Empire of Time Page 4

  Pullus felt his stomach tighten. He knew what Naso was thinking, and he was tempted.

  “The guy’s practically dead already. Why not give him a push?”

  Pullus hesitated. Then shook his head. “No.”

  “It could be seen as a mercy.”

  “No.”

  “Calpurnia need never know he was here. No man, no risk, and no problem.”

  And no code, thought Pullus. He’d been selective in his translation. He’d only told the duumvir that Harris knew the Romans didn’t know how to make the device work, not that he might be able to show them how. Experience told him information like that needed to be carefully managed. He stared at the wagons. Was it hidden away amongst the convoy? If it was as “complex” as Harris had suggested, then it was likely written down, but…

  Written down! Pullus felt irritated at himself. His thinking was too Roman, too antiquated. Arlen’s code would be stored electronically, not on wax tablets or paper. It had been a long time since he’d used anything electronic within the boundaries of New Pompeii; most of the electronic equipment NovusPart had left behind had long since stopped working. The modern world hadn’t been stupid enough to provide everything the Romans had requested on Naso’s damn convoys. “We need him alive.”

  Naso rolled his eyes. “Then where will we keep him?”

  “I’m happy for him to stay with you.”

  “And how long do you think it will be before Calpurnia finds out?”

  “He can either go with me, or you can take him. Make up your mind!”

  The duumvir gave a roar of frustration. Then he froze, staring over Pullus’s shoulder towards the Vesuvius Gate, a look of panic on his face.

  Pullus turned. Habitus was standing in the shadows, a few metres away. The frumentarius was grinning, a sword in his hand.

  “Calpurnia will see you now.”

  8

  Ancient Rome, AD 62

  “ACHILLIA! YOU HAVE a visitor!”

  Achillia took her time walking from the training yard to the gate of the ludus. She had little interest in the men who came to visit the female fighters. But the man waiting for her wasn’t the usual type. He wore a toga and had several men with him, all of whom stood waiting at a distance which they no doubt thought was discreet, but actually made them stand out from the passing foot traffic. From the look of them they were bodyguards, or at least household slaves who could handle themselves.

  “It’s man sweat you want,” Achillia said. “Not mine.”

  She stood a few feet from the bars of the gate, not close enough to be grabbed. It was unlikely, but it happened. Even by those wearing such fancy clothes.

  The man looked confused by her comment. “What?”

  “Male drippings,” she continued. “They sell it at the main gate. If you’re having trouble with your gladius, or need to attract the attention of your mistress.”

  The man didn’t reply, tipping his head back as if trying to get his nose above the stench of the ludus. He flicked his eyes over her shoulder towards the training ground. The clack-clack of wood was the only hint of the work going on behind them. Most of her fellow fighters were inside, doing chores.

  “My name—”

  “I don’t care. Fuck off.” This man didn’t interest her. Achillia turned and started to walk away.

  “My name is Gaius Asinius Varro!”

  Achillia continued to walk.

  “Wait! You saved my wife,” Varro shouted. He lowered his voice, perhaps afraid of being overheard. “Two days ago in the arena.”

  Achillia narrowed her eyes and turned back. Varro looked embarrassed. He glanced at his men, who kept their distance.

  “You saved my wife,” he said again.

  “I heard you. She didn’t want to say ‘thank you’ herself?”

  “She is safe at my house.”

  “Safe? Until the Emperor calls again?”

  Varro’s face turned white. He took a slight step forward. “Careful,” he whispered.

  Achillia grinned. “Or will it be your turn next?”

  “I understand our gracious Emperor was impressed with tales of my wife’s performance,” Varro said, with some pride. “He’s been telling the court how she took on one of the whores of the arena. That’s right, isn’t it?” He nodded towards the ludus. “You whore in there, do you not? Between fights, when those with money come calling?”

  “I’m in here,” Achillia replied, slowly in order to make her point, “because I killed a man.”

