New Pompeii (10 page)

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?

No.

The people.

It always boiled down to people. He looked back at the screens. Thought about what this all meant from their perspective. “You brought them here just before they were about to die,” he said, letting his thoughts click into place. “They would have seen the eruption. Felt the earthquakes in the days leading up to it. Maybe seen the ash fall. So when they woke up here, they would all want to know what had happened.”

“Spot on,” replied Whelan, smiling. “It’s all about the story. Anybody going into and out of New Pompeii has to remember it, and stick to it. We’ve tried to keep it simple. The people here think they’re still in Pompeii. A good three-quarters of the town is physically similar; the eruption and tremors account for the changed landscape beyond the walls.”

“So no volcano?”

“And no sea either – we’re inland.”

Nick felt his eyebrows rise, but didn’t say anything. The strangeness of the town map suddenly made sense. Pompeii had been a trading port. But there was plenty of evidence that Pompeii and the neighbouring town of Herculaneum had experienced their fair share of sea-level changes. So it wasn’t entirely implausible…

“The Italian peninsula is in chaos,” Whelan continued. “Travel between towns is prohibited. They have to stay in the town and make the best of it.” Whelan’s voice rose, as if taken in by the story himself. “By order of the Emperor.”

Nick nodded but said nothing. He already had about a dozen questions, but they would probably be best answered when he got to the town.

“The good news is that the populace were so shell-shocked they believed the story straight away,” said Astridge. “We’ve got them all settled into their new homes. And most people are in similar standards of accommodation to that to which they were accustomed.”

“How’s the economy working?”

Whelan turned to Astridge. “You see, Robert? I knew our new historical advisor would get to the nub of the issue.” He turned back to Nick. “We’re getting there,” he said. “Pompeii seems to have made its money mainly from wine.”

“And garum.”

“Yes. Quite. But once the vineyards and olive groves are up and running, we can take their wine and oil, and in return give them anything they want. But we’re supporting the economy externally for the time being.”

“What about us?”

“You didn’t find your little pouch of money?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“We have a house at the centre of town.”

“The House of McMahon?”

“Yes. It looks Roman on the ground floor, but is in fact a central control station similar to this villa.”

“Great,” said Nick. “But, again, with due respect… you said all the population is from Pompeii. But
we’re
not. What’s our story?”

Whelan smiled. “We’re their saviours, Nick.”

“What?”

Astridge chuckled. “Sent by the god-emperor himself, Augustus Caesar.”

I
T WAS ONLY
mid-morning by the time they were ready to go to New Pompeii but the sun had already baked the air dry. Nick was glad to discover that he wasn’t expected to ride a horse. Outside the villa, a convoy of eight wagons had converged, most of which were filled with wheat, beans and fruit, while others contained a variety of iron tools and implements presumably to help support the town. The wagon at the back of the column was empty apart from two benches that ran the length of its parapets. Nick initially struggled to clamber up into it, but soon found himself being given a boost by a NovusPart security guard. The Astridge family joined him a few minutes later, the architect sitting up front with the driver, with Whelan the last to arrive.

The operations chief was the only one who didn’t require any assistance getting into the wagon. He simply vaulted into the back. As he sat down, Nick noted Whelan had opted to lose the toga and instead just wore a tunic. He was also wearing a black leather wrist-guard, which encased his right forearm. Its only decoration was a series of metal studs that marked out the shape of an eagle.

Nick glanced towards their driver, a NovusPart employee. They didn’t seem to be going anywhere fast. The wagon remained stationary, the two mules fidgeting in their traces. “You don’t use labour from the town to drive the wagons?”

Whelan shook his head, and started to fiddle with the straps on his wrist-guard. “We don’t allow anyone from the town up here,” he said. “Too much risk they’ll see something they shouldn’t.”

“But the guy in the villa?”

Whelan’s eyes narrowed. “You met Felix?”

“He didn’t tell me his name.”

“He looks like he’s had the pox.”

Nick nodded. “I bumped into him, yes.”

Whelan paused, considering. “We transported him five years ago. Part of the vanguard we used to test the business model. He was a merchant, owned a small fleet trading spices and ore, and so was able to give Samson decent insights into the top brass. Difficult to know what to do with him now. You probably heard his voice on the tapes.”

Nick shrugged. He might have done. But Samson’s recordings had contained so many voices he’d need to listen several times before he’d be able to remember them all. From the front of the wagon, Astridge stirred. “Ironic that the first Roman you meet is the main reason your predecessor left.”

“Oh?”

“Well, how could he continue to give me advice when I could simply ask Felix?”

Nick frowned. “The opportunity to speak to these people must surely have been enough to keep him here.”

“Like most academics, Samson took any chance he could get to stroke his own ego. Let me give you an example,
Dr
Houghton. What would you say the people did when Vesuvius first started erupting?”

Nick hesitated.
Dr
Houghton. It was clear Astridge wasn’t going to let it drop. And he could also tell where his line of questioning was leading. Whatever he said would be wrong, because Astridge would know the definitive answer whereas he would just be guessing. But the architect was waiting for an answer. As was Whelan. He had to prove he knew his stuff. “The traditional view is that a few people stayed, but most fled.”

“You mean they left their houses to be looted?”

Nick didn’t answer.

“The problem is one of hindsight,” said Whelan, cutting in. “If there’s an earthquake, sure, you run outside and wait for it to stop. But do you abandon everything permanently
on the chance
there might be a second or third? No, of course not. So most people stayed. They hired people to fix their houses, and they tried to make the best of it.”

“And when the volcano erupted?”

“Where would you go? Where would be safe?”

Pliny’s words flashed into his mind.
I was convinced that all mankind were involved in the same calamity, and that I was perishing with the world itself
. “Inside the town walls,” Nick said.

