Empire of Time
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Contents
Cover
Praise for New Pompeii
Also by Daniel Godfrey and available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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Acknowledgements
About the Author
PRAISE FOR NEW POMPEII
“An intriguing spin on the Westworld/Jurassic Park template, this marks Godfrey out as an author to watch.”
FINANCIAL TIMES (BOOKS OF THE YEAR)
“Full of mind-twisting time paradoxes, this conspiracy thriller is a remarkably promising debut.”
MORNING STAR (BOOKS OF THE YEAR)
“Should fill a void in the hearts of many a Michael Crichton reader: a story so irresistibly entertaining, it should be accompanied by a bottomless bucket of popcorn.”
BARNES & NOBLE
“A rollicking adventure in the well-researched but page-turning style of Michael Crichton.”
THE SUN
“The historical detail is impressive, the mystery is interesting, and there’s a chewy time-travel puzzle for fans of the genre.”
SFX
“Fascinating, cleverly wrought, intelligent and occasionally brutal. A thrillingly original take on the time travel genre.”
TIM LEBBON, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
“A high-concept thriller that brings ancient Rome crashing into the present day. Smart, inventive and action-packed.”
TOM HARPER, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE LOST TEMPLE
“An impressive debut. A smart, intriguing thriller in the tradition of Michael Crichton and Philip K. Dick.”
GARETH L. POWELL, BSFA AWARD WINNER
Also by Daniel Godfrey and available from Titan Books
NEW POMPEII
THE SYNAPSE SEQUENCE (JUNE 2018)
EMPIRE
OF
TIME
DANIEL
GODFREY
TITAN BOOKS
Empire of Time
Print edition ISBN: 9781785653155
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785653162
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: June 2017
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2017 Daniel Godfrey
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission 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 being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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FOR SARAH, DAVID, JAMES AND ROBERT
“Turn thy thoughts now to the consideration of thy life, thy life as a child, as a youth, thy manhood, thy old age, for in these also every change was a death. Is this anything to fear?”
MARCUS AURELIUS, EMPEROR OF ROME
1
NovusPart Research Labs, Cambridge, prior to the construction of New Pompeii
MARK WHELAN LEANT over the model and eyed the narrow streets. He took in the rough-hewn buildings of cork, plastic and plywood, and flashed a wide grin. Since he’d last seen it, Joe had pushed matchsticks into its surface. Presumably, they were meant to represent Romans. He flicked one and it toppled all too easily. Beside him, Harold McMahon gave a heavy sigh.
“Relax, Harold.”
“I’m not his damn slave.”
Whelan glanced across to where Joe Arlen sat with his back to them, working at his computer. He hadn’t even acknowledged their presence, but he knew they were there. After all, knowing who had crossed his path – and when – was fast becoming Joe’s specialism.
“Just be patient,” Whelan said, turning back to the model. Nothing was quite at the right scale, but it represented what they’d been working towards for months. Their grand vision of the future, and the way by which they could control it. He noted one of Joe’s more obscure dictums had now been chalked around the edge of the model: The Master of Pompeii will become the Emperor of Time.
“Joe,” said McMahon, his voice heavy, “we’ve all got things to be doing.”
Arlen stiffened in his seat. Whelan hoped he would just go back to his computer. He didn’t.
“There was a girl in those lectures with Professor Jackson,” Arlen said.
Shit, thought Whelan. This again. Professor Jackson. A man so insignificant his telephone number had once been left off the department directory. And yet for Arlen he was suddenly important, because Joe now apparently needed to trace everyone he’d ever met. It was his new obsession. “We’ve identified all the female students,” Whelan said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “There weren’t many of them, were there?”
Arlen turned, and Whelan felt an immediate wave of pity. In many ways, Joe remained as when they’d first met. A guy who’d managed to keep hold of his teenage looks, even though he was much older. And yet his eyes were now red-rimmed, and the fresh-faced excitement of youth had been replaced with frustration and anger.
“No, not a student,” Arlen said. “An assistant. She was helping Jackson. Maybe a post-grad.”
Whelan didn’t respond, but McMahon couldn’t help himself. “I think I remember,” he said. “Yes, didn’t we see them in a restaurant together? You know? That Thai place down by the river?”
Fucking great. Whelan tensed.
Arlen rose from his chair and walked over to them. “The Thai place?”
