Empire of Time

by Daniel Godfrey

  None of it looked particularly interesting though: more bric-a-brac than actual artefact, just like the scraps in which Celer had taken so much pride. But in amongst it, there were also bits of Roman art, pottery, and paintings. Some of it looked genuinely old, even if most had been knocked together by the duumvir’s growing army of artists. It looked like Naso was using Calpurnia’s instructions to line his own pocket, and to use it as an excuse to help himself to some of the town’s better art.

  “Another debt repaid, then?”

  “You can bottle it, Pullus. I know you don’t approve.”

  “Seems like a waste. We’re few in number as it is.”

  Naso issued a snide laugh. “He’d have died within a couple of years anyway.”

  “I was talking about the children.”

  The duumvir didn’t respond.

  “They’re good Romans,” Pullus continued.

  “The eldest is a spoiled brat. The other two can serve me here and, if they don’t like it, they can always go to the markets. You can be assured I could get a better price for the pair of them than got entered into my ledger.”

  “A pity then that the price we get for our wine is so low.”

  Again, Naso didn’t say anything. But the smile on his face remained wide. The price paid for Roman wine in the outside world was extraordinarily high, but that didn’t mean all that money reached the farms that grew the grapes. Not when the man controlling their loans also managed their exports. “Everyone gets what they’re owed.”

  Pullus thought fondly about the peace he could be enjoying at his villa. “Your business with Scaeva isn’t why I’m here,” he said. “So you can take my advice, or leave it, as you please.”

  “Good. I’ll leave it.”

  “I’ve been to see a friend…”

  “Yes, yes. Celer.”

  “You’re having me followed?”

  “No, but whenever you pick your nose, some whelp thinks I need to know and hurries here seeking a reward.”

  “Huh. Well, I understand Popidius is also a collector of NovusPart material.”

  “As my aedile, he’s helping with the search, yes.”

  “No. I’m talking about a couple of weeks ago. Before this all started.”

  Naso looked surprised. “Really?”

  “According to my source, yes.”

  “And why would he be doing that?”

  “I was going to go ask him.” Pullus nodded in the direction of one of the cubicles facing out onto the atrium. It was jammed full of artefacts, presumably taken from the town. A particularly fine vase stared back at him. “Oscan?”

  Naso stepped across to block his view. “Never mind that,” he said, irritated. “And leave Popidius to me.”

  26

  Ancient Pompeii, AD 62

  ACHILLIA WOKE, AND swung her legs over the edge of the bed. After several days sleeping in a wagon, a night spent on a mattress – even a thin one – had allowed her to drift off into a deep sleep. They’d arrived in Pompeii the previous night. Late, and clearly unexpected. With no messenger sent ahead of them, the slaves stationed at the townhouse during the off-season had all been caught off-guard, playing dice. Fortunately, it hadn’t taken long for them to get some food ready and beds prepared.

  Achillia glanced at Trigemina, who was still fast asleep. Her more comfortable bed would likely keep her in that state for some time. Achillia would have a bit of time to get used to her new surroundings. Moving to the door, she opened it just enough to slip out and onto a narrow balcony that hung above the atrium.

  It was raining, the drops falling through the compluvium and down into the pool below. Achillia headed down into the atrium. She hadn’t worked in a townhouse for some time, but she could tell the steward hadn’t been doing a very good job. The point of an atrium was to impress: everything from the marble table fronting the impluvium pool – and its little collection of marble statues – to the heavy metal straps of the money chest placed beside the tablinum were meant to signal wealth. And yet it all looked a little tarnished and untidy. A set of tools had been left in one corner, the remains of a meal in another. Even square-framed looms, presumably brought out so that the slaves could generate extra income for the household, hadn’t been tidied away. No doubt if they’d known their mistress was coming, the slaves would have put everything back into place. But last night they’d all been taken by surprise; someone was likely to get whipped for it.

