Empire of Time

by Daniel Godfrey

  Don’t let them have the device!

  Pullus vomited but he barely noticed. His mind was still in the room with Whelan. Fifteen years ago. Watching Whelan’s eyes whirl in their sockets. Then the smell hit his nostrils.

  Galbo was with him, pulling him upright and wiping away the vomit from the corners of his mouth. “You’re safe,” his steward said. “You’re safe.”

  “Shit.”

  “You’re here. At home.”

  Pullus shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under the hot, damp sheets. He must have been caught in the nightmare for some time, not the few seconds of it he could remember.

  “Which one was it?” Galbo asked.

  Pullus rubbed his forehead to relieve some of the tension. His neck and shoulders were almost rigid. “Whelan,” he said simply. “Shit, it was Whelan.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “You weren’t there.”

  Galbo nodded, then started to gather the previous day’s clothes from the floor and lay out a fresh tunic. Pullus looked towards the bedroom door. Early morning light was already filling the balcony beyond it. It was time to get up. Fuck. He barely felt like he’d had any rest. And today he had to head back into his past.

  Because Whelan wasn’t dead.

  That’s what Taedia had told him, without meaning to.

  “Fuck,” he said out loud.

  Galbo started to retreat from his room, knowing his master was safe – and having long since grown accustomed to his need for privacy whilst dressing. “Even if your Whelan had talked,” he said, “he’d have still learned to fly like all the others.”

  Pullus didn’t appreciate the gallows humour in his slave’s words, even though he couldn’t fault the logic. The rest of NovusPart’s staff had been crucified. Every single one of them. Except him. The man who couldn’t die. “I’ll be down in five minutes,” he said. “Tell Taedia to meet me in the atrium.”

  Galbo nodded, but didn’t leave.

  “What’s on your mind, Galbo?”

  “The girl,” Galbo said. “Taedia. It would help if I knew why she’s here. Why she’s really here.”

  “Leave her to me.”

  “If you want something unfortunate to happen to her…?”

  “No,” Pullus said, shaking his head. “Look, I’ll be down in a few minutes. Just make sure she gets to the atrium in one piece, eh?”

  “As you wish.”

  Still, Galbo didn’t leave. Pullus watched him, surprised again by the old man’s ability to read him, to sense when he hadn’t quite finished. “Popidius,” he said. “Do you know anyone in his household?”

  Galbo nodded. “Of course.”

  “It would be useful to know what his interest is in NovusPart.”

  Galbo bowed, and finally backed out of the room. Pullus remained in his bed for a few seconds, listening for his steward’s staff as it beat its rhythm down the stairs and into the atrium. Only then did he feel his shoulders relax and the last dregs of his nightmare evaporate.

  He didn’t like it here. Despite clearing out all of McMahon’s personal property, the remains of NovusPart were too deeply engrained in the fabric of his townhouse, most obviously in the modern facilities still available to him: an en-suite bathroom to his left, and a small collection of electronic devices scattered about. Most no longer worked. Although almost magical to New Pompeii, the devices would be viewed as antiques in Naples.

  When he was dressed, Pullus moved across to his desk. He searched through his field notes, and picked up a small collection of unopened envelopes tied together with string. Letters from his father, received periodically over the years. The latest lay to one side. Unopened, and ready to be bound like all the rest.

  He momentarily felt like reading what his father had to say, but he resisted. Just like he’d resisted finishing his long-promised PhD. After all this time, why open those wounds now? Sighing, Pullus briefly checked his satchel, and then headed down into the atrium. As instructed, Taedia stood waiting for him by the impluvium.

  She looked worried, and the reason was pretty clear. She’d made a mistake telling him about Whelan. Yesterday Pullus hadn’t wanted to push the point and she’d not volunteered any further information, simply insisting she didn’t know. Maybe she’d misheard; maybe she’d misunderstood something Calpurnia had said to Habitus, or the Greek. But something else was nagging at him. Something buzzing in his memory that he’d only just realised was significant.

