Empire of Time

by Daniel Godfrey

  Nick nodded, but kept quiet. He couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted to. His throat had clamped shut. For all he knew, his father was already dead. The message could be waiting for him when he got back to Chloe’s.

  “We can offer a number of options for your father’s situation.”

  Nick nodded again. “I don’t fully understand how this all works,” he said.

  The woman led him through the brushed-steel door and into a corridor that led into the modern section of the building beyond the classical façade. Rather than the glass and chrome presented by the outer building, Nick thought it looked like a hospital, the walls painted in institutional pastel greens and blues. And then he noticed what was missing. There were no wards, just a series of closed doors.

  “NovusPart was never limited to New Pompeii,” the woman said, her voice unemotional. Either the woman had trained her voice as well as her face, or she was used to repeating the same marketing spiel to a long list of potential customers. “NovusPart sought to save people from death. This institute was set up to continue that work.”

  “And how exactly is that achieved?” Nick asked.

  In front of them, the corridor turned to the left. The woman came to a stop by a door. Nick peered at it. The shiny pale-blue surface was made up of thin horizontal strips, presumably to allow them to roll up and down. Like all the others, there was an electronic lock.

  Not a hospital.

  A warehouse.

  “The doctors caring for your father have the technology to forecast the moment of his death within a few hours. They don’t, however, have the technology to save him.”

  Nick felt cold sweat break out on his brow. What was she trying to tell him? “You have a NovusPart device?”

  The woman didn’t answer. Instead she gestured at the door. “Your father’s last resting place need only be a waiting room.”

  “So who’s in there?”

  “We cannot discuss the details; that would be—”

  “You brought me here for a reason.”

  The woman’s face didn’t flicker. “Thirty years,” she said. “That’s how long you will wait but, for your father, the journey will be instantaneous. The NovusPart device cannot be used within that short window leading up to the present. But in thirty years, it will be able to reach back and pull our clients into the future. By that time, two things will have happened.”

  “Which are?”

  “Firstly, the wait for new antibiotics will be over. Disease will once again be under control.”

  “And the second?”

  “The small payment you make to us now will have earned sufficient interest to pay those in the future for completing your contract.”

  Nick stared at the door. A storage facility. The NovusPart Institute was selling a decades-old dream. Go to sleep in the present, and wake up like nothing has changed in the future. They’d just replaced liquid nitrogen with the NovusPart device. Except there was one big difference.

  “So you don’t have a NovusPart device?” he repeated.

  The woman shook her head, her smile defensive. “We don’t need one,” she said. Her voice remained friendly and reassuring, as if she’d had this conversation dozens of times. Nick thought of the number of doors they’d passed. Tried to imagine the money that had paid for the receptionist to be linked to the boards. He wondered if this woman could control her expression sufficiently for her to access the boards without him noticing. “We know the NovusPart device functions in the future.”

  “Because of New Pompeii?”

  “No, Mr Houghton. Because of you.”

  Nick blinked. He could hear voices in the distance, coming closer.

  “You didn’t think you could come here without us recognising you, did you?”

  The woman’s expression didn’t change. Nick looked at the closed door. “So who’s inside?”

  “For a long time, Mary Arlen blamed you for her son’s death.”

  The woman tapped the keypad of the lock. The door slid upwards slowly and silently. The room beyond was just a few metres square, and was empty except for a steel chair.

  The approaching voices were getting louder. There were maybe a dozen or so people heading in their direction.

  Nick couldn’t take his eyes from the chair. “I’m not going inside.”

  The woman’s expression finally broke. A momentary grin before her solemn expression returned. “No one’s asking you to, Mr Houghton.”

  A group of people came around the corner, led by another Institute woman. She wore the same clothing and short bobbed hairstyle as his guide. The rest of the group were in modern black mourning attire, except for a fragile old man at the centre. He didn’t seem to know what was happening. Two ladies in their mid-thirties held onto his hands and led him forward and towards the door of his cell. The rest of the group parted. Some of them looked upset. Others happy. A few relieved.

  The old man went to sit in the chair, and the women leading him backed away. The door slid back down into position. Just as he disappeared from view, he gave a cheery wave, his mouth opening and closing silently, as if he was speaking only to himself.

  The lock started to blink. The group let out a sigh, then were silently led away by their guide. All so fast, and so simple.

  “This is not a place for mourning,” said the woman to Nick. “Or for being joyful. You may never see your father again, but you can be assured that your father will be saved.”

  Nick felt his cheeks burning. “There was no food in there. No water.”

  “He won’t need any.”

  “So open the door. Let’s check.”

  “The doors cannot be opened once the unit is sealed.”

  “Why not?”

  “To guarantee the transportation.”

  Nick strained to hear anything from inside the cell. Because, whether he knew it or not, the confused old man had suddenly become a cat. A very famous one. And there didn’t seem to be any way of opening his box.

  “I think I’ve seen enough,” he said.

  “We have something else to show you.”

  “I’m not interested. My father’s not coming here.”

  The woman didn’t seem to hear him. “Mary Arlen blamed you for her son’s death,” she repeated. “Until a few days before her own transportation.”

