The Tea Machine (18 page)

“That’s the Basilica Valeria.” Cassian pointed to the dome. “Come, you can see it better from the south side,” he said, and together they wove through the spice stalls and out from under the colonnade and into the full heat of the day.

Millicent regretted they had not come across a parasol stall, she knew they were definitely a Roman commodity. Every lady in any era had fought the same battle with the sun, and she would have loved the relief of shade right now.

“We are now on the via Phocas.” Cassian continued his tour. “To the left, a few streets down, flows the Tiber, and beyond that, you can see the Quirinal Hill and the top few tiers of the Belly.”

The Belly? What a curious name. She had not heard of that particular piece of ancient architecture, perhaps it belonged to this world only? There must be many such buildings. He led her into a narrow street, hemmed in on all sides by tall tenements so that the strong afternoon sun thankfully became no more than an oblong on the cobblestones. She was fascinated with the architecture and the atmosphere of the city. The street names sounded so exotic, and she was overawed to see famous buildings in all their finery that in her time were nothing but ruins. The Coliseum! The Trajan baths! She was swept along at his side mesmerized.

“If you look to the right, you can just about make out the highest part of the temple Castores,” Cassian said. The Temple of Castor and Pollox? Oh, she could barely believe it.

“And if we go down here,” he pointed towards a wide street, “we will see the High Tea Temple of Rome across from Fruit Scone Square.” He finished his tour with a flourish.

Millicent stumbled.

“Excuse me? Did you say fruit scone?” she asked.

“Yes. I—Careful.” He pulled her to the side as a small steam powered engine chugged past them. Its rattling wooden wheels dipped and swayed over the cobbles. It was a squat, square machine in dull bronze with a plank bench seat. Several men in shining breastplates and crested helmets sat perched on top. Behind them, tethered to the rear of the machine, came a string of wretched men and women blinking teary-eyed in the smoke belching directly into their faces. There was no breeze in this narrow street to blow the fug away; it hung directly over them as they wheezed and gagged for fresh air.

“Those are soldiers?” she asked about the men in armour sitting on the machine.

“Arena guards. That’s why they’re so shiny. It’s not as if they fight.” There was derision in his voice. “They’re talking prisoners to the circus for the games.” He brightened up at that.

“Oh.” Millicent had a good idea what that meant. These poor people were to be fodder for the bloodthirsty gladiator games. She looked away. She had neither the heart nor stomach to witness the sad and scraggly procession. Rome was rapidly losing its fascination. In this timeline, and with this rate of industrial expansion, it was easy to see how Sangfroid and Gallo came to be in the outreaches of space a few thousand years later. And with the vicious things she’d seen—the slave child’s twisted hands, the monster monkey, and now these felons led away to be massacred for sport—she understood how thin the veneer of technical sophistication actually was. The smallest scratch, and the brutality of a callous, ravenous, war machine oozed out. This was what Weena had meant when she warned Hubert about planet Rome’s skewed evolution. This Rome carried its immorality and monstrosity before it like an Aquila. It had advanced all right, but out of balance and harmony with true time. The pugnacious, brutal mindset of one nation, combined with unprecedented industrial advancement, had empowered an entire world towards universal dominance. And it had managed it all through timeline chicanery, making huge technological leaps while the morals and social conscience of the Roman race had failed to develop in tandem.

“Come away.” Cassian guided her around a corner. “Prisoners are diseased. It’s best not to breathe the same air,” he said. “Ah. Here we are.”

They stood in a small square. Sunlight washed over the warm sandstone brick of a trim and tidy building. It was one storey high but looked taller due to its elevation. Several granite steps lead up to a marble portico, and on each step sat large urns filled with brightly flowering plants. It was a soft, feminine building. Beguiling in its simplicity and artful decoration. The square before it was clean, sun-filled, and airy. Curiously, a few goats with tinkling bells wandered wherever they liked. Millicent wondered if they were destined for some sort of pagan ritual or other, but didn’t want to dwell on it. Braziers filled the air with apple-wood smoke. There were a few stalls selling baked goods. Hence the name, Millicent thought, spying scones and breads of all shapes and flavours.

The square was far from crowded. An old woman, bent double with age, idly swept at the cobbles with a large, twig broom. The stall holders here differed from those Millicent had seen previously, in that they were all young, pretty women. They wore long white tunics that flowed down to delicate sandals decorated with seed pearls and brightly coloured gemstones. As she approached, she was astonished to see that, under their outer dress, the young women wore what looked to be an attempt at a bustle and petticoats. Surely that was not correct for the period? This anomaly satisfied her that there was a connection to her timeline and this version of Rome. There was now no doubt. There had been tampering!

“Would you like a fruit scone as an offering?” Cassian, as ever, crowded in at her elbow. “Or maybe a sponge finger?”

“No, thank you.” The cakes did not look particularly appealing up close.

