NICK PEERED THROUGH the small opening and let his eyes adjust to the gloom inside. He could just about make out the pool – the reservoir – within the simple brick structure. Once fed by the Serino Aqueduct, all that remained of Pompeii’s “header tank” was a nondescript rectangular block situated on the northern edge of the town. The brick and stone exterior hid what had been an ingenious system, delivering through a few slender pipes enough water to serve all the baths, fountains, and private houses lucky enough to have their own supply.
“You can go inside, you know.”
Nick turned to Fabio. “I’m fine,” he said. After taking a last look into the “water castle”, he slipped back along its eastern flank and onto an area of granite block pavement fronting the Vesuvius Gate. From the direction of the forum, a loud, heavy bell started to sound.
Fabio noticed his discomfort. “Time for the ceremonies,” the Italian said, chuckling. “Do you want to see?”
“No,” replied Nick. His response was automatic. The ruins of Pompeii were attracting a cult following of those now wanting to worship the old gods. From what he’d seen, however, it didn’t look like they had any real understanding of what the old Roman religion was like. They’d certainly not read his articles on the subject. They seemed to view the Roman gods as some sort of superheroes, rather than representations of the real world.
“We have time. It can be quite fun.”
Nick shook his head. Chloe had already shown him some video footage. They’d be lining up on the steps of the Temple of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva, murmuring about gods none of them knew. “Has there been any more trouble?” he asked.
“Not since we locked down the site.”
Nick nodded. The number of visitors was now closely monitored, and they could only visit the forum. The rest of the site was effectively mothballed. This was due to the rise of theft and vandalism; people loved the site so much they wanted to take part of it home with them or they hated it enough to attack it with hammers.
“Don’t worry,” said Fabio. “I doubt anyone noticed you arrive.”
Nick shrugged. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might have been spotted. The vehicle Fabio had driven was discreet, and they’d slipped through the security cordon without needing to show a pass.
“It looks like they’re making good progress,” continued the Italian.
Beyond the edge of the Via Stabiana, the new diggings were well underway. This was the street that had always marked the boundary between the excavated part of the town and the buried portion. But the bank that had once hugged tight against the Via Stabiana was now being slowly peeled back and, about a hundred yards away, a few dozen archaeologists laboured at its surface, clearing away the stone, ash and lapilli to uncover new streets and buildings. The workings were covered with a series of white tents and yellow tape, used to cordon off areas from those without authorised access. All in all, it looked more like an exercise in police forensics than archaeology.
“I’ve arranged for the dig director to show us where they found the fresco,” Fabio said. He paused and nodded in the direction of the dig. “Have you joined the sweepstake? I got a decent tip about them finding a school under there.”
Nick remained unconvinced by the case made to unearth more of the town. When he’d studied it, the authorities hadn’t seemed to care about Pompeii unless a building collapsed or a critical piece appeared in the media. Yet Pompeii was now the centre of the world’s interest, and nearby Naples was again awash with money.
“Well,” continued Fabio. “A school? What do you think?”
Nick finally smiled. The archaeologists working here didn’t seem to have had to work very hard to pull money from Fabio’s pocket. “There’s no school building in New Pompeii.”
Over at the dig site, a couple of archaeologists were moving hurriedly back and forth between two of their tents. A third was heading towards Nick and Fabio. Nick squinted. He couldn’t quite bring them into focus.
“You okay?” Fabio asked.
“Yeah,” Nick said, struggling with the light. The figure heading their way was a young woman. “Headache. I only ever seem to get them here.”
“When was the last time you had an eye test?” The Italian had lost his humour, and considered him seriously. “You’ve been having trouble on your last few visits,” he continued.
“You’re worried about my eyes now?”
“I’m paid to notice these things. We’re your friends here, remember?”
“I’m fine,” Nick replied. He rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger, trying to massage the pain from his head.
“Blurring?”
“Yes.”
“Myopia, probably. You should get it checked while you’re here. Get them zapped, if you don’t want your friends to see you with spectacles. Non-surgical, you know. No risk of infection.”
Nick shrugged. He could see just fine. In front of him, the archaeologist from the dig slid down off the bank. It didn’t take long to place her. She was wearing the same style of clothes as when he’d met her at the airport. Except the strappy top was a different shade of green, and the khaki trousers had been replaced by shorts.
“Hi again,” he said.
“Hi!” The woman blushed. “I don’t think I introduced myself properly when we last met. I’m Amel.” She stuck out a hand, which Nick shook. Now he thought about it her accent sounded Dutch, even if her name wasn’t. “We’ve found something we thought you might like to see?”
Beside him, Fabio bristled. “Another fresco?”
The woman shook her head, confused. “No. A void. We’ve found a cavity.”
The news seemed to disappoint Fabio, but it gave Nick a distinct chill. A void. The empty space left by a body that had rotted away long ago. He felt his throat constrict. “Are you going to use plaster?” he asked. “Or resin?”
“Why don’t you come and find out?”