“Thai Palace,” said McMahon. He laughed. “Or was it an Indian? After all these years, I’m starting to forget. But she had bright red hair and the biggest…”
“No,” said
Arlen, suddenly quiet. He put both hands to his temples. “No,” he said again. “She was a brunette. Bangles and a perm. Those lectures were part of all this… and we need to record any possible point of intersection. Because if they were dating it means—”
McMahon grunted. “Jesus, Joe. I was kidding…”
“What?”
“I was kidding about seeing them together,” McMahon continued. “You think an old guy and a girl that good-looking? He wasn’t exactly rich, was he?”
Avoiding Arlen’s glare, Whelan again looked down at the table. He waited for the screaming fit that would surely follow. But it didn’t come. Instead, he noticed a soft white mist start to mingle around their feet. He kicked at it, but the swirls reformed until it looked like he was standing in snow.
And then he knew he was going to die.
Strangely he didn’t try to fight it. Arlen had once predicted his “transportations” would be accompanied by a change in atmospheric pressure. Just enough to spill the moisture from the air before a person was pulled into the future.
He knew that when he woke up – thirty years from now – he wouldn’t have long to live. Maybe he’d get to look Arlen in the face again before a gladiator killed him. Or maybe Arlen would strike the blow personally. After all, that’s what he’d talked about. Even though Joe had first said it as a joke. An off-hand remark to win some petty argument with Harold.
Whelan fixed his eyes on the model. He saw the matchstick men, their red bobbled heads, and wondered why he’d agreed to so much madness. Arlen started to hurl abuse at McMahon. But, almost as soon as it started, the shouting stopped. Arlen vanished.
Whelan waited a few long minutes before speaking. “You saw it too?”
McMahon nodded, then started to retch.
The mist had gone, the implications obvious and immediate: Arlen had been stolen from time, and there were now just two of them left. Carefully, Whelan picked up one of the matches from the model. He snapped it between his fingers, relief flooding through him. McMahon broke into hysterical laughter.
“Thirty years,” Whelan said, slowly. “Our first paradox. So do you think it was me who did it to him, or you?”
McMahon continued to laugh. He didn’t even try to answer.
“So much for New Pompeii.”
Slowly bringing himself back under control, McMahon shook his head. He wiped the slightest trace of saliva from his lips. “It may still have its uses.”
2
New Pompeii, fifteen years after the fall of NovusPart
“SHE KNOWS I’M here?”
The slave on the door nodded. He remained standing at the side of his cubbyhole, his expression close to a smirk. Two guards flanked him.
Decimus Horatius Pullus hoisted his satchel further onto his shoulder. The sooner he could get this over with, the sooner he could get back to his own villa and be done with it all.
A few female slaves darted past him, heading towards the outer courtyards. Their urgency indicated they must be on their way to their mistress. One carried a towel, so perhaps Calpurnia was swimming. He glanced back at the porter and the two guards. The porter grinned at him.
“I need to speak with her,” Pullus said.
“Habitus will be along in a few minutes.”
Pullus sighed, his satchel pulling again on his shoulder. Other than the three men at the door, the main atrium of Calpurnia’s villa was empty. Four Corinthian columns jutted up from the corners of the central impluvium to support the roof, and each wall was covered with a sequential panoramic view of the forum in Rome.
The fine frescos couldn’t hide the fact he’d been given the cold shoulder by Calpurnia. Pullus needed to explain things. But first he’d have to negotiate with Habitus. From somewhere deep in the villa came a metallic sound, almost like the slow drip of water. Which meant young Marcus was getting another lesson in swordplay. Habitus could be some time.
That was all he needed to know. He waited – just long enough for the porter and the two guards to take their collective attention away from him – then ran. Ignoring the porter’s shouts, he continued quickly past a small interior grotto, and made his way out into a larger room, the walls of which were covered in a sweeping depiction of Pompeii’s old harbour. If this had been a townhouse, then the decor would have marked out a tablinum. But this was a room for pleasure, not business.
Calpurnia’s son Marcus and his bodyguard, the frumentarius Appius Hostilius Habitus, circled each other in the centre of the room. Both their faces were set with concentration, and both held real swords – not wooden training ones – ahead of them and ready.
The porter appeared in pursuit, and Pullus was pleased to see he had lost his smirk.
“I told him to wait!”
Habitus ignored the man, who slunk back to his post, and broke off from his training. He walked towards Pullus with his eyes narrowed as if trying to work out a puzzle. Behind him, the boy looked disappointed his fun had been interrupted.
“Pullus,” Habitus said. “We weren’t expecting you for another day or so.”
