New Pompeii (36 page)

He looked back at Barbatus. Stared squarely into the
duumvir
’s eyes. “Kill me first,” he said.

Whelan raised no objection. Astridge looked positively relieved. Nick opened his arms out wide. Let the crowd see him. Sensed a soft, white mist start to mingle around his feet, and waited for the
murmillo
to draw in.

The academic side of his brain ticked over. He knew the Roman sword was a thrusting weapon. It wasn’t designed for slashing or cutting. His body tensed as the gladiator pulled his arm back. Expecting the weapon to slice into his stomach and rip out his intestines.

The gladiator disappeared.

Sucked from time. His eyes screwed up in confusion and terror as he disintegrated and was pulled into the air. His sword clattered to the sand in pin-drop silence.

Nick didn’t wait. He scooped up the weapon. He raised the blade towards Barbatus, and listened for the crowd. They weren’t shouting, or laughing, or screaming. They were silent. Watching a man point a sword at their leader. The blade glinted in the sun like the weapon was on fire. Behind him, the Smilodon roared in its cage.

Smiling, Nick thought of the words that Tacitus had claimed the mad emperor Caligula had spoken as he died – as one of thirty or more knives rained down on his body.

“I live,” he said, simply.

Nick looked up at the crowd. “I live!” he screamed.

B
ARBATUS STARED AHEAD
, isolated but refusing to yield. Cato and the other gladiator were running fast across the sand. They reached the boundary of the arena and disappeared from view.

“This is my town, Pullus, and I’m not going to run.” The
duumvir
didn’t look at the sword. “And only a fool pays out while the dice are still rolling.”

Nick didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He still had value to whoever was pulling the strings in the future. Like Whelan had told him:
There are various ways in which you can contribute to history. A random, off-hand remark that helps someone else find a solution to a problem
. He just needed to get back to the House of McMahon. Because he’d worked it out – and the thought was the only thing stopping him from being killed, the reason those in the future had kept him safe. So no, he wouldn’t say anything. Because then someone else would know and someone else could act.

He pushed past Barbatus and started walking towards the exit, carrying the sword loosely by his side and knowing the
duumvir
wouldn’t stop him. Whelan and Astridge stood frozen, perhaps not comprehending what had just happened. It was only the noise of the helicopter landing that seemed to bring Whelan back to his senses.

“Nick! Wait!”

He turned. Whelan and Astridge were both running towards the helicopter, the rotors whipping up the sand.

Nick thought of the fake NovusPart soldiers in the back of the arena and he squinted. The helicopter pilot was sitting at an odd angle. Even from this distance, he could see the fear in the man’s eyes and the knife at his throat.

You couldn’t find my men
, Barbatus had said.
But it was easy to find yours.

Nick turned away. He had to get back to the House of McMahon. In the wake of thousands of scared and angry Romans who were now scurrying for the exits – and who would soon be engaging in the mother of all riots.

And yet despite the people stampeding from the stands, he didn’t feel any need to hurry. As long as he kept hold of the thought, there was no real rush. He could take his time. Move through the streets and take his final look at those two-thousand-year-old faces; all of whom were now rushing to their temples and shrines.

“Nick!” The final shout had been Whelan’s. Nick didn’t look back. He now knew who was pulling the strings in the future. And that could only mean that Harold McMahon was going to die.

A
LTHOUGH THE RIOT
was building around him, the walk back to the House of McMahon wasn’t in the least frightening. He was too detached to feel fear. And he knew that he wasn’t going to be stopped from reaching his destination.

A small crowd had gathered outside the House of McMahon. Nick watched them from a distance, but quickly realised this wasn’t the core of the mob. No, these looked like the true believers. Those that still thought NovusPart had been sent by the god-emperor, Augustus.

Nick was unsurprised when they parted before him. The door to McMahon’s mansion was another matter entirely. It was shut, and didn’t swing open on his approach. He tapped in the code but the door remained closed. He hammered on the wood. Nothing.

Nick hammered on the door again, using the butt of the sword. On the last strike, it slowly swung open. The porter’s angry face appeared. The dog-at-the-door was still alive. “Where’s Whelan?”

