New Pompeii

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for New Pompeii

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  AD 79, Pompeii

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  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  “Fascinating, cleverly wrought, intelligent and occasionally brutal, New Pompeii is a thrillingly original take on the time travel genre.”

  TIM LEBBON, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

  “If you like Michael Crichton at his best, then check out Daniel Godfrey. An exciting new talent.”

  STARBURST

  “An exuberant, high-concept thriller that brings ancient Rome crashing into the present day. Smart, inventive and action-packed.”

  TOM HARPER, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE LOST TEMPLE

  “That rare science fiction novel that reads like a thriller – fast-paced and intricate. Godfrey has crafted an astonishing debut, and I can’t wait to see where his story goes next.”

  ALAN SMALE, SIDEWISE AWARD WINNER

  “An impressive debut. A smart, intriguing thriller in the tradition of Michael Crichton and Philip K. Dick.”

  GARETH L. POWELL, BSFA AWARD WINNER

  “A first class debut. I couldn’t put it down!”

  ADAM CHRISTOPHER, AUTHOR OF EMPIRE STATE

  Coming soon

  EMPIRE OF TIME (JUNE 2017)

  New Pompeii

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783298112

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783298129

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144

  Southwark Street, London SEI 0UP

  First edition: June 2016

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 2016 Daniel Godfrey

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  FOR MY MUM AND DAD

  “A man can lose neither the past nor the future; for how can one take something which is not yet his?”

  MARCUS AURELIUS, EMPEROR OF ROME

  AD 79, POMPEII

  MANIUS CALPURNIUS BARBATUS looked down at his daughter, but didn’t smile. She was kneeling in front of their household shrine, her prayers no longer being whispered with any sense of hope. Instead, she recited the same words over and over until they were nothing more than an incantation. Perhaps, eventually, she’d be heard. But not today. Because the gods’ ears would already be full of unanswered prayers, and the fate of her husband would likely be low on their list of priorities.

  Still, he continued to watch Calpurnia – just long enough to detect some of her coldness towards him – and then cast his eyes over the other members of his household. None of his slaves or freedmen had deserted him. That, at least, gave him a grim feeling of satisfaction. He’d chosen them all personally, and now it seemed they would remain with him until the end. Two of the slaves had even started a new fresco to cover a recently damaged wall. They dabbed quickly with their brushes, applying paint to the wet plaster despite surely knowing they might never get the chance to see their work finished. He admired them for it. Perhaps it would be enough to earn them their freedom.

  From above, the timbers supporting the roof gave another groan. Barbatus glanced upwards. At first, the ash had been light. He’d seen children playing ankle-deep in it as if it had been nothing more than a freak fall of snow. Calpurnia herself had been quite taken with it – perhaps thinking it would signal the end to all the tremors that had been shaking the town. Perhaps thinking it would be something new for her to record and study. But as the flakes became heavier, and the cloud from the mountain had all but blocked out the sun, she’d soon come inside.

  Barbatus felt his shoulders tighten. He’d been wrong. It wasn’t like when the earth shook twenty years ago. Outside, people were dying. Cut down by the pumice stones falling from the sky, before being buried in the dark. His own roof would only support so much more weight before it finally buckled. And then there’d be no more need for shrines.

  Calpurnia slowly got to her feet, perhaps coming to the same realisation. She gave a bitter grimace as she rose. But at least there was some resistance in her eyes. She hadn’t given up, and whoever met her at the gates of Elysium would surely regret it.

  Barbatus smiled inwardly at the thought, and again looked at the members of his household. He saw them shaking. Saw their terror. But he also knew many had faced death before. And maybe they believed that, even at the last second, the gods might swoop down and carry them away to safety. So it wasn’t over. Not yet. The dice were still rolling. He could almost hear them scattering, alongside the final complaints of the roof above them.

  “There’s no point living in fear,” he whispered, “when we’re already dead.”

  1

  KIRSTEN CHAPMAN WOKE, and screamed.

  She gagged on a mouthful of water. Saw bubbles stream away from her face. Felt the pressure tighten around her lungs as if someone was using her torso as a stress ball. As if she was going to die.

  She kicked out. Let her mouth find the surface just before her lungs exploded. Only the tail end of her cry echoed in the bathroom, however. And she didn’t have time to suck in any more air. Her head was going under again – the water once more lapping across her nose and lips. She reached out with her legs. Made her thighs tighten and twist as she searched for the end of the bath. But her body just slid against the porcelain. And the water surged higher. Deeper. Her vision started to go black…

  Tap – tap – tap.

