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The Sibyl's Urn, or: Destination--Ancient Rome [MultiFormat]
eBook by John T. Cullen
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eBook Category: Fantasy/Historical Fiction
eBook Description:  Historical Fantasy--An unprecedented journey back in time to several amazing time periods in ancient Rome's long history. This is a delicious romp for readers who seek a chewy read with lots of historical detail and linguistic asides. Originally intended as a tour guide (which, totally rewritten as a new book, became John T. Cullen's "A Walk in Ancient Rome"--iBooks/Simon & Schuster, May 2005), this is a rare work of fiction written in the second person (the 'you' who accompanies Professor Darwin and his ravishingly beautiful, mysterious assistant Amalthea). You'll walk the streets of Rome during the reigns of the bad emperor Carinus and the 'good' emperor Constantine. Because of a slight mixup with an evil police inspector on the take, you'll make an unscheduled run through the days just before the founding of Rome around 750 B.C. This novel/tour guide starts with a time travel quest to find a Sibyl's lost scroll, and becomes a romp with danger, death, and awe. You'll learn a lot along the way--you, the hero or heroine of this novel.
eBook Publisher: Clocktower Books and Far Sector SFFH (magazine), Published: Clocktower Books, 2005
Fictionwise Release Date: August 2005
21 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [379 KB]
, ePub (EPUB) [385 KB]
, Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [331 KB]
, Portable Document Format (PDF) [1.3 MB]
, Palm Doc (PDB) [384 KB]
, Microsoft Reader (LIT) [318 KB]
, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [373 KB]
, hiebook (KML) [784 KB]
, Sony Reader (LRF) [446 KB]
, iSilo (PDB) [320 KB]
, Mobipocket (PRC) [391 KB]
, Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [444 KB]
, OEBFF Format (IMP) [485 KB]
Words: 111243
Reading time: 317-444 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Portable Document Format (PDF) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
 
i.Who am I? It's not important, but I am a little garden genius, and I've been around since ancient Roman times. I'm at least 3,000 years old, but I don't know how to count, so I have no idea if that's a long time. I do know there was a library slave named Marcellus, who was young and had a good sense of humor, and his boss, a sour-egg named Polybius, who was in charge of all the libri and used to yell at Marcellus. Then there were all the little child slaves, who were fun to play with in the garden until they had to go eat lunch or grew up, but always new children came and we had a good time until the barbarians came, killed our Lord Ulpian and sold his family into foreign lands, burned the library and all the books--and then for a long time the garden was all choked up with weeds with nothing in it but spiders and garden snakes. And now here we are (is this your garden or mine, fat-head?) and I'm ready to drive you nuts. I wish the word "genius" did mean I'm very smart, but I'm just your garden variety spirit who likes to drop a bee in your drink or spray the hose on your behind when you bend over to pick a weed. That's right, genius simply means spirit, and the very, very ancient Romans were a lot like the Shinto Japanese. That's before all those fancy gods and their poems arrived from Greece. I liked it better the older way, because it was fun. No pomp, no guilt, no yelling. What's the point? For people who live such short lives, you sure do make a lot of noise about nothing. I'll be around long after you're gone, and I'll be driving your descendants crazy long after you are in the closet with the wax masks of your ancestors--frowning, of course. What else do you do? Humans always make everything so miserable. The ancients had the house spirits too, the penates. That's from penus, which (ya ya! Doesn't mean what you think! Ya ya!) means 'cupboard.' All through ancient times, the Latins had their cupboard gods, who drove them nuts indoors like I did them in the garden. Before all those ridiculous Olympian gods came along, we were there, the nameless spirits--good and evil, laughing or scary--the lares and the penates, the genii of the doorways and the windows and the crossroads. The ancient Romans were a somber lot anyway, lighting candles and celebrating the spirits of the crossroads at night, as the modern Italians still do when nobody is looking. The Romans always threw a crust in the fireplace when they ate, to keep the cupboard gods happy. A pinch of salt over one shoulder kept the numina away. They kept death masks of their ancestors in a shrine in the entrance hall to scare everyone--even me. I never went indoors because of it. Speaking of Janus, you may know him as the god of doorways, and there are lots of stories about him from later, but the earlier stories have him as a her--that's Jana, who is related to Diana, who is a friend of forest animals and virgins, and kills (I mean mutilates and tears apart in a rage!) the occasional hunter who happens to see her naked when she bathes in a pool. Then, later, her clone morphs into a he-god in charge of such things as the departure of the old year and the arrival of the new; you can picture me hiding by the doorstep as the old grouch shuffles off in his black cloak and pointy slippers, with a hat pulled down low, and just as I think he's gone, I come out--and there he is, grinning at me from that other face on the back of his head. I nearly wet my nimbus in sheer fright! As you may have guessed, I'm a bit scrambled in the head, but I know how to enjoy myself. The ancient Romans had short, miserable lives, but they made the best of things, and I'll bet they laughed just as much as you self-righteous pumpkin-heads, and maybe more so. Ha! Oh, you'll never catch me, but you might as well believe