“Where’s the attendant?”
The man who had been guarding the changing room had disappeared.
“There he is.” Patrick pointed at a man who had appeared in the entrance. Nick didn’t recognise him. Was he even the same guy who’d been on duty when they’d arrived? Nick realised he didn’t know. He hadn’t been paying any attention.
“Where are our clothes?”
Patrick’s voice was perhaps a bit too aggressive for a man who was naked.
“Someone must have taken them,” replied the attendant. He didn’t sound at all bothered. Then the edge of his lip curled upwards, and Nick realised it was a scam. “Citizens can buy replacements for a small fee.”
So that was it. Pay the fee, boys, or lose your dignity on the way home. Nick didn’t fancy the latter. But replacement clothes were probably going to be expensive. And that was their other problem. They had no money.
“How much?” asked Patrick. Others were now listening to the conversation. And more men were entering from the main door. But they weren’t undressing.
They were circling.
Nick found himself being shepherded closer to Patrick. It took far too long for it to dawn. It wasn’t a scam.
It was a trap.
The attendant grinned. “Citizens can buy replacements for a small fee.”
“You’ve already told me that.”
“You’re no citizen.”
Instinctively, Nick looked behind him. The circle of men had grown tighter, and the attendant’s face had lost its self-satisfied smile. His expression was grim.
Naked or not, it was time to leave. “Let’s go,” he whispered. “As quickly as we can.”
“No,” said Patrick. He still didn’t seem aware of the danger. His attention was focused on the attendant. He’d not noticed the other bathers starting to scramble. Grabbing their clothes and running for the door. “Do you realise who we are?”
“Patrick!”
Nick grabbed the translator’s arm, spinning him round. But the men wouldn’t have let them run anyway. Without a spoken order, they lunged forward – some aiming at Nick, others for Patrick. It didn’t take long to wrestle them both to the floor.
Nick tried to resist but couldn’t. Two men held his shoulders. Another couple sat on his lower thighs, holding his ankles. Slowly, his legs were pulled out into a “V”.
To one side, from where Patrick was being held, Nick heard a voice. It was a smooth, controlled tone, which barely echoed around the chamber.
“The Greeks believed that, when Uranus was overthrown, they cut his balls off with a sickle and cast them into the sea.”
Nick immediately tried to wrench himself free but couldn’t. He felt the thump-thump-thump of his heart, but no amount of adrenaline was going to shift the weight now pushing down on him. His entire body had been locked down. All except his genitals.
“And from his blood and semen, the whole gamut of life erupted from the oceans, and a new era was born…”
The thug holding his right shoulder grinned down at him just as the speaker appeared in his line of sight. He was holding a small metallic blade, which looked a lot like one of the strigils used in the steam room. Not unlike a sickle.
The man disappeared from view. Back to Patrick.
“Some people here think of you as gods,” he continued. “They think you saved us from the mountain. But I don’t think this is Olympus… and your shrivelled, wet dicks don’t look too godly to me. So should we see what happens when we throw your balls into the water? Will any new life spring forth?”
“You’re all going to die for this!”
Patrick. Nick ignored him. They were in no position to make threats. “Let’s just talk this through, okay?” His voice sounded weak – his chest squeezed by the pressure on his shoulders. The man with the sickle came and stood over him. He leered down.
“And what do you have to say to me?”
A few lines of argument came to mind. He rejected most of them. “We’re not like you,” he admitted. “We’re not from Pompeii, and we’re not Romans. But we never claimed to be gods…”
The man knelt down in front and below him – inside the “V” of his legs – the sickle resting on his knee. “Go on…”
“We can give you money,” said Nick. “What do you want? To be aedile? Duumvir? We can arrange that.”
“Nice speech, Cicero; but I don’t believe it.” The man reached forward and grabbed Nick’s balls. Bunching them between his thumb and forefinger. Squeezing and stretching.
