New Pompeii

by Daniel Godfrey

  Whelan nodded. Nick returned his attention to the town wall. At one spot the scorching was less severe, and the natural grey of the stone was almost visible. It seemed to mark out the shape of a man. Although too small to make out clearly, a few dots of colour and cloth indicated that people were kneeling in front of it. “What’s that?”

  Whelan leant forward and smiled. “That’s where Augustus Caesar stood when he deflected Vulcan’s power.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s part of the smoke and mirrors. Good spot, by the way – most people miss it. We got the idea from Hiroshima.”

  The Hiroshima shadows: where people’s bodies had momentarily protected the surfaces behind them from the flash-burn of the world’s first nuclear attack. In some ways, a grisly phenomenon to match Pompeii’s own plaster casts. But whereas the plaster casts were just something to be gawped at by tourists, here people were kneeling in front of the northern wall like they’d found the spot where Christ had risen. So did they actually believe the restoration of the town was the work of Augustus Caesar?

  As they drew closer to the town they started to pass people standing by the side of the road. Romans. Nick tried not to stare. Each face was intent, watching the food convoy as it passed. Some approached, but the armed escort pushed them back.

  “You don’t stop them leaving the town’s walls?”

  “How can we?” Whelan shifted on the bench, looking out towards the town wall. “It’s not a prison. But where can they go? We own all the land around here, and the perimeter alarms warn us if anyone gets too far. We shoo them back with nothing more than the power of a Roman army uniform and a loaf of bread. You could describe them as being our flock – and they’re sheep that are pretty damn scared of the imperial eagle.”

  Nick nodded. They were rolling towards a stone gatehouse consisting of three archways – the largest at the centre.

  A handful of pedestrians wandered ahead of them – back and forth – through the archway on the left. However, Nick’s attention was being drawn to the solid, square tower looming to one side.

  “I take it you control the towers and the curtain wall?”

  Whelan shrugged. “Don’t worry, Nick. We’re perfectly safe. You won’t need to leap to Mrs Astridge’s rescue.”

  “I should hope not,” said Maggie, who had woken up.

  Nick didn’t appreciate the humour but before he could reply he was forced to make a grab for the side of the wagon. The convoy was coming to a halt. From the unordered deceleration and protest from the mules, it didn’t look like the driver had expected to slow down so soon.

  Nick looked past Whelan’s shoulder. A short, fat man had appeared from the gatehouse, and was blocking the way. He wore a tight, badly fitting scarlet tunic, and he spoke in a loud voice with his head raised, not looking directly at the convoy. Rather, he was looking upwards and away – as if the convoy’s business was somehow beneath him.

  “No wagons are allowed inside the town walls between sunrise and sunset,” he shouted. “By the order of the aediles.”

  Ah, not beneath him. Now Nick understood the man’s strange posture. He was just some unfortunate soul who’d been instructed to repeat a proclamation. But Whelan clearly wasn’t in the mood to receive orders. He started to get down from the wagon and signalled for Nick to follow. The two cavalrymen brought their horses forward to flank them. Time to put the power of a Roman military uniform to the test.

  Whelan came to within a few inches of the fat Roman before turning to Nick. “What did he just say?”

  Nick repeated the proclamation in English. “Presumably, you know the aediles? The magistrates in charge of running the town?”

  “Yes,” said Whelan. “They report to us, as does the duumvir. But I wasn’t aware of any new rules.”

  Nick felt a bubble of frustration burst inside him. Aediles. And their de facto bosses, the duoviri. All already elected and in position. He needed to get to grips with how this version of the town was set up and fast. “Well this seems to be one of their customs officials,” he said. “Checking goods into and out of the town.”

  A slight wobble of fear rippled around the official’s jowls. He kept glancing at Whelan or, more specifically, at the black leather wrist-guard covering his forearm. Why did he seem scared by it?

  “Ask him if he knows who we are.”

  Nick followed the instruction. The official stammered a positive response.

