Empire of Time

by Daniel Godfrey

  “I wanted to speak with you before we got another visit from Waldren.”

  Nick nodded. “He’s on his way?”

  “He will be.”

  Fabio was about as tense as Nick had ever seen him. Probably more nervous than when they’d first met; the day he’d introduced himself as the head of the newly formed Bureau, an organisation he’d have known would only survive if Nick accepted it. “You’re worried about some dusty old professor?”

  “He’s no academic.”

  Nick nodded, unsurprised. “Then who exactly is he?”

  “Do you really need me to tell you?”

  “I’m guessing he’s with some sort of security service,” Nick said. “It would be nice to know which one.”

  Fabio almost answered, and then stopped himself. He didn’t say anything else until their coffee arrived. Nick took a sip and scowled. He’d probably never get used to the taste of artificial beans. “The graffiti,” the Bureau Chief said. “You can see the implications?”

  “They’re the same as before,” replied Nick. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “Everything’s changed,” said Fabio. “Before we had two options: either this was something NovusPart had done – a signature on a painting, as you put it – or it was something your friends have done out there.”

  Nick cleared his throat. He could see where this was heading. “No, you’re wrong.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “The graffiti used my name, yes, but I crossed NovusPart’s path just over fifteen years ago.”

  “So?”

  “So whatever prompted those messages could have been from fifteen years ago to any point in time since that event.

  Maybe five years ago. Maybe now. Maybe ten years in the future. Maybe two thousand.”

  Fabio descended into silence. “Good point,” he said, finally. “But I don’t think that’s going to convince many people. All it’s going to do is feed the shit that’s going round that you lot are trying to change the timeline.”

  “They’re not stupid, Fabio. Calpurnia knows that alterations to the timeline pose as much threat to the Romans as anyone else. If Whelan succeeded in communicating anything, he got that message across.”

  “Before they killed him?”

  Nick hesitated. “Yes.”

  Fabio glared at him. From behind the filing cabinets, the receptionist reappeared with a couple of pastries. “Breakfast,” she said, and promptly disappeared.

  Nick looked at the food, and its plastic sheen. “Is that real chocolate?”

  “Of course it isn’t.”

  Nick felt some twinge of disappointment. Chocolate was one of those many luxuries for which demand had outstripped supply. There was, after all, only so much cacao that could be grown, and the crop had also been suffering from different forms of blight for about five years, exacerbating the problem. “They used to sell bars of chocolate when I was a kid, you know. Solid bars of milk chocolate.”

  “Delizioso! It’s the thing I miss most.”

  Nick smiled nostalgically. Like so many simple things, it was now too expensive. “You know, in the 1920s, the only people who could afford jelly were aristocrats.”

  “Some things stay the same, then.”

  Nick took a bite of the pastry, but quickly put it down. He was more than aware that Fabio hadn’t answered his earlier question, and he wasn’t going to let it drop. “I looked up Waldren. Or at least, I tried to—”

  Fabio tensed. He brought his voice down into a sharp whisper. “And what did you find?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You won’t,” Fabio replied. “I doubt it’s his real name. Well, would you? Under the circumstances?”

  No, thought Nick. He wouldn’t. It was clear Waldren wanted something, even if he hadn’t yet asked. And in those circumstances, it was probably best to keep your real identity shrouded, especially if you thought the person you were talking to could arrange to have you taken from the timeline.

  “Look, Nick. We were asked to introduce you – but if we hadn’t… then I guess it would have happened anyway.”

  “So who is he?” Nick repeated. He thought about the man’s mid-Atlantic drawl. “MI5? NSA? CIA? Interpol?”

  Fabio grimaced. “NATO,” he whispered. “That’s all I know. I got a call from the Italian Foreign Ministry. Another from what remains of the UN. Things have changed a lot since you’ve been gone, Nick. Just trust me on this, okay. The guy is bad news, and I will do my best to keep you from him, but…”

  “I’ve met men like him before,” Nick said, trying to sound unconcerned. “And I have diplomatic immunity.” He let a few seconds pass. “So what’s the NovusPart Institute?” Fabio’s shoulders tensed again.

