“I know.”
“And I want to help.” She looked around nervously. “I checked your Who’s Where status at the sanatorium.”
“And?”
“Someone updated it minutes before we got there,” she said. “They knew you were coming, Nick. They knew where you were going before we even arrived.”
Nick pulled his arm from Chloe’s grasp. “Wait here. I’ll see what she wants.”
He walked over to Amel, who smiled uncomfortably as he approached. Nick glanced at the painting she’d been examining. It had been placed in a prime spot near the Bureau’s entrance, but it wasn’t one of Naso’s best knock-offs. It depicted a chaotic scene of slaves and masters, drink and food. An image far from the ideal picture of Rome, and a reminder that Christmas hadn’t always been Christian. “The Saturnalia,” he said. “When slaves become masters, and masters become slaves.”
“I’ve read about it.”
“It’s not quite as vulgar as many would have you believe.”
Amel raised an eyebrow. “Do you join in?”
Nick shook his head, regretting his comment. He didn’t want to go back over this ground. “I serve some food for my household,” he said, perhaps failing to hide his distaste, “and then I leave them to it.”
“Don’t only bad emperors dislike the Saturnalia?”
“On this one issue, I agree with Nero,” Nick said. The festival wasn’t too far away, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Amel hesitated. “I wanted to apologise.”
“For what?”
“My behaviour at our lunch date.”
“It really doesn’t matter.” He didn’t want to replay the discussion, even if she only wanted to justify her position.
“We haven’t seen you down at the dig site for a couple of days,” Amel continued. “I was worried you’d already gone.”
“I’ve been kept busy here…”
Amel didn’t look convinced. The grey, drab décor of the Bureau probably never looked so stale, especially for a woman used to spending time outside. “Really?”
“Sort of,” Nick replied.
“Well, I’d be pleased to rescue you, if you’d let me? A quick tour of the archaeological museum? Maybe even the Gabinetto?”
50
New Pompeii
PULLUS STUMBLED TO a halt just outside the Marine Gate. His head ached and his insides grumbled, but worse was his apparent inability to control his right foot. It caught a paving slab and almost sent him tumbling.
On his way to the gate, he’d noticed another long queue outside Naso’s townhouse. It wasn’t clear if another member of the Ordo was getting a dressing down, but he hoped not.
Rocking back to regain his balance, Pullus belched and started down the ramp that led to New Pompeii’s “inland” port, his footing remaining unsteady. Even taking into account the steep gradient and the looseness of his sandals, it was clear he’d drunk too much the previous night. And everyone in his household would now know he’d bedded Calpurnia’s “gift”, which meant the news would also start circulating in the town by mid-morning. But if Popidius’s slave Crixus had been sold to the convoys, this was where he would be.
He stopped to allow a couple of men carrying amphorae to pass as they headed into town. NovusPart had originally orientated things so all its supplies reached the town from the north, via the Vesuvius Gate. That route had been the most direct from their control villa – Calpurnia’s villa – but was also inconvenient because ancient Pompeii had been built around its harbour. The steady ebb and flow of merchant vessels that had once supplied the town with produce and wealth had gone, but the underlying infrastructure had been recreated. The main markets of the forum were positioned to be fed by the port, only the sea was missing.
Pullus glanced up. The duumvir’s mansion was located directly above the new “inland” port. Naso seemed to like keeping watch on his cash flow, although to Pullus, the scene always appeared chaotic. If it had been up to him, he would have separated the wagons bringing in supplies from those taking things out. And he would have certainly made sure the operation was kept away from Naso’s fermentation pits. The place stank of garum, made even worse down here by the smell of raw fish being unloaded to feed the trade.
“Coming to help us, eh, Pullus?”
