“You can’t leave it like that.”
Nick glanced at the tent. His father’s eyes stared upwards. His last view on life: a dirty grey extraction fan and a fluorescent tube. “Does he even know I’m here?”
“No.”
“Then let’s go.”
19
New Pompeii
“SO YOU’LL BE staying here at the townhouse? Not heading back to your villa?”
Pullus nodded, unable to hide his disappointment. Galbo stared back at him blankly, although his thoughts must have been similar. With his master now back in permanent residence, his role would revert to one of taking orders, rather than running the townhouse.
“I’d like a snack before I go to bed,” Pullus said, waving his hand in the direction of the tablinum and the kitchen beyond. The trip into town from Calpurnia’s villa had been slow, and he’d had plenty of time to think about what had happened to Harris, and what the voice on the phone had told him. This man who claimed his name was Marcus, calling from the future. “Nothing heavy. And some wine.”
Galbo waited – just a few perfectly timed heartbeats to make sure there would be no further instructions – then slowly headed for the kitchen. His staff tapped a steadily weakening path away from the atrium. The noise made Pullus feel guilty, but Galbo could have instructed one of the boys to do it. Primus, one of the three other slaves stationed here, hovered at the side of the atrium.
Though several dozen oil lamps burned around them, the atrium was still dark. Little moonlight seemed able to find its way down through the compluvium – the square gap in the atrium’s roof – and so there was nothing for the atrium’s shallow central pool beneath to scatter. But there was enough light to reflect off the McMahon’s fresco of the erupting Vesuvius, which still adorned the atrium’s main wall. He’d wanted to paint over it, to wipe out all traces of NovusPart before he’d started his new life here, but it had never seemed the right time. Despite the gloom, the glass beads that made up the tip of the mountain sparkled.
Would Calpurnia really try to change things? Just like NovusPart?
After McMahon’s death, the decision for him to stay in New Pompeii had been fairly straightforward. He’d been retained because he was useful. And, more than that, Calpurnia had seemed to trust him. But she didn’t anymore. And deep down, he didn’t trust her either. Not with the NovusPart device. So, yes, he’d follow her wishes and work with the duumvir to re-examine the last remaining traces of NovusPart. But if he found anything would he really tell Calpurnia?
He didn’t know. It was late, and he needed to rest. Needed to reset his brain and shake from it the last remaining images of Harris’s mangled brother. He headed towards the wooden steps in the corner of the atrium, ignoring the plate of cold meat Galbo had brought for him, but scooping up a glass of wine.
Galbo managed to sense his movement from wherever he’d been waiting. “Would you like me to unpack your things?”
Pullus came to a halt on the bottom step. “No,” he said, quietly. Would he tell Calpurnia? In some ways, he’d already made his decision. “Leave that to me. And no one but you is to enter my room.”
“Of course,” replied Galbo. His steward cleared his throat. “Calpurnia’s gift arrived a couple of hours ahead of you, sir.”
“Gift?”
“I’ve put her in a room at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. Not with the others. She says she’s to help in the search?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pullus said. There was an ache in his shoulders that emanated into his lower back. He drained his glass in an attempt to numb it.
“Do you want me to send her to your villa?”
Pullus allowed a quiet chuckle to escape him. “I doubt Calpurnia would allow me to do that.” He shook his head. “Everyone in town would recognise it as a snub.”
“Then we keep her here?”
“Yes, but tell the rest of the household to watch what they say around her.”
* * *
“You work for Habitus?”
The girl didn’t respond. Probably in her late teens, Galbo had brought her to Pullus early. She now stood waiting in the low sun that filled his garden. Around them, plants within the central colonnade were dying back for winter. The air was cold, with just enough bite in it to let him know it would soon be the Saturnalia.
“He used to work for me,” Pullus continued.
“Yes, he told me you once owned him.”
Pullus raised an eyebrow. Galbo looked angry at the girl’s cheek. No doubt she’d later receive a lesson in old-fashioned slave etiquette. Be distrustful of women, Habitus had told him. Especially ones you hadn’t expected to meet.
And now he’d been sent one.
He looked at her. Everyone in Pompeii would notice she looked out of place among his slaves, very different from the bunch of elderly and disabled misfits he’d accumulated. Worse, he was attracted to her.
Inside, Pullus felt some itch of annoyance. Did they really think he was so stupid? Perhaps some of the older men on the Ordo would be flattered and fooled, but there was no doubt she’d have been told to report everything he did back to her old mistress. He looked at Galbo. His steward rolled his eyes at him, indicating that he too understood.
“Your name?”
“Taedia.”
“And you’ve worked for Calpurnia for how long?”
His “gift” didn’t answer. Instead she just looked back at him confused.
“You were bought at the market? Or born in the household?”
“I’ve been with my mistress for as long as I can remember.”
Pullus nodded. Slave born, then. Which was all the information he needed to confirm it: Calpurnia didn’t trust him, and she was no “gift”. She was too young. Too healthy. Too much effort and too many resources would have gone into her training. But that didn’t mean he had to play along with whatever Habitus had planned for her.
