Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  As the last glow of sun disappeared from the chamber, Myles found himself immobile on the ancient mosaic floor. Involuntary shivers twitched through his body.

  His last image was of the killing machine used by Romans for fighters who, like him, had been defeated. And like all those exhausted gladiators so many centuries ago, his resistance had left him.

  Day XI

  Sixty-One

  Rome

  Paul Pasgarius the Third’s trip to Italy was the first time he’d ever left the United States. It had been a struggle to get from the airport to the place he had been told to meet Constantine. Just as he had been warned, security cordons were everywhere.

  He glanced anxiously at his watch. Constantine was late. Had he been scared off – or stopped at one of the checkpoints? Paul wondered how Constantine would carry the large bag of cash he had promised.

  Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, and saw an unexpected face.

  ‘Constantine?’ he asked.

  The man nodded. ‘Thanks for coming, Paul.’

  Paul recognised Constantine immediately, from all the news about the terror threat to America. He tried to pretend he hadn’t, swallowing hard to hide his nerves. ‘Can we make it quick, please?’ He looked Constantine up and down, disconcerted that the man didn’t seem to be carrying a bag of currency. ‘Do you have the money?’ he asked.

  Constantine nodded. ‘I do,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. But instead of cash, he pulled out a packet of gum and presented it to Paul as if they were two friends passing the time.

  Paul instinctively took the stick he was offered, unwrapped it and folded it into his mouth. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  He was surprised to see Constantine put the packet back in his jacket pocket, and equally surprised by the gum’s strange taste. ‘Er, you’re not having gum yourself?’ queried Paul.

  The man shook his head. Within moments Paul understood why, as he felt his throat tighten.

  ‘No gum for me,’ said Constantine matter-of-factly. ‘Some people would say gum-chewing is disrespectful, and disrespect for authority can bring down empires,’ he mused. ‘But for me, I just try to avoid gum which has been dipped in strychnine.’ He sauntered away.

  Paul Pasgarius the Third’s dead body slumped behind him.

  Sixty-Two

  Western Desert, Iraq

  Darkness closed in. Myles felt his body drift, as if it had lost its weight. He imagined himself rise out of the chamber which had threatened to become his tomb. He was floating.

  Visions invaded his mind. Dreams from ancient Rome: he pictured the Hun, the barbarian warriors from the east who had outmatched the Romans in battle. He remembered the descriptions of them – narrow-eyed, with squat heads and flat faces. The Romans had always described the Asiatic horsemen as ugly, using words of intolerance. He remembered how the leader of the barbarians, Attila-the-Hun, had held civilisation to ransom. When Rome couldn’t pay, the ‘eternal city’ was ransacked and it never recovered from the rampage of 455 AD. It meant that Rome’s last military expedition – to Libya, in 468 AD – was a fiasco, and soon the Roman Empire was formally declared dead. An imperial order was the death certificate, signed in 476 AD.

  Myles imagined the Hun presenting the official paper to him now. He was being asked to sign the end of the Roman Empire. To sign away civilisation, to sign away his life… Myles refused to take the pen, but someone grasped his wrist. He was being forced to sign.

  Myles mustered his strength. He tried to move his arm, to keep it away from the paper, but he was too weak. Finally, he just managed to throw his arm sideways. Whoever was grasping it was knocked to the ground. The paper was taken away. Myles knew the Empire’s death certificate would be brought back to him soon.

  He became aware of the person who had grabbed his wrists. The person, who Myles had thrown to the floor, was in pain. Myles looked over and recognised the narrow Asiatic eyes described in the ancient texts.

  Myles had been captured by the Hun.

  He became aware of his surroundings: the flat walls of a nomadic tent, the sort used by the barbarian horseback riders, who had been ancient Rome’s final adversary. The tent had been painted green, like the steppes of Asia from where the horsemen had come. Then he saw another Hun approach him with a spear. Myles could not resist. He felt pain as the weapon was plunged into his arm. Then he felt weak. His entire being was slipping away. Like the Roman Empire, he was passing into history.

  The thoughts dribbled away until he could think no more.

  It took many more hours for the drowsiness to pass, although Myles had lost his ability to feel time passing. Only gradually did Myles realise he had conjured pictures of ancient Rome and imagined himself there. History had mingled with the present.

  Slowly, Myles recognised he was in a sick bay. The tent was not the home of barbarian horsemen, but a green surgical curtain. It surrounded the stretcher-bed, to which he had been strapped.

  ‘Hello?’ he asked, although he wasn’t sure who he was asking.

  An Asiatic health orderly came to Myles’ bedside. She was soon joined by a more senior-looking doctor with a peculiar logo on his breast pocket. The doctor’s face also marked him as from the Far East. Myles saw a few Chinese characters on some well-kept medical equipment.

  ‘So you’re awake, then?’ said the doctor in an oriental accent.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Myles replied – awake but groggy. He wasn’t sure what to ask first: where was he? How had he got there? Who was looking after him?

  The doctor saw his confusion and smiled. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’ve been with us for a while now, and there’s no sign of any problems at all with your head.’

