Out of Time: A story of archaeology... sort of Read online

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  Out of Time

  A story of archaeology...Sort of.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2012 David LaVigne

  v1.0

  Cover Photo © 2011 JupiterImages Corporation. All rights reserved - used with permission.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Outskirts Press, Inc.

  http://www.outskirtspress.com

  Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  All he could see for a few moments was crowds of linen togas, the street was so packed. He had been waiting nearly an hour and as time went by the crowd kept getting larger. And the idle conversation around him was starting to get annoying.

  There were people from all walks of life. There were senators in their fancy white togas with the red trim and shining jewelry. Many of them had attractive young women, or boys, on their arms. Some had their wives, but few. Their clothes were loose and flowing in vibrant colors. As he started to look farther back in the line he saw the dress code turning less classy.

  At the back of crowd were the lower classes: The poor, the street vendors and less well off merchants, the farmers in from the countryside to share in this joyous occasion. Their clothes were simple. They wore pale, unbleached tunics. They had no rings or bracelets of gold. The women carried babies in their arms and had small children grabbing at their legs.

  Dr. John Campbell was right in the middle. He had done his best to blend in. He wore a simple tunic under an off-white toga. His sandals were plain and he wore no jewelry. He had done his research to make sure he wouldn’t seem out of place. He had even spent the last few weeks picking up the right inflection on his ancient Latin and Greek.

  At first he tried to listen to the conversations around him, trying to get a feel for the daily life, the thoughts and desires of a first century roman, but after an hour packed in with this crowd he was just getting anxious.

  At last shouts could be heard from farther up the packed street. There were loud boisterous voices calling out directions to the crowd, telling them which gate would bring them to which seating levels. He checked his ticket, which was a strip of papyrus paper with a seating arrangement stenciled on it. His seat would be on the second level. He wasn’t with the upper echelon of society, but he wasn’t in the back with the peasants.

  Campbell followed the crowd as it surged slowly forward and pretty soon the Coliseum came into sight. It stood nearly a hundred and fifty feet high and made of polished white marble. The pillars and arches and statues lining the outside walls were so beautiful he nearly stopped in his tracks. For a twenty first century archaeologist this was the perfect dream come true.

  The crowd continued to move forward toward the gates in little surges. Fifty thousand people were crowded into this street trying to get a seat at the opening day. Emperor Titus had announced that there would be one hundred consecutive days of games, but everyone in Rome wanted to witness the first.

  Eventually the professor made it up to the gate and was ushered inside with a few dozen other people on his level. They walked a shining marble hallway around the circular amphitheater for what seemed like an eternity until they reached the stairway that took them up to the second floor, and then opened out into a huge balcony that sloped slightly towards the arena floor.

  Campbell found his seat, a few rows back from the edge of the balcony. He could see the entire arena below him and the giant oval of benches all around the edges and spanning up four giant levels.

  His seat was just a spot on a bench. It was made of concrete, like most things in Rome, and stretched far enough for about thirty people to sit side by side until it reached the next aisle. Campbell was almost surprised at the level of organization of the massive crowd pouring in as fifty-thousand people found their seats. It reminded him of the Super Bowl.

  Another fifteen minutes went by as the seats continued to fill with the rich and the poor and the slaves, all eager for bloodshed. There were vendors walking around with trays of beer and wine in small clay cups, selling it to the thirsty populace at a hefty price. Some were already on their second cup when the ceremony started.

  On the arena floor, halfway around the oval and almost straight across from Campbell’s seat, there was a large area sectioned off with low walls. It had seats for about twenty people and they were filled with men handling various instruments. At the front of the box was a man in a red curly wig and bleached white toga. When it seemed the majority of the crowd was seated he stood and began to speak. He had a booming voice that echoed throughout the stadium, bouncing off well placed walls so everyone could hear him. Everyone went silent.

  “And it is my honor and privilege to present to you, the senate and people of Rome, your emperor, Titus, Caesar.”

  Fifty thousand people jumped to their feet, held their right fists to their chests and stared eagerly at the arena floor. As the guards marched every man extended his right arm, with his palm flat and parallel to the floor.

  There were fifty guards. All were dressed identically in dark segmented armor. Each carried a purple shield displaying the symbol of the empire and a purple cape draped across his shoulder, flowing behind him in the gentle breeze as they marched in step to the center of the arena. They had spears in their right hands and once they reached the center they all stopped, faced to the middle in one fluid movement and extended their spears out in front of them making an arch between them, under which Titus strode out onto the arena floor.

