No one out. Just the men who staffed the convoys, who then went into their own quarantine. Everyone understood that. And if someone had tried their luck, then they’d tried it too far. It wouldn’t be long before an outsider caught the shivers anyway and had to roll the dice to see if they were able to pull through, just like so many others. Just like him.
The man who couldn’t die.
Someone cleared their throat behind him in the manner only the servile seemed to adopt. Pullus reached out and picked the pomegranate.
“Some masters have been known to beat a man to death for interrupting their thoughts.”
“Some masters do not have your wisdom.”
Pullus turned and tossed the fruit to Galbo. They were alone. Marcus and the rest of the household must be inside. He wondered what the boy was up to, but pushed away the thought. For the moment, others living under his roof caused him more concern. “Taedia?”
“I’m keeping her out of mischief.”
Pullus nodded. “I counted my father’s letters,” he said. “None were missing.”
“Failure is no excuse,” Galbo replied evenly. “My punishment of her was justified. Slaves are kept in order by managing their food, and careful use of the whip. You can’t have one without the other.” He paused for a moment. “Was there anything else in the room? Anything else she may have been looking for?”
Pullus shook his head, thinking about the satchel and its contents. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I thought she was Calpurnia’s spy, not you.”
“She’s either your slave, or she’s not.” Galbo kept his voice measured. “And if she’s yours, you should treat her like the rest of us.”
“Even you?”
“She can’t be seen to avoid both chores and punishments. You’ll just get gripes from the others. I had to threaten Primus this morning to make him sweep the front step.”
Pullus stared towards the house. There was some movement in the tablinum. “And what would you have me do?”
“Take her back to your room. Let her know you’re her master.” Pullus knew other slave owners wouldn’t have waited to get such advice from their steward. “She’s young, she’s pretty,” Galbo continued. “And her allegiance to Calpurnia needs breaking. So put a baby in her belly, and leave the rest to nature.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise.”
“A good workman oils his tools. All Roman masters dominate their slaves. And in this case, you’ll get Taedia’s loyalty, and an investment for the future.”
Pullus mulled this over. “And your wife, Galbo? How would you respond if I took my privileges with her, I wonder?”
“I doubt she’d be to your taste,” Galbo replied, the merest hint of anger in his eyes. “But we’re all yours, Pullus. Maybe someday, you’ll start to realise that.”
Pullus didn’t answer. Instead, he looked back to the tablinum. Marcus came into view, then disappeared again. The boy was laughing at something. “Have you heard anything more about Popidius?”
Galbo shook his head, suddenly grim. “Not about what he’s up to, no. But we were beaten to the slave market. Word is that Crixus is now working on the convoys.”
Pullus didn’t attempt to hide his incredulity. “Doing what?!”
“Lifting boxes. Moving crates.”
“He’s surely too old for that.”
“He’s been sent there to die.”
Marcus came back into view through the colonnade, pulling Taedia with him. She followed stiffly, looking uncomfortable. She was clearly not interested in whatever it was the boy was showing her. Pullus watched for a few moments, then realised Galbo’s normally stoic features had developed a distinct colour.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me, Galbo.”
Galbo hesitated. “I hear rumours about him,” he said. “From Calpurnia’s slaves, when they come into town to run errands. People in town are beginning to talk.”
“What sort of rumours?” Nick asked. Near the house, Marcus continued to tease Taedia. “You mean slave gossip—” Nick stopped himself. He couldn’t rely on Galbo’s network one moment, and dismiss it the next. “Tell me.”
“It’s best to manage slaves with careful use of the whip,” Galbo said. “The word from Calpurnia’s villa is that the boy has something of an imaginative streak when it comes to both entertainment and punishment.”
“I need facts, Galbo.”
“You’ve heard the stories about Emperor Tiberius on his island at Capri? He used to make his slave boys swim beneath his legs, and tickle his genitals. The boy tried to do the same in Calpurnia’s swimming pool. One of them drowned.”