  The doctor reached over for an MRI scan and passed it to Myles. Myles tried to understand the image, which was on a large sheet of photographic film. It just looked like a picture of a brain in shades of grey. He looked back up at the doctor. ‘Er, thank you,’ he said, turning it sideways to see if it made more sense. It didn’t.

  ‘We did other tests on you as well,’ explained the doctor. ‘You’ve got elevated levels of calcium in your blood, and it looks like you’ve been exposed to some sort of disease recently, but it’s nothing too serious,’ he said, smiling. ‘Basically you’re fine.’

  Myles barely absorbed the doctor’s words. He was still staring at his brain scan, and pointed at the edge of the scan, where his skull looked like it was nicked.

  ‘Yes, it’s a small fracture,’ said the doctor, nodding. ‘Probably caused by the explosion – or the fall. But you were lucky. You were the only survivor we found.’

  Myles was obviously still very confused. He was sure Juma was still alive. ‘You only found one vehicle?’ he asked.

  ‘There may have been others, but they would have driven off before we arrived.’ The doctor explained how workers had seen two fireballs in the desert, just over the horizon. They’d gone to investigate – taking heavy security with them, of course. There they had found the dead bodies and the single overturned vehicle, which they pulled away to discover Myles. He had been lifted out on a stretcher, semi-conscious the whole time. ‘It’s not our business to ask whether it was an accident or what you Americans call a “shoot-out”,’ said the doctor.

  ‘I’m not American,’ said Myles. He wondered about his words as he said them. He wasn’t American, it was true. But in his culture, his attitudes and his outlook on life, he realised he had much in common with many from the United States. He was even in love with a woman from New York. He was certainly more American than the medical team who had just saved his life.

  ‘You said “workers”,’ he added. ‘How many workers do you have here?’

  ‘We have about fifty managers from China, then about two-hundred-and-fifty locals working on the rigs,’ said the doctor.

  Suddenly the commercial logo on the doctor’s clothes made sense: oil. ‘So you’re the guys that bought up Iraq’s oil after the American troops lef
t?’ asked Myles.

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded the doctor. ‘You guys did the fighting, we’re making the profit.’ The doctor smiled apologetically. Myles thought about arguing the point, but realised there was no need. The doctor already understood many Americans resented China buying up Iraq’s mineral resources.

  ‘Doctor, you know the Romans towards the end of their Empire relied on grain being shipped in from abroad, from North Africa,’ Myles explained. ‘When those lands fell to the barbarians they lost their last chance.’

  ‘You need rest.’

  Myles accepted the doctor was right. Only now did he realise how tired he was. Not since he had been in custody in London had he had a proper night’s sleep. The medical team had wired him up to a drip, providing him with fluids which his body craved. His muscles were sore. Myles knew he was a wreck.

  ‘You said I had high levels of calcium in my blood,’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘Looks like you’ve been eating chalk!’

  Myles paused to absorb the information. ‘Not lead?’

  The doctor smiled. ‘No, lead and other heavy metals were fine. The elevated calcium won’t do much – it might even strengthen your bones. It is abnormal, but not dangerous. It needs to come down, and it will in a few days.’

  ‘Calcium, not lead?’

  The doctor looked slightly offended. He was wondering why the tall Westerner was querying his medical advice. ‘Yes, calcium,’ he confirmed again. ‘Your lead levels were absolutely normal. Should they not be?’

  Myles’ mind was still ticking over. ‘And you tested my blood for infections, too?’

  ‘Yes. You’d recently been exposed to smallpox, we think, but because you were vaccinated against it, the disease didn’t take hold.’ The doctor leant back and became authoritative. ‘You definitely need rest,’ he said. ‘Now, is there anything I can bring you? A book? TV?’

  Myles was still digesting the information: it meant that in Germany he hadn’t been exposed to lead after all, just harmless calcium. He turned back to the doctor. ‘Do you follow the news? Has there been anything about Helen Bridle?’ he asked.

  The doctor shook his head in ignorance. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

  Myles wondered what else to try. He pondered for a moment, then queried, ‘Can you download books here?’

  He saw the doctor nod.

  ‘Then, doctor, can you get me a book, please. It was first published in 1776, and written by a man named Edward Gibbon.’

  ‘I’m not sure books that old are available online,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ll try. What’s the title?’

  Myles’ face opened into a smile. ‘You should be able to get this one. It’s called The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.’

  Ten minutes later the female orderly returned and presented Myles with an electronic book reader. Myles took the device eagerly and thanked her. Immediately Myles started to scroll down.

  History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

  By Edward Gibbon, 1776

  The Asiatic woman plumped up Myles’ pillow, so he could sit up and read. Seeing Myles already thoroughly absorbed in the book, she leant over to a television suspended from the ceiling. Quietly she swung it into place and put the remote control near her patient. But Myles was too busy with the electronic reading device to notice.

  Myles kept pushing his thumb down until he reached the text itself.

  …peaceful inhabitants enjoyed and abused the advantages of wealth and luxury. The image of a free constitution was preserved with decent reverence: the Roman senate appeared to possess the sovereign authority, and devolved on the emperors all the executive powers of government.