“On his way,” Nick replied. “I’ve been sent ahead. McMahon is here?”

“Upstairs.”

The porter let him pass and quickly re-secured the door. “It’s all gone to shit,” he said. “And there are hundreds of people heading out of the town on foot. We might not be able to get them all back.”

Nick ignored him. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe the containment of New Pompeii was about to be broken. Not that it mattered any more. All that did matter was reaching McMahon and finding out the answer to one very important question. He looked up towards the atrium balcony, and headed up the stairs.

“Pullus?”

The voice stopped him a few steps from the top. Calpurnia stared up at him from the doorway to the
tablinum
. Her expression was sad. She’d clearly not put her father’s plan into action yet. Maybe she’d been waiting to see how the pieces would fall.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She didn’t answer at first, but then slowly nodded. “My father?”

“Alive.”

It wasn’t clear if Calpurnia was relieved or not. Nick continued upwards, holding the sword loosely, and hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.

He found the CEO of NovusPart in his private quarters. McMahon occupied a large sofa that looked like a fallen soufflé. He didn’t look up as Nick entered, his attention focused on the screen. As Nick approached, he became aware of wheezing. The man was having difficulty breathing. And he looked pale. His dyed hair was saturated with grease and sweat.

“You brought me my grapes?”

“No,” said Nick. He took a few steps forward, but kept the sword close to his side. McMahon glanced in his direction for no more than a second, and then returned his attention to the television.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “They’re burning my town.”

“You don’t sound concerned.”

McMahon just shrugged. Like he already realised it was too late.

“You’re kidnapping children, aren’t you? Taking them from history, and bringing them here.”

McMahon looked at him, his eyes cold. “Huh. If only it was that simple. The truth is, it could be me
or
Whelan. But one of us is, that’s for sure.”

“And you killed Professor Samson.”

“Now
that
I can answer with certainty.”

“And?”

“You’re wrong. We didn’t.”

The remaining colour had gone from McMahon’s cheeks. He stood up, his legs seemingly too weak to hold his body. A hand reached down for his remaining few grapes. He flicked them into his mouth, one at a time.

Nick took another step forward. He sensed movement behind him. Mary, the chef, was standing in the doorway. She looked tense, which was understandable given what was going on outside. But her eyes kept flicking towards the empty bowl of grapes. Her mouth curling at the edges as if wanting to smile. Her brain seemed to be calculating something.
Had he eaten enough?
Because the odds were that the grapes were poisoned.

And now McMahon knew it too.

“Y
OU STUPID BITCH!
”

McMahon was wrong. Mary wasn’t stupid,
Nick
was. He’d been given all the pieces of the puzzle, but he’d still not seen it until it was too late.

“Wait,” Nick said, lifting the sword but finding his voice weak.

McMahon grabbed a nearby tablet. “Let me show you, Dr Houghton, how we deal with these sorts of betrayals.”

A face appeared on the tablet. Nick couldn’t tell who it was.

“I want Mary Kramer transported. Wipe her out.” McMahon jabbed a chubby finger at the chef, suddenly energised. “We’re going to take you from birth. You’ll be brought back here as a baby, and I’ll take personal pleasure in leaving you outside the walls to die.”

Nick shuddered. McMahon’s weapon against his enemies. Which maybe explained why most resistance to NovusPart had all but disappeared. Just like Harris had told him. But there was also a problem.

“Paradox,” said Nick. “You’re about to create a paradox.”

“It’ll just be a bump in the road. A few odd details for lunatics and conspiracy theorists to debate while they play video games. Instead of her, we’ll just have appointed a different chef. Some other stupid cow to serve us dinner and change our sheets. Except her replacement won’t be adding anything to the food. And she won’t be working for Harris.”

The tablet chirped. “We’ve checked with
Who’s Where
,” came a distant voice. “She’s a green risk. There are no intersection points prior to her joining NovusPart. However, there is an issue with her birth information…”

“Good. Proceed.”

