Sci Fi & Fantasy / The Barbarians
The Barbarians
I was eating lunch in my favourite place on campus, the bench under the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, when Professor Toland hoved into view. We didn’t know each other that well, I worked in the Department of Ancient History while he was head of Physics, but I recognised his imposing figure immediately. He was quite a legend on campus. Known for his brusque manners and lack of tact and also for his ability to get his own way, he stood well over six feet tall and was broad in comparison. It was rumoured that the Dean was afraid of him and he certainly made me feel nervous whenever I happened to share his company. I was, therefore, not only surprised but also somewhat alarmed when, instead of walking briskly past me as I expected, he stopped directly in front of me.
“Ah, the very man,” he said and sat down beside me on the bench.
It was one of those lovely September afternoons that make New England such a joy at that time of year and I had hoped to savour it in lonely contemplation. My natural British politeness, however, prevented me from offering anything other than a welcoming smile.
“Are you looking for me?” I asked uncertainly, my sandwich hovering between hand and mouth as if desperately searching for cover.
“I am indeed,” the Professor’s voice boomed as it always did, in or out of the lecture room, his southern drawl seeming to place an unnecessary “y” in “am”. “How would you like the opportunity to study your subject as its never been studied before?”
I must have given Toland a somewhat old fashioned look because he laughed out loud and clamped a huge sun-tanned hand on my shoulder.
“What I’m talking about,” he continued, “is the opportunity of a lifetime. To study any period of history you care to at first hand.”
“At first hand,” I repeated in bewilderment. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Are you free at the moment?” he asked ingenuously, eyeing my sandwich as it hung in the air between us.
Despite the allure of the weather and the more dubious delights of my hypermarket sandwich, I was, I must admit, intrigued. Without conscious thought my head bobbed up and down in agreement.
“Good,” he said rising to his feet. “Come with me and I’ll show you exactly what I mean.”
Despite his advancing years, Toland was a fit man, who, I was told, had once played nose tackle for his college football team. Certainly, by the time we had climbed to his laboratory on the third floor of the Physics Building, I was completely out of breath, while he showed no visible signs of distress at all. As he rummaged for his keys in his jacket pocket in order to unlock the door, I leaned with one hand on the wall and, head bowed, laboured to fill my lungs. With a grunt he found the necessary key, opened up the laboratory, ushered me inside and strode across the floor to a glass cabinet, perhaps seven feet tall and four on a side, that dominated one corner of the room.
“This is what I want to show you,” he said, beaming as he lovingly caressed the sharp edges of the transparent box.
“Amazing,” I wheezed. “What is it?”
“This, Doctor Byrne, is a time machine,” Toland replied with aplomb.
“Oh, yes, I see,” I responded doubtfully.
The Professor caught me in his baleful stare. “You don’t believe me,” he said accusingly.
“No, no, not at all,” I lied, wondering if the Professor was barking mad and whether he might, at any moment, attack me in a frenzy.
Instead he smiled and leaned over to place a reassuring hand on my shoulder, an action which, in his case, couldn’t have been more alarming if he had waved a gun in my face.
“Yes, you doubt me,” he continued. “And who could blame you? I must seem to you like a character out of Wells. The fiendishly clever scientist who suddenly announces that he has built a time machine in his spare time.”
Actually he reminded me more of a certain artificial life-form from Mary Shelly, but I decided not to mention that under the circumstances.
“No, not at all,” I repeated myself lamely.
“Well, you shouldn’t,” Toland continued, ignoring my protestations and tapping his broad fleshy nose with a thick conspiratorial finger. “This is the culmination of a lifetime’s work and,” he paused to glance at the gold watch strapped to his broad wrist, “I’ve laid on a little demonstration for you.”
Behind him the cabinet begun to hum, while the air inside seemed to sparkle as if ice crystals were beginning to form. Then, with a sound like a popgun, a familiar figure appeared, its huge bulk crammed into the telephone booth-sized interior. It was another Professor Toland – dressed differently, but unmistakably him.