  He’d been forced to watch. But Barbatus hadn’t let him see Whelan’s final moments.

  He hadn’t actually seen Whelan die.

  Taedia opened her mouth to say something. Pullus didn’t give her the chance. “Where is he?”

  “I wasn’t meant to tell you,” she said. Her eyes grew wide. Maybe she thought his silence the previous day had been the end of the matter.

  “You didn’t, and you won’t,” Pullus said, calmly. “If Calpurnia asks you, I’m happy for you to say I worked it out myself.”

  Taedia hesitated for a good few seconds, stumbling at the precipice. “He’s in the town’s holding pens,” she said, finally. “That’s all I know.”

  The holding pens were next to the amphitheatre, in the same building as the arena’s paradox chamber. He knew the place all too well.

  “Calpurnia told me to stay with you,” Taedia said, following him across the atrium and towards the street. Pullus waved her away. This time she obeyed him.

  “Would you prefer to tell her I found Whelan on my own, or that you took me to him?”

  32

  Modern Pompeii, near the ruins

  “Our planning has always been based around one big event, such as an outbreak of a disease like Spanish Influenza or Ebola. But I believe it’s now clear that isn’t the scenario with which we’re dealing. There isn’t going to be a big event. We’re going to get on with our lives as these things slowly come back to kill us.”

  Dr Lasseter, World Health Organization

  “SO DID THE earth move for you last night?”

  Nick had wondered who would be the first to make the joke, but Fabio beat him to it by a fraction as they shook hands. Fabio waved at a nearby waiter, and they settled into a couple of cheap white plastic seats in the back of the restaurant’s open-air courtyard.

  “How big was it?” Nick asked.

  “You’ll have to ask my wife.”

  “Seriously, Fabio?”

  “Okay. Just a three or so. Most people slept through it. I didn’t even know until this morning.”

  Nick shifted in his seat, struggling to get comfortable. He couldn’t help but think the owner could usefully invest in some new furniture and, more importantly, a few cushions. Still, the food was usually good and, despite its size, the location was relatively private. Above them, a fig tree sprawled out over a rickety frame and covered the whole courtyard. In many respects, they could have been indoors, except for the feeling that the many splints and struts holding up the branches might collapse the entire damn tree on them.

  “If it was going to come down,” said Fabio, noting where his attention was focused, “it would have done so last night.”

  Nick grunted. The restaurant’s owner was making his way over. The old man always liked to explain what he’d chosen to serve them on any particular visit. All ingredients likely locally grown, outside of the ration, and probably under the blind eye of the Bureau. They’d also be treated to a nice drop of vino. And not from Pompeii either. Maybe one of a few bottles that hadn’t quite made it onto the boats to China.

  “Vi preghiamo di portare un giornale…”

  The owner waved to indicate he’d heard Fabio’s request, but it was one of his staff that brought the newspaper. Nick recognised it as a conservative-leaning publication, the only ones that seemed to be in business these days. The headline was all about New Pompeii. He pushed it away.

  “I don’t think you get how serious this is getting,” Fabio said.

  “It’s nothing I
haven’t read before.”

  “In socialist rags. Not the papers the government reads.” Nick shrugged. “You don’t read much about that Italian pride anymore,” continued Fabio. “It turns out we Italians are better Catholics than we are Romans.”

  Nick issued a heavy sigh as Fabio settled back again. The Italian was probably right. Historians had known for years people living in Pompeii didn’t just worship Roman gods, yet his own article about finding a dozen or so Christians amongst the New Pompeians seemed to have caused the biggest ruckus.

  “Well, it’s too late now.”

  “If only they hadn’t all died, eh?”

  Nick sucked in a breath. “It was certainly unfortunate,” he said. Beside him, he suddenly noticed their food had arrived. Two glasses of wine had also been poured. He studied them, then turned to find the waiter already in mid-retreat.

  “You didn’t see him, did you?”

  Nick didn’t reply.