  “There was something on Mary Arlen’s blog,” Nick explained. “The detail was scant.”

  “Blog? You’ve been asking Chloe to read fucking blogs?”

  “Chloe wasn’t involved.”

  “Pah! It’s just one of any number of crackpot organisations.”

  “Don’t you think you should have told me?”

  “Why? They’re nutcases!”

  “This one’s headed up by Joe Arlen’s mother,” Nick said. “And it employs people who used to work for NovusPart.”

  “Low-level people.”

  “Still, have you wondered what they’re up to?”

  Fabio shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Because it’s not in your remit, right?”

  Fabio stabbed a finger onto the desk between them. “Whatever they’re doing, it has nothing to do with New Pompeii,” he said, his voice quiet. “And the last thing the Bureau wants is you getting mixed up with them. NovusPart is dead, and we want it to stay that way. Do you understand, Nick?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. So I don’t want Chloe telling me you’ve asked her to take you out to Vomero.”

  Fabio stood up from the desk, turning to see who was sitting close to the filing cabinets. The action meant he missed Nick’s shocked expression. “Okay,” the Italian said, turning back. “Let’s head out to the dig. Who knows what we might find today, eh?”

  Nick heard, but didn’t respond. The Vomero quarter. The place that was broadcasting on his Who’s Where page. His brain struggled to engage with Fabio whilst it tried to process what he did and didn’t know about the NovusPart Institute. Maybe he should have drunk the coffee. “I need to be back in Naples by six,” he said, slowly.

  “For your dinner with Amel?”

  “Yes.”

  Fabio looked embarrassed. “We’ve changed your dinner date to a quick lunch,” he said. “It’s why I dragged you out of bed early so we could get started.”

  “Jesus, I’m getting on for forty, Fabio. I don’t need my social life monitored.”

  “I know, I know. But, you know how gossip circulates. And when you’re back in New Pompeii, it’ll be her that has to deal with it. Not you.”

  40

  New Pompeii

  THE HEAVY WOODEN door swung open, and Pullus found himself looking into a holding cell not more than two metres across. Marcus leant against the left-hand wall. On the floor sat Whelan, his legs splayed out and his arms loose at his sides.

  Fifteen years ago they’d made Pullus watch. And he’d done nothing.

  He’d just assumed Whelan had died. The last thing he’d seen had been the pot of molten lead being shown to the NovusPart Chief Operating Officer. By that point, Whelan’s skull had already been drilled into, revealing the pink membrane covering the brain. His whirling eyes had locked onto the smoking pot as it was brought towards him.

  My father scraped a small hole in the ringleader’s skull, Calpurnia had said, describing another incident altogether. He did it slowly. Carefully. Kept him alive and screaming. Then he filled his cranium with molten lead until it flowed out through his eyes.

  Marcus glanced up at Pullus, frozen in the doorway. “My mother thought you’d be upset if you knew.”

  Pullus didn’t re
ply. Whelan had a mop of thick, greasy black hair, which mostly covered his injuries. Whether they’d managed to repair the skull or had just let the skin grow back over the hole he didn’t want to know. It was clear the NovusPart COO wasn’t going to recover. A long line of saliva hung down through his beard and onto his tunic. His eyes were open, but there was nothing behind them. No intellect. No humanity.

  “‘It’s not enough they die; they have to feel themselves dying.’”

  Pullus turned to the boy. There was anger in his belly but he tried to swallow it. This wasn’t Marcus’s doing, he reminded himself. Not his responsibility. “What are you doing here?”

  Marcus pushed away from the wall and shrugged. “The same as you,” he said. “I wanted to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Whether he could still tell us anything useful. But I don’t think even Dr Frankenstein could bring back this one.”

  Pullus studied the former NovusPart COO. There was nothing left of him. Every last scrap of what had been Mark Whelan had been taken. The student, the soldier, the businessman. Nothing was left.