  “Good,” said Whelan. “Tell him we want to get past.”

  Nick hesitated. He needed to make an impression. Needed to show he could be useful. “Isn’t this just them getting back to normal?” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Or is it your intention to micro-manage things?”

  Whelan glowered, then relaxed. “Good point,” he said and turned back to the wagon. Astridge was staring at them. The architect looked sullen. He would clearly just have pushed past if he’d been on his own. “We’ll walk the rest of the way,” shouted Whelan. “The guards can wait here with the convoy until it’s allowed in.”

  Nick translated Whelan’s order for the customs official. The fat man immediately broke into a relieved smile and gave a short bow. Not that Whelan noticed. He was already heading through the gate and into the town.

  20

  APART FROM THE odd pedestrian, the gatehouse was quiet. Nick had expected more bustle, but the first buildings they passed looked derelict. A few were little more than piles of rubble, covered with canvas. Others looked like taverns and food stalls that had simply not been reoccupied. Nick glanced back to the road leading out of town. Perhaps without a continuous stream of trade, they’d been permanently abandoned.

  “This isn’t one of the more interesting approaches,” explained Astridge, who was walking with his wife while Noah ran ahead. He wasn’t addressing anyone in particular, but rather gesticulating at the buildings in the manner of a tour guide. “If we’d orientated things a bit differently, we’d enter via the forum… It’s something we’re thinking about changing.”

  They’d entered the town by one of the central gates along the northern wall. If Nick had been in the real Pompeii, he’d have called it the Vesuvius Gate. And yet they’d not travelled past a volcano. Because there wasn’t one. And this wasn’t the real Vesuvius Gate.

  Shit. He needed to get the real Pompeii out of his mind. If he was going to be of use to Whelan then he couldn’t just rattle off familiar information, because it was now suspect. And if the design manual was anything to go by, then “Augustus Caesar” had made use of many different bits and pieces of Roman architecture to repair as much of the town as he could following the eruption.

  Picking up his pace, Nick tried to catch up with Whelan. The man was clearly in a hurry. Fortunately, the road was almost dead straight and, from the plans he’d seen, ran all the way to the southern wall. Indeed, he could just about make out the Stabian Gate on the other side of the town. Or what would have been the Stabian Gate. If he’d been in Pompeii.

  Nick cursed and wiped sweat from his brow. Even though he was no longer walking in direct sunlight, it was baking hot. According to the plans he’d seen at the villa, the streets between the gatehouses were the widest in the town, but they were still only about three metres across. Alleyways leading off them were narrower still. All in all, the street plan created plenty of shade between the buildings. There was just no movement of air to cool things down. The roads themselves, though, were a good match to those found in the Pompeii he knew – right down to the trademark high kerbs and narrow pavements. They made no sense in a modern town, but here they seemed perfect.

  He instantly felt better. He was really here, surrounded by real Romans. What did it matter if the scenery wasn’t perfect? He inhaled deeply – and quickly regretted it. The ash and volcanic black rock of the pavement hid a layer of litter, which had accumulated along the kerb edge and was starting to spread like a web across the road. The further into the town they walked, the more there was: matted stra
w, rotten food, and animal dung. The smell started to get worse. Piss and shit. Some of it likely human.

  The unpleasant smell brought to mind the city drawings. Astridge had stayed true to Roman plumbing – which probably meant only the grandest houses would have running water. Somewhere, possibly close, would be a communal toilet where he’d be able to see the true face of Roman society. But, in the middle of the night, wouldn’t it be easier to sling your piss into the street than walk to the local convenience?

  Of course it would. Nick tried to focus on where he was putting his feet, but couldn’t stop his eyes wandering to the buildings that lined the street. The walls looked freshly painted, but they were already covered in a thin layer of soot and dust, as well as graffiti. Some were election slogans for candidates for the posts of aedile and duumvir. Others were nothing more than badly drawn phalluses.

