Redemption: Supernatural Time-Traveling Romance with Sci-fi and Metaphysics (14 page)

~

The following morning, Ra sends
a large, gilded platter, filled with some of the most exotic fruits available,
to the Servilli. He chooses the same slave that delivered the bracelet a few
days earlier, and once he has gone, struggling under the weight of the platter,
Ra takes to pacing anxiously around the temple precinct. Eventually, he can
stand it no longer and instead he hails a palanquin to take him to the Circus
Maximus in the hope that he will see Alfreda again.

As the bearers make their way
down the Palatine Hill, the sounds and smells of Rome seep in through the
palanquin’s curtains. Rome is buzzing with activity once again. On arriving at
the Circus, Ra quickly hands over a few small coins and heads towards the main
gates, tipping the guard more to let him in.

To his grave disappointment
however, although he waits for several hours, gazing out at the men and women
riders all busily training for the coming races, he does not catch sight of the
blonde hair and the slim, elegant body he is looking for. He makes his way from
one end of the arena to the other, but Alfreda is nowhere to be seen, and
eventually he decides to head back to the temple.

There he finds the slave waiting
for him with a message from the Servilli. Taking the wax tablet from him, Ra
finds he has an invitation to visit them at their villa on the Campus Martius
on the following Friday.

Thank you, Isis,
he thinks, offering
silent praise to the goddess.
Thank you!
Not long now and I will be able to free Alfreda and save her from death. Only
three more days!

~

It is late on Friday afternoon
by the time Ra arrives at the villa, and he is quickly welcomed in by the door
slave. As he is left waiting in the atrium, he gazes at his surroundings, stunned
by the opulence of the Servilli’s home. The floor that sweeps away before him
is of the finest marble, highly-polished and inlaid with stunning mosaics. On
the walls hang the wax face masks of the family’s ancestors, which look out
with stern expressions at the displays of statues, pottery and golden
housewares. If anything the collection of treasures around him are even more
impressive than those in the emperor’s palace.

How wonderful it must be to live in such a place
, he thinks, walking slowly through the atrium and admiring the
wealth on display.
To be surrounded by
such riches every day! How has one single family attained so great a fortune?
He knows the answer, of course, through training gladiators and others for the
games. The Servilli have prospered through the pain and death of countless
slaves like Alfreda. Ra frowns and reaches out to touch the face mask of an
especially irritated-looking man. As he does so, his robe brushes against a
bright, blue vase, which begins to topple, falling sideways from its plinth. Ra
quickly grabs at it, catching hold of the vase, but accidentally kicking the
plinth out from underneath. It is made of heavy wood and hits the marble floor
with a ringing thud. Placing the vase under one arm, Ra bends to pick up the
plinth.

“Welcome to our home, servant of
Isis.”

Ra straightens up quickly,
lifting the plinth and setting the vase carefully back in place. Then he turns around
to find a man standing a short distance behind, watching him with an amused
expression. He is dressed in a white toga with the broad purple stripe that
marks him out to be a member of the Senate. This must be the paterfamilias, the
head of the Servilli family.

“Thank you, senator,” he replies,
bowing low as he tries to hide his embarrassment. “May Isis bless and protect
your family.”

“Indeed. My name is Publius
Servillius Opilio.” He gestures to his right. “Shall we sit?”

Without waiting for a reply,
Opilio strides away through a colonnade. Ra hurries along behind him, and they
emerge into a courtyard filled with a stunning collection of shrubs and bushes
surrounding a central fountain.

“Fortuna,” says Opilio, pointing
at the marble statue in the fountain. “One of our Roman goddesses. She has
watched over my family for many generations. Ah, here we are.” He points to
where a couple of seats have been placed around a small table filled with food
and drink, and ushers Ra to sit down.

“So tell me, priest,” says
Opilio, helping himself to a honeyed fig. “Is it true what I hear about the
worship of Isis?”