  Achillia headed to the entrance, automatically checking at her hip but finding no weapon. The sword had been taken from her upon their arrival, and that perfect little knife she’d been given by Trigemina for their trip would no doubt end up being picked up by some vagrant lucky enough to find it on the floor of the Sibyl’s cave.

  A solitary slave on the door poked his head from his cubbyhole before she reached it. “Where you going?” he asked. He looked tired, hungover and angry. He probably hadn’t slept much, and would no doubt still be expected to do a long day’s work today to put things right.

  “To see the street.”

  “House ain’t open yet,” the porter replied.

  “Then do your job and open it.”

  The porter blinked, his brain likely trying to take in an instruction given to him by a woman. “Been told what you did to those men on the road,” the porter said. It wasn’t clear if the thought amused him. He moved to follow her instructions. “Said I should look out for you. Said you’d be dangerous.”

  Outside, the rain beat down heavily. Water filled the gulley between the footways, refuse floating in it. Soon it would make it difficult to cross the street to the workshops opposite.

  Achillia glanced in both directions, trying to keep under the shelter of the doorway. The porter stood at her shoulder, just a fraction too close. His breath brushed her cheek. She ignored him. Having workshops opposite was good. She could speak to Trigemina about getting a new knife to replace the one she’d dropped, and possibly a better sword, one more suited to her hand. However, the house was positioned mid-block. Getting out would be hard if anyone came at them. She’d need to check the gardens to see if there was any way of scrambling over into a next-door property.

  But they were a long way from Rome, and the Emperor had lots of distractions. Maybe he’d already be onto the next amusement. Maybe there’d be nobody coming.

  Or perhaps they were already here.

  The porter spoke. “My name—”

  Achillia lifted her hand to silence him. “I’m not going to be around long enough to care.”

  27

  TRIGEMINA FINALLY ROSE once the fourth hour had passed. Achillia watched her descend into the atrium and could just about smell the stink of relief. She probably thought she was safe. Or maybe not. She hadn’t quite re-adopted the normal body language of a mistress in charge of her household. Not yet, anyway.

  “My husband has let this place become a sty,” Trigemina said.

  Achillia didn’t reply. She’d spent the morning quietly surveying the house. Unfortunately, like those of many a rich man, it had been designed as a secure box. The walls enclosing the garden were too high to get over, and so the best way in or out was via the front door. Although she’d asked the porter to keep it shut for the day, he’d taken her request as an insult, a challenge of his fitness to be in charge of the house. So the door remained open, with only one man stationed to check people as they came in and out.

  “We’ll need to find you a role here,” Trigemina continued.

  “You’ll discover I’m not a very good cook.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find you something.”

  They were no longer on the road, and Trigemina clearly wanted things to get back to normal and to reassert her status. Achillia would probably be given some household work. Her mistress didn’t need much protection inside, which meant her skills would only be needed when Trigemina went into town.

  “I’ve been thinking about our encounter with the Sibyl,” Trigemina said. “I want you
to tell me what she said to you.”

  “The Sibyl’s words are private.”

  “I’m your mistress; I have a right to know your prophecy.”

  Achillia took a deep breath. The voice was still very much in her ears, even though the pain and nausea that had accompanied it had long since dissipated. But she wasn’t going to tell her mistress – who believed in fate, and that the future was set – the truth. “The Sibyl told me I would keep you safe,” Achillia said, “and that I would then gain my freedom.”

  Trigemina didn’t seem ruffled by the statement. “It will be down to my husband when – or if – you’re given your freedom. But I’ll certainly need you for some time yet. I don’t intend on spending all my remaining years hiding here.”

  Achillia frowned. “You’re already thinking about heading back to Rome?”

  “The last emperor we had like this didn’t last long, did he?”

  “And what makes you think he’ll be replaced by anyone better?”

  Trigemina looked irritated that she’d been questioned. Again.

  “I need a replacement dagger,” Achillia continued. “And the sword from the carriage.”