  Varro smiled, then tapped the metal bars of the gate with the nail of his forefinger. “Then it’s lucky I’m on this side.” The smile faded. “My wife is concerned the Emperor may ask for a repeat performance.”

  “Then she’d better start practising.”

  “She thinks it would be safer to leave town. She’s got it into her head that you could go with her.”

  “I belong to the ludus.”

  “I can afford you. I’m an important man.”

  “One the Emperor would like to kill?”

  Varro blanched again. Achillia glanced at his companions. “Keeping your best men with you?” she asked. “No one to spare to escort your wife out of the city?”

  “Perhaps you would prefer to die in the arena?” Varro replied, his voice sour. “Finally meet someone better than you? Or take a goring from a bull?”

  Achillia smiled, then tipped her head towards one of the buildings within the ludus. “You’ll need to talk to—”

  “I already have.”

  “Then why come and ask me?”

  “I wanted to see what type of bitch I was buying.”

  “And where am I and your wife going?”

  “A small town on the coast. You may not have heard of it.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s called Pompeii.”

  * * *

  A covered wagon arrived at the ludus before dawn. Pulled by a pair of horses, it had a single driver, but two other men followed on their own mounts behind. None of the men looked as if they could handle themselves, and Achillia realised she’d been right. Her new master was keeping his best men in Rome. Those he was sending with his wife looked like they knew it too.

  “Get in,” shouted the driver.

  Achillia pulled aside the door covering and looked into the wagon. The only occupant was the woman she’d fought in the arena. Her face was bruised, the slope of her nose buckled and raw. The cut down her cheek had only just started to heal.

  “I guess I should thank you,” Achillia said, taking a seat opposite the door under the small window, its woollen cover rolled down to keep out the morning chill. On the seat beside her was a change of clothes – a clean stola and a new pair of sandals. There was also a knife, brand new from the condition of the blade.

  “The trip will take a few days,” the woman replied as the wagon started to move, ignoring the question. “My husband told you what I’m expecting you to do?”

  “He told me everything except your name.”

  “Trigemina.”

  Achillia nodded, then turned to the bundle of clothes and picked up the knife. It was a decent weapon, the handle bound in black leather, and it was small enough that she could keep it inside her belt without drawing much attention. Maybe even hide it away in the folds of the stola. She looked about her. A short-sword had also been clamped above the wagon’s door, just below the roof.

  “If you try to run,” said Trigemina, “my husband will set the vigiles after you.”

  “I don’t intend to run.”

  Trigemina stared at the knife. Achillia realised the last few days had probably been in stark contrast with the rest of her life. The spouses of high-ranking noblemen didn’t normally have to fight in the arena.

  “I’m not a fool,” Achillia said calmly, but not putting the knife down. “And if we’re attacked on the road – or in Pompeii – then they’ll need to kill us both. I know what happens to slaves who let their masters die.”

  �
��Good.” When Trigemina spoke, her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. “In the arena… I was expecting you to be wearing helmets.”

  “The crowd like to see our faces,” Achillia replied. “With the men, they just want to see death. We give them something extra. A lot of it is theatre.”

  “Did you train with the male gladiators?”

  “No.”

  Trigemina was silent for a moment. “And the men with us?” Trigemina asked. “The driver and his outriders? Would you be able to kill men like them?”

  Achillia smiled. “Oh, I would beat them with a sword. Probably with a knife too, if it came to it.”

  Trigemina considered this. “Then you’ll do fine.”

  9

  New Pompeii

  ONLY PULLUS AND Habitus were allowed into Calpurnia’s villa. For the time being, however, Pullus remained alone whilst the frumentarius briefed his mistress. Naso had been told to wait outside on the road with Harris.

  Although the duumvir had protested, Pullus was glad to be rid of him. Naso hadn’t stopped talking on their journey. His precious convoy had been sent on its way from the Vesuvius Gate, but the duumvir’s only concern seemed to be whether he’d be allowed to keep charge of them in future, rehearsing the arguments he’d use when he next met Calpurnia.

