New Pompeii (12 page)

* * *

To modern eyes, the entrance to the House of McMahon looked unwelcoming. It certainly didn’t appear to be a residential property. Its whitewashed façade was tall and narrow, and it had no windows apart from tiny slits, which sat just below the red slope of its roof. It could have been a prison but for two features: an open doorway leading into a dim corridor, and a couple of small shops operating from cubicles on either side of the main entrance.

Whelan and Astridge strode through the doorway. Maggie hesitated at the threshold, as if suddenly uncertain, but Noah pulled her forward. Nick hung back to examine the terracotta pottery and jewellery fronting one of the gloomy shops. He couldn’t make out the stallholder in the dark interior.

“Nick!”

At Noah’s shout Nick drew himself away and stepped into the corridor. It immediately felt cool after the heat of the street. He noticed that the entrance could be blocked using a solid oak panel. Presumably it was swung across to close the house up at night. During the day, however, the door to the House of McMahon was left unlocked. But that didn’t mean it was unguarded.

Looking down, Nick chuckled. The floor of the passageway was lined with an intricate mosaic of a big, black hound. Underneath were written the words of warning that had served property owners well for at least two thousand years.
Cave canem
. Beware of the dog.

Nick stepped over it and out into a square atrium. A shallow pool dominated the centre of the space, and the soft patter of its fountain was enough to mask the bustle of the street beyond. Overall, it looked like a pretty good match for the idealised townhouse drawn from the ruins of Pompeii – except the paintings lining the walls gave a rather vivid depiction of the eruption of Vesuvius rather than the more typical idyllic scene. Perhaps to scare the locals when they came visiting.

The pool – the
impluvium
– had been positioned directly below an opening in the roof, which allowed in both light and presumably rainwater. A staircase in the far corner of the atrium led upwards to the balconied first storey above. There were several rooms off the atrium itself; if this was modelled on a typical Roman townhouse then at least one of these would be the
triclinium
, the dining room, and the one opposite the front door would be the
tablinum
, the place where a Roman man conducted business. That in turn would lead into the
peristylium
, an open-air courtyard with a garden at its centre surrounded by a
peristyle
or open colonnade, off which would be the kitchen. Eager to find out, he started to walk around the atrium.

“Hey!”

Nick turned at the sudden bark. A stocky man was addressing him in English. Presumably a NovusPart employee, despite his tunic. Nick realised that Whelan and the Astridges had remained close to the entrance. What had he done wrong?

Cave canem
. The dog at the door.

“It’s okay,” said Whelan, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Dr Houghton is just exploring his new environment.”

“Well, Dr Houghton can wait like everyone else. People don’t just wander in from the street.”

Nick nodded apologetically and walked back to the others. He returned by way of the far side of the pool so that he could glance into the other rooms leading off from the atrium. Most were small, and appeared to be bedrooms. Maybe one of them would turn out to be his.

The porter coughed loudly, as if to make a point. Nick followed the man’s stare downwards. He realised he was standing at the end of a trail of dirt. The rest of the group had all removed their sandals. They were now wearing leather flip-flops, which they’d taken from a pile by the entrance. Nick checked back along his path. Sure enough, he’d trodden detritus from the road into the atrium – and all the way around the pool.

Astridge allowed himself a sneer. “So much for our historian. Ah, Harold!”

Nick turned to find McMahon had entered from the garden. The NovusPart CEO didn’t offer a greeting. He was wearing a white toga, which contrasted starkly with his dyed black hair. At his shoulder was a much younger man – from his slight build and general demeanour, he looked to Nick like a fellow post-grad rather than security.

“Good journey?” asked McMahon.

“Yes, apart from the last few minutes,” Astridge said. “They’ve stopped wagons coming in during the day.” He glanced towards Whelan. “We decided to accept it.”

“Good,” replied McMahon. He lumbered forward, shrugging his toga back up on to his flabby shoulder. It carried the purple stripe of a senator. “It was bloody chaos here when I turned up. My convoy got stuck behind a grain wagon. You’ve built the streets far too narrow!”

