Diary of Dorkius Maximus Read online

  Written by Tim Collins

  Illustrated by Andrew Pinder

  Edited by Bryony Jones and Philippa Wingate

  Cover designed by Angie Allison

  Designed by Barbara Ward

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Buster Books,

  an imprint of Michael O’Mara Books Limited,

  9 Lion Yard, Tremadoc Road, London SW4 7NQ

  www.busterbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © Buster Books 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-78055-027-5 in paperback print format

  ISBN: 978-1-78055-188-3 in Epub format

  ISBN: 978-1-78055-189-0 in Mobipocket format

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Contents

  March I

  March II

  March III

  March IV

  March V

  March VI

  March VII

  March VIII

  March IX

  March X

  March XI

  March XII

  March XIII

  March XIV

  March XV

  March XVI

  March XVII

  March XVIII

  March XIX

  March XX

  March XXI

  March XXII

  March XXIII

  March XXIV

  March XXV

  March XXVI

  March XXVII

  March XXVIII

  March XXIX

  March XXX

  March XXXI

  April I

  April II

  April III

  April IV

  April V

  April VI

  April VII

  April VIII

  April IX

  April X

  April XI

  April XII

  April XIII

  April XIV

  April XV

  April XVII

  April XVIII

  April XIX

  April XX

  April XXI

  April XXII

  Tricky Roman Words

  A Note On Roman Numerals

  March I

  Dad gave me this papyrus scroll today. I’m going to use it to jot down the things that happen to me every day. Then when I’m a noble Roman hero, I’ll have a complete record of how I rose to greatness.

  Future Dorkius Maximus, awesome Roman hero

  I need to work on the noble hero thing, though. Last time I tried on my brother Brawnus’s hand-me-down armour I fell over backwards. It was TOTALLY embarrassing. How am I supposed to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy when I can’t even stand up?

  But I know I’m destined for big things. After all, Dad used to be in the army and now he’s gone into politics. Brawnus is just a few years older than me, and he’s already a general. So I bet there’s a mighty warrior inside me waiting to get out.

  I just hope he turns up soon.

  March II

  I got kicked out of the kitchen today for stealing a dormouse.

  The slaves were frantically preparing goose livers, cows’ udders and dormice in honey for a dinner party tonight. I didn’t think they’d miss a roast mouse, but one of them smacked it out of my hand and told me to wait until later.

  I HATE dinner parties. The food might be tasty but the guests are disgusting. They always spew into buckets so they can cram in more food.

  It’s so gross. Just the sound of their retching is enough to make me want to barf too. And throwing up is like yawning. As soon as someone does it, you can’t help but join in.

  I wish they’d let me take my food back to my room, but Dad says this is ‘anti-social’. And spraying our dining room with vomit isn’t?

  I can’t sleep because the party is so noisy. I just heard a massive cheer from the garden and peeked outside. Dad’s hired a couple of dwarfs to dress up as gladiators and fight each other.

  Tricky Roman words are explained at the back

  If I go and ask them to keep the noise down, Dad will only make me join in. Then I’ll get stabbed to death by a miniature trident, which will leave me with a lot of explaining to do in the afterlife.

  I’ve been worrying about the afterlife a lot recently.

  Mum says when you die, you have to take a ferry across the River Styx and give an account of your life to three judges. If you’ve been bad, they send you to a nasty place called Tartarus, which is even more horrible than having a maths lesson and going to the dentist at the same time.

  If you’ve been good, they send you to somewhere boring called the Plain of Asphodel. But if you’ve been completely brilliant they send you to the sunny fields of Elysium.

  When I die I want to hang out with the heroes of Elysium, not the sad-acts of Asphodel or the losers of Tartarus.

  But how will I get in if I die from falling downstairs in armour or getting stabbed by a tiny trident?

  I need to become a noble Roman hero RIGHT NOW ... I can’t wait any longer.

  March III

  I just asked Dad if he would train me to be a mighty hero. He said I should wait until I grow a bit taller, as it would be a waste of time at the moment.

  I’m sick of waiting to grow. Brawnus was much taller than me when he was my age. Maybe this is as tall as I’m going to get.

  I followed Dad around all morning, pestering him to train me. Eventually, he gave in and handed me one of his swords.

  I tried to let out a roar like a mighty warrior, but I sent myself into a coughing fit and had to drink some water.

  When I’d recovered, Dad took me out into the atrium and tied a sack of grain to one of the pillars.

  ‘Imagine that’s a barbarian running towards you in battle,’ said Dad. ‘In real life the barbarian would smell of goats and have a long, straggly beard – especially if he was a she. But the sack will have to do for now.’

