New Pompeii (15 page)

The student’s smile broadened. “Hence the question asked by the media: where are all the time travellers?”

“They said it was only possible to move forward… not backward.”

“True enough. So, the question should have been: where are all the
missing
people?”

For a beat, Kirsten didn’t respond. A few of the dots connected. “Whelan said it wasn’t about people travelling in time at all. He said they were trying to make power. Electricity.”

“They may well have been, at first. But just as Fleming didn’t go searching for penicillin, NovusPart soon figured out that if you could locate and pull forward enough particles at the same time, and at the same rate…”

“…You could move a person.”

“So on the one hand they had a very expensive way of generating power and, on the other, the power over time and space. Which do you think they found most attractive?”

“So I’m being moved forward in time too quickly.”

“Perhaps. We think with you the process went wrong. That you didn’t just appear where you were supposed to. Instead, you’ve skipped forward like a pebble skimmed across a pond.”

Kirsten felt a weight being lifted. The student looked pleased with himself. At least she now knew something about what might have happened. She looked downwards at the ripples around her. “The water?”

“Yes. It’s dense, and pushes right up against the edge of the skin. We think it might have made it very difficult to judge the edge of a person’s body.”

“Might?”

“We don’t know exactly how McMahon’s tech works.”

“I’m surprised it’s allowed.”

“If it were up to us, it wouldn’t be.”

“But isn’t it dangerous?”

“Surprisingly not.”

“But what if someone was about to do something important? Something great? And they were then winked out of existence, like I was?”

“You’re talking about screwing with the timeline,” said the student. “A lot of conspiracy theorists say it’s already been done, but who would be in a position to tell? Any amendments to the past become the new reality. And NovusPart claim they avoid the problem by only snatching people about to die. Say, those about to be killed in a plane crash.” He said this with a meaningfulness that Kirsten didn’t understand.

She felt her throat tighten, and found herself thinking about what Arlen had said in the lecture theatre, and the expression on McMahon’s face.

Tap – tap – tap.

I’m going to kill you, bitch!

“But I wasn’t about to die,” she said. “I was taking a bath.”

“Yes,” said the student. “The ‘bedder in the bath’. The college suppressed the stories when they eventually closed off these rooms. But a ghost? One that could be seen so regularly? And at the same college as McMahon perfected his tech? So you see, Kirsten – we need to know why, thirty years after he left college, McMahon wanted you dead. Why he risked using his tech to murder you. It could be the key to stopping all of this.”

“I don’t remember what happened.” Kirsten paused. “But I can’t believe Harold would have killed me. He was a slob yes, but just a kid.”

The student took a deep breath. “As I said once before, unfortunately, you’re not dead.”

“You were just saying that McMahon murdered me.”

“You won’t live for very long when you finally arrive where you’re going. So, you see, although you’re technically still very much alive – you’ve already been murdered. It’s just the trigger hasn’t yet been pulled.”

Behind the student, Mr Black stirred. There were footsteps on the staircase. Several people were approaching.

“We’ve been here too often,” said Mr Black. “They’ve found us!”

The student was no longer smiling; his tone became urgent. The hammering of feet on the stairs was getting closer. “Listen, you may not believe us about McMahon, but what we’re telling you is true. He wants you dead. You need to think why he would do that. Your answer is very important.”

The footsteps reached the top floor just as the white haze started to circle. They’d run out of time. Mr Black was moving towards the door. The student continued to sit and stare. Waiting for her answer.

“I don’t know!” she shouted. “He should have been grateful! I saved his life!”

R
EPORT BACK HERE
at midday.

Nick was having trouble keeping to Whelan’s timetable. His trek back from the Marine Gate had been interrupted several times, his focus distracted by the sights and sounds. The Pompeians had only been within its walls a matter of weeks, but they were already hard at work. In every street he’d heard the chipping of stone and the sawing of wood. And it turned out planning a ruined town didn’t just cover up for any mistakes Astridge and Samson may have made; it also gave people something to do. Demolition, building, decorating. In a few months the skeleton built by NovusPart would be completely encased in living Roman skin. It wouldn’t just be a replica; it would have become real.

