“You people,” said Barbatus, getting to his feet. “Whenever we were summoned to your mansion, I saw the contempt on your faces. The same expression that must have been worn by the Greeks, the Egyptians, even the Carthaginians when they first met us. But where are they now, if not bending and scraping at our feet?”
Nick rose. He could already sense a watchman heading down the steps to stop him getting too close to the duumvir. But he had to say something. He spoke in Latin. “You’re going to kill us?”
“Yes, Pullus. And your leader, McMahon.”
“What did he say?” Astridge screamed.
“He’s going to attack the House of McMahon.”
“He’ll not get in,” said Whelan. “We left instructions to keep the door sealed.” The operations chief’s eyes searched Nick for a reaction. “Tell him. We need time to negotiate.”
“He’s already inside.”
“What?”
“Calpurnia.”
“A pregnant girl?”
“No,” said Nick. “A Trojan horse.”
70
“YOU KNOW,” SAID Whelan. “I think I’ve finally figured it out.” He appraised the Romans encircling them: the two gladiators, Barbatus and Cato. With the trap sprung, it hadn’t taken long for the city watch to drag them on to the sand.
They were the main attraction. Only Naso was absent – having been dispatched to the House of McMahon with another trio of men. The Smilodon, meanwhile, remained safely in its crate, Whelan’s last instruction having not been acted upon. The power of NovusPart restrained, just moments before it could be unleashed. “We didn’t transport you from the bathhouse, because this way I can kill you myself.”
For the first time in a while, Nick felt a migraine building. “You don’t get it, do you?” He glanced down at the sand and then back up to the colours of Pompeii as they swirled around them. The crowd remained largely silent. Waiting for the fun to start. “You don’t run the future. Someone else does. And they didn’t stop me because I opened up your job for them. And that means you won’t be transported out of here. No matter how bad it gets for you.”
“You think this is your purpose in life then, Nick? To put me at the mercy of thousands of baying Romans?”
In truth, he remained uncertain. But he hadn’t been transported. And Barbatus still stood there, when he could have been snuffed out so easily by those running NovusPart in the future. So yes: all the pieces fitted.
This had to be why he’d been brought to New Pompeii.
But then he suddenly felt dizzy. His surroundings started to spin, and his gut contracted so hard he gagged. Because, if he was right, it meant he’d completed his mission. And he’d be killed just as surely as Whelan.
The operations chief, however, hadn’t given up hope. “The offer to join us is still open,” he shouted.
Barbatus laughed. “Join you? No. Dictatorship is always preferable to a triumvirate.”
Somewhere, deep in Nick’s brain, a moment of clarity emerged. The scenery around him stopped spinning. Triumvirate.
McMahon. Whelan.
And who?
The Temple of Jupiter, the statues of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva. He thought back to their first meal in New Pompeii, and the couch made for three, but only occupied by the two men running NovusPart. And he recalled the photo of Stalin, and the removal of the man who’d fallen out of favour in the Soviet regime.
But most of all Nick thought about Rome. And the reason NovusPart had suddenly found themselves needing advice from Samson in the first place. “Neither you nor McMahon have any real interest in Rome,” he whispered, turning to look directly at Whelan. “There must have been somebody else. Somebody who dreamt up this scheme in the first place. Someone who’s no longer here…”
“This isn’t the time, Nick.”
“No – it’s absolutely the right time. There’s somebody missing!”
“This is a long established project—”
“You said it was a Roman bubble,” said Nick. “I assumed you meant it was an escape from the criticisms and protests back home. But then there are the children and the reasons why they’re being brought here. So it’s more than that. More than just a factory for producing Roman wine and frescos.”
“You don’t build a chair using just one leg.”
Nick glanced at Barbatus. The murmillo and retiarius continued to prowl, but they were being held back. The duumvir appeared to be in no hurry. After all, he must have wanted the crowd to fully understand the situation. For them to know he was about to plunge the dagger in. For Whelan to feel he was about to die.
“But there must be a reason. Why did you really build New Pompeii?”
“You’re standing in it,” replied Whelan, looking towards the sky.
“No, I don’t buy it. There must be something else…”
Whelan didn’t say anything further. He continued to look upwards, as did Astridge. And the architect was suddenly smiling. It took a few seconds for Nick to hear it.
THUMP – THUMP – THUMP.
The helicopter. Coming directly into town. And there was only one place big enough for it to land.
“Your missing person is a founder member of NovusPart,” said Whelan. He glanced at the gladiators, checking that they weren’t getting too close. “He wanted somewhere he could become a gladiator.”
“Dangerous.”
“You ever heard of a guy called Commodus?”
Nick nodded. Like Caligula, another mad emperor of Rome. And one of the few to fight in the Colosseum. Not that the fights were ever fair.
“And there are a lot of people who would pay for the same opportunity. A lot of powerful men, who contacted us to find out if we could arrange… special events. The chance to fight in the arena. To kill people. With the thrill rather than the danger.”
