by Jodi Taylor
Roman Holiday
Another rollicking short story from the Chronicles of St Mary’s.
Question: What sort of idiot installs his mistress in his wife’s house? Especially when that mistress is Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator, Queen of Egypt and the most notorious woman of her time?
Answer: Julius Caesar – poised to become King of Rome. Or as good as.
Question: At this potentially sensitive point in your political manoeuvrings, who are the last people you’d want crashing through the door, observing, recording, documenting …?
I think we all know the answer to that one.
Roman Holiday – an epic, stand alone tale set in Ancient Rome, 44 BC, featuring, in no particular order: an attempted murder, stampeding bullocks, Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, a bowl of poisonous snakes, a smallish riot, Julius Caesar, and Mr Markham’s wayward bosoms.
The word on the street was that we had a project on Cleopatra. Everyone was talking about it. This would be part of the Ancient Rome assignment and everyone wanted to be involved.
The bar was packed. I’m not sure why I mention that, because here at St Mary’s, the bar is always packed.
We work for the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. You might as well call it time-travel. Everyone else does.
Anyway, the bar was packed. Everyone was discussing Cleopatra, including, regrettably, Dr Dowson, our librarian and archivist, and Professor Rapson, head of Research and Development, both of whom can seldom agree on the date, let alone anything else. The discussion followed its inevitable course and they were eventually separated by their respective departments and led away to opposite ends of the room.
Peterson and I, who knew all about the Cleopatra assignment and had already made our recommendations, resumed our interrupted discussion over whether it was possible to smuggle a baby into a birthing chamber concealed inside a warming pan. Chief Farrell, that still, small voice of calm in the insanity that is St Mary’s, remarked that since St Mary’s didn’t actually possess a baby, it was, at the moment, impossible to be certain one way or the other. And yes, borrowing one without the owner’s consent was, as they say, contra-indicated. In the vigorous debate that followed, none of us saw Markham and Roberts exchange glances and slip quietly out of the bar.
I suspected something was going on. People fell mysteriously silent as I walked past. Or rushed around clutching imperfectly concealed bundles of something or other. Data stacks were hurriedly flattened when I entered a room. Both Peterson, my fellow historian and partner in crime, and Major Guthrie, the head of our hard-worked security section, reported similar incidents, but as Guthrie remarked, although he was certain St Mary’s was up to something, behaviour here was so bizarre anyway, it was difficult to tell.
Three days later, Markham and Roberts unveiled their surprise.
They’d chosen their moment well. Almost everyone was assembled in the Great Hall, even our Director, Dr Bairstow, who had Clerk’s and Van Owen’s report on the unfortunate death of the MP William Huskisson under his arm, and was enquiring why there wasn’t an historian in his unit who could spell the word amonaly. Anonoly. Amono – irregularity.
Since I was stumped for an answer to this one, I was, initially, quite pleased to have a distraction. A blast of static-laden recorded music resolved itself into a fanfare of trumpets, followed by a mighty roll of drums. Startled, I turned to see Mr Roberts, my youngest historian; standing on the half-landing, staggering slightly under the weight of a rolled carpet slung over one shoulder.
My first horrified thought was that he was naked and I hadn’t had my lunch yet. A second glance, however, revealed a very inadequately secured loincloth. I gave private thanks to the god of historians that gravity seemed to have taken the day off. A magnificent torque, obviously made of tin foil, hung across his chest, and a thick, black wig swung around his face.
‘Bloody hell,’ said someone. ‘Roberts is a eunuch.’
‘No, I’m not,’ he said, crossly. In what he fondly imagined was a deep and resonantly impressive voice, he squeaked, ‘I am Robertis, body servant of the Egyptian queen, great Cleopatra, come to pay her respects to mighty Caesar and entreat his favour in choosing the personnel for the upcoming Cleopatra assignment of which, of course, we know absolutely nothing.’
He began, precariously, to make his way down the stairs towards a stunned Dr Bairstow – or mighty Caesar, as he should probably be known for the purposes of this tale.
