Nick felt his stomach tighten. These people might be quiet now, but did McMahon have enough men if they turned into a mob? Even with all his tricks, and the imperial eagle? Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t particularly want to find out.
“So you translate for McMahon?”
Patrick nodded. “Yeah. When he’s in town. He doesn’t speak any Latin. But, then again, he doesn’t actually go out much.”
“And the people have accepted their new surroundings? They’re not suspicious?”
“Of course they’re suspicious! But at first the shock kept them quiet, and now they seem to be making the best of it. Wouldn’t you? Most of them thought they were going to die. They should be grateful.” He continued in a more lively tone. “And here’s one of our bathhouses!”
Patrick turned the corner and swept his hand towards a large building. Men and women were milling back and forth from between the small shops built into the side of the structure. Similar to a Roman townhouse, thought Nick. Nothing to be seen from the outside, and no space wasted. About halfway along was a doorway through which only men were passing. He could hear the dull echo of activity inside. He remembered the words of one of his tutors: “If you want to understand Rome you must see its baths.” And there they were. Right in front of him.
“It would be good to go in…”
“Maybe later, Nick. Remember, you have plenty of time. The forum’s this way.”
Patrick started to head towards a giant stone arch between the baths and the building on the other side. Despite his host’s eagerness, Nick hovered for a moment. There was a temple near the bathhouse. In some ways it was the focal point of this whole charade: the Temple of Fortuna Augusta. It was typically Roman, with a front-facing portico of five columns supporting a triangular gable that jutted out over the building and its promenade. If he’d been on his own, he would have taken the time to go in. Maybe tomorrow, when Patrick wasn’t looking over his shoulder. He noted that few Pompeians seemed to be giving the temple a second glance. It was odd that they weren’t flocking to the temple of their supposed saviour.
“Finally restored, I suppose,” Nick said. “After being damaged in the earthquake of AD 62?”
Patrick chuckled. “Yeah; all adds to it. Augustus’ temple restored to its former glory.”
Through the archway the narrow street spilled out into the large, open space of the forum. Nick exhaled deeply and stood frozen, ignoring the people flowing past him. Although not as grand as the reconstructions he’d seen of Rome’s civic centre, the forum still reflected the essence of something that had continued long after the fall of the caesars. Like St Mark’s Square, the Grand Place of Brussels, or the long, grassy strip of Washington’s National Mall, this was a place where citizens could come and know the power of their city.
Astridge’s buildings rose to different heights all around the square, but the arrangement of columns, porticos and flanking walls gave the illusion the area was fully contained by a single, interlocking structure. And, unlike the more modest baths and the townhouses, these buildings oozed wealth. Though still capped by a flow of red tiles, they were built of stone, not brick. And there wasn’t a trace of damage from the volcano.
“You think we’ve done an okay job now, Dr Houghton?”
Nick nodded dumbly. He wasn’t really listening; he was trying to identify the various buildings. Lining them up in his mind with the ruins he had seen at the real Pompeii, and with artists’ recreations from academic works. He stumbled forward.
The Temple of Jupiter stood to his immediate left, dominating the northern end of the forum. As with the Temple of Fortuna Augusta, a flight of steps led upwards to a platform surrounded by tall, white columns. Inside would be statues of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva. However, unlike its counterpart near the bathhouse, this temple buzzed with activity.
A small crowd waited at the bottom of the steps. The people were quiet, looking expectantly upwards. Several men were standing at the front of the platform. The priest – if that’s what he was – wore a full toga, an additional fold of fabric covering his head. Three other men, close to him, were stripped to the waist. Another man was kneeling.
“Can you see it?”
Nick followed the direction of Patrick’s finger to the top of the steps. Yes, he could see it. Blood was starting to trickle down the steps. If they’d come a few minutes earlier they might have seen the full ceremony; it was clear an animal had just been slaughtered. The man now kneeling at the top of the steps was trying to divine some sort of message from the poor beast’s entrails.
“What have you managed to observe about their religion?”
Patrick shrugged. “Very little. It doesn’t interest me. That’s your field, Dr Houghton. And good luck with it.”
“But surely as someone with a background in the Classics…”
“Eh?”
“You know Latin and Greek?”
“Well, I do now – but my background is in French and Italian.”
Another odd choice. But then Nick thought about the recordings. Would a bunch of classicists be that useful? Was it better just to employ general linguists, who didn’t have the tendency to speak as though they were quoting Cicero?
“Astridge built several temples,” continued Patrick. “But the Pompeians only appear to be interested in this one, another by the Marine Gate, and the one over there.”
Nick glanced across the square. He could see the roof of another large temple just outside the main area of the forum in its own enclosure. From the city plans and his knowledge of Pompeii, he knew it was just as large as that dedicated to Jupiter, but it also came with its own colonnaded courtyard. “The Temple of Apollo.”
“Yeah. They seem to do most of the sacrifices here, most of the wailing over there.”
Nick grimaced, not impressed with his guide’s attitude. Religion was central to these people’s lives. But with no definitive religious text, no one had any real knowledge of how it all worked. It would be his main task to find out.
