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CHAPTER FIVE: VERY BAD DAY—PART ONE.
Over the next few hours, Nigel Bailey became much more familiar with the 'social history of the ancient world’ than even he would have liked. By late morning, he found himself chained to a wooden post in the middle of a busy marketplace, wearing nothing but a very small loin cloth and feeling utterly naked. For sale to the highest bidder, he had been prodded, poked, slapped and generally examined by whatever smelly member of the populace deigned to show interest. Nigel had long since worked out there was little point in protesting, or indeed in saying anything at all. Nobody listened to him, and all questions were fired over his head to the agent in charge of his sale. The said agent was strutting around him with a grin on his face like a large Cheshire cat, but much more sinister. This slave-trader was having a good day; as soon as he’d laid eyes on Nigel, he knew he'd got a money-spinner. Wealthy citizens constantly gathered around, complementing his the seller on Nigel's teeth and other attributes, and generally agreeing that he was a particularly 'fine specimen.’ Looking at the other 'goods' on offer, Nigel could see why he was causing such a fuss. The other slaves looked even more wretched than he felt. They were a lean-looking bunch, with barely an ounce a fat between them, their bones covered by nothing but skin and taut muscle. Their faces were drawn and haggard, even though Nigel guessed that some were several years younger than he was. Early on, Nigel attempted to make eye contact and even offered a friendly greeting to the man nearest to him, but his fellow sufferer ignored him, staring resolutely ahead. The man's face seethed with anger mixed with a sullen resignation. Nigel imagined he had been in this horrible situation before. Feeling less and less a person and more and more like a juicy piece of meat, Nigel attempted to turn his mind to other things. His most pressing thought, of course, was the matter of where Sydney was or, more to the point, how she was. He hated the thought of her being degraded like this, and hoped she had staged a magnificent escape. This glimmer of hope buoyed him up considerably: if Sydney had escaped, surely the first thing she would do would be to find him and rescue him. Surely it was only a matter of time… wasn't it? Nigel was attempting to will these thoughts into reality when, to his consternation, he saw a face in the crowd that he recognized. It was the round, flabby face of a white-haired old man, well known to him but not one he'd seen for a while. Nigel blinked hard. He must be hallucinating: that was Professor Bluthus, who had tutored him in Roman Civilisation at Oxford! The old man looked as shocked as Nigel. He stared at the ‘goods for sale’ in wonder and then started pushing away through marauding masses. Nigel, barely caring whether it was an hallucination or not, called after him in English: ‘Professor Bluthus! It’s me – Nigel Bailey! You taught me at Oxford.’ The man was fast retreating from his vision. ‘Surely you remember me?’ hollered Nigel. ‘You gave me a double first!’ Nobody paid any more attention to him than when he spoke their native tongue, except for the nasty slave trader. He was concerned that this outburst might put off the buyers and gave poor Nigel a nasty slap. Professor Bluthus was no longer anywhere to be seen. ‘Damn,’ thought Nigel, ‘now I’m seeing things.’ He laid his head back against the pillar and shut his eyes. It was time to pretend that this was not happening. After a few minutes, he felt a firm prod on the shoulder that could not be ignored. It was accompanied by a genteel Englishman's voice: ‘Pssssssssssssst! Nigel! Wake up!’ Nigel abruptly opened his eyes. ‘Professor Bluthus! Oh God, am I glad to see you.’ Nigel would have hugged his old Professor if only his hands had not been chained to the post. ‘Sshhhhhhh. Yes. Look, I assume you got here the same way as I did. That godforsaken witch of an undergraduate, eh? I was on a secondment term at an L.A. University when she accosted me.’ ‘She said the last expert she sent was dead…’ ‘Hhhhmmmmmmm,’ rumbled Professor Bluthus, a mannerism that Nigel remembered from when the Oxford Don had taught him years before. ‘She doesn't know everything yet, eh? Anyway, there's no time to talk now. I'm going to buy you, my lad.’ ‘I never thought I'd be pleased to hear anybody say that,’ sighed Nigel. Professor Bluthus trotted off to speak to the slave trader, but came back after a few minutes looking concerned. ‘What is it?’ asked Nigel, more panicky now than earlier when his hopes of freedom had not been raised. ‘It's no good, Nigel,’ lamented Professor Bluthus, ‘I've offered everything I could borrow off my master at such short notice, and it's not enough. There have already been offers for you of nearly a thousand denari. There’s a bidding war going on.’ ‘Your master gave you the money?’ said Nigel incredulously. ‘So you’re a slave as well. Oh, this is just marvellous.’ He laid his head back against the pillar again, looking particulalry non-plussed. Professor Bluthus was slightly hurt: ‘I prefer to think of myself as an ‘old retainer.’ I hold a trusted position in Marcellus Didimus’s household… but that's not the issue now, is it, Nigel? There might just be something we can do.’ ‘What?’ said Nigel urgently. He could now see that the trader was talking to a group of men and women who were eyeing him hungrily and getting out their purses. ‘Cough!’ said Professor Bluthus. ‘Cough?’ ‘Yes. Cough, faint, sneeze - do anything. Just stop looking so damn healthy.’ Nigel caught his gist perfectly. He took a deep breath and started to have a dramatic coughing fit, which culminated in a theatrical groan and an attempt to collapse as far as one could when tied up. It would have been an Oscar-winning performance. The potential buyers looked alarmed and the trader looked very angry. He stormed over and gave Nigel a kick, which was responded to with a pathetic whimper. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ demanded the trader, looking very suspiciously at Professor Bluthus. Professor Bluthus shook his head regretfully. ‘Hhhhhhmmmmmm,’ he rumbled loudly. ‘I think it must be PLAGUE.’ The last word was raised to a shout. The plan worked perfectly. All of the enormous bids were withdrawn almost instantaneously. In the end, the exasperated trader was grateful to accept the fifty denari offered by the Professor just to have Nigel taken off his hands. His convulsive coughing, spluttering, moaning and thrashing around was now putting off the purchasers of the other ‘goods,’ who were concerned he was infectious. ……………. Although still anxious about Sydney, it was a very relieved Nigel Bailey who accompanied his old Professor back to the luscious villa that the academic now called home, telling him about their recent misfortunes upon the way. Bluthus said little, but looked rather mournful. On arrival, he found Nigel some slightly more respectable clothing - a simple, white, knee-length tunic - and settled him down on the floor of his sparsely furnished quarters with some gratefully received lunch. Next, with tears in his eyes, he told Nigel that neither of them could ever go home again. ‘I'm sorry, my lad. It is out of the question. Believe me, every night I weep for the 'dreaming spires' of Oxford and for Jessie and Pat - my dogs, you know - but it's just too risky. The only way we get home is by giving that evil sorceress Hapshuset’s Eye. That can't be done, you know? With the power of the stone and time travel, she could change the course of history.’ Then, rather more cheerfully, he added: ‘Besides, it's wonderful for an old scholar like me to live out my days in a culture I have devoted my life to, finding out exactly what I got wrong! ’ ‘But, Syd - I mean, Professor Fox – she’d think of something,’ pleaded Nigel, trying not to spit out the revolting tasting broth he’d just been spooned into his mouth. ‘I know she would.’ Professor Bluthus raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Hmm. To think that my star pupil ended up with that terrible woman!’ Nigel spluttered out the liquid and nearly dropped his bowl. ‘What on earth do you mean? Sydney is the best. If anybody can get us out of here, she can!’ If this man had not just saved him from a fate worse than death, Nigel would have been even angrier. ‘Please, Nigel. I had no idea you were so attached to her…’ He tried to place his hand upon his ex-student’s shoulder, but Nigel stood up quickly and glared at him. ‘I just can't help thinking that she gave us historians a bad name. There was a time when people presumed we just sat in dusty libraries – as we do! Now they expect us to be able to chase about like Indiana Jones… and then mad women, like this Veronica, come along and expect us to be able to harness the supernatural power of the ancient world for her!’ Nigel wasn't swayed. ‘I'm not sitting around here listening to you abusing Sydney - particularly while she could be in danger…or dead.’ Articulating this last word fired Nigel up even more. ‘I'm grateful for what you've done, but I need to find her.’ Nigel dumped his bowl down on the floor and made for the door. ‘Stop! Stop…Nigel, you're not thinking. You can't just walk out of here. I can make life as comfortable as possible for you - I'm the master’s favourite - but if you leave without permission, you’ll be a runaway slave. They'll catch you and then they'll be nothing I can do to help.’ Nigel halted, covering his genuine alarm with another violent glare. ‘I don't care,’ he rejoindered. ‘I need to find her. And then we fully intend to go home!’ ‘Hhhhmmm,’ rumbled Bluthus. ‘I had no idea you were so headstrong, Nigel. You seemed such a disciplined young man when you were at Oxford.’ ‘It must be a bad habit I learnt from Sydney,’ said Nigel dryly. ‘Look, I don't approve of the reckless attempt that you think your Professor Fox will make to get you back to the 21st Century. However, if you stay with me for just a while you may find it helps you in discovering the relic.’ Nigel narrowed eyes suspiciously. His fondness for his old Professor had evaporated the moment he had denigrated Sydney. Nevertheless, he said: ‘I'm listening.’ ‘I allied myself to Marcellus Didimus because he wanted the same thing as me: for Hapsushet’s Eye to be put safely out of everyone's reach. Originally, Marcellus plotted its disappearance with a merchant called Agroitus Pocculus…’ ‘Agriotus Pocculus, I believe I've met him!’ ‘You have?' Bluthus looked impressed, but continued: 'Marcellus and Agroitus plotted together to get to the Eye away from Caesar. However, Agroitus’ betrayed Marcellus and kept the stone for himself, using it to get promotion to the consul here. I persuaded Marcellus that it was still important that the stone was destroyed and so we followed him up here. Unfortunately, we have had no luck in finding where he keeps it’. ‘I'm sorry. But I don't see how I can help… anyway, we already know that the stone is hidden in the amphitheatre!’ ‘It is?’ said Bluthus. ‘That's more progress than we've had in three months.’ ‘Well, Sydney is the best.’ Even though it was only luck – in the shape of Lydia - which had revealed this information to them, Nigel wasn't missing an opportunity to make this man understand just how wonderful his boss was! ‘Maybe she is,’ said Bluthus. ‘But there is someone under this roof who knows even more than that.’ ‘If you're such a favourite here, why don't you ask them?’ ‘Hhmmmm,’ rumbled Bluthus. 'Because it's Marcellus’ eldest daughter, Anita, and she loathes me - won’t let me in her sight, let alone speak to me! However, she’s wormed her way into Agroitus’ affections. I've seen her flirting with him at the amphitheatre and then slipping away in the dead of night. I suspect she knows about the Eye, and wants the power for herself. One thing’s for certain: her father hasn't got a clue what's going on, and won’t hear a word against her.’ ‘If she won't go near you, why should she speak to me?’ ‘Because you're an attractive young man, that's why! She won’t be able to resist you, slave or not. Get her talking…get her drunk!’ ‘You want me to seduce her?’ asked Nigel incredulously. This was the last plan he'd expected stuffy old Bluthus to come up with. Bluthus winked playfully. ‘Come on, Nigel, you’re a natural, I hear. You left a long trail of broken hearts behind you at Oxford…’ ‘Did I?’ said Nigel, thinking back rapidly. The only heart he remembered getting broken was his own, a good few times. Although, there might have been one or two others… ……………… 'So what exactly as I supposed to do?’ inquired Nigel, as Bluthus handed him some sort of cloth and a large jug of sweet smelling liquid. ‘No student of one of the world's top universities should expect to have everything handed to them on a plate, Nigel,’ said Bluthus pompously. ‘You must learn to think for yourself!’ ‘This isn't an undergraduate history essay,’ retorted Nigel. ‘This is your idea. I’d be out of here, searching for Sydney by now, if you hadn’t persuaded me it might get us somewhere.’ ‘Yes, and with bounty-hungry slave-catchers on your tail, hhhmm?’ rumbled Bluthus. ‘Anyway, it isn't post-structural neo-Marxist theory, is it? Or even paltry rocket science! Just charm the girl… tell her you've got a message from Agroitus or something, just make sure she lets slip where he keeps the relic.’ Nigel looked skeptical, but agreed to try. ‘What are these for?’ he inquired, brandishing the jug and cloth. ‘Use your initiative, my lad!’ barked Bluthus, and then shoved Nigel through an open doorway into a large, marble-pillared saloon and left. Nigel had barely steadied himself from his forced entrance when he heard a scream and cry of ‘Intruder! Somebody help me!’ ‘What now?’ thought Nigel, exasperated, before he was completely arrested by the vista afore him. In the middle of the room was a large sunken bath and in it reclined a beautiful blonde-haired young woman. Her modesty would have been completely uncovered if the liquid in which she was bathing had not been a pale, creamy colour and littered with flower petals. Nigel stared at her, clueless of what to do or say. As the woman stared back at him, her expression changed, from that of horror and disdain, to that of cold curiosity. The deadlock was broken when a round old woman, accompanied by a burly man dressed in a leather smock, came dashing him. As the latter grabbed Nigel by the tunic in order to remove him from the scene, the woman in the bath said: ‘No! Leave it. I think I like it.’ ‘But, Madam,’ said the old woman. ‘I was coming to serve you in the bath…’ ‘Is it the new house slave?’ asked the bathing beauty, pointing at Nigel who was wondering if anybody was ever going to speak to him directly ever again. ‘I think it must be, Madam,’ said the woman. ‘Bluthus got him very cheap, I hear.’ The large man clad in leather released Nigel abruptly and shoved him away. ‘I hope there's nothing wrong with it!’ he bellowed. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me!’ shouted Nigel, his frustration finally boiling over. ‘If any of you had any manners you would have asked me who I am and why I'm here! I do have a tongue, you know? I even have a name. It’s Nigel. ’ The three other occupants of the room looked at him in surprise. After a moment, the man in leather broke the silence. ‘Shall I flog him for his insolence, Madam?’ ‘No, Marcus,’ said the girl thoughtfully. ‘I think I like him. Off with you two… I want him all to myself.’ ‘But, madam...’ started the older woman, but a hand was raised to silence her. ‘No ‘buts’. If he doesn't please me, Marcus can flog him all he likes later. Now off you go.’ Despite the talk of flogging, Nigel was oddly pleased that he had finally been promoted from the station of an ‘it’ to a ‘he.’ He also found himself keen to explain to this pretty girl that, if it hadn't been for extenuating circumstances, he would have been extremely expensive.
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