  Nick froze. The blog hadn’t been updated in months. Had he walked past Mary Arlen’s own tomb? “What changed?”

  * * *

  Nick looked at the tiny figure, painted onto a small rectangle of plaster no bigger than a shoebox, and let out an audible gasp.

  “You see why she changed her mind?”

  Nick didn’t respond. Pompeii had first been excavated by the Bourbon kings. Although more pillage than archaeology, their efforts did at least mean the best mosaics and frescos were now safely preserved. But that didn’t mean all their finds were in museums. The Bourbon collections themselves had eventually been broken up, sequestered by the state, stolen by organised crime. But none of that had happened to the fresco sitting in front of him.

  The figure was of a man, maybe even a lares. At regular intervals someone had chipped inch-wide lacerations up and down his arms, legs and the trunk of his body. The damage had probably been inflicted by a chisel. For the first time in years, Nick felt a pang of academic anger. The double-edged sword of eighteenth-century archaeology was right in front of him. Without the gouges, the fresco would have been a fine figure if not an especially noteworthy one. Certainly not the best example. So the Bourbons had damaged it deliberately; if it wasn’t worthy of addition to their collections, then they’d made sure no one else could have it either. That’s how it worked in the 1700s. Preserve the best, destroy the rest.

  Nick glanced up at the Institute woman. After guiding him back out of the warehouse facility, she’d brought him to a small antechamber off the lobby. At least he was near the exit. He’d be on his way back to Chloe and the Bureau soon enough.

  “Yes,” h
e said, finally. “I see why she changed her mind.”

  He looked back at the figure. The fact it was a fairly ordinary illustration wasn’t why the Bourbons hadn’t added it to their collection. They’d also been beaten to the punch. Despite probably sifting it out of the earth themselves, someone had written something very modern directly underneath the man’s feet. Something modern – or entirely futuristic if seen from the point of view of the 1700s.

  Nick Houghton, NovusPart

  His name alongside that of NovusPart. Maybe the same message that had been scratched into the Gabinetto’s fresco and the graffiti from the bakery. But still he couldn’t read it all, there were too many words missing.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “The fresco was part of a private collection, taken from the Villa Maritima. The Institute acquired it for a knocked down price.” She smiled. “Given the damage.”

  Nick didn’t say anything. He wasn’t familiar with the villa to which she referred but wasn’t going to admit it.

  “Mary Arlen lived thinking you destroyed her son’s legacy. But she died believing you would restore it.”

  Nick grunted. “NovusPart is dead.”

  “Its technology lives on in New Pompeii.”

  It was time to take a chance. This might be the reason he was here. “Did Mary say anything about having any of her son’s research? His data files?”

  The woman studied him for a moment, her neutral expression finally slipping. “All those were taken. As well you know, Nick Houghton.”

  “Who took them?”

  “The Bureau of Roman Affairs.”

  45

  New Pompeii

  SINCE PULLUS’S LAST visit, the slave market had moved from its traditional location to a small corner near the covered theatre. For anyone who could still remember how the market had once operated – before the eruption and the NovusPart transportations – the meagre collection of human tools couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than dregs. Not the prime cuts.

  At first, Pullus kept his distance. He waited with Galbo and Taedia beside a water fountain, and hoped to spot Crixus without getting too close to the wares. After all, they’d probably all want to work in his household, given his reputation for gentle treatment. “I can’t see him.”

  “They’re not exactly going to put an old man front of shop,” replied Galbo. “Do you want me to go in and find him?”

  Pullus shook his head, studying the faces of those waiting to be sold. There were about twenty of them, mostly men, in a variety of ages and builds. A few older women were scattered amongst them. He frowned. At this distance, it was difficult to tell who was leading the sales. The owner would no doubt make himself known once they started checking over the merchandise.

  He sighed, and started to walk towards the market. It was all so different to his first visit. Hadn’t there been something exciting about picking the people who’d form his household staff? Perhaps. And yet both Galbo and Habitus had been fortunate acquisitions. None of the others that day had really stuck out in his mind, just the advice he’d received from Calpurnia. Get a good balance of men and women, and not too many from the same pot.

  She’d been wrong of course. But Calpurnia had based her advice on an economy that had already been blown apart by a volcano. In New Pompeii, the smart money had chosen to invest in female slaves: if their proto-Roman society wasn’t going to get fresh slaves from war, then they were going to have to breed them.

  As Pullus, Galbo and Taedia approached, one of the men rose to his feet. The rest of the slaves followed his lead, but with the lethargy and enthusiasm of those knowing they were unlikely to be sold. They’d probably been passed over many times.

  “We’re looking for an experienced porter,” Galbo said. Pullus nodded, as if to confirm, but was more than happy for his steward to take the lead. The man in charge of the slave market didn’t respond; instead, he pointed at Taedia.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “She’s not for sale,” replied Galbo.

  “She bleeds though, yes?”

  “We’re looking for a porter,” Pullus said, interrupting. “Do you have anybody suitable? Anyone with experience?”

