* * *
Nick had to wait another couple of hours before Whelan returned with Astridge and Patrick. He spent the time mainly in the garden, doing his best to amuse Noah with a simple game of dice.
All the time, though, he was going over his meetings with Barbatus and Calpurnia. Trying to work out what he could say so he would at least have something useful to report – while at the same time not overplaying what had happened. After all, Astridge was convinced that he’d been brought here to find problems, and would certainly think it suspicious if Nick came up with any so soon after his arrival. And that was another paradox about why he’d actually been brought here: Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
Settling on what he was going to say, he waited another few minutes before going to find Whelan, time which he used to bring his game with Noah to an end without it appearing like he was abandoning the boy. Then he headed through to the atrium to find the others holding an impromptu conference near the pool.
“Dr Houghton,” said Astridge on seeing him. “Being paid to play with Noah?”
“He was a bit upset—”
“Which is why my wife is here. So, have you found any evidence that our illusion is about to collapse?”
Nick looked round the group, annoyed by the architect’s attitude. “I met one of the duoviri,” he said.
Whelan immediately turned to him. He was once more wearing his leather wrist-guard – perhaps he only wore it when he was in town. “You were asked to get a view from street level, Nick. Not to interview people we already know.”
“I wasn’t interviewing him. He sent a guy to get me.”
Whelan’s eyes narrowed. “Did he threaten you? You didn’t activate your belt.”
“There was no need. It didn’t feel… I mean, I didn’t feel in any danger. Barbatus put it down to a misunderstanding.”
Whelan remained silent for a moment. Patrick hovered in the background. With nothing to translate and McMahon gone, his presence was somewhat superfluous.
“Interesting. There’s only one of them, of course. The other duumvir chose the wrong time to take a holiday. So what did he have to say?”
“He just wanted to thank me for what I said to you at the gatehouse.”
“Oh?”
“Respecting their decision not to let wagons in during the day.”
“And that was it?”
“Pretty much. I guess he just wanted to meet the new face.”
Astridge snorted. “Insights like these are certainly worth top dollar.”
“He also told me he’s been writing to the Emperor.”
Whelan raised an eyebrow. “Yes, he’s very keen to tell anyone who’ll listen that he knows Titus. And Vespasian? Did he mention him too?”
Nick shook his head. “No, but it’s interesting in the sense that I’ve always thought of Pompeii as being self-contained.”
“And anything from the street?”
Nick hesitated. He wanted to say something about Calpurnia, but something was nagging at him. Some small doubt. “Only in a bar,” he said. “Something about trouble at the Temple of Isis.” He turned to Astridge. “But I guess you already know about that.”
He’d expected a swift rebuttal, but none came. Instead, the architect cast a sideways glance at Whelan. So it was clear Astridge did know about it. And it was sufficiently important to neutralise his condescending attitude.
Whelan cleared his throat. “Let’s talk upstairs.”
The instruction was unexpected, and clearly aimed only at Nick. Whelan didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he headed across the atrium and up the staircase. Nick followed.
Whelan’s room was at the top of the stairs. On Nick’s visits to the bathroom, the COO’s door had always been shut. The room was simply laid out, and reminded Nick of the control villa. It was like a hotel room, a high-end one. Everything was plush and comfortable, except for an exercise bike and bench press.
Whelan waited just in front of his desk. He unstrapped his wrist-guard and dropped it to the floor. “I think it’s fair to say that Astridge irritates me just as much as he does you.”
“He’s done a fantastic job here,” Nick replied, trying to be diplomatic. He let his attention wander to the walls. Hanging quite innocently beside a small wardrobe was a photograph of Joseph Stalin. The old Soviet leader was walking alongside a canal with two other men. All wore military uniforms from the Second World War.
“But as you remarked, understanding buildings isn’t the same as understanding the people who use them. And it’s always best to know what your opponent may be thinking.” Whelan paused, perhaps trying to formulate the right question. “What do you know about Isis?” he said. “Patrick can’t tell me much about it.”
Nick remembered the translator’s dismissive comments about religion. “It’s essentially a cult brought over from Egypt,” he said. “They worship the goddess Isis, the wife of Osiris, god of the underworld.”
“And the Romans allowed them in?”
“The Romans’ general approach was to integrate with other cultures. Greek gods, Persian gods, Egyptian gods. Clearly, it ebbed and flowed. Augustus tried to re-establish traditional Roman deities but the general pattern was to make conquered peoples part of the Empire – and that meant accepting their gods.”
“That somehow doesn’t fit with crucifying a certain man on the cross, or feeding his followers to lions.”
“Romans can believe in more than one god. Christians don’t. So the rejection wasn’t entirely one way.” Nick paused, but didn’t give Whelan time to interrupt. “You’ve got problems at the Temple of Isis?”
Whelan grunted. “You’ve probably noticed we’ve got a lot more people in the town than we have jobs for them to do. Building work keeps some of them occupied but most just loiter on the streets. They now seem to have got it into their heads to make their way over to the Temple of Isis in the early afternoon. There have been some scuffles between those using the temple and people who have a problem with the rites that go on over there.”