  Marcus stooped and waved a hand past Whelan’s unseeing eyes. He then prodded a finger into the NovusPart COO’s forehead. Pullus was about to pull him away when the boy returned to his position by the wall and leant back into it, grinning. “He probably retains more intelligence than many of my mother’s slaves. Or the Ordo.”

  “Marcus…”

  “A weak wrist, I heard,” the boy continued. “They were just meant to drop a little of the lead onto his arm or hand. To let him feel the pain, and make him finally talk. When the first drop hit his ear he told my mother enough to get the device operational, but not to work.” Marcus paused, considering the shadow of Whelan sitting before him. “And so they tried again, but a few misplaced drops soon stopped him talking. The Greek told me that my grandfather had the idiot slave executed, but I think it would have been better just to have taken his hands.”

  Pullus wondered how much of Whelan’s brain had been destroyed by the molten metal. Wondered if there was anything left that could be coaxed to the surface. Or whether, if he’d been sent straight to a modern hospital, part of Whelan’s mind could have been saved. “He didn’t deserve this,” he said, finally. “He wasn’t the worst of them.”

  Again, the boy shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Calpurnia – your mother – she knows you’re here?”

  Marcus shook his head. There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “She thinks I came to town to continue my studies,” he said.

  Pullus nodded. “We need to get you back to the House of McMahon.”

  “I didn’t come to study, Pullus.”

  “I don’t fucking care.” He looked down at Whelan. “We’re leaving.”

  “Your friend Harris got me thinking,” Marcus said, ignoring him and leaning back against the wall casually, as if he had all the time in the world. “The NovusPart device works in the future. It may not work now, but we surely find how to make it work at some point.”

  Whelan’s lips were moving, but just barely. A rhythmic opening and closing, a few breaths a minute, keeping him alive. It wouldn’t take much to cover his mouth and nose, and finish it.

  “Pullus,” said Marcus, a little louder. “Listen to me: we know the NovusPart device works in the future, don’t we? And we know that I will control it.”

  “Harris was a manipulative bastard.”

  “Marcus,” said the boy, suddenly excited. “Harris said he was getting his instructions from someone called Marcus.”

  “That’s a very common name.”

  “It’s my name.”

  “And your father’s.”

  “He’s not here though, is he?”

  “No,” Pullus replied. Whelan’s mouth was still moving. On each outward breath there was the whisper of a syllable. “Unless your mother’s Greek can square the circle.” He leant down to Whelan. Yes, it was definitely a whisper.

  “He keeps saying it,” Marcus said impatiently.

  Pullus crouched by Whelan, ignored the smell of stale urine and faeces. It was only after a few breaths that he finally made out what Whelan was trying to say.

  Arlen.

  41

  Modern Pompeii, near the ruins

  “The Anti-Christ has risen. He is the son of Nick Houghton and his Roman whore, Calpurnia.”

  Modern graffiti found on the streets of Naples

  “YOU CAME WITH a chaperone?”

  Nick coughed, embarrassed, but didn’t look in Fabio’s direction. The Italian sat near the front of the restaurant rather than at his usual spot at the back. It was the same place they’d so recently met Waldren.

  Amel had prepared for the lunch date by putting on a fresh shirt and tying her hair up with a couple of long pins. Otherwise, she remained in her work clothes.

  “Downgrading from dinner to lunch wasn’t my idea,” Nick said.

  “They have you on a short leash.” Nick grunted at that. “It’s fine,” Amel continued. “If it hadn’t been the Bureau of Roman Affairs, it would have been my research board. There was a fair amount of finger wagging.”

  “So will this make them jealous… or just irritate them?”

  “Hopefully both.”

  Nick was silent, searching for something to say. Then he reminded himself this was her idea, and she probably had enough things to ask him. Sure enough, she grinned at him like she’d done at the airport, and then reached into her bag.

