Timekeepers Read online

  It would prove a diversion from the death coma he still believed himself to be in.

  Pulling off a smelly sackcloth blanket, he got up and stretched his freezing limbs. It was time to take a good look at his new surroundings.

  Standing on tiptoe he had a limited view through the bars of a small high window. Past the Roman sentries marching back and forth he could clearly see the tiled roofs down in the town and for the first time some of its people.

  The populace began to fill the streets as they went about their morning business. There seemed to be an air of expectancy as if they were getting ready for some big event. He could just make out a statue, at least half of it, centred imposingly in the main square. An armour-clad warrior on horseback, clinging to the reigns as the marble creature reared up its frozen hooves. The sculpture dominated everything, large and ugly in its pretension. In the distance a wide avenue led to the dazzling white marble steps of what he assumed to be the giant palace he’d seen the previous night.

  There were footsteps in the corridor and a rustle of keys. His cell door crashed open.

  “Get dressed and come with me. Now!”

  Before he could get his dusty jacket on, the gaoler was hauling him down the dank corridor. He was brought to a large room lit with stabs of sunlight from slit windows. An officer-type was sitting behind a wooden table.

  “Bring him!” The man gestured impatiently with a wave of his fingers. This man was different from the others. His uniform was of superior quality and he wore a golden breastplate embossed with a lion’s head. Jack knew that Centurions usually commanded a cohort, a hundred men. This oppressive fort would be the army’s official base in the town; a reassuring presence to the townsfolk, upholding the law and providing protection from travelling bands of troublemakers, to one of which they clearly suspected Jack of being a member.

  “Why isn’t the prisoner in chains, Officer of the Guard?”

  “Just a boy, Sir!”

  “Just a boy, is he? We’ll see about that.” There was a knock on the door. “Enter!”

  The older of the two guards who’d captured him entered. Jack remembered that the guard on the gate had called him Marcus. The man’s expression was a mix of annoyance and resignation that he’d been called away from other duties far more pressing. Then his eyes set on Jack. Last night it had been too dark for either to make out anymore than rudimentary details of each other. Now the soldier looked unmistakably shocked though he was managing to gather himself.

  “Ah! Marcus. What light can you shed on all this? You brought this little runt in last night; said in your report he’d appeared ‘out of thin air’.” He looked Jack up and down. “What in Hades is he wearing?”

  “I think it’s some kind of performer’s clothes, Sir. He seemed to appear on the ground before us…”

  “‘…Out of nowhere.’ Yes, I’ve read your report, scant as it is.”

  “Dracus nearly fell over him.” The man still appeared distracted. He kept glancing at Jack.

  “Young Dracus is a clumsy lump.” The Centurion addressed Jack directly. “What about it? Where did you come from last night?”

  Marcus spoke up again. “He offered us no resistance and seemed genuinely lost. I don’t think…”

  “Enough, Decurion! It’s not for you to think. That’s my job. Let the boy speak for himself.” He turned to Jack again. “Well lad, where are you from and what were you doing wandering around the town in these strange clothes after curfew?”

  “I’m not a thief if that’s what you think, Sir.” Jack took inspiration from Marcus’ comment. “I was with a group of travelling players. I went for a swim and got lost; I’ve never been here before.” That last wasn’t strictly true of course. But he knew the old river that ran through the modern town had always been there; that Fulchestorium had been built along its banks as they made a natural fortification.

  “The river’s outside the wall. How did you get back through the North Gate on your own? Where are the rest of your companions now? I don’t believe you. This officer said you appeared out of nowhere. Does that make you some kind of spirit?”

  “If I was a spirit, how did you keep me locked up all night?”

  Jack thought he’d gone too far. These men were a battle-hardened occupation force not above putting down mouthy locals with a quick slash of the sword. But his story, though far-fetched, was preferable to the truth. For a few dangerous seconds his interrogator stared at him, obviously not able to make out if this was a joke. Suddenly he roared with laughter, thumping his fists on the table so that both Jack and the gaoler jumped nervously.