Pullus frowned. Whilst Marcus’s tunic was drenched in sweat, Habitus hardly seemed out of breath. Calpurnia’s chief bodyguard didn’t appear outwardly athletic. The guards at the door easily out-muscled him but, then again, Calpurnia didn’t employ him to strike any blows. At least, not personally.
Pullus had found Calpurnia’s bodyguard not long after the fall of NovusPart. He hadn’t particularly stood out from amongst the other men in the slave market. Being of average height, and slight build, he’d not been highly valued, especially given the focus on getting manpower to the many farms surrounding New Pompeii. Habitus had simply been unlucky. Visiting the town at the time of the eruption and without any friends, it hadn’t taken long for him to fall into slavery. Yet when Pullus had asked him what he was doing in Pompeii, the academic centres of his brain had all fired in unison.
Grain. Habitus had been ordered to Pompeii from Rome to check on the supply of grain.
Of course, that wasn’t the truth. But the words had caused them both to lock eyes, and it was clear in that moment that they’d both known. And so Pullus had been happy to pay the price. Because keeping watch on the grain supply was often used as a cover for other activities. And Pullus guessed a frumentarius – an Imperial spy – was worth much more over the long term than a simple farm labourer. Unfortunately, Calpurnia and her father had agreed, and taken him for their own household.
“You’ve progressed from the wooden swords?”
Habitus shrugged. “Skill from wood, weight from metal,” he said.
Marcus was sitting in the tablinum, gulping down water and wiping his forehead with a rag. The boy looked shattered. But although the sword he held looked that bit too big for him, his shoulders were starting to broaden. He’d soon be able to bear the weight of it for longer sessions.
“It seems risky.”
“I’m aware that the gods don’t protect us as they do you”.
Pullus caught a momentary scowl passing over Marcus’s face at Habitus’s words. It was clear what the boy was thinking. Pullus had seen it in the eyes of most Romans who’d witnessed the event or heard the story: The gladiator who tried to kill Decimus Horatius Pullus had simply disappeared as he’d been about to strike the killing blow.
“And you’ve finished reading your Beard?” Pullus said to Marcus.
Marcus put down his cup. “Nearly…”
“I take it you haven’t started?”
Marcus looked towards Habitus. But the bodyguard knew better than to get involved.
“Well?”
“I can’t see the point of learning about our failures,”
Marcus said. “I like Suetonius better. I’m on to the Emperor Tiberius now!”
“Your mother—”
Marcus issued a deep, heartfelt sigh. Pullus quickly suppressed a smile. Being a teenager remained universal. Something about the frustration of being so near independence, and yet so far.
For Pullus, that feeling had lasted long into his early twenties. Being a Roman boy, Marcus would at least become his own man much sooner.
“Your mother,” Pullus continued, “thinks there are lessons in Mary Beard’s work that will help you avoid the mistakes of the past.”
“But you don’t, do you?”
Pullus grimaced. “We’ll unpick the detail in our lessons.”
“Suetonius—”
“I need to speak with Habitus,” Pullus said, aware his tone was a little too sharp. It reminded him of the teachers who’d irritated him as a student. “We can catch up with your studies later.”
The boy gave another sigh. But after a further show of procrastination, he left. Habitus chuckled. “He’s strong willed,” he said. “Like his mother.”
“She still won’t see me?”
“No.”
Pullus pulled at his satchel, dislodging dirt from the folds of his tunic. He desperately needed to wash and remove the residue of his travels. “I need to speak with her. It’s important.”
“You can speak with me.”
Pullus hesitated. After the fall of NovusPart, he’d been seen as a useful gateway between the Romans and the outside world. Their de facto ambassador. But now there was less and less for him to do when he flew back and forth between New Pompeii and Naples. Which meant his other role as her son’s teacher had become more important, and it remained his one link to Calpurnia.
“Pullus,” repeated Habitus, softly. “You can speak with me. But she won’t see you.”
“She still won’t leave the villa?”
Habitus shook his head. “No. She feels safe here.”
“The people of Pompeii need to see her. If only occasionally—”
Habitus issued a short barking laugh. “And when was the last time you were in town?” he asked. “You spend almost as much time at your villa as she does here.”
The frumentarius had a point, and Pullus didn’t try to argue. It felt a long time since he’d experienced the excitement of first arriving at New Pompeii. But it was so much more comfortable at his villa, away from the crowds and the increasing numbers of people that appeared to want to worship him down at the Temple of Fortuna Augusta. The man whom the gods had protected from the gladiator. The man who couldn’t be killed.