by JJ Zep
We hustled and muscled our way through the crowd and entered the building. Last time I’d been here there’d been an attractive Succubus on reception, today the stand-in receptionist was an old friend of mine. Jitterbug sat behind the desk with a scowl on his red face and a cigar stub clenched firmly between his teeth.
“Agent Dope Doppelganger,” he grumbled as we entered the foyer. “The very personage I’ve been waiting to see. How much longer am I going to have to play desk jockey? Five more minutes of this and I pick up a placard and join those deadbeats outside.”
“Not much longer now,” Dope assured him. “You remember Blackwell?”
“Yeah, of course. Mister Makin’ Whoopee with the dames of Chicago.”
“How are you, Jitterbug?”
“About as good as an ice-cube in Satan’s armpit.” Jitterbug said.
“Blackwell here’s going to Rome.” Dope said.
“Modern-day?”
“44 minus.”
“Bummer,” Jitterbug said and buzzed us through.
I followed Dope down to the SPAA Detectives bureau on level U3. The workspace was nowhere near as rowdy as it had been the last time around. In fact, there was only one agent in the entire place, and he was sitting at his desk and floating paper planes across the office.
“Haven’t you got work to do?” Dope growled at him.
“You want I should join the choir outside?” the agent growled back.
“No, I want you should go upstairs and relieve Jitterbug on reception.”
“Wonderful,” the agent said. “I joined the agency to answer phones and file my nails.”
We reached Dope’s office and he motioned me to a chair. “Look Blackwell, I gotta be honest with you, normally I wouldn’t send a rookie on a job like this. Freddie Fingers is one thing, but this individual is a big shot with a lot of heavy hitters for friends. You up for it?”
“If it gets me out from under Belial for a while, I’d be up for trimming Hitler’s moustache.”
“Hitler doesn’t have a moustache,” Dope said. “Strict rule at Hades Correctional, prisoners must be clean-shaven.”
“I meant before he got here.”
“Oh, I see” Dope said. “That’s actually quite funny.”
“So who is it I need to find?”
“General Bacchus, a friend of Mark Antony and Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. Like I said, well connected.”
“And who would I be using as a host?”
“Feller by the name of Marcus Flaminicus, a centurion currently floating downstream in the Tiber. I can’t tell you much more than that. It just confuses things I find.”
“And when to I go?”
“Slow down there, hoss.” Dope said. “First we need to get you some training. Now unfortunately, I’ve got most of my trainers out on strike, but there’s this feller, name of Commodus…”
“You mean the bad guy from Gladiator?”
“Sorry?”
“The guy from the movie, Gladiator?”
“Can’t say as I’ve seen that one myself. The last sword and sandals epic I saw was probably Spartacus or Ben-Hur. Anyway, the point is, we had to release this Commodus from the cells to give you some training. I checked his file and he was a one time Roman emperor, and fancies himself as a bit of a gladiator. He’s all we’ve got, so he’ll have to do.”
IV
We found Commodus on U7 going through his gladiator routine with a couple of trolls and an ogre. “Attack me, you cowards!” he shouted. One of the trolls took a lazy swing with his club, which Commodus easily avoided. “Ha! You won’t defeat Rome’s greatest gladiator, like that! Come on you vile beast, put some fire in your belly.”
The ogre now came at Commodus with his trident, “That’s more like it!” the emperor yelled. “But still not good enough to master Hercules incarnate, you plebian fiend.” Commodus neatly sidestepped the charge, got his sword between the prongs of the trident and wrenched it from the ogre’s grasp.
“All hail Commodus,” he said “Imperator, Pacator Orbis and Dominus Noster.”
He raised his arms in triumph, but he’d forgotten about the other troll who had circled behind him and now cast his net over the emperor and pulled him to the ground.
“Hey!” Commodus shouted, “That’s not fair. You cowards! How dare you sneak up on an emperor of Rome? I’ll have you crucified, I’ll have you thrown into the arena to be ravaged by beasts, I’ll have you tied to horses and torn limb from limb! Release me you impure swine!”