“Of course not, silly me.” He rushed to apologize. “You are an urn, after all. You should offer up tea leaves, not baked products.”

Millicent would have loved to question Cassian on this urn business, but her unease around him caused her to hold her tongue. They were mounting the steps to the temple, and she decided to wait and hope things would become clearer to her once she was actually in the building. Part of her also hoped, on a vague, illogical level, that she would find Sophia safely ensconced within and most probably responsible for all this nonsense. There were too many coincidences with home. The signs were everywhere—tea, baked goods, and petticoats. Three things Sophia adored.

Millicent had reached for Sophia and grabbed her even as her body dematerialized in the time machine and had been pulled into the vortex after her. If they had travelled to the same place, it made sense that Sophia had arrived slightly ahead of her. But surely only by days, or weeks. How had she had the time to set up a lunatic religion? It didn’t help that Millicent had no notion of how they were to return to their own time. Hubert had always organized their return trips. If she dwelt on it too long, she became almost incapacitated with worry.

She was relieved to step out of the blazing sun and into the shade of the temple doorway. The atrium was a cool airy room, heavily marbled, and contrasted beautifully with the hot, dusty sandstone of the exterior. A large domed ceiling helped circulate the cooler air. It was so high that doves flew in and around the blue-eyed oculus that opened up to the heavens beyond. The clear blue of the Roman sky contrasted beautifully with the delicate ceilings, painted to resemble the inside of shimmering seashells. It was a gorgeous effect that took her breath away.

“Cassian Atticus.” A voice rang out, none too welcoming. He stooped into a low bow before the woman rapidly approaching. She was a wide lady in a long and voluminous toga, complete with a bustle that only exaggerated her size. However, she moved lightly enough on her feet to appear before them almost immediately. “I am surprised to see you here so soon after your last visit.” She spoke to reprimand, and Cassian squirmed like a guilty schoolboy.

“Best wishes, my lady. I found this young devotee lost on the streets and thought it best to return her,” he said. The matron turned her attention to Millicent. She had a broad, flat face, all dull edges and blunt features. Her hair, dyed a harsh and unnatural red, was piled into ludicrous twists and rolls that did not compliment her in any way. For all the dullness of her features, the lady’s eyes were as sharp as knives and just as steely.

“I don’t recognize her,” she said, looking Millicent up and down. “But we have new girls arriving from the provinces all the time.” She seemed unimpressed with the provincial specimen she was looking at.

Millicent did not trust the obsequious change in Cassian’s manner. Nor did she like the way she was being discussed, as if she were a bartered object. She levelled her gaze with the matron.

“Excuse me,” she said in her most frosty, formal voice, “but I don’t believe we have been introduced. I am Miss Millicent Aberly.”

The matron gawped at her with an expression of shock that very quickly turned to red faced anger. Without warning she slapped Millicent across the face. The crack of her hand against pliant flesh startled a dozen doves into flight. Cassian twitched involuntarily, and Millicent was vaguely aware of his struggle to keep composed as she collapsed on the beautiful marbled floor.

CHAPTER 18

“Not another friggin’ coal hole.”
Gallo swore into the gloom. She lay curled in a corner as if tossed there by some great force. Slowly, she unfurled her long limbs and sat up. Nothing was broken, but everything felt bruised and aching, and her head banged like a war drum. She groaned in protest. This was exactly how she’d felt the last time she’d been sucked from reality and dumped in a black pit. She wondered if she really had died this time and made it to Tartarus.

It was so damned hard to tell these days.

Somewhere to her right, she could make out the faint glow of smouldering embers. It was a small, inconsequential light but enough to throw elongated shadows; much to Gallo’s dismay, the shadows began to seethe and crawl. They flickered across the walls and ceiling, creeping slowly towards her, stick-like and eerie, hemming her into the corner. She slithered back until the rough stone bit into her shoulders. Her knife was not in her boot, and she vaguely remembered leaving it by the couch when Sophia fainted. Now she cursed her carelessness.
Okay, bare knuckles it is.
She lurched to her feet, hunched in a boxer’s stance. It was a crazy way to face demons, but Gallo was out of options. All she knew was she was a legionnaire, and she had promised her dear old mother she would die on her feet.

The glow in the far corner flared, then blazed up into a good sized fire. It threw out heat and enough light to see clearly. Gallo found she was surrounded and, to her consternation, dwarfed by several warriors of the Amazon nation. Her shoulders relaxed.
I must be dead and on the Elysian fields. Score me!
She was on the field of warriors with the Amazons. She had finally arrived at her happy-ever-after, eternal resting place.

Oof! A punch to the stomach doubled her over.

“Spying scum! How long have you been hiding here?” The nearest Amazon kicked at the hamstrings of her left leg. Gallo fell to the ground, and a foot pressed down on her windpipe.