For a moment I was completely disorientated. Toland still stood before me with one hand on the cabinet and grinning like a Cheshire Cat, while, at the same time, his exact twin swung the door of the cabinet open and stepped out into the laboratory wearing the selfsame smirk.
Without turning the original Toland said, “Meet my future self.”
I, for my part, was horrified. Sharing a room with one Toland could be unsettling, but two? My jaw dropped in utter amazement when, having stepped alongside his twin, the second Toland greeted me with a wink.
“Don’t look so alarmed,” the second Professor said. “I’ve simply travelled back in time by a few hours to show you that my little toy really works. Now do you believe me?”
I remained speechless, unable to utter any sound other than a feint “Whaaaa…...”
An hour after my unnerving encounter with the two Professor Tolands I was sat in his (their?) bachelor apartment on the East side of town, clutching a brandy in one hand and the arm of one of his overly-large leather-bound chairs in the other.
“I’m sorry,” the now singular Professor repeated for the umpteenth time. “I should have realised that the appearance of my future self might be a bit of a shock for you.”
I nodded and took another generous swig of the brandy as I contemplated with a shudder the scene I had recently witnessed.
“But,” Toland continued, “I have convinced you haven’t I?”
I had to agree that this was true. The alternative, that Toland had a twin brother skilled in the conjuror’s art, was too awful to contemplate. Dumbly I nodded again.
“And you must see the possibilities of such a machine.” Toland seemed childishly eager to make amends and draw me out of my shock. “For someone like you, I mean.”
“For someone like me? I’m not sure I understand what…..”
“In terms of your subject, the study of Ancient History,” Toland interrupted, unable to contain his usual impatience within the confines of sympathy.
This I contemplated for a few seconds. “Are you suggesting that I use your machine to travel back through time?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” Toland agreed eagerly. “Imagine what you could achieve. You could settle, once and for all, arguments that have raged among your colleagues for decades. You could write textbooks whose authority would be unquestioned. “You,” he wagged a finger at me, “could be the world’s leading figure in your field.”
“But why me?” I asked him earnestly.
Toland relaxed back into his chair. “That’s simple,” he said, “you’re the only historian I know as such.”
I began to speak, but the Professor cut me short. “Oh, I know the other historians in your apartment, but I’m afraid that we don’t get on all that well. I don’t know why, but there it is.”
I was only too aware of why this should be so. Most of my colleagues who had any dealings with the Professor found his presence intimidating, while his domineering personality hardly endeared him to the head of my department was openly jealous of the funding that Toland was able to get through sheer bullying. This, though, was not what I had in mind.
“You misunderstand me,” I replied. “What I meant was, why don’t you go?”
“My dear fellow,” Toland rejoined, “I am no historian. Put me back even one hundred years and I’m sure that my lack of knowledge would get me into all kinds of trouble.”
“Then why not travel forwards, into the future. Surely, as a physicist, you must be aching to know what advances man might make in the coming centuries?”
“Absolutely. Unfortunately travel into the future is not possible.”
“Not possible?” I asked in surprise.
“Think of time in terms of quantum theory,” Toland explained. “You’ve heard of the uncertainty principle?”
“Well, yes,” I replied uncertainly. “At least in general terms. Something about not being able to know both the speed of an elemental particle and its position at the same time, isn’t it?”
“Very good, Doctor,” Toland replied nodding his head. “Well, something like that anyway. The point is time also obeys the same principle. My studies have revealed that we experience time as we do because we simply cannot know what has happened in the past and what will happen in the future at the same time. We can know one but not the other. It follows that, as creatures who remember the past, we can never know what will happen in the future and cannot, therefore, travel there. Do you see?”
“I think so,” I replied doubtfully. “Doesn’t that suggest though that there may be creatures in other dimensions of existence who ‘remember’ the future and know nothing of the past?”
“Oh yes,” the Professor answered with enthusiasm, waving his own brandy in front of him and threatening to dump its contents into his lap. “Theoretically such a dimension might well exist. Though how we might communicate with its inhabitants would be somewhat problematic. My point is, however, that time travel is possible in only one direction – into the past.”
