Cows in Action 3

by Steve Cole

  “Professor, we’ve got to stop Bo!” said Pat, snatching up a white toga from the piles of clothes on the floor. “If the Romans see a mad cow running about, it might start a panic!”

  “That’s if T-117 doesn’t zap Bo straight away,” said McMoo, struggling into a blue toga. “Come on!”

  The Time Shed had landed in a shady vegetable store. Pat and the professor plunged outside into the clatter and bustle of a busy Roman street.

  They stared round in wonder. The sky was blue over red-tiled rooftops and white concrete temples and porches propped up with pillars. The smell of fresh herbs and the sound of chatter filled the air. Men argued with traders over the price of their goods. Moneychangers jangled pouches of coins to attract customers. Roman nobles swanned about, surrounded by bodyguards and eager tradesmen trying to sell them sandals and statues and potions and pearls.

  But there was no sign of Little Bo or the ter-moo-nator.

  McMoo and Pat forced their way through the crowds. No one looked at them twice – as far as the humans were concerned, here was just another Roman citizen with his son, out for a walk in the markets.

  “Has anyone seen a cow?” McMoo yelled. “You can’t miss her – she’s got a greeny-blue udder and an attitude problem!”

  A rich woman being carried on a couch by four slaves glared at him. “Yes, I’ve seen her. She was going faster than a chariot in the races – nearly knocked me flying!” The woman pointed down a side street. “She went that way!”

  “Let’s hope we catch up with her,” said McMoo, “before she finds trouble … or trouble finds her!”

  Unfortunately, Bo being Bo, she was already hot on the trail of big trouble.

  She had bounded out of the Time Shed and charged down half a dozen streets in search of the ter-moo-nator. But he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Oi! Toga-face!” she shouted, grabbing a passing businessman. “Have you seen an ugly robot bull anywhere?”

  The man fled in fright, talking in a language she couldn’t understand. Other people too were gawping and gaping all around her. “Oh no,” she groaned, clutching her ringless nose. “I’m standing out like Bessie Barmer at a fashion show! I’d better get back to the Time Shed …”

  But as she stared around at the temples and courtyards and clean white villas, she realized she was lost!

  “How totally annoying,” grumbled Bo. Then she saw a sign with a picture of a bull drawn onto it, pointing down the street. Underneath the picture was written Forum Boarium. “Whatever that means,” she said, sighing. “Still, anything to do with bulls has got to be worth chasing up …”

  Ignoring all the funny looks she got, Bo followed the sign and kept trotting until she reached a long, low rectangular building lined with endless old pillars. There were fewer people around here – probably because there wasn’t much to see. The building was obviously closed down, the entrance blocked up with wooden planks and more signs covered with funny writing.

  “Forum Bore-ium, more like!” snorted Bo. “What a dump. They should paint it pink and kit it out with a killer sound system …”

  Then suddenly, her ears pricked as she heard the sound of distant mooing. What were cows doing inside a closed-down building?

  Maybe, just maybe, the ter-moo-nator was in there too …

  “Geronimooooooo!” yelled Bo as she ran up and took a flying leap over the barrier. She landed neatly on the other side – then hurtled away through winding passageways of stone, trying to find her way to whoever had made the moo.

  Finally, she burst out into a large open courtyard, boxed in on all sides by two levels of seating. Funny, she thought, looking all around. Looks a bit like an arena. She could almost imagine Roman gladiators charging about, fighting each other for their lives …

  Then, suddenly, three armoured figures came bounding into the arena.

  Bo blinked. “Wow, I’ve got a good imagination!”

  Then she blinked again, in disbelief. Because the three gladiators that stood before her were not Roman slaves or human fighters – they were bulls. Bulls wearing helmets and breastplates and carrying swords and nets and spiky shields …

  They were very real. And they were rushing towards her, ready to attack!

  Chapter Three

  THE MOO-STERY DEEPENS

  “So it’s a fight you want, huh?” Bo cried as the three gladiator bulls closed in. One was tall, one was short, the other was skinny – but they all looked mean. “Well, step up, boys – and eat my hooves!”

