New Pompeii (11 page)

“You’ve had no problems convincing the people we’re gods?”

“Technically we haven’t claimed to be deities.”

“Just the agents of one?”

“Precisely. And we’ve specifically chosen a god these people already believed in, the deified Emperor Augustus. Sent to protect them in their darkest hour.”

Nick remained silent.

“You’re not convinced?”

“Roman religion is relatively opaque.”

“Go on.”

“Well, most modern religions are centred on just one god. But in another two thousand years, our descendants may look back at our culture and think we worshipped any number of deities: Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, even Batman. It doesn’t necessarily follow that the Romans believed in all the gods they wrote about. Especially not a real man – emperor or not – who was deified after his death.”

Whelan considered this. “Well, fortunately, we tested our story on a small group before we transported the rest of the population.”

Nick nodded. A sensible move. “I presume your reconstruction includes the Temple of Fortuna Augusta?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve reinforced the message how?”

“With smoke and mirrors. It didn’t take too much, to be honest. Felix knows that’s all it was, of course, but the rest of the population seem to have fallen for it. After all, when you’ve been sucked out of the jaws of hell and then prodded and poked by our medical teams… Well, let’s just say we didn’t really have to invoke Clarke’s Third Law.”

“Clarke?” Nick knew he must have looked confused, but he didn’t try to hide it. “I’m not familiar…”

“As in ‘Arthur C.’. The science-fiction writer. ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ Samson wouldn’t shut up about it. You’ll understand when we get there.”

Nick nodded. The wagon was meandering through the bottom of a shallow valley. On either side, more villas had started to appear. Many looked occupied, and each had a small patch of farmland surrounding them – mainly given over to vines. Other villas along the route were still being constructed. At first he tried to examine the design and origin of each one, but the exercise soon became repetitive. It was the people, not the bricks and mortar, that he really wanted to see. He remembered that Astridge had said that the journey would take several hours by horse. His eyelids drooped.

“Dr Houghton?”

Nick started awake. Astridge was waving lazily in his direction from the front of the wagon. How long had he been asleep? “Sorry,” he said. Both Maggie and Noah also looked half asleep. Maggie’s face had burned pink. He shifted on the bench to see what the architect was trying to show him.

A dark stain rose above the horizon. Smoke. Nick let out a soft whistle. Smoke – from small fires – all mingling together as it rose into the air. Soon the road widened. He began to make out the northern wall of New Pompeii.

And suddenly there it was. A sight no one could have seen in over two thousand years. Pompeii, brought to life. But it wasn’t like anything he had expected. In several places its northern wall had been breached – collapsed inwards. And the stone he’d been expecting to be grey and mottled was instead scorched orange and black.

“Just like it’s been hit by pyroclastic flow,” said Whelan. Nick noted with some satisfaction that Whelan had a line of saliva on his chin. He wasn’t the only one to have nodded off.

The wagon had started to kick up more dust, a thick, dirty-white powder. Nick ran a finger along the side of the wagon and identified the substance pretty quickly. Ash. He turned in his seat. Sure enough, the fields around them were also covered in fine cinders, which grew thicker the closer they got to the town.

“From what you said – and the plans back at the villa – I pictured it differently.” He swallowed, trying to stop himself coughing as dust hit the back of his throat. “Something a bit more finished?”

Astridge snorted. “Why would we build something that never existed?”

Nick felt his cheeks flush. But although the architect had been blunt, he was right. “The earthquake in AD 62,” he said. “Pompeii was left in ruins, and there’s evidence that they were still fixing things when the volcano struck in 79.”

“I think you’re finally getting it,” said Whelan. “And the volcanic damage also plays into our hands.”

“Because the northern parts of the real Pompeii aren’t yet excavated? So it gives you a ready-made excuse for any parts of the town that aren’t quite right?”

Whelan nodded. Nick returned his attention to the town wall. At one spot the scorching was less severe, and the natural grey of the stone was almost visible. It seemed to mark out the shape of a man. Although too small to make out clearly, a few dots of colour and cloth indicated that people were kneeling in front of it. “What’s that?”