  “There’s no slaves here, you know. A word or two of thanks wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Forget about it.”

  Nick made a move for his wine. “Do you have any news about my antibiotics?”

  Fabio shook his head. “Your friends are already inside a quarantine zone,” he said. “The risks aren’t the same as we’re experiencing.”

  “You could just give us a printer and have done with it.”

  “We’re not giving you one of those, Nick. Or telling you where the supplies are located. Or when.” Fabio flashed him a wide grin, but Nick didn’t rise to the bait.

  “I could do with a different answer before I leave.”

  “My grandmother used to say it’s better to get a right answer than a fast one.”

  At the restaurant entrance, a fat man with a neatly trimmed beard was having a discussion with one of the waiters. He seemed to be showing the waiter a card. Finally, the man was pointed in their direction, and a plastic seat was dragged over to their table.

  Nick bristled. Fabio didn’t introduce the man, but a look between the two suggested they knew each other. “I sense I’m going to get a lecture,” Nick said.

  “Nothing of the sort, Nick,” replied Fabio, his voice momentarily heavy. “This is Professor Waldren. He asked the Bureau for an introduction. Under the circumstances, we agreed it was a good idea.”

  Nick slowly turned to the new arrival, trying to work out if he knew the name. He didn’t but, then again, his knowledge of the academic field wasn’t exactly up to date. “Sorry, I’m not familiar…?”

  “No reason you should be,” Waldren replied. His voice was hoarse, his accent mid-Atlantic. He offered his hand across the table. “Temporal philosophy is a relatively new field.”

  Nick hesitated. “You’re a physicist?”

  The professor’s grip was tight on Nick’s hand as they shook. “Do you enjoy it?” he asked. “Living out there?”

  “It’s quite a peaceful life.”

  “In New Pompeii? I’d always imagined it to be a garish place.”

  “I spend most of my time in my villa outside town.”

  “Of course. But this is, what, your second visit to Naples in just a few months?”

  Nick nodded. “Just a few days this time, hopefully.”

  “The Bureau mentioned you were visiting more often,” Waldren continued. “More visits in the last two years than at any time since you left.”

  Nick glanced at Fabio, but the Italian remained expressionless.

  “And Calpurnia?” Waldren asked, cocking his head to the side. “Our Empress of Time? How is she?”

  “As I said,” Nick said, suspicion building, “I’m only going to be here a few days. So why don’t you tell me what you want so we can all enjoy our lunch?”

  Waldren nodded and then shrugged. “Fabio has shown you the fresco?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do you conclude?”

  The same thing he’d told Chloe. “It’s either a very clever hoax—”

  “Or?”

  “Or someone worked out how to go a step or two beyond NovusPart. Backward transmission of information.”

  Nick leant back in his chair, popped a cherry tomato into his mouth and let it burst between his teeth. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Not you, though? Not Calpurnia, or her Greek thinker?”

  “Who knows? It may have even been NovusPart themselves. Something they did before they transported everyone to New Pompeii.”

  “You mean like a painter might add his signature to a painting?”

  “Sure. Or maybe it’s something they were working on that didn’t quite come off before everything went sideways.”

  “Interesting.”

  Nick didn’t respond, and glanced at Fabio. The Bureau Chief was slumped back in his seat. He seemed to have given up on the conversation as clearly as he’d done his meal. Nick pushed his own plate aside.

  “We’ve been re-examining old finds from Pompeii,” Waldren continued. “To see if we can find any more examples of temporal manipulation.”

  Nick nodded. “I can see where this is going,” he said. “But I think you’ve forgotten it’s easy to find patterns when you’re looking for them. I’ve seen Egyptian hieroglyphs showing what look like tablet computers. And I’ve seen medieval tapestries containing creatures that look suspiciously like Yoda.”

  “Nothing quite as sharp as a mention of NovusPart though eh, Pullus?”

  “No.”

