New Pompeii

by Daniel Godfrey

  “The man in the wagon won’t be joining us,” said the operations chief.

  “Good,” replied Barbatus. He glanced at Astridge. “Where’s McMahon?”

  “Mr McMahon is ill,” said Whelan. “I speak for him.” He nodded towards Astridge. “I am joined by another key member of our team, Robert Astridge.”

  Barbatus glanced at Nick. “No matter,” said the duumvir.

  “Now, the woman and the boy,” said Whelan. “I trust they’re safe?”

  “Yes. They arrived back in town this morning, and remain under my protection.”

  Whelan didn’t reply. His mind was clearly ticking over. Probably thinking that if he killed Barbatus now, then he wouldn’t be able to get to Maggie before she was killed in turn. But he also looked slightly confused. “My information is that she’s still at the villa.”

  “Her clothes are,” replied the duumvir. “As are the boy’s.” He turned towards Nick. “I heard there’s something special about your belts that allow you to track people. But she wasn’t wearing one, and I didn’t want to take the chance there was something sewn in her stola.”

  Whelan offered a bitter smile. “In turn, your daughter remains in good health,” he said.

  The duumvir didn’t reply. Instead, he cast a cool stare behind Whelan towards the wagon. It held a wooden crate with thick steel bars built into it. “Wagons aren’t allowed in the street during…”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. There was something alive in the crate. The sound of a body rubbing up against rough wood. A long, low growl. “You managed to find a lion,” Barbatus said, clearly impressed.

  Whelan grinned. He waved the wagon forward. Nick immediately moved back on to the pavement, but Barbatus stood in the street, only stepping away a moment or two before the wagon’s mules reached his feet.

  The wagon came to a stop at the threshold of the forum. Now everyone could see through the bars of the crate.

  “What do you call it?” asked Barbatus. His features had lost some of their Mediterranean lustre. Nick felt dizzy. No, he wasn’t seeing things. NovusPart had just topped the reconstruction of Pompeii. He could finally now see the huge money-spinning potential of the town.

  “Smilodon,” said Whelan. “We call her Smilodon. For this afternoon’s games. We can provide a lot more like her. And a number of other special creatures you won’t have seen before.”

  Barbatus turned to Whelan. The duumvir was smiling broadly, but couldn’t hide his astonishment. “Let’s talk,” he said, heading into the forum. Cato followed his master.

  Nick didn’t move. He was still staring at the crate. “It’s a fucking sabre-toothed tiger!”

  68

  NICK RAN TO catch up with Astridge.

  “Where’s McMahon?”

  “He’s ill,” said Astridge. “Whelan wasn’t bullshitting. We think he’s got the flu.”

  “Is he leaving town?”

  “No. He won’t leave the house. And if that bastard hadn’t got Maggie we’d just shoot him where he stands!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” said Astridge, his voice turning grim. “He can’t hold her for ever; and then we’ll see if it really is impossible to crucify a Roman.”

  Nick looked ahead towards Whelan and Barbatus. The NovusPart guard and Cato hovered at a respectful distance – but close enough to intervene if needed. All around them, the citizens of Pompeii watched, and stared. Whelan appeared relaxed. Then again, any doubts about his personal safety were probably covered by the security guard he’d brought with him, and the fact he held Calpurnia. That much of the plan had certainly worked.

  “Where the hell did they get the cat?”

  “We have a few surprises ready for the launch events. There’s a zoo attached to the amphitheatre.”

  “Yes, I know. But I hadn’t expected… Shit. That means they can reach back over ten thousand years…”

  Astridge smiled. “I overheard Whelan saying that was pretty much the new limit. Though I guess they’re looking for ways to punch back further. After all, a sabre-tooth is going to make a big splash – but they’ll always need the next big thing. If only they could get better at near-past transports too…”

  “Nick!”

  Whelan was waving him forward. The COO took a firm hold of his arm. “Two things to think about before this starts. Firstly, the helicopter is inbound, and it’s carrying the mole we found in our logistics chain. So when it arrives, we’re finally going to be able to identify our spy.”

