Empire of Time

by Daniel Godfrey

  “I’ve heard stories, of course,” continued the aedile. “How we were saved by the God Emperor Augustus. Before we saved ourselves from you and your friends.”

  Pullus’s throat was tight. He needed to sound confident, not weak. “You’ve heard what happened in the arena?”

  “Everyone has,” replied the aedile. “But fifteen summers is a long time. And some of us are wondering if all our parents saw was a clever trick. Just like so much else that NovusPart had to fool us.”

  The bodyguard momentarily lost his focus. Sweat ran down his cheek and he adjusted his grip on his sword. This man knew. He looked older than Popidius by five years or so. If he’d been in the crowd that day, he might just remember the sight of a gladiator being sucked into a vortex. It might just now be replaying in his head.

  “Naso?” Pullus asked. “Dead,” Popidius replied. “We drowned him in his garum pits.”

  We. Such a simple word, but it confirmed something very important. This was no random mob or spontaneous action. This was a coup driven by the Ordo; men who wanted to return to power. And that meant both he and Calpurnia would be in their way.

  “I asked you to go back to your villa,” Popidius whispered. “And you ignored me.”

  “But that would only have delayed things, wouldn’t it?”

  The aedile gave a shallow smile.

  “New slaves are being brought into the town,” Pullus said. “Whatever happens here today, you need to round them up and send them back.”

  “I know about the slaves,” Popidius said. “The men you saw today work for me.”

  For a moment, Pullus didn’t say anything. “But Naso…?”

  “One man can’t keep track of everything, can he?” The aedile grinned, again full of arrogant youth. His bodyguard swallowed audibly. He at least feared NovusPart’s power. “So why not do a bit of personal business under his nose?”

  “Is that why he wouldn’t support your re-election?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And the payment?” Pullus tried not to think about what had happened to the duumvir. “Material from the days of NovusPart?”

  The aedile nodded. “Anything with their stamp on it.” He looked about him. “I’m sure this house contains a fortune.”

  Pullus stared down at the floor in desperation, looking for any sign of rescue. But there was no mist gathering at his feet, nothing to indicate a coming transportation from the present and into the future. He wasn’t going to be saved this time. He wasn’t the man who couldn’t be killed. Maybe he hadn’t been for some considerable time.

  “And once we’ve killed you,” the aedile continued, “we’ll kill the bitch and her son.”

  At this signal, the bodyguard lunged forward. Even before Pullus had time to react, Galbo lumbered into his way, swinging his staff weakly. He was the only one who moved. The other slaves simply stood and watched.

  The bodyguard shoved Galbo away easily with one shoulder, then pushed his sword into Galbo’s gut. The old man slid off the blade and crumpled to the floor, his eyes wide. The bodyguard eyed the other slaves, posed to fend off another attack. He needn’t have bothered; they’d already started to back away. Primus turned and ran out of the atrium and towards the street.

  “Didn’t you save these dregs from the gutter?” asked Popidius, laughing. “But I suppose you get what you pay for, don’t you? I’ll be sure to teach them some honest Roman values after you’ve gone. No master should be abandoned by their slaves. Even one who isn’t really Roman.”

  Pullus turned his head to see if Taedia was still behind him, but she was gone. He hoped she’d had the sense to run and hide.

  He forced himself to ignore Galbo’s body, to instead lock eyes with the bodyguard. The man clearly feared him, or at least what happened to those who threatened him. “Enough of this.” Popidius sounded impatient. The aedile waved a hand at his bodyguard. “Finish him.”

  There was no mist at his feet. Pullus knew he wasn’t going to be rescued.

  But he didn’t need it. The bodyguard made as if to attack, then his sword dropped. And now Pullus didn’t doubt that he’d been in the amphitheatre that day fifteen years ago.

  “I can’t,” the man said simply, and lowered his sword.

