New Pompeii

by Daniel Godfrey

  Nick nodded, noting her distaste. “Your father said people were worried about whether the food will continue to arrive.”

  “No. That’s his interpretation. Everyone can see the villas going up around the town, and that the fields are starting to produce crops. What really worries him is who’s running things here. And what really worries them is that they can’t queue up outside your door.”

  Nick didn’t say anything. Whelan had told him they’d wanted to take a back seat, to let the people here run things for themselves. But that didn’t appear remotely possible – not for a long time, anyway.

  “But some people have more pressing problems,” continued Calpurnia. “My father makes all his money from his estates. Some around Pompeii, others nearer Rome. We’re from a very old family. The vines here are already doing well, though we could do with more rain. But Naso doesn’t have any land – he makes his money from industry and moneylending.”

  “So Naso is new money, your father is old. He’s the duumvir, and Naso’s an aedile. But new money normally beats old, given enough time.”

  “Oh, I don’t think Naso will be aedile for very much longer. Not when his cash flow stops. Unless you’re planning to support him in perpetuity.”

  Nick glanced across to Naso. The man looked anxious.

  “Garum,” said Nick. He caught a brief smile cross Calpurnia’s lips and knew he was right. “No port. No water. No fish. No garum.”

  “He used to make the best in the town. You know, his villa was filled with paintings of his bloody fish sauce. But now the money flows from you people. Just like you control our food supply. And everything else we need.” She pointed to the table. “From these figs, to the bricks, to the paint that goes on to our walls.”

  Nick tried not to confirm or deny anything she was saying. “You’re pregnant,” he said, trying to change the subject.

  “Yes. My father thinks my husband is dead.”

  “He didn’t arrive here with everyone else?”

  “No. But that’s not unusual… almost everyone can name someone who is still missing.”

  Nick couldn’t think of anything to say. He kept silent, all the time thinking of the plaster casts in the Neapolitan museum.

  “I doubt we’ll hear anything before the baby arrives,” Calpurnia continued. “My father still hopes we’ll soon start getting regular news from Rome. Did he mention he knows the Emperor?”

  “Yes…”

  “The ironic thing is that my husband wanted to see the Festival of Vulcan, and I didn’t. Yet when the time came, off he went to Herculaneum with his brothers.”

  Although he didn’t want to, Nick baulked. Herculaneum. In its own way, the town was even more of a miracle than Pompeii. But whereas generations of excavations had made Pompeii famous, most of Herculaneum remained buried under feet of rock. Not pumice, or ash. Rock.

  “You think he’s dead too.” She spoke slowly, trying to read his expression. “By the gods… you know he’s dead.”

  “No,” replied Nick. But it was simple really: if Calpurnia’s husband hadn’t been in Pompeii, then he hadn’t been transported. But to have been in Herculaneum? The poor man must have died in agony. “I’ve heard stories, that’s all.”

  Stories? No. He’d seen the bones. The plaster moulds of Pompeii were popular with the tourists, but they always seemed somewhat ghostly. Detached. By contrast, the skeletons from Herculaneum were twisted from the heat that had first folded their limbs close to their bodies, then stripped the flesh from their bones, and finally made their brains boil and their skulls pop.

  They were still screaming, all these years later. Nick took another heavy swig of wine. It hit the back of his throat hard, and made him cough. “I’m sorry,” he said. But Calpurnia had already turned her back on the other guests, just quickly enough to prevent anyone seeing the tears welling at the corner of her eyes. Her stoical mask was suddenly gone. For a second, her entire body shook. But, before Nick could say anything, she regained her composure.

  “I suppose I should thank you,” she said. “For removing my doubt. My father is right. He is dead, and I am no longer married.” She held her stomach. “I only carry a part of him now, if it survives.” She turned back to face him. “So tell me, Pullus. Tell me again how we managed to survive by the will of a dead emperor?”