For what seemed like the thousandth time that morning, Nick came to a halt. A ragged man was performing a simple cup-and-ball routine to the obvious delight of a group of children. It was the first bit of community activity that fitted with his mental picture of old Pompeii: the close community of Naples merged with the colour and spice of Marrakesh. Because until that new civic skin was finished, the place lacked that certain depth of Roman character he’d been expecting.

The performance complete, Nick turned towards a
taberna
on the other side of the street. He watched a few moments, trying to pick out the customs and rules, and then approached, his stomach growling loudly.

The entrance to the
taberna
was wide – its shutters pulled back to expose an L-shaped bar. The servery enclosed the staff while giving customers a good view of the many goods on sale – all of which were kept in large terracotta bowls sunk deep into the bar’s countertop.

As he approached, Nick noticed the owner had painted the words “
Avis incendiaria
” – “Firebird” – above the doorway, but the sign was already in danger of being over-written by daubed electoral slogans:
The drunks of the Firebird endorse Merula as aedile!

Roman politics at its sarcastic best. Nick grinned. However, his smile dropped when he spotted the bar’s main decoration. A bronze lamp hung from the ceiling. Although not obvious from the street, it was in the shape of a naked man holding a knife, sporting a penis the same length and girth as the rest of his body. And one the bronze man looked like he was about to cut off with his own knife.

“Yeah?” asked the owner. The man didn’t turn round from the stove at the back of the shop.

Nick looked down at the counter. The different bowls contained fava beans, walnuts and raisins. Did he just ask for one of each? He glanced around. There were a couple of other men in the bar. They were staring at him. They knew he was a stranger but, for the moment, it didn’t matter – because Nick could see what they were eating.

“I’ll have the same as them,” he said.

“Eh?”

Nick winced and repeated the words – concentrating on his pronunciation and trying to imitate what he’d heard on the recordings. The owner mulled over his request, and then served up a helping of baked cheese topped with honey and a handful of raisins.

“How much?” asked Nick, reaching for his purse.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re paying?”

Nick nodded, uncertain. “Sure.”

The owner looked thoughtful. Like he was trying to weigh something up in his mind. “It’s on the house.”

Nick hesitated, wondering whether to accept. Finally he nodded and took his food to an empty table. It smelt good and he took a tentative bite. It didn’t disappoint. He’d probably be able to spend six weeks just sampling the food.

“The Isis crowd are making a lot of noise again.”

Nick looked up. Another man was now standing at the bar, but he didn’t seem to be ordering anything. Straining to listen, Nick tried to make his meal last longer than it should have done, but he needn’t have bothered. The owner cocked his head in Nick’s direction. The signal ended the discussion. Swallowing the last of his food, Nick pushed himself off his stool and headed for the exit.

* * *

He arrived back at the House of McMahon to find a small group of people huddled around the main entrance. Something was clearly going on inside. He cursed, instantly regretting his decision to stop at the
taberna
. He pushed through the crowd and on into the atrium.

The House of McMahon had been transformed while he’d been away. The frescos depicting the eruption of Vesuvius were now shimmering – like the fires were still erupting from its crater. And the entire house reverberated with a low, deep rumbling. It took more than a couple of seconds to figure it all out. But although his attention had immediately been distracted by the paintings, his focus should have been on the underside of the balcony, from where spotlights were being directed downwards. Probably picking up some sort of reflective pigment that made the lava look like it was moving. There was clearly some sort of speaker system hidden away too. Or at least, a very heavy bass.

All so simple, and yet probably all so magical.

Nick walked around the central pool to the entrance of the
tablinum
. Inside McMahon was sitting on a small wooden stool, which looked like it barely had the strength to support his weight. Patrick stood to his right and Whelan to his left. A couple of security guards – dressed as Roman sentries – flanked the group. Nick caught Whelan’s eye; the man glared at him and placed a finger on his lips.