“I’ve built the streets just as they are in Pompeii,” replied Astridge.

Both men went silent. McMahon seemed to notice his new member of staff for the first time. Nick shifted his feet, uncomfortable under the man’s gaze. McMahon nodded at him. “Well now we can take advantage of some new advice.” The CEO didn’t seem aware of the mood that had swept over the room. “I have business to discuss with Mark. Patrick” – he indicated the young man beside him – “can give you your first tour of the town.”

“T
O BE HONEST
, I don’t know why you’re here.”

Nick had barely stepped on to the road before Patrick made his first pointed observation. He decided not to respond. It was clear this guy’s nose had been put out of joint, and any effort spent trying to correct it would be wasted.

“We don’t need another interpreter,” Patrick continued. “And the town is up and running. I don’t think we need any more historical advice either.”

Nick didn’t say anything. It was clear Patrick was just out of university. They were probably about the same age – both belonged to the generation who’d left university when there were no jobs. A degree in a dead language probably hadn’t done much to help.

“I was brought here to assist Professor Samson.”

“Well, he’s not here.”

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

Patrick shrugged. “No. But as he didn’t get on with Astridge, it wasn’t much of a surprise.” He pointed to a nearby junction. “Well, where first, Dr Houghton?”

Nick didn’t respond. The news that Professor Samson had left continued to rattle around his brain. Something wasn’t right. Finally he managed to bring his focus back. “How about the forum?”

As they travelled further towards the civic centre, the number of buildings increased: shops, houses and taverns. He recognised a few from the design manual. As with the buildings near the Vesuvius Gate, most showed signs of damage, or were partly covered in white canvas to keep the heat and rain at bay. Others were simply piles of rubble.

And then there were the people. He hadn’t taken much notice of the few they’d passed on the way to the House of McMahon, but now he couldn’t help but stare. Men, women and children buzzed past them. The variety of faces and the quality of their clothes matched the variation in the buildings. And the narrowness of the street funnelled all the activity together into a hubbub of heat and noise. He’d always thought the Roman way of mixing housing for the poor and rich together would be a good thing to see replicated in a modern city. But to be poor here must be terrible. Constantly reminded of the vast wealth of those living next door.

“Overall, I think we’ve done a good job,” said Patrick, in English. A few pedestrians glanced in their direction, clearly detecting the strangeness of his words but saying nothing. “Though I’m sure you’ll be able to tell us otherwise.”

Nick didn’t respond.

“Sure, we have a few problems – but they’re getting less severe. The town will soon be self-sufficient and then we’ll be able to spend more time studying it, not just trying to fix it.”

Nick nodded. He doubted the town would ever be self-sufficient, but he’d be pleased to be proven wrong.

“Have you noticed their stature?”

“Yes.”

The Pompeians were short. Nick realised that he’d noted it subconsciously on their arrival, but as the crowd grew his own usually rather average height became more noticeable. Both he and Patrick were about half a foot taller than even the tallest Roman. The throng was also reasonably young; he spotted few faces that looked over forty, at least by modern standards, and the proportion of children and teenagers was high. And there was something else. The Pompeians were staring back at them. As they passed, clusters of people lowered their voices, glancing at them out of the corners of their eyes.

Nick felt his stomach tighten. These people might be quiet now, but did McMahon have enough men if they turned into a mob? Even with all his tricks, and the imperial eagle? Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t particularly want to find out.

“So you translate for McMahon?”

Patrick nodded. “Yeah. When he’s in town. He doesn’t speak any Latin. But, then again, he doesn’t actually go out much.”

“And the people have accepted their new surroundings? They’re not suspicious?”

“Of course they’re suspicious! But at first the shock kept them quiet, and now they seem to be making the best of it. Wouldn’t you? Most of them thought they were going to die. They should be grateful.” He continued in a more lively tone. “And here’s one of our bathhouses!”

