Highlander - Donna Lettow [9]
This particular arch wasn’t actually stone, he realized as he got closer, just a clever simulation. And the opening in the archway was barely taller than he was, probably only a fifth of its original scale—no hay wagon necessary to break the fall. He admired the workmanship in the gilt statue on top of the arch—some triumphant Roman emperor in a chariot pulled by four fiery steeds, their muscles rippling. He brushed off his Latin to read the inscription. Titus. This particular triumphant Roman was Titus.
He tried to remember which one Titus was. “Caesar, Augustus, Tiberius,” he chanted under his breath. In the back of his mind, he could hear Brother Paul chanting it along with him, night after night, all those years ago in the Monastery of St. Christopher. “Caligula, Claudius, Nero …” Paul had tried hard to teach MacLeod about the history of the world he’d begun to explore, but MacLeod had been so young then. So very young. He could name the kings of Scotland and those were the only kings worth knowing.
“Galba, Vitellius …” No, wait. “Otho, Vitellius …”
“Ach, it’s no’ fair—four in one year!” he could hear his frustrated younger self say, and Brother Paul had just laughed.
“Otho, Galba …” It was no use. He couldn’t keep them straight then, he couldn’t do it now. He gave up and walked on.
The floor plan had been deliberately designed in such a way that any visitor coming into the great hall was compelled to pass through the Arch of Titus to enter the exhibition. As MacLeod walked beneath the arch, he noticed the light-beam sensor just before he was about to trip it. Cautiously he reached out and broke the beam of light with his hand. Drums and horns blared around him. He looked around for the source, on alert. Then, over the martial music, came chanting and cheering:
“Ave, Caesar!” “Hail the conquering hero!”
He stepped cautiously through the archway and found himself surrounded by the frenzied citizens of Rome. Life-size mannequins garbed in Roman finery, caught in uncanny tableau as they seemed to cheer, applaud, strew his way with flowers. Each face individual, expressive, filled with the emotion of their leader’s triumphal march into the city, of his glorious victory over the barbarians. Lights and sound flickered, highlighting this group, that person, flash, flash, giving the Romans the illusion of movement, almost giving them life. MacLeod turned quickly one way, then the other, taking in the crowd, receiving their adulation, and for one brief instant perhaps, he felt it, knew what it was like to be a king. To be the Emperor.
Then, in mid-rapture, the crowd abruptly silenced. Marcus Constantine stepped from beside the Arch of Titus, a key in his hand, and walked toward MacLeod.
“So? What do you think?” he asked, more than a little proud of his creation.
MacLeod caught his breath. “Impressive.” He looked at the curator, so comfortable in a suit and tie, at home in his museum with his books and artifacts, so much the academic, and tried to see the legendary Roman general beneath it all. “Is that what it was like?”
Constantine’s eyes shone bright, remembering, and he smiled. “On a good day.” Then he laughed. “On a bad day you were up to your waist in swamp water trying to keep your provisions dry and the Emperor was trying to bribe your aide to poison you.”
“Office politics?” MacLeod remarked.
“Precisely.” Constantine pointed to the Arch. “He came after Vespasian, by the way. Julius Caesar, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero, the Year of Four Emperors that ended with Vespasian, then Titus, Vespasian’s son.” In response to MacLeod’s look, he said, “Don’t let it bother you, I can’t remember them either.” Then he winked at MacLeod and whispered conspiratorially, “And I was there.”
MacLeod followed Constantine past displays arranged to give the museum visitor a quick foundation in the rise and power of the Roman Empire. These exhibits, too, were full of light and color, with computer animation and games and