  I lifted the sword over my head, ready to bring it down with all my strength. Unfortunately, it was much heavier than I’d realized, and I fell over backwards ... again.

  I heard laughter from the other side of the atrium and saw all the servants watching.

  ‘Silence,’ shouted Dad. ‘My son will try again and no one will laugh.’

  I lifted the sword again and tried swinging it round to the side, missed the grain sack and carried on going until I hit something else. Unfortunately, the something else turned out to be Mum’s favourite vase. It wobbled one way, then the other, then fell to the floor and shattered.

  Uh-oh. Dad was right. Nobody laughed this time. They were all too busy shaking their heads and wincing.

  March IV

  I went down to the forum with Dad today to buy some more ink, but when we got there, I was desperate for the loo.

  Dad wouldn’t let me go back home and made me use the public toilet. I HATE public toilets. I sat down next to three men who were discussing something boring, while farting so loudly it sounded like their bottoms were having a separate conversation.

  I really can’t go with other people sitting next to me. In the end, after trying to go for ages, I gave up. I faked a look of relief and stood up. The man next to me turned round and said, ‘Don’t be disgusting.’

  ME disgusting! He sounded like he was squeezing a cowpat out of his backside. How could he
possibly find ME disgusting?

  ‘You haven’t wiped,’ he said, handing me a sponge on a stick. Oops – I’d forgotten about that. But who wants to wipe with a sponge that loads of other people have used first?

  I pretended to use the stick and handed it back. How will I ever become a noble hero if I don’t even have the courage to take a dump in public?

  March V

  Mum heard some thunder last night and thought it was a bad omen about Brawnus. As usual, she overreacted – she bought a pig, and got her priest to kill it and read its innards in the temple.

  Guess what the innards said? Brawnus will be fine. Even if they hadn’t, what could we have done about it anyway, with him so far away fighting with the army? Absolutely nothing. What a waste of a pig.

  I wish those innards could predict something useful, like who’s going to win the chariot race next week. Then we could win back some of the money Mum keeps spending on pigs.

  March VI

  I spotted Mum’s priest in the forum this morning, looking suspicious and lugging a heavy sack. I followed him to see what he was up to.

  He headed to the butcher’s stall, glanced over his shoulder, untied the sack and handed over the remains of a pig.

  The butcher examined it, nodded and gave him four coins.

  So THAT’S why the priest is so keen on killing pigs. Well, he can’t be that brilliant at telling the future, or he’d have chosen a time when no one would be watching.

  I told Dad about the priest’s scam and he went nuts. Then he told Mum she had to change priests, and she freaked out, too.

  ‘The gods will punish us,’ she wailed.

  ‘The gods have already cursed me with a batty wife and a disappointing son,’ said Dad. ‘What more could they do to me?’

  Disappointing? What a strange thing to say about Brawnus.

  Later on, Dad started feeling guilty about shouting, so he bought Mum some sacred chickens to make it up to her. Now she can augur from home. Apparently, all she has to do is offer seed cake to the chickens. If they eat the cake, it’s a good omen. If they refuse, it’s a bad one.

  I’m not quite sure what the logic behind all this is, but if it cuts down on the number of pigs Mum gets through, I’m all for it.

  March VII

  Today I asked Dad if I could have another hero lesson, but he refused.

  ‘Everyone has different skills,’ he said. ‘Some people, like your brother Brawnus, are meant to be mighty heroes. Others are meant for less ... physically demanding things.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked.

  ‘You could be a food-taster,’ he said. ‘That’s a great job. You get to sit around all day testing food for rich people. And they always need new tasters, as the old ones keep dying of poisoning.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘NOT interested.’

  ‘Well, you could ask Mum’s friend Vibius how to become a doctor,’ said Dad. ‘He’s one, and he’s had absolutely no training at all. Or you could be a professional armpit-plucker. I met one in the baths the other day. He says it’s good work if you can put up with the smell. AND they let you keep the hairs.’

  ‘I don’t want to be an armpit-plucker,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be any of those boring things. I want to be a mighty Roman hero and I demand that you train me right away.’

  Unfortunately, Dad just turned around and walked away.

  March VIII

  We were supposed to go to the forum today so I could buy a new scroll. But Mum wouldn’t let me go because her stupid chickens wouldn’t eat their cake.

  I don’t want to question Mum’s crackpot beliefs, but maybe the chickens just weren’t hungry?

  She didn’t seem to like it when I suggested that to her, so I’ll just have to end my diary here because I’ve run out of space. I just hope nothing interesting happens today, because I won’t be able to write about it ...

  March IX

  The chickens ate their cake this morning, so I was allowed to go out and buy this new scroll.

  The stall-keeper asked what I thought about the elephants. WHAT elephants?

