Empire of Time E-Book

Daniel Godfrey

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

For fifteen years, the Romans of New Pompeii have kept the outside world at bay with the threat of using the Novus Particles device to alter time. Yet Decimus Horatius Pullus, once Nick Houghton, knows the real reason the Romans don't use the device for their own ends: they can't make it work without grisly consequences. This fragile peace is threatened when an outsider promises to help the Romans use the technology. And there are those beyond Pompeii's walls who are desperate to destroy a town where slavery flourishes. When his own name is found on an ancient artifact dug up at the real Pompeii, Nick knows that someone in the future has control of the device. The question is: whose side are they on?

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Praise for New Pompeii

Also by Daniel Godfrey and available from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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Acknowledgements

About the Author

PRAISE FORNEW POMPEII

“An intriguing spin on the Westworld/Jurassic Park template, this marks Godfrey out as an author to watch.”

FINANCIAL TIMES (BOOKS OF THE YEAR)

“Full of mind-twisting time paradoxes, this conspiracy thriller is a remarkably promising debut.”

MORNING STAR (BOOKS OF THE YEAR)

“Should fill a void in the hearts of many a Michael Crichton reader: a story so irresistibly entertaining, it should be accompanied by a bottomless bucket of popcorn.”

BARNES & NOBLE

“A rollicking adventure in the well-researched but page-turning style of Michael Crichton.”

THE SUN

“The historical detail is impressive, the mystery is interesting, and there’s a chewy time-travel puzzle for fans of the genre.”

SFX

“Fascinating, cleverly wrought, intelligent and occasionally brutal. A thrillingly original take on the time travel genre.”

TIM LEBBON, NEW YORK TIMESBESTSELLER

“A high-concept thriller that brings ancient Rome crashing into the present day. Smart, inventive and action-packed.”

TOM HARPER, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OFTHE LOST TEMPLE

“An impressive debut. A smart, intriguing thriller in the tradition of Michael Crichton and Philip K. Dick.”

GARETH L. POWELL, BSFA AWARD WINNER

Also by Daniel Godfrey and available from Titan Books

NEW POMPEII

THE SYNAPSE SEQUENCE (JUNE 2018)

EMPIRE

OF

TIME

DANIELGODFREY

TITAN BOOKS

Empire of Time

Print edition ISBN: 9781785653155

E-book edition ISBN: 9781785653162

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: June 2017

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2017 Daniel Godfrey

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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FOR SARAH, DAVID, JAMES AND ROBERT

“Turn thy thoughts now to the consideration of thy life, thy life as a child, as a youth, thy manhood, thy old age, for in these also every change was a death. Is this anything to fear?”

MARCUS AURELIUS, EMPEROR OF ROME

1

NovusPart Research Labs, Cambridge, prior to the construction of New Pompeii

MARK WHELAN LEANT over the model and eyed the narrow streets. He took in the rough-hewn buildings of cork, plastic and plywood, and flashed a wide grin. Since he’d last seen it, Joe had pushed matchsticks into its surface. Presumably, they were meant to represent Romans. He flicked one and it toppled all too easily. Beside him, Harold McMahon gave a heavy sigh.

“Relax, Harold.”

“I’m not his damn slave.”

Whelan glanced across to where Joe Arlen sat with his back to them, working at his computer. He hadn’t even acknowledged their presence, but he knew they were there. After all, knowing who had crossed his path – and when – was fast becoming Joe’s specialism.

“Just be patient,” Whelan said, turning back to the model. Nothing was quite at the right scale, but it represented what they’d been working towards for months. Their grand vision of the future, and the way by which they could control it. He noted one of Joe’s more obscure dictums had now been chalked around the edge of the model: The Master of Pompeii will become the Emperor of Time.

“Joe,” said McMahon, his voice heavy, “we’ve all got things to be doing.”

Arlen stiffened in his seat. Whelan hoped he would just go back to his computer. He didn’t.

“There was a girl in those lectures with Professor Jackson,” Arlen said.

Shit, thought Whelan. This again. Professor Jackson. A man so insignificant his telephone number had once been left off the department directory. And yet for Arlen he was suddenly important, because Joe now apparently needed to trace everyone he’d ever met. It was his new obsession. “We’ve identified all the female students,” Whelan said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “There weren’t many of them, were there?”