  Nick felt his stomach contract. “I told you…”

  “The second thing,” said Whelan, tightening his grip, “is that Patrick and your friends at the British Museum were transported into the future.”

  “I know that.”

  “Which means NovusPart continues to exist. And Harris loses. Just take a second to think about that when you’re choosing sides.”

  Nick prickled, sensing the threat. But Whelan wasn’t finished. “Barbatus will almost certainly make his move at the arena. My security team are already assembled there, and they’re armed. So the outcome of this little coup d’état is inevitable. We win. They lose. And NovusPart continues.”

  Nick felt his lip begin to twist, but fortunately Barbatus stepped forward before the emotion registered on his face. “We’ll take a short stroll first,” said the duumvir, pointing around the forum. He waited for Nick to translate. “Let them see us together. All we have to do is talk and smile.”

  “Fine,” replied Whelan, but not before giving a final, angry glance in Nick’s direction.

  “So, you can provide more beasts like the one outside?”

  “Yes.”

  Barbatus mulled this over. “I presume it’s from the lands south of Egypt?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So many strange creatures out there,” the duumvir mused. “Last summer we imported a camelopardalis.”

  “Camelopardalis?” It wasn’t a word Nick knew. A camel with leopard markings?

  “Yes, you know – from across the sea. With long necks. It made a fine addition to my dinner table. So what else can you offer me?”

  “We already supply the town with food and money,” said Whelan. “And we know we can supply a lot more in return for your wine, pottery and textiles. So I think it’s more like, what can you do for us?”

  The duumvir waved at the watching crowd. “You think you would last two seconds here, if people didn’t know we’re now friends?”

  “We have your daughter.”

  “Stability. Direction. Purpose,” said the duumvir, ignoring the comment. “The story you told us when you brought us here was too… limited. True, they need a strong leader. But they also need to know where they’re being led to.”

  “We just want a peaceful town. Somewhere where we can live, and conduct our business.”

  “And you’ll have it.”

  Nick finished translating Barbatus’ last sentence, trying to ignore the unease in his gut. They seemed to be getting along well. A deal was being brokered. But Nick couldn’t help but wonder: was this how Octavian spoke to Mark Antony? Just before they went to war?

  They took the direct route from the forum to the amphitheatre, down the long straight road linking the town’s south-west quadrant to the Sarno Gate in the east. Barbatus continued to ostentatiously acknowledge his people. Nick watched him intently. The duumvir exuded great confidence even though he must have known Whelan still presented a problem.

  As soon as they got to the amphitheatre, Barbatus steered them away from the steadily thickening crowd who were making their way towards the cheap seats.

  “Impressive.”

  Nick couldn’t help but agree with Whelan’s understated sentiment. Because in front of him was the sight he’d really come here to see. The real Pompeii. From the outside, the arena looked like a low-slung salad bowl pushed tight up against the town’s outer defences. Almost as if it had been forced into a space that was clearly far too
small. But now packed with people, and with dozens more funnelling in up the ramps, the stone-tiered seating rippled with colour and noise.

  “These are our seats.”

  Nick hesitated. Barbatus was waving them into a section guarded by men who looked like the city watch. Although the duumvir’s men were simply separating an area of more exclusive seating from the rest of the crowd, it was clear they represented a threat. Whelan, however, walked straight into their midst and took a place on the front row. He was joined by the duumvir.

  “We’ll give the plebs time to settle before bringing out the first two fighters.”

  Whelan didn’t reply, and Nick was left to find a seat near Astridge, one row behind Whelan and Barbatus. Just like at the theatre, cushions had been provided to make the stone seating more comfortable. After moving them into position, Nick glanced down at Whelan and Barbatus, ready for translation duties.

  The duumvir continued to appear completely relaxed, unconcerned about the fate of his daughter. Whelan sat in complete silence. Nick glanced behind him at Cato and the NovusPart security guard settling into their seats, both alert and watchful.