  The skinny one tried to throw his weighted net over her. But Bo dodged out of the way just in time and shoulder-charged the short one with the spiky shield. With a moo of pain he crashed to the ground.

  The third gladiator lunged forward and swiped at Bo with his sword. “I saw that coming a mile off, tall-boy,” she snarled, squirting him in the eyes with milk from her udder. “But you can’t see at all” – as he fell back spluttering, she whacked him on the nose with a double-hoofed haymaker – “can you?”

  Suddenly a net was thrown over her head – the skinny bull had crept up behind her. She kicked out with her back legs and sent him flying. But no sooner had she wriggled out of the trap than his friend with the shield was coming at her again.

  “I was saving these boxing moves for Bessie Barmer,” she said, clobbering him. “But I guess they’ll do for you too!”

  The bull with the shield collapsed in a heap of hooves – but by now the other two gladiators were ready to attack once more.

  Bo karate-chopped one and tail-whipped the other. They fell to their knees, and Bo sat down, panting for breath.

  Then she heard hoofsteps behind her. Turning, she found two more gladiator bulls running towards her!

  “This isn’t fair!” she cried. The two new gladiators loomed over her …

  But then, to her amazement, they held out their hooves to help her up!

  Behind them, a large white water buffalo with enormous handlebar horns was striding over from the seating area with a gladiator’s helmet. He placed it on her head.

  “This helmet contains a special translator,” he said. “My name is Lanista. Can you understand me?”

  “Yes.” Bo frowned and nodded.

  “Good little Roman cow,” said Lanista with a nasty smile.

  He thinks I’m a local from this time, Bo realized, and decided it was safer to let him go on thinking that.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  Bo struggled to think of a make-believe name she could give him. “Umm …”

  “Umm, eh? Funny name.” Lanista frowned. “Funny-coloured udder too.”

  “Err …” Bo thought fast – but not very convincingly. “It’s … a birthmark.”

  “Hmm,” said Lanista. “Well, young Umm with the unusual birthmark, you have passed the first stage. Now you may rest before beginning stage two.”

  “Stuff your stage two!” Bo replied. “What is this place? What are you on about?”

  “Poor, simple cow!” cried Lanista. “The Forum Boarium is a cattle market, where the likes of you were bought and sold by humans before Emperor Nero closed it down. And the Fed-up Bull Institute has a better use for it now …” He chuckled, then looked at the three fallen gladiators and clapped his hooves. “Take these fumbling fools to pay the price of their failure. But first, take the girl to the pens to recover.”

  The two new gladiators nodded. As they dragged Bo away, she didn’t struggle. She knew she had pitched up in the middle of a mysterious F.B.I. plot. She had to stay here and find out all she could.

  She only hoped that Pat and the professor would be all right without her …

  Professor McMoo and Pat had not found Bo or the ter-moo-nator. But they had found a famous landmark, and McMoo was now very excited.

  “The Circus Maximus!” he cried, staring up at the line of stone archways that seemed to stretch on for ever. “The first and largest Circus in Rome, as long as five football pitches laid end to end and with space for 25
0,000 people inside – imagine that! I’ve seen pictures of it in history books, but now we’re seeing it for real. Imagine that!”

  “Yep, it’s amazing, Professor,” said Pat kindly. Sometimes, McMoo’s pleasure at parading through the past took his mind off a mission. So while the professor burbled on merrily, Pat was looking around the busy street for any clues that might help them in their search.

  “Circus Maximus means ‘Greatest Circus’ in the Romans’ language, Latin, but the things that happened here weren’t very great, oh no.” McMoo went on, “Chariot races, mainly. Twelve chariots racing around and around for four miles! You can imagine the accidents. Dreadful accidents!”

  “Wonderful accidents, you mean!” came a sour woman’s voice beside them. “A good crash always gets more people buying tickets – and as chief ticket seller, that means more cash for me!”

  Pat gulped. “I recognize that voice …” He whirled round to find a familiar, ugly, red face on a familiar, fat, bullfrog body. There, sitting beneath the nearest arch, was the double of their enemy from the farm, Bessie Barmer!