“Speak, or I’ll crack your neck like a dung beetle.” Extra pressure was applied, and Gallo’s eyes bulged. She spluttered weakly, and the pressure eased enough to allow her to swallow.

“I just got here.” She gasped. The pressure was mercilessly reapplied to her throat, then eased off. “I’m not spying,” Gallo said, before she was silenced again. One of the warrior women leaned over and glared directly into her face.

“Explain,” she said. She was the boss. A quick nod from her and the boot was withdrawn.

“The goddess Looselea brought me here.” Gallo coughed. It wasn’t
that
much of a lie. There was certainly some correlation between Sophia and the goddess, and touching Sophia in that infernal machine had somehow catapulted her into this mess. Ergo, she was on a godly mission. She’d love to know exactly where she was. She worried that Sophia might be in similar trouble. After all, the Amazons were vicious, tree hugging bastards.

“Looselea?” At least the lead warrior recognized the name. “She’s not one of our goddesses,” she said dismissively.

“Well, she’s one of mine. And she sent me here.” This was another half truth and was received with a frown.

“She definitely wasn’t in here before.” An Amazon warrior spoke up. “We checked out the cell when we arrived, and she wasn’t here. And there’s nowhere she could hide, tiny as she is.”

Gallo bristled, but she could feel a general assent among the group. She had not been here before. Ergo, she had just arrived. Ergo, she was not a spy. And ergo, she was a bleedin’ divine messenger.

Get with the cosmic order, sisters. My gods are better than your squirrely, tree hopping ones.

Relief ran through her. She might get away with this. An act of divinity was a hard sell, especially to hard-nosed heathens such as these. At least she had them thinking about it. It was bad mojo to kill a god’s minion; any god, even one that wasn’t your own.

Cell?
The word pricked into her consciousness. “Did you say we’re in a cell?” she asked. It made sense. There was a rough floor under her back, and what she could make out through the barrier of Amazon legs was enough to tell her this wasn’t another coal hole. Her heart sank. The bellow of an angry bull echoed from some place not too far away. At least that was different. “A cell where?”

“A cell in the Belly.” The lead warrior stepped back and allowed Gallo get to her feet. “So, messenger of a goddess we don’t believe in, why are you here? What brings you to the Belly of the Beast? Come to save us?” There was a sneer on her lips.

“Who is the Beast?” Gallo asked, though the churning in her stomach already told her. The Belly of the Beast was the nickname for the most bloodthirsty gladiatorial arena in all of Rome’s long history. The Beast was always the current Emperor in his sporting guise. It was his prerogative to wear the golden lion’s mask at the celebratory games. But the one, true, most monstrous Beast, was the man who had built the Belly arena in the first place; the Emperor who had created the bloodthirsty games for his own glory. He’d been the most callous and vicious of all Rome’s early Emperors. In Gallo’s own timeline, his name acted as a curse for the clean living and an oath for the debased. He was worshiped by secret cults who gathered in dark temples on stark, lonely hillsides, or in the heart of deep, damp forests.

“What rock do you live under not to know that Severus ex Machina is the Beast of Rome,” the Amazon said, amused at Gallo’s question.

Gee, of course it is.
She had guessed right. She had landed in the depravity of Rome’s darkest age, governed by its cruellest ruler. She was indeed in the coal hole of Hell. “Oh, shit,” she said.

“Easy to smell when you’re neck deep in it.”

“Why are we in the cells?” Gallo asked.

“A messenger of the gods who doesn’t know where she is or why she has been sent? We are lucky, indeed,” the Amazon leader said. Behind her, the warriors laughed. She stepped back and gave Gallo a rude, once-over glance, before saying, “I am Alkaia of Thermodon.” She drew herself up, dark and proud, to her full, impressive height, and glared at Gallo with shrewd, narrowed eyes.

“Gallo of…of the Prussian Dragoons.” Gallo played it canny. Common sense said it would not be wise to be an Imperial soldier in a cell full of the Empire’s prisoners. If she’d had to use a fake identity for Londinium, then maybe it would be smart to use it here, too. Until she was back in her own time, she would follow Sangfroid’s advice. And if she ever caught up with her again, she would break both her legs and wrap them around her neck like a snood. Decanus or no, she was one pig-swilling turd of Circe. Gallo was not sure how or why any this had happened, but she knew it was somehow Sangfroid’s fault.

“I haven’t heard of Prussian Dragoons. But you are a warrior? You have the bearing of a warrior,” Alkaia said. Gallo took it as a peace offering.

“Yes. And you are Amazons.” Gallo tried to dampen the natural awe she held for them, but the wry smile she received showed she was unsuccessful. A shift ran through the throng surrounding her; the body language relaxed, and she realized they had accepted her quietly spoken respect and were pleased. Initial antagonisms had been dispelled with a few careful words.

