New Pompeii (22 page)

Taking a few deep breaths, Nick started back to the main
via
. He knew the way, even if he could hardly see it. And he’d staggered back from enough student parties to trust his homing skills. One foot in front of the other and…

He almost fell to the ground, only stopping himself with a quick lurch from his right leg. Yes, the pavements were high, the road low. And, most importantly, the paving was uneven. Adjusting his footing, Nick lifted his feet higher than was natural and continued on his way.

On each side of him, the walls of the townhouses and shops loomed high and close – cutting the sky down to just a narrow, dark strip. Looking up, he couldn’t see any stars, let alone the moon. And of course there was no street lighting. Or any other lighting. The houses all turned inwards, guarding their light as if it might be stolen.

Nick stopped. Should he return to the House of Barbatus? Admit defeat and ask for lodging? He glanced behind him, startled as a wagon creaked its way past. He paused for a moment – waiting for it to move out of earshot – then noticed that, even though the town was dark, it wasn’t silent. Laughter and shouting echoed into the street from behind closed doors. And all around him was the sound of more wagons in distant streets. Of work, of activity.

No. He would push on. He just needed to let his eyes get used to the dark.

Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, he reached a crossroads. Left or right? He went left, forcing himself to walk slowly so he didn’t trip over any unseen hazard. It didn’t work.

It could have been anything. A pile of rotting food, a slick of vomit, or perhaps just some horseshit. Whatever it was, it provided sufficient lubrication for his feet to slide out from under him.

For a few seconds, he thought he’d broken his lower back. “Shit!”

As he got back to his feet, a dark shape appeared beside him. It took a moment to realise it was a man. His breath stank, real pig breath pushing right into his face through a set of badly broken teeth.

“So much for you gods, then?”

The man laughed fiercely. Nick stumbled and the high kerb bumped into the back of his heels. He went down again. Another bite of pain shot up from the base of his spine.

“Here – let me help you, god.”

The man reached down and yanked Nick upwards.

“Thanks,” he said. “Pullus.”

“Urgh?”

“My name. It’s Pullus.”

“Zeus, Mars, Minerva, Juno… Pullus.”

Snaking his arm out of the man’s grip, Nick thanked him again and continued on his way. After a few steps, he looked back. The Good Samaritan had already been consumed by the pervading darkness of the street. But Nick knew he was still there – somewhere. After all, he could still smell the breath and…

Crack!

A sickening odour of shit and piss erupted around him – and a few droplets of liquid ran down his shins. From above, a pair of shutters clattered shut.

Great.

Ignoring the pain in his back, Nick pushed on. He really needed to get back to the House of McMahon; it would take him no more than ten minutes. He tried to keep in the very centre of the road – keeping a good watch above for more flying sewage.

Another wagon came into view. It had just turned into the street from the junction ahead and was now rolling towards him. Cursing, Nick hopped up on to the pavement and took a position between two high windows.

A sudden glint of moonlight allowed him to see the driver’s face. Not for long. Maybe just two or three seconds and then he was gone. But Nick recognised him almost instantly. The scars of a face ravaged by the pox. The Roman from the control villa.

Felix.

Nick stumbled down into the road, watching the wagon disappear. Hadn’t Whelan said he wasn’t allowed into town? Yes, he was almost certain. But there he was, driving a wagon and delivering supplies.

Nick took a couple of steps forward while feeling for his belt. He needed to know where Felix was heading. He wouldn’t be able to stop the wagon, but if he could toss the buckle into the back then at least Whelan would be able to track its movement. However, as he slipped the belt from his waist, the dark shape of the Good Samaritan moved out of the shadows. The man blocked his path and pushed his face close. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

Nick tried to pull away, but the man shoved him in the chest. He felt the belt slip out of his hand. Further along the
via
, the wagon continued to rumble away. “I really don’t know what you mean,” said Nick. “Look, I’m just trying to get home.”

The man used his other arm to grab Nick’s shoulder. “You’re from the house that runs things here. Everyone knows you control our food.”

“The aediles—”

“Are two pale shits.” The man issued a barking laugh, which stopped almost as suddenly as it started. “You run things. So why do you keep me down, and give others so much?”