  “Oh no,” groaned McMoo. “Not another of Bessie’s ancestors. We seem to meet one wherever we go!”

  “And they’re always horrible,” Pat added.

  “What are you two moaning on about?” the woman said. “It’s me who should be moaning. Me, Bessium Barmus. I mean, since Emperor Nero cancelled all the races and closed down the Circus, I can’t earn a crumb!”

  “The Emperor Nero!” McMoo beamed. “He’s famous for fiddling while Rome burned.”

  “He’s fiddling me out of stacks of cash!” Bessium grumbled.

  “But why has he closed the Circus?” McMoo asked her.

  “He’s closed the cattle market too – for redecorating, he says.” She sighed. “What’s he going to shut next, eh?”

  Pat hoped Bessium’s mouth was on the emperor’s list.

  “Funny, though,” said McMoo. “I thought Nero loved chariot racing.”

  “He does,” Bessium snapped. “He’s promised the people that bigger, better, badder chariot races are on the way. Races the likes of which the world has never seen …” She snorted. “Fine talk – but talk doesn’t put bread on my table. And I can’t even get a decent night’s sleep these days, thanks to the ghosts.”

  McMoo frowned. “What ghosts?”

  “I hear them all through the night, inside the Circus,” she said. “They growl like angry giants! Roar like demented demons!”

  Pat looked nervously at McMoo. “I don’t like the sound of them.” He lowered his voice. “Do you think T-117 could have anything to do with this?”

  “He could,” McMoo murmured. “I’d like to hear these ghosts for myself. It seems we’ve got quite a Roman mystery on our hands.” He chuckled. “Or do I mean moo-stery?”

  But even as he spoke, a scary, rumbling, roaring noise started up – not from the Circus, but from the ground beneath them. People started to run about and shout in alarm.

  “The ghosts!” squawked Bessium, wobbling like a giant jelly. “The ghosts are here in broad daylight! EEEK!”

  “Something’s here all right!” shouted Pat as the paved street split open down the middle – and flames and smoke belched out from inside …

  Chapter Four

  FIRE, FLOOD AND MARROWS

  The Roman street erupted in chaos. Slaves and citizens ran screaming in all directions, blinded by the choking smoke.

  “Help! Help!” shouted Bessium Barmus. “We’re doooooomed!”

  Choking on the black fumes, Professor McMoo hooked his horns around Pat’s neck and tugged him into the safety of an archway as the flames leaped higher from the crack in the road.

  “Thanks, Professor,” gasped Pat. “I was very nearly a flame-grilled burger there!”

  “Shh,” said McMoo. “Listen. That roaring noise has stopped. Bessium’s ghosts seem to have gone.”

  “But the fire’s still here!” Pat shouted as bright orange flames crackled out of the split. “What’s happening – is this the start of the Great Fire of Rome?”

  “I don’t think so. That started above ground.” McMoo sniffed and frowned. “And that smells like oil to me …” He burst out coughing. “Stupid smoke, it’s making my eyes water.”

  “Water!” gasped Pat. “Quick, Professor, there’s a fountain further up the street. We could get some buckets and use the water to put out the flames.”

  “Never mind the buckets!” said McMoo, peering at the fountain through the smoke. “Judging by the thickness of that stone, if I charge into it at twenty-seven miles an hour from this angle, and you bash into the other side at about nineteen-and-a-half miles an hour—”

  “Let’s do it!” cried Pat. He didn’t know what the professor’s plan was, but he was determined not to let him down. Most of the crowds had fled by now, so he had a clear run at the fountain. Lowering his head he sprinted towards it. Through the thick smoke he glimpsed the professor thundering towards the fountain from the other side, and then—

  WHAMMM! Pat and McMoo’s hard heads and horns smashed the stone to pieces. Water came flooding out in a miniature tidal wave and sloshed down the street. It poured into the crack in the street and put out the flames! Steam hissed out like someone had boiled a billion kettles under the ground.

  Pat rubbed his dizzy head. “Your idea worked, Professor!”