Nick started to shake his head. “Men like Commodus and Caligula had an endless supply of men they could put to the sword,” he said. “But here there’s only a couple of dozen opponents…”
Flight 391. It crashed into Nick’s mind as heavily as the plane had plunged into the sea. He’d seen the plans back in the control villa. An amphitheatre built with a zoo and a holding room. And NovusPart had a potentially unlimited supply of people it could suck from the past. A potentially unlimited supply of puppets. “No,” he said. “People who died in disasters…”
“They’re already dead, Nick. They’re already dead. So what does it matter if they die in a plane crash or are butchered in an amphitheatre?”
THUMP – THUMP – THUMP.
The noise from the helicopter was getting louder. The spectators were all looking upwards. Only Barbatus stared straight ahead, his grin growing wider. Nick wondered if it was because he knew it was going to be too late. The metal mosquito would take some time to land. Far longer than it would take for the murmillo or retiarius to strike.
“No,” said Nick, shaking his head. “It just wouldn’t work. No one would kill a person if they knew they’d just been saved from a plane crash.” He stopped. Choked. Thought of his mother. “Or a terrorist attack.”
For a second, Whelan looked him squarely in the eye. His voice shrank to a whisper. “You’re right, Nick. But it came really close to happening. So we killed him. We stopped him. We watched him being sucked from history, and in that instant we knew we’d ended it.”
“You couldn’t have stopped him another way…?”
“Do you really think you can reason with a madman?”
Nick felt sick. A man who would make his horse a senator, and collect seashells as booty in his war with the sea. A man who would rape his sisters and kill on a whim. A man who would only rule for four years, but be famous for two thousand. The golden boy of Rome, who’d become the sick child. The Little Boot.
What if someone could have stopped him?
Why didn’t they?
Nick shuddered. Because, of course, they had stopped him. Deep in the tunnels of Rome, those closest to Caligula h
ad ended his reign with a flurry of stab wounds. “And this is why you killed Professor Samson? Did he get close to the truth?”
Whelan looked to the sky, his face grim. The helicopter was getting closer but it was going to be too late. Just like the duumvir had already figured out.
Barbatus signalled for the murmillo to engage.
“I told you, Nick. I don’t know what happened to him.”
71
“SO THE TIME is right for you to die.”
Barbatus grinned and waved to the crowd. It responded as if being whipped up by a conductor. The helicopter was now just a heavy bass line, playing in the background. Nothing but a fading hope.
“You want them to see us,” said Nick. “It’s not enough that we die, they have to see us dying.”
“I think you’re starting to get it, Pullus. How to be a good Roman politician. Just that little bit too late.”
Nick closed his eyes, and started to count. Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero. The Julio-Claudian dynasty. Poisoned. Suffocated. Stabbed. Poisoned. Suicide. All known deaths. And yet somehow his brain changed gear. The needle skipped the groove and he started thinking about Professor Samson. And the British Museum. And the bathhouse. And the missing person at the heart of Novus Particles.
If those in the future had wanted Barbatus to kill Whelan, then there was no real point in Nick’s being involved. It could have been made to happen in any number of ways: the duumvir had sent men to the control villa without his interference. So whatever he was here to do, this wasn’t it.
He looked upwards. Almost expecting to see the gods circling above the amphitheatre, rather than the helicopter. Waiting for them to dive in and intervene. And, as he searched for them, the words of another emperor of Rome rose from his subconscious. Consider yourself to be dead, and to have completed your life only up to the present. And remember that man lives in the present, in this fleeting instant; all the rest of his life is either past and gone, or not yet revealed.
He looked back at Barbatus. Stared squarely into the duumvir’s eyes. “Kill me first,” he said.
Whelan raised no objection. Astridge looked positively relieved. Nick opened his arms out wide. Let the crowd see him. Sensed a soft, white mist start to mingle around his feet, and waited for the murmillo to draw in.
The academic side of his brain ticked over. He knew the Roman sword was a thrusting weapon. It wasn’t designed for slashing or cutting. His body tensed as the gladiator pulled his arm back. Expecting the weapon to slice into his stomach and rip out his intestines.
The gladiator disappeared.
Sucked from time. His eyes screwed up in confusion and terror as he disintegrated and was pulled into the air. His sword clattered to the sand in pin-drop silence.
Nick didn’t wait. He scooped up the weapon. He raised the blade towards Barbatus, and listened for the crowd. They weren’t shouting, or laughing, or screaming. They were silent. Watching a man point a sword at their leader. The blade glinted in the sun like the weapon was on fire. Behind him, the Smilodon roared in its cage.
Smiling, Nick thought of the words that Tacitus had claimed the mad emperor Caligula had spoken as he died – as one of thirty or more knives rained down on his body.
“I live,” he said, simply.
Nick looked up at the crowd. “I live!” he screamed.
72
BARBATUS STARED AHEAD, isolated but refusing to yield. Cato and the other gladiator were running fast across the sand. They reached the boundary of the arena and disappeared from view.
“This is my town, Pullus, and I’m not going to run.” The duumvir didn’t look at the sword. “And only a fool pays out while the dice are still rolling.”