Another man carrying goods up from the port had spotted him, and was now heading in his direction. Halfway down the ramp and with nowhere to go, Pullus tensed. It wasn’t long before a votive was pushed into his hands. He didn’t look at it. Whether the impression on the clay disc was to help with money or the man’s wife, Pullus didn’t really care. He muttered a few words of thanks and walked into the midst of the many moving carts, horses and men. It would make it harder for him to be spotted in the crowd.
He’d escaped the house early, before Galbo had come to wake him. One of his slaves must have carried him back to his bed during the night. He hadn’t slept well, skipping in and out of sleep. Part of him was still thinking about Taedia. If what she’d said was true – that she’d found the papers – then Habitus would surely soon be on his way.
Which meant he was running out of time.
Pullus needed to clear his head. It was unlikely he’d find Crixus on his own, one man he barely knew amongst so much activity, with or without the distinctive sty. But he kept on nonetheless, looking into each face without staring too long to be recognised in return. Or so he thought.
In his search through the wagons, he hadn’t been aware of just how much wake he’d created in the crowd, turning heads, the occasional gesture. A path that was easy to follow, once you knew where to look. “It’s not safe for you to be out here alone,” Galbo said, looking pleased to have finally found his master as he hobbled towards him. “Unless you really believe—”
Pullus shook his head, cutting off his steward. “I just wanted some time before I reported to the duumvir.”
“Your shadow’s fairly pissed off you left without her.”
Pullus shrugged. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know I took your advice.”
“I heard it wasn’t you doing the fucking,” Galbo replied. “Taedia refused her chores today. Once she’d found you’d gone. She said you’d approve.”
Pullus pulled away. She’d found the papers, he reminded himself. So Habitus might indeed be on his way. But he suddenly doubted it. Because there’d been no reason for Taedia to tell him she knew his secret. Other than, of course, to let him know she now had something to use against him. Something to stop whatever punishment Galbo might be tempted to hand her next, or perhaps it would be used as a shield against the unwanted attention of Marcus. Was he now a master who had a reason to keep her rather than hand her back to Calpurnia once the opportunity came? Had she had her own motives for sleeping with him? To put a baby in her belly perhaps?
“What’s going on over there?” Galbo pointed into the traffic of wagons and horses. Galbo seemed to have a more instinctive understanding of what system was in place.
“I don’t see anything,” Pullus said.
“There,” Galbo said again, using his staff to point. “I forget your eyes are going bad.”
“They’re fine,” Pullus replied, irritated. Then he saw what Galbo was talking about. In the midst of the large numbers of Pompeians unloading wagons was a small group of people dressed in modern clothing. And they didn’t look like they belonged to the convoy team. They seemed confused, huddled together, looking up at the walls of the city like they’d been sent to hell.
New blood, thought Pullus. New slaves. About three quarters of the group were young women, perfect for breeding, and the men were all well-muscled, perhaps destined for the estates, where life was hard and short. His hunch was confirmed when a Roman and a regular outsider from the convoys came to examine the group. A male slave said something Pullus couldn’t hear and was suddenly beaten to his knees. The others huddled closer, instinctively seeking herd protection.
“Did you know about this?” Galbo asked.
Pullus shook his head, thinking about his new Spanish acquisition. “No.”
“Does Calpurnia?”
“I don’t think so.”
Pullus headed towards the group. The Roman who’d beaten the new “slave” smiled warmly as he approached, but also used the time to usher away the outsider from the convoy.
“Decimus Horatius Pullus! What an unexpected honour!”
Pullus didn’t recognise the man addressing him. Had he seen him before? Maybe, but probably not. Pullus eyed the human goods.
“Who are they?” he asked.
The man hesitated, but kept smiling. “Nothing to worry about, Decimus Pullus.”
“They breached the bio-containment?”
“No, they’ve all been through the dips.”
So they are slaves, thought Pullus. Imported for a purpose. Perhaps the Spaniard hadn’t been caught nosing around. “I’ll bring this up with Naso,” he said, turning away, intending to return to where Galbo stood waiting for him. Yet something in his peripheral vision made him pause. His eyes tracked from the huddled group, to the passing wagons, to Galbo, and back to the Marine Gate. And the message eventually reached his cranium.