Walking onto the dig site turned out to be only marginally more comfortable than taking a mid-afternoon stroll through the forum. Most of the archaeologists had been drawn to Pompeii for the same reason he’d first studied the town. And most would have given their right arm to travel to New Pompeii. They stared at him with a mixture of jealousy and outright resentment. Nick had discovered that by shunning the limelight, most people had forgotten his face, which meant in Naples, with the facemask, he was pretty much anonymous. But not in Pompeii.
Nick tried to avoid catching anyone’s eye. Ahead of him, Amel stopped and turned. “Doesn’t the Bureau want to see?” she asked.
Nick glanced behind him. Fabio was still prowling by the water castle, his mobile having erupted with an Abba tune just a few steps short of the edge of the via.
“I’m sure he’ll follow soon enough,” Nick replied, turning back to Amel. She was wearing some sort of phallic necklace, similar to the charms and apotropaic symbols that hung outside tabernae back in New Pompeii. “I hadn’t realised you were an archaeologist.”
Amel gave a slight shrug. “Would it have helped if I’d been wearing a leather fedora?”
Nick wasn’t quite sure whether she was joking. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess when we first met I wasn’t ready to be recognised.”
“Don’t worry about it. So what brings you to Pompeii this time?”
“I like to remind myself.”
“Of the reality, rather than the fantasy?”
Nick gave a soft chuckle. “Something like that.”
“The others told me you normally visit in the early hours, or just before sundown?”
“Yeah.”
“But not today, huh?”
Nick shook his head, eyes scanning the dig site. Sure enough, they’d already uncovered the walls of a few buildings. The functions of some were pretty clear: two boasted mottled green serving counters with deep amphora set into them. Another had been unearthed complete with grinding stones and ovens – all ready to process the next batch of wheat, if it ever arrived.
/> Unlike the rest of the town, none of it reflected what had been recreated by NovusPart. Where here there were bars, taverns and bakeries, in New Pompeii there were residential houses, workshops and fulleries. Whilst the outline of the rest of New and Old Pompeii was almost a perfect overlap, this was the area where NovusPart had been forced to fill in the gaps, and had got things wrong.
“We’ve been working here for some time,” continued Amel. She stopped to wave at a small girl near one of the tents. The two shared the same dark hair and some of the same facial features. “Haven’t you been in the least bit curious about what we found?”
Nick shook his head. He hadn’t given it much thought. Although he had known new digs were happening, he hadn’t wanted to get involved. He had access to everything he needed back home.
The girl by the tent was staring at them. He squinted. She was maybe about ten or eleven. “You’re training them young?” he asked.
Amel beckoned the girl over, but she didn’t move.
“Sabine,” she said. “My niece. A few days of enlightenment away from school.”
“Shy?”
“Bored.” Amel started walking again. “Come on. I think they’ve already started.”
Sure enough, a few other members of the dig had assembled in an area that hadn’t been fully excavated. A machine was slowly delivering plaster via a long, clear pipe into a hole in the ground. Another hole was letting air escape. The machine didn’t sound too healthy. The pump was grating against something, the racket drowning out what the rest of the team were saying as more and more plaster was pumped into the void.
Giuseppe Fiorelli had first developed this technique back in the late 1800s. In concept, it was simple. The plaster would fill the cavity just like any other mould. After it hardened, it would show the shape of a person, right down to the clothes they’d been wearing, and the expression on their face at the point they’d been suffocated. Except no one had done it like this in a long time, and it had the potential to go very wrong.
“You’ve done the laser scan first, I take it?” Nick asked.
Amel nodded. A little mouse-sized robot would have already worked its way through the space. Somewhere on the site, or possibly back in Naples, a 3D image of the void had already been printed in case things went wrong. Now they were free to use the plaster and not worry about making a total mess of it.
“We’re using plaster, not resin,” said Amel. “It should give a more traditional effect.”
Nick watched the process with a sick feeling brewing in his stomach. For a brief period, resin had overtaken plaster as being the preferred material to preserve the finds. But although it gave better access to the bones, there was something about plaster that resin couldn’t quite capture. Perhaps because plaster made the bodies look like sculptures. Or ghosts.
Nick watched the last of the plaster be injected, and then suddenly turned away. He walked back towards the Vesuvius Gate, knowing that when he reached Fabio, there was a good chance he might vomit.
“Do you want us to call you back when he’s ready?” Amel called after him.
No, he thought. No I don’t. Because whoever it had been, they’d been one of the unlucky few. Someone who’d been caught in a pocket of ash and pumice just thick enough to stop them being transported to safety by NovusPart. A few hundred lost souls, out of a population of fifteen thousand. The margin of error McMahon and Whelan had found satisfactory.
Nick doubled over and gave a dry heave. He wondered if he knew the victim’s friends or family. Whether – if he took a picture of the plaster cast – he could perhaps find out who they were and finally tell their loved ones what had happened to them.
“I’m sorry,” said Amel, running up to him. “I should have realised.”
“It’s fine,” Nick said, trying to swallow. “I didn’t expect to react like that.”
“Do they ever talk to you about them?”
“All the time,” said Nick, gasping for air. “They all know someone who didn’t make it.” He heaved again. He’d tell Fabio they’d come back another day to see where the fresco had been found. He couldn’t stand the thought.
“Strange, then,” Amel said quietly, almost to herself.