Patrick turned the corner and swept his hand towards a large building. Men and women were milling back and forth from between the small shops built into the side of the structure. Similar to a Roman townhouse, thought Nick. Nothing to be seen from the outside, and no space wasted. About halfway along was a doorway through which only men were passing. He could hear the dull echo of activity inside. He remembered the words of one of his tutors: “If you want to understand Rome you must see its baths.” And there they were. Right in front of him.

“It would be good to go in…”

“Maybe later, Nick. Remember, you have plenty of time. The forum’s this way.”

Patrick started to head towards a giant stone arch between the baths and the building on the other side. Despite his host’s eagerness, Nick hovered for a moment. There was a temple near the bathhouse. In some ways it was the focal point of this whole charade: the Temple of Fortuna Augusta. It was typically Roman, with a front-facing portico of five columns supporting a triangular gable that jutted out over the building and its promenade. If he’d been on his own, he would have taken the time to go in. Maybe tomorrow, when Patrick wasn’t looking over his shoulder. He noted that few Pompeians seemed to be giving the temple a second glance. It was odd that they weren’t flocking to the temple of their supposed saviour.

“Finally restored, I suppose,” Nick said. “After being damaged in the earthquake of AD 62?”

Patrick chuckled. “Yeah; all adds to it. Augustus’ temple restored to its former glory.”

Through the archway the narrow street spilled out into the large, open space of the forum. Nick exhaled deeply and stood frozen, ignoring the people flowing past him. Although not as grand as the reconstructions he’d seen of Rome’s civic centre, the forum still reflected the essence of something that had continued long after the fall of the caesars. Like St Mark’s Square, the Grand Place of Brussels, or the long, grassy strip of Washington’s National Mall, this was a place where citizens could come and
know
the power of their city.

Astridge’s buildings rose to different heights all around the square, but the arrangement of columns, porticos and flanking walls gave the illusion the area was fully contained by a single, interlocking structure. And, unlike the more modest baths and the townhouses, these buildings oozed wealth. Though still capped by a flow of red tiles, they were built of stone, not brick. And there wasn’t a trace of damage from the volcano.

“You think we’ve done an okay job now, Dr Houghton?”

Nick nodded dumbly. He wasn’t really listening; he was trying to identify the various buildings. Lining them up in his mind with the ruins he had seen at the real Pompeii, and with artists’ recreations from academic works. He stumbled forward.

The Temple of Jupiter stood to his immediate left, dominating the northern end of the forum. As with the Temple of Fortuna Augusta, a flight of steps led upwards to a platform surrounded by tall, white columns. Inside would be statues of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva. However, unlike its counterpart near the bathhouse, this temple buzzed with activity.

A small crowd waited at the bottom of the steps. The people were quiet, looking expectantly upwards. Several men were standing at the front of the platform. The priest – if that’s what he was – wore a full toga, an additional fold of fabric covering his head. Three other men, close to him, were stripped to the waist. Another man was kneeling.

“Can you see it?”

Nick followed the direction of Patrick’s finger to the top of the steps. Yes, he could see it. Blood was starting to trickle down the steps. If they’d come a few minutes earlier they might have seen the full ceremony; it was clear an animal had just been slaughtered. The man now kneeling at the top of the steps was trying to divine some sort of message from the poor beast’s entrails.

“What have you managed to observe about their religion?”

Patrick shrugged. “Very little. It doesn’t interest me. That’s your field, Dr Houghton. And good luck with it.”

“But surely as someone with a background in the Classics…”

“Eh?”

“You know Latin and Greek?”

“Well, I do now – but my background is in French and Italian.”

Another odd choice. But then Nick thought about the recordings. Would a bunch of classicists be that useful? Was it better just to employ general linguists, who didn’t have the tendency to speak as though they were quoting Cicero?

“Astridge built several temples,” continued Patrick. “But the Pompeians only appear to be interested in this one, another by the Marine Gate, and the one over there.”

Nick glanced across the square. He could see the roof of another large temple just outside the main area of the forum in its own enclosure. From the city plans and his knowledge of Pompeii, he knew it was just as large as that dedicated to Jupiter, but it also came with its own colonnaded courtyard. “The Temple of Apollo.”