token of Vengeance

10/21/2014

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As the blinding light fades, the first thing I become aware of is the hardness of stone beneath my knees and hands. I blink, confused, and jump as the shell crackles in my head and Matthew’s voice echoes like a stone dropped in a well.

“Beatrix? Are you okay?”

Relief washes over me—I’ve travelled twice since last speaking to him at Lindisfarne, and I was starting to panic I’d lost the connection.

“I’m all right.” I focus on the ground. I’m kneeling on a cobbled road. The stones are wet, and there is a distinct fishy smell in the air. “Have you worked out how to get me back?”

“Bea, you wouldn’t believe what’s happened.” Matthew’s voice fades in and out like an old radio being tuned. “...in the lab, and somehow they’ve uploaded a virus...”

I turn cold. “Matt? Who’s uploaded a virus?”

“Saboteurs,” he says, clear as anything. “Protesters. Not everyone agrees with our research. They think we’re... Accused us of interfering... Timelines...”

I screw up my eyes in frustration. “Matt?”

“Hang in there, babe. We’ll bring you back. It just might take a few days.”

Days? I have no idea what that means in my mixed up timeline. That could equate to mere seconds or a lifetime of travelling through time. “Wait, I...” But the connection’s broken, and the hissing in my head fades.

When I raise my head, I am in some kind of harbour. Boats are moored in rows, and the sea laps against the legs of a wooden pier. Although the day is warm, the water is grey and unwelcoming. It can only be the English Channel, I think somewhat wryly as I remember childhood summers splashing about in the icy water.

Voices sound from along the harbour, and I turn my head to see three fishermen hefting barrels of fish from a boat onto the dock. Vaguely, I wonder why none of them is helping me. They cast me suspicious glances, but none of them comes to see why I am still on my hands and knees. Have I been drinking? I don’t feel drunk, although I have a sour taste in my mouth, and my head aches.

I get to my feet, then stand there for a moment, hands on my knees. I feel weak, and it’s not only my head that aches—my whole body throbs. Have I been in a battle?

Finally, I stand upright and take a proper look around the harbour. The boats are wooden with sails, and the men’s clothing is basic: woollen tunics and breeches, with leather shoes. Medieval, then? It’s difficult to narrow it down, because peasants’ clothing changed so little over hundreds of years.

I stumble forward to lean heavily on a barrel. It’s full of fish, their glassy eyes blinking up at me.

“Ned—go away.” One of the fishermen comes closer, but stops about six feet away. “Don’t touch them.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I protest. My voice is deep—I’m a man, then, Edward, a distinct Saxon or medieval name. The fisherman’s face shows fear—although he knows me, he’s terrified of me.

“Go away,” he says again, swiping an arm as if to scare me. I turn and totter away.

Further along, I pause, exhausted, by a warehouse, and I lean my head on the wall to survey the scene. Other men are moving cargo from boats to the dock—I spy large flagons of wine, bales of cloth, boxes probably containing exotic foods. A man is chopping fish, throwing the sightless heads in a pile of rubbish. Rats skitter across the stones; a dog pees up against the wall.

Pushing myself off, I head farther down the road. It seems strangely empty—not what I would have expected from a bustling medieval town during the middle of the day. It’s hot, and sweat runs down my back. It’s probably because I’m wearing a coat in spite of the fact it’s obviously summer—or do I have a fever? I touch my hand to my brow, then lower it to find it moist. My head pounds.

I weave my way along alleyways, and if I do meet someone, they take pains to avoid me. Where am I going? To Ned’s house? I feel distinctly unwell. Why have I travelled to this point in time, to this person? I lurch against the wall, and my fingers fumble at the latch of a wooden door. Turning the handle, I stumble inside.

It’s dark, and it smells foetid. I blunder through the small room with its two wooden chairs and table, and through to a bedroom. I recoil at the smell. A woman lies on the bed, her head turned away from me. She is breathing—I can see the rise and fall of her chest, but it’s shallow, and her skin is whiter than milk. The blanket covering her is filthy, stained with a dark liquid. I shudder to think what it is.

“Maud?” I walk up to the bed and sit by her side. “I brought some bread.” I extract half a loaf from inside my coat, and drop the garment to the floor. It disturbs a rat gnawing on something mouldy in the corner, and it shoots off into the darkness.

