The Time Travel Diaries

by Caroline Lawrence

  ‘Alas!’ whispered Lollia, and she was suddenly human again. ‘It is my father!’

  47

  Daddy’s Girl

  Lollia dropped the little voodoo figure into the open mouth of a clay jar half buried in the ground. All three of us ran to the nearest mausoleum and pressed ourselves against the wall.

  ‘Lollia! Please!’ came his voice. ‘It’s dangerous out here. There are robbers and kidnappers.’

  A moment later Dinu joined the three of us. ‘Her father is here,’ he panted in my ear. ‘I think he is alone.’

  ‘Dinu says he’s alone,’ I translated.

  Lollia frowned, put her finger to her lips and peeked out. Then she ran towards the road.

  What happened next surprised us all. Lollia hugged her father.

  ‘Pater, I’m sorry!’ she cried. ‘It’s just that I can’t bear to marry Tertius. Please may I marry Dionysus instead?’

  ‘Dionysus?’ cried her father.

  They had been speaking Greek, but Dinu must have heard his name, because he ran to them, ‘Ego sum Dionysus!’ he cried.

  ‘Who are you and where are you from?’ Lollia’s father asked him, also in Latin.

  Dinu did not reply, and when Lollia tried to speak for him her father silenced her with a gesture.

  ‘Who are you and where are you from?’ This time Lollia’s father spoke in Greek, but of course Dinu did not understand.

  I took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the tomb. ‘Dionysus is my slave,’ I said in my best olive-vowel Greek. ‘We have just arrived in Londinium from a faraway land.’

  Lollia’s father looked from me to Plecta and back to me. ‘Who are you? Why is the slave-girl with you and not attending my daughter?’

  ‘My name is Alexandros son of Philippos. My slave and I were shipwrecked and escaped with only our lives. Your daughter and her slave-girl were kind enough to help us. Lollia redeemed my slave after he was sold to the gladiator school.’

  Lollia’s father looked Dinu up and down. I could see him taking in his blond hair, clear skin and muscular body but also his unbelted blue tunic and lack of shoes. ‘I can see he’s a fine specimen, but a slave …?’ Marcus Lollius Honoratus turned to his daughter. ‘You would marry an illiterate slave with no possessions? What on earth are you thinking?’

  Lollia buried her face in her father’s cloak. ‘Please don’t make me marry Tertius. He’s fat and bald and his breath smells of beer.’

  Honoratus stood stiffly for a moment. Then he patted his daughter’s back. ‘Lollia,’ he said, ‘if you hate Tertius so much then I can find you another husband. But not that boy. He doesn’t even speak Greek. Is there nobody else you would take for a husband?’

  Lollia wiped her face on her palla and looked up at her father. ‘Maybe Petros?’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Petros the glassmaker’s son?’

  Lollia gave a single downward nod. ‘He has nice eyes and he always smiles at me.’

  ‘When did you speak to him? Or even meet him?’

  ‘He has been to our house twice with his father to show you their glassware.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Dinu asked me in English.

  ‘She’s asking her father if she can marry the glassmaker’s son instead of the pub owner,’ I said.

  ‘What about me?’ whispered Dinu. ‘Doesn’t she want to marry me?’

  ‘Yes, but her father won’t hear of her marrying someone who can’t speak Greek or Latin.’

  Lollia reached down the front of her tunic and pulled out a little blue glass bottle. ‘Petros gave me this miniature amphora of clove oil for my tooth. He told me it comes all the way from Greece,’ she added.

  Her father gave a big sigh. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You may marry Petros if his father agrees to the match.’

  Lollia hung her head. ‘Thank you, Pater.’

  ‘But you must promise to never run away again. This town is no place for a girl on her own.’

  She inclined her head for yes and threw her arms around him. Her father hugged her back and kissed the top of her tousled blonde head.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Dinu.

  ‘Don’t feel bad,’ I said. ‘You know we can’t stay.’

  He hung his head like a beaten dog. ‘I know. Can I maybe say goodbye?’

  I nodded. ‘Sir,’ I said to Lollia’s father in Greek, ‘I will take my slave and go. But may he say farewell to your daughter?’

