Laughing Wolf. Nicholas Maes
is increasing. I’d better say goodbye before the signal disappears. By the way, the disruption will be bad for awhile, so I might not call for the next three weeks. Take care, both of you. I love you with all —”
The hologram ended before she finished her sentence.
Felix glanced outside the living-room window. It afforded him a view of the city’s downtown region, with its mile-high skyscrapers whose totalium finish reflected the afternoon light. Strange to say, he was reminded of the ruins in the Roman Forum. Decrepit piles of brick and marble, the temples, basilicas, and pockmarked arches had at one time convinced each ancient Roman that his empire and wealth would endure forever. And now? The city’s aqueducts, roads, religion, buildings, and poems were long forgotten.
“You are frowning. If the sun is bothering you, I can tint the window.”
“That’s okay, Mentor. I’m enjoying the view.”
“It is very fine.”
“Populations think their ways will last forever. But I bet these buildings will vanish one day, like the Parthenon, the pyramids, or the Coliseum.”
“A totalium structure should last eight hundred and sixty-two years on average.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m saying we don’t care about the people before us. A hundred years from now, who’ll remember we existed?”
“Forgive me, Felix. I have not been programmed to address such feelings.”
“Never mind. It’s my mother’s message. They always turn me inside out.”
“You should sit outside until your father arrives. The tranquility will you do good.”
“That’s a fine idea, Mentor. I’ll follow your suggestion.”
Retrieving the Life of Crassus, Felix approached a door, which Mentor swiftly opened. Outside was a spiral staircase that led into a well-trimmed garden. As he stared into the greenery below, Felix was thinking that he’d lied to Mentor. His mother’s call didn’t bother him so much as the collapse of those two people that day. His instincts told him something odd was going on.
Still, he had his lesson to think of. Descending the stairs, he put his worries aside and pretended he was entering the distant past.
Crassus was standing in the thick of his army, forty thousand men, all told. They were in Assyria, in an empty plain, with the nearest source of water some ten miles distant. A small Parthian army crowned the hills before him. An hour ago their ranks had been thicker and their archers had fired constant volleys of arrows, pinning every Roman down and preventing battle at close quarters. Finally his son had led a cavalry charge and, in true Roman fashion, beaten the enemy back. Proud of his son’s manliness, Crassus was awaiting his return.
“We should leave,” his legate Cassius advised. “Before the enemy regroups.”
“I told you already,” Crassus growled, “when Publius returns, we’ll proceed to Carrhae.”
“Where is he? He should have been back. If we don’t leave soon …”
“We stay until he’s here!” Crassus thundered. “If not for his charge, we’d be riddled with arrows and …”
A reverberation of drums interrupted — the Parthian way of sounding an attack. On the hill before them a blinding flash shone forth and a cloud of dust filled most of the sky: waves of Parthians marched into sight, archers in front, cataphracts behind, their heavy armour impervious to spear and gladius.
“We should have left,” Cassius muttered.
“Where’s my son?” Crassus clamoured. “And where are my horsemen?”
As if in answer, the cataphracts raised their pikes on high. On each was fixed the head of a Roman. And there, on the tallest pike … Crassus would have groaned had his thirst allowed: staring back at him, his eyes fearfully wide in death, was the severed head of his beloved boy.
As Crassus hid his face, the Parthians closed in for the kill …
“Felix!”
Seated beneath an apple tree, Felix raised his eyes from the Life of Crassus and watched his father slowly draw near. Dressed in a black Zacron suit — his taste in clothes was very old-fashioned — Mr. Taylor projected an air of formality yet was clearly pleased to be in the garden. The abundance of green was such a treat for his eyes, the grass, the shrubs, the two fruit trees, both of which were starting to blossom. A wall of bushes was broken here and there to accommodate flowers or the bust of a thinker. And along the garden’s boundaries was a high brick wall that blocked out everything except the sky’s expanse and the meandering clouds.
With its vegetation and simple fixtures, it was hard to believe this sanctuary was perched on a terrace fifteen stories above street level.
“Vale fili mi.”
“Vale pater.”
These greetings exchanged, Felix eyed his father and was surprised to see how tired he looked. Instead of standing with his impeccably straight posture, his shoulders were stooped and his neck drooped slightly, as if his head were too much of a burden to carry. And his eyes were ringed and lacked their usual lustre.
“Are you okay?” Felix asked with a note of concern, “You look tired.”
“I am tired, but there’s work to do.”
“You saw mom’s hologram? She’ll be home in six weeks.”
“Yes I saw it. It’s wonderful news.”
“What’s that?” Felix asked, pointing to a book his dad was carrying. It was small and bound in bright blue leather.
“It’s nothing really,” his father said vaguely. “A work of history, that’s all.”
“By whom?”
“Sextus Pullius Aceticus.”
“Aceticus? The vinegary one? I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s not well known,” his father agreed. “And this edition in my pocket is particularly rare. Still, he’s … interesting.”
“What period does he cover?”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Mr. Taylor said dismissively. “Let’s start and read about Spartacus’s struggle. His story is why I assigned the Life of Crassus. Over the last few days this era has come to obsess me.”
“Okay,” Felix agreed. While his dad took a seat, he selected the right chapter and translated from the Latin into Common Speak.
He read how Spartacus had been a gladiator in the town of Capua. His owner Batiatus had treated his slaves badly, confining them and beating them often. Spartacus and others were determined to escape. Using a mix of kitchen utensils, they stormed their guards, fled the school, and armed themselves with swords and spears before venturing due south. When the praetor Clodius led three thousand troops against them, Spartacus and his companions crushed this army, gained a cache of weapons for themselves, and attracted many more slaves to their cause.
“The Romans don’t come off well,” Felix said.
“They most certainly don’t,” his father agreed.
“They had slaves and encouraged gladiatorial games ….”
“They have their better aspects, too. It’s strange how civilization can contain such savage elements.”
Felix continued. A second Roman army arrived — it consisted of six thousand soldiers — and Spartacus promptly routed it, too. By this time twenty thousand slaves had joined him. Aware he couldn’t beat the Romans