His eyes narrowed. Did he recognise her? He didn’t. But, then again, Calpurnia had many slaves and if she’d come from her inner circle then perhaps their paths wouldn’t have crossed. Or perhaps they had and he simply couldn’t remember. Hadn’t taken notice.
No, he would have noticed.
“Well, Taedia, I have work to do. Galbo here will provide you with some duties.”
“Our mistress wishes me to assist you directly.”
Our mistress. Those words had been given to her; they’d come out like they’d been spring-loaded.
Galbo took Taedia by the arm. In his other hand, he raised his staff a good foot or two from the ground. The speed of the old man’s movement was surprising, and the “gift” yelped. She must have known how some Roman masters would respond to being given orders by a woman. Pullus smiled inwardly. Maybe she’d even heard of how many of the men currently bowing and scraping at Calpurnia’s feet would like to respond, if they ever got the chance.
“Habitus told me you’re a good man,” Taedia said, whipping her eyes between him and the steward’s staff.
Pullus wasn’t flattered. The frumentarius had probably meant it as a sly insult. “Then we’d best get to work then, hadn’t we?”
20
Naples
“We gave antibiotics away for every sniff and cold, pumped our animals full of them just to keep the price of food low, and even used them to protect the frescos of Pompeii from further damage. And now we panic that we’re about to lose them? The tragedy could almost be from the Greek or Roman theatre: we had our magic bullet, and we simply fired it into the air.”
Dr Lasseter, World Health Organization
“HEY? YOU OKAY?”
Nick blinked. Chloe was standing at the table in front of him, indicating a bowl of porridge. A pity that he wasn’t hungry.
Opposite him, Chloe’s husband Jack was already eating. The chatter of the radio filled the silence. Nick didn’t recognise the music. In a break between songs, a voice told them it would be another sunny day. Temperatures in the low
twenties. Which was okay, he guessed, heading into winter.
“So, Nick. Will this be another short visit?”
Nick looked up at Jack. It was nearly the first thing he’d said to him, other than a brief greeting as he’d bustled in with his luggage in the early hours. “I don’t know,” he said.
Jack seemed to mull this over as he chewed his food. It was reasonably clear what he was thinking: how long would he be taking up space in their house? God forbid – would he be hanging around until his father died? “I’ve got some business with the Bureau,” Nick said, trying to put his mind at rest. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days.”
“Really?” Jack flicked his eyes towards Chloe. “You weren’t here too long ago… I just figured this was more of a personal call. Given, you know? How is he anyway?”
Chloe let her fork drop. “Jack…”
“Dying,” Nick said. He took a gulp of water, and then returned his attention to his breakfast. Jack, however, wasn’t ready to let it drop.
“I’ve heard some people talking about how this thing blew up quite recently,” he said. “I told them they were talking crap but…”
“Jack—”
“People have a right to know though, don’t they?”
Nick stopped eating. “There’s nothing like this illness in New Pompeii,” he said, bluntly. “Aside from the odd cough and cold, they’re fine. And they’re behind bio-containment designed to protect them, not you.”
“But to have people frozen like that…”
“Jack,” Chloe whispered. “Please. His father is dying.”
“I’m just repeating what people are saying, that’s all.”
Nick didn’t respond. Chloe took the opportunity to change the subject. “You haven’t appeared on Who’s Where,” she said.
A look of confusion spread across her husband’s face.
“A woman recognised him at the airport,” Chloe explained. “And would that have been a problem?”
“I’m hoping for a quiet visit.”
“Well no one uses that platform anymore, anyway. Just like no one wears facemasks.”
Nick glanced upwards. He’d slipped his mask off again, but hadn’t removed it completely. It hung round his neck so he didn’t forget it when they headed into town.
“You should get yourself some airway filters. They just slide into your throat, and take away most of the risk.”
“I already have,” Nick replied, pinching at his Adam’s apple to make the point. “The mask has other benefits.”
Jack swallowed the last of his food and stood up from the table. He wiped his hands on the back of his trousers. “Yeah, well, it’s not much of a disguise. Just makes you stand out.” He paused, his focus suddenly on Chloe. “I’ll leave you two to it.”
Nick watched Jack go, then said, “He doesn’t seem too happy.”
“I’m sorry. He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nick replied. “And I meant what I said: this should only take a few days.”
“It’s not that,” Chloe replied. “I don’t think he’s ever got used to you coming here. Me being your personal contact and all.”
Nick felt a spike of irritation. Chloe’s home was located inside a gated cluster of apartment blocks, and included a private guard and complimentary cleaning service. And her job meant she could still get access to many commodities that had once been taken for granted. Unlike many others in this city, her cupboards were full of food, not just the basic state ration. And his friendship meant she also got a share of the imports from New Pompeii. “You’ve not done too badly babysitting me,” he said.
“I know.” She paused before continuing. “I’ve set up the meeting with Fabio. I think you took our esteemed Bureau Chief by surprise. He didn’t seem to think you’d be back so soon.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“He wants to meet you at the archaeological museum.”
“Not at the Bureau? Did he say why?”