  The emperor wore a shining silver breastplate under an impeccable toga. A sword hung at his hip and a golden crown of olive branches adorned his head. He waved to the crowd, who began to cheer. He walked a circle around the arena then went to his private box opposite the band, accompanied by his guards who followed him to his box, marching in unison. When Titus sat down the guards, in two columns, moved to either side of the box and sat in the empty seats surrounding him.

  Next came a sacrifice. Twenty bulls were led into the arena from doors on all sides. Their throats were slit, blood spilling into pools that were quickly absorbed by the soft sand, leaving only a bunch of large dark stains. A prayer was said to Jupiter, and then fifty or so slaves came out to drag away the bodies.

  The ceremony continued for over an hour. Much of the arena sand was already stained brown with blood before the first gladiators came out.

  This was the part everyone came here to see. The first spectacle involved four men, each entering through a different door, all facing the center. They each wore armor, though it varied greatly. One was dressed as a roman soldier, in chain mail and helmet with a sh
ort gladius in his right hand and large oval shield in the other. Two of the others wore breastplates of bronze and elaborate helms that covered much of their faces. They were armed with two swords or a spear.

  The fourth gladiator wore only a pair of leather breeches. He looked to be a Gaul or a Celt. He was tall, a little over six feet, and bulging with muscles. His body was covered in blue markings, tattoos of swirling lines that wrapped around his shoulders and chest. In his right hand was a long straight sword, double edged and tapering to a needle like point.

  The crowd was cheering as the men walked out one by one, the herald announcing their names as they entered. Campbell couldn’t catch the names over the roar of the crowd but the spectators seemed to recognize them. The band started to play, and the men began to walk towards each other.

  The Roman soldier held his shield out in front of him, his elbow cocked to keep the shield close to his body. The tattooed man walked calmly, his sword hanging at his side. The other two were pumping their arms in the air, trying to psych up the crowd, and themselves.

  For a few moments the four men walked in a circle, a few yards apart, eyeing each other. Each man was sizing up his enemies, waiting for someone to make the first move. The horns played an escalating rhythm and the doctor couldn’t help but picture an over-sized shark leaping out of the ocean as in a 1970’s horror movie. The cheering had died down a bit and the man with two swords displayed a little showmanship. He turned to the crowd and lifted his weapons up a couple times to raise the crowd again and the moment he turned back to his opponents the man opposite him thrust his spear at his chest.

  The spear glanced off the man’s breastplate and the man dressed as a soldier rushed the spearman, pushing the spear to the side with his shield. He slashed at the spearman but misjudged his distance and sword went wide. And that put the man with two swords at his back.

  The two sword man lunged and thrust one of his swords up and under one of the segments of the soldier’s armor, lodging the tip into his back near the kidneys but it didn’t penetrate far enough. When he pulled his sword back a small trail of blood snaked down the soldier’s armor and the crowd cheered.

  The tattooed man was circling the other three fighters, his sword still draped at his side, keeping a slow pace. He was calm.

  The soldier took another swing at the spearman and sidestepped. He spun to put his shield between him and the two other men. The tattooed man was right behind him, but kept walking.

  The spearman recovered, glanced back and forth between the two sword man and the soldier for a moment, and then made a move on the soldier. He thrust his spear at an upwards angle at the soldier’s shield. The shield deflected the attack but he kept pushing the spear forward and it glanced up into the man’s face, taking him in the eye.

  The soldier stumbled back a few paces. The spearman pulled his spear back but he wasn’t quick enough. The man to his right stuck out the sword in his right hand and held the spear away as he stepped in towards the spearman and thrust out with his other sword, which hit its mark in the spearman’s throat. There was a gush and spray of blood that brought a roar from the spectators.

  The intensity of the music was rising. The beer and wine were flowing. The spectators were on the edge of their seats. The emperor was leaning up against the rail, focused on the entertainment.

  When the soldier stumbled back it had brought him right next to the tattooed man. He twisted and brought up his shield. Blood was pouring out of his eye socket. He thrust at the man’s chest with his sword.

  The tattooed man slid a step to his right and the soldier’s sword went past him. He lifted his own sword and slashed at the soldier’s sword arm, right above the wrist. The sword dropped, blood streaked across the sand. The tattooed man stepped to his right and twisted, his sword slid across the soldier’s throat and there was a roar from the audience as the soldier dropped.

  He sat on his knees for a moment, staring blankly at the emperor’s viewing box, blood gushing down the front of his armor. He slowly started to lean forward and his face hit the sand.

  The tattooed man turned towards the two sword man, who was hunched over the dead spearman trying to remove his sword from the man’s throat, but it was lodged in the bone. He let go of it, stood up and faced the tattooed man a few yards away.