The vessels connecting to his testicles pulled tight. Nick opened his mouth to scream, but couldn’t. The man slid the curve of the sickle underneath him. He lifted the blade a couple of centimetres, allowing the edge to bite into the underside of Nick’s balls. Nick felt them trying to contract. But they couldn’t go anywhere. And it just made the pain worse.
“Wait…” Nick whispered. The hammering in his chest was getting louder. He heard the first few missed beats as his heart started to motor like it was running low on gas. He swallowed dryly, and registered blotches of red and purple in his vision. He was going to die. They wouldn’t just stop at emasculating him. They were going to kill him. Make an example of him. Probably drag his neutered body through the streets so everybody could see there was nothing to fear from the men of Augustus.
The sickle lifted higher. Nick sensed the deepening of the initial cut, but only allowed himself the merest grimace. He felt blood running down between his thighs. His head lolled. He was about to faint, and tried not to shake. It wouldn’t take much now. Perhaps just one flick of this psycho’s wrist.
“Do you have anything to say to me, god?”
Nick opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. His head was swimming, and he didn’t have anything to say. He couldn’t see the corners of the room. Didn’t know if there was any CCTV. And without his belt, he couldn’t call for help.
Nick could feel a small pool of blood forming around him. But the man suddenly hesitated; looking at his men and then skyward. Nick’s heart continued to pound, but suddenly he understood. They weren’t sure.
They weren’t sure he wasn’t a god, and that there wouldn’t be some divine retribution. Nick looked at the men holding him down. They were all staring at their boss, clearly uncertain. He might still have a chance. He just needed to work out what to say…
But as he opened his mouth, the man reached forward with his free hand, and touched Nick’s bruised cheek.
“You can be injured,” the man said, his tone still calm.
“Stop,” said Nick, suddenly finding his voice. But the men holding him down were no longer fearful. Whelan’s smoke and mirrors had suddenly dissipated, even though the steam from the bathing chambers seemed to be encircling them.
“Please stop,” he said again, closing his eyes.
“Do you hear me? You’re all going to fucking die for this!”
Patrick. In his terror, the translator had shouted in English. The man with the sickle looked puzzled – not understanding the words, but hearing their venom. He pulled the sickle away. Nick opened his eyes just as the changing room filled with the sound of Patrick’s screams.
It stopped almost as soon as it had started. The poor bastard had probably lost consciousness. Nick turned his head, trying to see, but not quite pulling Patrick into view. It would be his turn next. He’d only been granted a temporary reprieve. Around him, the thin, hazy wisps of steam were getting thicker. But above the beating of his heart came a new sound: sandals on tiles, and metal on flesh.
Shouting. Screaming. Confusion.
Vengeance.
There were no longer any men holding him down.
It took a while for Nick to respond. He flailed on the floor, and then pushed himself to his feet – glancing down at the bloody mess in his groin and then dumbly towards where Patrick had been.
The translator was hidden by a scrum of men. Nick stumbled forward, but a man grabbed his wrist. Whelan.
> The Chief Operating Officer looked him straight in the eye. There was no sympathy, only pure, unadulterated anger.
“Harris,” he said. “What do you know about a man called Harris?”
50
THE DRIVE FROM Cambridge to London was a long one. Kirsten stared out of the window. Harris didn’t try to engage her in conversation. He stared ahead and concentrated on the road.
For the first time in years, Kirsten felt herself relax. She breathed out slowly and settled back against the headrest. It was a trip she used to make by train, visiting her parents…
Kirsten sprang forward in her seat. Her parents had lived in Hammersmith. But where would they be living now?
“What’s the matter?”
“I was just thinking about my parents.”
“You’ve been floating in that bathtub for the best part of thirty years.”
“They’ll be in their seventies now.” Harris didn’t respond. “My sister will be nearly fifty.”
“I’ll take you to them when we’re done,” he said. “One more day won’t matter.”