  Nick broke into an involuntary schoolboy smirk. The real Pompeii was riddled with penises. Most academics argued they were just symbols of good luck or good fortune; others said they pointed in the direction of the nearest brothel. Maybe he could catch someone actually drawing one, and ask them just what the hell they thought they were doing.

  “Come on, Nick!”

  The others were waiting for him about fifty metres ahead. Noah was waving at him to come along. Maggie was examining her sandals with obvious disgust. She scraped them against the high kerb while Noah, bored of waiting, ran ahead again, pointing at everything and shouting their names.

  The kid’s in Disneyland, Nick thought. And, despite everything, aren’t I?

  * * *

  To modern eyes, the entrance to the House of McMahon looked unwelcoming. It certainly didn’t appear to be a residential property. Its whitewashed façade was tall and narrow, and it had no windows apart from tiny slits, which sat just below the red slope of its roof. It could have been a prison but for two features: an open doorway leading into a dim corridor, and a couple of small shops operating from cubicles on either side of the main entrance.

  Whelan and Astridge strode through the doorway. Maggie hesitated at the threshold, as if suddenly uncertain, but Noah pulled her forward. Nick hung back to examine the terracotta pottery and jewellery fronting one of the gloomy shops. He couldn’t make out the stallholder in the dark interior.

  “Nick!”

  At Noah’s shout Nick drew himself away and stepped into the corridor. It immediately felt cool after the heat of the street. He noticed that the entrance could be blocked using a solid oak panel. Presumably it was swung across to close the house up at night. During the day, however, the door to the House of McMahon was left unlocked. But that didn’t mean it was unguarded.

  Looking down, Nick chuckled. The floor of the passageway was lined with an intricate mosaic of a big, black hound. Underneath were written the words of warning that had served property owners well for at least two thousand years. Cave canem. Beware of the dog.

  Nick stepped over it and out into a square atrium. A shallow pool dominated the centre of the space, and the soft patter of its fountain was enough to mask the bustle of the street beyond. Overall, it looked like a pretty good match for the idealised townhouse drawn from the ruins of Pompeii – except the paintings lining the walls gave a rather vivid depiction of the eruption of Vesuvius rather than the more typical idyllic scene. Perhaps to scare the locals when they came visiting.

  The pool – the impluvium – had been positioned directly below an opening in the roof, which allowed in both light and presumably rainwater. A staircase in the far corner of the atrium led upwards to the balconied first storey above. There were several rooms off the atrium itself; if this was modelled on a typical Roman townhouse then at least one of these would be the triclinium, the dining room, and the one opposite the front door would be the tablinum, the place where a Roman man conducted business. That in turn would lead into the peristylium, an open-air courtyard with a garden at its centre surrounded by a peristyle or open colonnade, off which would be the kitchen. Eager to find out, he started to walk around the atrium.

  “Hey!”

  Nick turned at the sudden bark. A stocky man was addressing him in English. Presumably a NovusPart employee, despite his tunic. Nick realised that Whelan and the Astridges had remained close to the entrance. What had he done wrong?

  Cave canem. The dog at the door.

  “It’s okay,” said Whelan, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Dr Houghton is just exploring his new environment.”

  “Well, Dr Houghton can wait like everyone else. People don’t just wander in from the street.”

  Nick nodded apologetically and walked back to the others. He returned by way of the far side of the pool so that he could glance into the other rooms leading off from the atrium. Most were small, and appeared to be bedrooms. Maybe one of them would turn out to be his.

  The porter coughed loudly, as if to make a point. Nick followed the man’s stare downwards. He realised he was standing at the end of a trail of dirt. The rest of the group had all removed their sandals. They were now wearing leather flip-flops, which they’d taken from a pile by the entrance. Nick checked back along his path. Sure enough, he’d trodden detritus from the road into the atrium – and all the way around the pool.

  Astridge allowed himself a sneer. “So much for our historian. Ah, Harold!”