Arlen turned, and Whelan felt an immediate wave of pity. In many ways, Joe remained as when they’d first met. A guy who’d managed to keep hold of his teenage looks, even though he was much older. And yet his eyes were now red-rimmed, and the fresh-faced excitement of youth had been replaced with frustration and anger.

“No, not a student,” Arlen said. “An assistant. She was helping Jackson. Maybe a post-grad.”

Whelan didn’t respond, but McMahon couldn’t help himself. “I think I remember,” he said. “Yes, didn’t we see them in a restaurant together? You know? That Thai place down by the river?”

Fucking great. Whelan tensed.

Arlen rose from his chair and walked over to them. “The Thai place?”

“Thai Palace,” said McMahon. He laughed. “Or was it an Indian? After all these years, I’m starting to forget. But she had bright red hair and the biggest…”

“No,” said Arlen, suddenly quiet. He put both hands to his temples. “No,” he said again. “She was a brunette. Bangles and a perm. Those lectures were part of all this… and we need to record any possible point of intersection. Because if they were dating it means—”

McMahon grunted. “Jesus, Joe. I was kidding…”

“What?”

“I was kidding about seeing them together,” McMahon continued. “You think an old guy and a girl that good-looking? He wasn’t exactly rich, was he?”

Avoiding Arlen’s glare, Whelan again looked down at the table. He waited for the screaming fit that would surely follow. But it didn’t come. Instead, he noticed a soft white mist start to mingle around their feet. He kicked at it, but the swirls reformed until it looked like he was standing in snow.

And then he knew he was going to die.

Strangely he didn’t try to fight it. Arlen had once predicted his “transportations” would be accompanied by a change in atmospheric pressure. Just enough to spill the moisture from the air before a person was pulled into the future.

He knew that when he woke up – thirty years from now – he wouldn’t have long to live. Maybe he’d get to look Arlen in the face again before a gladiator killed him. Or maybe Arlen would strike the blow personally. After all, that’s what he’d talked about. Even though Joe had first said it as a joke. An off-hand remark to win some petty argument with Harold.

Whelan fixed his eyes on the model. He saw the matchstick men, their red bobbled heads, and wondered why he’d agreed to so much madness. Arlen started to hurl abuse at McMahon. But, almost as soon as it started, the shouting stopped. Arlen vanished.

Whelan waited a few long minutes before speaking. “You saw it too?”

McMahon nodded, then started to retch.

The mist had gone, the implications obvious and immediate: Arlen had been stolen from time, and there were now just two of them left. Carefully, Whelan picked up one of the matches from the model. He snapped it between his fingers, relief flooding through him. McMahon broke into hysterical laughter.

“Thirty years,” Whelan said, slowly. “Our first paradox. So do you think it was me who did it to him, or you?”

McMahon continued to laugh. He didn’t even try to answer.

“So much for New Pompeii.”

Slowly bringing himself back under control, McMahon shook his head. He wiped the slightest trace of saliva from his lips. “It may still have its uses.”

2

New Pompeii, fifteen years after the fall of NovusPart

“SHE KNOWS I’M here?”

The slave on the door nodded. He remained standing at the side of his cubbyhole, his expression close to a smirk. Two guards flanked him.

Decimus Horatius Pullus hoisted his satchel further onto his shoulder. The sooner he could get this over with, the sooner he could get back to his own villa and be done with it all.

A few female slaves darted past him, heading towards the outer courtyards. Their urgency indicated they must be on their way to their mistress. One carried a towel, so perhaps Calpurnia was swimming. He glanced back at the porter and the two guards. The porter grinned at him.

“I need to speak with her,” Pullus said.

“Habitus will be along in a few minutes.”

Pullus sighed, his satchel pulling again on his shoulder. Other than the three men at the door, the main atrium of Calpurnia’s villa was empty. Four Corinthian columns jutted up from the corners of the central impluvium to support the roof, and each wall was covered with a sequential panoramic view of the forum in Rome.

The fine frescos couldn’t hide the fact he’d been given the cold shoulder by Calpurnia. Pullus needed to explain things. But first he’d have to negotiate with Habitus. From somewhere deep in the villa came a metallic sound, almost like the slow drip of water. Which meant young Marcus was getting another lesson in swordplay. Habitus could be some time.