“But surely,” I persisted, “if someone was to travel into the past, then they would be capable of remembering their own time in the future and thus invalidate your theory.”
“No, no, no,” Toland replied with mounting impatience and irritation. “What he would remember would be in his own past. He would be able to describe the future to others in the past, but this would not constitute a memory as far as they are concerned, merely a description of something they could never experience at first hand. Now do you understand?”
“I think so,” I answered hesitantly.
Toland drew in a breath. “Look, forget the theory for now. Just take my word for it, travel into the future is not possible. But, given the reality of time travel of time travel into the past, where and when would you choose to go?”
I mulled this over for a moment or two. “Well, given my own field of speciality, I would have to say Rome during the reign of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.”
“Why then and there in particular?”
“Its an area of history I know well. I can speak the language, or at least I have a good working knowledge of Latin as used at that time. And it was a time of relative peace in Rome. Meeting some horde of invading barbarians at a latter time might be more interesting, but would also be decidedly more dangerous.”
Toland drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair for a second or two and then, as if suddenly making up his mind, said, “Rome in the days of Marcus Aurelius it is then!”
My alarm was equally as sudden. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly!”
“What do you mean man?” the Professor said in surprise. “How could you not go. Who else could we possibly send on such an expedition.”
Who else indeed, I thought with a sinking heart. It was, after all, the opportunity of several lifetimes.
Just two days later (“The sooner the better,” Toland had explained), I was back in the laboratory carrying a set of suitable clothes purloined from the Drama Department and listening to Toland as he once more outlined his plan of action.
“I will set the time and spatial co-ordinates to deposit you near to a main thoroughfare in third century Rome. Don’t worry, with the plan of ancient Rome, furnished by your good self I might add, I am confident that I can set you down in a quiet back alley without alarming the locals.”
Toland handed me a broach to fasten my cloak. “As I said I would, I have incorporated the automatic return device into this piece of jewellery. It should activate and return you here after six hours have elapsed.”
The broach was a flashy theatrical piece of nonsense that I feared, together with a purse full of coins (from my own collection), might represent a temptation for some ancient footpad. However, when I pointed this out, Toland had dismissed this airily as “a risk worth taking.” Not convinced, I was made even more uncomfortable by his request that I pick up some artefact from the period and attempt to bring it back with me. When I asked him why he had used the word “attempt”, Toland had replied somewhat vaguely that it might not be possible. He became even more vague when I asked him what might happen if it was not possible. Privately I resolved to undertake no such experiment.
Having climbed into my new clothes, I was invited by Toland to enter the cabinet as he set about typing into his computer the instructions necessary to hurl me back in time. I was watching nervously as Toland worked when, suddenly, I found myself standing in a puddle in the middle of a main road in ancient Rome. Nearby a forlorn looking donkey, pulling a small cart piled high with sheets of leather, shied at my sudden appearance. Otherwise, and much to my relief, no one else seemed to note my arrival in such an exposed location. Either my map had been inaccurate, which was quite possible, or more alarmingly, Toland’s calculations were in error. Fortunately, as in any major city of the twenty-first century, the local inhabitants seemed to be too preoccupied with their own immediate concerns to notice yet another stranger.
Gingerly I navigated my way between the piles of horse dung, rumbling carts and draft animals that inhabited the road. Gaining the pavement without much mishap, I paused to get my bearings. The pavement, like the road itself, was a crowded bustle of activity. The air was thick with dust, while I was constantly jostled by passers-by quite as rude as any modern city dweller. Eventually I made my way to the relative safety in the shadow of the buildings that lined the road. With no clear idea of where I was going, I ambled along, drifting with the crowd and noting, with great amusement, the slogans that seemed to adorn every available space on the buildings. By the time I reached the next corner I was reliably informed that Caius Avidius Maximium was an old goat who should not, under any circumstances, be elected to high office or be left alone with any female below the age of sixty, while Mamaea Pulcheria kept the best whorehouse in Rome.