  The men stared at each other for a few moments. The tattooed man’s opponent rushed him, stabbing at his chest, then his throat, then his belly. The tattooed man deflected every blow with a smooth short sweep with his sword. It was a dance.

  A few more parries and the tattooed man took up the offensive. Swept the other man’s sword to the left then brought his own up the man’s chest as he took a step forward. The sword sliced a thin line from the man’s belly button to his left shoulder. The tattooed man then moved a leg behind his enemies’ and pushed with his shoulder, taking them both to the ground.

  The tattooed man landed, smashing his right knee into his opponent’s groin. He held his sword with both hands, the tip at the other man’s throat and looked over his shoulder at the emperor.

  The spectators were silent, eagerly awaiting the emperor’s decision. Titus slowly held his right hand straight out in front of him, his thumb extended parallel to the ground. He glanced around to judge the faces of the audience. He slowly raised his thumb towards the sky.

  The tattooed man lowered his sword, stood up, and extended a hand down to the fallen man. The defeated man took the offered hand and his opponent helped him to stand. They held hands and raised them to the sky, turning in a circle so they could see the whole crowd who were pumping fists in the air and cheering.

  Before he found the time machine Dr Campbell had thought football was barbaric. But after spending a few weeks in AD 80 Rome he found himself cheering along with the crowd, eager for blood to wash across the sand below.

  Chapter 1

  Dr John Campbell was a professor of Archaeology at Boston Community College in Massachusetts. He was a pretty normal man. He was average height, average build. He wore a suit to work and jeans on his days off. In all respects he was your average 33 year old single American man.

  On his weekends off he liked to go to swap meets and rummage through the junk for those items that people sell off cheap because they don’t know what they have. It was on one of those swap meet mornings that this whole thing started.

  Dr Campbell was walking down an aisle at the Sunday swap meet, glancing at the booths set up on either side of him. The stuff he liked was in the back. The first few aisles contained mostly booths run by businesses that liked to make a little side money. There were vendors selling personalized license plates and key chains, bumper stickers, skateboards. Once you weed through all that new stuff you find the gold, junk.

  The back few rows were not fancy booths set up to look professional. This area was mostly people who just backed their truck up to edge of the parking lot and unloaded on a plastic tarp spread on the ground. You’d see everything from furniture and electronics to sports equipment. Anything people didn’t have a use for anymore and hoped to get a couple bucks out of. Sometimes you’d see things that were really obscure, like a whaling harpoon or an old grandfather clock or a bunch of rebar someone had turned into ‘art.’

  Campbell liked coming here because he was an archaeologist. Here he saw the way people lived, he saw the stuff that men of his profession a hundred or a thousand years in the future would dig out of the sand and go, ‘Ah, so that’s what they did back then.’ He often wondered how wrong they were about the ancient Egyptians or Celts.

  Today, like most days, he just saw a bunch of junk. A lot of broken parts, a lot of old toys. There was one man selling an old meerschaum pipe that was in pretty good condition but he wanted a lot for it. Campbell thought he’d look around a while longer and see if the man would come down on the price towards the end of the day.

  When he reached the back aisle something caught his eye. He had wanted a new desk for his office and there was a beaut
iful one holding down one edge of someone’s tarp. You don’t normally find furniture that’s in good condition at places like this, but he went to take a closer look.

  It was a large desk, made of oak. There were a bunch of drawers all around it, some of which were stuck but most opened. There was a tray that pulled out right above your lap that had slots for pens and even a built in inkwell. It could definitely use a good sanding and varnishing, but all in all it was a nice find.

  He looked around for the vendor and saw an old lady, probably in her early eighties, sitting in a rocking chair with a shoebox full of cash on her lap.

  “Excuse me miss, is this yours?” he called over to her.

  “That old desk?” she said, “fifty bucks.”

  Normally he would have tried to haggle the lady down, but he thought that was a steal. He pulled out his wallet and counted his cash. He had a little under a hundred dollars. He pulled out two twenties and two fives and walked over to the old lady.

  “Can I bring my truck around and pick it up in an hour or so?” he said as the old lady added his money to pile in the shoebox. “I’ve got some more looking around I’d like to do,”

  “I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” she replied.

  He searched the rest of the swap meet but found nothing else of interest. As the booths were starting to pack up he went out to the parking lot and got his truck and brought it around to the old woman’s booth.

  He drove an old ford pickup that barely ran. It was covered in little dents and scratches and it hadn’t been washed in years. It sputtered and backfired as he started it up. But it drove.

  When he got home he asked his neighbor to help him bring his new acquisition into the house. He needed to clean it up before he could bring it to the school to replace his old one.