  It didn’t take long before Astridge broke the silence. “You know, Dr Houghton, when we first arrived here, you told us all a Roman joke,” he said. “I thought you might like to hear one I picked up from Patrick before he left.”

  “Go on,” said Nick.

  “Oh, how does it go? Ah, yes, that’s right. An absent-minded professor approaches a eunuch and a pretty young woman. He says: ‘Ah, what a beautiful wife.’ But when the eunuch says he isn’t allowed to marry, the professor replies: ‘I’m sorry; this must be your daughter.’”

  Nick didn’t reply.

  “You don’t get it?”

  “It must be the way you told it.”

  Astridge laughed and pushed back into his stone seat. Nick tried to ignore him. Which was easy, because a pair of gladiators had appeared and were now walking into the centre of the oval arena. The noise from the crowd grew.

  One, a retiarius, held a trident and net, while his fish-helmeted opponent, a murmillo, carried a shield and gladius, a short sword. Both wore armour that provided protection to only one side of their bodies – metal plate covering their right shoulders, with pads wrapped around their right legs. The rest of their bodies were left exposed.

  Different and yet balanced. Opposite and equal. And yet neither had what could be described as a six-pack. There was no sign of any flexing tendons or sinew. No, this was muscle overlain by fat. Giant hulks of men for whom weight was just as important as strength.

  Whelan looked over his shoulder and beckoned Nick to lean forward. “Your attention should be on us, Nick,” he said.

  Nick nodded, but felt a flare of anger. It almost distracted him from a blur of white material and movement: Naso was hurriedly taking his place beside Barbatus. The duumvir gave a lazy nod in the direction of the aedile and then turned his attention back to Whelan.

  “You are either very brave or very foolish to come here with me.” Barbatus cast a cool glance around the crowd – and the city watch now separating them from the rest of the spectators.

  Whelan remained impassive. “My men don’t need to be so close to provide protection.”

  It was only then that Nick saw them. Roman soldiers – NovusPart security men – all wearing the imperial eagle, lining the very back row of the arena. He couldn’t quite see at the distance they were standing, but he guessed that each would be carrying a rifle instead of a sword.

  The duumvir didn’t seem to feel the need to pick them out from the crowd. He indicated down towards the gladiators, while keeping his eyes firmly on Whelan. “You’ll notice that each fighting man has his strengths and weaknesses,” he said. “The skill is to play to one’s strengths, while neutralising those of your opponent.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then let the games begin.”

  Nick smiled. Despite their prevalence in popular culture, actually very little was known about what went on in a Roman amphitheatre. Many academics had tried to piece it together – from the order of events, to what was said, to how the individual gladiators fought. And, of course, Hollywood had also had its say as to what had happened: Those who are about to die salute you!

  He’d always guessed it was all so much bullshit. And, despite the current fight being nothing more than a hastily arranged foretaste of what could be delivered in New Pompeii, he got an immediate sense that what was unfolding on the sand in front of them would be a disappointment to a modern audience. Astridge put it into words first. He gave his usual snort of derision. “Well, this will have the TV networks salivating.”

  Sure enough, in the first few minutes of the fight, neither gladiator tried to land a blow. They simply circled each other, with only the occasional lunge forward. This was clearly a careful sport. And with so much flesh and weaponry on show, it shouldn’t really have been a surprise.

  The murmillo edged forward – padded and armoured side first. The retiarius shuffled away to the left. A small cloud of sand and dust kicked up around their feet. Each man was clearly trying to seek an opportunity to strike the other while not leaving themselves exposed. Nick smiled in spite of himself. He’d once heard someone compare gladiators to modern-day boxers. And in that moment he remembered there was a vast difference between the different types and weights of fighter – depending on whether the aim was simply to collect points or to gain a knockout. But, then again, there was always the chance of that one epic fight. The attraction that kept the punters coming. The chance to see a great champion fall, and a new one rise.

  Nick leant forward in his seat and spoke quickly in English: “I take it your men are carrying guns?”

