Empire of Time

by Daniel Godfrey

  “IWANT YOU TO accept the job offer you’ve been given.”

  “I already have…”

  “Then you’d better impress them,” said the guy. “Keep your nose clean, wait for me to contact you, and then maybe we can find out what they’re really doing in New Pompeii.”

  Nick nodded. But the man hadn’t finished. “There’s one other question,” he said. “One I can’t believe you haven’t asked yourself.”

  “All the others were transported,” said Nick. “Sucked into the future.”

  “They should have taken you. You were a threat that should have been eliminated.”

  “So why didn’t they?”

  “NovusPart can’t perform near-past transports. They have to wait thirty years. So the decision is going to be taken in the future, not the present. So at some point between now and then, you must affect the timeline in some way that means you can’t be moved.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s the mystery. And the interesting thing is: they probably don’t know themselves. Not yet. But it’s clear you’re no longer a pawn. You have value. And so they pull you close, Mr Houghton. Somewhere where they can keep an eye on you.”

  Nick hesitated. “You haven’t told me your name,” he said.

  “Everyone just calls me Harris.”

  * * *

  Pullus opened his eyes, the dream dissipating. The memory of his first encounter with Harris replayed in his mind. He wasn’t even sure he was remembering it correctly.

  But that wasn’t what had woken him. From somewhere deep in the house came sounds of movement, hushed voices. On any normal morning, the first noises came from the street: wagons making deliveries, shop shutters being swung open. But it was far too early.

  There was a soft knock on his bedroom door, and Galbo shuffled inside.

  “The boys are back, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Pullus rose and stretched, trying to remove some of the stiffness from his travels. His steward had already retrieved his tunic and sandals and handed them to him. “The duumvir?”

  Galbo nodded. “The convoy is on the move, heading to the Vesuvius Gate.”

  “Vesuvius? Not the Marine?”

  “No. Vesuvius. Primus is ready to escort you, sir. But I’d prefer it if you took me.”

  Pullus shook his head, pulling on his clothes. His satchel lay unopened beside his bed. He kicked it out of view. “I’ll go alone,” he said, waving away Galbo’s protests. The duumvir had reacted just as he thought he would: waiting until the middle of the night before making a hurried attempt to get the convoys back on the road. All it had taken was to ask his slave boys to watch for any sign of movement at Naso’s townhouse and report back to the House of McMahon.

  Pullus slipped down into his atrium, and then out onto the street. With the hour so early, it was all but deserted. Too late even for the most committed drunk to be awake, and yet still too early for the first workmen to have started the new day. He flicked on the small torch he’d brought with him.

  Primus, one of his crippled boys, watched him from the door, his withered arm held awkwardly at his side. The young slave didn’t pass comment on the blue-white light in his hand. The fact he could produce such a strong and permanent light was no longer surprising. It was one of the few things NovusPart had left behind that still functioned.

  Pullus headed past homes and shops that remained shuttered. When he’d still been masquerading as an academic – conducting interviews for a PhD he knew he’d never achieve – he’d quickly made a connection between the Roman and modern world. If the authorities wanted to do anything secretly, they did it at night, when the population weren’t just asleep, but were in no fit state to be awake. In the modern world, that was at about 4am. Here in New Pompeii, where there was no electric light or late evenings, it was somewhat earlier. Whilst everyone was slumbering, Naso would be seeing off his problem convoy.

  And Harris would be taken away with it.

  After a few streets, Pullus spotted a group of men, wagons and horses clustered just beyond the Vesuvius Gate. The duumvir stood at the centre, his accompanying bodyguards setting him apart from those working to get the convoy moving. Behind Naso were people in modern clothing. He recognised some of them. Many had been working on the convoys for so long they’d become familiar faces around town. And, in New Pompeii, a strange face always aroused suspicion.

  Pullus moved closer, letting the torch light up the street, tracing it along the high kerbs and stepping stones, giving warning of his approach. He didn’t want any swords drawn in alarm.