That was all he needed to know. He waited – just long enough for the porter and the two guards to take their collective attention away from him – then ran. Ignoring the porter’s shouts, he continued quickly past a small interior grotto, and made his way out into a larger room, the walls of which were covered in a sweeping depiction of Pompeii’s old harbour. If this had been a townhouse, then the decor would have marked out a tablinum. But this was a room for pleasure, not business.

Calpurnia’s son Marcus and his bodyguard, the frumentarius Appius Hostilius Habitus, circled each other in the centre of the room. Both their faces were set with concentration, and both held real swords – not wooden training ones – ahead of them and ready.

The porter appeared in pursuit, and Pullus was pleased to see he had lost his smirk.

“I told him to wait!”

Habitus ignored the man, who slunk back to his post, and broke off from his training. He walked towards Pullus with his eyes narrowed as if trying to work out a puzzle. Behind him, the boy looked disappointed his fun had been interrupted.

“Pullus,” Habitus said. “We weren’t expecting you for another day or so.”

Pullus frowned. Whilst Marcus’s tunic was drenched in sweat, Habitus hardly seemed out of breath. Calpurnia’s chief bodyguard didn’t appear outwardly athletic. The guards at the door easily out-muscled him but, then again, Calpurnia didn’t employ him to strike any blows. At least, not personally.

Pullus had found Calpurnia’s bodyguard not long after the fall of NovusPart. He hadn’t particularly stood out from amongst the other men in the slave market. Being of average height, and slight build, he’d not been highly valued, especially given the focus on getting manpower to the many farms surrounding New Pompeii. Habitus had simply been unlucky. Visiting the town at the time of the eruption and without any friends, it hadn’t taken long for him to fall into slavery. Yet when Pullus had asked him what he was doing in Pompeii, the academic centres of his brain had all fired in unison.

Grain. Habitus had been ordered to Pompeii from Rome to check on the supply of grain.

Of course, that wasn’t the truth. But the words had caused them both to lock eyes, and it was clear in that moment that they’d both known. And so Pullus had been happy to pay the price. Because keeping watch on the grain supply was often used as a cover for other activities. And Pullus guessed a frumentarius – an Imperial spy – was worth much more over the long term than a simple farm labourer. Unfortunately, Calpurnia and her father had agreed, and taken him for their own household.

“You’ve progressed from the wooden swords?”

Habitus shrugged. “Skill from wood, weight from metal,” he said.

Marcus was sitting in the tablinum, gulping down water and wiping his forehead with a rag. The boy looked shattered. But although the sword he held looked that bit too big for him, his shoulders were starting to broaden. He’d soon be able to bear the weight of it for longer sessions.

“It seems risky.”

“I’m aware that the gods don’t protect us as they do you”.

Pullus caught a momentary scowl passing over Marcus’s face at Habitus’s words. It was clear what the boy was thinking. Pullus had seen it in the eyes of most Romans who’d witnessed the event or heard the story: The gladiator who tried to kill Decimus Horatius Pullus had simply disappeared as he’d been about to strike the killing blow.

“And you’ve finished reading your Beard?” Pullus said to Marcus.

Marcus put down his cup. “Nearly…”

“I take it you haven’t started?”

Marcus looked towards Habitus. But the bodyguard knew better than to get involved.

“Well?”

“I can’t see the point of learning about our failures,”

Marcus said. “I like Suetonius better. I’m on to the Emperor Tiberius now!”

“Your mother—”

Marcus issued a deep, heartfelt sigh. Pullus quickly suppressed a smile. Being a teenager remained universal. Something about the frustration of being so near independence, and yet so far. For Pullus, that feeling had lasted long into his early twenties. Being a Roman boy, Marcus would at least become his own man much sooner.

“Your mother,” Pullus continued, “thinks there are lessons in Mary Beard’s work that will help you avoid the mistakes of the past.”

“But you don’t, do you?”

Pullus grimaced. “We’ll unpick the detail in our lessons.”

“Suetonius—”

“I need to speak with Habitus,” Pullus said, aware his tone was a little too sharp. It reminded him of the teachers who’d irritated him as a student. “We can catch up with your studies later.”

The boy gave another sigh. But after a further show of procrastination, he left. Habitus chuckled. “He’s strong willed,” he said. “Like his mother.”

“She still won’t see me?”

“No.”

