New Pompeii (20 page)

“Oh.” The chef stopped tearing at the chicken. “Well I thought it was just that young men liked drawing willies. Just like they do on every school textbook and toilet wall.” She paused. “There’s a lot of young men in Pompeii, you know.”

Nick nodded quickly. “Well yes,” he said, his cheeks now burning. “But the point holds that a lot of what we know about Ancient Rome is just based on professional judgement, rather than known facts.”

“You mean guesswork?”

“Something like that.”

“But surely the details are less important than the general sweep?”

Nick hesitated. “That’s pretty deep.”

“It’s something your predecessor used to say.”

“Samson?”

“Yeah. For him, it was all about ‘cause and effect’, ‘cause and effect’. And who cares about the pots and pans, when men are fighting for their crowns?”

Nick nodded, thinking about Samson’s notes. “Well, I disagree,” he said. “Take Caligula, for instance. There was relatively little written about him during his reign. But we know he enacted political reforms and ordered the construction of several aqueducts. So he didn’t spend all his cash on wild parties. Everything written after his death may have been exaggerated to justify the way in which he was murdered.”

“The Richard III effect?”

Nick nodded. Though he wasn’t overly familiar with that period of history, he knew it was still dangerous to refer to Richard as a usurper anywhere north of Chesterfield – and that Shakespeare’s character was very much influenced by being written under the dynasty that had toppled him. “So you’re a Cousins’ War type of girl?” he asked. Mary looked at him blankly. “The Wars of the Roses?”

“No,” she said, suddenly laughing. “Samson did a TV show about Richard III and what would have happened… you know, the two princes in the tower?”

Nick smiled, something suddenly occurring to him. “Well, you never know; perhaps NovusPart took them?”

He’d said something wrong. The amusement had gone from her face. “You shouldn’t make jokes like that, Nick,” she said. “McMahon would be angry if he heard you.”

Nick nodded, suddenly feeling foolish. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Just be careful.” She smiled at him. For just a fraction too long. “So Caligula wasn’t mad after all?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” said Nick, relaxing again. “He started out as the golden boy of Rome. A direct descendant of Augustus, and the son of the famous general Germanicus. But the way he was killed? The way his legacy was poisoned by hundreds of writers? No, by the end, he must have gone absolutely mental to have been so hated.”

* * *

The remainder of the morning brought nothing but frustration. Avoiding the pull of the forum, Nick pushed into the streets surrounding the House of McMahon. Trying to find the shops, homes and
tabernae
in which he could observe the people going about their business. And maybe start talking to a few of them, too.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to plan. After an hour of wandering back and forth, he approached a man who’d just finished taking a long drink at a water fountain. The man quickly darted away. Indeed, the more Nick thought about it, the more his presence reminded him of detergent dropped into a pan of oily water. The rush to give him space was almost palpable.

So how was he to get to know them if he couldn’t get close?

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous for a mouse to talk to a lion?”

Nick turned. He was being addressed by a man standing at one of the many shrines that had been set up at the junction of two
viae
. His clothes were rumpled and worn, as if he’d spent one too many nights sleeping on the street. And yet he wasn’t cowering away like all the others.

“Surely the mouse would be too fast for the lion to catch?”

The vagrant grinned. “But if he was caught, then the mouse wouldn’t get to meet another lion, would he?”

Nick nodded, smiled and approached the shrine. The man indicated downwards. There was a collection of dice and tablets near his feet. Getting closer, Nick saw that these objects were the man’s property, and not part of the shrine itself. So he wasn’t a vagrant, but an itinerant fortune-teller. One perhaps unlucky enough to get trapped inside Pompeii by the eruption.

“You’re making offerings to Mercury,” said Nick, indicating towards a roughly moulded statue. It sat inside a niche cut into the building next to the crossroads. Ready to accept any and all offerings.

“I am here to allow access to his wisdom,” replied the man. “Although my services are, of course, nothing when set against your access to the almighty Augustus.”