“The worship of Isis is essentially about the annual flooding of the Nile, and the fertility it brings. You know, cycles of life. Rebirth. Life after death.”
“Ironic, then, that people have taken a dislike to it.”
Nick frowned. The same photograph of Stalin was also hanging on the other side of the room, to one side of the double bed that occupied most of the floor. Even at this distance, it was easy to spot there was a big difference. An extra man. While the picture near the wardrobe showed three figures, the one near the bed had four.
“The guy fell out of favour and was edited out of the shot,” said Whelan, following Nick’s gaze. “Soviet censors were playing with photos a long time before computers came along.”
“Interesting choice of subject,” Nick said.
“Well, I read a lot about Stalin at university. And the photo is more of an in-joke. It reminds me not to take accusations that NovusPart is playing with history too seriously.” Whelan paused. “But you were telling me about Isis?”
Nick nodded. “Yes. I would say the situation is probably more to do with rejecting foreigners at a time of crisis.” His hand trembled as a sudden thought occurred to him. The Temple of Fortuna Augusta had been empty. As was Vespasian’s temple in the forum. “How prepared are we if we’re faced with a Roman mob?”
“At the temple?”
“No,” said Nick. “Here. At the house.”
“There’s been no trouble here,” replied Whelan. “Do you have reason to suspect there will be?”
Nick shook his head. “No, but as I said, mobs – especially Roman mobs – attack people they see as outsiders. Just like they’re doing now at the Temple of Isis. So the real question is: do you have enough men to maintain order?”
“We have superior weapons, Nick.”
“But…”
“How many British soldiers kept hold of India? How many conquistadors destroyed the Incas? How many Romans subdued
Gaul?”
Nick didn’t answer, and Whelan slowly smiled. “Just keep your ears open,” he said. “And, if necessary, we’ll break out the guns.”
33
KIRSTEN DIDN’T SCREAM. She knew what was happening. Her brain registered the fall, and she braced for impact. After hitting the floor she immediately rolled on to her side and pushed herself up on to her feet. Ready for whoever was waiting for her.
But there was no one. Not a soul.
She was quite alone. And she wasn’t in the pit. No spotlights. No men with guns. No men with swords.
The relief was overwhelming. Her shoulders heaved, and the tears started to well up. But she didn’t let them run down her cheeks. There would be time for that later. First, she had to find out where she’d landed. Because although she wasn’t in the pit, it didn’t look like she would be going very far.
Stone walls surrounded her. She was in a small vault, perhaps a basement. Just a few metres square, with only one way out: a solid wooden door.
So where was the light coming from?
Kirsten looked up. The ceiling was way out of reach and didn’t quite fit with the stone walls. It looked modern, plastered and painted a simple cream. The light shone from a small window at its centre, revealing her only companions: a collection of toys lying on the floor. Dolls, action figures and a small set of cars.
Letting out a shallow breath, Kirsten crossed to the nearest wall and lifted her hand. She had to test something. She reached out, and touched the stone.
The tips of her fingers brushed against the rough-cut granite. She pushed. The stone resisted. Her hand didn’t pass through. She pushed harder still. The stone didn’t give way. She was back in the real world.
There would be no more second chances.
* * *
She woke to the sound of approaching footsteps. Next came a rattle of keys. The door swung open.
The man who had opened it was small and scrawny, something not even his heavy canvas coat could hide. He stepped into the room and looked directly at her. He looked more annoyed than anything. Irritated.
Kirsten got to her feet. She didn’t say anything. Should she tell him her name?
No. The man was fumbling in his coat. For a second Kirsten felt like running but instead she froze. He’s reaching for a weapon. It was enough to stop her muscles from responding. She wouldn’t be able to get away this time.
Instead the man pulled out a small walkie-talkie. “Yeah,” he said. He spoke out of the side of his mouth. “I’m down in the basement. Another paradox just landed.”
There was a screech of feedback, and the echo in the basement made it hard to understand what was being said in return. Kirsten waited.
“I’m telling you we’ve got another one,” continued the man. “No,” he said, letting his eyes pass over her. “No. Not a child.” The man paused as another screech of noise filled the room. “I’m telling you, she ain’t a kid.” Another pause, another screech. “Just tell Mr McMahon he needs to get down here and sort out his mess.”
34
IT WAS PROBABLY yet another passing wagon that brought Nick to the surface of sleep. This was getting tiresome. Groaning, Nick sat up in bed and reached for his tablet.
He’d been reading late into the night, and the glare from the screen probably hadn’t done him any favours. And what he’d read certainly hadn’t let him drift off easily.
In what had probably been a late-night moment of doubt, Professor Samson had admitted to being out of his depth. The Latin had been so beautifully constructed that the few sentences from his notes had completely caught Nick off guard. So much so, he’d been compelled to read the section several times. But in the end, they made perfect sense. Because NovusPart had first hired Samson due to his expertise on alternative history, not because he had a specific interest in Roman life. He’d kept on advising them in the same way he’d made his TV programmes – rapid research from secondary sources – all patched up with first-hand interviews from the first tranche of transportations. But the notes contained a clear admission. He’d been afraid of making mistakes.