Whelan leant forward and smiled. “That’s where Augustus Caesar stood when he deflected Vulcan’s power.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s part of the smoke and mirrors. Good spot, by the way – most people miss it. We got the idea from Hiroshima.”

The Hiroshima shadows: where people’s bodies had momentarily protected the surfaces behind them from the flash-burn of the world’s first nuclear attack. In some ways, a grisly phenomenon to match Pompeii’s own plaster casts. But whereas the plaster casts were just something to be gawped at by tourists, here people were kneeling in front of the northern wall like they’d found the spot where Christ had risen. So did they actually believe the restoration of the town was the work of Augustus Caesar?

As they drew closer to the town they started to pass people standing by the side of the road. Romans. Nick tried not to stare. Each face was intent, watching the food convoy as it passed. Some approached, but the armed escort pushed them back.

“You don’t stop them leaving the town’s walls?”

“How can we?” Whelan shifted on the bench, looking out towards the town wall. “It’s not a prison. But where can they go? We own all the land around here, and the perimeter alarms warn us if anyone gets too far. We shoo them back with nothing more than the power of a Roman army uniform and a loaf of bread. You could describe them as being our flock – and they’re sheep that are pretty damn scared of the imperial eagle.”

Nick nodded. They were rolling towards a stone gatehouse consisting of three archways – the largest at the centre.

A handful of pedestrians wandered ahead of them – back and forth – through the archway on the left. However, Nick’s attention was being drawn to the solid, square tower looming to one side.

“I take it you control the towers and the curtain wall?”

Whelan shrugged. “Don’t worry, Nick. We’re perfectly safe. You won’t need to leap to Mrs Astridge’s rescue.”

“I should hope not,” said Maggie, who had woken up.

Nick didn’t appreciate the humour but before he could reply he was forced to make a grab for the side of the wagon. The convoy was coming to a halt. From the unordered deceleration and protest from the mules, it didn’t look like the driver had expected to slow down so soon.

Nick looked past Whelan’s shoulder. A short, fat man had appeared from the gatehouse, and was blocking the way. He wore a tight, badly fitting scarlet tunic, and he spoke in a loud voice with his head raised, not looking directly at the convoy. Rather, he was looking upwards and away – as if the convoy’s business was somehow beneath him.

“No wagons are allowed inside the town walls between sunrise and sunset,” he shouted. “By the order of the aediles.”

Ah, not beneath him
. Now Nick understood the man’s strange posture. He was just some unfortunate soul who’d been instructed to repeat a proclamation. But Whelan clearly wasn’t in the mood to receive orders. He started to get down from the wagon and signalled for Nick to follow. The two cavalrymen brought their horses forward to flank them. Time to put the power of a Roman military uniform to the test.

Whelan came to within a few inches of the fat Roman before turning to Nick. “What did he just say?”

Nick repeated the proclamation in English. “Presumably, you know the aediles? The magistrates in charge of running the town?”

“Yes,” said Whelan. “They report to us, as does the
duumvir
. But I wasn’t aware of any new rules.”

Nick felt a bubble of frustration burst inside him. Aediles. And their de facto bosses, the
duoviri
. All already elected and in position. He needed to get to grips with how this version of the town was set up and fast. “Well this seems to be one of their customs officials,” he said. “Checking goods into and out of the town.”

A slight wobble of fear rippled around the official’s jowls. He kept glancing at Whelan or, more specifically, at the black leather wrist-guard covering his forearm. Why did he seem scared by it?

“Ask him if he knows who we are.”

Nick followed the instruction. The official stammered a positive response.

“Good,” said Whelan. “Tell him we want to get past.”

Nick hesitated. He needed to make an impression. Needed to show he could be useful. “Isn’t this just them getting back to normal?” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Or is it your intention to micro-manage things?”

Whelan glowered, then relaxed. “Good point,” he said and turned back to the wagon. Astridge was staring at them. The architect looked sullen. He would clearly just have pushed past if he’d been on his own. “We’ll walk the rest of the way,” shouted Whelan. “The guards can wait here with the convoy until it’s allowed in.”