  “Pullus—”

  Pullus let the torch come to rest on the first wagon and eyed Naso. “Don’t you normally send them back during the day? And from the Marine Gate?”

  The duumvir took a long time to respond. The men behind him looked nervous. All that strength, and yet they remained frightened of a man carrying a torch. “I want your word that this will never happen again,” Naso said, his voice high and tight. “The convoys are mine, Pullus. And you’ll do me the courtesy of keeping your sickle out of my wheat!”

  Pullus took a deep breath. The old him might have said he couldn’t promise something he couldn’t control. But that was back then and, somewhere in the convoy, his past was waiting for him. “You have my word,” he said. “I just want to talk to him.”

  6

  THE FIGURE STANDING next to the wagon was almost unrecognisable as James Harris. Yes, they’d only met once, and under difficult circumstances. But Pullus suddenly realised he’d been expecting to meet the same man who’d yanked him off a London street all those years ago. Maybe older and a bit greyer, but the same man nonetheless. As it was, only the horn-rimmed spectacles were the same. He watched as Harris shifted them up past the bridge of his nose. He stood alone – a man withered down to a thin, brittle frame – shivering against an early morning chill that wasn’t even all that cold.

  The duumvir suddenly seemed to understand. “You really didn’t know he was coming, did you?”

  Pullus couldn’t bring himself to respond.

  “When he mentioned your name,” Naso continued, “we didn’t let him leave my house. Habitus already has men looking for him. It’s best to get rid of him.”

  Pullus nodded slowly. “Did he see anyone else whilst he was here?”

  “Not that we know of,” Naso answered. The duumvir gestured at a guard, who ushered Harris forward.

  “You seem to have done well for yourself, Nick.”

  English. Pullus was frozen by the sound. When was the last time someone had spoken to him in English in New Pompeii? One year ago? Two? Of course, the outsiders working the convoys used it, but that machine was now so well-oiled it no longer needed his direct involvement. He made sure to keep a good distance between himself and Harris, still thinking of their first meeting. The way he’d been pulled off the street and told the truth about New Pompeii and NovusPart.

  “Don’t worry,” continued Harris. “I haven’t threatened your biological containment.”

  Good, thought Pullus. A strict quarantine had been maintained around New Pompeii. One of the few features of NovusPart’s control that had been vital, but also something it had been initially hard for the Romans to fathom. Harris himself looked ill though, close to death.

  “You can’t catch cancer,” Harris said, his tone blunt. “Even the new kind.” He gestured at the sleeping town. “Some people here think you’re a god, don’t they?”

  “It’s not something I encourage.”

  “But you don’t enlighten them either, do you?” He grinned when Pullus didn’t respond. “I was unsure if you’d even be here. You left in quite a hurry, if rumour is right. I occasionally read reports of you heading in and out of Naples. I want you to know that I’m sorry you can never truly go home.”

  Pullus felt his cheeks burn. Most of his business with the outside world was conducted in Naples. An increasing number of European countries had announced he was no longer welcome, t
he travel bans supposedly imposed because of the Romans’ continued use of slavery, and their unwillingness to move to a different economic system. But the reason he couldn’t travel to England hadn’t been made public: too many trips to Cambridge to poke around in the remnants of NovusPart had started to arouse suspicion. Fortunately, Italy wasn’t quite ready to give up on a Roman society it considered its own. But his trips to Naples only provided a link to a world that was becoming less and less familiar with each visit. “This is my home,” Pullus said.

  “So you’re a Roman now, Nick. Is that it?” Harris’s voice was strong, and seemed at odds with the sunken flesh of his cheekbones. Pullus took a closer look at the man who’d threatened him all those years ago. He did a few quick calculations in his head. Harris must be in his mid-sixties but he looked much older. His hair was thin. His skin grey. It didn’t look like he had much time left.

  “My name is Decimus Horatius Pullus.”