  Apparently four elephants were marched through the streets yesterday afternoon. There’s going to be a huge parade next month in honour of Julius Caesar, and the animals have been brought over from Africa for it.

  I can’t believe I missed them. I’ve ALWAYS wanted to see an elephant. Cornelius says they’re as big as carriages and have a tail at the front as well as the back.

  Thanks a lot, chickens. Thanks for stopping me seeing something totally brilliant. What will you save me from next? Someone giving out free money?

  Well, let me tell you dumb birds something. If you dare try and make me miss the parade next month, you’re going straight into the cooking pot. I don’t care if you’re sacred chickens. You’ll be sacred chickens in asparagus sauce with onions if you don’t stop meddling in my life.

  March X

  Mum took my tunic to the laundry today and it came back smelling of wee. When I complained, she said it wasn’t surprising, as wee is exactly what they wash it in. GROSS!

  Apparently, the laundry workers leave buckets on street corners for people to wee in. Obviously, you’d never catch me doing that, not the way I feel about going to the loo in public.

  The full buckets are taken to the laundry, and the wee is mixed with water in giant tubs.

  Imagine doing that on a really hot day. It’s making my eyes water just thinking about it.

  I told Mum I’d rather have a dirty tunic that didn’t smell of wee, but she didn’t take any notice. I bet if I weed on things to wash them, she’d freak out. But when the slaves do it, it’s a different story.

  March XI

  My tutor Lucius came round to give me another boring, boring, boring maths lesson. Did I mention that it was boring?

  I won’t need to know maths when I’m a mighty hero. The only thing I’ll need to add up is the number of smelly barbarians I’ve killed. AND I’ll get a slave to do that for me.

  March XII

  Tomorrow we’re going to the amphitheatre to watch my favourite gladiator Triumphus fight, and I can’t wait. I LOVE Triumphus. He has a trident, a net and armour down his left arm. He’s so tough he doesn’t even wear a mask.

  For my last birthday, I was actually given what I wanted, for once. I got a brilliant mosaic of him on my bedroom floor.

  You should have seen how jealous my friends Cornelius and Gaius were when they saw it. Neither of them would ever be allowed anything so amazing.

  March XIII

  Today I went to see Triumphus fight against a new gladiator called Flamma.

  I thought Triumphus would cruise to victory as usual, but Flamma was really strong and wouldn’t give up.

  After half an hour, Triumphus collapsed on to the sand and Flamma stood over him, clutching his dagger.

  The crowd in the amphitheatre started to chant, ‘Kill him! Kill him!’

  I tried to start a rival chant of ‘Let him go!’ Nobody joined in. In fact, the man in front of me told me to shut up.

  The roaring of the crowd got louder and louder, until Flamma thrust his dagger into Triumphus’s heart, turning the sand red.

  The crowd went crazy, but I was gutted. My mosaic is TOTALLY out of date now.

  March XIV

  I just asked Dad if he’d replace my Triumphus mosaic with one of Flamma, but he refused. I can’t believe how stingy he is. When you think how much money Mum has wasted on pigs, it’s ridiculous that he won’t pay for something as important as this.

  This afternoon I tried on Brawnus’s old tunic and it still went down to below my knees. I thought I’d grown since last time I tried it on, but I must have been imagining it.

  I’m going to pray to the gods right now to make me as big and strong as my brother.

  Well, that didn’t work. I’m still the same size. I’m not sure I prayed very well, though. I didn’t have an animal to offer so I thought a cabbage would have to do.

  Mum rus
hed in and told me off for wasting perfectly good food. That was so hypocritical I don’t know where to start.

  March XV

  Things are looking up at long, long last. Today’s the Ides of March, the day of the year we’re supposed to celebrate Mars, the god of war.

  I did my bit by running into my parents’ room, swinging Dad’s sword around and shouting, ‘I am a mighty warrior.’

  Dad leapt up and shielded the vase next to his bed. ‘Put that down, Dorkius,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll give you whatever you want. Just put the sword down.’

  ‘Whatever I want?’ I asked. ‘Alright then. Train me to be a noble hero.’

  When Dad came home this evening, he said he’d asked his old army friend Stoutus to train me in the art of combat.

  I’m going to meet Stoutus tomorrow. If he agrees to take me on, he’ll replace dull old Lucius as my tutor. I really hope he wants to teach me. Just imagine how tough I’ll be with all that training. I’ll be able to wipe out whole tribes of barbarians with a single slash of my sword.

  Mum reckons her chickens have warned that my combat training will end in tragedy. No, they haven’t. They just weren’t hungry … again.

  Dad said that the chickens might be right, but if he lets me train here, there will definitely be a tragedy. The entire villa, including the sacred chickens themselves, will be hacked to shreds.