in me. You can hear me laughing when I make you step in dog poop or make you trip over a sacred stone. I like to let the dog out when you think you've latched the screen door, and I giggle when he runs around the yard with you huffing and puffing after him. The more you yell at him, the more he thinks you are playing, and I egg him on. The cat knows I am here, and she and I don't get along too well, but we respect each other. You see, the cat has her genius, and the dog has his. Everyone and everything has its genius, even you, dummy. The ancient Romans are quite misunderstood these days. I don't mean those sour-looking ones in the togas, or the insane emperors whose eyes roll around in their skulls. I mean, those were just a collection of nuts. Their problem is they forgot about me and my kind, as surely as you have. Oh everything is so serious, and you're going to hell if you laugh a little, and you're eaten up with guilt for eating a donut. Get real. Is that living? Want to go back and take a look at how things really were? Forget all the propaganda from those preposterous, self-important puffnoggins who run your world? What have they accomplished, after all? Nothing but war and disaster, children without health care, lots of big fancy cars but nobody is really happy. See what fools you are? Ha ha ha ... no wonder I laugh at you. There! I'm going to put a bean in your cola, and when you suck on the straw, your face will turn purple. Serves you right, you pompous ass. I'm just a little garden spirit, and I'm never going to grow up! Uh-oh. Okay, I admit it, I have a boss too. I actually have too many bosses, and sometimes I run around the yard hiding here and there to escape also. There is the god Robigus (sometimes Robigo, goddess, if whimsy served the moment) a very important deity who prevented crop blight, or too much heat on the maize fields. See how practical it all was, in the days before the Republic or the Empire? There were countless deities, like the Oscan and Sabine tribes' Mamers, guardian of cattle and a good harvest, who eventually morphed into Mavers and later Mars, and became corn-fuzed with the bloody Greek war god Ares, who himself is named after--you guessed it, farmland. Whenever you talk about hectares, that's 100 ares. How that got twisted into "let's go kill our fellow humans" is something only you dopey people can figure out, maybe; or maybe not. Like I said, I can arrange a trip back to Rome for you, so you can see how it really was. You'd like that? Okay, consider it done. Meanwhile, I have to tell you, people were just as confused back then as you are. What's even more hysterical, they were confused about the same things that you are. Yes, scratch your head, you laugh-deprived melancholy horse-face. Do I dare say it? Obmutesce! Stupefacte! Mutissime! In plain Latin: Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Uh-oh! I'm being summoned. That means I have stop sitting here insulting you. Hey, I didn't mean it. Don't rat on me. Listen, I'll spill the beans about the old days. As I said, I'm a little scrambled in the noggin myself, but I'll get help from a few geniuses who are--ha ha ha!--smarter than I am! Soon you will receive a mysterious summons from a dark genius who has a foot in at least three eras of time. He and the beautiful but very strange Amalthea need your help on a mission to ancient times. What you may remember when it's all over, and when you may or may not return, I do not know. But I can say this for sure: you will brush the hinges of history with your finger. If we are destined to meet again, I'll be right here where you left me, under the flower. I'll be the smiling sun on the sundial. I'll be the barking when there is no dog in your yard. I'll be the footsteps in the doorway when you aren't expecting anyone. I'll be the voice you have not heard since your childhood. I have power beyond anything you can imagine, and I can make you laugh or cry as easily as you turn the garden faucet. And don't blame me when things go wrong--after all, ha ha ha!--I'm just a dumb little garden spirit and nobody can catch me. Don't even try, numb-numb. Oops! It's time for me to hide, and time for you to go on your trip. * * * * ii.You almost throw the letter in the trash, but instead some instinct makes you leave it on your kitchen table. It looks like junk mail, until you look closer at the expensive stamps. It is more than just an advertisement for a strange new travel service. It contains a ticket to the past, along with a letter that invites you to become a rare traveler to ancient Rome in her Imperial age. The letter does not explain why you have been chosen, or how you will get there--that will be the job of Professor Luke Darwin. You will walk the streets of the capital of the late Classical World. Their world was so similar to ours, and yet totally different--close enough to reach, but never close enough to touch. Great cities are not just destinations. They are layer cakes of time and culture, of centuries and the generations of humans who lived and passed into the Shades (that's what you become if you are unlucky enough to become one of the unburied dead). Think of it this way: what do you mean by "a trip to New York?" Do you wish to visit the settlement of the Dutch Pietr Stuyvesant in the 1600s, or the genteel though goat-wandered capital of the United States in the late 1700s with its special slave cemeteries, or the smoky, riot-torn Victorian city that New York was during the Civil War, or perhaps the breathtaking Art Deco city of skyscrapers, streamlined aeroplanes, and luxury ocean liners during the 1930s? In barely four centuries, there have been dozens of New Yorks. The history of Rome stretches back many times that far. Rome is a historic supernova whose explosive force is still expanding in your Space Age world today. Her afterglow will dazzle future civilizations long after your