  Harris seemed to consider this. “I’ve often wondered what living here would do to you,” he said. “Has the lustre started to wear thin? Haven’t you any trouble with some of the more… problematic parts of Roman life? Slavery? Girls forced to marry in their early teens? Capital punishment?”

  Pullus thought back to his last trip to Naples. “Were you sent by the Bureau?”

  Harris seemed to find the question amusing, and Pullus quickly regretted asking it. The Bureau of Roman Affairs was ostensibly an administrative organisation: a small group who helped organise the convoys supplying New Pompeii and negotiated prices for its products. And no, Pullus couldn’t quite imagine Harris fitting in there.

  “I never did find out who you worked for,” Pullus said. In truth, he’d long since stopped thinking about it. After the fall of NovusPart, Harris had simply disappeared.

  “My organisation became defunct,” Harris replied, almost sadly. “Buried under shifting sands and disappearing states. But I hardly think that matters now – I’m here very much on my own business.”

  Harris nodded in the direction of the Vesuvius Gate. The men loading the wagons had all moved up to the front end of the convoy, ready to leave. “Perhaps there’s somewhere where we can talk in private?” he said.

  Pullus shook his head. They were well away from the other outsiders manning the convoy. Only Naso and his guards stood close enough to hear. “We’re the only ones who can speak English.”

  Harris nodded at Naso. “You’re sure?”

  “You know I’m the only one left.”

  “Ah, that’s right,” Harris said. “All the remnants of NovusPart were butchered, weren’t they?”

  Pullus didn’t answer.

  “You killed McMahon,” continued Harris. “Stabbed him several times, I heard. And the Romans took care of Whelan. But the rest of the NovusPart staff… what happened to them, Nick?”

  Pullus felt his throat constrict. “You know.”

  “Why don’t you remind me?”

  “They were crucified.”

  “And you couldn’t stop them? I mean, the security staff would have been a threat, certainly. But the translators? The construction teams? The household staff?” A flicker of a smile passed across Harris’s face. “So only you survived. The man who can’t be killed.”

  “And is that why you’re here? To put the myth to the test?”

  “I’m here because I need your help.”

  Help. Such a simple word, and yet so unexpected.

  “You’re the closest thing this place has to an ambassador, Nick.”

  “Call me Pullus.”

  Harris gave a brief snort. “I need to speak with Calpurnia.”

  Pullus took a step back to put some distance between him and Harris. From behind, he sensed Naso and at least one of his men draw closer. The duumvir had obviously heard the trigger word. “No one gets to see Calpurnia. Least of all you.”

  Harris leant forward, his voice barely audible. “Why do you think the people back home let this place exist, Pullus?”

  “The NovusPart device…”

  “Yes,” said Harris, his eyes suddenly bright. “The NovusPart device. They think that if they threaten New Pompeii, you’ll scrub them from history. But you haven’t managed to get it to work yet, have you?”

  Pullus raised a hand and waved the duumvir back. Ordinarily, Naso would have ignored him, but he must have seen the shock on Pullus’s face. Maybe he realised he’d been wrong to assume that Harris was a friend.

  “Do you have any idea how frightened people are back home?” Harris continued, almost casually. “They worry about what your Roman chums might do, if your influence slips.”

  “Calpurnia understands the consequences of altering the timeline.”

  “And yet we both know she’s done nothing irresponsible because she can’t,” Harris said. “Not because she won’t.”

  Pullus felt a soft prod of guilt. “We had Whelan.”

  “But he didn’t tell you all you needed to know to use the NovusPart device, did he?”

  “You didn’t see what they did to him.”

  Harris didn’t answer. Behind, the duumvir and his guard waited impatiently. Maybe it was time to admit the truth, even if that meant Harris wouldn’t be allowed to leave. “How did you know?” asked Nick.