  What she put onto the table was more than a little unexpected. A small classical statue, about twenty centimetres tall, and in the Greek style of Apollo. A cape covered its shoulders and outstretched arm, but otherwise it was nude. All toned muscle right down to the exaggerated lines of the abdomen.

  “I got it from a stall outside the main entrance to Pompeii.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. The statue’s face looked familiar. So it wasn’t only the people of Naples who had chosen to reproduce his face in marble. Or plastic. “Shit,” he said.

  “I don’t think all the proportions can be correct.”

  Nick flushed. Greek sculptors were conservative about certain areas of the anatomy. “They now have a life-sized version of me at the Fortuna Augusta,” he said.

  “Life-sized?”

  “You know what I mean… and anyway, back then – back there – being well endowed is – was – a sign of being a barbarian.”

  “Then it would appear you are very civilised, Nick. Very civilised indeed.”

  Amel started to laugh, but Nick didn’t. Fortunately, he was rescued by the arrival of their food. As the waiter placed two plates onto the table he took the opportunity to move the statue to one side and glance over at Fabio. The Italian raised a glass of something in his direction and then he shifted in his seat so that he was turned slightly away from them. At least that was something.

  “Shit, this is real lamb!”

  Nick turned back to Amel, and took in the smell of seared meat. She looked delighted, already eating but taking her time with each mouthful.

  “You can take me out with the Bureau any time you want.”

  Nick didn’t pass comment. Back in New Pompeii the preference of the locals was for pork, but otherwise what they’d been served wasn’t anything special. He didn’t consider good food and wine a luxury. But he also knew Amel wasn’t being facetious. Europe’s farms and vineyards had been bought up by a wave of investors – all of whom now shipped the produce east. “The Bureau is good at arranging supplies,” he said. “It’s basically what they do for us.”

  “The Chinese would probably buy all you can take at much higher prices.”

  “I come home to Naples,” Nick answered. “Not Beijing.”

  Amel laughed. “Shit – forget I said that. I’d be lynched if people found out I’d suggested you stop selling exclusively to the Bureau.”

  “The eastern markets get most of the garum eventually,” Nick replied. “And, anyway, it’s not a
s if the Bureau are organising charity concerts for Europe yet.” Amel winced at his comment. “What?” he asked.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Just the charity thing. Shaking the tin and sponsored walks. It’s a bit dated, that’s all. People who can afford to should be giving because a cause is necessary, not just because of some wacky dare.”

  Nick nodded, embarrassed. Chloe had told him views on fundraising had evolved somewhat. Especially now the shoe was on the other foot and that it was Europe that needed help. He tried to move things on. “So, do your siblings live in the area?”

  Amel looked puzzled, then nodded theatrically as she continued to eat. “Oh, my niece? Yeah, my brother lives further up the coast.” She paused, then looked at him as if on the verge of an admission. “Look,” she said. “Can we talk about Pompeii…?”

  Nick nodded, disappointed but unsurprised. “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  “The graffiti in the bakery,” Amel said. “I mean… fuck!”

  Nick didn’t answer at first. Amel had been told not to talk to anyone about the graffiti find. As Fabio had put it, the story was easy to deny and it would be hard for her to get another job. “It’s a surprise, certainly.”

  “But nothing else has been found like it…”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. The rest of the site has been uncovered for too long. Many frescos have faded to nothing. Rain, wind, bomb damage. Even the early tunnellers would have removed a lot we don’t know about.”

  “Excuse me? Tunnellers?”

  Nick narrowed his eyes. Doesn’t she know?

  “I’m not a Pompeii – even a Roman – specialist,” Amel admitted.

  “Then why?”

  “This is where it’s at,” Amel replied. “After New Pompeii, this is where everyone in the field wants to work. It’s something I wanted on my CV.”

  “Oh,” Nick replied. “Well Pompeii was never fully buried. And it was just lapilli and ash, not rock. So the Romans came back and tunnelled in, maybe only a few months after the eruption. They took away a lot of the statues and gold, especially from the forum.”