chosen something a little more melodic and sophisticated to announce their arrival, but whatever. It was certainly working.
Stilson’s voice came over the comms-channel. ‘Which way is it to the Colosseum?’
Rashim ducked down through the hatchway looking for Dreyfuss. He beckoned him to join him up in the hatchway. Dreyfuss clambered through the press of swaying bodies below, found the ladder and pulled himself up beside Rashim.
He pointed to the MCV ahead of them bobbing softly on its electro-magnetic field in the middle of the now-deserted market square. ‘Stilson wants directions to the Colosseum!’
Dreyfuss shook his head and shouted something back. It was lost amid the din of the pounding music. Rashim picked up a headset hanging on a hook beside him and passed it to the his-torian, gesturing for him to put it on his head.
‘My God!’ Dreyfuss’s tinny voice crackled over the comms-channel a few seconds later. Behind round-framed glasses his eyes widened. ‘My God! This is actually it! This is really Ancient Rome. This is incredible! Look at those wall decals! That graffiti over there! The –’
‘Jeez, who’s that squawking on the channel? That you, Anwar?’
‘No, Mr Stilson,’ answered Rashim. ‘I’ve got Dr Dreyfuss up here with me now.’
He could see Stilson’s head and shoulders ahead of them, turning round to look back at them.
‘Ah, good job. Dreyfuss, tell me which way do we go for the Colosseum?’
‘Uh, Mr Stilson, see … if this
is
in fact AD 37, it won’t have been built yet.’
‘No Colosseum? OK, Dreyfuss, give me somewhere else we can go. Where’s the most public place we can gatecrash?’
‘Well.’ He scratched at his beard like a dog scratching for fleas. He looked at Rashim for inspiration. Rashim shrugged a
you’re-the-expert
at him.
‘Well now, the best place I can suggest … would probably be the Amphitheatrum Statilii Tauri.’
‘Yeah? So where’s that?’
‘It’s in the Campus Martius District.’
They both heard Stilson curse impatiently. ‘Just give me a goddam left, a right or a straight on, OK?’
Dreyfuss pointed towards a broad cobbled thoroughfare branching off from the small square. ‘That road ahead of us, I think. It should take us in a generally south-westerly direction. Which is towards the centre of the city.’
‘Right.’
The MCV in front of them began to slide towards the broadavenue. It was flanked on either side by rows of low shops –
tabernae
– their stone walls painted with a riotous variety of colours and murals, and fronted with awnings and stalls selling all manner of crafted goods.
Rashim watched pale faces looking out at them from the dark
tabernae
interiors. Wide-eyed expressions of terror. He wondered whether that was at the sight of the two large hovering vehicles, or the horrendous, wailing, banshee-like noise they were pumping out.
They proceeded slowly, steadily down the thoroughfare, the buildings on either side becoming brightly painted, two-storey structures of clay brick with uncertain-looking balconies of wood and wicker. He saw heads peeking from behind beaded fabric panels and wooden shutters, abandoned animals braying in the street, a baby left on its back in a doorway, pink fists clenching and unclenching above its squawking face.
They entered a second, larger market square. Rashim watched hundreds of people scatter, clay amphoras of olive oil and wine dropped, shattering and spilling their contents on the ground, chickens skittering nervously between the wooden legs of market stalls and packs of dogs barking a challenge as they back-stepped nervously into open-guttered alleyways.
Dreyfuss was grinning at their surroundings, grinning like a fox in a chicken coop. He instructed Stilson to bear left. ‘That avenue’s the Vicus Patricius, taking us past the Forum Traiani … the Palatinus on the left … the –’
‘We don’t need a history lesson, Dreyfuss,’ Stilson’s voice crackled.
Stilson’s voice came over the comms-channel. ‘Which way is it to the Colosseum?’
Rashim ducked down through the hatchway looking for Dreyfuss. He beckoned him to join him up in the hatchway. Dreyfuss clambered through the press of swaying bodies below, found the ladder and pulled himself up beside Rashim.
He pointed to the MCV ahead of them bobbing softly on its electro-magnetic field in the middle of the now-deserted market square. ‘Stilson wants directions to the Colosseum!’
Dreyfuss shook his head and shouted something back. It was lost amid the din of the pounding music. Rashim picked up a headset hanging on a hook beside him and passed it to the his-torian, gesturing for him to put it on his head.
‘My God!’ Dreyfuss’s tinny voice crackled over the comms-channel a few seconds later. Behind round-framed glasses his eyes widened. ‘My God! This is actually it! This is really Ancient Rome. This is incredible! Look at those wall decals! That graffiti over there! The –’
‘Jeez, who’s that squawking on the channel? That you, Anwar?’
‘No, Mr Stilson,’ answered Rashim. ‘I’ve got Dr Dreyfuss up here with me now.’
He could see Stilson’s head and shoulders ahead of them, turning round to look back at them.
‘Ah, good job. Dreyfuss, tell me which way do we go for the Colosseum?’
‘Uh, Mr Stilson, see … if this
is
in fact AD 37, it won’t have been built yet.’
‘No Colosseum? OK, Dreyfuss, give me somewhere else we can go. Where’s the most public place we can gatecrash?’
‘Well.’ He scratched at his beard like a dog scratching for fleas. He looked at Rashim for inspiration. Rashim shrugged a
you’re-the-expert
at him.
‘Well now, the best place I can suggest … would probably be the Amphitheatrum Statilii Tauri.’
‘Yeah? So where’s that?’
‘It’s in the Campus Martius District.’
They both heard Stilson curse impatiently. ‘Just give me a goddam left, a right or a straight on, OK?’
Dreyfuss pointed towards a broad cobbled thoroughfare branching off from the small square. ‘That road ahead of us, I think. It should take us in a generally south-westerly direction. Which is towards the centre of the city.’
‘Right.’
The MCV in front of them began to slide towards the broadavenue. It was flanked on either side by rows of low shops –
tabernae
– their stone walls painted with a riotous variety of colours and murals, and fronted with awnings and stalls selling all manner of crafted goods.
Rashim watched pale faces looking out at them from the dark
tabernae
interiors. Wide-eyed expressions of terror. He wondered whether that was at the sight of the two large hovering vehicles, or the horrendous, wailing, banshee-like noise they were pumping out.
They proceeded slowly, steadily down the thoroughfare, the buildings on either side becoming brightly painted, two-storey structures of clay brick with uncertain-looking balconies of wood and wicker. He saw heads peeking from behind beaded fabric panels and wooden shutters, abandoned animals braying in the street, a baby left on its back in a doorway, pink fists clenching and unclenching above its squawking face.
They entered a second, larger market square. Rashim watched hundreds of people scatter, clay amphoras of olive oil and wine dropped, shattering and spilling their contents on the ground, chickens skittering nervously between the wooden legs of market stalls and packs of dogs barking a challenge as they back-stepped nervously into open-guttered alleyways.
Dreyfuss was grinning at their surroundings, grinning like a fox in a chicken coop. He instructed Stilson to bear left. ‘That avenue’s the Vicus Patricius, taking us past the Forum Traiani … the Palatinus on the left … the –’
‘We don’t need a history lesson, Dreyfuss,’ Stilson’s voice crackled.
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