Ra looks at the table and selects
a small portion of minced meat, coated in ground pine kernels and green
peppercorns. “I couldn’t say, senator. What have you heard?”

“I have heard tales of magic, of
course, stories that have surely been embellished in the telling.” Opilio pours
a little wine for them both and adds water from a golden jug. For a while the
two men sit and talk about the worship of Isis and, though it is clear the
senator does not entirely approve of such foreign worship, despite the fact Caligula
has given it the status of an official religion of Rome, Ra promises to pray to
the goddess on Opilio’s behalf.

The conversation turns, instead,
to the history of the Servilli family and their involvement, over many
generations, in training gladiators and others for the games. Ra seizes the
opportunity to raise the subject of Alfreda.

“I was at the games with the
emperor not long ago,” he begins, twisting his empty goblet between his
fingers. “And I believe the winner of the first chariot race was one of yours,
yes?”

“Yes, indeed. The Briton. As you
can imagine, I made a great return on my investment in her that day.”

“A true beauty and no mistake,
with a skill I have never seen equaled.”

“Exactly. Though keeping hold of
such a natural is not easy. It’s a very risky business we’re in, and even the
best of our gladiators can be killed in the arena without warning. It can be
hard to run at a profit.”

Ra looks around at the courtyard,
a testimony to the Servilli’s wealth, and doubts the truth of the senator’s
words.

“There is a need for good fortune
in all areas of life, senator,” he says. “And we must work hard to earn the
favor of the gods.”

“Quite,” says Opilio, and waves a
hand towards the statue in the fountain. “Our future and our fortune are certainly
in their hands.”

“But also in ours, if we will.”
Ra smiles slightly and braces himself. The moment to state the reason for his
visit has arrived. “I have come, senator, in response to a disturbing vision I
received regarding your future.”

“Really?” Opilio raises his
eyebrows and considers the priest. It is well known that Ra has influence with
the emperor, and Caligula certainly appears convinced of the power of Isis. He
holds Ra’s gaze for a moment before continuing. “I believe you, servant of
Isis. So what have you seen? How can I best ensure the protection of my future?”

“The vision has to do with the
very woman we were just talking about. The chariot racer from Britannia.”

“Her?” The senator looks suddenly
serious. “I had great plans for her, really I did. She could have added millions
to my family’s coffers. Unfortunately her future is sealed. She joined some
weird sect that calls themselves Christians. It wouldn’t be so bad but these
wretched fanatics refuse to recognize any other god than this ‘Christ’ they
worship.”

“What?” Ra is taken aback,
shocked by this disturbing news. “You mean she refused to worship the emperor
as a living god?”

“Exactly.” Opilio shakes his head
sadly and Ra places a hand on his head in dismay. “When the gladiators enter the
arena,” Opilio continues, “they are obliged to greet Caligula with the words, ‘We
who are about to die salute you, Caesar, great emperor and merciful god.’
Unfortunately she refused to do so, as she will not acknowledge Caligula as
god. As you know, such blasphemy is against Roman law and the penalty for such
a crime is death, especially for a slave.”

“But… but this is impossible!
What can be done about it?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid.”

“So what will happen to Alfreda?”

“She,” Opilio begins, a look of
anger spreading across his face at the thought, “together with the other slaves
led astray by the Christians, are going.”

“Going?”

“To the games, as bestiarii. It
doesn’t pay well, but at least. . .”

“Bestiarii!” Ra jumps to his
feet, his goblet falling to the ground and clattering on the stones. “She’s
being thrown to the wild beasts?”

“Of course she is. That’s the
only fate that awaits the followers of Christ, who refuse to acknowledge any
other god.”

“Please tell me you haven’t sold
her already.”

Opilio looks at the priest with
pity in his eyes. There is nothing he can do.

“I’m sorry, priest. The deal was
made earlier today. She’s already gone.”

Chapter Thirteen

W
hy, Isis? Why has this happened? Of all the
women in the world that I could have fallen in love with and now she is being
snatched away from me, before I have even had a chance to talk with her. I love
her. O Isis, how I love her!