From the front of the wagon, Astridge gave a slow clap. Whelan ignored him, but the sarcastic gesture seemed to amuse his wife. Noah laughed too, but Nick doubted he got the joke. “The town’s population actually grew just before the eruption,” Whelan said. “People didn’t flee the town; they fled towards it, even people in outlying farmsteads. And running through deep ash is not easy; I can assure you of that. They congregated in the forum, and the temples, and the amphitheatre, and they waited for the storm to pass.”

“I suppose that made it easier for you.”

Whelan nodded. “The targets were all clustered in a few places when we transported them.”

“And you managed to transport pretty much the whole town?”

“Yes.”

A thought nagged at the back of Nick’s mind. “But the plaster casts?” he said. “In the Naples Archaeological Museum?”

“We failed in about two thousand cases,” replied Whelan. He gave the fact neutrally, like he was taking inventory.

“There are only about a thousand recorded remains.”

“And a lot more bodies under the unexcavated areas of town. The ash cloud made things difficult.”

Nick paused, mulling things over. The wagon still hadn’t moved. “And, despite all this, Samson left?”

Whelan gave a shallow smile. “We don’t know why he left, Nick. But he did, and that’s why you’re here.”

“I told you,” said Astridge, trying to stop Noah from leaning over the edge of the wagon. He waited for his son’s protests to stop before continuing. “He left because he no longer had a monopoly on answers. So, Dr Houghton, if
you
could use this town to answer only one question, what would it be?”

A few points of interest immediately spun through Nick’s brain, but there was only one really worth asking first. “The date of the eruption,” he said.

Astridge and Whelan both looked at him, clearly confused.

“There’s some debate,” Nick continued. “Because although the traditional date of the eruption is the twenty-fourth of August, there’s evidence it happened later.” He felt his voice weaken. “Though I guess to transport them you would have needed an exact date.”

Whelan shifted on the bench. “That’s not actually how our tech works, Nick. We just find the general timeframe and then look for the radar spots to converge and blink out—”

“Evidence?” interrupted Maggie. “Such as?”

At first Nick didn’t answer. Whelan’s remark was the most he’d heard anybody reveal as to how NovusPart’s technology actually operated. But finally he settled back into his groove. It was time to stroke his own ego, as the architect had put it.

“Mainly it centres on the types of food archaeologists have found in people’s homes. Pomegranates, and so on. But there were also some coins found that were minted
after
the eruption.”

“Well
Professor
Samson never brought this up,” said Astridge. “And neither have the people here. They would have said something, don’t you think?”

Nick felt his cheeks redden. “As I said, it would just be a question to which it would be useful to have an answer. It does seem a bit of a coincidence though that the volcano was said to erupt the day after the festival of Vulcan. Almost as if the August date was being used to make a political and moral point.”

“Well, as Robert says,” said Whelan, “it doesn’t seem to be a problem. Although insights like these are no doubt useful.”

From the front of the wagon, Astridge allowed a sigh of contempt to escape him. Nick struggled for something else to say. Something more abstract that couldn’t be as easily challenged. “It would also be useful to get to know about how people lived at the bottom of the social pile,” he said. “Away from the Plinys and Senecas of the Roman world. For example, one of the best sources we have about ordinary Roman life is actually nothing more than a joke book.”

“A joke book?” Maggie turned her attention on him, a slight smile on her lips. “Would you care to give us one? To pass the time before we get under way?”

No. No he wouldn’t. But now Noah was looking at him expectantly. Shit. “Okay,” he said, taking a breath. A funny Roman joke. Which was a stretch. Most didn’t translate particularly well. “Okay,” he said again, trying to focus on an anecdote he’d recited during a recent tutorial. “So an absent-minded professor, a barber and a bald trader are walking to Rome. On the way, they have to camp overnight in an area known for bandits so they each agree to take a turn standing watch, and the barber takes the first shift. However, he soon gets bored and decides to shave the professor’s head. Once his watch ends, the barber wakes the professor who scratches his head and says, ‘Oh that silly barber! He’s only gone and woken up baldie by mistake!’”

Nick managed to laugh even though he was joined only by Noah. Astridge gave him a withering look. His own bald head was already growing red in the mid-morning heat. “Hilarious, Dr Houghton. Hilarious.”

I
T WAS ANOTHER
five minutes before the wagon pulled away.

Any number of alternative Roman jokes had already come to mind, none of which would have caused any offence. But Nick remained silent and waited for the convoy to pick up some momentum. Fortunately, it didn’t take long before two men on horseback drew level with them to provide some distraction from his faux pas.

Nick recognised one as a security guard from the villa, though both had adopted the uniform of a Roman cavalryman. They looked fairly impressive with their mail tunics and bronze helmets but their legs dangled inelegantly. It took a while for Nick to determine the reason – stirrups had been unknown to the Romans, and without them the men had been left to wobble between the four horns that jutted up from each corner of their saddles. Still, if the men’s presence was to provide security, then the thin lances held out in front of them would prove more than effective. As would the short-swords and daggers at their sides. But it did beg another question. “Have you had any problem with violence?”

Whelan cast him a sideways glance. “Not really.”

“But won’t it look odd to the locals that we’ve got our own guards?”

“No,” replied Whelan. “It fits the story.” He waited a few seconds before continuing, the wagon’s speed and the unevenness of the road forcing him to take a firm grip on the wagon’s side. “You’ve got to keep in mind, Nick, we’re not going to their Pompeii.
We
haven’t travelled in time. They have. They’re living by rules we create, in our town.”

Nick nodded. The Italian peninsula in chaos. Travel between towns prohibited. Yes, it fitted. It was sensible that each convoy was guarded – every ounce of food protected.