  “Excellent! A ghost with a sense of humour! Or maybe a young lad with a big mouth, eh? Either way, you shouldn’t have been out after curfew.” He beckoned to the startled gaoler. “Keep him for a day then give him ten lashes and send the little water-rat back to his mates, if they’re still around. And don’t waste any more of my time with local incidents. Gaius Drucillus will be with us soon enough for the Festival and I’ve still much to oversee.”

  Jack noticed a small note of panic creep into the man’s voice. As the guard pushed him out of the room past Marcus, the Decurion still standing at attention, nodded to him. Jack gave him a grateful glance. As he was marched back to his cell, Jack heard the Centurion’s raised voice echo along the corridor. His surprise benefactor was apparently being ticked off.

  The sound of a trumpet blast down in the town stirred Jack from drowsiness. The sun’s height glimpsed through his cell bars told him that it was now late morning. The only food he’d been given earlier was a bowl of meat scraps and stale bread washed down with a cup of water. He ate it anyway; who knew when the next meal was coming?

  He peered out of the tiny window again. Through a distant gateway a large red and silver wave of soldiers were marching into the town. They began to gather in ranks around the central square. Each man had a heavy-looking curved shield, emblazoned with a golden eagle, standing on the ground in front of him. One hand clutched the wooden shaft of a steel-tipped spear whilst the other rested on a sword hilt.

  The trumpet sounded again, as a fair-haired man in brilliant golden armour and a billowing blue cloak rode through the open gates on a magnificent white horse. As he proceeded down the main concourse past the white temple, a steady stream of toga-wearing merchants and more roughly dressed tradesmen and women rushed to cheer the visitor.

  Jack realised that this was the same man whose crass statue squatted in the middle of the square. The newcomer halted under the shadow of his own image. A multitude of fists simultaneously pounded metal breastplates. “Hail Drucillus!” erupted from the perfect lines of soldiery.

  Drucillus flicked an indifferent salute then beckoned the Centurion over, engaging him in a short but animated conversation. The centurion saluted, rather nervously Jack thought, then turned sharply on his heels to bark out a command. Immediately a column of soldiers detached itself from the main phalanx and quick-marched up the hill towards the fort. A few moments later there came a loud clattering in the corridor.

  “Now we’re for it!” a disembodied voice came from one of the cells.

  Jack could hear the soldiers noisily unlock and fling open the doors. There were terse shouts to get out and line up outside, a few screams and a lot of fearful swearing.

  Then his own door crashed open. Two hefty soldiers pulled him down the corridor with the rest and flung him out into the blinding sunshine where he was told to join the shuffling rows of his fellow inmates. Most were in pathetically tattered clothes. Without staring directly he glanced down the row. The criminal fraternity of Fulchestorium were probably similar to any other collection of gaolbirds throughout history, arrested for stealing apples from the market and drunkenly fighting in the pubs or ‘cauponas’.

  But there was another section as well; four men, a couple of women and a young girl. They didn’t look anything like the other malcontents, in fact they seemed smartly middle-class in once-white tunics and colourf
ul robes. They kept to themselves at the end of the line, grasping hands with eyes closed and heads bowed. Jack tried to hear what they were all muttering. It sounded like a prayer.

  All this time, three of the soldiers had been shuffling about around their feet attaching heavy leg irons. Jack felt two cold metal clamps bite into his ankles as a large chain passed through their brackets. For a brief moment he caught the girl’s eye. No more than about ten, she shook with fear as tears glistened on her cheeks. He smiled encouragement but before she could react, a sharp tug on the chain pulled both of them, along with the rest, down the slope towards the central avenue. Straight ahead in the distance the great amphitheatre towered above roofs in a bright summer sky, as if awaiting them.

  Chapter 5

  Jack had lost what little courage he’d managed to muster to withstand his ordeal. That had been built on the premise of a swift return to the present day via the time-coin thing. Suddenly he started to panic. He’d slipped a couple of times while being pulled down the slope outside the fort. If he’d lost the coin that would really be the end. He’d be stuck here forever.