Nick translated Whelan’s order for the customs official. The fat man immediately broke into a relieved smile and gave a short bow. Not that Whelan noticed. He was already heading through the gate and into the town.

A
PART FROM THE
odd pedestrian, the gatehouse was quiet. Nick had expected more bustle, but the first buildings they passed looked derelict. A few were little more than piles of rubble, covered with canvas. Others looked like taverns and food stalls that had simply not been reoccupied. Nick glanced back to the road leading out of town. Perhaps without a continuous stream of trade, they’d been permanently abandoned.

“This isn’t one of the more interesting approaches,” explained Astridge, who was walking with his wife while Noah ran ahead. He wasn’t addressing anyone in particular, but rather gesticulating at the buildings in the manner of a tour guide. “If we’d orientated things a bit differently, we’d enter via the forum… It’s something we’re thinking about changing.”

They’d entered the town by one of the central gates along the northern wall. If Nick had been in the real Pompeii, he’d have called it the Vesuvius Gate. And yet they’d not travelled past a volcano. Because there wasn’t one. And this wasn’t the real Vesuvius Gate.

Shit. He needed to get the real Pompeii out of his mind. If he was going to be of use to Whelan then he couldn’t just rattle off familiar information, because it was now suspect. And if the design manual was anything to go by, then “Augustus Caesar” had made use of many different bits and pieces of Roman architecture to repair as much of the town as he could following the eruption.

Picking up his pace, Nick tried to catch up with Whelan. The man was clearly in a hurry. Fortunately, the road was almost dead straight and, from the plans he’d seen, ran all the way to the southern wall. Indeed, he could just about make out the Stabian Gate on the other side of the town. Or what would have been the Stabian Gate. If he’d been in Pompeii.

Nick cursed and wiped sweat from his brow. Even though he was no longer walking in direct sunlight, it was baking hot. According to the plans he’d seen at the villa, the streets between the gatehouses were the widest in the town, but they were still only about three metres across. Alleyways leading off them were narrower still. All in all, the street plan created plenty of shade between the buildings. There was just no movement of air to cool things down. The roads themselves, though, were a good match to those found in the Pompeii he knew – right down to the trademark high kerbs and narrow pavements. They made no sense in a modern town, but here they seemed perfect.

He instantly felt better. He was really here, surrounded by real Romans. What did it matter if the scenery wasn’t perfect? He inhaled deeply – and quickly regretted it. The ash and volcanic black rock of the pavement hid a layer of litter, which had accumulated along the kerb edge and was starting to spread like a web across the road. The further into the town they walked, the more there was: matted straw, rotten food, and animal dung. The smell started to get worse. Piss and shit. Some of it likely human.

The unpleasant smell brought to mind the city drawings. Astridge had stayed true to Roman plumbing – which probably meant only the grandest houses would have running water. Somewhere, possibly close, would be a communal toilet where he’d be able to see the true face of Roman society. But, in the middle of the night, wouldn’t it be easier to sling your piss into the street than walk to the local convenience?

Of course it would. Nick tried to focus on where he was putting his feet, but couldn’t stop his eyes wandering to the buildings that lined the street. The walls looked freshly painted, but they were already covered in a thin layer of soot and dust, as well as graffiti. Some were election slogans for candidates for the posts of aedile and
duumvir
. Others were nothing more than badly drawn phalluses.

Nick broke into an involuntary schoolboy smirk. The real Pompeii was riddled with penises. Most academics argued they were just symbols of good luck or good fortune; others said they pointed in the direction of the nearest brothel. Maybe he could catch someone actually drawing one, and ask them just what the hell they thought they were doing.

“Come on, Nick!”

The others were waiting for him about fifty metres ahead. Noah was waving at him to come along. Maggie was examining her sandals with obvious disgust. She scraped them against the high kerb while Noah, bored of waiting, ran ahead again, pointing at everything and shouting their names.

The kid’s in Disneyland
, Nick thought.
And, despite everything, aren’t I?