It was at the corner that inspiration seized me in its excited grip. From there I could see, rearing above the surrounding buildings, the huge bulk of the Flavian Amphitheatre, or, as it is more popularly known, the Colosseum. What better way, I thought, of passing a few hours in ancient Rome than at the games? I was, of course, intellectually horrified at the thought of state-sponsored murder performed openly for the gratification of a bloodthirsty audience. The opportunity to witness such a depraved spectacle was, however, too good to miss. I would be the first scholar in modern times to know, at first hand, how such events were organised, what actually took place and what passions drove the Romans to such perversion. Eagerly I pushed my way down the street.
By the time I actually stood before the awe-inspiring mass of the amphitheatre my excitement had mounted almost to a frenzy. As a student of Roman history I had stood in exactly the same place on numerous occasions studying the ruins that existed in twenty-first century Rome. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for the sight of that same building at the height of its splendour. The stonework was unscathed by the ravages of time or centuries of quarrying. The golden statues, looted and melted down long before my own time, stood in their niches glowing like fire in the sunlight. But it was not this magnificence that drew me on. Rather it was the dark entrances beneath the arches that ringed the building that beckoned. I kept telling myself that I was only interested in historical research. But it wasn’t true. I wanted to see the games for themselves. I wanted to see men locked in mortal combat and killing each other with fearsome weapons. I wanted to see the naked bodies of women being torn apart by wild animals as they screamed for mercy. In a fever of anticipation I made my way towards the arch of light that marked the entrance to the arena itself. No thoughts of why I felt as I did crossed my mind, I am ashamed to admit. Instead I worried about the entrance fee. Did I have enough coins to gain entrance or would they accept my diadem in payment if not?
But, as I stood nervously fingering the pouch of coins that hung from my belt, a beautiful young woman suddenly appeared at my elbow and lightly took my arm. With a nod to the man in the booth collecting the entrance fees, she gently tugged me into the light beyond the archway and into the arena. Shocked as I was at this development, I was even more shocked when she said in perfect American-accented English;
“Doctor Byrne, welcome to the games. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Expecting me?” I responded with incomprehension.
“Of course. You’re our special guest of honour.”
In a daze and without resistance, I followed her as she led me up between the tiers of seats, noting dully how many spectators smiled and nudged their neighbours as we passed by. High enough to be above the smell of death that wafted up from the arena, but close enough to see all the action, I was led into a box wrought in marble standing next to that reserved for the Emperor himself. Gently the girl took my hand and led me to a couch piled high with silk cushions. Behind a completely naked girl stirred the warm air with a fan made, I guessed, from ostrich feathers, while another offered us fruit from a golden platter. Mystified I sank down among the cushions where I was joined by the young lady who had led me here.
“Is there anything I can bring you,” she said and then, placing her hand on my thigh at a provocative height. “Or do for you?”
Close to mine, her eyes seemed to dance with delight, while her scent and bodily proximity assaulted my senses. “Perhaps you would care for some chilled wine?” she continued.
Weakly I nodded my head. A strong drink was exactly what I needed at this stage. With a languid wave of her hand, she called over one of the naked slave girls who approached with a crystal decanter of blood-red wine to fill the golden goblets that stood on a low table before us. With a dazzling smile my companion snatched up one of the goblets and brought it to my lips. I drank like an automaton, my eyes locked on hers. Finally, after several gulps of wine, I had collected my wits sufficiently to begin asking questions.
“Who are you?”
“You can call me Miranda,” she replied. “I’m your personal Triple-T guide for today.”
“Guide?” I asked, and then. “What is Triple-T?”
“Time Travel Tourism Incorporated,” she replied and then giggled. “Of course you don’t know. Your journey back in time will give rise to a whole new industry.”
“Industry?” I replied at a complete loss.
“Yes,” she continued. “Professor Toland’s time machine was taken up by business interests from Las Vegas who made it available to the general public. Or at least to those who can afford it. Time travel is expensive and our clientele still tends to be rather exclusive.”
“Are you telling me that there are others here from the future?”
“Oh yes. In fact the booking agent told me that this particular event is completely sold out.”