  Nick didn’t say anything. He stared ahead, feeling each glance from the other guests like a needle. From the direction of the atrium, Barbatus glanced at him and, for a horrible moment, Nick thought he might come over. But his host was beaten to them by a small boy, who ran across the garden and came to a dead halt in front of Calpurnia. He identified the boy’s mother pretty quickly, a woman nearby who was straining to collect her child – but a man held on to her arm. Holding her back.

  The boy pointed to Nick’s watch-strap mark. “Are you one of the people with the white wrists?”

  Nick hesitated. “Is that what you call us?”

  The boy nodded, before changing tack. “Some people are saying we’ve travelled in time.”

  As Nick felt his jaw fall open, Calpurnia leant down and shooed the child away. “A lot of people want to know the truth,” she said. “And, in a way, I think by lying to you a few moments ago, I think I may have got to some of it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “My husband didn’t miss the Festival of Vulcan,” she said. “It had long since passed when we felt his wrath. Which means, if the festival had just finished as you people claim, then maybe Augustus can control our calendar too.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I want you to tell me the truth, Pullus. Just the truth. Because while this place you’ve brought us to could be mistaken for Pompeii’s twin, many areas of the town are wrong.”

  Nick struggled for his words. “The volcano… Augustus…”

  “And then there are the empty houses.”

  “What?”

  Calpurnia stopped, suddenly uncertain. “That’s the first time you’ve sounded genuinely confused,” she said. “You don’t know about the empty houses?”

  “No.”

  “The empty townhouses.”

  “Empty? Or just unoccupied?”

  “Empty,” she said. “There are dozens of houses with no owner. And who would leave so many empty houses, when there are so many crammed into tenements? Few people have noticed them, Pullus. But my father has. And when he found out, he only asked one question. Over and over.”

  “And what was that?”

  “‘Who else is coming?’”

  37

  NICK STUMBLED OUT on to the street and came to an immediate halt. It was dark. Really dark. As the door to the House of Barbatus slammed shut, what little light there had been was also extinguished.

  He’d stayed longer than he’d intended to, his discussion with Calpurnia ending once Barbatus had decided to introduce him to some of his other guests. Then the entertainment had started. A pantomime of dance and music, lit with simple oil lamps that hadn’t done much to lift the early evening gloom.

  By the time torch-bearing slaves had started to arrive to accompany their masters home, it had become clear he would have to negotiate the streets on his own. Not that Barbatus had been happy about it – he’d offered him a bed – but the short walk back to the House of McMahon at least offered him the chance to clear his head of all the wine and figs.

  Taking a few deep breaths, Nick started back to the main via. He knew the way, even if he could hardly see it. And he’d staggered back from enough student parties to trust his homing skills. One foot in front of the other and…

  He almost fell to the ground, only stopping himself with a quick lurch from his right leg. Yes, the pavements were high, the road low. And, most importantly, the paving was uneven. Adjusting his footing, Nick lifted his feet higher than was natural and continued on his way.

  On each side of him, the walls of the townhouses and shops loomed high and close – cutting the sky d
own to just a narrow, dark strip. Looking up, he couldn’t see any stars, let alone the moon. And of course there was no street lighting. Or any other lighting. The houses all turned inwards, guarding their light as if it might be stolen.

  Nick stopped. Should he return to the House of Barbatus? Admit defeat and ask for lodging? He glanced behind him, startled as a wagon creaked its way past. He paused for a moment – waiting for it to move out of earshot – then noticed that, even though the town was dark, it wasn’t silent. Laughter and shouting echoed into the street from behind closed doors. And all around him was the sound of more wagons in distant streets. Of work, of activity.

  No. He would push on. He just needed to let his eyes get used to the dark.

  Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, he reached a crossroads. Left or right? He went left, forcing himself to walk slowly so he didn’t trip over any unseen hazard. It didn’t work.

