by DJ Black
At the time it had caused a small stir in the news and an even bigger one in the historical and archaeological press. The abacus had been found intact within the best-preserved Roman temple Apollo ever discovered. Most of the attention had been given to the golden bowl found with it, but it was the abacus that had fascinated Anne.
The abacus had been overlooked in all the hysteria. One of the archaeologists had claimed that the temple had been buried in an explosion within the temple. Another had claimed that the chemical traces on the bowl pointed to alchemy practices being used by the Romans 1,400 years before they were thought to have been used in medieval Europe. All the press had cared about was the gold.
Anne had cared nothing for this. She had always been obsessed with ancient Rome and the Romans. From the age of eight she had been determined to be a classical scholar and almost 20 years later she had achieved her dream. She could not only read Latin and Greek, as the ancients knew it, but was widely regarded as being an expert of the spoken word. Somehow, it had not been enough. It had not filled the longing. In her childhood she had dreamt of standing outside her own villa or the steps of a temple to watch a triumph of a great general. In her wildest fantasies, she had been the wife of a great Roman leader, or even an empress.
As an adult, the closer she got to the long dead Roman civilisation, the further removed she had felt from it. Sometimes she wept for the lost empire of dust that she would never see. Then she had been given the abacus to study and it had begun.
When it was found, there were two sets of numbers on the ancient counting device. But what did they mean? Was it chance that those numbers had been left in place.
Then one day she wrote them both out for the 100th time and something cold had gripped her heart. She felt as if she stood on an abyss or had finally gone insane with her childish longings.
They were dates. It wasn't obvious because the numbers marked days from the founding of Rome on the Roman calendar, but there was no mistake. The first date coincided with the time the archaeological team believed that the temple had been buried, sometime during the reign of the Emperor Augustus or perhaps a little later. This was unusual, but not in any way miraculous. However the second date was beyond astonishing.
It was the nones of September in the year of the city 2762. Against the modern calendar, it translated to the exact day in 2009 AD that the abacus was found.
She had suddenly become very interested in the so-called explosion that the now discredited archaeologist had said had caused the burial of the temple. She had become even more interested in alchemy and had used her connections to read the secret works of Isaac Newton.
All this had done little for her reputation but she had finally crossed the line when she had stolen the bowl and taken it back to the temple.
Now here she was practicing alchemy and witchcraft in the ruins of a temple to Apollo in northern Italy. She laughed as she wept. She was mad, she knew it. What did she think would happen? What was driving her? Then she poured the mixture into the bowl, put a match to it and stepped back.
"Oh Apollo hear my prayer," she intoned, then she adjusted the abacus so that instead of the second number being an addition, it became a subtraction.
There was nothing but the wind. But then the wind grew stronger and two dust devils began rolling towards her until they merged as one just before her. The air shimmered like water and then she saw it. The land around was still how it had been, a normal view of 21st century Northern Italy. She could even see the mobile telephone mast across the valley. But through the shimmering, she could see another Italian landscape, one with no metalled road or telegraph wires. Then it grew and swallowed her and she was knocked from her feet.
She awoke on the steps of the temple. The air smelt different. She opened one eye, afraid of what she might see, and then she sat up. The temple was intact. It was more ramshackle than she expected, not at all like an artist's impression or a Hollywood movie. What was she thinking? She shook herself and decided to decide nothing. Maybe she was asleep. Be objective, she thought.
The land around her could be the same place but she passed out. Maybe she was moved. She entered the temple and examined it. The murals were worn, but there was a statue of Apollo where the bowl and abacus had been. That made sense. They would have been placed here later. No, don't think about that. Be objective.
Outside she found the road. More of a track, but well maintained. Well if she were still in northern Italy then south would be best, especially if ... but that was impossible. She wondered again if she gone mad.
The countryside was glorious and unspoilt. There was little sign of cultivation, except the road. She walked on for miles, at each step suppressing a nervous panic. Then she saw it. It was unmistakable. It crossed her road at a diagonal. She had seen hundreds of pieces before but never a stretch so complete.
It was a fully formed Roman road with well-set stone cobbles and edged in limestone. Didn't prove anything, anyone could have made it. All two miles or so that she could see, it didn't prove a thing.
She followed the road for a while, mile after mile of it. Each step convincing her she must have finally gone mad. Then the clatter of hooves behind her made her light-headed. She turned and waited.
The rider was lightly clad so that his arms and legs were bare. He had only a short sword and a leather bag. An imperial messenger, she thought, or pretending to be so for the purposes of this hoax.
He didn't stop. That was authentic, she thought. Why would he stop for a lone woman? A while later, after at least another three or four miles of this seemingly authentic road, a cart made its way towards her. Two men drove it and two more sat on the back.