Nick felt his brain whirr. The puzzle was once more being disassembled. And he suddenly found himself looking at a Rosetta Stone. But not of language; one of time. Imperial Rome with its bloodbath of imperial succession. The question of what would have happened if someone had killed Hitler before 1933. And Perkin Warbeck; the name finally clicked into place. Three chapters of history from different times.

But all telling the same story.

“How long do I have?” asked Mary.

“A few seconds,” replied McMahon, turning and tossing the tablet on to the couch behind him. “Just until they get a good enough lock.”

“Good,” she said. “So tell me. Who do you think is going to give you that slap on the back?”

Nick didn’t hear McMahon’s answer. He was thinking about the flipside to the question of what would have been different if Hitler had died before 1933.
Because if Hitler had died, and you were already living in the alternative reality: how much would you give to ensure no one accidentally brought him back to life?

Nick started to shake. There was someone missing. Someone terrible. And if McMahon was removed, did that mean he could continue to exist?

White mist had begun to seep into the room. Nick ignored it. He wasn’t going to reach the tablet in time without a struggle. But he moved forward anyway, dropping the sword. McMahon made an instinctive swat at him, but Nick slipped past, reaching for the tablet.

He heard a slow scream behind him, like a warped cassette tape. He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the tablet. “Abort!” he shouted. “Abort! Abort! Abort!”

“W
HO’S
M
ARY
K
RAMER?
”

“Nobody important.”

Kirsten looked down at the papers. Her photograph sat uncomfortably next to someone else’s details. She looked back at Harris. “You’ve kept my real birth date.”

“It’s fine,” said Harris. He stared at her from across the desk.

The time, place and date of her birth. The names of her parents. The papers made her far older than she looked. It was a clear error.

“Who’s Mary Kramer?” she asked again.

“She’s dead,” Harris said. “Last year. You don’t have to worry about her cropping up. And you don’t have to worry about her ever having come into contact with McMahon, Whelan or NovusPart. She’s completely unknown to them. And that’s all they’ll care about.”

Kirsten looked down at the papers again. Saw her photograph. Saw her new name, and her new profession. Personal Assistant. A secretary by any other name. She’d have to get used to deciphering shorthand. “So when do I meet Professor Samson?”

“Soon. And it turns out he’s working on an interesting new project.”

“S
O YOU KILLED
McMahon?”

Nick didn’t answer.

“Did you need to?”

Again, Nick didn’t answer. Whelan lay on the floor of the
tablinum
, staring up at him. He’d been beaten. The left side of his face had been battered purple, and he was breathing shallowly.

Barbatus and Calpurnia waited at a safe distance in the atrium. Nick had asked them for a few minutes alone with Whelan. Astridge hadn’t been brought back from the arena, and Nick didn’t know what had happened to the porter. Perhaps Calpurnia had acted when she realised her father remained
duumvir
. Or perhaps the porter had been slain while Nick had been dealing with McMahon. Either way, there was now nothing left of NovusPart. Other than Whelan. The discarded toy soldier.

“Are you going to say anything at all?”

Nick cleared his throat. In truth, he didn’t want to reply. Before Barbatus had arrived, he’d managed to find a phone and call his father. The conversation had been short and painful, but they hadn’t argued. Whether they’d ever see each other again was another matter. But he’d still needed to talk.

“I want to know about the missing man.”

Whelan coughed. “His name was Joe Arlen, Octo, we called him.”

“And his fixation was killing people who were already dead? Playing with them in the arena?”

“They say there’s no genius without a touch of madness.”

Nick grunted. Whelan’s eyes suddenly filled with regret.

“You’re right though,” Whelan continued. He coughed again. A few spots of blood dribbled down his chin. “We knew there were risks when we first tried to transport people – that they might not make it. But Octo told us not to worry; that they weren’t really people any more. That they were already dead. It wasn’t long before he started to talk about murder.”

“And New Pompeii was just a mask, wasn’t it? A convenient cover story for you to play out your little schemes.”

Whelan didn’t say anything.

“Arlen had his obsession with the arena,” continued Nick. “And the town allowed McMahon to take his enemies while they were children.”