  “You can carry a weapon when we leave the house. Only then.”

  Achillia glanced towards the porter’s cubbyhole. “They’ll take you in here,” she said. “A woman – a noble woman – being attacked in the street is messy. Bystanders tend to get involved, people looking for a reward. If they come, it will be here, where there’s no one to see. No one to help.”

  Some of the nervousness Trigemina had buried seemed to be bubbling back to the surface, but she didn’t get a chance to issue a further reprimand, distracted by the noise of heavy footsteps heading from the street and towards the atrium. Beyond them, Achillia could just about hear a horse whinny. So the dismount had been fast. Whoever was coming was in a hurry.

  The rider turned out to be a thin young man. Trigemina relaxed as soon as she’d seen his face. Someone from her place in Rome, perhaps.

  The messenger stopped at the cubbyhole as the porter moved to block his progress. There was a hushed discussion. Achillia’s breathing slowed. She sensed the animals beneath their traps. Just like in the arena.

  “Your husband is dead,” the porter said, loudly. The messenger only just seemed to have registered Trigemina’s presence. Panic and doubt immediately creased his face. Some regret too, and Achillia suddenly realised what was going on. Why he’d been in such a hurry. “The Emperor’s men came for him.”

  Trigemina made an ungodly sound.

  “Wants you dead too.”

  Achillia glanced at the messenger. The man had ridden fast. Probably trying to keep ahead of the Emperor’s men. Trying to get here first.

  “He wasn’t offered a Roman death?”

  The messenger shook his head. “No. No sword. And the rest of the household has been killed too.”

  Trigemina looked indignant. “And how did you survive?” she asked.

  The messenger looked back at her blankly. Achillia guessed he’d probably hidden as the other slaves had been killed. Or maybe he’d just run – knowing he needed to warn those living at the seaside getaway of the impending storm.

  “No one knows you’re here,” said the porter.

  “No,” replied Trigemina, too quickly. Before her brain had engaged. Or maybe she just didn’t see it yet. “You could hide me.”

  The porter laughed. Achillia didn’t. “No one knows we’re here,” Achillia said, including herself in her statement. She knew she was part of the problem now. The Emperor’s men would be on their way, and there were a dozen or so slaves in the house, all of whom would be put to death as soon as Trigemina was found. Except that didn’t have to happen, as the porter had already worked out. Slow of speech, yet quick of mind. There was a way they could all be sold back onto the slave markets, but it relied on Trigemina not being there when the Emperor’s men arrived.

  Hence the message.

  “Did they know our route here?” asked Achillia. “Do the men coming know Trigemina was going to the Sibyl?”

  The messenger nodded. “We all knew. She told her husband before she left.”

  “So they can’t be sure we’ve arrived yet,” Achillia replied. “Our carriage could have got stuck. You could just let us walk out of here.”

  The porter moved to block the doorway. “No,” he said simply. The reply was blunt but not unexpected. The requirement to torture slaves as they were being questioned meant the truth would likely come out sooner or later. And then they’d all be for the crucifix. Achillia really couldn’t blame him. He was just doing what she’d have done, if the situation had been reversed.

  “But she can have a sword,” continued the porter. “Unlike her husband.”

  28

  IT’S ALMOST FUNNY how many things in a house can kill a man.

  Achillia had worked out what she’d use almost as soon as the messenger arrived. But she left him for second; the porter was the bigger threat, although size didn’t mean speed.

  She made for him, and he started to laugh. She flipped a silver statue of Mercury off the marble table, caught it as it span in the air and pointed the god’s outstretched arm at the porter. He smiled, but his body tensed, braced for her attack. Achillia made as if to stab him in the neck with her clumsy weapon, allowing the porter more than enough time to reach up and swat her arm aside. Then there was a knife in her hand; she stabbed him in the stomach. He collapsed to his knees, confusion on his face, blood spreading across his tunic. Achillia didn’t wait. She stepped forward and took hold of the messenger, spun him round and kicked out the back of his legs. He didn’t get up.