Ra gazes unseeing out of the
palanquin as the hustle and bustle of city life goes on around him. In an
attempt to clear his head and give him time to work out what to do next, he is
travelling by palanquin from the Servilli back to the Temple of Isis.
It’s no use,
he thinks.
I just can’t think straight. Maybe there’s
nothing I can do. Maybe Alfreda really is lost to me! But no! I can’t believe
that!

A familiar laugh catches his
attention and he looks to see his centurion friend, Lucius, emerging from a
nearby tavern, a large woman hanging off his arm.

“Come on, gorgeous!” he says, his
voice only slightly slurred. “It’s a bit of a stroll to my place, but you could
do with the exercise.” He laughs loudly and grabs at her ample backside.

“Oh! Lucius!” says the woman, her
voice full of mock indignation, and slaps him on the chest. He staggers
backwards a little, bumping into Ra’s palanquin.

“Whoa! Easy there!” Lucius turns,
still chuckling, and spots Ra. “Juno’s tits!” he says, his smile fading at the
sight of his friend’s miserable features. “What’s up with you, priestess?”

“It’s Alfreda.”

Lucius frowns. “You mean that
gladiator lass? The Briton? What’s up with her?”

“She’s been sold!” says Ra,
almost in tears. “She’s been sold as a bestiarius.”

“Wait a moment, beautiful,” says
Lucius, brushing away his woman. “It’s an old friend of mine”

“She’s going to die for being a
Christian, and I don’t know what to do! I was going to buy her, pay for her
freedom, but now I’m stuck. I want to save her, Lucius! I have to!”

“All right, all right.” Lucius
pats Ra awkwardly on the shoulder with his free hand, not used to this sort of
situation. “So, why don’t you ask your buddy, Caligula, to sort it out? He’s
your man, if anyone can, wouldn’t you say?”

The change in Ra’s demeanor is
almost immediate, as though turning from winter to summer in an instant. “Lucius!
You’re a genius!”

“Well, that goes without saying,
doesn’t it?” He chuckles and squeezes the woman’s backside again for good
measure. “Seems damned obvious to me though, you idiot!”

“So… what’s the form? Should I
just go and ask him?”

Lucius rolls his eyes. “Bloody
hell, have I got to think of everything for you? The usual form is a petition,
all proper and legal, you know. Here, why don’t you use my lawyer, Marcus
Petronius. He’s a dab hand at all that kind of crap. You’ll find him in the
Forum, in front of the statue of Apollo.”

“Thank you, Lucius,” says Ra,
smiling for the first time in days.

“Yeah, yeah. Piss off, then. Me
and…” he turns to the woman. “What’s your name, love?”

She purses her lips, affecting an
offended air. “Marcia.”

“Right.” Lucius turns back to Ra.
“Me and Marcia here’s got some urgent business to attend to, if you know what I
mean.”

~

No more than an hour later, Ra
emerges from the Forum at a run, clutching the petition in his hand. Marcus
Petronius was happy to draw it up, though he was not optimistic about Ra’s chance
of getting Caligula’s permission.

“He’s an exceptionally
unpredictable young man, our emperor,” he said as he put the finishing touches
on the document. “Who knows how he will react to the idea of freeing a slave
who has refused to acknowledge his divinity. If I were
your
lawyer, I would counsel you against presenting this up at the
palace.”

But Ra had not been interested in
this advice and when the petition was complete, he practically snatched it from
the lawyer’s hand, dropped twice the amount of money he’d requested and hurried
away as fast as he could, desperate to reach Caligula before something terrible
happened to Alfreda.

Leaning against the wall of the
palace entrance and clutching at his chest, Ra tries desperately to catch his
breath. As he attempts to steady the hammering of his heart, he considers the
foolishness of running such a distance. After all, priests are not known for
their athletic pursuits and Ra cannot remember having so much exercise since he
was a child!