Nick hesitated. With the difference in language and pronunciation he couldn’t quite tell if the man was being sarcastic. But this was the only person who seemed willing to talk to him. Nick pointed towards the dice. “Perhaps you could provide me with advice, and I will see how accurate your readings of the gods are?”

Nodding, the man reached for a small pouch tied to his belt. It jingled with coins. He held it out and Nick added a couple of coins to the collection.

Payment made, Nick crouched alongside the oracle and scattered the five dice across the pavement. He noted they were real knuckles, probably sheep. Their edges were marked with simple Roman numerals, scratched into the bone, possibly with a metal blade. It looked like a new set.

As soon as the dice stopped rolling, the oracle reached for his tablets. He made a great show of checking and counting the dice before finding the right combinations on his chart. His expression changed as he moved from concentration to epiphany. “Take care when moving the rock,” he said, his voice suddenly full of melodramatic zeal. “Because when the sun shines, the most dangerous scorpions seek shade.”

Nick smiled. He knew the combinations on the chart gave only a limited series of possible outcomes, and the one he’d just been given was almost the same as that which he’d read at a site near Turkey. “And will I be able to avoid the scorpion’s sting?” he asked. “Or will I end up being an unlucky mouse?”

“You are a lion,” said the man. “Not a mouse. And take care not to mix the words of a god with a simple parable. But, yes, I can answer your question.”

Again the purse was offered. This time, Nick didn’t bite. “I already know the answer,” he said. “I’m simply here to test the services you’re offering to the other mice.”

The man smiled, though this time with a breath of irritation. Nevertheless, he picked up the five knucklebones from the floor and offered them to Nick. Nick rolled them again and waited for the tablets to be consulted.

The oracle’s face turned sombre. “You will survive, but with sacrifice.”

“Thank you.” Although he was crouched down, Nick could see out of the corner of his eye that he was being observed by a small crowd. But now he’d played along, he needed to take the chance to ask some questions of his own. He was just about to pose the first when the oracle shrank back against the wall.

Puzzled, Nick turned and found the slave owned by Barbatus standing behind him. Cato’s teeth were bared behind the mess of scar tissue. “The
duumvir
would like to know if you’re free to attend a gathering tonight.”

Would like to know
. The words had almost been spat. Maybe Barbatus had decided to beat some manners into the slave. Nick winced at the thought. It certainly hadn’t been his intention to cause any trouble. “Thank you,” he said. “I would be delighted.”

K
IRSTEN SAT NEAR
the door and waited. The man in the heavy canvas coat had returned only once. He hadn’t brought McMahon. Instead, he’d tossed a pile of clothes in front of her – jeans, T-shirt, jumper – and placed a wooden tray on the floor.

Food.

A bowl of hot stew and a piece of crusty bread. She’d rushed to it immediately but, given it was the first food she’d tasted in years, it felt strange to eat. On every swallow she felt like she was going to choke – and it took a long while for her body to remind her gullet of how to transfer solids from her mouth to her stomach.

The clothes also felt odd. Somehow restrictive and unnecessary. But they also held the coldness of the basement at bay, and made her feel more human. More civilised. Less like a lost animal. And less of an object in her jailer’s eyes.

With the food finished, Kirsten got to her feet and crossed the basement to the door. It looked and felt solid. She started to hammer on it with her fists. Loudly.

It didn’t take long before she heard his footsteps.

Kirsten moved quickly, and sat on the floor at the far side of the basement. As far as she could from the door, near the toys. She pretended to play with them, pushing the toy cars around with the tip of her finger, cradling one of the dolls. Like a child.

The door to the basement opened, carefully. The man in the canvas coat stood behind it. He rubbed his eyes like he’d been asleep. Maybe she’d woken him. Maybe that explained his look of irritation.

He watched her playing with the toys, and Kirsten looked back and smiled. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him. Opening her eyes wide, and keeping her focus at a slight upward angle. Then she turned back to the toys, and continued to play.