  He quickly checked its safety then felt an illogical impulse to throw the damn thing away. What a fool he’d been to keep it! Now it had stranded him on the far side of history. His own family were well over a thousand years away from being born, as in retrospect he was himself.

  Somebody behind stumbled and bumped into him, making him step on the foot of a thin white-haired old man. He jerked his head back to swear at Jack.

  “Sorry. Do you know where they’re taking us?”

  The wizened face stared in at him in disbelief. “Don’t be stupid, we’re going to the Games.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He glared. “The Games, you idiot! The Games for the Festival of Mercury! Where have you been? There have been posters up everywhere.” He pointed out a garish scroll plastered on a wall and Jack found he could actually read it:

  It read: ‘The good citizens of Fulchestorium are invited to attend the Games at the Arena Gaius Drucillus on the Festival of Mercury’.

  Printed underneath was a long list of particularly bloodthirsty events.

  “Who is he?” Jack asked.

  “Who is who?”

  “Gaius Drucillus.”

  “What do you mean?” The old man looked back at him with incredulity. “He’s the Roman Governor of Britain! Where are you from, the moon?”

  “So what’s he doing here then?”

  “He comes for the Festival every year; loves his games – built that bloody great arena especially for them, right after he built the Temple of the Gods. Likes to show-off to his bigwig friends from Rome. With our taxes!”

  Jack heard a burst of cheering from up ahead. Rising above the houses at the end of the street, the high white walls of the amphitheatre ascended into a hot cloudless sky.

  “But I’m only meant to be in gaol for a day!”

  “Yeah? Well I was told I was in for stealing but I was just borrowing that money from my cousin. I told them that.”

  “Shut up!” A short-sword slapped the old man across his buttocks. He yelped in pain then lapsed into brooding silence.

  Jostling crowds grew around them so that the soldiers had to push a path through for the chain gang. The straggling group were shepherded beneath the walls of the enormous building until they reached an unprepossessing back door. Inside a dingy room of metal-barred cages awaited.

  “In here, sharpish!” They were commanded. Chains were removed from swollen feet.

  “We’re for it now!” The same voice from the fort confirmed.

  Jack fought to push down a rising wave of fear. He’d read all about the Roman games: a mass spectacle whereby gladiators fought each other to the death to keep the citizens’ minds off food shortages, rampant disease and poisoned well water. Highly-trained killing machines, gladiators used swords, spears, pikes and chain-nets to murder each other for freedom and glory. But there were other entertainments available; wild animals set onto the helpless slaves for the fun of seeing them torn limb from limb. The poster had mentioned these ‘attractions’ as well.

  He looked across at the white-robed group huddled together in their own cage. They were all holding hands again and staring into each other’s eyes, whispering words of calm as if saying goodbye. The girl returned his gaze with a shy smile. Was she aware of what was going on or had her parents kept their blood-soaked fate from her?

  Perhaps they’d just told her they were all going to heaven. Time for one more prayer, Jack thought; this time for a miracle.

  The hushed quiet of the cells was continually punctured by yells and catcalls from the crowd in the arena above. A blast of trumpet followed by the familiar crack of fists on breastplates indicated to all in the stifling room that Drucillus had finally made an appearance. It was time for the Games to begin. Giant double doors creaked opened to let in dazzling sunlight. As his eyes adjusted to the glare Jack glimpsed a ramp of ochre sand and a distant section of terracing speckled with the crowd’s brightly coloured tunics.

  Two soldiers strode down the ramp. Their blurred outlines solidified and he recognised that one of them was Marcus.

  “I need eight men who are ready to fight for their freedom.” The other shouted into the dimness.

  No one moved.

  “Come on, it’s the only chance you’ll get to escape the lions…” A forest of hands shot up. “Alright, you… you…” the soldier picked out eight of the largest men, one of whom Jack recognised as the face mocking his school uniform the previous night. He was a barrel-chested giant barely contained by his tunic. The soldier finished his shopping list and opened the doors to wave the chosen few. He slammed them shut again and relocked them, then followed the chosen suicide squad up the ramp to the arena.