  Lollia looked up at Honoratus. ‘Please, Father?’ she said. ‘Can I just say goodbye to him?’

  Her father gave a single downward nod of assent. ‘But let us leave this ill-omened place,’ he said, making the sign against evil and spitting on the ground. ‘You may speak to each other until we reach the town gate.’ As Dinu stretched out his hand Lollia’s father added sharply, ‘You may not touch each other. That would be scandalous.’

  So Dinu and Lollia walked back side by side in the late afternoon light, almost but not quite touching.

  Plecta and I followed behind, walking on the path between tombs and road. Marcus Lollius Honoratus brought up the rear. It wasn’t far to the twin arches of the gate, only a few hundred paces, but it was enough for me to tell Plecta that I thought she was brave and good. I prayed she would one day gain her freedom and have a family.

  Up ahead, I thought I saw Lollia give Dinu something, but it was so quick that I couldn’t be sure.

  When we reached the entrance arch of Londinium’s gate we were all careful to step over the boundary with our right foot first. Once inside and past the guards, we stopped beside a stall selling great wheels of yellow cheese.

  ‘I hope you reach your home safely, Alexandros,’ said Plecta. ‘I will make an offering to Venus on your behalf every day of my life.’ Her eyes were brimming with tears.

  I had been trying to think of some secret I could give her that might make her rich or at least help her gain her freedom. Suddenly I had it.

  ‘Pockets!’ I cried in English. And in Greek, ‘You could invent them! You’d become rich!’

  Instead of asking me what a ‘pocket’ was, Plecta was looking past me with horrified eyes.

  ‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘The lanista is coming this way. I think he regrets letting Dinu go.’

  I turned to see the mafia-type lanista stalking towards us, flanked by two of his fiercest gladiators; one had a trident and the other one waved a sword.

  ‘Dinu!’ I yelled in English. ‘No more time for goodbyes! Run!’

  48

  Chickens on a Tray

  We found the door in the wall of the Mithraeum villa easily enough. It was south-west of the massive basilica, east of the Walbrook stream. The only problem was that it was guarded by a man wearing a dark brown tunic and a raven mask.

  ‘That can’t be good,’ muttered Dinu.

  ‘Get back!’ I pulled him back into the alley where we were hiding. ‘I need to think. They must be having a ceremony.’

  A few moments later a skinny guy in a pale blue tunic trotted past the mouth of our alleyway, heading for the Mithraeum villa. He was carrying a stack of round loaves bound with twine, holding them in front of his torso like a man playing an accordion.

  ‘He has tunic like ours,’ said Dinu.

  I looked at the tunics Dinu and I were wearing. They were pale blue linen, the same colour and fabric as the tunics of the slaves who had chased us when we first left the Mithraeum. I had not seen anyone else wearing a tunic this colour. I realised they must be a kind of uniform worn only by the slaves of the Mithraeum villa.

  As we watched, Bread Boy went straight through the open door into the villa garden.

  ‘They must be having an initiation,’ I said. ‘With a feast afterwards. I bet there will be lots of slaves bringing food to prepare the meal. I have an idea of how we can get in. But we need money. Do you have anything we can sell?’

  Dinu looked at a gold ring on the little finger of his left hand. ‘I have only this,’ he said. ‘But I cannot give
away. See? It has grapes of Dionysus – for good luck.’

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Lollia gave it to me for keepsake, because my name Dinu is from Dionysus.’

  ‘Dinu,’ I said, ‘don’t you know the first rule of time travel? Naked you go, and naked you must return! Take it off.’

  ‘I don’t think I can. Is stuck.’

  ‘You have to take it off,’ I said. ‘Otherwise when we go back through the time portal, the metal will explode and you’ll lose a finger or maybe your whole hand.’

  ‘I need soap,’ he said. ‘Soap will make it slippery.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure they don’t have soap in Roman times,’ I said. ‘They used olive oil instead.’

  ‘Then olive oil.’

  ‘Olive oil costs a fortune, and we don’t have time to find any. In fact, we don’t really have time at all.’