  The words were formed in the same language as the American Declaration of Independence. Perhaps not surprising: the book hailed from the same year. Substitute the word ‘president’ for ‘emperor’, and the book could apply to the States. Gibbon had even spoken of a ‘revolution’ when he explained the purpose of his masterpiece:

  …to deduce the most important circumstances of Rome’s decline and fall; a revolution which will ever be remembered, and is still felt by the nations of the earth…

  Gibbon seemed to fear democracy. He had opposed the ‘colonies’, as they then were, breaking away from the British Empire.

  Under a democratical government the citizens exercise the powers of sovereignty; and those powers will be first abused, and afterwards lost…

  But it was not democracy which caused the decline; Gibbon seemed to blame corruption.

  Corruption, the most infallible symptom of constitutional liberty, was successfully practised: honours, gifts, and immunities were offered and accepted…

  Myles jumped down to the events which actually brought down the Empire, when the city itself was sacked.

  The fabric of a mighty state, which has been reared by the labours of successive ages, could not be overturned by the misfortune of a single day… The union of the Roman empire was dissolved; its genius was humbled in the dust; and armies of unknown barbarians, issuing from the frozen regions…had established their victorious reign over the fairest provinces of Europe and Africa… Its fall was announced by a clearer omen than the flight of vultures: the Roman government appeared every day less formidable to its enemies, more odious and oppressive to its subjects.

  Then he found a vital sentence.

  If all the barbarian conquerors had been annihilated in the same hour, their total destruction would not have restored the empire of the West: and if Rome still survived, she survived the loss of freedom, of virtue, and of honour.

  He paused, then lowered the book. The words rang through his brain. Why had Placidia told him to look at it again?

  Myles wondered: Was ancient history like this really so important to the present day?

  He remembered the lectures he’d given at university. History needed to be humble. ‘Some people say they study the past so they can learn from it,’ he often told his first year students. ‘They’re wrong. We study history to learn whose mistakes we’re copying.’ It made his undergraduates laugh.

  History mattered, but Myles knew it was the present which mattered most. Juma was heading for Rome. He might already be there. And he was going to destroy the currency conference, now just days away.

  Myles picked up the remote control and pointed it at the TV as he pressed. The screen came on. The picture showed a man and woman sitting behind a desk with a map of the world’s new superpower behind them – the news in Chinese.

  He scrolled through the channels until he found an English language TV station. Instantly he recognised the voice of the presenter. It was Helen. She was back at work.

  Myles stared at the image of her. He longed to be with her. As he studied her face, he saw there were no scars from the smallpox, and she didn’t even seem pale: the doctors in Turkey had cured her of septicaemia completely. Knowing she was safe made Myles’ whole body relax in relief.

  He tuned his ears to hear her report, which he guessed had been recorded in the last few hours. From the way she moved as she read the news, Myles could tell she was even well-rested.

  ‘Confirmation that his father was killed in Iraq came with only a modest consolation for his son, Richard, who has been named as his successor by the State Governor,’ reported Helen. ‘The new Senator, still shocked by his father’s death, has pledged a return to Christian values, and to continue his father’s work protecting America from terrorists…’

  There was footage of Dick Roosevelt being jostled by cameras and reporters.

  ‘…and since the recent Congressional scandal, in which indecent images were found on roughly half of the computers in the Senate, Dick Roosevelt – whose IT equipment was given the “all-clear” – is even being talked of as a future contender for President,’ continued Helen’s voiceover. ‘Although the US Constitution requires candidates to be thirty-five years old before they can run for that office…’

  Myl
es was interrupted by the doctor rushing in, worried. ‘We logged your name earlier as Myles Munro – is that right?’ he asked. The man raised his voice at the end of his question, as if there was genuine doubt in his voice.

  But Myles knew – there was no use pretending anymore. He had been on the run long enough. ‘Yes, I am.’ Myles guessed the doctor had just made the connection, and was about to have Myles arrested. But instead, the Chinese man just said, ‘Mr Munro, we have a call for you.’ He pressed a button on the TV remote, and glanced up at the screen, which went black for a few moments, while the doctor departed.

  Then a new picture appeared. Sitting in a video-conferencing studio very far away was a familiar face.

  Sixty-Three

  Western Desert, Iraq

  Myles adjusted the volume and sat up in bed. The picture on the video conference was slightly hazy, and the image seemed to follow half a second behind the sound. But Myles didn’t mind. To see Helen again made him feel alive. From being in the middle of a strange hospital room, it seemed as though Myles had suddenly returned home. ‘Helen,’ he smiled to the image on the screen.

  ‘Myles – you’re alive!’

  ‘And so are you! Sorry about leaving you at the hospital.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she accepted. ‘You did the right thing. You saved my life.’

  The words made Myles feel much better. ‘Thank you – I hope we’re together again soon.’

  ‘Your head?’ she asked, squinting at the camera.

  Myles was aware that Helen was looking above his face. He put his hand on his head and felt bandages. ‘It’s from yesterday,’ he explained. ‘The doctor here reckons no lasting damage.’