  “That your device doesn’t work? You claim to have the same power as NovusPart – to be able to reach back and pluck people from time – and yet you’ve allowed yourself to be penned into a small reservation.” Harris glanced at the wagon beside him, and its weathered wooden frame. “Reliant on convoys from the real world, and always getting a fairly poor deal for your exports.” Harris paused. “But the most telling thing is Calpurnia. She claims the gods protect her in the same way as they protected you. That she controls the future and will stop anyone from killing her. And yet she hides away in her villa. Relying on her bodyguards, not her precious NovusPart device.”

  Naso spoke up, clearly frustrated. “What does he want?”

  Pullus ignored the duumvir. “So you think the NovusPart device doesn’t work,” he said. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “I can understand why you did it,” continued Harris, wiping at his brow. “Who would attack you openly if they thought you could eliminate them from time?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I am long since retired, Nick. Replaced with less subtle men. But you may remember that I took a very close interest in NovusPart. And they kept records of everyone they transported.” Harris’s lip curled. “DNA profiles of the people that got in their way, and who appeared in their paradox chambers.”

  Of course. Pullus remembered now: Harris had gone up against NovusPart for very personal reasons. He’d admitted as much, fifteen years ago. “Your brother?”

  “They took him when he was just a boy,” Harris replied. “I saw it. Saw him being sucked from time. But he’s not in the NovusPart archives – and Joe Arlen was meticulous in recording everyone they stole from time. Whelan and McMahon continued his procedures, right up until their deaths. Which means I began to question what I’d once assumed was true: did NovusPart really take him? Or did someone else, maybe someone who took control of the device years later and who changed what was meant to happen. You see, if I’m right and your device doesn’t work, then no one’s been transported since the fall of NovusPart. And that means my brother’s still out there somewhere. Moving through time and waiting to land once a device is activated.”

  Pullus nodded slowly. “Waiting, in short, for someone to make the NovusPart device work,” he said.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m growing old,” Harris continued, adjusting his spectacles. “But I’ve become a firm believer in destiny. The date and location of his transportation are seared into my mind. Only I know that information. Only I can give you the correct coordinates to initiate the device and resolve the paradox. And, as you can see, I’m running out of time. If it’s going to happen – and it will – it needs to happen soon.”

&nb
sp; “But, as you said, our device doesn’t work. So I don’t see how…?”

  “I took a very close interest in NovusPart,” Harris interrupted. “And I now have a complex alphanumeric code. A failsafe, designed to stop the device from being used by Joe Arlen’s enemies. It means I can help make your device work. And then you can bring my brother back home.”

  7

  “I DON’T CARE WHAT he told you,” Naso said. “I don’t care if he knows it doesn’t work. He’s leaving with the rest of the convoy.”

  Pullus clenched his fists. He needed the duumvir to see sense; Harris couldn’t be allowed to leave. Not when he could put their secret at risk. Not when he could tell the outside world they didn’t really have a defensive shield.

  Naso turned away and looked towards the horizon. “It’s going to get light soon,” he said. “We need to make a decision.”

  “Turn him over to me,” Pullus said. “Let me deal with this.”

  “Ha! And let you take him to Calpurnia?”

  “If she finds out, I can say I found him in town. You don’t need to be involved.”

  Naso shook his head. “No. I’m not going to take that risk, Pullus. She’ll think the convoys have been compromised.”

  “This is more important than your convoys.”

  “Nothing is more important than my fucking convoys!” The duumvir’s nasal tone had almost broken into a shriek.

  Pullus took a step back. “Relax—”

  “This won’t look good for me,” Naso continued. “She’ll know how he got in. Fucking hell, Pullus! She’ll put Habitus in charge! I’d be finished!”

  “It won’t look good for either of us,” Pullus replied, breathing hard. He looked in Harris’s direction. He had never admitted the truth to Calpurnia; that he had come to New Pompeii – in part – as Harris’s spy. After withholding for fifteen years, that news might not go down well. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take him to Calpurnia, not yet anyway. I don’t trust him. There’s something else going on here. There always is, with men like him.”

  “There is, of course, another option.”