RomanQuest by Herbie Brennan

diamonds for sure, but those in the better seats look a lot more respectable. Towards the back, nimble men in sailor uniforms are working a complicated set of rigging to bring across a huge multicoloured canopy to give some shade to the spectators.
    There was a sudden roar of approval and the entire crowd rose to its feet as a tall grey-haired man led his entourage into a box directly overlooking the arena. He acknowledges the cheers with a languid wave of his hand, then takes his seat. Armed guards take their places behind him.
    Is this the Emperor of the day? From somewhere you recall that Roman Emperors always wore purple on public occasions and this man’s toga is pristine white so perhaps he’s just a Senator or some other bigwig.
    The priests complete their procession and begin to exit through the same imposing arch by which they entered. At once an organ starts up a merry tune.
    An organ, in Ancient Rome? Surely not. But what you’re hearing certainly sounds like an organ.
    Armed men - dozens of them - are marching into the arena. They look fierce and terrifying and very, very fit. They stop as a body underneath the box occupied by the grey-haired man and his entourage. Their arms snap upwards in a rigid salute. “Nos moraturi te salutamus!” they exclaim in unison.
    So much for Mercury and his simultaneous translation. You didn’t understand a word of that.
    But then your right ear begins to itch. You reach up to scratch it and a small device no bigger than a hearing aid falls out onto the arena sand. It crackles a little as you pick it up as if it may have been damaged, but you notice a small on/off switch in one side just under the Mercury Phones logo. You slide it to on and pop the device back into your ear.
    â€œNos morituri te salutamus!” the armed men chant again. But this time you hear it as, We who are about to die salute you!
    What a strange thing to say during a religious festival. And how odd to have so many armed men in this delightful open-air church.
    The group of armed men suddenly breaks apart and to your horror the men begin hacking at one another with their swords. One runs towards you wielding a net and a spear which he uses to poke you painfully. “Venas plebius, fac meum deum!” he grins wickedly.
    â€œCome on, punk, make my day!” crackles Mercury’s simultaneous translator in your ear.
    Your mouth drops open. It’s obvious you’ve just been challenged to a fight.
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    But what are you going to do about it - apart from closing your mouth, that is? You can run for your life at 10 , try to reason with him at 90 or take your chances in a very one-sided - and quite possibly lethal - punch-up at 130 .
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    Please select an option from the previous page.

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    You climb up to the first sub-division of the tiers, noticing that the more sensible members of the crowd have brought their own cushions to protect their bottoms from the ravages of the stone benches. Not that it matters greatly to you since you can’t afford to stay here very long with the threat of Vesuvius erupting at any minute.
    You look around you to discover the crowd itself seems to be seated in factions, rather like supporters at a football match. Groups of them wear the same colours, presumably in support of a favourite gladiator. Many of them, in all factions, are wearing brimless felt hats for some reason. You notice too that there is a definite class distinction in this crowd. There are several reserved areas near the front filled with men and women sporting pristine togas and expensive jewellery. The lower classes on the other hand are segregated by sex. The women are confined to a covered gallery so high above the arena it’s a miracle they can see what’s going on at all. The men are spread in their tribal factions all across the auditorium.
    â€œIs this seat taken?” you ask an excited young man wearing a patched mantle and one of the ubiquitous