New Pompeii (35 page)

Nick nodded, nervous of the
duumvir
– but Barbatus didn’t ask him for a translation. “How does that help us?”

“Maggie and the child are still there. I’m certain of it. There’s been little movement on the north road since this thing started. Your
duumvir
may say he’s brought them here, but I think he’s bluffing.”

Astridge leant in to join the debate. “What are you suggesting?”

The architect’s voice was taut and it had attracted Naso’s attention. The aedile fidgeted in his seat – obviously desperate for Barbatus to ask for a translation even as the
duumvir
continued to watch the action below without comment.

“Gladiators may have been able to beat a handful of men who had no warning. But men coming in fast, with machine guns and tear gas, will be another matter entirely. Maggie and Noah won’t even suffer a scratch.”

“They’d better bloody not!”

From somewhere close came an electronic warble. Whelan took a phone from his tunic, and indicated for Nick to speak with Barbatus. “Tell him to release the Smilodon.”

Nick relayed the instruction while Whelan spoke into his mobile. Below, the fight was picking up. The
retiarius
had thrown his net, but it hadn’t quite snagged his opponent. And when Nick turned back to Whelan – he immediately knew something had gone wrong.

“A
NOTHER INTERESTING TOY
,” said Barbatus, dryly. The
duumvir
waited for Whelan to put the phone back into his tunic, and then reached back and let Cato place a thin slice of plastic into his hands. The tablet from the House of Samson.

Barbatus didn’t ask Nick to help him use it. Instead, the device lit up underneath the
duumvir
’s touch. He activated the GPS app. It showed a map of the town and a line of bright red dots. “The supposed location of your men,” said the
duumvir
. “Or, at least, their belts.” He waited for his words to be translated. His patient, almost disconnected delivery seemed to drive each word deeper into Whelan’s gut. But it was the movement below them that slowly twisted the knife. The red dots weren’t along the back row of the arena. Instead, they were moving as a single column out on to the sand.

A line of Roman men were walking into the centre of the arena. Their position matched exactly the location of the red dots on the map. Nick watched them, realising what was going on even if his brain wasn’t quite ready to believe it.

Each Roman held their right arm out straight; letting belts hang away from their bodies as if marking out a procession route with a series of plumb lines.

And they all pointed straight to hell.

Nick’s attention snapped to the back of the arena. The NovusPart security guards still appeared to be standing in their allotted positions. Their uniforms and rifles clear against the stone of the amphitheatre. Even if their faces weren’t.

All anonymous men, he realised. Just like the slaves attending the
duumvir
’s household. Puppets rather than people.

“Your metal mosquito has arrived at your villa,” said Barbatus.

“Yes,” replied Whelan.

“But they couldn’t find my men.”

“Correct.”

“By comparison, those belts made it easy to find yours.”

“I still have your daughter,” said Whelan, his voice cracking.

“My daughter knows the dangers of politics. And somehow, I suspect you care more for the old shrew who’s in my possession than I do for the girl who’s in yours.”

Nick completed his translation and looked behind him. The exits were already being covered, and the faceless NovusPart security guard who’d accompanied them from the forum was suddenly nowhere to be seen. The trap set for Barbatus had been neatly inverted. Astridge was panicking. The architect was shaking in his seat, acrid yellow water already dribbling down on to the steps beneath him.

And despite it all, Nick felt some grim satisfaction. Because the Romans had run a continental empire without the benefit of telecommunications. And, in that context, gaining an advantage in a town the size of Pompeii would hardly have been a challenge. Was he the man who’d let NovusPart fail? Is that how history would remember him?

“You people,” said Barbatus, getting to his feet. “Whenever we were summoned to your mansion, I saw the contempt on your faces. The same expression that must have been worn by the Greeks, the Egyptians, even the Carthaginians when they first met us. But where are they now, if not bending and scraping at our feet?”

Nick rose. He could already sense a watchman heading down the steps to stop him getting too close to the
duumvir
. But he had to say something. He spoke in Latin. “You’re going to kill us?”

“Yes, Pullus. And your leader, McMahon.”