One of the wagons heading out of town was loaded with NovusPart objects. A flat-screen television jutted out of the top of one of them, a large tyre another. Others were filled with clothes. He hesitated. The huddled group, newly arrived, the wagons of NovusPart materials departing. Was one bought with the other?
“We’re leaving,” he said to Galbo quietly. He forced himself not to turn back; he didn’t want the man watching the slaves to realise what he’d seen.
“Naso’s doing the right thing,” said Galbo, puffing loudly and working his staff as a clear signal he’d like his master to slow his pace. “We need more people.”
Pullus shook his head and kept on walking. He only stopped once he’d reached the top of the ramp, just yards away from the gate leading back into Pompeii. His initial thought was to go to Naso – after all, he ran the convoys. But the fact he was in charge of the wagons coming and going also meant he likely knew what was going on. And yet wasn’t it Popidius who’d been collecting NovusPart memorabilia days before the instructions had arrived from Calpurnia?
“What is it?” asked Galbo. “What’s the issue?”
“Slaves are expensive,” Pullus replied.
“That depends on the slave,” replied Galbo.
“No,” Pullus said. “You don’t understand. Where I’m from, people aren’t cheap.”
“You’ve also told me that things aren’t going well where you come from.”
“No. Even now. People aren’t cheap.”
“So how are they being paid for?”
“With memories of NovusPart,” replied Pullus. He looked back down the ramp, the activity of the port continuing unabated. He was just about to turn away again and continue into town when a scrum of movement caught his attention. A small huddle of men had begun pouring out of the marine baths, all shouting and hooting. They were carrying something aloft.
Pullus squinted. No, not something. Someone.
The duumvir.
Naso was being carried by the crowd, which was heading towards his garum pits. The duumvir was held fast by each limb, but was still writhing and trying to break free.
“Shit,” Pullus said. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“We should go back to your townhouse,” Galbo replied. “And bolt the doors.”
51
PULLUS ARRIVED BACK at the House of McMahon to find Marcus gone, and his two bodyguards with him, the only muscle he had to call on. As he paced around the atrium, Galbo waved towards Primus.
“Boy! Bring some water!” His steward’s voice was strained and he was breathing hard. “We need to get you to safety,” he said, returning his attention to his master. “I’ll ready the horses.”
Pullus shook his head. “Not without Marcus.”
“The boy has his bodyguards.”
“No,” said Pullus. “We wait for him here.”
Primus soon arrived back with a jug of water, walking so quickly he spilled some of it on the atrium floor. The boy offered what remained first to Pullus but he waved him away. Galbo took it gratefully. “I’ll take Primus and look for him.”
Pullus shook his head. “I don’t know where he went, and you’re not going to find one boy in a town this size.”
“I found you, didn’t I?”
“You found me because everyone stares at me wherever I go,” Pullus replied, letting his anger show. He thought about Naso’s observation. Whenever you pick your nose, some whelp thinks I need to know. “But how many recognise the boy? He’s just another rich kid with his minders.”
“Then we do what?”
“We wait…”
Galbo swallowed, nervously. “If they turned on Naso, they may come for you next.”
Yes, Pullus thought, his conversation with Popidius clear in his mind. His absence from town had meant he’d been missing things; subtle changes to the mood of New Pompeii. The humiliation of Scaeva had maybe been too much for some in the Ordo. Perhaps they’d decided that if they couldn’t remove Naso at the ballot box, they would do so via the mob. But where did that leave him? And where did it leave Calpurnia?
“We wait,” he said again, looking about. Suddenly his choice of slaves seemed naïve. There was not one amongst them able to fight. No one to man the barricade. “Hopefully, Marcus will come back soon. News travels fast – his men will understand the situation.”