  I’m going to kill you, bitch!

  Kirsten’s arms found the side of the bath. She levered herself forward – upwards – until she could pull her body on to her elbows. Until her head once more found frigid air. />
  Around her, water sloshed on to the floor. Inside the tub, it continued to ripple back and forth for a few more seconds. Kirsten didn’t move. She was quite alone. Finally, she opened her mouth. This time though, her scream was no more than a whimpered cry, interspersed with deep gasps for air. But at least they were becoming shallower. Easier.

  She’d fallen asleep in the bath. That was all. No need to panic. Her body had kicked in and rescued her – even if her brain was still struggling to catch up. She shivered. The water was cold. She must have been in it for hours. Instinctively, she turned her head, looking for her robe and towel.

  They were missing.

  It took a while for the implications to dawn on her. Not just missing. Taken. She’d dropped them on the floor, just far enough away to ensure they didn’t get wet. And now they were gone.

  Her head snapped towards the door. It was shut, bolted. She glanced behind her. The room was only a few feet square. There was barely enough space for the bath, and certainly no place to hide.

  And so she was quite alone. Except that footsteps had started to echo up from the quad below. Soft at first, but growing louder. Someone – maybe two people – was coming. She felt her shoulders shake, but the footsteps didn’t stop. They were heading up the staircase.

  To her floor.

  2

  NICK HOUGHTON ALMOST made it. In the five short minutes since finishing work, he’d managed to confirm his pigeonhole was empty, and was already hustling towards the History Department’s exit. He should have been easily outside and heading home. But that would have to wait. Because he’d been intercepted. Just as his hand had reached the door handle.

  “Nick. A moment of your time, please.”

  The diminutive figure didn’t pause to confirm he’d been heard. Nick followed him back into the bowels of the faculty. Professor Drockley could have chosen a better location for his office. As the relatively new head of the History Department, most people had expected him to move into one of the building’s larger offices. But all the books and papers down here probably anchored him just as securely as his apparent desire to stay away from the centre of things.

  Nick maintained a fixed smile as he let himself be waved into an old wooden chair opposite Drockley’s desk. The professor didn’t make eye contact. Instead, Drockley started to shuffle his papers.

  It took a few seconds for Nick to register the problem. The professor didn’t know what to say. Or, rather, he did – but didn’t know how to say it. After a few more seconds, Drockley passed a leaflet across the desk.

  “Interesting new exhibit on at the British Museum.”

  Nick examined the leaflet. The cover displayed a photograph of a polished, mahogany-brown skull. He knew what it was without a second look. He’d already ordered tickets for the British Museum’s main summer event.

  “Peking Man,” continued Drockley. “I must admit, I didn’t think anyone would ever find those bones. But, then again, I suppose there are new ways of doing things now.”

  Nick nodded. Maybe a little too quickly. “The exhibition opens tonight,” he replied, scanning the rest of the leaflet. It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. Peking Man was a collection of bones of several individuals from the extinct species Homo erectus. Although not really his main area of interest, the story of their rediscovery struck much closer to home. Even if it was all just another example of what his father would call cheap tricks and nonsense. Or rather, dangerous cheap tricks and nonsense. Nick made a move to hand the leaflet back.

  “Keep it,” said Drockley, waving it away. “I take it you’ll be going?”

  “Yes, in a couple of weeks’ time. The first few days got booked pretty fast.”

  The professor gave a mischievous smile. “Does your father know you’re going?”

  Nick shook his head. “We’ve not talked about it.”

  “Quite.” The professor let the conversation evaporate. Nick didn’t try to keep it going. One thing was certain: he hadn’t been invited here to talk about Peking Man. And the professor had stopped shuffling his papers.

  “Your father told me you’ve had your research proposals turned down?”

  “No,” Nick said. His voice suddenly sounded small. Like somebody had reached into his throat and unplugged the amp. Cutbacks. There were going to be more cutbacks. “I’m still waiting on Imperial.”

  “It’s a pity we haven’t any open research posts here at the moment,” continued Drockley, seemingly not hearing his answer. “But funding is now so much harder to get hold of.”

  Nick nodded, and tried to take a deep breath. “I heard there were going to be more redundancies?”

  “Yes,” said Drockley. “So let me get to the point, Nick. It’s going to be difficult justifying your somewhat unofficial position here if I’m getting rid of full-time, qualified members of teaching staff.”

