“I really can’t say,” Dr. Lee replied.
“Not even a rough estimate? A week? Two weeks? A month? A year?”
“As I explained, we haven’t determined the virus’s structure. Until we do, we can’t replicate —”
The EC was starting to beep — Mentor was processing a request for connection. Felix started breathing hard. The thought suddenly struck him that, if he appeared on the show, millions would be watching. The idea made him nervous.
“… But we’re running out of time,” Angstrom said. “Half the population has been hit with the virus. They’re getting by on life support, but that won’t help if the plague keeps spreading.”
“I agree. The problem is that a cure continues to elude us.”
The pair kept talking. Angstrom kept hinting that the scientists were lazy, while the doctor kept repeating that his centre was doing the best it could. Every two minutes, Angstrom would let a caller speak. These people, too, were angry with the doctor and kept blaming the scientists for dragging their feet.
After watching the show for nearly an hour, Felix started thinking he was wasting his time. People were calling from all over the globe, and the chances of connection were maybe one in a million. But no sooner had this thought registered than the EC started flashing red. Moments later a 3D image of Felix was visible beside Siegfried Angstrom and the doctor.
Shocked, Felix realized he was on the air.
“Felix Taylor from Toronto is on the line,” Angstrom said. “Good evening, Felix. What’s on your mind?”
“Pardon me?” Felix asked, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” Angstrom jeered. “Or maybe your ERR implants have failed?”
“I’ve never undergone ERR,” Felix gulped, trying hard to focus his thoughts.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Angstrom growled. “In that case, call back when you’ve undergone treatment or have a grip on your nerves.”
“No, I’m fine,” Felix spoke, swallowing his terror.
“Okay.” Angstrom smiled. “Have you a question for our guest?”
“Actually,” Felix said, inhaling deeply, “I’d like to report a discovery I’ve made.”
“How exciting!” Angstrom grinned. “Please share it with our viewers.”
Aware that the host was poking fun at him, Felix described his father’s routines, how he’d worked in the Depository, brought home piles of books and taught his son both Latin and Greek. The point was, Felix added, as Angstrom shifted restlessly, that he’d stumbled on an ancient text that cast some light on the plague.
“Let me get this straight,” Angstrom interrupted. “You’re saying a book that was written in the past has something to say about the disaster we’re facing?
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Then I’ve heard enough,” Angstrom smirked, leaning forward to press the disconnect button.
“You don’t understand!” Felix said sternly. “I’m saying this same plague struck two thousand years ago!”
At this news Angstrom flinched, while the doctor sat up straight in his chair.
“It will become clearer if I read to you,” Felix explained, opening the Historiae to the page with the bookmark. Angstrom and the doctor leaned forward in their seats.
“‘Two days after the death of Spartacus,” he read, “a plague broke out near the town of Panarium, a small but prosperous farming centre. Without warning, people in the town fell ill. Spots erupted on their faces, their necks grew swollen, and their fingertips turned red, as if they’d been immersed in blood. Its victims also lapsed into a sleep so deep that no amount of shaking would possibly rouse them.’” Felix paused for breath and addressed Angstrom directly. “Notice the symptoms. Facial spots, red fingertips, coma …”
“Are you a doctor?” Angstrom asked.
“No.”
“Then you have no right to jump to conclusions. In fact —”
“‘For a month,” Felix went on reading, to prevent himself from being cut off, “the plague rampaged like a conquering army. Rich and poor fell ill, Roman and non-Roman, slave and master, honest folk and criminals. Offerings were delivered to the gods, but still the plague continued, drawing strength from every victim it claimed. Hearing of this sickness, officials in Rome grew worried. If the plague reached the capital, it would kill people by the tens of thousands. Rome’s foes might attack it in its weakened state, and slaves might remember Spartacus and continue his rebellion. The fate of the empire seemed to hang in the balance.’”
“Slaves, war, invasion!” Angstrom growled, his 3D image recoiling in horror. “I think you’ve tried our patience enough!”
“I’m getting to the important part —”
“Finish quickly,” the doctor broke in. “This talk of the past is most unpleasant.”
“‘In the third week of the crisis,’” Felix pressed on, “‘The plague struck the capital. Within days three thousand Romans lay dying. As officials struggled to halt the disease, and citizens prepared to flee the city, a farmer from Panarium made the strangest claim. Some months before the plague had started, his entire crop had failed. His fields had produced, not wheat and barley, but an ungainly flower called lupus ridens, so named because its petals resembled a laughing wolf. His neighbours had assumed he had offended the gods and refused to provide his household with grain. In desperation, the farmer had fed his family this flower, whose bulb, though bitter, was highly nutritious. The results were startling. Whereas every neighbour had fallen ill, the farmer was in perfect health. Far from being a curse, the lupus ridens was a blessing.’”
“What barbarians!” Angstrom snorted, “To believe in gods …!”
“‘Hearing this tale,’” Felix concluded, “‘the senator Gaius Julius Caesar bought the flowers from the farmer and distributed bulbs throughout Italy. Within weeks of eating the lupus ridens, citizens were delivered from the brink of death: they awoke from their sleep, their spots disappeared and their red fingertips regained their normal colour. And thus it was that a simple flower saved the empire in its hour of need.’”
Felix closed the book. “So you see,” he concluded, “this plague does have a cure. We only have to find this lupus ridens and —”
“Enough!” Angstrom cried. “How dare you mention … fairy tales! If you’d undergone ERR, you’d be thinking with your head and not your emotions!”
“This is no fairy tale!” Felix said hotly. “Just because it was written —”
“At a time when people thought the sun was a god,” Angstrom sneered. “And when slavery and war were everyday occurrences.”
“But the story tells us something,” Felix cried. “Don’t you think so, Doctor?”
“I think,” the doctor mused, “that we’ve heard enough superstition for one day.”
“My feelings exactly,” Angstrom agreed. “Now if you don’t mind, Felix, there are other callers on the line.”
Felix was about to protest, but Angstrom pressed a button and his holographic image popped like a bubble.
As he sat on the couch without moving a muscle, other guests connected and ridiculed his tale about the lupus ridens. A few suggested that Mr. Taylor should be jailed for having taught his son such absolute