Kirsten nodded, uncertain.
“We’re nearly there,” Harris continued. “Don’t beat yourself up. It wasn’t your fault.”
Kirsten didn’t answer. She turned back to the window. They had reached Cambridge’s outer suburbs quicker than she’d expected. In thirty years the city had sprawled – what had once been out-of-town shopping centres were now surrounded by new houses. The shops looked like they’d seen better times; many were shuttered, or had large “sale” signs in their windows. She half expected Harris to provide some commentary about what had happened while she’d been away, but he remained silent. The first real landmark she recognised was the botanic garden.
“You didn’t use to be able to drive this way,” she said. “It was for buses.”
“No longer needed, now so few people drive.” Harris paused, as if contemplating further explanation. “It’s an expensive way to travel.” He pushed down on the accelerator and nudged his way onto the last stretch of road before the motorway.
Kirsten looked in the wing mirror. Somehow, she knew she’d never be coming back.
51
NICK WOKE. HE opened his eyes and immediately registered the pain between his legs. He reached down and felt rough stitches.
His stomach heaved. He waited for the feeling to pass, and then allowed himself a hysterical giggle. At school he’d been hit in the groin by a cricket ball. As he’d lain prone on the ground, with his mates laughing all around him, his teacher had shouted, “Don’t rub them! Count them!”
So Nick counted. One. Two.
His testicles felt about three times larger than they should have – but they were both there. He was still intact. The relief almost overwhelmed him.
From the décor, he was back at the control villa. He tried to remember the events following the attack, but they were a haze. He tasted vomit at the back of his throat. He struggled to swallow, and rolled on to his side. The movement pushed his right leg against his wound and he quickly rolled back, trying to find a position that wouldn’t cause him any more pain.
There was a breakfast tray on the bedside cabinet. A croissant, a pot of jam and some fruit juice. Nothing that needed to be heated. Probably placed there so he could wake up at any time, and didn’t have to go stumbling about the villa looking for something to eat.
Beside the tray lay his tablet computer. On it was a handwritten Post-it note: This is what we did.
He really didn’t want to know.
* * *
When he next woke his room was bathed in the half-light of either twilight or dawn. How much time had passed? He pushed himself up in bed. Tried to ignore the pain.
He didn’t know how many people Whelan had in the villa, or if any of them had visited him while he’d slept. The cold breakfast still lay on the bedside table. As did the tablet and its little note. This is what we did.
Nick reached for the tablet and turned it on. The screen lit up. Whoever had left it for him had set it on a video file. For a moment, Nick hesitated. Did he really want to know?
No. No, not really. But he pressed play. The footage showed the interior of the Temple of Jupiter. Had they executed someone?
No. He was being shown yet more smoke and mirrors. A small crowd had gathered inside the temple, not on its steps as would be normal practice. In his short time in New Pompeii, he hadn’t found time to go inside the largest of the religious sites. The temple interior was dominated by three statues – Jupiter at the centre, with the goddesses Minerva and Juno on either side. They looked down over their subjects, reminding Nick of the Lincoln Memorial. The gods were watching a man in a chainmail suit.
From the size of him, it must have been Whelan. Sure enough, as the video continued, he was the only NovusPart man missing from the rest of the group. McMahon was to one side with Astridge. In the crowd stood Barbatus and Naso, surrounded by well-dressed Pompeians. Probably the townsfolk who commanded a vote. There were no women in the crowd. He didn’t see the man who’d tried to mutilate him. Nick focused on Whelan. A chainmail suit. He guessed what was about to happen before he saw it. Chainmail. Smoke and mirrors.
Electricity.
Sure enough, from the four corners of the temple shot sudden streams of lightning. Whelan reached out with his arms and seemed to catch it. The electrical charge spiralled around his arms, passing harmlessly over his body.
A Faraday cage.