“Strange, what?”
“That they didn’t have another go at rescuing them.”
25
New Pompeii
PULLUS HAD EXPECTED a long queue outside the duumvir’s door, but he was wrong. It was more like a mob. Where there should have been an orderly line, instead there was a jostling crowd. He could just about see a single porter standing at the door, a baton held casually over his shoulder. Ready to be brought down, if needed.
“Pullus…?” Taedia sounded scared.
“Don’t worry,” he said, moving forward. “I’ve seen this before.”
In fact, he’d seen it too often. But whilst those at the back of the mob might be trying to push forward, those at the front were braced and pushing back on their heels. No one wanted to actually breach the duumvir’s threshold and risk being beaten back by his porter. Everyone, though, wanted to get a sense of what was going on in the atrium beyond.
“We should come back at another time,” Taedia said.
Pullus ignored her. They were a few feet away from the edge of the scrum, close enough to hear the crowd’s mockery mixed in with its anger. Taking Taedia’s hand, he pulled her towards the crowd.
“There’s no way through,” she said.
There was. The crowd hushed at Pullus’s approach and parted before him. Pullus yanked Taedia forward, past the porter and into the duumvir’s atrium.
“What’s going on?”
Taedia’s question was whispered, but it still carried further than she likely intended. A few of the people in the atrium turned, eyebrows raised, but none spoke. There were about twenty or so waiting in front of the impluvium, many members of the town Ordo. Most had their attention on the tablinum, the bronze-embossed wooden shutters of which were open. Just above the distant murmur of the crowd outside, Pullus could hear two people engaged in a very one-sided conversation.
“So now we come to your children.”
The voice was all nose and throat. Naso. The reply, however, was barely audible, and it was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman. Pullus edged forward to get a better look. Sure enough, the duumvir was standing with his bodyguards facing a man who looked pale and weak. Scaeva? Had his actions finally caught up with him?
Pullus glanced sideways. Another man was looking in his direction, and he gave a shallow nod. Popidius. The aedile who’d taken the tablet from the bakery. He was young, and by all accounts arrogant. Pullus returned the gesture.
“You have two daughters, and a son?”
“Yes,” Scaeva replied.
Pullus felt his stomach tighten. The man was beaten. There was no fight in his voice, even when speaking about his own children. There’d been rumours circulating that a member of the Ordo couldn’t quite match his spending to his income. If Barbatus had still been around, he would have intervened. But the old duumvir was gone, and the economics in New Pompeii were no longer centred on Rome but the prices paid by boutiques in Paris, Milan and Beijing.
“I’ll keep the girls,” said Naso. “Your son will go to the markets. He’ll pay off your debts by ploughing our fields.”
Just the smallest ripple of shock moved through the atrium. The children kept at Naso’s house would be fine in the short term. But the boy was effectively being sent to his death and everyone knew it. Scaeva said nothing.
Naso glanced behind him. “What’s the tally?”
A slave standing at the duumvir’s shoulder totted something up on a wax tablet. “With the remaining farmland,” he said, “townhouse, slaves and his three children, we’re nearly there.”
“I have nothing left,” Scaeva said. “You’ve taken everything.”
At last, thought Pullus, a bit of fight. Too late, though. Everyone knew what was coming: Scaeva would be offered
his sword so he could meet a more dignified death than starving on the street.
Naso cleared his throat. “How much are we owed?”
“Two denarii should clear the remaining debt.”
“Two denarii? Is that all? Now then, Scaeva: what do you still own that could be worth two denarii?”
There was only one thing. His tunic. A few giggles broke out in the atrium, but they didn’t last long. It was all too easy to imagine any of them standing in front of Naso, and they all knew it. Some would have already taken loans. Others would be praying for a good harvest to allow them to make the repayments.
Scaeva didn’t move, and for a second Pullus thought he might be waiting to be stripped. But then he looked up at Naso, with some strength left in his voice. “Swear you’ll protect my girls.”
“You have my word no harm will come to them. And you don’t need to spend the rest of your life on the street, Scaeva. I have made provision for you.”
“Where?”
“The forum.”
The jeers from the crowd outside seemed to grow louder even if they couldn’t have heard what had just been said. The forum was close, but Scaeva would still need to walk naked through the town. By the time he reached it, he’d probably welcome the chance to thrust a sword into his own stomach. Everyone in town would get the message: no one was above paying off their debts. Even Scaeva of the town Ordo, former aedile of Pompeii.
Scaeva was stripped and led away, his fellow members of the Ordo following to watch the show. Naso spotted Pullus and he raised a hand. “Pullus!”
Naso walked swiftly towards him. A few members of the Ordo lingered to try and catch a little of the conversation, but the duumvir waited for the atrium to clear before he spoke again. “Who’s the girl?”
“A gift from Calpurnia.”
“Huh.” Naso’s eyes narrowed. Around them, slaves had begun to tidy the atrium. But they couldn’t hide the fact that the duumvir had been busy. With the people gone, the accumulation of NovusPart material was more obvious. Stacks of clutter had been positioned around the atrium, all of it presumably the result of the dragnet ordered by Calpurnia.
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