I feel like I’m going to be sick,
he
thinks, wiping the sweat from his brow.
My
poor heart! What was I thinking? This is all some strange madness, but I have
to see the emperor. I have to save Alfreda from being torn apart in the arena.

He stands up, his heart beginning
to still, and walks stiffly into the palace. After a short distance he is
stopped by a member of the Praetorian Guard, the soldiers who are responsible
for the emperor’s safety.

“What do you want, priest?” he asks
with a sneer. “There aren’t any parties here tonight.”

Ignoring this, Ra pulls a scroll
from his robe. Holding it up he says, “I have a petition and request an
audience with the emperor. It is a matter of life and death!”

“Is it really?” the guard makes
no move to pass on this request, but begins instead to pick his teeth. “Sounds
expensive,” he says eventually.

With a sigh, Ra reaches down and
produces a number of small coins from his purse.

“An urgent message, I see!” says
the guard, plucking the coins from Ra’s hand with practiced ease and snatching
the scroll as well. “Wait here.”

As the guard leaves to pass on
the request to the emperor’s secretary, Ra paces up and down the atrium
impatiently.

Alfreda, my love. What have you
done? Why in the name of Isis did you get yourself mixed up with this crazy
sect? I’m going mad with worry. And yet surely Caligula will grant you mercy.

Ra thinks back to the first time
he met the emperor. Only two years previously Drusilla, Caligula’s beloved
sister, had caught some unknown sickness and died soon after. And then the
young emperor had also fallen sick with the same symptoms. Finally, one
afternoon when everyone thought that he was surely about to die, Caligula, in a
brief moment of consciousness, called for the best of the priests of Isis to be
brought to him. The emperor had encountered the magic of the Isis worshippers
with his father on one of his voyages to Egypt and had been greatly impressed.
And so a short while later, Ra had been brought to the palace. Caligula was
terribly weak by this stage, but Ra had used all his skills and wisdom, calling
on the goddess to restore the young emperor to health. Within days, Caligula
was well again.

Surely the emperor has not forgotten what I did for him. Surely he
will grant mercy for my Alfreda. Surely!

And yet Ra has also heard that,
since the young emperor returned to physical health, his sanity seems to have
deteriorated. Where before Caligula’s reign was good for the empire
—
he undertook great public and political reform, giving aid to the
poor and abolishing certain taxes, restoring democratic elections and importing
religions and practices from other countries
—
now he is
known to be increasingly unpredictable and malicious. Considering what the
emperor has been through, losing both his parents, his beloved brothers and
finally his darling Drusilla, it is no surprise that he has changed, and Ra
realizes he is taking a great risk in coming here.

~

But what else can I do?
Ra asks
himself, knowing he has no other answer.
I
want to save her, no matter what the cost! After all, what is my life without
her but darkness and misery?

After what seems like an
eternity, and just as he is beginning to despair of ever getting to see the
emperor, the guard appears, walking slowly back to take up his position at the
entrance. Ra looks at him as he stands, picking at his teeth again.

“Well?” says Ra pointedly.

“Oh,” the guard glances at the
priest as though he has forgotten all about him, “I’d forgotten all about you.”

Ra’s fists clench angrily at his
sides. “Can I go in now?”

“What? Yeah, sure. Off you go.” The
guard waves him through before looking away disinterestedly.

“Thanks,” says Ra through gritted
teeth. As he sweeps angrily past, he looks up at the guard to see he is trying
hard not laugh. Furious, Ra strides away towards the emperor’s ante chamber.

“Go straight through,” says one
of the imperial staff, seated behind a large desk, “It is unwise to keep him
waiting.”

Me keep him waiting?
Ra thinks
irritably, and takes a few deep breaths before opening the door and slipping
through.