With the crowd at the Temple of Jupiter still waiting for their divination, Nick let his gaze roam round the forum. At the far side stood the various civic buildings: the law courts of the Basilica, and the offices of the town council. He’d need to find out how each of these buildings was actually being used. Because no matter how impressive these replicas were, it was the people that mattered here. Everything else was just pastiche.
Nick turned back to Patrick. As he did so, he spotted a man out of the corner of his eye. The man seemed to be watching them but, before Nick could fully focus on him, he turned and scurried out of the forum.
“Something wrong?”
“I think we’ve caught someone’s interest,” said Nick.
Patrick didn’t seem to be concerned. “Not unusual. We attract a fair bit of attention. Everyone is waiting for the next miracle.”
22
KIRSTEN LET HER mouth break the surface of the water. The freezing cold nipped at every inch of her body. She didn’t react to it. The feeling, which had once felt like a thousand needles, no longer caused her any discomfort. She was used to it. She’d woken in the bath more times than she could remember, and now she didn’t even feel the need to move.
Yes, she could walk along the corridor; but there would be little point. She could walk down into the quad. Take a look at the noticeboards to find out the date. Listen to some student banter, if anyone was passing. And yet, no matter what she did or where she went, eventually she’d be overtaken by the white haze and brought back to the bath. It was inevitable, and she didn’t want to play any more.
Slowly, she let her face slip below the surface and watched as a series of bubbles streamed up from her mouth. She held on for as long as she could, waiting for her body to exhaust its oxygen – and then pushed back to the surface. Why did she need to breathe, if she was already dead?
“You’re sure?”
Kirsten turned her head. She was in no rush. These weren’t the first people
she’d encountered in the bathroom, and they wouldn’t be the last.
“Yes. I can see her. She’s there. We might not have much time.”
They could see her. Kirsten’s attention suddenly shifted. Her movement drove a small tide of water over the bath’s side and towards the two men standing beside her. Or rather one man and a youth who looked barely out of his teens. Perhaps a student, he seemed to be fixing his attention on her face… and further down. There was a flicker of a smile for just a fraction of a second. The other man beside him was also looking, but clearly not seeing.
“Get on with it then!”
The student leant forward. He wore a pair of round, horn-rimmed spectacles. Their reflection just showed an empty bath. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Kirsten. Kirsten Chapman.”
The student repeated what she’d told him.
“Anyone could have found out her name,” said the other man. “It was in all the papers.”
The student didn’t shift his focus. “Mr Black is such a cynic,” he said.
“I almost lost my job on the first day,” Kirsten said quickly. It was the first thing that came to mind, but something that would have been long since forgotten. “I was late.”
Again the student repeated what she’d said. The other man froze. This Mr Black. His eyes widened. “Shit.”
“We need to ask you some questions,” continued the student. “Do you remember what happened to you?”
Kirsten shook her head. “I think I was killed. Someone killed me in the bath. I can’t remember who—”
“Do you remember Harold McMahon?”
Tap – tap – tap.
I’m going to kill you, bitch!
The words echoed in the room, but Kirsten guessed only inside her own head. Neither the boy nor Mr Black reacted. “No,” she said, stumbling over the memory. Letting the water lap around her. Suddenly feeling its icy temperature. Suddenly realising she could be seen. “I mean, I don’t know. No, Harold couldn’t have…”
“Think carefully. What do you remember?”
“Nothing. Just a voice.”
“What did it say?”
“‘I’m going to… kill you, bitch.’”
The student relayed the information to Mr Black. The man looked unimpressed. “That could be anyone. We need evidence. Tell her to be more precise.”
“I don’t understand.” Kirsten pushed forward in the water, taking hold of the bath’s edge. The first wisps of white had already begun to encircle her. Her voice had started to distort. Long and low. Stretched and warped. She was going to lose them. The first people she’d spoken to in years. “Who are you?” she asked. “What the hell is happening to me?”
“We’re here to help. We need you to answer our questions—”
Mr Black stepped forward. “Don’t waste time!”
“What do you remember about Harold McMahon?”
The wisps were getting thicker. Turning into clouds. Blocking her view of the student. But still she could see that flicker of a smile. He wanted to help her. “I used to clean his room. He lived in Rose Court.”
“When did you last see him?”
“At the Hereford Lecture Theatre. The thing about NovusPart. Octo, Whelan and McMahon were there.”
“Impossible,” said Mr Black, his tone firm. “That lecture occurred several years after she disappeared.”
The white was all around her. The student faded. She needed to explain. “I was there,” she said. But her words were now losing their volume. As if she was listening to herself from another room. “I can move around the college… but only when I…”
The student reached forward. Through the white. He took hold of her arm. Her skin flexed like jelly, but his hand didn’t pass through it, and his grip was tight. Mr Black watched and clearly saw. His mouth dropped, and he stopped talking.
“You’re becoming more tangible with each passing phase,” said the student. “Your time is getting closer. We may only have a few more opportunities to help you, so be prepared to talk to us again.”
The white haze had almost taken her. She felt herself sinking back into the water. “Do you think Harold McMahon killed me?”
“Unfortunately,” said the student, his smile finally fading, “you’re not dead yet.”