He – Robertis, not mighty Caesar, obviously – was sweating profusely under the weight of the carpet hefted over his shoulder. I recognised it as the moth-eaten old thing from Wardrobe. I shot an accusing glance at Mrs Enderby, who refused to catch my eye.
He so nearly made it. He was only two steps from safety when his legs buckled. He fell to his knees, clutching at his loincloth, whose fastenings had, as predicted, proved unequal to their task. The carpet slipped from his shoulder, hit the oak stairs with considerable impact, and fell down into the Hall, unrolling as it went, to deposit Cleopatra, or Mr Markham as he’s sometimes known, at the feet of mighty Caesar.
I should state now: kids, don’t try this at home, because it never happened. If you roll someone in a carpet then thirty seconds later, they’re unconscious through lack of oxygen. Or heatstroke. Or whiffy on carpet-cleaning fluid fumes. Trust me – I’m an historian.
I know that in the film, an immaculate Cleopatra lies appealingly on a priceless oriental rug, batting kohled eyelashes before seducing the most powerful man in the known world, but our Mr Markham, lying semi-conscious and drenched in sweat, hadn’t quite pulled it off.
You had to hand it to him though, he’d made a real effort.
All right, at some point, his wig had come off and was now glued to his sweaty face like one of those creatures from Alien, but hairier. His historically inaccurate diaphanous trousers had come horribly adrift, giving anyone who cared to look a first-class view of his Homer Simpson underpants. But it was his bosoms that were the star of the show.
God knew where he’d got the bra from. One of Nurse Hunter’s, presumably. I hoped she hadn’t been wearing it at the time, although with Markham, you never knew. She wouldn’t want it back anyway, covered as it now was in sequins and glitter, and festooned with Christmas tinsel.
He’d obviously taken time and trouble over the composition of his bosoms, discarding the traditional favourites of rugby socks, tissues, or oranges, in favour of two half-lemons, which, as he later unacceptably explained to an unmoved and unmoving Dr Bairstow, were just brilliant for that authentic nipple-look, sir.
That, however, was for later. At the moment, he was lying in a less-than-alluring heap, purple-faced and gasping for breath, covered in an unbelievable amount of greyish carpet fluff which had adhered itself to every available inch of sweaty, naked skin and showed no signs of letting go.
You want to look away, but you just can’t do it. Even as I watched, one of his bosoms, obviously dislodged by the impact, fell from its holster and rolled gently across the floor, until Dr Bairstow stopped it with his foot.
Silence fell.
St Mary’s held its breath.
Even Robertis seemed rooted to the spot.
Mr Markham, however, was made of stern stuff.
He raised himself on one elbow, reached out a trembling hand, and exclaimed blearily, ‘Will you look at that. Some plonker is standing on my bosom.’
‘Yes,’ said Dr Bairstow, icily. ‘That would be me.’
And even as Retribution reached out for him, Markham had to have the last word.
‘You’re doing it beautifully, sir.’
And wisely passed out.
I think it must have been
this unnerving manifestation of St Mary’s collective boredom that prompted Dr Bairstow to move the schedule along a little. A few days later, Peterson and I were called to his office, handed the familiar file folders, and told to get on with it. And to take Mr Markham with us. I didn’t enquire, but I definitely got the impression that bringing him back was a bit of an optional extra.
Chief Farrell performed his usual miracles, announced Pod Three was fit for purpose, and that it was a shame the same couldn’t be said of the crew.
I held a mini-briefing in my office. Present were Peterson and Van Owen, representing the History department. Major Guthrie and Markham represented – they said – the more stable element at St Mary’s, which came as a complete surprise to everyone else because we never knew we had one. Mrs Enderby from Wardrobe was there to advise on costume and coach us on the wearing thereof, and Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson prepared to argue each other to death in the interests of historical accuracy.
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Thank you all for coming. This is the first stage of our Ancient Rome assignment and it’s a good one. I’m sure it won’t come as a complete surprise to anyone. Caesar and Cleopatra. 44 BC. Ancient Rome.’