age is but a dim memory. Which Rome are you going to visit? Be prepared--this journey will not be easy. You almost forgot the letter, until Professor Darwin calls you late one night, awakening you from a deep sleep (almost like a dream), and you listen drowsily and resistantly. Something--maybe a spirit, a numa, prevents you from simply hanging up. You don't realize it at this moment, but you are already hooked and on your way. He asks--practically demands--that you come along on his great journey. But why? you ask as you become hypnotized and fall under the spell he weaves. Static crackles in your dazed ears like a tiny waterfall, and his words boom faintly through like distant blows heard through water. Because, he starts his explanation, and offers a laundry list of reasons--beginning with the fact that you are an intellectual, and you have a terrific thirst for details, and your relative was his dearest friend during their school days, and your teacher was his teacher, and so on--and ending with because. You listen on the telephone while Professor Darwin speaks from far away and introduces himself as a friend of a long-ago teacher you'd forgotten you had for an obscure language course. Beyond Luke Darwin's words, on his end in modern Rome, you hear the hum of traffic in distant streets, the roar of a bus careening down a narrow street, the clatter of a distant church bell, and the flutter of doves' wings on a sun-tinted cloudy evening sky. He speaks your language well, but with a faint Italian accent. He speaks not only your language, but your dialect and your nuances and your colloquialisms, and his voice is so soft and fatherly that you begin to trust him almost immediately. You are moved when he relates a few personal episodes from long ago at dinner, or a park, or the theater in the university where he taught as a young man. He tells you, plaintively, that it is urgent you join him. He will pay all expenses. You promise to think about it and call him back tomorrow. During the next day, you make a few calls to verify that he is for real. After all, you are a practical person. You believe in the timeless Ronald Reagan maxim of "Trust, but verify." Crede sed verifice. You may learn a little Latin along the way to the Forum. That evening, you sit by the window and think. A light rain falls. This is your here and now. This is the modern world in which you feel at home. You see a glistening wet street, cars parked along the curb, and an electric light half-hidden and cozy among trees. You hear a swish of tires on wet asphalt, the rattle of wind-nudged leaves, the rumble of a distant jet plane. You smell rain, grass, soil, a whiff of exhaust, a momentary hint of cologne as a man in a wide-brimmed hat passes below your window with his hands in his pockets. Savor your world and your time while you can, because soon all this will be merely a memory. During the night, you have a disturbing dream. You are lost in a dark landscape, under dreary skies. The ground constantly quakes underfoot, and only the stone road on which you are walking among pillared ruins is stable. You are afraid to stumble onto either side of the road, where steam issues from volcanic vents while distant volcanoes growl. A strange figure is always following you--a man in a cloak; his features are lost in shadows under a wide-brimmed hat (petasus) with a round crown, and he carries a tall staff. No matter how fast you walk, he always keeps up with you some distance behind. You reach a place indoors where you lie down to sleep, and a beautiful young dark-haired woman with sunglasses on bends over you and strokes your hair. You are afraid, but the man in the wide hat only comes to the door. The woman strokes your hair once or twice more and then leaves with him, smiling broadly. Next morning, after tossing and turning all night, you call Darwin to confirm that you will join him. Professor Darwin e-mails you a short laundry list of places you must visit in modern Rome in order to better understand what you will find in ancient Rome. * * * * iii.Your flight is in a modern, cozy jet that still smells of a good pasta dinner accompanied by robust, dark Chianti, followed by a long, leisurely capuccino coffee. You are excited to see Rome below. She sprawls across the floodplain of the Tiber--in the mouth of modern Lazio (ancient Latium and part of ancient Etruria) surrounded by the mountains that form much of the Italian peninsula. Your cabin attendant is an attractive young woman with long black hair, dark eyes, and a flashing smile. She seems to take a special interest in you. The oddest thing about her: despite the crisp, beautiful uniform, she has donned a pair of really gross, floppy, hairy house slippers of a type commonly seen in Europe, in dark brown and earth color checks, apparently for comfort. One of the flight officers, a dark-haired handsome man in a similar crisp, navy-blue uniform, stops to chat with her a moment. They both look knowingly toward you. He moves on to the cockpit, while she leans close to adjust your pillow. Her large eyes have a knowing, comforting warmth that puts you at ease while she murmurs: "I will be with you the whole way. Is there anything else you need?" You notice her name tag, Amalthea, and forget it as soon as she drifts away to help other passengers. A hundred other things, from a jolt in an air pocket to a spilled creamer, divert your attention. The clouds part as the plane begins its descent. The strange twilight in the passenger cabin brightens. A few last wisps of wet-looking marine layer slide away over the plane's wing surfaces, and the sunlight of Italy gilds the horizon. A dreamy, peaceful light fills the cabin as the attendants clear the last bits of everyone's desserts away. Seatbelts are fastened and the floor tilts noticeably under your feet as the plane begins its descent.
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