  The man cleared his throat, and swept a bit of crusted food from his tunic. Then he pointed at the nearest woman in his collection. Presumably someone who’d recently lost her fertility, and therefore much of her value. She didn’t look particularly healthy. “She could do door work, easy. Knows how to follow an instruction. Speaks some Latin, doesn’t eat much.”

  “We’re looking for a man.”

  The slaver shrugged, and swung his arm in a wide loop to include all of his stock in the conversation. “Feel free to have a look. Most of these are farm hands though. Bit rough even for you, Decimus Horatius Pullus.”

  The mention of his name had an immediate effect on those waiting to be sold. The lethargy seemed to melt from them. Now they held themselves straight – or as straight as some of their broken bodies would allow. Pullus ignored them, and stuck close to Taedia. He waited as Galbo hobbled back and forth, sometimes pausing at a man about the right age, but none had a sty. Pullus was sure he didn’t recognise any of them.

  “So is this where I’ll end up?” Taedia whispered. “On a market where no one will want me?”

  “That’s not how I do things.”

  “But it’s how others do things, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Taedia hesitated. “Is it how Calpurnia does things?”

  “I don’t know… look, things are better than they were.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re more valuable,” Pullus replied. He frowned, feeling himself lured into the debate he’d had many times when visiting Naples. “When I first came here, I saw a slave thrown from a balcony. His master then rushed downstairs just to break the limbs that hadn’t broken in the fall. And all because he’d been served cold cuts rather than a hot meal. I can’t remember the last time anyone told me a story like that. Slaves are too valuable now.”

  Taedia didn’t say anything, and Pullus immediately regretted his comment. The lack of a fresh supply of new slaves may have prompted some changes, but all too much had remained the same. And as Galbo sometimes went out of his way to demonstrate, there were always those who could remember the old ways of doing things.

  “Maybe people know you don’t like hearing those sorts of stories,” said Taedia, quietly. “And choose not to tell you…”

  Pullus ignored her. Perhaps it was true, but he doubted it. The slave owners of New Pompeii had needed to get used to their new situation quickly. No war or access to the outside world meant fewer slaves. And fewer slaves meant they’d become more valuable. Supply and demand. Those who’d adjusted quickly were now significantly richer than those who hadn’t. Men such as Naso and Popidius, for instance.

  “Nick Houghton!”

  The shout had come from the back of the group, from a thin man with a mop of curly brown hair. “Por favor, necesito tu ayuda!”

  Spanish?

  Pullus didn’t speak it, but he knew enough to recognise it. The speaker’s feet had been dabbed in white chalk. The mark of a fresh slave. Something Pompeii hadn’t seen for a long time.

  “Nick! Nick Houghton! ¡Ayúdame!”

  Pullus made his way across to the man, the slave owner and Taedia following him. “What’s your name?” he said, in the only way he knew to communicate with a Spaniard. In English, slowly and loudly.

  The man looked back at him, his expression desperate. Like his chance had finally arrived and he didn’t know what to do with it. “No hablo Inglés!”

  “Decent specimen, this one,” said the slaver, stepping ahead so he could take up a position beside the Spaniard. The owner waved what looked like a pair of spectacles before slipping them again out of sight. Pullus noticed that both lenses were cracked. “He don’t see too well, seems to need these.”

  “Where are you from?” Pullus asked. The Spa
niard just looked confused.

  The slaver continued with his sales pitch. “More of a household slave than someone for your estates,” he said. “Can’t find any cocksucker who understands him though. Feel free to examine his testicles.”

  “And where did you get him?”

  The slaver shrugged. “Swapped him for three others, didn’t I? Thought it was a good deal at the time.”

  “And now?”

  “As I said, no cocksucker knows what he’s saying. If you’re willing to invest a bit of stick, then no doubt he’d be okay.”

  Pullus looked back at the Spaniard. “He can’t see.”

  “Then make him work at night!”

  “Nick Houghton! ¡Ayúdame! ¡Ayúdame!”

  Pullus turned away. The Spaniard had probably broken through the biological containment, just like those being held in the amphitheatre pens. He should count himself lucky he’d been picked up by a slaver, rather than Habitus. And yet his desperate cries had excited the others. The nearest slave was telling him to which number he could count; another that she could be put to work in his kitchen. He ignored them all. “You have anything squirrelled away, or is this it?” he asked.

  “If you’re looking for an Egyptian boy, you’re about ten years too late.”

  Pullus felt a new degree of distaste for the man. Some emperors had once paid a small fortune for a pretty Egyptian boy, and there were rumours some were still being bred. How long that market would last would remain to be seen. He guessed it would probably depend on the genders of the babies being produced.

  “¡Ayúdame! Soy un periodista! ¡Ayúdame!”

  The Spaniard again. Pullus searched for Galbo. His steward had finished his sweep, but had found nothing. Crixus wasn’t here.

  “I’ll take him,” Pullus said, pointing at the Spaniard. As soon as the opportunity arose, he’d be dispatched back to the outside world. Galbo examined the new recruit as if his master were mad. “Send him to my villa,” Pullus continued. “I think it’s probably best we keep him somewhere that Habitus won’t find him.”

  46