"Good morning," she called in English. She then repeated it in Italian.
One of the men stood and drew a dagger and looked about him nervously. The other was less cautious.
"Salve," he replied.
Latin, she thought. All right I'll play.
"Is there a town up ahead?" she asked in her best Latin.
"Kwa?" It sounded like he said.
"Town?" she asked. No actor would have her knowledge of Latin.
"A town?" he smiled understanding. His accent was strange. The rest of his reply was unintelligible, but she thought he said river.
"Barbarian," the other man spat, pronouncing the word badly, as he sat down and put away his dagger.
The other man shrugged and pushed the cart on. As she watched it go by, she was impressed with the attention to detail. It could almost be real. Then she began to get excited. She looked nervously ahead and began to run, suddenly eager to see what lay ahead.
Finally she could run no more. Her thin simple cotton dress was clinging to her and she could scarce draw the next breath. As she doubled over with a stitch her mind raced.
Then they were all around her.
They spoke strangely, as if in a parody of Latin, but she could not quite get it.
"What's going on?" she asked in English.
They spoke a string of words, but the only one she understood was barbarian, spoken as the first man had said.
"All right what do you want?" she tried again in Latin.
The men laughed. There were six of them and they set to repeating her words in a way that suggested mockery. Then, as near as she could tell, one of them said, "how sweet, she is trying to talk Roman."
Then she saw the slaves enclosed in a large slaver cart. Before she could react, the men grabbed her and without ceremony began to strip her.
"What are you doing?" she wailed in English. Then added, "stop," in Italian.
She was soon naked and had never felt so helpless. She feared the worst, but then one of the men threw a sack-like smock at her and tossed her carelessly into the back of the cart.
The cart stank of faeces, sweat and fear. This was real, she realised. Her Latin was stilted and at best a fair estimate of the ancient language. These men were speaking slang and probably had a provincial accent. It was she who could not speak it, not they. She had done it - she was in the ancient Roman world.
A day later, the reality of her situation began to sink in. One of the other slaves spoke Greek. Not any kind of Greek she was aware of, but after some practise and some effort on her part, she was able to follow the gist of his words.
Because of her height, almost five six, very tall for a woman, and her blonde hair, the slavers had taken her for a German. A German barbarian alone this far from home meant that she was a runaway. Her outburst of English hadn't helped dispel the impression she was sure.
Atrix, as the Greek slave was named, told her that as she was clearly not a citizen and had been found in Roman territory north of the Rubicon, making her fair game to slavers.
"A slave?" she had gasped in English. Then she repeated it in Latin. Atrix nodded.
Well, once she got to Rome she would find someone in authority and explain, she thought. For now, she had to listen to the slavers and try and pick up their language.
It was surprisingly easy to polish her Latin and Greek after a few days on the road. It was a matter of the vowel shift in most cases. The rest was a matter of learning a new vocabulary, since there were clearly street words that had never made the official documents. By the time they reached the Rubicon, she could converse freely in Latin or Greek, although she now knew that she would not pass for a citizen yet awhile.
The Rubicon was no great river, but she stared at it in awe. It was a legend in human history, but since ancient times no one had known where it was.
"Gaius Julius Caesar," she said to Atrix, pronouncing it correctly, pointing to the water.
"Yes, the great man began it all here. You are not so unlearned then?" Atrix agreed. "What were you doing on the road alone?"
"Going to Rome," she said simply.
"Oh you will see Rome all right," he laughed.
Although the rest of her fellow travellers seemed in awe of Rome, Anne had expected something bigger. But nevertheless, the bustle of the streets and multitude of people quashed any lingering doubts that she might have been tricked. She had done it. She had travelled back in time to ancient Rome.
The cart was taken to a large enclosed building, full of cages, where the slavers began yelling and rousting them out of the wagon. While the others hastened to obey, Anne slipped away and made for an old man who at least looked clean compared with the waggoners.
"Excuse me are you in charge?" she asked pleasantly, acutely aware that she was dressed only in a sackcloth mini dress.
"What a bizarre accent you have girl," the man returned. "A provincial no doubt."
"Yes that's right. I think there has been some mistake."
"You talk funny," he chuckled pleasantly.
"Yes. I think we had already agreed that I was a provincial. You see I was..."
"No don't tell me, you were on your way to Rome to visit the Vestals or was it the holy shrine of Romulus? And you were waylaid by bandits and separated from your party?"
"Something like that," she agreed.
Then he scowled angrily.
"Hey Plutos? Where did you take this one?" he called out.
"Runaway. Found her on the north road beyond the Rubicon."
"Beyond? You are certain?"
The man did not reply but pulled an angry face. Then the first man turned back to Anne.
