Demetrius Georgenius Stellarus stood in the peristylium of his villa and surveyed the collection of pot plants and boxes that constituted his 'garden'. He sighed.

Half of this stuff looks like it came from Dollar Tree, he thought grumpily. He wished it would rain and fill up the impluvium. He wished somebody would invent the garden hose. He wished his gardener weren't so lazy.

Demetrius Georgenius Stellarus wished a lot of things. One of which was that he was not currently becalmed in what he thought of as 42 CE, but which all his neighbours called anno DCCXCV ab urbe condita, or the first year of the 205th Olympiad. People not his neighbours had other calendars. Thinking about calendars gave Demetrius a headache and reminded him that aspirin hadn't been invented yet.

He went to sit in the shade of a fig tree – its roots were in a corner of the peristylium, naturally, and he usually took it upon himself to pour water on it every evening after sundown because he didn't trust the gardener to do it. The leaves provided nice shade, and at least he could stop lamenting the fact that of course these stupid people hadn't invented sunglasses yet. He was perfectly capable, naturally, of 'inventing' his own – for example, by cutting a pair of emeralds for lenses. But this innovation was (would be) attributed by history to the emperor Nero, who wore them at the games, and the little monster was only five and probably too busy pulling the wings off flies to do any innovating yet. And if he 'mucked about with the Timeline' they might never get out of here and Alex would (definitely would) raise a fuss.

So he called for a glass of lemonade (thanks to whoever was responsible for there being lemons, at least) and a towel (don't leave home without one) and his straw hat. He did the calling in Greek, so he asked for a ψαθινο καπελο. Eventually, whichever of the servants lost the argument as to whose turn it was to actually get up from their nap and see what The Genius of Potentia wanted this time (he knew about the nickname) brought the items, and he settled down. It was at least 100° out there (don't start), but appreciably cooler in the shade. His brain started working again.

First thought: maybe he would go on and invent emerald sunglasses. He had a tray full of the stones in the vault. One of his useless servants would probably gossip about it to a passing imperial servant, and eventually Nero would hear about it, and grow up and have a pair made, just to show off with, but it was a safe bet that the conceited git would pretend it had been his own idea, so no historical feathers would be ruffled. Then he could move on to smoked glass.

Not ruffling feathers was a desideratum devoutly to be wished, even in boring 42 CE, with Claudius on the throne and this particular Gheorgheni (excuse me, Georgenius) half-asleep in the absolutely asleep town of Potentia. Which didn't have any and which Demetrius privately referred to, when he was feeling particularly snarky, as Hooverville.

At the moment, however, he wasn't feeling snarky: just hot, tired, and bored. He wished fervently for an MP3 player because his current house musicians, while quite competent, had a limited repertoire. If he heard one more chorus of 'Vivamus' he'd teach that harpist a thing or two about 'power chords'.

The problem with the Gheorghenis was simple: they were aliens.

No, not that kind of alien. Not from Phrygia, or Pamphilia, or even beyond Asia Minor. Well, quite a bit beyond Asia Minor, if the truth were known (which it had better not be).

Gheorghenis didn't come from another planet, even.

They came from another universe. One where their species wasn't bound by linear time.

Through a concatenation of cosmic events too wearisome to go into right now, they had become stuck in this universe. The one where time only went in one direction. They hated it. It gave them pains in places no humans had places.

But, although the Gheorgheni bodies were stuck in linear time, their minds were not. That meant that, while living through the boring reign of boring Claudius and pretending to be a Roman citizen, Demetrius was aware of all the times that came before and after this one. His head was teeming with information about Cortés and Moctezuma, even if he hadn't met them yet (and had no intention of so doing).

When Ahenobarbus and His Magic Music Makers ('catchy, right?') droned on, Demetrius was all too aware of the better musical styles that lurked on the far side of the awful Hildegard von Bingen¹. The urge to introduce Cleopas (aka Ahenobarbus) and his cohort to a little Hoagy Carmichael was almost overwhelming. But Alex was worried that if they played fast and loose with historical events as they sort-of-remembered them, things would get extremely hairy. It might be even harder to get out of this linear time trap. Best to leave things as they were, more or less, while they waited for a breakthrough in the quest to extricate themselves.

Demetrius lay back in his seat. He liked warm weather, but right now it was an unseasonably warm May and the winds that blew in off the Adriatic weren't very cooling. It was hot, and dry, and exceedingly dull, and since there was nothing to be done about it, he might as well rest. Oh, look: there's a ripe fig. Fresh fruit and no preservatives is a perk of this century. Rule on, Claudie.

And he drifted off for a nap, like everybody else in Potentia.

DG

29.01.24 Front Page

Back Issue Page