Doppelganger said something to the trolls in their strangely musical language and they hoisted Commodus to his feet and untangled him from the net.
“Send for my torture detachment!” Commodus commanded. “I want these monstrosities flawed and torn apart. Flayed and torn apart! Do you hear me?”
“How about we call it quits and you get to stay down here and play gladiator for a while instead of going back to your cell?”
Commodus thought about that, glaring at us while he did, “Very well,” he said, “You have me at a disadvantage. Rest assured that if you should ever find yourself in Rome during the latter part of the second century, I shall have my revenge. Now, is this the plebian you want me to train? A rather poor specimen, more damnati than an ordinari, if you ask me. “
“This is Blackwell,” Dope said. “We’re sending him back to Rome 44 minus, or B.C., or whatever you called it in your time.”
“Forty-four,” Commodus said. “A momentous year in Roman history. Julius Caesar was killed you know, on the Ides of March.”
“Yeah, spare me the history lesson,” Dope said. “You got two days to turn Blackwell into a soldier.”
“Soldier?” Commodus said, “I train gladiators, not soldiers. And I couldn’t turn this puny plebian into a worthy gladiator given eternity.”
“Train him as a gladiator then, as long as he can use a sword. But you still only have two days.”
“Why not send me in his stead? I know the language, the culture, and I’m an excellent fighter.”
“Not going to happen, feller, the last thing I need is two runaways to track down when I’m so short staffed. Now, will you do it or do I send you back to cellblock D?”
“That insolent tone will see you crucified and put on show aside the Appian Way, pleb!”
“Yeah, yeah, will you do it or not?”
“I’ll do it. But only because I pity the wretched creature.”
Over the next two days Commodus proved himself to be thoroughly unpleasant, extremely conceited and an excellent, if impatient, tutor. He taught me how to use a sword (or gladius as he called it), how to protect myself using a shield, how to throw a lance and also the ins and outs of archery, which he proclaimed as he specialty. By the time our training sessions came to a close he declared that I had learned just about enough to ‘die with honor.’
V
“Commodus was not exactly complimentary in his assessment,” Dope said. “But that’s only to be expected with a megalomaniac. They make poor trainers in my experience.”
“Ah, he wasn’t all that bad,” I said. “Kind of like a Roman version of Belial, nothing I’m not used to dealing with. I just hope I can pass as a soldier, being a gladiator isn’t exactly the same thing, and I wouldn’t want to end up in the Colosseum or anything.”
“Oh you definitely won’t,” Dope said, “The Colosseum wasn’t even built until 80 plus.”
“Good thing. I’m kind of planning on keeping my five lives in tact for as long as I possibly can.”
“Maybe, I should just give you the sitrep,” Dope said. “That will explain everything.”
“Shoot,” I said, “I’m all ears.”
“Our runner is General Tulius Festus Bacchus, commander of the fifteenth legion. He served with Caesar at Axona and Sabis, but by all accounts he’s more often to be found in the taverns and brothels of the Aventine. Bacchus was killed by his own men in May, 44 minus, after he took up with Brutus and Cassius following Caesar’s
death. My guess is you’ll find him in Rome, sometime before the big event, so I’m sending you back to March 12. That’s three days before Caesar gets sliced and diced on the floor of the senate. You need to be out of there before that happens and all hell breaks loose."
“But why would Bacchus go back to the scene of the crime? Surely he’d want to be far away from the time and place of his own death?”
“That’s something we in the agency refer to as the ‘delusion of souls’. They seldom stray far from their old stomping grounds. Most think if they go back with knowledge of what’s about to happen, they can somehow manipulate things to their own benefit. Bacchus probably thinks he can warn Caesar and come out looking like a hero, or that he can convince Brutus to kill Lepidus and Mark Antony and avoid his upcoming defeat at the Battle of Philippi.”
“Or maybe Bacchus just wants one last binge through the brothels and taverns of Rome.”