  It could have been anything. A pile of rotting food, a slick of vomit, or perhaps just some horseshit. Whatever it was, it provided sufficient lubrication for his feet to slide out from under him.

  For a few seconds, he thought he’d broken his lower back. “Shit!”

  As he got back to his feet, a dark shape appeared beside him. It took a moment to realise it was a man. His breath stank, real pig breath pushing right into his face through a set of badly broken teeth.

  “So much for you gods, then?”

  The man laughed fiercely. Nick stumbled and the high kerb bumped into the back of his heels. He went down again. Another bite of pain shot up from the base of his spine.

  “Here – let me help you, god.”

  The man reached down and yanked Nick upwards.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Pullus.”

  “Urgh?”

  “My name. It’s Pullus.”

  “Zeus, Mars, Minerva, Juno… Pullus.”

  Snaking his arm out of the man’s grip, Nick thanked him again and continued on his way. After a few steps, he looked back. The Good Samaritan had already been consumed by the pervading darkness of the street. But Nick knew he was still there – somewhere. After all, he could still smell the breath and…

  Crack!

  A sickening odour of shit and piss erupted around him – and a few droplets of liquid ran down his shins. From above, a pair of shutters clattered shut.

  Great.

  Ignoring the pain in his back, Nick pushed on. He really needed to get back to the House of McMahon; it would take him no more than ten minutes. He tried to keep in the very centre of the road – keeping a good watch above for more flying sewage.

  Another wagon came into view. It had just turned into the street from the junction ahead and was now rolling towards him. Cursing, Nick hopped up on to the pavement and took a position between two high windows.

  A sudden glint of moonlight allowed him to see the driver’s face. Not for long. Maybe just two or three seconds and then he was gone. But Nick recognised him almost instantly. The scars of a face ravaged by the pox. The Roman from the control villa.

  Felix.

  Nick stumbled down into the road, watching the wagon disappear. Hadn’t Whelan said he wasn’t allowed into town? Yes, he was almost certain. But there he was, driving a wagon and delivering supplies.

  Nick took a couple of steps forward while feeling for his belt. He needed to know where Felix was heading. He wouldn’t be able to stop the wagon, but if he could toss the buckle into the back then at least Whelan would be able to track its movement. However, as he slipped the belt from his waist, the dark shape of the Good Samaritan moved out of the shadows. The man blocked his path and pushed his face close. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  Nick tried to pull away, but the man shoved him in the chest. He felt the belt slip out of his hand. Further along the via, the wagon continued to rumble away. “I really don’t know what you mean,” said Nick. “Look, I’m just trying to get home.”

  The man used his other arm to grab Nick’s shoulder. “You’re from the house that runs things here. Everyone knows you control our food.”

  “The aediles—”

  “Are two pale shits.” The man issued a barking laugh, which stopped almost as suddenly as it started. “You run things. So why do you keep me down, and give others so much?”

  Nick tried to wriggle free but couldn’t. The wagon had turned into another street, the noise from its wheels dissipating with every passing second. And there wasn’t anybody around to help him. Could he shout for help? Would anyone in the surrounding houses even hear him?

  And would they venture out to help a stranger anyway?

  The man clearly sensed his lack of focus. He let go of Nick’s chest – and then drove his fist in just below the breastbone. With the air forced from his lungs, Nick’s legs buckled, but the man kept a tight grip on his shoulder and held him upright. Stopped him from falling beside his belt and its emergency alarm.

  “Look at me!” he screamed. “You’ll fucking look at me!”

  Nick opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. He had no air. He looked down. He needed to get to his belt.

  “I thought I was going to die that morning,” the man shouted. “I was down on my knees. I couldn’t breathe. It was like I was in a baker’s oven. But I wasn’t. I was in the street – being covered by ash.”

  “Wait…”

  “I thought I was going to die! And then I’m in some sort of camp, with all these strange people around me. People like you. Tall, and speaking in some godforsaken tongue! So tell me, god, man or whatever you are – is it true? Are we already dead?”