Ra has never been in the throne
room before and is immediately struck by the garish opulence of the place.
Every surface—floor, walls, ceiling and doors—is coated in gold
leaf, and reflects the light of dozens of candles, dazzling the priest. The
furniture in the room is made up of ornately carved chests of drawers and
shelves, but the only chair in the room is the golden throne occupied by
Caligula himself. As usual, the emperor is wearing robes of the finest purple
cloth, a wreath of golden oak leaves sitting slightly lopsidedly on his brow.
To either side of the throne, a Praetorian Guard stands, each with a hand on
the hilt of his sword in case of any suggestion that the emperor’s safety is
jeopardized. A short distance away stands one of the emperor’s secretaries,
poised ready to carry out whatever task Caligula calls on him to perform. Ra
notices that the secretary is holding the scroll he brought with him, the
petition for Alfreda’s life to be spared and for her to be freed into the
priest’s care.

“Come,” says Caligula, beckoning
Ra to approach. “I am told you have a request.”

“O, Caesar!” Ra hurries forwards,
dropping to his knees before the throne. “I do have a request, Divine Augustus,
a request for mercy. Mercy for a slave woman who is being sent to her death, to
be torn apart by beasts in the. . .”

“What woman is this?” Caligula’s
cold, high-pitched voice cut across Ra’s pleading.

“You have seen her, Caesar. The
charioteer who won the first race of the games.”

The emperor leans forward and grips
Ra’s chin, turning his face up to look at his own. “The Briton is it? The one
you threw the rose to?”

“Yes, Caesar. The Briton.”

“And now she is to be thrown to
the beasts?” Caligula frowns, clearly unaware of what has happened. “What has
this woman done that has so altered her fate?”

“She…she has joined the
Christians, Caesar.” Caligula releases Ra’s chin, drawing his hand back as
though he has been bitten. The suddenness of the movement causes the
Praetorians to half draw their swords from their scabbards and the rasping of
the metal causes Ra to look up in fear. “Please, Divine Augustus, I beg of you,
in the name your beloved sister, Drusilla, please have mercy.” He grasps the
folds of the emperor’s robe.

“How dare you, you worm!”
Caligula shouts, snatching cloth from the priest’s hands. “Guards!”

Ra closes his eyes, dreading the
cold steal that must surely be about to end his life. But before the
Praetorians can react, the secretary hurries forwards and whispers urgently
into the emperor’s ear. As he does so Ra opens his eyes and finds himself
staring at Caligula’s legs, left bare as the emperor still holds his robe out
of the priest’s reach. Ra is surprised to see the emperor is not wearing any
shoes and also at how incredibly hairy his legs are.

“She what?!” Caligula’s
half-shout, half-scream cuts through Ra’s thoughts and he looks up at the
emperor’s face, which is red with fury. In turn Caligula stares down at the
priest with a piercing gaze, and for the first time Ra notices the large black
rings around his eyes, the sign of many sleepless nights. And the eyes
themselves… as Ra looks into those eyes, he realizes that the emperor truly is
insane.

“The woman,” says Caligula, his
voice full of scorn, “this Briton filth refuses to worship me? Me? But I am
Caesar! Caesar, do you hear?”

The room seems to hold its
breath, terrified by the emperor’s fury. It would not be unlike him to have
everyone in the vicinity put to the sword if his rage got the better of him,
and Ra glances up to see large beads of sweat running down the massive neck of
one of the Praetorians, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as though trying
to escape.

And then Caligula laughs,
suddenly, high and piercing. It is the laugh of a madman, a man who has lost
all touch with sanity and the real world. It is a laugh that chills Ra to the
bone, seeming to freeze the blood in his veins, and he closes his eyes again in
dread of what must inevitably come.

“And perhaps she is right!” says
Caligula, in a cold voice. He snaps his fingers and, as Ra opens his eyes and
looks up, the emperor snatches the scroll from the secretary. “Bring me my
seal, Felix.”

The secretary hurries to one of
the beautifully carved desks and takes from it a candle and a seal ring which
he hands over to the emperor. Without even bothering to read the petition,
Caligula drips wax onto the parchment and presses the wax with his seal ring.