Nick tried to wriggle free but couldn’t. The wagon had turned into another street, the noise from its wheels dissipating with every passing second. And there wasn’t anybody around to help him. Could he shout for help? Would anyone in the surrounding houses even hear him?

And would they venture out to help a stranger anyway?

The man clearly sensed his lack of focus. He let go of Nick’s chest – and then drove his fist in just below the breastbone. With the air forced from his lungs, Nick’s legs buckled, but the man kept a tight grip on his shoulder and held him upright. Stopped him from falling beside his belt and its emergency alarm.

“Look at me!” he screamed. “You’ll fucking look at me!”

Nick opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. He had no air. He looked down. He needed to get to his belt.

“I thought I was going to die that morning,” the man shouted. “I was down on my knees. I couldn’t breathe. It was like I was in a baker’s oven. But I wasn’t. I was in the street – being covered by ash.”

“Wait…”

“I thought I was going to die! And then I’m in some sort of camp, with all these strange people around me. People like you. Tall, and speaking in some godforsaken tongue! So tell me, god, man or whatever you are – is it true? Are we already dead?”

The man started to laugh. Not the barking madness of a few minutes earlier, but the belly laughter of a man who’d finally got the joke. “It’s true what they’re saying, isn’t it? We’re in Elysium!” The man’s face twisted. “So why do
they
get to live for eternity in their big houses – and I end up sleeping in my own piss!”

With the dam of frustration broken, the man threw another couple of punches. Nick put his arms up to deflect the blows, but they came too fast. He slid down to the pavement.

K
IRSTEN STRUGGLED TO
catch her breath. She knew where she was. The basement had turned out to be under the student lodgings in Chaderton Court. Which meant she hadn’t even left the college. She’d emerged only a few hundred metres from her own staircase.

She stopped for a moment and allowed her body to recover. Her lungs were still burning from the effort of her escape. She rubbed her right shoulder. It was probably already starting to bruise where she’d rammed the man in the canvas coat aside.

She tried to relax. He’d still be locked away where she’d left him. Hollering to get attention just like she’d done. But with one big difference. There was no one to hear him.

She glanced around. Chaderton Court was unlike the rest of the college, built in a gothic style at odds with the classical sandstone and columns of the front quad that separated it from the city beyond. It was clearly early evening; it was still just about light enough to see outside, but the student rooms were slowly lighting up. Getting out was going to be easier said than done. The college sat right in the middle of the city centre but it was surrounded by a high stone wall. At this time, most of the gates would be closed. She would need to head for the front quad, and then get past the porters guarding the lodge.

Suddenly she heard voices heading her way. Shouting.

The man in the canvas coat was still locked up. But he had a walkie-talkie. He must have called for help.

N
ICK WOKE, AND
immediately wished he hadn’t. His ribs had taken the majority of the beating, but a dull throbbing also extended from his jaw all the way up to his right temple and a stinging sensation cut across his legs and forearms. He touched his face gently, and felt the ache turn into a lancing pain. A couple of teeth felt loose.

He let his eyes open. He wasn’t lying in the street. Instead, he was on the hard floor of a building. He twisted and pushed himself up on to a sore elbow. Someone had laid him on a pile of cushions, but his makeshift bed must have moved in the night, leaving him resting on nothing more comfortable than a wooden floor. He swore and tried to drag a few cushions back underneath his body, but they provided only limited comfort. He was going to have to stand up.

It was clear he wasn’t in the House of McMahon. The room was small, a large bed had been pushed up against one wall, and a few odds and ends of furniture were squeezed in around it. In many ways, it looked like a studio flat. Except there was no kitchen or toilet. Just a small brass piss-pot at the end of the bed.

The realisation pushed down hard on his bladder. Groping for the pot, Nick hitched up his tunic and took careful aim. There was liquid already in it. His own piss would just have to add to the mix. It was only when he’d finished that he realised his belt was missing. It made his tunic look like a mini-dress.

“You’re not dead, then?”