Nick rose and started to dress. Did it matter?
He didn’t know, but it certainly made it more important to finish reviewing Samson’s work. First though, he needed to see some more of the town.
Stepping into the atrium, Nick paused to detect any sign of life. He’d not heard any movement during the night, even though the noise from the street had disturbed him several times. Which likely meant McMahon hadn’t returned. He made his way towards the kitchen.
Mary was at a table, stripping a cooked chicken carcass from the previous night’s meal. Nick stared at her for a few seconds. Her look of concentration mirrored his own grim expression. She looked up and gave him a friendly grin. “Caught me again!” she said. “Are you sure you’re not a spy?”
“Quite sure,” he said, smiling. “Those beds aren’t exactly comfortable.”
“Authentic though, eh?”
“Probably. You’ve got one of the rooms upstairs?”
“Sure.”
Nick glanced upwards. “Above the atrium?”
Her expression was teasing. “Is this your way of getting an invitation to see my boudoir, Dr Houghton?”
“No… I….”
She wiped her greasy hands on her apron. “Relax. I think Whelan may be testing you. Waiting to see if you pluck up the courage to ask for better accommodation.”
“Patrick has his own apartment in the town.”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose it’s easier to learn the language, if he’s out among the people.”
“It’s also easier to have sex with the local girls.”
Nick was embarrassed. But she was probably right. And she likely knew all sorts of other things by simply being around McMahon and Whelan. “So how long have you worked for NovusPart?”
“Oh, a while now. I was originally Professor Samson’s PA, until he left. Then McMahon tasted my cooking and… well, I kind of got stuck in the kitchen.”
“He certainly seems to like his food.”
“Oh, yes. The challenge here is that Samson insisted on no potatoes.”
Nick nodded, thinking about the colour of carrots. If only NovusPart had gone that little bit further. Or perhaps if Samson hadn’t just studied when and where different foodstuffs had first started to be eaten, but had gone on to examine what they would have looked like.
“So have you found anything interesting?” said Mary, returning to her task. She seemed intent on rescuing as much of the cooked meat as possible.
“Lots,” replied Nick. “But I’m sure I’ve just scratched the surface.” He pushed his hand through what was getting increasingly lank hair. “I’ve quite a few pet theories I’d like to test over the next few days.”
“Theories? I thought you were a historian, not a scientist?”
“There are an awful lot of things we don’t know…”
“Such as?”
“Well, for starters, Pompeii is known for the number of phalli drawn all over the town.” He felt himself start to blush. “Some say they point the way to the nearest brothel, others that they’re symbols of good luck…”
“Oh.” The chef stopped tearing at the chicken. “Well I thought it was just that young men liked drawing willies. Just like they do on every school textbook and toilet wall.” She paused. “There’s a lot of young men in Pompeii, you know.”
Nick nodded quickly. “Well yes,” he said, his cheeks now burning. “But the point holds that a lot of what we know about Ancient Rome is just based on professional judgement, rather than known facts.”
“You mean guesswork?”
“Something like that.”
“But surely the details are less important than the general sweep?”
Nick hesitated. “That’s pretty deep.”
“It’s something your predecessor used to say.”
“Samson?”
“Yeah. For him, it was al
l about ‘cause and effect’, ‘cause and effect’. And who cares about the pots and pans, when men are fighting for their crowns?”
Nick nodded, thinking about Samson’s notes. “Well, I disagree,” he said. “Take Caligula, for instance. There was relatively little written about him during his reign. But we know he enacted political reforms and ordered the construction of several aqueducts. So he didn’t spend all his cash on wild parties. Everything written after his death may have been exaggerated to justify the way in which he was murdered.”
“The Richard III effect?”
Nick nodded. Though he wasn’t overly familiar with that period of history, he knew it was still dangerous to refer to Richard as a usurper anywhere north of Chesterfield – and that Shakespeare’s character was very much influenced by being written under the dynasty that had toppled him. “So you’re a Cousins’ War type of girl?” he asked. Mary looked at him blankly. “The Wars of the Roses?”
“No,” she said, suddenly laughing. “Samson did a TV show about Richard III and what would have happened… you know, the two princes in the tower?”
Nick smiled, something suddenly occurring to him. “Well, you never know; perhaps NovusPart took them?”
He’d said something wrong. The amusement had gone from her face. “You shouldn’t make jokes like that, Nick,” she said. “McMahon would be angry if he heard you.”
Nick nodded, suddenly feeling foolish. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Just be careful.” She smiled at him. For just a fraction too long. “So Caligula wasn’t mad after all?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” said Nick, relaxing again. “He started out as the golden boy of Rome. A direct descendant of Augustus, and the son of the famous general Germanicus. But the way he was killed? The way his legacy was poisoned by hundreds of writers? No, by the end, he must have gone absolutely mental to have been so hated.”
* * *
The remainder of the morning brought nothing but frustration. Avoiding the pull of the forum, Nick pushed into the streets surrounding the House of McMahon. Trying to find the shops, homes and tabernae in which he could observe the people going about their business. And maybe start talking to a few of them, too.
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