RomanQuest by Herbie Brennan

dumped unceremoniously at 13 . In the event that you survive, it might be a good idea to grab that net and spear before you stride victorious to 40 .
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    â€œDon’t have five denarii,” you tell him glumly.
    â€œWhat do you have then?” he asks.
    You dig into your pockets and come up with a half-chewed toffee covered in hairy lint, the crumpled brochure for the Colossus of the Apennines, a wizened chestnut with a hole bored through the middle, a short piece of string, a page torn out of a lined notebook with somebody’s phone number written on it but no name so you’ve not the slightest idea who would answer if you rang, and a paper clip.
    â€œOh, wow, like cool!” Titus exclaims, wide-eyed. “What about giving me that?”
    â€œThis?” you ask frowning, picking up the paper clip. “Or this -?” You offer him the conker. Surely he couldn’t want the toffee. Even you are finding it disgusting.
    â€œNo - that!” he tells you breathlessly, pointing at the crumpled brochure. “Look at the colours! Look at that painting of the lake and the big statue!”
    â€œThat’s not a painting - that’s a photogr -” You stop yourself abruptly. “Well,” you say, “it’s very valuable, of course, but if you’re as good a guide as you say ...”
    He snatches the crumpled brochure. “Come with me!” he tells you firmly.
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    And, taking your hand, leads you to 37 .
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    â€œWrong!” exclaims Caligula delightedly. He looks thoughtfully into the middle distance. “Surgical amputation of the brain, I think.”
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    After which painful experience, you can make your way to 13 .
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    â€œYou can tell by the way I’m dressed I’m not an escaped slave,” you say firmly.
    â€œNo, I can’t.”
    â€œYes, you can.”
    â€œNo I can’t”
    â€œYes you can.”
    â€œCan’t!”
    â€œCan!”
    And so on for quite a long time until you get fed up and say, “Look, a person’s innocent until they’re proven guilty - right?”
    He looks at you in astonishment. “Are you out of your mind? You’ll have trouble getting any of your rights if you’re not a Roman citizen and I don’t think you are.”
    â€œI am,” you lie.
    â€œAre not,” he says.
    â€œAm!”
    â€œNot!”
    â€œSum!”
    â€œNon es!”
    And so on until your merry conversation is drowned out by a distant explosion and a rumbling roar that gradually comes closer and closer.
    â€œWhat’s that?” somebody asks.
    â€œJupiter’s thunderbolt?” suggests one.
    â€œVulcan’s hammer?” suggests another.
    Then someone points to a black, pine-shaped cloud climbing into the sky. “It’s the volcano!” she screams. “Vesuvius has blown its top!”
    Red hot cinders and globs of molten lava begin to rain down.
    â€œQuick! Under cover!”
    Without waiting for any urging, you dive into the nearest doorway to take shelter from the fiery rain. Within seconds, half a dozen other people are crowded in there with you.
    â€œShould be safe here,” you remark, hoping for reassurance.
    â€œSafe as houses,” somebody tells you as a nearby house catches fire and falls down. “Greek built,” he shrugs dismissively.
    As you stand watching the rain of fire and listening to the roar of the volcano, a sulphurous fog rolls towards you. In moments you and everyone around you is coughing in a vain attempt to rid your lungs of the acrid fumes.
    Moments more and you are sinking to your knees.
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    That’s how it was at Pompeii, I’m afraid. Long before the lava reached it, the fumes poisoned just about everyone and every thing in the