New Pompeii Read online

  16

  NICK HAD ONLY just screwed his eyes shut when a light tap on his arm forced him to open them. Wincing at the pain in his head, he followed the point of Noah’s finger. Bathed in the orange light of the descending sun, he saw a Roman villa.

  He squinted. His migraine was a lot worse, and the small turn of his head was enough to make his surroundings spin. Noah leant forward to say something, but the boy’s voice was lost in the incessant thump of the rotors above them. Rotors. Nick shuddered. After their initial flight, he, Maggie and Noah had boarded a helicopter. The other two men hadn’t joined them for the second part of the journey.

  The small aerodrome where they’d made their pit stop revealed they’d been heading into old Soviet territory. The buildings had been nothing more than concrete bunkers – and they’d been set among a grey, decaying urban sprawl. It didn’t take much to imagine a golden hammer and sickle once adorning the sides of the buildings. Or a statue of men saluting the revolution.

  Nick glanced at his watch. They’d been in the air another couple of hours. The helicopter engine now seemed to be in perfect time with the beating inside his head. He needed something to distract him. He stared out of the window and tried to concentrate on the villa below.

  The building was set among vineyards, with larger crops of cereals nearby. A simple, narrow track led away from it and disappeared down a valley. There was no sign of any other properties. The track itself stopped at the villa entrance. There was only one way in or out.

  Nick paused to swallow the bile collecting in the back of his mouth. There was a good chance he was going to be sick. He could feel his stomach churning. Swallow, he thought. Breathe. Then swallow. And concentrate on something. He slumped forward – letting his harness take his weight.

  The villa looked newly built, its whitewashed walls topped by a flow of soft red tiles. It seemed well laid out, made up of two large adjoining wings with front and rear façades. The arrangement created a central, private courtyard. As the helicopter came in lower, it became clear the space was being used as a car park for about half a dozen khaki-coloured Land Rovers. And there was a large, black satellite dish pointing upwards from the villa’s roof.

  So much for authenticity. Nick sat back and tried to relax, but the helicopter was vibrating like a washing machine on full spin. Opposite him, Maggie mouthed something but he couldn’t tell what she was saying. Instead, he just gave her a thumbs-up and waited. It didn’t take much longer for the rotors to start whipping up dust. A few bumps almost made him vomit, but then the landing skids made contact with the ground. Once. Twice.

  He’d made it.

  “Okay folks!” shouted the pilot. The doors clicked open. Nick didn’t wait to be helped. He pushed the door outwards and stumbled to the ground. He took a couple of steps – and felt nausea wash over him. But he wasn’t sick.

  Not yet, anyway.

  “I thought you were going to spew!”

  Nick smiled weakly at Noah. Behind him, Maggie was the last to leave the helicopter. The pilot remained at his controls.

  “Is this it?” Noah sounded tired, but his head bobbed around, his eyes taking in their surroundings. He looked both confused and disappointed. His mother didn’t seem interested in trying to cheer him up.

  Slowly, Nick tried to find his bearings. The helicopter had landed at the front of the villa. He pushed at the ground with his foot. They were standing on Grasscrete. It was a purpose-built helipad, but one that wouldn’t be obvious to a casual observer.

  Shielding his eyes from the setting sun, he peered towards the building. The villa’s entrance was nothing more than a large archway in its front wall. Through it, he could clearly see the Land Rovers in the courtyard beyond. There wasn’t any other obvious way in or out. Nick squinted. There was somebody heading towards them.

  “Maggie! Noah!”

  If he hadn’t been in the grip of a migraine, Nick would have laughed. Mark Whelan was heading towards them; the NovusPart COO was wearing a dull white toga. It didn’t look like he knew how to wear it, the cloth flapping around his body, caught up in the rotor wash. “Come on. Let’s get you inside!”

  Whelan let Maggie and Noah scurry past him before moving to block Nick’s path. “I’m glad you decided to join us,” he said. “I think you’re going to enjoy the next few weeks.”

  Nick forced a smile. It caused another spike of pain to shoot through his temples. “Hopefully I’ll be here for longer than that.”

  Whelan didn’t confirm or deny it. “You have a phone?” he said.

  Nick nodded.

  “You don’t need it here. You probably noticed we were blocking your signal from the moment we picked you up?”

  Nick shook his head. He hadn’t noticed, but now the lack of messages made sense. “You seem to have found a nice, isolated location.”

  “We have a good agreement with the locals. They’re more than happy to give us the privacy we require.” Whelan paused, as if mulling something over. “We weren’t entirely straight with you when we last met.”

  Nick braced himself, but then remembered what Maggie had said. “Professor Samson?”

  “Yes. He left the project some months ago.”

  “So you see me as…?”

  Whelan glanced over his shoulder, but Maggie and Noah were long gone. “A lot of people attached to this project think it can already be classed as a success,” he said. “After all, the buildings are finished and the people are living in them. So McMahon wasn’t too bothered when Samson upped and left. But his absence effectively leaves us blind, and lots of people are waiting for us to fail.” The operations chief paused. “You want to do your research, which is fine. Because what you find may help us detect any issues with this imperial idyll.”