  52

  Naples

  AMEL OPENED THE door to her apartment, and led him inside. It was small, a lounge just big enough for a TV, compact sofa and kitchenette, with two doors leading off it, presumably to the bedroom and bathroom. It was nothing like the smart complex the Bureau had provided Chloe.

  Nick crossed to the window, opened it and stepped out onto the small balcony. Between the other apartment blocks and their lines of fluttering washing, there was a good view of Vesuvius. The volcano had been spewing its cloud of ash for almost a week now, and its tip burned a deep orange against the black mass of the mountain.

  “They’re saying it’s more like ’45 than ’79,” Amel said. She was busying herself in the kitchenette, a modest affair with only a few cupboards, a small cooker and a knee-high refrigerator. She must have sensed his scepticism. “I know, I know,” she said. “I promised you the finest chickpea stew you’d ever eaten. Believe me, I don’t need fancy equipment.”

  Nick didn’t trust himself to reply. He shrugged off his coat and sat on the sofa whilst Amel quickly began sorting through the fridge.

  “So what do you think of the place?”

  Nick glanced around the small confines of the flat. There were clothes, clutter and papers strewn around most of the space. All in all, it appeared Amel was all set with regards to vest tops and khaki shorts. “It’s nice,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “I’m pleased with it. I had some help with the costs, but when my niece is here it’s better to have the two rooms.” She padded across to him, offering a glass of wine. He sipped it and was surprised, immediately tasting Pompeian spices.

  “Fabio gave me a couple of bottles,” she said, retreating back to the kitchenette. Whatever she was cooking was already starting to simmer on the hob. “An apology for the lunch thing.”

  Something on the floor at the far side of the lounge caught Nick’s attention. It almost looked like an electric steamer, except it was filled with soil and compost, and he thought he could see something wriggling inside. It took him a few moments, then realised he was looking at an insect factory.

  “They’re nicer than they look raw,” Amel said. “You toast them, and they come out nutty. Good source of protein, and very cheap. People have been using them outside Europe for ages…”

  Nick just about stopped himself asking her if she was going to put any of them in his dinner. If she was, then that was her choice. After all, he didn’t know what she could afford. He’d just need to think of something else if anything was a bit too crunchy…

  “We have a sweepstake at work,” Amel continued, her voice raised slightly as she pulled out some plates and cutlery.

  “Fabio told me,” Nick replied. “About whether you’d find a school in the new digs. I told him that there isn’t one in New Pompeii, so the chances aren’t good.”

  “No, no. God, not that. We were wondering who your favourite emperor was.” She took a sip of wine. “My bet is Claudius.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not Claudius?”

  “No.”

  “But he was a historian, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was kinder than the others?”

  “It’s easy to look good after Tiberius and Caligula.”

  “So who then?”

  Nick shrugged. He pointed at a circular, woven textile that was hung on the wall. It didn’t look European – the colours were too warm and the patterns unfamiliar – but it didn’t look African either. “Did you say you’ve worked in South America? Did you get that there?”

  “Huh? Oh, that. Yeah, I had it made when I was out there.” Amel came over and sat on the sofa beside him. “Fascinating people, the Incas,” she said. “Very d
ifferent from Europeans then or now.”

  Nick took another mouthful of wine. “How so?”

  “They thought about time completely differently. In Incan culture, the past, present and future all occur simultaneously, with individual points in time – moments – providing connection and meaning between all three.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “Interesting,” he said.

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “I think it will take me a while to get my head around.”

  Amel pointed to the balcony. “You can think about it just by looking out there.”

  Vesuvius?

  “Ignore the mountain,” Amel said. “You see the stars? The deeper you look, the further into the past you’re staring. All the light from all those stars is coming at us from different times. All merging into a single picture, from the Big Bang right to the present day. All experienced by us in the same moment.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  Amel hesitated. “May I ask you about the graffiti we found in the bakery?”

  Nick felt as if the apartment had suddenly become smaller.