Chloe shook her head. “Babysitter, remember? The Bureau gives me messages, not reasons.” She hesitated, then smiled. “You could, though,” she said, letting her voice drop. “If you’re not here to visit your father, then why are you here, Mr Pax Romana?”
“We get little snippets of information from the convoys,” he said. “We know the popularity of New Pompeii is waning.”
“It’s complicated,” Chloe said, before smiling. “But you can still count on the strange coalition of archaeologists and fascists to support you.”
Nick paused. He didn’t share his host’s amusement. He’d seen plenty of the debates on the boards: the boasting from the Italian far-right. The screams for revenge from fundamental Christians. But the most worrying aspect was the emerging debate over the Pompeii Treaty, particularly the preservation of the so-called Roman bubble. The sustainment of slavery. His current travel ban across much of Western Europe was just part of the rejection of the new Roman state. “I just want to get a better feel for things,” he said. “On my own, and away from the Bureau.”
Chloe nodded. She seemed to accept it.
“And I may need your help.”
21
New Pompeii
PULLUS SLOWED TO allow Taedia to catch up. Since leaving his house, they’d walked first a few blocks south towards the forum, and then taken a left turn in the general direction of the amphitheatre. Taedia had insisted on walking a pace or two behind him, despite him slowing several times so she’d catch up.
“You can walk alongside me, you know.”
Taedia nodded, but her attention seemed fully focused on the road. She was picking her route through the detritus in the way he had done in his first few weeks here, trying hard to find the granite slabs that lay hidden under fifteen years of accumulated grime.
“You’ve been to Pompeii before, surely?”
She looked at him. He wished she hadn’t. “This isn’t Pompeii,” she said.
“You haven’t been to town before,” Pullus corrected. “Have you?”
Taedia shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever left the villa, no.”
Great.
Pullus scanned the street. They were in election season and, from the looks of it, the sign-writers had been busy. Most of the previous night had probably been spent finding every scrap of space available to scrawl their messages. Important families and professions were clearly lining up behind different candidates, but this time there seemed to be a lot of people vying for the two available posts of aedile. So, unlike in previous years, this wasn’t going to be a done deal.
“I think it’s this way,” Pullus said, heading off again. He started slowly, but again found Taedia dropping behind. Fortunately, their destination wasn’t too far away. Just another two blocks and down a side street, if his memory was correct.
New Pompeii was a shifting animal. Every time he visited, he found the streets slightly different. Not only did the sign-writers continually alter the complexion of the street, the owners of the little tabernae seemed to keep chopping and changing as they tried to find the best position for their trade. So what was a workshop quickly became a wine seller, and where you could buy pottery suddenly became the best place to get a haircut. Only buildings in which there’d been a substantial cash investment stayed the same, pegs on which the rest of the town seemed to hang.
The street outside the bakery was already busy. Although one of a handful in this part of town, it had a cluster of Pompeians waiting outside. The granary behind was simply laid out, with brick ovens to one side, and three large grinding stones dominating the centre of the space. Each stone was being turned by a couple of mules. The animals walked in a slow circle, their heads bowed, with a wooden pole tied over their backs that jutted through the stones.
Pullus made his way over to one of the private tables at the back. Taedia followed, but remained standing. His shadow looked uneasy, as if he’d taken her to a brothel, rather than somewhere to eat. “What’
s the matter?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Not with your mouth, no.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise; just tell me what you’re thinking.”
Taedia shifted on the spot. “I didn’t think you’d be eating here,” she said. “A man like you, in a place like this.”
Pullus paused before replying. True enough, it must have seemed unusual. None of the others here would own property, let alone a triclinium where they could have eaten in private. But he’d always enjoyed listening to the back and forth between the freedmen and the slaves. “The place suits me,” he said.
Taedia didn’t respond. Her attention seemed to have been caught by something behind him. Pullus twisted on his seat. On the back wall of the bakery was a rough fresco of the Pompeian amphitheatre. Dabs of colour represented the cheering crowd, as a handful of figures occupied the middle of the sand. One of the figures was different from the others, however. He was being pulled upwards, and towards a vortex circling above the arena. A second nearby figure had been depicted with a glowing aura.
“I know the owner,” Pullus said, not sure why he felt an explanation was required. Embarrassment, maybe. The man who couldn’t be killed. He turned away from the image. The other patrons of the bakery glanced at him, grinned but passed no comment. Although he was by no means a regular, they were all used to seeing him. They weren’t the same as those who kept on pushing votives into his hands. Some of them had even seen him drunk.
“Calpurnia said you would be examining material brought to you by the duumvir and his aediles? Looking for a…”
“Datacard,” Pullus said, finishing her sentence. “Calpurnia thinks Arlen’s research will be stored on a piece of equipment we call a datacard.” He pronounced the word carefully, and she mouthed it back at him. Datacard.
A woman arrived to take his order. “Just some bread and oil,” Pullus said. “No cheese. And I’d like to see your master, if he’s around.”
The woman nodded and disappeared. Whilst he waited, he tilted his head up towards Taedia. Calpurnia probably hadn’t told her everything about their situation. An informant didn’t need to know the bigger picture. They only needed to feel out a single piece of the jigsaw and return that information.
Empire of Time Page 8