“What did he say?” Astridge screamed.

“He’s going to attack the House of McMahon.”

“He’ll not get in,” said Whelan. “We left instructions to keep the door sealed.” The operations chief’s eyes searched Nick for a reaction. “Tell him. We need time to negotiate.”

“He’s already inside.”

“What?”

“Calpurnia.”

“A pregnant girl?”

“No,” said Nick. “A Trojan horse.”

“Y
OU KNOW
,”
SAID
Whelan. “I think I’ve finally figured it out.” He appraised the Romans encircling them: the two gladiators, Barbatus and Cato. With the trap sprung, it hadn’t taken long for the city watch to drag them on to the sand.

They were the main attraction. Only Naso was absent – having been dispatched to the House of McMahon with another trio of men. The Smilodon, meanwhile, remained safely in its crate, Whelan’s last instruction having not been acted upon. The power of NovusPart restrained, just moments before it could be unleashed. “We didn’t transport you from the bathhouse, because this way I can kill you myself.”

For the first time in a while, Nick felt a migraine building. “You don’t get it, do you?” He glanced down at the sand and then back up to the colours of Pompeii as they swirled around them. The crowd remained largely silent. Waiting for the fun to start. “You don’t run the future. Someone else does. And they didn’t stop me because I opened up your job for them. And that means you won’t be transported out of here. No matter how bad it gets for you.”

“You think this is your purpose in life then, Nick? To put me at the mercy of thousands of baying Romans?”

In truth, he remained uncertain. But he hadn’t been transported. And Barbatus still stood there, when he could have been snuffed out so easily by those running NovusPart in the future. So yes: all the pieces fitted.

This had to be why he’d been brought to New Pompeii.

But then he suddenly felt dizzy. His surroundings started to spin, and his gut contracted so hard he gagged. Because, if he was right, it meant he’d completed his mission. And he’d be killed just as surely as Whelan.

The operations chief, however, hadn’t given up hope. “The offer to join us is still open,” he shouted.

Barbatus laughed. “Join you? No. Dictatorship is always preferable to a triumvirate.”

Somewhere, deep in Nick’s brain, a moment of clarity emerged. The scenery around him stopped spinning.
Triumvirate.

McMahon. Whelan.

And who?

The Temple of Jupiter, the statues of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva. He thought back to their first meal in New Pompeii, and the couch made for three, but only occupied by the two men running NovusPart. And he recalled the photo of Stalin, and the removal of the man who’d fallen out of favour in the Soviet regime.

But most of all Nick thought about Rome. And the reason NovusPart had suddenly found themselves needing advice from Samson in the first place. “Neither you nor McMahon have any real interest in Rome,” he whispered, turning to look directly at Whelan. “There must have been somebody else. Somebody who dreamt up this scheme in the first place. Someone who’s no longer here…”

“This isn’t the time, Nick.”

“No – it’s absolutely the right time. There’s somebody missing!”

“This is a long established project—”

“You said it was a Roman bubble,” said Nick. “I assumed you meant it was an escape from the criticisms and protests back home. But then there are the children and the reasons why they’re being brought here. So it’s more than that. More than just a factory for producing Roman wine and frescos.”

“You don’t build a chair using just one leg.”

Nick glanced at Barbatus. The
murmillo
and
retiarius
continued to prowl, but they were being held back. The
duumvir
appeared to be in no hurry. After all, he must have wanted the crowd to fully understand the situation. For them to know he was about to plunge the dagger in. For Whelan to feel he was about to die.

“But there must be a reason. Why did you
really
build New Pompeii?”

“You’re standing in it,” replied Whelan, looking towards the sky.

“No, I don’t buy it. There must be something else…”

Whelan didn’t say anything further. He continued to look upwards, as did Astridge. And the architect was suddenly smiling. It took a few seconds for Nick to hear it.

THUMP – THUMP – THUMP
.

The helicopter. Coming directly into town. And there was only one place big enough for it to land.

“Your missing person is a founder member of NovusPart,” said Whelan. He glanced at the gladiators, checking that they weren’t getting too close. “He wanted somewhere he could become a gladiator.”