  Pullus leant against a chest-high wall. He’d been shown into a small interior garden. He spent a few moments studying the delicate throngs of ferns that had been painted on the plastered surfaces, the effect completed with animals peeping out from amongst the foliage, both real and imagined.

  Smoke and mirrors, Pullus thought. He sighed. NovusPart had built much of their power on illusion. The clever placement of cameras and microphones, used to confuse and frighten. But spaces like this proved the Romans had beaten them to the trick by about two thousand years. The garden and a small opening in the roof gave the illusion of being outside even though the space was mainly enclosed. Other frescos around the villa depicted images of grand public spaces that had long since been lost to the past. And Calpurnia used other smoke and mirrors too.

  The NovusPart device didn’t work. Never had, not even with Whelan’s input. NovusPart had left behind two devices: one at its old headquarters in Cambridge and the second in New Pompeii. The Cambridge device hadn’t lasted long following the reported fall of NovusPart: destroyed in an ill-considered attempt to close Pandora’s Box by inept politicians and academics, desperate to end potential tampering with the timeline. Pullus had been able to confirm its destruction prior to being banned from travelling to England, when MI5 had realised what he was doing. Had the British government realised there was a second device in New Pompeii – put there to feed the amphitheatre and NovusPart’s other projects – then they might have thought better of keeping hold of their own device.

  “I thought our next lesson wasn’t until tomorrow?”

  Pullus turned. Marcus stood in the doorway, a book under his arm.

  “I’m not here as your teacher.”

  Relief flashed across the young man’s face. He pushed the book further into the cleft of his elbow, hiding the spine from view. Which meant it wasn’t by Mary Beard. And it didn’t look like Suetonius either.

  “What are you reading?”

  Marcus didn’t answer, shuffling his feet.

  “Marcus…”

  The boy walked to where Pullus stood, self-consciously examining the frescos. “It’s called The Modern Prometheus.”

  Pullus blinked. Had he heard right?

  “Frankenstein?”

  Marcus nodded. “It’s about—”

  “I know what it’s about.” Pullus took a few steps forward. “Give it to me.”

  The boy didn’t resist. It was new, not an old edition. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. He flicked through a few of the pages. It was in Latin.

  Marcus shuffled. “Some of the writing is a little… difficult.”

  Pullus read a few sentences and couldn’t help but agree. Victorian prose, translated into an ancient language, was never going to be an easy read. “Where did you get this?”

  Marcus didn’t answer but he didn’t need to. It must have come from the town, from a convoy. Another breach. And one far too close to Calpurnia. He’d need to tell Naso, warn the duumvir of the problem.

  “You have more of these?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  The boy hesitated. “Yes. It’s the only one.”

  “Your mother wouldn’t be happy if she knew—”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Calpurnia stood a few feet behind him. Her son must have seen her approaching, but there hadn’t been any hint of it in his expression. Shit. Pullus held the book towards her. “It must have come in on the convoys,” he said.

  “Yes, Naso procured it for me whilst you were away.”

  Beside him, Marcus couldn’t stifle his amusement. “It’s a difficult text for him to be exploring on his own,” Pullus said.

  “It’s about a man being brought back from the dead. What could be more appropriate?”

  “You’ve read it too?”

  “Yes.”

  Pullus handed the book back to Marcus. “I’ll think about how we can incorporate this into your lessons.”

  The boy smirked.

  “I need to speak with Pullus,” Calpurnia said. “You can pick this up with him later.”

  The boy looked like he might object, but then he hurried away. Presumably heading to his room to poison his mind with some more gothic horror. It would no doubt mix in well with what Suetonius would be telling him about the reigns of Tiberius and Caligula.

  “He reminds me more and more of his father,” Calpurnia said.

  “He’s becoming a man, certainly. I saw some of his sword work with Habitus.”

