New Pompeii (14 page)

“We’re doing
this
again,” shouted McMahon. He shoved a handful of steaming pork into his mouth. “Your fucking faces!” Nick noted Maggie’s wince, but it was obvious McMahon didn’t feel the need to temper his language in front of Noah.

“Better than the dormice?” Whelan’s question didn’t get a response. He turned to Nick. “We tried eating mice on our first stay here,” he said. “You know, how the Romans did? We spent weeks fattening up the buggers in little clay pots. What were they covered in?”

“Honey,” said Astridge. His expression was one of extreme distaste. “And poppy seeds.”

M
AYBE THE DEEP
rumble wouldn’t have woken him, but the high-pitched squeal certainly did. Nick tried to bury his head deeper into his pillow. It didn’t work. He was awake – or at least, somewhere just below the surface of sleep.

Groaning, he rolled over. An ache extended down his back. He’d drifted off soon after the previous night’s meal had ended, the wine dulling his senses just enough to allow him to ignore the thinness of the mattress. But now he could feel each of the bed’s wooden slats, and they introduced him to another side of Roman life. Was this level of authenticity necessary in NovusPart’s guest bedrooms? Budget hotel furnishing would have done just fine.

Another piercing screech forced Nick up on to his elbows. It was much closer this time. Glancing around dumbly, he couldn’t quite place it and his thoughts returned to the preceding night. By the time they’d finished eating it was dark, the only light thrown by a dozen or so oil lamps. With nothing else to do, and with polite conversation already strained, everyone had stumbled in the directions of their beds.

Nick stretched and gave a shallow yawn. His room was small, one of the cubicle-sized rooms just off the atrium. It was only large enough for the bed, but a shutter over the doorway at least gave him some privacy.

Another rumble echoed through the house. This time it was accompanied by the clatter of hooves. The source of the noise clicked into place. Wagons. Wagons moving around the town.

Nick yawned again and pulled himself out of bed. He slipped on his tunic and pushed his feet into his sandals. The leather seemed to find all the sore spots on his feet. As he stood and tightened his belt, a more important message came from his bladder.

Stumbling out into the atrium, Nick shielded his eyes from the light pouring in through the opening in the roof. Fortunately, he didn’t need to pollute the atrium’s central pool, or go to one of the town’s public latrines. He headed through the
tablinum
and towards the kitchen, in the far corner of the colonnade surrounding the garden, where a toilet had been built to typical Roman specification. It was little more than a bench above a cesspit, hidden by a curtain. Astridge had seemed particularly amused by it when he’d pointed it out the previous night but as far as Nick was concerned it was fine. Or it would have been. If the chef hadn’t already started preparing breakfast.

She stood at the counter, carefully pitting olives. She looked as if she was concentrating hard, and probably wouldn’t have noticed him standing there if he hadn’t dallied so long. But his uncertainty seemed to attract her attention – her eyes suddenly flaring as though she hadn’t expected to be disturbed.

For a moment they just stared at one other. The chef looked a lot better than she’d done the previous night. Her hair was no longer greasy, and she had that just-rolled-out-of-bed look. Her lips were pursed together as if trying to comprehend something that didn’t make sense. “You’re up early,” she said in English.

Nick hesitated. From the atrium came the sound of heavy clattering, almost as if someone was trying to break in through the front door. Then he understood. “The shops,” he said. “Opening up for the day.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Nick nodded. The toilet was just a few steps away, but there was no way he could use it while the chef was still standing there. With just that tatty bit of curtain separating it from the rest of the room. But the bowls of food she was preparing looked almost finished. He’d just have to wait. He looked around the kitchen, trying to ignore the pain in his bladder.

The remains of the roasted pig lay on a table. Cold and covered with a layer of congealed fat, it didn’t look anywhere near as appetising as it had the night before – but he could still smell the spices. Suddenly feeling queasy, Nick pointed at the bowl of olives. “Our breakfast?” he asked.

“They’re for Mr McMahon.”

“So no chance of one or two going missing?”

“No.”

“Well, they say it’s a poor cook that won’t lick the spoon.”