“Also possible,” Dope said. “Probably even likely given who we’re dealing with. Either way, your job is to find him, jar him and bring him back.”
“And who am I again?”
“You’re Marcus Flaminicus, second spear Centurion and personal bodyguard to Bacchus. Flaminicus fell into the Tiber and drowned while under the influence. By the time you get there he won’t have been missed so that will allow you to get close to Bacchus without arousing any suspicion. I could tell you more, but it would only distract you from your mission.”
“When do I go?”
“Soon as I can find Jitterbug and arrange you a transport. There is one little wrinkle you should know about though.”
“Oh boy, what is it this time? General Bacchus isn’t Satan’s second cousin or anything, is he?”
“Nothing that dramatic,” Dope grinned. “No, it’s just that we have to keep your little jaunt off the record.”
“How do you mean, off the record? Didn’t you show Belial a permission slip from Abaddon.”
“Ah ha,” Dope said. “Rule number one in the SPAA manual, always examine the evidence.” He produced the slip of pink paper from his pocket, unfolded it and placed it on the desk. It was blank.
“I don’t understand.”
“Better you don’t. Let’s just say that this is easier than filling out all the paperwork needed to hire you as a temporary contractor. It doesn’t change much. Just means I’ll have to use an alias for you on the transport authority. Any ideas?”
“How about Johnny Black?”
“Johnny Black it is then. Johnny Black, Gladiator, I like that.”
VI
After Dope had finished his briefing we headed down to level U14 to look for Jitterbug. The imp wasn’t at any of his usual spots so we took the elevator up to the reception to see if he was still hanging around up there.
“He said he was heading over to the Bucket of Blood,” the grumpy agent said. “Hey chief, how long am I gonna have to man this station? I’m due a lunch break soon.”
“You’ll stay till I say it’s okay for you to go,” Dope growled. He indicated for me to follow then walked out onto the street, turned right and skirted the crowd.
“Hey boss, what’s the skinny? We getting our expenses or what?” one of the protesters called out.
“Come on, Dope. Have a word downstairs!” another yelled.
Doppelganger simply ignored them and walked a couple of blocks before crossing Serpentine Street. The Bucket of Blood was a working souls bar, not like the upmarket Dante’s that the senior demons preferred. The interior was dark and smelled moldy, but was surprisingly cool for hell. Today the bar was all but deserted, except for a couple of trolls shooting pool. The only other patron was Jitterbug, sitting at the bar, nursing a beer.
“What’ll it be?” The barman asked as we approached. He was an ogre with one eye in the middle of his forehead.
“I’ll take a Maker’s Mark,” Dope said. “You want something, Blackwell?”
“A mineral water with a twist,” I said.
“We don’t serve cocktails here,” the ogre growled. “Whiskey and beer only. You want them pansy drinks head over to Dante’s, you deadbeat.”
“What do you have on tap?” I asked. The ogre shot me such a glare with his one eye that he might have turned me to stone if Dope hadn’t cut in.
“No offence, Igor,” he said. “He’s new around here, bring him a Red Imp.”
Igor stomped off and returned with our drinks. The bottle he slammed down in front of me had a picture of an imp that looked suspiciously like Jitterbug on the label. Above the picture were the words, ‘Dodgson’s Red Imp Lager’.
“I thought this brand was discontinued in the forties,” I said.
“Yeah, well time don’t mean a whole lot when you’re dealing with eternity,” Dope said.
He turned to Jitterbug, who was sitting, head down, contemplating his beer as though the amber liquid held the secrets of the universe. What’s happening there, Jit?” Dope said to him, “Could you use another?”
“Does a bear defecate in a wooded area?” Jitterbug grumbled.
Dope signaled to Igor who brought Jitterbug another Dodgson’s. “So,” Dope said, “What’s up? You look a little glum?”
“It’s my birthday,” Jitterbug grunted.
“Oh yeah,” Dope said. “I know how that can be.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Jitterbug said, “No-one remembered, not even my Uncle Ezra, who has a memory like a mammoth. Not one card, no gifts, nothing. An imp only turns 421 once you know.”