  Two more slaves in blue tunics were passing us. One had a couple of big wine-skins, one over each shoulder. The other held a wooden tray of live chickens on his head. The chickens sat calmly, not fussing and not even clucking. In fact they were so relaxed that one right on the edge fell off and plopped onto the muddy road. Its feet were tied, which explained why it did not run away and also why all the other chickens had been sitting so obediently.

  ‘This is our chance!’ I hissed to Dinu. ‘Follow my lead and don’t say anything.’

  I rushed forward and picked up the muddy white hen. The two slaves had turned around. ‘Adsumus adiuvare!’ I said, which I hoped meant, ‘We are here to help.’

  The slaves stared stupidly at us. One of them was cross-eyed and the other one’s mouth hung open. I could almost read their minds: we were wearing the livery of the Mithraeum villa, but they had never seen us before.

  ‘Dinu, take one of the wine-skins,’ I muttered out of the side of my mouth.

  Dinu tried to take one of the wine-skins from the cross-eyed slave, but he would not let go.

  ‘Festinate!’ I told them, with all the confidence I could muster. Hurry!

  They looked at each other and shrugged.

  The one with the wine-skins let Dinu help.

  Dinu and I followed them towards the door in the wall, me carrying the single chicken under my arm and Dinu with one of the heavy wine-skins.

  Praise the gods! Another slave in a pale blue tunic waved us through.

  We were in the grounds of the Mithraeum villa! Now we only needed to get into the Mithraeum itself.

  There was only one problem. They were obviously about to have one of their ceremonies, followed by the famous ritual dinner I had read about. If there were men inside the temple, then how could we even get in?

  Underneath the tall tree I saw a food preparation area like for a big barbecue. There were tables and stools and a firepit and about a dozen slaves in blue tunics chopping, plucking, mixing and cooking. One was even turning a pig on a spit. A stocky man in a long orange tunic and matching turban was supervising them. I recognised him as the one who had shouted at us the day before. Would he recognise us again? For the moment he had his back to us. But he could turn and spot us at any moment.

  Over to the right was the Mithraeum. Its double front doors were firmly closed and the man with the raven mask nowhere to be seen. The ceremony must have started. But I remembered the two glassless windows in the dressing room. I could see them in the plaster outer wall of the building. They weren’t too high because the Mithraeum was partly sunk. And the drop on the other side was not too bad, especially if Dinu went in first and helped me through.

  ‘Come on, Dinu!’ I hissed, putting down my chicken. ‘This might be our only chance to get inside.’

  49

  Flight Simulator

  Fortuna, the goddess of luck, was with us. Just a few minutes later we were hiding behind a stone altar near the entrance of the Mithraeum, spying on their secret ceremony. The changing room had been deserted and the inner double doors open. It was almost as if the universe was helping us get back to our own time.

  The Mithraeum was full of candlelight, incense and the sound of chanting.

  For a moment it felt like the Greek Orthodox church of St Nektarios in Battersea. But only for a moment.

  The men’s chanting was not like any hymn I’d ever heard in church.

  The pungent smell of burning pine cones made me dizzy.

  And the damp space felt more like a cave than a church.

  The flickering flames of candles, torches and oil lamps showed me things I had not noticed the first time: painted altars here at the back of the temple, frescoes on the walls beyond the columns and even the colours of the columns. The first pair of columns had been painted black, presumably for the lowest level, the Ravens. The next pair of columns was yellow, then a reddish-orange pair, then red, then white, gold and purple.

  There were about forty men standing in the two side aisles, chanting. They wore cloaks of the same colours as the columns and a few wore animal masks on their heads. In the flickering light of torches the empty eyeholes made them look extra-creepy.

  The only person in the central part of the temple near the time portal was a grey-haired man dressed as Mithras. He wore a long-sleeved tunic, a purple cape and a floppy Smurf-style hat. He held a sword in his right hand and a candle in his left.

  I guessed he was the Pater, the Father or head priest. He was the only one not chanting.