The chef gave him a lopsided grin. “Only if they’re prone to misquote Mr Shakespeare,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “So why are you here? Apart from to get in my way, that is?”

He looked once more at the curtain hiding the toilet.

“Are you some sort of spy?” The chef’s eyes were bright and mischievous. “Brought here by McMahon to keep an eye on me?”

“No,” said Nick, suddenly stumbling over his words. “No, I’m filling in for Professor Samson.”

“Oh.” From her tone of voice, it didn’t sound like she’d been expecting that answer. “So you’re some sort of doctor?”

Nick hesitated. “Yes. Well, trying to be anyway.”

“Well I have a sore throat, and I’m not sure what to do about it.”

“I’m… I’m not that sort of doctor… I…”

“That’s a pity,” she said, her eyes suddenly wide like a puppy. “Because I had questions about
other
things too.” She waited a moment, just long enough for his cheeks to flush. “So what’s your name? I didn’t catch it last night.”

“Nick Houghton.”

The chef wiped her hands on her smock and held one out. “Mary Kramer,” she said. “So I hope you have a sense of humour, Dr Houghton? You didn’t look impressed with the pig.”

Nick suddenly felt like he was about twelve. “It was very… inspired.”

“Well, help yourself to some cold cuts for breakfast.” She gave a final grin, and picking up the bowl of olives from the worktop, left the kitchen.

Nick forced himself to wait until he was sure she was gone before reaching for the curtain. It was only then that he heard her voice in the distance, which made the situation truly desperate: “He’s in the kitchen.”

Whelan appeared at the door, looking well rested. He was dressed in a short-sleeved tunic, which barely seemed able to cope with the girth of his upper arms. Just like at the dinner the previous evening, he wasn’t wearing the leather wrist-guard he’d worn on the trip from the control villa. “You’re up,” he said.

“Yeah,” replied Nick, trying his best to sound relaxed. “The wagons…”

“At least none went past in the night. You sleep okay?”

Nick nodded.

“Well you look like shit,” Whelan said.

Nick indicated the curtain behind him. He was going to have to say something. Wetting himself was hardly going to get him anywhere fast. “I was just about to…”

“Don’t,” replied Whelan. “That’s just so we have something authentic for visiting locals. You can use the facilities upstairs.”

Upstairs?
“But Astridge…”

“This is the kitchen, Nick.”

Nick nodded, trying to quell the rising irritation. In less than a day, he’d managed to tread crap in from the street and had now been caught trying to urinate in a food-preparation area. Not a good start. He ran a hand through his hair. It felt heavy against his scalp.

“Once you’re settled in, we’ll get you somewhere better to sleep.”

Nick tried to think of something to say. He needed to get back on the right track. Needed Whelan to get to the point, so at the very least he could go and find the facilities upstairs. “I intend to do some exploring today.”

“Good. I trust from what you heard last night you now understand my problem? Why we brought you here?”

Nick nodded, although he wasn’t sure that he did.

“The biggest threats I can see are arrogance and complacency. This place is currently working, but that doesn’t mean it’s
worked
.”

“So I can just go where I like?”

“Sure.”

“And you’re fine with that.”

“We have ways of keeping an eye on you… and sorting out any trouble you may cause.”

“Then I guess I’ll head back to the forum, and see where I end up.”

“Okay, but report back here at midday.”

Nick hesitated; something else was playing on his mind. “What if there’s trouble?”

“Relax.” Whelan grasped the leather buckle of his belt. It was identical to the one around Nick’s waist. “This contains a GPS chip and a simple alarm. When any of us leave the house, the security system tracks our movements. You saw all the CCTV back at the villa?”

“Yeah…”

“Well there you go. In the unlikely event you get into trouble, just take hold of the buckle and squeeze. We can get to anywhere in the town within a few minutes. So there’s no need to worry. Have fun, Dr
Houghton
.”

At first Nick thought Whelan was making another sly dig at his lack of qualifications. But the emphasis was on his surname, not his title. And there was something in Whelan’s eyes…

“I need a Roman name, don’t I?”