  Marcus walked over to Jack’s cage. “You’re not meant to be with this lot, boy. I’d arranged for you to be spared the Games but the idiots have taken you anyway. The Centurion must have had his hands full and forgot.”

  A bellow from the other soldier turned his head. “On my way!” He looked back quickly. “If you’re taken out there with this bunch of fools stay as far away from the lions as you can. Keep your back to the wall and let them have dinner. I’ll try to keep them away from you. Do you understand?”

  Jack nodded, too shocked to thank him properly. He felt guilty that he’d even been given a chance.

  For the next few hours the harsh sounds of clashing swords, braying crowds and triumphant trumpet blasts filled the prison chamber. Jack could only guess how many of the volunteers managed to escape a swift death. As they were up against seasoned gladiators he guessed probably none. Perhaps they were the lucky ones.

  The doors finally banged open again. “Time for the last act. Those about to die follow me!”

  The mid-afternoon brightness stung Jack’s eyes to tears. A deafening roar exploded as the pathetic collection of stragglers walked half blind onto a disc of blood-soaked sand. When he managed to stop squinting Jack could see the torn bodies of his erstwhile cellmates, including the giant. A stink of death wafted over the crowds as many dabbed at their noses in the thick summer air. Guards herded Jack and the others onwards as the corpses were dragged away.

  At the far end of the bowl-like arena a sea of white togas were seated in the only covered stand. The faces of the men and women became clearer as the prisoners approached. Jack could see that the crowd were obviously made up of the town’s premier citizens: the magistrates, bankers and civic dignitaries, with their wives and probable mistresses all dressed up and dripping with gold.

  On a raised dais of intricately carved ivory and gold leaf sat the great Gaius Drucillus himself, half slumped in an ornate bronze chair. Jack could see the man clearly enough to guess the middle-aged Gaius still had some solid muscle beneath his robes.

  The arena hushed. Drucillus stared dispassionately down at the small group huddled below him.

  His right hand hovered abov
e the arm of the chair. “Entertain us.” The hand dropped.

  A trumpet blasted one single note as a metal wall grill slid up. All was silence then suddenly a deep-throated roar split it as two huge lions bounded onto the sand, snarling and tossing their heads. They hungrily pawed the ground.

  Marcus and his fellow guards began using long poles to prod the beasts on towards the well-dressed group who’d been led into the middle. There was nervous laughter from some of Drucillus’ guests.

  Jack backed away until he could feel cold stone wall at his back. Others did the same. The old white-haired man stood next to him, flattening his wiry frame like a stick insect attempting invisibility.

  “Let’s stay here,” he lisped, eyes staring fearfully at the lions as they prowled the white-robed figures, “it’s only that unpatriotic lot they really want ‘em to get.”

  There was a movement to Jack’s right. A bulky man in a sweat-stained toga had obviously decided to gamble on a quick sprint back to the cells whilst the animals were otherwise occupied. It was a long way for someone fit and he obviously wasn’t. As the man’s ponderous legs scuffed up sand the two giant heads turned to him in unison. The lions bounded across the sand, two deadly killing machines on a direct interception course with their lumbering prey. He’d made only a third of the distance when the nearest jumped and landed on his back. As he tried to rise on bloodied legs a groping paw tumbled him over again. The second lion arrived and there was no escape.

  Jack turned away, shaking uncontrollably. Such barbaric death was completely outside his experience. The people of these times might be hardened to such events but he was from the twenty-first century; the only deaths he’d seen were on televised news reports or stylised in films. This brutality was happening right in front of him. He thought of those stupid school textbooks and their glib idealisation of the mighty Roman Empire. This was the horrifying reality.

  The lions casually sauntered back towards the group in the middle. Some of the guards prodded them onwards, as if impatient for them to attack. They broke into a canter, their bloodlust up from their first victim as the crowd cheered them on. Before any of the group tried to run the beasts were amongst them, tearing and slashing as the white robes turned to red.