  “But what set off that earthquake and started the fire in the first place?” wondered McMoo, rubbing his tender horns. He walked over to the jagged split in the ground and peered down through the steam to see.

  It was gloomy and dark down there, but he thought he could see the bronze gleam of a large, metallic object. Then, right beside it, two small green lights snapped on in the smoky shadows like eyes staring up at him.

  The eyes of a ter-moo-nator!

  “Pat, come here, quickly!” said McMoo. “I think I saw our old friend T-117!” But by the time Pat had got there, the green lights had gone.

  And above ground, with a fanfare of trumpets, somebody else had arrived.

  “Be silent, all, and lend your ears!” boomed a deep voice. “The glorious Emperor Nero wishes to speak to you!”

  McMoo jumped up in amazement. A chubby man with curly hair had appeared in the street, surrounded by a gaggle of dignified old men. He wore a white toga trimmed with gold and a crown of laurels on his head. The people who had fled the street came rushing back to see their emperor, in awestruck silence.

  “It’s Nero!” McMoo was almost jumping up and down on the spot in excitement. “Look, Pat. A real, live Roman emperor right in front of us!”

  “Shhh!” hissed a woman nearby as Nero cleared his throat to speak.

  “Friends, Romans, and the rest of you,” he began, looking a little flustered. “Do not be afraid, I can explain all that has happened here.” He smiled. “As you know, I have closed the Circus Maximus while I make certain … improvements. One such improvement will be heated seating, so your bottoms don’t freeze on those chilly winter nights.”

  “Ahh, that’s thoughtful,” someone said fondly.

  “Sadly, as you saw, my underground heating pipes have just exploded, so you’ll have to freeze your bums off as usual,” Nero went on.

  Bessium Barmus peered out from behind a pillar, wiping soot from her face. “When will the Circus open again?” she demanded.

  “Soon,” Nero promised. “Very soon. But in the meantime, to cheer everyone up, I shall hold a special event at the Circus this very night!”

  “YES!” bellowed Bessium. She did a victory dance that threatened to set the whole street shaking.

  “What about the ghosts?” someone shouted.

  “There are no such things as ghosts,” said Nero crossly.

  “Maybe not,” called McMoo. “But, even so, great Nero … is it wise to open the Circus tonight?”

  “Shut up!” Bessium snarled. “He can open it if he wants to!”

  McMoo ignored her. “I don’t think undergr
ound heating pipes caused this destruction. Something else might be going on.”

  “Oh, really?” Nero looked at him crossly. “And who might you be, sir?”

  Pat piped up. “This is the great Professor McMoo, who put out the fire!”

  “With the help of young Pat here,” McMoo added.

  “McMoo, eh?” Suddenly, Nero smiled warmly. “It seems I have much to thank you for, my two friends. Perhaps you would care to join me at the palace for supper, as my guests?”

  The crowd cast envious looks in McMoo and Pat’s direction. McMoo bowed humbly. “It would be an honour,” he said.

  “Splendid!” Nero clapped his hands, and a bunch of slaves ran along the street with trowels and buckets full of thick white plaster. “My slaves will soon repair this little mishap in the road, and it will be as if nothing ever happened.”

  McMoo turned to Pat, his eyes boggling. “Supper with Emperor Nero – imagine that!”

  “But did you imagine seeing that ter-moo-nator under the street?” said Pat grimly.

  “I don’t think so. And when we get to the palace, I must warn the emperor that all of Rome could be in great danger …” The professor nodded to himself. “Pat, you’re faster than me – run back to the Time Shed, in case Little Bo is waiting for us there.” He pressed Bo’s ringblender into the young bull’s hoof. “If she isn’t, leave her this beside the door and write a note telling her to come to the emperor’s palace straight away. Then, rush back and join us there yourself.”

  “Understood,” said Pat, slipping the ringblender into his pocket. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can!” And with a quick salute to Emperor Nero, Pat hurried away.

  Pat was very good at finding things, and it didn’t take him long to retrace his steps all the way back to the busy market street where the Time Shed had first arrived.