In some respects, there were things occurring in the town more important than local politics. He needed to tell Calpurnia about what he’d seen below the Marine Gate. Because if someone was paying for slaves with NovusPart materials, then it meant that somewhere – somehow – that person was also in direct contact with the outside world. Maybe someone who had a use for the convoys beyond shipping goods. “What if one of those new slaves isn’t really here to be a slave,” asked Pullus, thinking aloud. “What if they’ve been sent for another reason? Getting to the NovusPart device, for instance?”
Galbo let his staff clank heavily onto the mosaic floor. “What if the mob arrives here before Marcus?” he said.
“Then I’m sorry,” Pullus replied. The man who can’t be killed. Did he really believe that? Would those ruling the future continue to protect him? “But we’re all going to die.”
* * *
“You look worried.”
“I am,” Pullus whispered. He gave the lares another offering of crumbs and watched the flame in the small oil lamp momentarily fizz. Then he turned to face Taedia. They were alone, Galbo and the rest of his household having taken up positions by the street door, armed with what makeshift weapons they had managed to find. They didn’t present much of a barrier. “The research papers,” he said. “I had my reasons for keeping them from Calpurnia.”
“I’m not interested,” Taedia replied. She hesitated. “They’re still in the satchel under your bed.”
“So you haven’t told Habitus? Calpurnia?”
“No. I just didn’t want to go back.”
Pullus swore inwardly. That was perhaps their last hope. If she’d followed her instructions, then Habitus and the cavalry might be on their way, drawn by the promise of Arlen’s research, just in time to protect his household. As it was, they were truly on their own.
“You see him as just a boy, don’t you?” Taedia said. “Marcus, I mean.”
“He is just a boy.”
“You shouldn’t have waited for him. He wouldn’t have done the same for you. If he knows what is happening, he will already be riding back to his mother’s villa.”
“Galbo told me,” Nick said, searching for the right words. “The slave that drowned?”
“He claims it was an accident,” Taedia replied. “But other slaves saw it happen. They say he trapped the boy with his knees, and was laughing as he struggled.”
/> Pullus found himself unable to reply. Part of him considered the relationship between Roman masters and their slaves, but he quickly dismissed it. If true, what Marcus had done was murder. Plain and simple. He would need to be punished. But would Calpurnia allow it?
“It wasn’t the first accident either,” Taedia whispered.
Pullus reached towards her, hoping to offer some touch of comfort. He thought back to their encounter the previous night. “Has he ever hurt you?”
“We were very young,” she said. “Playing at being married. He told me the game was that I was pregnant, but that I was an adulteress. He sliced my stomach with a pear knife. Some offal from the kitchen served as the ‘baby’. Calpurnia was very angry; she even allowed Habitus to beat him.”
“I didn’t…”
“You were in Naples,” Taedia said. “Always either at Naples or your villa.”
Pullus was about to ask for more details when there was a sudden hammering at the door to the street. Then came the sound of it opening, a scuffle and a cry. So much for his front line of slaves, ready to protect their master.
“They’re coming,” Taedia whispered.
But it wasn’t a mob. Instead, just two men appeared: the aedile Popidius and a man Pullus didn’t know. Both were carrying swords.
Popidius stopped just inside the threshold of the atrium. He gazed at the fresco of Vesuvius, the volcano raining fire down onto Pompeii. Pullus suddenly realised the aedile had never visited the House of McMahon before. Of course, he was too young. He’d have been a small boy when NovusPart fell.
“I don’t remember it happening,” Popidius said, pointing at the fresco.
Pullus couldn’t speak, aware that he wasn’t wearing any armour, and that the man with the aedile was clearly part of his personal bodyguard. He would know how to use that sword, and all his attention was on him, the man who couldn’t be killed. The man’s eyes were wide, his expression one of adrenaline-fuelled fear. The appearance of Galbo and his three other slaves was no comfort. His steward and the cripples looked more like an honour guard than a serious threat.
Empire of Time Page 21