"Even if I believed your story, which I don't, it doesn't matter. Unless you can prove citizenship, a girl alone beyond the city boundary is subject to slavery. If your previous owner doesn't care to brand you, then more fool him."
"But..." Anne started to protest.
Then man seized her sackcloth and ripped it away leaving her naked in the courtyard. Anne gasped and clutched at herself as she tried desperately to cover her nakedness.
"Get her washed, shaved and cropped," the slave master growled to a passing slave, shoving Anne roughly towards him.
The next hour was an experience Anne could never have imagined. There were no leering men, as in a Hollywood sexploitation movie, or even workman-like officials. There were only hands and faces processing cattle.
First she was hosed down by some mechanism she could not discern, then she was locked into a frame with only her head exposed while a man sheared her head like a sheep. Her head was scratched and he even nicked her ear.
"Careful with the merchandise," another man yelled, but that was the only time she was noticed in the production line.
The next men paused in surprise that she was hair-free under her arms, but only for a brief moment. It wasn't unheard of even for a slave. Then she was upended and in a few smooth scrapes, she was denuded of hair below as well.
Then something unpleasant was splashed over her from a bucket and she was again hosed down. Then it got worse. A man grabbed her head in a vice-like grip and forced open her mouth. After examining her teeth, he said something garbled to a scribe who made a note, after which she was again upended and a more intimate inspection was made. She might have screamed at this, but she was still in shock. Then another man placed a stiff wire hoop over her head and threaded a plaque of some kind upon it. It was then drawn tight so that she could not remove it. As she tried to read it, she was handed another sackcloth dress and shoved into another cage. This one contained only women and at least was clean. The plaque had a bear motif with the letters DA. There was also a Roman numeral that read 20,757. She had had such dreams of Rome, her whole life had lead to this and now she was just a number in a cage.
"You are now the property of Drusus Arturius. Until he sells you," the man who locked the door said without malice.
Anne burst into tears.
The next morning the world didn't seem any brighter, but at least the chaos of the day before had abated and the slave compound had become quiet. The only activity to be seen was when a few men entered the compound and began looking the slaves over and making notes on a wax tablet.
One man in particular seemed to take particular care. When he got to Anne's cage, he stopped and turned his nose up.
"Germans I suppose?"
"Mostly, but all of them house trained. From the provinces," the man she had spoken to the day before said. She now knew him to be Drusus Arturius.
He was the kind of man she had once defended in a lecture as being necessary to the Roman economy. She remembered that she had dismissed as sentiment, modern notions about slave traders. Now that she was a slave, she realised that she had never hated anyone so much in her whole life.
"I need house slaves for my mistress," the man continued. "I am only interested in Latin speakers."
"Oh I have just the thing. Last week we had a consignment of Greek peasants. Some of them speak passable Latin, but they all speak Greek, so how hard can it be for them to learn."
Anne was relieved as they moved on.
"Oh there is one here," Drusus Arturius remembered, "She came in yesterday. A German, but almost civilised, speaks Latin after a fashion.
The man turned, his interest piqued. Drusus opened the cage door and dragged Anne out. Although she offered no resistance, she stood scowling at them both.
"I was going to put her on the block, but that won't be until after the games, so if you make me an offer..."
"What's your name, girl?" the customer asked.
He was a tall man compared to many she had seen and cursed with red hair, so he was probably a freedman, Anne concluded.
"Answer Marcus Valerius at once," Drusus snapped.
"Anne," Anne said sullenly.
"What?" Marcus turned to Drusus. "Is that a grunt?"
"My name is Anne Acton sir," she pressed, realising that a one-syllable name was the mark of a barbarian.
"Anaxon. What a strange name. Where are you from?"
Anne realised that Britain was not yet part of the Roman Empire, if this was indeed the reign of August, and claiming to be German would mark her out as a barbarian not to be trusted.
"Helvetica," she fixed on.
"Ah, one of the new tribes." Marcus nodded sagely.
"I speak Greek too," Anne added, having no idea why she wanted to impress this man.
Drusus looked surprised at this.
"Well I don't. And I couldn't care less," Marcus shrugged. "I'll take her, but you can keep the Greek."
This last comment was a clear sign that he did not expect to pay more for her alleged education.
"Very good. I will make the arrangements."
"Mark her up as... what was it? Axon? Axon Cornelia Helvetica."
"If the name displeases you why not give her a slave name?" Drusus suggested.
"We are up to our eyes in the same dozen slave names. No. Slaves work better if you let them keep their own names," Marcus concluded.
Anne was about to protest about her name, but they were no longer listening.
A short while later, Anne, or Axon as they insisted on calling her was given a new sack dress and new plaque was hung about her neck. She was just wondering what was to stop her from removing it if she was so inclined, when a dark memory touched her. The thought had hardly begun to form in her head when she saw the hot iron.
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