Even to a modern audience, the trick was pretty spectacular. And it gave a very strong message to support their claim to god-like powers: just like Jupiter, Whelan had the power over the most frightening force in the ancient world. Even if the people working for him had been shown to be mortal.
Nick felt a sudden surge of rage. He flung the tablet across the room. It hit the wall opposite, but dropped – somewhat disappointingly – undamaged to the floor.
For a few seconds, Nick’s chest heaved. Then his rage turned to confusion. A sound came from deep within the villa; one that confirmed he wasn’t alone.
A baby crying. It was an incongruous sound. Whose baby was it?
He suddenly couldn’t move. He looked over at the discarded tablet. A Faraday cage.
He swore. The attempt to reinstate NovusPart’s smoke and mirrors policy may well have worked. But it had also brought into clear focus the town’s failed premise.
He’d been told he’d have the opportunity to walk the streets of a living, breathing Roman town. To speak with real Romans, and to find out how they’d lived. But that wasn’t what NovusPart had achieved. They’d simply taken a group of people and made their superstitions real. Which meant the town’s religious practices had been altered. It meant no one had wanted to talk to him as they might a neighbour. And it meant men jealous of their power had tried to remove it with a sickle.
So, yes, he could write a thesis. But it would only ever be about what happened to the people of Pompeii after they’d been transported. Not how they lived before the eruption. You can’t measure something without changing it.
“You’re awake.”
Whelan was standing in the doorway, his features taut. “Yes,” Nick said, feeling his throat tighten.
What do you know about a man called Harris?
“You saw the video?” Whelan asked. Now he was away from Pompeii, he’d taken the opportunity to wear modern clothing. However, the neatly pressed shirt and chinos indicated he wasn’t in the mood for relaxing.
Nick nodded.
“Good. You’ll be pleased to know it had the necessary effect. The man behind the plot – someone who evidently failed to be elected aedile – has been handed over to us by your friend, Barbatus.”
“What will happen to him?”
“I’m not sure yet.” There was a glint in Whelan’s eye. It suggested that, whatever he had planned, he was going to enjoy it. And Nick guessed the man wasn’t going to get much of a trial. Not even a Roman one. Because out here, NovusP
art could pretty much act how they wanted. Their word was law; and there was no accountability. They truly had the power of the caesars.
“Thank you for letting me know,” Nick said, his voice wavering. He hesitated. What do you know about a man called Harris? “So what does this mean for the town?”
“It means nothing.” Whelan’s smile disappeared. In the background the baby was crying. Nick wished it would stop. “It means NovusPart has suffered an accident and we’ve taken appropriate action.” Whelan took a few steps into the room. “I take it you’re not going to sue us?”
The power of the caesars. “No.”
“Good.” Whelan was silent for a moment. Nick knew what was coming. “I need to ask you something. McMahon’s pretty pissed off about it.”
The baby’s cries were getting louder. Like it needed its mother.
“What do you know about a man called Harris?”
Nick shifted on the bed, his legs bumping into his bruised genitals. The resulting wince of pain hid what might have been an incriminatory reaction. “Nothing,” he said.
Whelan mulled this over. It wasn’t clear if he believed him or not. “Did you meet anybody from the government before you came here?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I was trying my best not to tell anybody about this. Not my friends. Not my father.”
“That’s what I told McMahon.” The muscles in Whelan’s brow remained tense. He didn’t look convinced. A drilling pain erupted in Nick’s right temple.
“I think I’m just about okay to travel,” he said. “I take it I’ll be flown out on the next helicopter?”
“No,” replied Whelan. “You’re staying here.”
Nick hesitated. Considered the illusion around him; and knew it wasn’t anything but smoke and mirrors. “I want to leave.”
“No,” replied Whelan, his tone firm. “Not yet.”
Again, Nick hesitated. Although the swelling was starting to subside, his stitches didn’t look all that professional. And he didn’t even want to think about the possibility of infection. Gangrene. “I need to get to a hospital,” he said.
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