I looked around me, at the ranks upon ranks of people sitting in the arena before me. And then, for the first time, I stared at the action below. Several pairs of gladiators were locked in combat, their skin, where it remained unprotected by armour, glistening with sweat as they struggled to stay alive. Then, near the centre of the oval killing field, one combatant slipped in a puddle of his own blood and, falling heavily onto the sand, lost his sword as it slipped from his wet grip. His opponent seized his opportunity, crashing down upon the body of the other, his knees pinning the unfortunate man’s shoulders to the ground. Raising his sword the gladiator on top looked to the crowd for instructions, while, underneath him, the defeated man waved his hands in mute appeal. The crowd roared, rose to its collective feet and, like a single organism in the throws of an unspeakable passion, demanded blood with thumbs jabbing at their chests. Taking his sword in both hands, the victor plunged it deep into the neck of his vanquished opponent.
Blood, in what seemed like gallons, spilled onto the sandy arena floor. Only then did the horror of what I was watching began to sink in. In fascination I watched as two naked men sprinted across the arena, jab a long-handled iron hook into the throat of the dead man and drag his limp body away. Then my attention turned to the crowd who were only now resuming their seats.
“How many,” I said indicating the seated multitude, “of these people are actually Roman?”
“Well,” my companion replied, “the Emperor is away from the city. In fact, he usually is. So apart from those working or appearing in the arena, none, actually.”
“None,” I responded in disbelief. “All these people are from the future?”
“Yes,” she affirmed with a smile. “In fact, the games are not that popular with the Romans themselves. Apart from the Emperor, who thinks he has to attend from time to time in order to maintain his popularity, they rarely come.”
“I suppose because your organisation has sold all the tickets,” I suggested with heavy irony.
“Oh no,” she answered. “Its because they can’t stand the violence.”
For a moment I was speechless. “Can’t stand the violence!” I eventually blurted out.
“Yes,” the girl replied with a smile that now seemed a little uncertain. “I don’t know the details, but I’m told that only those who have been exposed to years of violence on film and television can actually sit and watch the games.”
“Bbbut…..” I exclaimed, waving my arms in the general direction of the spectacle unfolding in the arena before us, “that means that all these people are dying simply to give us entertainment.”
“Hardly,” she replied with a certainty that indicated she felt herself to be on firmer ground. “Its just like watching a film. Its not real.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I demanded harshly. “Those are real people down there and they’re really dying.”
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “After all, they’re already dead aren’t they. Oh look,” she continued, clapping her hands with joy and excitement, “its Proculus, my favourite gladiator.”
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Excellent! This is a novel. Book store quality, pick it up and pay for it novel. In short, I would buy this. I can only praise it, the dialogue, pace and tone were all very good. Well done and thanks for the great read.
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I like very much it is good write. Too many dropdown menus my fingers were like what the hell is going on
I like your use of words and dialogue. I especially like: “I had to agree that this was true.” This nice moment bittersweet comedy you are good at this I like it
The phrase “As he rummaged for his keys in his jacket pocket” did not work for me could you explain this or tighten this up so it is easier to understand because I found it confusing turn of phrase but you are good write.
I gave you tens I am Russian and found this a good write I hope you believe me am not good with langage.
Thank you, you are good write. Please don’t refund me I new to langage.
A fascinating theme ‘Quantum Physics’. Who can truly dispel your theory.
The idea that the past can be made up of the future intrigues me. Yet wouldn’t our history books show that? After all it is our past. Yet this too is another question, do the past and present exist in the same dimension?
Although there are some minor errors scattered throughout such as ‘Toland hoved into view’ and ‘Oh, I know the other historian in your apartment, but I’m afraid that we don’t get on that well’ also ’ But, given the reality of time travel of time travel into the past, where and when would you choose to go?’ they do not however effect the adequacy of the story.
I was taken quite aback with the introduction of Miranda. A quandary to the mind. That makes you ask if Doctor Byrne was to die in the past would he be reborn in the future only to die again in the past. Thus making an unbroken cycle of life and death.
Great. Needs a little finesse but keep going. Enjoying it so far.
Some of your goals are the same here, you could benefit from honing them a little (if you upload a new version, that is).