  The man started to laugh. Not the barking madness of a few minutes earlier, but the belly laughter of a man who’d finally got the joke. “It’s true what they’re saying, isn’t it? We’re in Elysium!” The man’s face twisted. “So why do they get to live for eternity in their big houses – and I end up sleeping in my own piss!”

  With the dam of frustration broken, the man threw another couple of punches. Nick put his arms up to deflect the blows, but they came too fast. He slid down to the pavement.

  38

  KIRSTEN STRUGGLED TO catch her breath. She knew where she was. The basement had turned out to be under the student lodgings in Chaderton Court. Which meant she hadn’t even left the college. She’d emerged only a few hundred metres from her own staircase.

  She stopped for a moment and allowed her body to recover. Her lungs were still burning from the effort of her escape. She rubbed her right shoulder. It was probably already starting to bruise where she’d rammed the man in the canvas coat aside.

  She tried to relax. He’d still be locked away where she’d left him. Hollering to get attention just like she’d done. But with one big difference. There was no one to hear him.

  She glanced around. Chaderton Court was unlike the rest of the college, built in a gothic style at odds with the classical sandstone and columns of the front quad that separated it from the city beyond. It was clearly early evening; it was still just about light enough to see outside, but the student rooms were slowly lighting up. Getting out was going to be easier said than done. The college sat right in the middle of the city centre but it was surrounded by a high stone wall. At this time, most of the gates would be closed. She would need to head for the front quad, and then get past the porters guarding the lodge.

  Suddenly she heard voices heading her way. Shouting.

  The man in the canvas coat was still locked up. But he had a walkie-talkie. He must have called for help.

  39

  NICK WOKE, AND immediately wished he hadn’t. His ribs had taken the majority of the beating, but a dull throbbing also extended from his jaw all the way up to his right temple and a stinging sensation cut across his legs and forearms. He touched his face gently, and felt the ache turn into a lancing pain. A couple of teeth felt loose.

  He let his eyes open. He wasn’t lying in the street. Instead, he was on the hard floor of a building. He twisted and pushed himself up on to a
sore elbow. Someone had laid him on a pile of cushions, but his makeshift bed must have moved in the night, leaving him resting on nothing more comfortable than a wooden floor. He swore and tried to drag a few cushions back underneath his body, but they provided only limited comfort. He was going to have to stand up.

  It was clear he wasn’t in the House of McMahon. The room was small, a large bed had been pushed up against one wall, and a few odds and ends of furniture were squeezed in around it. In many ways, it looked like a studio flat. Except there was no kitchen or toilet. Just a small brass piss-pot at the end of the bed.

  The realisation pushed down hard on his bladder. Groping for the pot, Nick hitched up his tunic and took careful aim. There was liquid already in it. His own piss would just have to add to the mix. It was only when he’d finished that he realised his belt was missing. It made his tunic look like a mini-dress.

  “You’re not dead, then?”

  Nick turned, hot liquid soaking the tips of his fingers. There was a woman in the bed. She was buried deep among the sheets and pillows, staring up at him with sleepy eyes. Nick tried to engage his brain. He slowly put the piss-pot back on the floor, and wiped his hands across the back of his tunic. She’d spoken to him in Latin. She was Roman.

  “No,” said Nick. “Not quite.” He stumbled for something to say. The woman kept staring at him. “Thank you for helping me…”

  “You can thank Canus when he gets back. He dragged you in off the street.”

  Nick nodded, tongue-tied with embarrassment. All he could hear was the settling froth from the pot. He gestured towards it. “Sorry.”

  The woman shrugged. “Better there than on the floor.”

  “This is your… apartment?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve not been here before? Canus said you were a friend.”

  Canus? Nick racked his brain. Had he been introduced to a Canus?

  A sudden movement at the door answered his question. It opened, and Patrick stepped through from a stairwell. He gave Nick a look of concern. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”