  I had been trying to pick out words from the chant but soon I realised they were only singing vowel sounds, saying ‘Aahh, eh, ayyy, eeee, oh, oooh, ohhh …’ Some were also shaking the Egyptian rattles Martin had mentioned or clashing little finger cymbals.

  ‘This is strange,’ said Dinu in my ear.

  ‘You’re telling me!’ I replied.

  ‘How do we get to portal?’ said Dinu. ‘I cannot even see it.’

  ‘It’s about two metres in front of the Mithras statue,’ I replied. ‘Keep an eye out for a faint glow or shimmer, like a giant soap bubble blower. I just hope it’s dark enough in here for us to see when it comes on.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Take off your clothes and make a dash for it,’ I said.

  Then we had to be quiet, because a horn blared, the worshippers fell silent and the priest dressed as Mithras raised the sword and the candle.

  ‘Nama, coracibus; tutela Mercurii,’ he chanted. Hail! O ravens, protected by Mercury.

  The chorus of caws that greeted this almost made me jump out of my tunic. Some kind of amplifier in the masks left my ears ringing.

  ‘Nama patri,’ all the men responded, ‘tutela Saturni.’ Hail to the father, protected by Saturn.

  I nodded in admiration. They had got that part absolutely right at London’s twenty-first-century Mithraeum.

  And it confirmed the man dressed as Mithras was the Father or Pater.

  After each of the seven categories had been greeted and the response given, the Father held up his hands with the sword and the candle.

  ‘Death,’ he said in slow, clear Latin, ‘comes to all of us sooner or later. On that day our souls will leave our bodies and rise up to the highest heavens.’

  As if by magic, or maybe a hidden pulley, the candle left his hand and rose up to the ceiling. Dinu gasped and grabbed my wrist. He and I and everyone else looked up and saw about two dozen candles burning like stars against a background of painted constellations. It looked like a planetarium.

  ‘How do they do that?’ whispered Dinu.

  ‘Hidden strings?’ I said. But it was only a guess.

  ‘Our eternal souls are made of star stuff,’ said the Father. ‘And to the stars they long to return.’

  He continued talking, and although I couldn’t understand every word I got the sense of it. When your soul reached the highest sphere, he said, you would be higher than men and angels and many other spirits. Together with your fellow star-souls, you could look down and see everything: past, present and future.

  For a moment I forgot about the portal. Maybe
it was the effect of the pine-cone incense or the fact that I had not eaten in over three days, but I was totally absorbed in what he was saying.

  I remembered the awesome stars I had seen my first night in Roman London. Was it less than twenty-four hours ago? It would be wonderful to be a star-soul. You would no longer feel hunger or fear or the pain of losing people you loved. It would be amazing to fly through time and space, watching great battles from the past and seeing people colonise planets in the future.

  It was my turn to grab Dinu’s arm.

  ‘It’s not a driving simulator,’ I hissed. ‘It’s a flight simulator!’

  ‘What?’ Dinu frowned at me.

  ‘Solomon Daisy told me that going into the Mithraeum was like a driving simulator for the soul. But it’s more like a flight simulator – or even one for space flight – so the soul knows where to go when you die.’

  Dinu nodded, gazing up in wonder. The candlelight reflected in his blue eyes made them seem green.

  I turned my attention back to the Father.

  He was saying that, after a few thousand years, being a star-soul would get lonely. You would long to talk to people and discuss the things you had seen. You would miss the feel of winning a race or giving a good speech or holding your newborn child.

  That was when your star-soul would go back down through the spheres, longing to get into anything hot-blooded that could smell and taste and feel.

  And that was why ordeals must be suffered here on earth, continued the Father, to ensure that the soul will be pure enough to be reborn as a high-born man rather than a bean or an animal.

  That was when they brought out the naked man.

  50

  Torches Up

  Two guys with torches, also dressed as Persians with the floppy Smurf hats and short capes, came into the central nave. They were followed by a pair of men in raven masks leading the naked man. I call him that but strictly speaking he wasn’t completely naked: he wore a sack over his head and the tiniest loincloth around his waist. His hands were tied behind his back. I could tell he was young because his skin was smooth and hairless.