I liked the humour on display on this piece. I think if you are writing seriously within the sci-fi genre and attempting to convey your concepts clearly to the reader, doing it within the context of this on-campus (and then off-campus) repartee serves you well.
This piece explores our ties with history and our relationship with great figures from the past. How we see ourselves through the eyes of people we deem to be great and who we aspire to be or imitate for whatever reason. I think you are conveying an important truism about human nature, namely that although we might model ourselves on the “great and good” there is nothing serious of disregarding our own significance as individuals.
Your prose is sharp, confident and assured. It reads like it comes from someone who has been mastering his style for years. I say again that I think the humour is vital here. It is the key to making us empathise with the protagonist (who is a creation Doug Adams would be proud of).
Best,
Harold_P
Wonderful… i was actually totally surprised when the american women grabbed byrne by the arm. I had thought of a lot of things but not that though on the other hand it is quite logical. I loved it but you could describe it a bit more… We -as readers- have only small hints to what kind of a person Byrne really is. For a longer story this could be wonderful -hope there is more actually- since he kind of opens up with every chapter
A very interesting piece overall and one that I genuinely enjoyed reading through. My impressions of the piece are few…for one, I feel that you should work on your voice a little more. I cannot offer a direct criticism of it, but it seems to be far too informal, as though you’re just scribbling out a chat message to someone or something similar. Take that advice with a grain of salt, however, for I am a rather showy writer and that is likely coloring my views.
Content-wise, I was rather disappointed with the presence of details in the writing. Aside from a few stray references to scenery, I was completely devoid of mental image of Rome. Yes, I had my own from my own writing, but as a writer one should provide the details as though the person was ignorant. I couldn’t feel the hot Mediterranean air on my skin, I couldn’t smell the horse dung as it filled my nostrils, I couldn’t truly watch the sweat glistening on the bodies like the statues glorifying the pristine obelisk to decadence that was the Colosseum, and I couldn’t really see the people or hear the sounds or see the sights. I found myself picturing him walking through a modern city at first until I recalled that he had traveled back to ancient Rome. In many ways, it felt as though you were in a rush (as if the details were a chore) and you desperately wanted to reach your theme and twist at the end and ‘psha’ on the details.
Otherwise, a thorough read through by yourself where you tackle grammatical and vocabulary issues would be a fantastic next step. I found a few areas where clarity could be provided, an improper word was used, and similar issues. These moments were minor, but only served to pull me farther out of the story.
A very enjoyable story, one that I am happy that I read, but one that could truly, truly benefit from some reworking. It has so much potential and I would love to read a revised version. I couldn’t wait for the timer to tick down fast enough! Hope to read more of your stuff.
- Lobo
Haha, very amusing and engaging. The beginning me as somewhat typical and unoriginal time-travel fiction, but your idea about time-travel tourism was pure gold. Fantastic. I could tell you know your Romans too—I’m a Roman history geek myself and noted that you seemed to have a good feel for your setting. However, the characters in this are rather two-dimensional. Their motives and personalities are unclear, and they do not seem or act like real people. If I were you, characterization is what I’d work on. Also give this a proof-reading. There’s a lot of typos and punctuation errors, and until you clean those up this won’t be anywhere near ready for publication.
An excellent and though provoking piece. As a short story, it stands on its own. A few corrections and its perfect. Page 4, “feint”, incorrect use, should be faint. Page 7, “time travel” is repeated, and re-read use of “latter”, that one I’m not sure about. Page 8, “artifact” for spelling.
This piece should be edited and sent to publication. Characters are realistic, have background and depth. Plot develops nicely, culminating in a well worked climatic ending in realization for the central character. Kudos!
A very interesting beginning. While heavy on dialogue, I thought you did it quite well. You do a good job of bringing out the emotions of your main character, although I would have liked a little more description of him. I liked this line: ...my sandwich hovering between hand and mouth as if desperately searching for cover.
There were a few things I noticed.
With a grunt he found the necessary key, opened up the laboratory, ushered me inside and strode across the floor to a glass cabinet, perhaps seven feet tall and four on a side, that dominated one corner of the room. I would break this sentence into at least two sentences. I had to read it twice to get it straight. You don’t want something like that interrupting the flow of a perfectly good story.