Pullus glanced at the boy, a little tremor stirring in his belly. Marcus had always been keen on his Suetonius. Always keen to report back to him each gory detail he’d found from the first family of Caesars. And now Pullus realised something else: Marcus and Taedia had, in a way, been brought up together. She’d never left Calpurnia’s villa, that’s what she’d told him. A female slave, just a few years older than her mistress’s son. Someone perhaps to act as a playmate, an older sister. Someone to look after him, until he matured sufficiently that she’d simply become his slave.
Pullus cleared his throat. He needed to separate them. “Marcus!”
The boy turned, and dropped Taedia’s hand. “Yes?”
“I hope you aren’t getting in the way of our dinner?”
“It would be best to get him back to his mother,” Galbo whispered. “Before he takes your prize.”
48
“AND YOU EAT like this every night?”
Pullus glanced up from the small pewter dish, and found Marcus staring at him from the couch opposite. The boy looked irritated. Bored. Even a little disappointed. Perhaps he’d been expecting grander fare for his first night away from his mother. But Pullus had long since adopted a simple diet. “There’s plenty of food, Marcus.”
“But just the two of us,” replied the boy, exasperated. He took a couple of small figs. “You could have invited the duumvir,” he said. “An aedile… as long as it was the interesting one. By Jupiter, even a few members of the Ordo would have done! I mean, how hard is it to round up a few people? A mime? A dancing girl? Someone to juggle whilst we ate?”
Pullus raised an eyebrow, resting on one elbow as the length of his body reclined uncomfortably on the couch. He’d not considered organising anything special. Perhaps he should have done. “The healthy stomach should respect all food,” he said.
Marcus frowned. “A quote from Seneca, I suppose?”
“No. Emperor…”
“…Aurelius! Aurelius! A man who my mother doesn’t even acknowledge as being a true emperor!”
Pullus smiled. He drank some of his wine and felt its effects slowly percolate up into his brain. It wasn’t his first glass, and wouldn’t be his last. “Well, as she’s not here, I guess I can tell you a little about him.”
“Don’t bother. There were ten emperors. The men who followed – and pissed away our empire – deserve to be forgotten.”
“And who’s speaking now?” asked Pullus. “You? Or your mother?”
The boy leant back on his elbow. He drained his goblet and held it out for a refill. There were two slaves serving the food and drink, Primus, and Galbo’s wife, a short waif called Holconia. “I accept you have a point with Commodus,” he said. “He used to fight as a gladiator, executing criminals and clubbing cripples to death.”
“There were a number of great and good emperors after the cataclysm,” Pullus said, trying to be patient. “You should read about Hadrian, Trajan…”
Marcus reached for some shredded pork. “And? Oh, that’s right. You always run out of names pretty quickly after those two, don’t you?” The boy chuckled. “By the gods, Pullus! It will soon be the Saturnalia! I’ve often wondered, does my teacher suddenly throw off his stoic mask, and throw himself into the festivities?”
Pul
lus flushed. Normally, he spent the festival at his villa where he could hide away. That would be more difficult here at the House of McMahon. He’d be forced to take part, if Marcus was still here. Shit. “I’ll no doubt be serving a glass of wine and a good feast,” he said.
Marcus snorted. He held out his goblet again and looked directly at Holconia. “You should make your master stand on one of these couches and sing to you all naked!”
“Marcus…”
“Slap his buttocks, and… fucking hell!”
Primus, who had been refilling Marcus’s goblet, jerked the wine jug away, his crippled arm wobbling. Holconia rushed to dab at Marcus’s sleeve. It was just a minor slip – or an unfortunately timed giggle at his master’s expense – but it would no doubt leave a deep stain on the off-white linen.
“You fucking cretin!”
“Marcus!”
The boy took a deep breath, his face an angry shade of red. But then he grinned. “Another slave with a weak wrist! The irony! Didn’t Emperor Hadrian remove a slave’s eye for something like this? My grandfather certainly took the sight of that idiot who maimed Whelan! And you described him as a good emperor, no? Hadrian, and my grandfather?”