The room is insufferably hot, and she pushes at the bedclothes, shoving them to one side. My gaze falls onto her pale body, as she’s naked beneath the dirty, stained blanket, and my heart stops. On the side of her neck is a large black lump.

I watch, horrified, mesmerised, as Ned removes the blanket, dips a cloth into a pail of water by the bed, and proceeds to wipe her with it, presumably trying to cool her, as she’s sweating and shivering at the same time. As he sponges down her thin body, I see similar black swellings in her groin. At one point, his cloth brushes the swelling, and she screams, then lapses into sobs.

Ned stands, pressing a hand to his mouth, and stumbles back into the other room. Now I know why he’s aching, why he has a headache. He lifts his woollen tunic and cranes his head to look at his throbbing armpit—the bubo glares back at him, promising death.

The same rat I had disturbed—or is it another?—runs across the floor to a pile of dirty cloth in the corner. It carries with it the fleas that have infected Ned and his wife with the Black Death, the fourteenth-century outbreak of the Bubonic Plague.

I know that graves dating to around 1338 in Kyrgyzstan bear inscriptions that refer to plague, and that it probably spread from there to China and India along the Silk Road, and thence to Europe on merchant ships. It is now June or July in 1348, and I must be in Melcombe Regis—the port in Dorset where a ship from Genoa brings rats and cloth carrying their plague-infested fleas. By autumn, it will have spread to London; in winter, it will turn into the even deadlier form, pneumonic plague, spread by coughing and sneezing caused by winter colds, and then to septicaemic plague, spread through the blood, which is almost always fatal.

Ned and Maud will die, and so will a third to a half of the population of Europe. Whole towns will be wiped out. It will be one of the most devastating pandemics in human history.

My head crackles. Before the scene fades to blackness, I say a silent prayer for Ned, and hope his death will be quick.

Freya
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Vikings - Part 2

9/9/2014

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Read Part 1 of Vikings here.

The story continues...

*

Deorwine stands looking to the east at the longboat sailing slowly toward the island of Lindisfarne. Inside, I’m screaming, Run, run! But imprisoned inside his body, looking out through his eyes, I can only observe the events unfolding before me.

Absently, part of me thinks that this isn’t how I'd imagined it would be. Not the invasion itself—that is panning out exactly as I’d envisaged it. But experiencing it is a whole other matter. I’d thought it would be like watching it on TV—I am a fan of bloodthirsty historical movies and have sat and chomped my way through bags of popcorn while watching armies massacre each other on the screen. But of course these aren’t actors, and I’m not just watching, I’m in the thick of the action, and I can feel the way Deorwine’s heart has begun to pound, how his breathing has quickened.

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Vikings - Part 1

8/24/2014

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I open my eyes. My heart is thudding at twice its normal speed. Half of me expects to see the white room, the panel of buttons at my fingertips, to feel the padded leather chair beneath me, and I prepare myself for the rush of disappointment I’m certain will follow.

Instead, I find myself seated on a low wooden bench at a large table. It’s quiet, surprisingly so considering there are about thirty other people in the room. They are all men, although some have mere fluff on their cheeks, and cannot be more than fourteen or fifteen years old. They are all dressed in long woollen tunics, dyed a patchy brown, and all of the older men have tonsures. The only person speaking is one man standing at the end of the room, reading from a book on a lectern. I would have recognized the Latin, even if the shell in my head hadn’t translated it—it’s from the Gospel of St. Mark.

“Et erat in deserto quadraginta diebus et quadraginta noctibus et temptabatur a Satana eratque cum bestiis et angeli ministrabant illi.”

“And he was in the desert forty days and forty nights, and was tempted by Satan. And he was with beasts: and the angels ministered to him.”

I know monasticism owes its origins to Christ’s followers wishing to replicate His time alone in the desert. Clearly, the monk is reminding them why they have dedicated their lives to vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. 

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    "As they say in the Temporal Mechanics Department, there's no time like the present." Captain Janeway, Star Trek Voyager

    THE TEMPORAL CHRONICLES

    The Temporal Chronicles are short stories set in a variety of historical periods. Some have an element of fantasy or science fiction. Others are straight historicals.

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