  Nick turned to find McMahon had entered from the garden. The NovusPart CEO didn’t offer a greeting. He was wearing a white toga, which contrasted starkly with his dyed black hair. At his shoulder was a much younger man – from his slight build and general demeanour, he looked to Nick like a fellow post-grad rather than security.

  “Good journey?” asked McMahon.

  “Yes, apart from the last few minutes,” Astridge said. “They’ve stopped wagons coming in during the day.” He glanced towards Whelan. “We decided to accept it.”

  “Good,” replied McMahon. He lumbered forward, shrugging his toga back up on to his flabby shoulder. It carried the purple stripe of a senator. “It was bloody chaos here when I turned up. My convoy got stuck behind a grain wagon. You’ve built the streets far too narrow!”

  “I’ve built the streets just as they are in Pompeii,” replied Astridge.

  Both men went silent. McMahon seemed to notice his new member of staff for the first time. Nick shifted his feet, uncomfortable under the man’s gaze. McMahon nodded at him. “Well now we can take advantage of some new advice.” The CEO didn’t seem aware of the mood that had swept over the room. “I have business to discuss with Mark. Patrick” – he indicated the young man beside him – “can give you your first tour of the town.”

  21

  “TO BE HONEST, I don’t know why you’re here.”

  Nick had barely stepped on to the road before Patrick made his first pointed observation. He decided not to respond. It was clear this guy’s nose had been put out of joint, and any effort spent trying to correct it would be wasted.

  “We don’t need another interpreter,” Patrick continued. “And the town is up and running. I don’t think we need any more historical advice either.”

  Nick didn’t say anything. It was clear Patrick was just out of university. They were probably about the same age – both belonged to the generation who’d left university when there were no jobs. A degree in a dead language probably hadn’t done much to help.

  “I was brought here to assist Professor Samson.”

  “Well, he’s not here.”

  “Do you know where he’s gone?”

  Patrick shrugged. “No. But as he didn’t get on with Astridge, it wasn’t much of a surprise.” He pointed to a nearby junction. “Well, where first, Dr Houghton?”

  Nick didn’t respond. The news that Professor Samson had left continued to rattle around his brain. Something wasn’t right. Finally he managed to bring his focus back. “How about the forum?”

  As they travelled further towards the civic centre, the number of buildings increased: shops, houses and taverns. He recog
nised a few from the design manual. As with the buildings near the Vesuvius Gate, most showed signs of damage, or were partly covered in white canvas to keep the heat and rain at bay. Others were simply piles of rubble.

  And then there were the people. He hadn’t taken much notice of the few they’d passed on the way to the House of McMahon, but now he couldn’t help but stare. Men, women and children buzzed past them. The variety of faces and the quality of their clothes matched the variation in the buildings. And the narrowness of the street funnelled all the activity together into a hubbub of heat and noise. He’d always thought the Roman way of mixing housing for the poor and rich together would be a good thing to see replicated in a modern city. But to be poor here must be terrible. Constantly reminded of the vast wealth of those living next door.

  “Overall, I think we’ve done a good job,” said Patrick, in English. A few pedestrians glanced in their direction, clearly detecting the strangeness of his words but saying nothing. “Though I’m sure you’ll be able to tell us otherwise.”

  Nick didn’t respond.

  “Sure, we have a few problems – but they’re getting less severe. The town will soon be self-sufficient and then we’ll be able to spend more time studying it, not just trying to fix it.”

  Nick nodded. He doubted the town would ever be self-sufficient, but he’d be pleased to be proven wrong.

  “Have you noticed their stature?”

  “Yes.”

  The Pompeians were short. Nick realised that he’d noted it subconsciously on their arrival, but as the crowd grew his own usually rather average height became more noticeable. Both he and Patrick were about half a foot taller than even the tallest Roman. The throng was also reasonably young; he spotted few faces that looked over forty, at least by modern standards, and the proportion of children and teenagers was high. And there was something else. The Pompeians were staring back at them. As they passed, clusters of people lowered their voices, glancing at them out of the corners of their eyes.