Nick turned, hot liquid soaking the tips of his fingers. There was a woman in the bed. She was buried deep among the sheets and pillows, staring up at him with sleepy eyes. Nick tried to engage his brain. He slowly put the piss-pot back on the floor, and wiped his hands across the back of his tunic. She’d spoken to him in Latin. She was Roman.

“No,” said Nick. “Not quite.” He stumbled for something to say. The woman kept staring at him. “Thank you for helping me…”

“You can thank Canus when he gets back. He dragged you in off the street.”

Nick nodded, tongue-tied with embarrassment. All he could hear was the settling froth from the pot. He gestured towards it. “Sorry.”

The woman shrugged. “Better there than on the floor.”

“This is your… apartment?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve not been here before? Canus said you were a friend.”

Canus?
Nick racked his brain. Had he been introduced to a Canus?

A sudden movement at the door answered his question. It opened, and Patrick stepped through from a stairwell. He gave Nick a look of concern. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

The woman laughed. “His body may be, but I don’t think his brain is. He doesn’t know who you are!”

Patrick grinned and strode forward, taking hold of Nick’s right hand and giving it an exaggerated shake. “Appius Seius Canus. Pleased to meet you. And you are?”

Nick pulled his hand away, unimpressed by Patrick’s attempt at humour. “Pullus.”

“So what happened?”

Involuntarily, Nick’s gaze flicked to the bed. The woman rolled her eyes. “You boys talk, I’m staying here.”

“Well, I’m needed at the forum this morning,” said Patrick, looking towards her. “Perhaps I could meet you later?”

For a few seconds the woman didn’t move, but finally she got the hint that Patrick wanted her to leave. As she slid out of the sheets, she muttered something under her breath. It sounded offensive, but Nick couldn’t hear through the noise of blood beating in his ears. The woman was naked, and didn’t seem in a particular hurry to retrieve her
stola
from the floor. She finally pulled it on over her shoulders, and swung the door shut behind her.

“If your face wasn’t so bruised, I’d say you’d gone a rather fetching shade of red.”

Nick shrugged and pressed his fingers into the side of his face. Another jab of pain shot through his jaw. “Not very modest, was she?”

“Different culture. Most people’s homes consist of just one room, so there’s little mystery about what’s under everyone’s tunic.” He laughed. “You’ll get used to it, especially once you’ve been to a bathhouse.”

“Bathing must be segregated,” Nick replied, unimpressed. “Pompeii bathhouses had separate areas for women, and sometimes they had completely separate buildings.”

“Yes,” agreed Patrick. “But have you been to one of their communal toilets? I can assure you that they have no problem taking a shit together.”

Nick nodded, wanting to change the subject. “Was she…?”

“No. If you were going to ask if she’s a whore, then the answer is no. She works in a bakery. We got talking a few weeks ago and then decided to break bread, so to speak.”

Nick smiled, trying to ignore the pain from his ribs. “Well, be careful. She won’t wait until you’ve got down on one knee before she claims you as her husband. Roman marriage is based on cohabitation. Although I’m a bit surprised that Whelan and McMahon…”

“They don’t know. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.” Patrick’s face had turned to stone. “McMahon thinks of these people as his puppets. He doesn’t mind the security teams paying the odd visit to a brothel, but I’m sure he’d be pissed off if he thought I was actually in a relationship.”

Nick’s smile turned into a grin. It was worth the pain. “And are you? In a relationship?”

“I’m serious, Nick.”

Nick’s throat was suddenly dry. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t say anything.”

Patrick grunted his thanks. “So what happened last night?”

“I was mugged.”

“Clearly. But you should know Whelan went apoplectic. You caused us a lot of trouble. We sent some men out to find you.”

“I was unconscious in a gutter…”

“Well your belt was in a rather seedy bar.”

The GPS tracker. So, it did work. If he’d only managed to get it into that damn wagon.

“Our men beat the shit out of the guy who took it from you,” continued Patrick. “He couldn’t tell us where you were, but I found you a couple of hours later and dragged you back here. I figured it was probably better for your safety than handing you over to Whelan. Even though you’ve seen I had other things to do last night.”