  She’d already cut his throat as he fell.

  Trigemina hadn’t moved, frozen in shock. Achillia showed her the knife, the one she’d been keeping hidden. It had a wooden handle and dulled blade. She’d been intending to take it to the blacksmith to sharpen it up. But it had done its job.

  “I got it from the kitchen,” she said.

  Trigemina finally seemed to come to her senses. “What do we do now?”

  Achillia looked at the porter, who continued to breathe as the life drained from him. The messenger was already dead. She thought of the other slaves here at the house. But most of all she thought of her freedom, and the one person who could give it to her. If she could just keep her alive long enough.

  “We make our own plans,” Achillia said, “rather than waiting for the schemes of others. Your family? They’re from Pompeii?”

  “No.”

  “Where then?”

  “North of Rome.”

  “Shit. Then we’ll have to stay in town. For the time being, at least.”

  “There’s a horse outside!”

  Achillia shook her head. She knelt by the porter and covered his nose and mouth until he felt no more pain. Then she looked to Trigemina. “What do you want to do?”

  “My family,” she said. “It’s my best hope.”

  “I meant about the others,” Achillia replied. “The rest of your slaves. If they’re captured, they’ll talk. They’ll have no choice.”

  Trigemina nodded, as if she understood, but it was clear she didn’t. Achillia got to her feet and went to secure the door to the street, bolting it from the inside. It will need to look like a suicide pact, she thought. Which meant the kills would need to be clean, and ideally somewhere she could easily shift the corpses.

  Achillia returned to the atrium, pushing past her mistress who was still staring dumbly at her dead porter. She found the first of the remaining household slaves in the kitchen. A man and a young slave boy, both preparing fish and what looked like octopus. Their distance from the tablinum meant they obviously hadn’t heard what had happened in the atrium.

  The sound of a couple more slaves singing in the garden caused her the briefest of moments’ hesitation. But she knew that if she was to survive in the long term, then no one could be left alive. She gripped the kitchen knife tighter, eyein
g the much more fearsome-looking blade in the cook’s hand. She didn’t give him time to use it, moving behind him and slitting his throat smoothly, and then made a grab for the child as he turned to run.

  * * *

  Achillia woke to find Trigemina huddled into the corner of the room, her knees pulled tight to her chest. She’d clearly spent the entire night crying. They were in a small dank apartment in a neighbourhood of Pompeii that Achillia doubted Trigemina had ever visited before. Yet in a matter of hours she’d lost everything, even the signs of her nobility: the curls in her hair had been shaken out and she was wearing a simple garment taken from a female slave. All so they could get a clear run through the town without being easily spotted.

  “A woman was pleading with her dying husband,” Achillia said, softly. “She told him that if he left her, she’d kill herself. ‘Do me a favour,’ said the husband. ‘Do it now and put me out of my misery.’”

  Trigemina made no sound. Achillia waited a moment and then shifted up onto her haunches. Her mistress looked beaten, just like when they’d first met in the arena. It was time to kick some more sand in her face. Wake her up and get her moving. But first they had to confirm the terms of their agreement.

  “The Emperor will be expecting you to run straight to your family,” she said. “So, like it or not, we’re going to have to stay in Pompeii.”

  Trigemina lowered her head onto her knees.

  “But I should be able to get you to them eventually.” Achillia paused and let the offer sink in before naming her price. “In return, I’ll want my freedom. And enough to live on. Something to give me a new start.”

  Trigemina shook her head. “He’ll find me.”

  “You were right before, you know,” continued Achillia. “Emperors like this don’t last long. And the enemies of one madman… well, they tend to be feted by the next, don’t they?”

  “I should have taken the sword,” Trigemina whispered. “Joined my husband.”

  “Your husband is dead. Making play with worms, not gods.”

  “Like my slaves? It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? The killing, I mean?”