  “You’re worried about trouble?” Nick blinked. The ground seemed to be spinning.

  Whelan started to shepherd him towards the villa. “The people of Flight 391 weren’t put in a glass box,” he said. “They weren’t tricked into thinking they’d somehow survived the crash. What we’re doing here is different; we can’t afford to make mistakes. We needed someone who has a bit more understanding of the Roman world.”

  “That’s a lot of work to get through in just six weeks.”

  “Don’t focus on the timescale,” said Whelan. “It’s not important. In my experience, people are either useful, or nothing more than dead wood. And it won’t take long to figure out which category you fit into.”

  Nick felt another twist of pain ratchet through his skull. “That’s not very reassuring,” he said. His mouth suddenly filled with saliva. He was finally going to vomit. There was no stopping it. Whelan waited until he’d finished without showing any sympathy. “Travel sickness?”

  Nick nodded, saying nothing.

  “Well, let’s get you inside,” Whelan continued, as if nothing had happened. “It’s in both our interests that you make the best of it.”

  * * *

  It only took a loud growl from his stomach to wake Nick the next morning. Incessant nausea had stopped him from eating anything the night before, but now his body had reset. It was ready for a good meal.

  He rolled on to his back and sat up. Although he’d drunk plenty of water before going to sleep, his tongue felt dry. He could taste the grittiness of the aspirin he’d taken to dull his migraine.

  He glanced around. He hadn’t taken much notice the previous night, but his room looked more like a budget hotel than the inside of a Roman villa. The realisation was disappointing. The flat-pack furniture might have been obtained from the nearest IKEA. All plywood and pine. The walls were painted a simple cream, and the only hint of character came from a single painting hanging on the opposite wall. Four large blocks of primary colour.

  Character maybe, but not interest. He still seemed a long way from Pompeii.

  Nick let a sigh escape his lips. He got out of bed and walked into the small en-suite bathroom. A couple of white plastic cups sat by the sink, each wrap
ped in cellophane. He pulled one free and filled it with water.

  When he returned to the main room, he saw that someone had left him homework. There was a small desk up against the far wall, on it a pile of paperwork. Nick stepped across and started to leaf through it. A series of reports, drawings and maps.

  The first report looked like a design manual. The sketches were rough – not detailed designs – but each page showed a different element of the town. From a basic layout to concepts for bathhouses, temples and water systems. Another document showed the elevation of several buildings.

  Nick recognised each element. Most had been taken from the ruins of Pompeii. But others looked like they’d been taken from Rome, Ostia, or even the forts and villas that had been left dotted around the British Isles, Turkey and the northern coast of Africa.

  The name “Robert Astridge” was on most of the drawings, inside a title block that ran along the bottom of each page. It was accompanied by specific reference codes, and a small box documenting the approvals. Nick thought back to the plane. The woman – Maggie – had called herself “Astridge”.

  Designed by Robert Astridge. Approved by Professor Samson.

  Nick stiffened. Some of the drawings were missing Samson’s signature. He went back through the pile, checking each one. Most had been signed off by both Samson and Astridge, but about thirty per cent had only been approved by the architect.

  Nick shook his head and pulled out the last document. It turned out to be a large map, too big for the desk. He stepped across to the bed to open it out. He found himself looking at a large-scale town plan. Again, Samson’s signature was missing from the approvals box. His mouth pulled into a slight smile when he noted the map’s title: New Pompeii.

  Nick tried to pick out the detail from among the general arrangement. The town was longest on its east–west axis, with a curtain wall surrounding it. Eight gatehouses – five along its north wall, and three along the southern – marshalled its defences. The forum was located in the south-west of the town, and a large oval amphitheatre was set into its opposite corner.

  Just like in Pompeii.

  The rest of the town was laid out around a simple grid pattern. The effect created solid blocks of buildings between the roads. It, too, resembled what was known about the layout of the real Pompeii. And yet there was something odd about it that he just couldn’t place.

  What was it?

  Nick softened his focus, letting his eyes wander along the grid. At the centre of the map – slightly off-set to the north – was a building shaded red. He ran his finger down to the key. The House of McMahon.

  Arrogant prick.

  “Nick? You’re feeling better?”

  Nick turned to find Whelan filling the doorway. The NovusPart Chief Operating Officer was still wearing his toga. However, without the interference of the wind, he at least now carried it with some degree of authority.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good. You’ll be pleased to know your blood samples all came back clear, so you’re free to travel to the town.” He nodded towards the plans. “Astridge thought you might want to review those, seeing as you didn’t seem to be taking in much last night.”

  “Thanks.”

  Whelan was holding a small bundle of clothes, which he tossed on to the bed. The action made Nick painfully aware that he was wearing only his boxer shorts.

  “Leave all your belongings in this room,” continued Whelan. He was already turning to leave. “Once you’re dressed, come down to the control room for a final briefing. And some breakfast. It’s just off the courtyard.”

  Nick nodded, but waited until the other man had left before starting to dress. The clothes he’d been provided with were basic: a tunic, a leather belt and sandals. Nick laid them out on the bed, considering them each in turn. It was apparent he’d not been considered worthy of a toga. Still, as he wasn’t officially a Roman citizen, he could live with the snub.