  “It’s an alternative timeline, isn’t it?” Amel continued. “This. Now. What we’re experiencing?”

  Nick shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “But your name shouldn’t have appeared. Things aren’t as they should be!”

  “It’s a relatively small pebble, Amel. A ripple, not a wave. Barely a butterfly beat.”

  “Still…”

  “We don’t know why that graffiti was in your dig site. It may have been a hoax.”

  Amel didn’t look convinced. “You believe in alternative realities though, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know.” The flat was filling with the smell of cumin and turmeric, but he’d lost his appetite. He didn’t want to talk about this, or NovusPart. He got to his feet. “Can I use your bathroom?” Amel pointed wordlessly at one of the doors leading off the lounge.

  He took his time before returning, looking into the mirror. Should he leave, or just eat and try to enjoy the evening?

  Amel made the decision for him. Nick came back to find her curled up on her sofa, her clothes discarded, everything of interest artfully hidden either by the angle of her thigh, or the curve of her arm.

  Nick edged forwards, feeling unbearably awkward. His every movement seemed robotic and unnatural. He eyed the door.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “It’s not as if you’re my teacher.”

  “I know.”

  Amel rose from the couch. She waited just long enough so he could see she was indeed naked, and then moved towards him to unbutton his shirt. She slid her hands down the front of his trousers. It didn’t take long for her to find the scar tissue. He could see the question written on her face.

  “An accident,” he said, simply.

  She kept her hand in place, even though his body was failing to respond.

  “What happened?”

  “I was attacked. A group of men. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “So,” she said, taking hold of him. “It’s a good thing we’re not in an alternate timeline, isn’t it?”

  53

  The sickle tore upwards. Nick felt a sudden pain, and then nothing. His head slipped back and cracked against the mosaic floor. And then he was awake again. Coughing and spluttering and gasping in reaction to both the shattering pain in his skull, and the numbness in his groin.

  The man with the sickle held his hand out. Nick’s eyes widened and he let out a strangled cry. Blood was flowing through the man’s fingers. And sitting in the man’s palm was a tangle of skin and hair. And two bloody spheres.

  * * *

  Nick woke up shouting, the terror of what could have been drenching him in sweat. He rolled onto his side. The bed was empty. He reached across and felt some of Amel’s warmth under the covers. The soft imprint of her body. He buried his head deep in the pillow and breathed deeply.

  From somewhere in the room he sensed movement. And then he heard a harsh, scratchy cough. One he recognised.

  “You sleep well, Nick?”

  The voice wasn’t Amel’s. It was masculine and hoarse.

  Nick scrabbled to sit up, his heart pounding in his chest. Waldren sat in a chair at the foot of the bed.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Waldren cocked his head to one side. “When I first went to see him at the Bureau, Fabio told me something interesting,” he said. “He told me Rome was founded by criminals. The greatest empire on earth, all emanating from the loins of banished men who found a home together on the Tiber.” He wagged a finger. “But how did they breed? Isn’t the story that they stole women from a local tribe? Romans are nothing more than the children of murderers and rape victims.”

  Nick ground his teeth. “What are you doing here?”

  “Interesting story, isn’t it?” Waldren said, ignoring him. “But Fabio’s going to have to work hard to cover this one up.”

  Nick scanned the room, trying to work out where he’d left his clothes. The bedroom door was closed and there was no sound from the apartment beyond. No sign of Amel.

  “Fabio?”

  Waldren nodded. The small movement caused something to shift on his lap. A brown folder. “This is probably beyond the Bureau.”

  Nick felt both confusion and rage bubbling up. He forced them down. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

  “We turn a blind eye to you screwing your slaves in New Pompeii, Nick. But this is Naples. Different standards apply.”

  Nick let out a short laugh. “I’d hardly call Amel a slave.”

  “The person I’m talking about wasn’t really in a position to give you her consent, was she?”