“Eat with us,” Alkaia said. “Hipp is a good cook, even with the meagre provisions we’ve been given.”

A younger woman tended a pot hung over the fire pit. She smiled at Gallo and nodded for her to sit. Gallo counted six Amazons in all, crowded cross-legged around the cook pot, passing around an apple-wood pipe filled with a crude dung tobacco.

“So why you are in a cell in the Belly? Are you prisoners?” Gallo asked Alkaia. She took a lung-churning toke from the pipe. It hurt her throat more than the boot stomping had. She choked down a cough and tried to look composed.

“We’re here for Severus’s annual games to the glory of his own sweet ass. Every nation has to send gladiators as an act of allegiance,” Alkaia said.

Outside their cell, the corridor shook with the howl and snap of the pit animals and yells of their keepers. Gallo tried to ignore it just as her companions did. They calmly puffed on the pipe and stared at the flames, talking softly as the stew bubbled. Someone handed her a cup of ale. It eased the ache in her throat, and finally she let herself relax, confident that she may not be among new friends, but at least they weren’t going to gut her anytime soon.

“But the Amazon nation was not part of Severus’s Empire? I mean
is
not part of his Empire,” Gallo said.

“All nations send warriors to the games, unless you want Severus and his army knocking on your door.” Hipp snorted and threw more herbs into the pot.

“It’s a token,” Alkaia explained. “It keeps the peace with a man who does not like peace. And manages to push an Empire spinning out of control away from our borders.”

Hipp splashed stew into coarse wooden bowls and handed the first one to her leader, and the second to their guest. Gallo accepted it, grateful for the gesture. These women had little enough to share.

“Eat and be eaten.” Hipp laughed as she served them all.

“To a death well met,” the others chorused back and slapped cups of weak ale together in a joking toast.

“You fight tomorrow?” Gallo asked and supped from her stew bowl. The first mouthful was rich and strong and she could feel it doing her bones good.

“We fight tomorrow, messenger. I believe you are a sign after all,” Alkaia said, watching Gallo carefully over the rim of her bowl. “I think tomorrow you will work the magic you were sent to do, and make sure we die honourably.”

“It is Severus’s way to try and shame our nation,” another warrior called Toxis explained. “Every year he orders bigger and better games, and the games master devises more macabre ways for us to fight, but we are never cowed. We fight hard and die bravely. The Amazons will never die easy.”

“They treat the tribute fighters like toys. They delight in destroying us,” Alkaia said. “And as we are a strong, masterful nation of women, they are especially vindictive towards us. We fight hard to uphold the honour of our nation. The longer we can survive in the arena, the better for Thermodon.”

“If the contestants die too quickly or fight poorly, then Severus takes it as an insult and annihilates their homeland. Genocide is nothing to him. He boasts of it as a cleansing. To prove worthy of existence each nation must send the best warriors it can,” Toxis said.

Gallo’s appetite was lessening. She had no magic to combat this. Looselea was no longer a talisman on a cord around her neck. She had become Sophia, a silly, sweet woman, and Gallo worried for her. What part of this ancient world was she in? She could be in the next cell for all Gallo knew, or a thousand miles away. What if she had landed in the sea, or a volcano? It was funny how, in the middle of this madness, her first priority was Sophia. The only option was to get out of this cell, search for Sophia and the others, and hope that somewhere out there they were looking for her, too.

“Where are your weapons?” She could see none in the cell.

“They were confiscated. We get them back before we go into the arena. Until then, we are treated like this. All the tribute fighters are herded down here with the animals. It’s a psychological test, but we are strong up here, too.” Alkaia tapped her temple with a forefinger and winked. Considering they faced a death match in the morning, Gallo found her companions very upbeat.

“Has anyone ever won and walked away?” Gallo asked out of interest.

“It’s a rare as a red moon. The odds are stacked against you.”

“But it
is
possible to fight and go on to live a long and happy life?” she persisted.

Alkaia shrugged, and the other Amazons looked at each other. “That’s a bit of a radical theory,” Toxis finally said. “Is that your divine plan?”

“I don’t have a plan. I’ll fight and see what happens.” Gallo raised her bowl to salute to her new comrades. She was here, and she was required to fight, and that was all she had ever done. If she won, she would go free, and if she died honourably, then that would be good, too. Gallo had always expected to have a shorter life than normal. All legionnaires did. She had lived well and had no regrets except one, and it shadowed her heart. For one magical moment, she had met a woman who transcended all others and then lost her almost immediately to another, darker magic. She would get Sophia back. She would save her. She had no idea how, but she vowed it to herself.

“Tomorrow we die.” Alkaia cracked her bowl against Gallo’s. And for Gallo that was a right and natural salute. She would die. But only if she had to.

“With honour!” The Amazons roared, and Gallo’s voice roared with them. And along the corridor, strange and dangerous creatures roared back.