  Whelan gave a shallow nod, but kept his attention on the fight below. “Any sign of movement from your friend, Barbatus, and his head will come clean off his shoulders.”

  “So what’s the endgame? We seem to be at stalemate.”

  Whelan shook his head. “The helicopter heading our way isn’t just carrying our spy,” he said. “It’s also filled with reinforcements. Men who will first take back the control villa before heading here.”

  Nick nodded, nervous of the duumvir – but Barbatus didn’t ask him for a translation. “How does that help us?”

  “Maggie and the child are still there. I’m certain of it. There’s been little movement on the north road since this thing started. Your duumvir may say he’s brought them here, but I think he’s bluffing.”

  Astridge leant in to join the debate. “What are you suggesting?”

  The architect’s voice was taut and it had attracted Naso’s attention. The aedile fidgeted in his seat – obviously desperate for Barbatus to ask for a translation even as the duumvir continued to watch the action below without comment.

  “Gladiators may have been able to beat a handful of men who had no warning. But men coming in fast, with machine guns and tear gas, will be another matter entirely. Maggie and Noah won’t even suffer a scratch.”

  “They’d better bloody not!”

  From somewhere close came an electronic warble. Whelan took a phone from his tunic, and indicated for Nick to speak with Barbatus. “Tell him to release the Smilodon.”

  Nick relayed the instruction while Whelan spoke into his mobile. Below, the fight was picking up. The retiarius had thrown his net, but it hadn’t quite snagged his opponent. And when Nick turned back to Whelan – he immediately knew something had gone wrong.

  69

  “ANOTHER INTERESTING TOY,” said Barbatus, dryly. The duumvir waited for Whelan to put the phone back into his tunic, and then reached back and let Cato place a thin slice of plastic into his hands. The tablet from the House of Samson.

  Barbatus didn’t ask Nick to help him use it. Instead, the device lit up underneath the duumvir’s touch. He activated the GPS app. It showed a map of the town and a line of bright red dots. “The supposed location of your men,” said the duumvir. “Or, at least,
their belts.” He waited for his words to be translated. His patient, almost disconnected delivery seemed to drive each word deeper into Whelan’s gut. But it was the movement below them that slowly twisted the knife. The red dots weren’t along the back row of the arena. Instead, they were moving as a single column out on to the sand.

  A line of Roman men were walking into the centre of the arena. Their position matched exactly the location of the red dots on the map. Nick watched them, realising what was going on even if his brain wasn’t quite ready to believe it.

  Each Roman held their right arm out straight; letting belts hang away from their bodies as if marking out a procession route with a series of plumb lines.

  And they all pointed straight to hell.

  Nick’s attention snapped to the back of the arena. The NovusPart security guards still appeared to be standing in their allotted positions. Their uniforms and rifles clear against the stone of the amphitheatre. Even if their faces weren’t.

  All anonymous men, he realised. Just like the slaves attending the duumvir’s household. Puppets rather than people.

  “Your metal mosquito has arrived at your villa,” said Barbatus.

  “Yes,” replied Whelan.

  “But they couldn’t find my men.”

  “Correct.”

  “By comparison, those belts made it easy to find yours.”

  “I still have your daughter,” said Whelan, his voice cracking.

  “My daughter knows the dangers of politics. And somehow, I suspect you care more for the old shrew who’s in my possession than I do for the girl who’s in yours.”

  Nick completed his translation and looked behind him. The exits were already being covered, and the faceless NovusPart security guard who’d accompanied them from the forum was suddenly nowhere to be seen. The trap set for Barbatus had been neatly inverted. Astridge was panicking. The architect was shaking in his seat, acrid yellow water already dribbling down on to the steps beneath him.

  And despite it all, Nick felt some grim satisfaction. Because the Romans had run a continental empire without the benefit of telecommunications. And, in that context, gaining an advantage in a town the size of Pompeii would hardly have been a challenge. Was he the man who’d let NovusPart fail? Is that how history would remember him?