“I remembered,” Dope said.
“You did?”
“Yeah, just now when you reminded me.” He turned to the barman. “Hey Igor, you got any of those Montecristos left?”
“Just one box, Dope.”
“Well, bring it over here, a gift for my friend, Jitterbug. Put it on my bill will you.”
Igor brought the box over and laid it in front of Jitterbug. The grouchy little imp looked up at Dope and I could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.
“Thanks, Dope,” he said. “You’re a pal.”
“Think nothing of it,” Dope said, “Nothing you wouldn’t have done for me.”
“Don’t you bet on it,” Jitterbug grunted and his raucous laughter filled the tavern. After that Jitterbug cheered right up and regaled us with his catalog of jokes most of which started with, “so an imp, a troll and an ogre walk into a bar.”
After the fifth round, I was feeling more than a bit light-headed and Jitterbug and Dope had started trading war stories. Inevitably, Jitterbug got to telling Dope about our time together in Chicago.
“So Dexter here is making whoopee with this hotsy-totsy broad while I’m stuck in the wall with mould growing on my wiener. I tell you Dope, this boy’s got some line with the dames. Don’t let him fool you with that, ‘butter wouldn’t melt on my butt act’, this kid knows how to party.”
Three rounds later, Dope finally managed to persuade Jitterbug that we needed to get going. We walked the few blocks back to SPAA headquarters with Jitterbug swaying slightly, singing an impish version of Donna Summer’s ‘Hot Stuff’ and yelling at the striking workers that they were nothing more than a bunch of deadbeat, gold-bricking lay-abouts. Dope eventually had to drag him into the building.
As we entered the reception, the SPAA agent started to say something, before Dope cut him off with a gruff, “Not now, Petrocelli.”
Just wanted to let you know, chief,” Petrocelli called after us, “Abaddon’s been looking for you. Something to do with a complaint by Mr. Belial.”
“Yeah, well if he asks, you ain’t seen me.”
“Can I go to lunch now?”
“No!”
We rode the elevator down to U14, headed past Jitterbug’s training pool and into a labyrinth of passages.
“Rome, 44 minus,” Jitterbug slurred, “I know it’s here somewheres.”
“It has to be the Tiber,” Dope said. “Not one of the aqueducts, or the bathhouses or sewers. And it has to be
May, 12, 44 minus, not before or after, you hear.”
“The Tiber,” Jitterbug repeated, “That’s the yellowish one. It’s around here someplace. Now where was it again?” He stopped to think, massaging his goatee, his devilish features taking on an exaggerated look of concentration.
“Ah yes,” he said eventually. “Follow me.” He staggered down one of the passageways, made several twists and turns, and came to a stop in front of a pool of yellowish water. “This will do ya,” he said and then hiccupped.
“You’re sure?” Dope said.
“Course I am,” Jitterbug growled. “I been doin’ this for three hundred years. I know these waterways like the back of my…wait a moment.” He seemed momentarily uncertain. “Let me take a gander,” he said.
Jitterbug got down on his knees, stuck his head into the pool and withdrew it immediately. “Wowsers!” he said, “Good thing I didn’t send you in there, Blackwell. That’s the southern ocean during the Triassic Period. There are a dozen hungry Thalattosaurs down there. Almost had themselves an imp kebab for breakfast.”
“How did you manage to confuse that with the Tiber?” Dope asked.
“An easy mistake to make,” Jitterbug insisted.
VII
Eventually Jitterbug managed to track down the right portal and, after checking and double-checking, he confirmed that this was indeed the Tiber, 44 minus.
“You’re sure you’ve got the date right?” Dope asked again.
“I’m not sure I like my professionalism being called into question,” Jitterbug growled.
“No-one’s questioning your professionalism, it’s just that the date is very important to the success of our mission.”
“This is the right portal, I tell you.”
“Okay, okay,” Dope said. “Keep your shirt on.” He turned to me, “Well Blackwell, this is it. Whenever you’re ready.”