  “Quasimodo,” said Nick.

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s what one of the lecturers calls me. Quasi-student, quasi-teacher.” He hesitated, the silence pushing him towards an admission. “I guess I’ve always preferred the idea of research to teaching.”

  The professor looked straight at him, his expression serious but with a great deal of sympathy. “I think you’ll find most of us prefer research to teaching, Nick. But the government operates under the illusion that universities exist to teach. And, from what I’ve seen, you’re good at it. You will be good at it too, once you’re qualified.”

  “I don’t enjoy it.”

  “Perhaps not, but still. There it is. And it’s not really all that different to being a proper research student. Quasi, or otherwise.”

  “Well, I’m still waiting on Imperial,” Nick repeated, finding a bit more volume. “And, if necessary, I could stay here on a voluntary basis, and see what happens next year.”

  Drockley sighed. “Look, Nick,” he said. “Your father wants me to keep you in your existing post, and his view still counts for a lot even considering his recent… troubles. But people are going to be upset when the pink slips start being distributed.”

  Nick struggled to swallow. “Thank you for letting me know,” he said. In his lap, he’d folded the Peking Man leaflet so many times that all that remained visible was a company logo in its bottom right-hand corner:

  presented by novus particles UK LLP

  3

  A FEW LAST DROPS of bathwater ran down Kirsten’s body. Her wet hair clung to her shoulders and back. And if the water had been cold, then the air was truly freezing. Goose pimples shimmered across her arms and she stood slightly hunched, her arms crossed against her chest as she tried to keep the last remaining dregs of heat close to her body. But all the while, she remained focused on the sounds from beyond the door.

  The footsteps were heavy, the voices male. With each upward step on the staircase, she’d hoped they would stop at one of the floors below. But they hadn’t. And now they were right outside the bathroom door.

  “So the door was definitely locked?” said one of them.

  “Yeah,” said a second, older voice. “We had to kick it in. The room was empty.”

  Kirsten was shaking so much that the words took a long time to sink in: It was locked. We had to kick it in.

  Her attention snapped back to the bathroom door. The barrel was slid into the locked position. But the bolt glinted from within a splintered frame. They could just…

  …push it open.

  The door started to move. “Fucking hell! Wait!”

  Her words should have been shrieked, but instead came out like a distorted cassette tape. Long and low. Each vowel stretched into the time it would have taken to express three or four. As if she had a pint of water sloshing around inside her ears. Not that it mattered. Two policemen stepped in from the corridor. They didn’t even look at her. Instead, their eyes roamed around the bathroom, and then they turned their attention towards the door through which they had just come.

  Kirsten opened her mouth to say so
mething – to tell them to get out – but her throat had closed tight. It was difficult to breathe, let alone talk. She’d managed to keep one arm across her breasts, and pushed the other flat between her legs. But neither man seemed to have noticed her.

  “Hello?”

  Again, her words came long and low. She shook her head, and felt the floor surge beneath her as she continued to shiver.

  “Doesn’t quite match the rest of the Cambridge pomp downstairs, does it?”

  One of the officers, the younger of the two, indicated the peeling floral wallpaper and stained yellow carpet. “Think they’ve redecorated the place since the seventies?”

  The older policeman didn’t reply. Both were tall. Kirsten dimly noted they were cut from the same cloth. Only their age distinguished them from each other. One looked to be in his early thirties, the other closer to retirement. Both wore police uniforms. And both were ignoring the naked woman standing not four feet from them.

  Almost immediately, Kirsten gasped. A dim image of Christmas flashed into her memory. Or rather, three different versions. And a very old story.

  Past. Present. Future.

  Kirsten swallowed, her body no longer shaking. She turned back to the bath, half expecting to see her own body still floating in it. But the tub was empty.

  No body. No water. No water.

  She turned back to the men, and gripped her chest tighter. Ordinarily, she’d have wanted them gone – for them not to have opened the door in the first place. But now they were in front of her, she desperately needed them to see her.

  The younger officer pointed towards the lock on the door. “You’ve not touched this?”

  His colleague shook his head. “No.”

  “The catches mean it can’t just slide accidentally shut.”

  “Agreed.”

  The younger man stood, and turned towards the bath. Kirsten stepped dumbly back out of his way. “The water was still in the bath?”

  “Some of it had leaked away, but there was a ring of scum around the edge. Someone had definitely been using it. It’s all gone now, of course. The plug’s still in. We haven’t touched it.”

  “The window?”