* * *

Nick had intended to head straight back to the forum. He’d wanted to start piecing together the functions of the various buildings, and how they were being used. But every step seemed to bring something new into view, and mostly something unexpected.

He shivered, but not through cold. Now he was used to his physical surroundings, the everyday details were coming into much clearer focus than on his initial tour. Whereas Patrick had whisked him past the streams of people in order to get him to the town’s civic centre, he could now hover and observe the Pompeians at his leisure. And it was already clear that the surrounding streets were going to be of much more interest than the buildings of the forum.

He came to a halt at a crossroads. In front of him, a woman was making an offering at a small shrine. Which god she was dedicating it to wasn’t entirely obvious, but she seemed devoted to her duty nonetheless. And what would his students have thought of that? For it to be normal to worship not inside a church or temple, but just at a small, community site. Completely open, and with no one laying special claim to the words of God.

Nick started to walk across to the shrine as soon as the woman had departed. He quickly thought better of it, and moved away. After all, he didn’t want to cause any offence. And, if the past was indeed a foreign country, it would probably be easy to make a cultural faux pas: the Roman equivalent of showing the soles of your feet in Thailand. For the time being he would just have to observe – taking in the town, and reporting back to Whelan. But would he find anything wrong? Anything critical to say? Because one thing was for sure: he’d already seen enough to know he wanted to stay a lot longer than six weeks. But that didn’t mean they would let him if everything was going to plan. Nick swallowed, feeling a sense of frustration. Clearly everyone, including Whelan, would want him to come up with nothing meaningful – then they could breathe a sigh of relief and get on with their project. But where did that leave him?

Back home with his father?

Nick pushed the thought to the back of his mind, and continued to the south-west corner of the town and through the Marine Gate. The view was just as he thought it would be, the countryside beyond stretching out for miles.

He walked down a ramp and felt his sandals sinking into grass where there should have been water. Just as Whelan had told him, New Pompeii was landlocked. However, the harbour’s retaining walls still rose behind him. Astridge had even gone to the trouble of adding metal rings on to which boats could be tied. In the real Pompeii, this area would have been alive with activity – with amphorae and people coming to and from the town from as far afield as India. And yet he was the only one here.

“They say the sea vanished during the disaster.”

Nick turned. He wasn’t alone. A customs official was standing behind him, dressed in the same scarlet tunic his colleague had worn at the northern gate. But his post made a mockery of his uniform. There was no sea trade for him to manage.

Nick remembered the name that Whelan had told him to use. “Decimus Horatius Pullus,” he said, by means of introduction. The customs man just grunted in response.

“There used to be hundreds of men employed here to haul goods from our docks,” the man said.

And now they’re doing nothing
, thought Nick. Or they’d be rebuilding the town. But that was only a temporary employment.

“I see the supplies now come in from the north.”

The customs official grimaced. “Yes. The men help unload our supplies at the walls, now the wagons aren’t allowed into town. There’s talk of building a new road round to this side of town to keep the northern access clear of trade.” He looked at the rolling fields and sighed. “A pity for all those with their money in garum, eh?”

“I
CAN SEE HER
.”

Kirsten gasped. The student was sitting a few feet away from the bath. Mr Black stood behind him. “You’re still here…”

“It’s been several months.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said the student. “It’s not your fault.” He paused, his face momentarily full of regret. “We don’t think we were fair with you before. You had questions. We needed to ask ours.”

She opened her mouth again, wide. Trying to pop her ears. She always sounded so odd. “You can see me?”

“Yes.” The student tapped the steel rims of his sunglasses. Mr Black remained silent. “Nothing to do with these. Just a gift, like playing football, or the piano. I see things others don’t.”

“What’s happening to me?”

“You should already know that, Kirsten. You said you went to the NovusPart talk at the Hereford Lecture Theatre?”

Kirsten nodded. It made the bathwater ripple.

“Arlen’s speech became quite famous,” continued the student. “It made the mainstream media. Can you think why, Kirsten?”

“It was about time travel.” It was the only bit of the talk she remembered.