A stir of anticipation ran around the room. Scratchpads were opened up and we got stuck in.
‘In another of his moves to become, effectively, the sole ruler of the Roman Empire, Gaius Julius Caesar has invited his bit on the side, Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, to stay with him Rome. He’s the coming man. He’s a cocky self-publicist. He’s arrogant and insensitive. He’s installed his mistress – that’s Cleopatra, as so vividly brought to life by Mr Markham just recently – in his own home. His wife, Calpurnia, who, famously, is above reproach, is still in residence, so only the gods know what his home life must be like at the moment.
‘It doesn’t matter much, however, because we’re only six weeks or so away from the infamous Ides of March which is when he gets his comeuppance. Twenty-three times, actually, just as he’s poised to take the final step to absolute power. Cleopatra will flee to Egypt, taking her son Caesarion with her. Later, she’ll shack up with Mark Anthony, lose the Battle of Actium, and commit suicide with the probably unwilling participation of an asp or two.
‘We won’t be around for that, however. Our assignment is simply to observe the crucial run up to his assassination, gauge the mood of the people, and, if possible, catch a glimpse of the fabled Queen of the Nile.’
‘And return to St Mary’s, unscathed,’ muttered Guthrie.
‘Yes. And that, of course,’ I said quickly, glossing over the fact that sometimes, that doesn’t always happen. Quite rarely happens, actually. All right – not at all. However, there’s always a first time and we live in hope.
‘We intend to locate Caesar’s villa, apparently just outside of Rome, in the Transtiberina area. You all have maps – please familiarise yourselves with the layout of the city.
‘Now, I’ll be going in as a Roman matron of impeccable antecedents. Roman society is heavily patriarchal, but a well-dressed lady, accompanied by an impressive retinue, will command immense respect. Sadly, however, instead of an impressive retinue, my escort will consist of Dr Peterson and Miss Van Owen, with Major Guthrie and Mr Markham to keep us safe.’
A word about Roman names would perhaps be useful at this point. Roman men typically have three names: their personal name, their tribal name, and their family name, which is the equivalent of a surname. Hence, with Gaius Julius Caesar, Gaius is his first name, Julius is his tribal name – he belongs to the Julian tribe – and Caesar is his family name. Women have only two names. They’re named for their tribe – hence Julius Caesar’s daughter would be named Julia. I was Rupilia Euphemia – a name that, as well as sounding like a musical vegetable, simply oozed impeccable lineage. Van Owen was Sempronia Tertulla. Her protests had been ignored. Peterson as (nominal) head of the household rejoiced in Decimus Aelius Sura. The security section, being well below the salt, was making do with just one name apiece. Major Guthrie was Otho and Markham was Pullus. He’d already commented that since he appeared to have only one name at St Mary’s, it was appropriate that he should have only one name here, as well. Major Guthrie, as usual, had nothing to say.
Dr Dowson stirred. ‘I think most of you already speak Latin, but I’ve put together an Idiot’s Guide for refresher purposes, plus, I’m available for private conjugation should anyone feel the need.’
Markham blinked. ‘Is that even legal?’
I fixed them all with a stern eye. ‘Roman society sets great store by respectability and so it goes without saying that we will all be on our best behaviour.’
There was a bit of a dubious silence.
Mrs Enderby pulled her scratchpad towards her, smiled sweetly at Markham, and enquired brightly whether he would be togate.
‘Certainly not,’ he said with great dignity. ‘Church of England.’
Mrs Enderby took a great deal of time and trouble over our wardrobe. Peterson wore a thick cream tunic, heavily embroidered with a gold key pattern around the neckline and hem. He was also issued a piece of fabric about the same general size and weight as the county of Rushfordshire.
‘Your toga,’ announced Mrs Enderby a little breathlessly, depositing this thickly folded garment in his outstretched arms. He sagged a little. ‘You’ll need to practise the folds. Make sure you drape it over the correct arm.’
Muttering, he was led away for toga lessons.