Three Romans stood in front of McMahon, one slightly ahead of the others. Although Nick couldn’t see their faces, it was clear the lead man was both short and thin. His tunic hung off him, while the two men with him were significantly more squat and muscular.

“And you will take our message back to the town council?” McMahon asked.

The lead Roman looked towards Patrick, who provided the necessary translation. “Yes,” he said finally, his voice nasal and high. “We meant no disrespect, and certainly did not want to interrupt the flow of supplies into the city.”

“Good. You may go.”

The three men bowed low, then started to back away. Nick quickly walked from the doorway, not wanting the men to think he’d overheard. As they passed him, the lead man glanced in Nick’s direction and his thin features immediately furrowed. Nick watched them head back to the street, then returned to the
tablinum
.

McMahon was grinning; Whelan appeared more sombre.
Report back here at midday
, he’d been told. And it now looked like he’d missed an important meeting with the locals.

Whelan beckoned him over. “You’re early,” he said.

Early?

“We decided to call one of the aediles in,” continued Whelan. “To remind them they need to inform us of any new rules.”

Nick nodded. The weasel-faced man who’d just left hadn’t appeared very impressive. He’d expected more charisma from an elected official. “No watch,” said Nick, raising his arm to show the white ring encircling his wrist.

“You’ll get used to it,” replied Whelan. “So what do you think of our little show?”

“Impressive.”

“Bullshit,” said McMahon. He pushed himself from his stool and rearranged his toga, fishing the purple stripe out from its folds. “We could vomit on the floor and these people would worship it for years.”

He didn’t wait for a response, but headed towards the stairs, followed by Patrick. Whelan watched the pair go before continuing. “A key advantage of Clarke’s Third Law is that relatively simple things continue to astound,” he said.

“Well, I once thought Wi-Fi was magical – but now I get pretty annoyed as soon as it’s not available.”

Whelan turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “Quite,” he said. “Fortunately, we have a range of tricks. Most of which we haven’t yet used.”

Nick said uncertainly, “Did you need me for this?”

Whelan shook his head. Around them, the shimmering walls had once more turned solid, and the rumbling was replaced by the slow patter of the pool’s fountain. The magic was over. For the time being, at least. “Maybe later,” he said. “But you’ll be pleased to know I’ve arranged something for you this afternoon to hone your language skills.”

N
ICK FOUND THE
Astridges at New Pompeii’s main crossroads. No matter which way anyone proceeded from this crossroads, you’d eventually come to a gate leading out of town. But this time he’d only be following Astridge a couple of blocks further south to the theatre.

He ran his hand through his hair, and found it heavy with sweat. People were streaming steadily past him. No doubt many would be heading for the theatre, like he was. Some might be going to see the gladiators practise at their barracks, or to worship at the Temple of Isis. Everyone rubbed up against each other in this part of town. Nick remembered the conversation he’d overheard at the
taberna
:
The Isis crowd are making a lot of noise again
. However, any uncertainty he had slowly ebbed away as he waved at Noah.

The boy returned his greeting enthusiastically. Maggie wrinkled her nose at his approach. Astridge gave him a cool nod. Two guards stood alert at a polite distance. Nick eyed the men cautiously. They would hardly help them fit in.

“Great. You made it.” Astridge’s words were spoken without warmth. “The performance should be starting in about forty minutes.” He turned and headed in the direction of the theatre. Nick followed. He didn’t think the show would be starting to such a strict timetable. After all, the Romans split their day into twelve even hours – which were necessarily longer in summer than in winter. Nothing would be run all that precisely.

“There’s a number of temples in this block of buildings,” commented Astridge, dryly.

Nick nodded, but otherwise didn’t respond. Just like the original, New Pompeii had been built with two theatres, one open-air, and the other covered. They nestled within a cluster of buildings in the south of the town that were not as grand as the forum, but nevertheless provided the town with a secondary focus of activity.