“Keep it down,” said the man, his voice cold. He backed out. The door closed, and she heard it lock. She started to count. She knew how many seconds were in a minute, and how many seconds were in an hour. When she got to just short of four thousand, she’d start to hammer on the door again. Louder and louder until he came back. And again he’d find her playing with the toys. On the other side of the basement, far from the door.

But not the third time. On the third visit she’d be standing close to the hinges. And the frustration at twice being awoken would have long since turned to anger. And the door wouldn’t open carefully, it would open wide.

And then she would get out.

A
S
N
ICK APPROACHED
the House of Barbatus, he noticed the main door to the street had been left open. But this time there was no queue waiting for a chance to see the
duumvir
. Instead, a thick din of conversation and laughter came from the corridor leading to the atrium.

Nick hesitated on the threshold – listening to the voices echoing out into the street. He’d not told Whelan about the invitation. But then again, he’d not seen the operations chief that day. And with no clear rules on what he could and couldn’t do, it seemed sensible to take advantage of the opportunity.

Not that it would put him any closer to the ordinary people of Pompeii. After all, the
duumvir
would hardly have invited just anyone off the street. No, inside the townhouse would be a collection of powerful locals. Which would be useful but potentially less interesting than getting to know the class of people below them.

Idiot. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth
. He started along the atrium corridor. The noise became louder with each step. But when he finally reached the porter’s cubbyhole, everyone fell silent. There were about thirty Romans staring at him, men and women in their best togas and
stolae
. Despite the invitation, those inside clearly hadn’t been expecting him.

He glanced to his left. Barbatus’ sentry was standing guard, the curtain to his station tied back. It indicated he’d be there for the rest of the evening. But although the porter’s chin had already jutted forward, he wasn’t making any moves to stop him. Nick took a couple of steps forward. Forcing a smile, he kept his hands as loosely as he could by his sides – but he could already feel his fingertips shaking. Where the hell was Barbatus?

“Pullus! Welcome! Welcome!”

The bellow had come from the far side of the atrium. The
duumvir
stepped out from the crowd. The porter shrank back into his hole. The other guests remained quiet.

Nick glanced around the atrium, trying to kill the seconds before Barbatus reached him. The ongoing renovation work had been hastily covered by draped sheets and wooden screens. But the atrium was also filling up with pieces of furniture – including a metal-strapped wooden chest, which had been placed at the head of the
impluvium
. There for all to see, and something that shouted this was a rich man’s home.

“Pullus!”

Barbatus slapped him hard on the shoulder and broke into a wide grin. “I’m pleased you could attend our little party.”

It was clear Barbatus wasn’t really talking to Nick. He was addressing his other guests. A soundbite to assuage their suspicions, and show them their leader remained in charge. And he had a big audience. Apart from the thirty or so people standing around the central pool, undisturbed laughter indicated there were more in the garden of the
peristylium
beyond. Perhaps seventy or eighty guests were packed into the house – and that didn’t include the slaves bobbing and weaving between them.

“Thank you for your invitation,” said Nick, following his host’s lead and projecting his voice.

“Not at all. Drink! Get this man a drink!”

From the crowd, a slave darted forward with a goblet of wine. Nick took it, and then realised everyone was waiting for him to taste it. Rather theatrically, he took a small mouthful and nodded his appreciation. Indeed, it was a good drink. Much better than the stuff served at McMahon’s dinners.

“Good,” continued Barbatus. “Now, let’s get you away from the door.”

They took a few steps further into the atrium, but the atmosphere remained tense. Just as Nick began to rack his brain for something to say, a small man appeared at the doorway to the
tablinum
and made his way across to them. It didn’t take long for Nick to place him: the weasel-faced man he’d seen at the House of McMahon. Up close, he looked about twenty years younger than the
duumvir
. “Lucius Salonius Naso,” said the man. “Aedile.”

Nick smiled back. “Decimus Horatius Pullus.”

“A good Roman name.”

Barbatus snorted. “Well, we won’t go into that again. You met my daughter at the temple.”

It wasn’t a question. Either Calpurnia had told him, or he’d had her followed. Either way, it was obvious Barbatus knew. “Yes. At the Temple of Fortuna Augusta.”