Nick didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He still had value to whoever was pulling the strings in the future. Like Whelan had told him: There are various ways in which you can contribute to history. A random, off-hand remark that helps someone else find a solution to a problem. He just needed to get back to the House of McMahon. Because he’d worked it out – and the thought was the only thing stopping him from being killed, the reason those in the future had kept him safe. So no, he wouldn’t say anything. Because then someone else would know and someone else could act.
He pushed past Barbatus and started walking towards the exit, carrying the sword loosely by his side and knowing the duumvir wouldn’t stop him. Whelan and Astridge stood frozen, perhaps not comprehending what had just happened. It was only the noise of the helicopter landing that seemed to bring Whelan back to his senses.
“Nick! Wait!”
He turned. Whelan and Astridge were both running towards the helicopter, the rotors whipping up the sand.
Nick thought of the fake NovusPart soldiers in the back of the arena and he squinted. The helicopter pilot was sitting at an odd angle. Even from this distance, he could see the fear in the man’s eyes and the knife at his throat.
You couldn’t find my men, Barbatus had said. But it was easy to find yours.
Nick turned away. He had to get back to the House of McMahon. In the wake of thousands of scared and angry Romans who were now scurrying for the exits – and who would soon be engaging in the mother of all riots.
And yet despite the people stampeding from the stands, he didn’t feel any need to hurry. As long as he kept hold of the thought, there was no real rush. He could take his time. Move through the streets and take his final look at those two-thousand-year-old faces; all of whom were now rushing to their temples and shrines.
“Nick!” The final shout had been Whelan’s. Nick didn’t look back. He now knew who was pulling the strings in the future. And that could only mean that Harold McMahon was going to die.
73
ALTHOUGH THE RIOT was building around him, the walk back to the House of McMahon wasn’t in the least frightening. He was too detached to feel fear. And he knew that he wasn’t going to be stopped from reaching his destination.
A small crowd had gathered outside the House of McMahon. Nick watched them from a distance, but quickly realised this wasn’t the core of the mob. No, these looked like the true believers. Those that still thought NovusPart had been sent by the god-emperor, Augustus.
Nick was unsurprised when they parted before him. The door to McMahon’s mansion was another matter entirely. It was shut, and didn’t swing open on his approach. He tapped in the code but the door remained closed. He hammered on the wood. Nothing.
Nick hammered on the door again, using the butt of the sword. On the last strike, it slowly swung open. The porter’s angry face appeared. The dog-at-the-door was still alive. “Where’s Whelan?”
“On his way,” Nick replied. “I’ve been sent ahead. McMahon is here?”
“Upstairs.”
The porter let him pass and quickly re-secured the door. “It’s all gone to shit,” he said. “And there are hundreds of people heading out of the town on foot. We might not be able to get them all back.”
Nick ignored him. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe the containment of New Pompeii was about to be broken. Not that it mattered any more. All that did matter was reaching McMahon and finding out the answer to one very important question. He looked up towards the atrium balcony, and headed up the stairs.
“Pullus?”
The voice stopped him a few steps from the top. Calpurnia stared up at him from the doorway to the tablinum. Her expression was sad. She’d clearly not put her father’s plan into action yet. Maybe she’d been waiting to see how the pieces would fall.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She didn’t answer at first, but then slowly nodded. “My father?”
“Alive.”
It wasn’t clear if Calpurnia was relieved or not. Nick continued upwards, holding the sword loosely, and hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.
He found the CEO of NovusPart in his private quarters. McMahon occupied a large sofa that looked like a fallen soufflé. He didn’t look up as Nick entered, his attention fo
cused on the screen. As Nick approached, he became aware of wheezing. The man was having difficulty breathing. And he looked pale. His dyed hair was saturated with grease and sweat.
“You brought me my grapes?”
“No,” said Nick. He took a few steps forward, but kept the sword close to his side. McMahon glanced in his direction for no more than a second, and then returned his attention to the television.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “They’re burning my town.”
“You don’t sound concerned.”
McMahon just shrugged. Like he already realised it was too late.
“You’re kidnapping children, aren’t you? Taking them from history, and bringing them here.”
McMahon looked at him, his eyes cold. “Huh. If only it was that simple. The truth is, it could be me or Whelan. But one of us is, that’s for sure.”
“And you killed Professor Samson.”
“Now that I can answer with certainty.”
“And?”
“You’re wrong. We didn’t.”
The remaining colour had gone from McMahon’s cheeks. He stood up, his legs seemingly too weak to hold his body. A hand reached down for his remaining few grapes. He flicked them into his mouth, one at a time.
Nick took another step forward. He sensed movement behind him. Mary, the chef, was standing in the doorway. She looked tense, which was understandable given what was going on outside. But her eyes kept flicking towards the empty bowl of grapes. Her mouth curling at the edges as if wanting to smile. Her brain seemed to be calculating something. Had he eaten enough? Because the odds were that the grapes were poisoned.
And now McMahon knew it too.
74
“YOU STUPID BITCH!”
McMahon was wrong. Mary wasn’t stupid, Nick was. He’d been given all the pieces of the puzzle, but he’d still not seen it until it was too late.
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