  Nick looked again to the door. “What are you talking about?”

  “The girl in question is with our protection officers—”

  “What sort of bullshit is this…?”

  “—and being looked after by her aunt.”

  Nick stopped. Aunt. His eyes narrowed on Waldren as the man picked up the brown folder from his lap. It contained a couple of glossy photos, which he tossed onto the bed. Nick on the dig site, with Amel’s niece, Sabine. Him in the apartment, Sabine in the apartment. Him on the bed, the person beneath him not quite visible.

  Nick glanced up at the ceiling, but couldn’t see the camera. Not that he’d be able to; wherever it was, it would be far too small.

  “Do you screw twelve-year-olds back in New Pompeii?”

  “I didn’t sleep with Sabine,” Nick said. But his voice was small and he already knew it didn’t matter. Insinuations about his lifestyle were already circulating, and conspiracies worked best when they tapped into assumptions. Waldren stared at him blankly. His expression didn’t hold any satisfaction as he waited for Nick to feel the edges of the trap. Nick remembered Fabio’s quiet observation to which he’d paid no heed: he’s no academic.

  “What do you want?”

  Finally a smile, an acknowledgement of victory. “You’ve been enjoying the best of both worlds for some time now,” Waldren said. He gave another harsh cough. “Living in Pompeii as Decimus Horatius Pullus, but visiting Naples every now and then to remind yourself of what it was to be Nick Houghton.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “You miss it, Nick,” continued Waldren. “Your visits are getting more frequent. You even asked for your old friend Chloe to come and hold your hand, although you still can’t pluck up the courage to ask her to hold your dick.”

  Nick shifted in the bed. “Come on…”

  “The cheap shots are often the most accurate,” Waldren explained, his smile broadening. He paused, as if mulling something over. “So what would you be doing out there? Say if you’d not decided to take this trip, and had stayed in New Pompeii?”

  Nothing as bad as this, that’s for sure. “Relaxing at my villa,” Nick said, the words heavy in his mou
th.

  “Hiding you mean,” Waldren responded immediately. “Maybe you already sense what you don’t want to admit?”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re not Roman, Nick. You’re a British bookworm who found the dream turned sour. A Romanophile who can no longer equate his own morals with those of his fellow citizens.”

  Nick looked again at the photos. He wondered where Amel was, but then suddenly didn’t care. He’d never see her again. If this had been a trap arranged by Habitus, then she’d already be dead. But maybe Waldren did things differently; maybe she’d be paid off and set up somewhere nice, with a healthy bank account, a personal connection to the boards, and a fat ration book. Either way, she wasn’t coming back. And neither was her niece.

  “We wondered if you’d fall for it,” Waldren said, unable to hide his satisfaction. “Some wanted to use a woman with blonde hair and bigger breasts. Make her a bit more obvious, given the likely shortness of your visit. But I said you’d want someone more intellectually challenging. You’d be surprised how little money it took to find an archaeologist willing to screw you.”

  Nick grunted. “I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “Still, life won’t be the same for you if this gets out,” Waldren said. “Sure they’ll fly you back to New Pompeii. But you won’t be allowed back, Nick. You’ll sit in your villa and wait for your friends to finally tire of you.”

  “What do you want?”

  Waldren didn’t answer. “Get dressed,” he said, standing and heading for the door. “And forget the Bureau. You’re working for me now.”

  54

  New Pompeii

  PULLUS HAD BEEN sitting on his own for what seemed like hours. He let a slow breath escape from between his teeth.

  He’d been taken to a small shuttered shop only a few blocks south of the House of McMahon, a disused little hovel built into the side of a townhouse, no doubt owned by an ally of the aedile. It might have once sold pottery; fragments of broken amphorae littered the floor and the remains of a wooden rack reached up to the ceiling on the back wall. Pullus wondered what had happened to the last tenant. Moved on and up? Or pulled down by bad debt, and a bigger fish?