“You don’t believe me,” he said accusingly. For no other reason than the last bit of dialogue ended with “doubtfully” I would consider dropping the he said accusingly. You’ve already indicated his mood with the “baleful stare.”
...a certain artificial life-form from Mary Shelly, If your readers are unaware that Mary Shelly is the author who wrote “Frankenstein” they will not understand this reference, clever though it may be. Almost everyone knows “Frankenstein,” but not all know the author.
...other than a feint “Whaaaa…” “feint” should be “faint”
You need to look over this sentence, Most of my colleagues who had any dealings with the Professor… I think there may be some missing words and/or punctuation.
I must confess that I found myself getting engrossed in the story and may have missed some other things that might need correction. You’ve done a very good job with this one, and I especially liked the twist that it was the time tourists who are responsible for the proliferation of the games, and not the Romans themselves. I’m intrigued as to where this will end up going. Very nice work.
”...subject as its never been studied before?” it’s
“repeated for the umpteenth time.” This is borderline cliche. It’d ditch the “umpteenth”.
I really liked the philosophical foray into quantum theory and the idea of past present future. It got me thinking, “What would it be like to know the future and not remember the past?” A very interesting and provocative concept.
““What do you mean man?”” The ‘man’ in this sentence I don’t think fits the personality type of the professor as you’ve explained it to the reader. Especially, if he’s an older Southern type.
”... into this piece of jewellery.” jewelry
”...that I pick up some artefact…” artifact
I think it would have been a nice touch to describe this guy’s experience as he’s going back in time. It doesn’t have to be a long drawn out scene, but maybe just a few sentences of transition rather than him just finding himself standing in a road in ancient Rome.
I like the description you give of the time traveler as he is first introduced into Rome. The sights, the horse dung on the road, all the specific details are well placed and give the reader a good sense of place.
the Flavian Amphitheatre=The Colosseum? Didn’t know that. Thanks for the tidbit.
“The opportunity to witness such a depraved spectacle was, however, too good to miss.” This sentence struck me as so disarmingly honest. It made me think about how people love to condemn acts of violence/brutality for the sake of entertainment, but you KNOW most people would got to one of these spectacles if given the opportunity in the Roman age. I like that it points out hypocrisy.
Something else I find particularly amusing about this piece is that just as the protagonist is sent back in time, he is also swept up in the zeitgeist. He’s fairly educated so we assume that he’s intelligent, but as he reaches the arches of where the games are played and the blood will be shed, he too turns into a person for who brutal violence is considered entertainment. There is a pretty sturdy rule when writing fiction that your character has to change in some way, or the readers will consider themselves ripped off. That’s just the format. But through this, we see a clear change, an unexpected change, and I think it’s great.
”...beautiful young woman suddenly appeared at my…” This might just be a disagreement of style, but you could take the word ‘suddenly’ out and the sentence would still work just fine.
”...noting dully how many spectators…” duly
“I drank like an automaton,...” Hmmm, automaton? How about, “I drank it without resistance, my eyes locked on hers.”
AND THEN, what a twist! The protag finds out that he’s taking part in ….a time travel industry? Cool.
“Oh no,” she answered. “Its because they can’t stand the violence.” Whaaat? I’m not saying this in a pejorative way at all, but this piece is telling us history is wrong? Of course it can be, though many take it as gospel.
What a bizarre ending. Catch me if I’m wrong here, but the title “Barbarians” which the reader immediately thinks to assume to be the gladiators is actually referring to…. the people watching the violence? I might be reading to deep into this but I think my analyzation is correct about your title.
Overall, I thought this was a great piece of speculative fiction. You should have NO PROBLEM getting it published on an E-zine, but I think it’s qualified enough to see the pages of actual print if you look around enough. Good job.
-Curt
PS ARG….. The criteria gamut. This doesn’t lessen my appreciation for the quality of your story but I get extremely annoyed when I have fill out redundant criteria. You’ve got 3 criteria for agents and 4 for publishing… Arg… Ok, I’ll do it.
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