About two hundred people came to Dad’s meeting in the forum this afternoon. It wasn’t a bad turnout, especially as he admitted he was going to talk about boring tax matters.
His speech was very clear, but I could tell it was going over the heads of the locals.
When Dad finished, he asked the crowd if they had any questions.
‘Yeah,’ said a man at the back in a blue tunic. ‘What are you going to do about the demon on Mount Vesuvius?’
‘I meant tax questions,’ said Dad.
‘Will the demon stay away if we make more animal sacrifices?’ asked a woman with red hair. ‘I heard it has two heads.’
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Dad. ‘If I hear one more word about this stupid demon ...’
Suddenly, the ground rumbled, jolting everything from side to side. A cart loaded with jars of fish sauce overturned and spilled its stinky contents. A chunk of stone crashed down from the roof of the temple, and Dad had to leap out of the way.
‘It’s the demon!’ shouted the woman with red hair. ‘You’ve angered it. It heard you calling it stupid.’
The crowd scattered and I wandered over to Dad, who slumped down on the steps.
‘I told you they were an odd bunch,’ I said. ‘Never mind. We’ll be home soon.’
Dad looked down at his scroll and sighed.
‘No, we won’t,’ said Dad. ‘Julius Caesar said I can’t return until they’ve agreed to pay the extra tax.’
‘WHAT?’ I shouted. ‘You said we were just here for the summer.’
‘That’s how long I thought it would take,’ he said. ‘Still, at least your mother’s happy. She’d stay here forever, given the chance.’
Never mind her. What about me? I can’t stay here forever. I’m destined to be a great Roman hero, not a fish sauce seller in some irrelevant little backwater. BAH!