  Calpurnia nodded. She looked different, but it took him a while to figure out why. Then he noticed her fringe had been styled into a line of little ringlets: traditional and conservative. Hints of grey ran through it. “Habitus told me you wanted to see me yesterday?”

  “I’ve been wanting to see you for weeks,” Pullus said. “When we last spoke… I didn’t think one argument—”

  “It’s not about what you said to me, Pullus; it’s what they’re saying about us again in Pompeii. It’s not a good idea for us to be seen together. Not even here.”

  Pullus grimaced. “You were pregnant before you met me.”

  “And it’s too long ago now for people to remember that. You turned up; I had a son. That’s the gist of what they’re writing on the columns of the forum. In the tabernae and brothels.”

  “And why does it matter?”

  Calpurnia drew a deep breath. It could have easily signalled an outburst, but she held back. “Whispers are important,” she said, finally. “And we’re speaking now. So, tell me: do you know the man in the convoy?”

  Pullus hesitated. “I met him only once. A long time ago, and far from here.”

  “Your friend’s name is Harris?”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  Calpurnia didn’t pass comment. “Whelan used that name.”

  Pullus closed his eyes. He thought back to Whelan. Remembered the drill. And the molten lead. Most of all, he remembered the screaming. Fuck, he remembered the screaming. “Yes.”

  “Both McMahon and Whelan hated this… Harris. They were enemies?”

  “Yes.”

  “They wanted him dead.”

  “Harris tried to stop NovusPart,” said Pullus, trying to explain from what little he knew. “In many respects, he failed.”

  “I’m told Naso wanted to kill him too rather than bring him here?”

  I’m told. Pullus just about stopped his derisive snort. Despite her isolation, Calpurnia’s network of informants kept her close to the centre of things. Just like the Emperor Tiberius on his island at Capri. At least, that’s what the men of the Ordo said. Albeit even those men on the town council did so very quietly. “He’s not dead.”
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  “And Harris knows our NovusPart device doesn’t work?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “A guess, perhaps.”

  “You haven’t said anything?”

  “Why would I?”

  Now it was Calpurnia’s turn to hesitate. She examined him a moment. “And what else did he tell you?”

  Pullus thought briefly about Arlen’s code. Harris was outside with Naso. But of all those present, only he could speak English. The outsiders had all left with the convoys. Which meant he didn’t have to reveal the full truth. Not yet. Not whilst he remained uncertain of what Harris truly intended – or what Calpurnia would do with a device that actually functioned. “Nothing.”

  “We used to spend many hours debating how the NovusPart device could be used,” Calpurnia said, as if reading his mind. “You always said that it was actually very limited. That the risk of paradox was too great.”

  Pullus turned away. “Even if you got the device working, what could you do with it? Really?”

  “Maybe I could stop Rome from falling.”

  Calpurnia had made a study of the Empire’s fall. There’d been a time when she’d sought answers from him almost on a daily basis, seemingly in a state of shock. It was as if someone had told her the sun had one day failed to rise. It didn’t help that there wasn’t a singular cause to the calamity, an individual Vesuvius event that could be blamed. And, even if she could claim some satisfaction in the Eastern Empire lasting well into the second millennium, Calpurnia’s pride was always tempered by the knowledge that Rome had succumbed.

  “That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?” continued Calpurnia. “That’s what we debated before your last trip home.”

  “It was more of an argument than a debate.”

  “Christians, Gauls, Visigoths and vice. Too many problems, I think, for one woman to solve.”

  “Then what?”

  “My husband remains in Herculaneum.”

  “It would be difficult to bring him back,” replied Pullus. “NovusPart failed to transport all the people from Pompeii, and Herculaneum was consumed by rock, not ash. Dense, falling rock that buried the town metres high. The device simply can’t reach through it. And we can’t pull him much before his death—before the eruption—because that would change the timeline. Your past self would behave differently if he suddenly disappeared, and who knows what the repercussions would be.”