“Dangerous.”

“You ever heard of a guy called Commodus?”

Nick nodded. Like Caligula, another mad emperor of Rome. And one of the few to fight in the Colosseum. Not that the fights were ever fair.

“And there are a lot of people who would pay for the same opportunity. A lot of powerful men, who contacted us to find out if we could arrange… special events. The chance to fight in the arena. To kill people. With the thrill rather than the danger.”

Nick started to shake his head. “Men like Commodus and Caligula had an endless supply of men they could put to the sword,” he said. “But here there’s only a couple of dozen opponents…”

Flight 391
. It crashed into Nick’s mind as heavily as the plane had plunged into the sea. He’d seen the plans back in the control villa. An amphitheatre built with a zoo and a holding room. And NovusPart had a potentially unlimited supply of people it could suck from the past. A potentially unlimited supply of puppets. “No,” he said. “People who died in disasters…”

“They’re already dead, Nick. They’re already dead. So what does it matter if they die in a plane crash or are butchered in an amphitheatre?”

THUMP – THUMP – THUMP.

The noise from the helicopter was getting louder. The spectators were all looking upwards. Only Barbatus stared straight ahead, his grin growing wider. Nick wondered if it was because he knew it was going to be too late. The metal mosquito would take some time to land. Far longer than it would take for the
murmillo
or
retiarius
to strike.

“No,” said Nick, shaking his head. “It just wouldn’t work. No one would kill a person if they knew they’d just been saved from a plane crash.” He stopped. Choked. Thought of his mother. “Or a terrorist attack.”

For a second, Whelan looked him squarely in the eye. His voice shrank to a whisper. “You’re right, Nick. But it came really close to happening. So we killed him. We stopped him. We watched him being sucked from history, and in that instant we knew we’d ended it.”

“You couldn’t have stopped him another way…?”

“Do you really think you can reason with a madman?”

Nick felt sick. A man who would make his horse a senator, and collect seashells as booty in his war with the sea. A man who would rape his sisters and kill on a whim. A man who would only rule for four years, but be famous for two thousand. The golden boy of Rome, who’d become the sick child. The Little Boot.

What if someone could have stopped him?

Why didn’t they?

Nick shuddered. Because, of course, they
had
stopped him. Deep in the tunnels of Rome, those closest to Caligula had ended his reign with a flurry of stab wounds. “And this is why you killed Professor Samson? Did he get close to the truth?”

Whelan looked to the sky, his face grim. The helicopter was getting closer but it was going to be too late. Just like the
duumvir
had already figured out.

Barbatus signalled for the
murmillo
to engage.

“I told you, Nick. I don’t know what happened to him.”

“S
O THE TIME
is right for you to die.”

Barbatus grinned and waved to the crowd. It responded as if being whipped up by a conductor. The helicopter was now just a heavy bass line, playing in the background. Nothing but a fading hope.

“You want them to see us,” said Nick. “It’s not enough that we die, they have to see us dying.”

“I think you’re starting to get it, Pullus. How to be a good Roman politician. Just that little bit too late.”

Nick closed his eyes, and started to count. Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero. The Julio-Claudian dynasty. Poisoned. Suffocated. Stabbed. Poisoned. Suicide. All known deaths. And yet somehow his brain changed gear. The needle skipped the groove and he started thinking about Professor Samson. And the British Museum. And the bathhouse. And the missing person at the heart of Novus Particles.

If those in the future had wanted Barbatus to kill Whelan, then there was no real point in Nick’s being involved. It could have been made to happen in any number of ways: the
duumvir
had sent men to the control villa without his interference. So whatever he was here to do, this wasn’t it.

He looked upwards. Almost expecting to see the gods circling above the amphitheatre, rather than the helicopter. Waiting for them to dive in and intervene. And, as he searched for them, the words of another emperor of Rome rose from his subconscious.
Consider yourself to be dead, and to have completed your life only up to the present. And remember that man lives in the present, in this fleeting instant; all the rest of his life is either past and gone, or not yet revealed.