Pullus let out a heavy sigh. Now wasn’t the time for juvenile arguments. “Let’s just finish eating…”
The boy glared at Primus. Pullus motioned for the slave to refill his own goblet and took a large gulp. As the spices hit him, he wondered if he’d already drunk too much.
“Some people at the theatre were laughing at me,” Marcus said, suddenly quiet. Still glaring at Primus.
Pullus raised an eyebrow. Marcus hardly ever came to town. “At you?”
“They didn’t know I was sitting behind them,” Marcus replied. “But they were definitely talking about me: ‘Calpurnia and her son’. I was so close I could have ordered my men to kill them.”
“And what were they saying?”
“That you were my father.”
Pullus flicked his eyes towards his two slaves. Neither met his eye. “Well, it’s not true,” he said.
“You were in love with my mother once though, yes?”
Pullus gave a smile which he hoped was regretful. “You shouldn’t read too much into what you read scribbled on toilet walls.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I care for your mother a great deal,” said Pullus, choosing his words carefully. “But I’m not in love with her, and I never have been. And I’m not your father. Is that good enough for you?”
Marcus shrugged. “I don’t understand why you fell out…”
“It’s complicated.”
“She used to talk about you all the time. Now you’re just my teacher.” He motioned towards Primus. “Some servant, like him. An irritation she just can’t be without.”
“Huh.”
“The man you killed today,” Marcus said. “Whelan?”
Pullus suddenly heard Whelan’s last gulps before he’d pinched his nose shut. Somehow, it was worse than all the screaming and grinding of bone. He took another mouthful of wine.
“Habitus says it’s hard to kill your first man, but that it gets easier and easier. You get to the point where it’s just like squashing ants. He once knew someone—”
Pullus grunted. “Habitus is a man of rare knowledge.”
“It didn’t seem hard for you.”
“You’re mistaken.”
Marcus shrugged. “Some people say my mother can’t be killed,” he said. “That she’s just like you.”
Pullus put down his goblet, realising he’d had enough for one night.
“So if my mother and father are both immortal,” Marcus whispered, “what does that make me?”
* * *
Pullus lay on his couch long after Marcus had retired to his room. He didn’t feel able to get up and make his way to his more comfortable bed. He stared out across the atrium. The light outside was failing, and the myriad of oil lamps now lit around and within the triclinium were not quite powerful enough to push away the darkness.
Over his left shoulder, he sensed the occasional bob of movement. Primus stood ready to top up his wine. The boy probably wanted to go to bed himself, to rest and prepare for the chores which would no doubt be set for him tomorrow. But he couldn’t leave, because his master was still awake.
Pullus reached forward and took another gulp of wine. All he found in his goblet though were thoughts of Whelan, and what he’d been whispering before he died.
“Pullus?”
Pullus turned his head quickly, but then had to wait for the rest of the room to swim round to meet him. He recognised the voice, though it took a moment or two for his brain to register. He blinked and brought Taedia into focus, and watched as she slipped out of her clothes.
Pullus frowned. “Did Galbo tell you to do this?”
“No.”
“Habitus, then?” Pullus twisted on his elbow and turned away. He reached out for his goblet to be refilled, but the vessel slipped from his hand, cracking on the floor. Primus scurried to retrieve it. A weak wrist. Pullus giggled, then realised Taedia was already on top of him, her thighs on either side of his hips, as she searched under his tunic.
“Stop…”
Taedia ignored him. She continued to work with her hands until she was ready to push down on him. He noticed she had a long, pale red scar running across the lower curve of her stomach. “You’ve had other female slaves?” she asked.
Pullus shook his head, suddenly feeling its weight on his shoulders. He let it loll back on the couch. “I haven’t slept with them,” he said. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he was just about able to hold a picture of Taedia’s swaying body. “I haven’t slept with any of them,” he said again, this time trying to push her away.