  He picked up the tunic first. It immediately stirred up the image of overenthusiastic historical re-enactments in muddy fields. He sighed. The potential to end up looking like a Sunday Roman was very real, and something he was keen to avoid. At least he couldn’t look worse than the men paid to stand outside the Colosseum dressed up as gladiators.

  But he could come close. Nick hesitated for a few more seconds before pulling the tunic over his head. It was the same dull white colour as Whelan’s toga, but he was pleased to find the wool was at least smoother than he’d anticipated. Still, he had to roll his shoulders a few times to get it to fall into a comfortable position.

  After tightening his belt, he found the most important item on the bed had been initially hidden from view by the rest of the clothes. A small pouch, filled with money. He tipped the contents out into his hand, and counted the coins. They were good replicas. Nick tied the pouch on to his belt. He was ready.

  17

  THE ROUTE DOWN to the courtyard should have been pretty straightforward, but Nick had been shown to his room the previous night by one of Whelan’s security guards, and the mental image he’d constructed of the villa wasn’t quite as clear as he’d thought. Somehow, on the way down, he’d taken a wrong turn.

  Given the modest size of the building, getting lost was some achievement. Nick turned back the way he’d just come – past what looked like a children’s nursery and several medical offices. He soon came to a halt again. A man was watching him from one of the side rooms, and Nick’s scowl quickly turned into an embarrassed grin. “Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for the courtyard?”

  The man didn’t respond. He was in his thirties, and was wearing one of the same off-white tunics that Nick had been given. He took a couple of steps forward. The light from the corridor caught the mottles and pocks covering his face.

  “I do not speak your tongue,” the man said in perfect Latin.

  Nick nodded dumbly, his mind whirring. This was a Roman. Not in New Pompeii, but right here. Right now. “I’m sorry,” he said, stumbling over his words and hoping they sounded intelligible. “Do you understand me now?”

  The man smiled. Like he was speaking to a child learning to talk. “You’re one of the new arrivals?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re looking for the others?”

  “I guess I’m lost.”

  “Aren’t we all?” He nodded down the corridor. “You need to be along there, and to the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man edged back into his room and shut the door. Nick watched dumbly. His mind was bubbling with the questions he could have asked. Should have asked.

  Damn it!

  He’d frozen. But he’d expected all the Romans to be in New Pompeii. Not here. Not now. Shit. He’d probably get another opportunity. Fuck, he’d better get another opportunity.

  Nick cursed all the way to the courtyard. As soon as he stepped into the open air, a security guard directed him towards a doorway marked CONTROL ROOM/SHOWROOM. He wondered what sort of show he was going to be treated to.

  The room was dominated by row upon row of video screens. Their glare was sufficient to plunge the rest of the room into relative gloom, and it took a few moments for Nick’s eyes to adjust but, once they did, he realised that the screens were showing security-camera feeds. And not from the villa.

  This was his first glimpse of New Pompeii.

  Nick felt his breath grow shallow, his jaw slacken. Each screen showed a different view of town life. And there they were. The people of Pompeii. Moving around the streets of their new home. Eating. Drinking. Buying bread. Rolling dice. Just going about their daily lives. And the fact he’d not really spoken with the first Roman he’d met suddenly didn’t seem to matter.

  “You like my town?”

  Nick heard the words but didn’t acknowledge them. It took many more seconds before his attention zeroed back into the room. Maggie, Noah and Whelan were standing next to a tall, thin man. He was completely bald, with a satisfied smile on his face. And f
rom the look of the video feeds, his smugness was entirely deserved.

  “Yes,” said Nick, his throat dry. “I can’t wait to visit.”

  “Well, it’s a few hours by horse. Have you ridden before, Mr…?”

  “This is Nick Houghton,” cut in Whelan, stepping forward. “Nick, meet Robert Astridge, our project architect.”

  Nick nodded in acknowledgement, and offered his hand.

  The architect shot a glance at Whelan, his grin turning sardonic. “I take it you’re here to replace Professor Samson?”

  Replace. That word again. Nick glanced at Maggie. She’d been given a longer, female version of his own tunic. A heavy shawl covered her shoulders.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t see your role as being that relevant, to be honest. Samson’s work was almost complete – you can’t keep on advising about the historical details of a town when the buildings are occupied, can you?” Astridge let out a short bellow of laughter, almost as if something had just struck him. “Patrick is going to love that you’re here!”

  Patrick?

  Maggie shook her head and gave an impatient sigh. “At least you look a bit more human today, Dr Houghton.”

  “Thank you. But you can drop the doctor part… it’s still something of a work in progress.”

  “I see. It seems odd to have replaced an eminent professor with a student, doesn’t it?”

  Nick swallowed, not knowing what to say. Certainly Whelan didn’t appear to want to cut in and justify his appointment. He needed to change the subject. Quickly. “Someone mentioned something about a briefing?”

  “So, Nick,” said Whelan, taking a step forward, “what do you think the most important thing is, in making all of this work?”

  Nick’s mind cycled quickly, trying to find an answer that wouldn’t make him look stupid. The buildings? The logistics? The technology?