Van Owen and I, as highborn Roman women, would wear elegantly draped tunics of pale green and pale blue respectively, ostensibly fastened with golden fibulae, but actually sewn firmly together for safety. As a married woman, I wore a coloured stola over the top of that, and we would both be wrapped in an all-encompassing palla to shield us from prying eyes. As with Peterson, there was a huge amount of fabric to manage. The palla should be draped over your left shoulder, around the back, under your right arm, and then back across the front of the body and carried over the left arm. Try it with a bed sheet sometime. Which is what we spent hours doing, practising climbing up and down stairs, getting through doors without mishap, and walking elegantly without falling flat on our faces.
Markham and Guthrie wore simple tunics and heavy-duty boots. I knew they would both be armed, but Roman tunics finish at knee level, so I really didn’t want to speculate as to where they would be keeping their weapons.
We assembled outside Pod Three and gave each other the once-over for wristwatches, recently acquired tattoos, and the like. A crowd of people hung over the gallery, clapping and cheering.
We filed into the pod. Peterson and Leon Farrell checked over the co-ordinates, while the rest of us stowed our gear.
‘Good luck, everyone,’ said Leon. He smiled at me and shook my hand as he always did when others were present. His hand was very warm and strong. I took a moment to smile back. Everyone else looked at the ceiling, the floor, their feet, whatever. Then he was gone.
Peterson closed the door behind him, checked the console one last time, and looked at me for confirmation.
‘In your own time, Dr Peterson.’
And the world went white.
We landed on the northern side of a small square, which was surrounded by blank brick walls. The early morning sun cast long purple shadows across the dust. It would be warm later on, but at this time of year there was still a bit of a nip in the air. Early though it was, a few market traders were assembling, setting up their stalls and generally bustling around. No one paid us any attention.
Guthrie, Markham, and Peterson disappeared to hire a carrying-chair. No respectable Roman lady walked the streets. Since they were men, this simple task would take at least three of them. Peterson to do the talking, Guthrie to loom menacingly during the financial negotiations, and Markham to get himself into trouble.
Van Owen and I made ourselves a cup of tea, put our fashionably shod feet up on the console, and patiently awaited events.
They returned about an hour or so la
ter with a huge, cumbersome, old-fashioned wooden affair. To keep the weight down, the sides weren’t solid, but swathed in yards of faded dark red fabric, slightly worn through in parts. It looked like a recent reject from a gentleman’s establishment (maybe his mother had died) and as such was perfect for our purpose. This was exactly the sort of conveyance in which a Roman matron would have herself carried around town. The four chairmen looked reasonably hale and hearty and, most importantly, sober.
We climbed awkwardly inside. We can research and practise and prepare until we’re blue in the face, but the fact remains – we never quite fit in. We’re amonolous – anony – out of our own time – and in many small ways it always shows.
However, we were in and reasonably comfortable. We pulled the curtains closed to preserve our modesty and Peterson instructed the chairmen to take us to the residence of Gaius Julius Caesar. The chair was a doubly good idea, not only giving credence to our story, but also taking us directly to our destination without us having to spend hours asking around and wandering the streets of Rome.
The chairmen lifted the chair almost simultaneously – presumably it was too early in the morning for them to be properly drunk – and with only a couple of lurches, we set off.
I swear, I could have crawled there more quickly. On one leg. Blindfolded. Or maybe they were taking us there via Carthage. I would have suspected they were padding their fee, but the streets were steep, rough, and increasingly crowded. The sun climbed higher. What would be a pleasant day to spend lolling in the shade of a fig tree, drinking wine and bullying your slaves, would be nowhere near as pleasant for the four sweating chairman of the apocalypse. I personally would want to deliver my passengers as quickly as possible, collect my fee, and stagger into the nearest caupona to recover.
The truth was that Rome was a busy place and we moved a snail’s pace because of it. Our colleagues outside might have had to walk, but at least they could freely look around. Van Owen and I, bundled up inside our cloth-covered sweatbox, had to content ourselves with peering occasionally through a chink in the curtains and trying not to suffocate in the musty, hot gloom.