She didn’t let him. She kept on going until he climaxed. And as the room finally span away and the alcohol took him with it, she pulled his head forward and into her chest. “I’ve found the satchel,” she whispered. “I’ve found the papers.”
49
Naples
“We sometimes refer to Calpurnia as the Empress of Time. It is meant as a joke. But we mustn’t forget what Ancient Rome so regularly produced: tyrants sent mad once they were wrapped in the purple dye. Tiberius, Caligula, Nero, Domitian, Commodus, Caracalla, Elagabalus. What if Calpurnia – or maybe even her son – goes the same way? Will Nick Houghton be able to stop them?”
Bureau of Roman Affairs
& NATO liaison meeting notes
“THANK YOU.”
Nick didn’t acknowledge Chloe’s gratitude. He’d spent the last two days since his confrontation with Fabio and Waldren stewing at Chloe’s apartment. Today he and Chloe had been summoned to the Bureau, but not to continue the discussion about Calpurnia and the NovusPart device. Instead, he’d found Waldren absent and it had only been Chloe’s position on the agenda. Fabio hadn’t wasted much time before telling her that she still had a job. Just.
“I mean it, Nick,” Chloe said again. “Thank you.”
“I was hardly going to allow them to sack you,” he said.
“For a second there, I didn’t think they were going to give you the choice.”
“Come on, let’s go.” The Bureau’s stale air and fake coffee had polluted his senses and he wanted to leave, to head back to Chloe’s apartment and fire up his old computer again. He’d tried to put the time he’d been forced to spend on his own at Chloe’s to good use. Aside from watching the steadily thickening ash streaming up from Vesuvius and visiting an optician, he’d managed to catch up on months and months of research papers, to remove some of the academic rust that had built up on his mental gears. It had been difficult at first, but some of the more interesting finds from the digs at Pompeii had finally got them turning. He’d studied each of the new frescos and mosaics, trying to find anything odd about them. Anything out of place. Once or twice he’d thought he’d seen something. Just tiny marks that might have formed the letters of his name. Bu
t none were as clear as the finds that had brought Waldren into his life.
“Hey, what’s she doing here?” Chloe said.
A familiar figure stood in the lobby. Amel waved but didn’t approach. Chloe stopped and held Nick back. “Jack’s still pretty pissed,” she said.
“He’s always like that,” Nick replied. He’d been avoiding Chloe’s husband, but had also been more than aware of the clattering of cupboard doors and the heaviness of his step. Still, Jack’s concern about his wife’s job was probably well placed. “I thought I’d been doing well keeping out of his way.”
“I want you to eat with us tonight. Not tuck yourself away… researching.”
“Fine.”
“When he was speaking to me on my own,” Chloe continued, her voice low, “Fabio seemed pretty keen to know how you were keeping yourself occupied.”
“And did you tell him?”
“I think they’re monitoring what you’re looking at on the boards,” she said.
Nick wasn’t surprised. He’d anticipated as much, and made sure to keep his research centred on Pompeii, though he’d also started looking more into the work at Herculaneum. Although the two towns had been destroyed by the same event, they’d been preserved in completely different ways, which meant there were things in Herculaneum that had never survived in its more famous cousin. Specifically, the carbonised wood of Roman cabinets, bedframes and doors. Even a handful of scrolls, which were only now able to be read with the latest x-ray machines. But he’d seen no anachronisms. There was no hint of NovusPart or of Nick Houghton. Not that they were admitting, anyway.
“And I take it they soon lost interest in what I was looking at?”
“Yes.” Chloe paused. “Somehow, I don’t think they know what game you’re playing,” she said. “Are you going to tell me?”
Nick didn’t want to lie to her. He looked over to where Amel waited awkwardly, examining a painting on the wall. She clearly wanted to talk. “I won’t be a minute,” he said, starting to walk away.
Chloe reached out and lightly touched his arm. “I’m your friend, Nick.”
Empire of Time Page 20