  The professor smiled, satisfied. “Well, the fresco is the first clear evidence we have that the timeline has been manipulated. It’s something of a ground zero for my field.”

  Nick nodded. When NovusPart played with the timeline, they’d been careful to claim they’d only taken people whose influence on the timeline had effectively ended. People on the verge of death, whose bodies had also been lost, so nothing changed. Not so with the fresco. Someone had scratched that word into it for a reason, and it was clear evidence of tampering—much like when NovusPart had secretly removed children who would grow up to be inconvenient. And it might just help him. “We should keep in touch on this,” Nick said. “I’m sure this is nothing to do with Calpurnia, but I can see the potential issues.”

  “Good.” Waldren stood and pushed back his chair. “I presume you’ve heard of the Roman God Janus? The god with two faces?”

  Nick nodded.

  “I always assumed that meant he was two-faced,” the professor continued. “You know, untrustworthy. But that’s not it at all, is it? He gazes at both the future and the past. The join in the loop, as it were. The beginning and the end.”

  “I fail to see your point.”

  The professor stood and gave the shallowest of bows. “Well, it was good to meet you,” he said. “The Bureau will put us in touch again before you leave.”

  Nick watched him go, irritation burning his cheeks. Beside him, Fabio was also on his feet. “Forgive me, Nick,” said the Italian, as he passed across a small card. “I only said I would introduce you.”

  Nick looked at the card. An appointment card. For an optician.

  “Get them checked out,” said Fabio. “You shouldn’t take chances with your sight. Now, if you’ve finished eating, should we get you back to the dig? Finally see where they found this damn fresco?”

  33

  Ancient Pompeii, AD 62

  THERE WERE SEVERAL men standing outside Trigemina’s home. Achillia watched them, standing a few doors down on the opposite side of the street. She occasionally glanced at passers-by, as if trying to seek out a familiar face. Not that she needed to have bothered with the pretence. The men on the door didn’t seem interested in searching for anyone, but instead looked like guards, ordered to rebuff visitors whilst others worked inside.

  What would those others make of what they found?

  Hopefully, they’d think it was a suicide pact just as she’d planned. Achillia had dragged the limp bodies of the slaves from their hiding p
laces to the atrium and then arranged them in a rough circle. Some had fought back, and their deaths had been messy; the bodies had left trails of blood, but she and Trigemina hadn’t had the time to clean up much. She hoped the men wouldn’t notice, distracted by the female slave dressed in Trigemina’s finery.

  The rest of the house had been left untouched; Achillia had been in two minds whether to scatter the furniture about to give a suggestion of a robbery gone wrong, but she didn’t want to confuse the issue. Better that the Emperor’s men left Pompeii thinking Trigemina had killed herself along with her slaves. A robbery would mean involving the local magistrates.

  From her vantage point, Achillia noticed that those passing along the street were giving the house a wide berth. Gossip was clearly already circulating about what had taken place. She needed to leave soon – eventually the guards would notice her loitering – but she wanted first to get a sense of who had come for Trigemina before she tried to find this Barbatus. Were these the Emperor’s men or locals?

  Achillia moved closer, stopping at a fountain to take a drink of water. The stone surrounds of the fountain had unfamiliar writing on them. She peered at it.

  “Oscan,” said a voice from beside her.

  Achillia turned. A man stood a few feet from her. He wasn’t particularly young, but his hair was not yet grey. He pointed at the writing. “Oscan,” he said again. “There’s probably only a few people living here who can still read it.”

  “And are you one of them?”

  “No,” replied the man. He flashed a grin at her. “I have trouble enough with Latin.”

  Achillia tried to look disinterested. She again tried to make it look like she was waiting for someone. The guards outside the townhouse were kicking a stone between them.

  “Nasty business,” said the man. “Entire household killed, so they say.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” Achillia replied.

  “They found them this morning. Mistress and her slaves. Throats all cut.”

  Achillia widened her eyes, imitating surprise. It was time to go; this man would draw attention to her. She bowed slightly and turned to leave.