23
“SO, WHAT DID you think of your first taste?”
Nick looked at the two black olives rolling round in his palm. In truth, he didn’t like them. But he was trying to put off reaching for the snails. Without their shells, they looked like fat, greasy slugs. Luckily though, he looked up before answering, because from his expression it was clear that McMahon was talking about the town, not the meal. Nick shifted on his left elbow. The small movement provided some relief to his aching arm. Around him, the others continued to eat.
The triclinium of the House of McMahon was set out in the traditional manner – three large, flat couches arranged in a U-shape around a central, knee-high table. He was lying diagonally across one of the side couches with Patrick on one side of him and Noah on the other. Maggie and Robert Astridge lay on the couch opposite. McMahon and Whelan occupied the base of the “U”.
Six guests. Some way short of the optimum nine preferred by the Romans. But although they hadn’t arranged themselves according to social status, Nick had to concede it was a decent enough approximation of what historians knew about Roman dining. He reached for his wine. “To be honest, I’m struggling to take it all in.”
McMahon snorted. Beside him, Whelan refilled his goblet. Next to one another, it was clear the men were almost the same age – although Whelan had clearly kept himself in better shape. Nick flicked another olive into his mouth.
He’d arrived to find McMahon had arranged a formal dinner to mark his first day. He’d assumed they’d be served a hotchpotch of Roman clichés. But there’d been no dormice yet. Instead, the dining table heaved with dozens of pewter dishes filled with pickled fruit, mushrooms, quails’ eggs… and snails.
Feeling queasy, Nick followed Whelan’s lead and took a sip of wine. Like the food, his drink had been heavily spiced. Still, it was perfectly adequate and would probably help him sleep. Whether it would sell on the international market as NovusPart hoped was another matter…
“It would be useful to see Professor Samson’s notes.”
McMahon grunted. “We want you out on the streets, not stuck inside reading.”
“You can access Samson’s work via the intranet,” said Whelan. “We just need to get you a terminal set up. But yes, your main role will be outside.”
Nick smiled. “I’m also looking forward to visiting the baths.”
“Huh,” McMahon said, mumbling through a full mouth. “Each to his own.”
“The Central Baths are the best,” said Astridge, somewhat lazily. Like he wasn’t going to explain his reasoning without being asked.
Nick knew that the Central Baths hadn’t been finished when Vesuvius erupted. And yet, not only were they now finished, but also open. Completed, despite the destruction wrought elsewhere in the town. Similar, in a way, to the restoration of the Fortuna Augusta. “Thanks for the tip,” he said, finally. “But I guess the real interest will be in how they were used, rather than the buildings themselves.”
Astridge gave a patronising laugh. “The buildings are what make this entire thing work.”
“All I meant was that the people—”
“—belong to the town. Not the other way round. They go to the baths to get clean. Big mystery.”
“Yes,” said Nick, not wanting to be put off his stride, “but in some ways the baths are more important than the forum. It’s where people meet, chat, do business, conduct politics.”
“Or so your textbooks tell you. It’ll be interesting to know what you think after you’ve stripped off next to a sweaty Roman.”
From beside him, Noah giggled. Whelan reached forward and threw a chickpea in the boy’s general direction. It bounced harmlessly away
, and seemed to take some of the tension with it. “We’ve noticed they’re very popular,” the COO said, his tone calm. “And the illusion relies on both the buildings and the people. It’s not a competition.”
On the opposite couch, Astridge looked annoyed; his bald head had noticeably reddened. But he didn’t continue the debate. Nick tried to repair the damage. “Well, the Forum Baths certainly looked impressive. Indeed, I can’t help but wonder about the cost of all this?”
He flicked his eyes towards McMahon to direct his enquiry. McMahon snorted, shovelling food into his mouth. “The cost is immaterial. It’s worth every penny.”
“It’s less than you might think, actually,” said Astridge, wiping a sheen of sweat from the side of his head. Nick saw the architect look at McMahon; it seemed the man was waiting for permission to continue. McMahon waved lazily and Astridge continued. “The land here is cheap. We had plenty of cheap labour. The town isn’t constructed to modern building regulations – apart from this structure and a few others – and we didn’t have to pay any infrastructure costs. The most expensive element was the communication lines between here and the villa – and the security perimeter.”
“Still…”
“Noah!”
Nick turned quickly – reacting to the shrillness in Maggie’s voice. For a second, he thought the boy must be choking. Then he caught sight of Noah slipping a snail between his lips. The boy grinned at his mother. Nick smiled, but didn’t fancy eating anything else. He was already starting to struggle, and this was just the starter.
He looked across the table. There was far too much food for the six of them. His companions had also stopped picking at the food. Even the last few remaining snails didn’t attract Noah’s interest. Finally, McMahon signalled for the main course.
Maggie issued a long sigh. “So when do we get to check our emails?”
Just like the Land Rovers and the satellite dish at the villa, the mere mention of email was sufficient to burst the illusion. They’d travelled in time, Whelan had told him. Not us. And yet, with all the real Pompeians he’d seen today, Nick was finding it hard to keep that in mind.
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