Pullus pulled at his satchel, dislodging dirt from the folds of his tunic. He desperately needed to wash and remove the residue of his travels. “I need to speak with her. It’s important.”

“You can speak with me.”

Pullus hesitated. After the fall of NovusPart, he’d been seen as a useful gateway between the Romans and the outside world. Their de facto ambassador. But now there was less and less for him to do when he flew back and forth between New Pompeii and Naples. Which meant his other role as her son’s teacher had become more important, and it remained his one link to Calpurnia.

“Pullus,” repeated Habitus, softly. “You can speak with me. But she won’t see you.”

“She still won’t leave the villa?”

Habitus shook his head. “No. She feels safe here.”

“The people of Pompeii need to see her. If only occasionally—”

Habitus issued a short barking laugh. “And when was the last time you were in town?” he asked. “You spend almost as much time at your villa as she does here.”

The frumentarius had a point, and Pullus didn’t try to argue. It felt a long time since he’d experienced the excitement of first arriving at New Pompeii. But it was so much more comfortable at his villa, away from the crowds and the increasing numbers of people that appeared to want to worship him down at the Temple of Fortuna Augusta. The man whom the gods had protected from the gladiator. The man who couldn’t be killed.

Habitus turned away, back in the direction of the main body of the house. Pullus hadn’t noticed anything, but the frumentarius always seemed to sense things before they happened. Sure enough, a household slave appeared.

“I carry a message from the aediles for Appius Hostilius Habitus.”

“Yes?”

“The latest convoy of supplies arrived at the Marine Gate this morning…”

“And?”

“…one of the men with the convoy has gone missing from quarantine.”

3

Ancient Rome, temporary amphitheatre, AD 62

THE CROWD WAS thin. Achillia took a moment to scan the faces but all she really saw were the empty seats. Most of the men who’d come to the amphitheatre for the early show had pushed themselves right up to the edge of the perimeter wall, and it didn’t look like anyone was interested in moving them back into the right sections.

She heard her name being called by a group of men hovering close to a drinks stand. It rang out alongside the usual boasting about what they wanted to do with her. Achillia ignored them. She tried to focus on the trap doors set into the arena, to sense when they were about to shift. Tried to work out when the first of the beasts would be released and the slaughter would commence.

The other fighters circling around her would be trying to do the same. Six of them, each armed with just a gladius short-sword, and no shield. Achillia looked towards the nearest fighter, checking she was still standing where she’d been told to wait. The animals wouldn’t give them much time, and they’d need to move quickly as soon as the traps opened. Although they hadn’t been paired, working together would reduce the risk of injury. The fighter closest grinned back at her, indicating she too understood.

They were ready.

But the traps didn’t shift.

“We going to fight each other?”

Achillia didn’t move. No, she thought. We’re not going to fight each other. That was stupid: they’d all been given the same weapon. There were no nets, pikes, tridents, or shields. There was, in short, no variety. So they’d be fighting animals, but not the big cats she’d once seen being brought into the ludus. No, something cheap like a warthog. Something small and nasty – and probably starved.

“We going to fight each other?”

Achillia suppressed her irritation. It was one of the new girls, only on her second or third appearance. Decent against a palus training post, but probably not in front of a crowd, no matter how small.

The traps still didn’t move.

Achillia squinted. Covered in a fine raking of sand and stone, they were hard to see. But she’d made a point of reminding herself of their positions when they’d been brought in through the lower gates: there’d be no surprises. Except the lack of animals.

The crowd was starting to turn. Soon the editor wouldn’t have any choice but to start proceedings, whatever was holding things up down in the vaults. Achillia tightened her grip on her sword.

Suddenly she heard panicked shouts heading towards them, people screaming in terror. Achillia closed her eyes. They weren’t going to fight each other. And there’d be no animals. Just unfortunate creatures of a different kind.

She turned towards the gate in the perimeter wall. A group of women were being forced through it by armed guards. They wore expensive tunics, their hair not cut short to their heads as Achillia’s was, but instead arranged in intricate curls.

These were women who didn’t belong in the arena.

No doubt they were here at the command of the Emperor. Probably because their husbands hadn’t bowed low enough, or had failed to laugh at a bad joke. Or had been betrayed by someone looking to take their place. Maybe some of the women were here on account of their own actions, but Achillia doubted it. And it didn’t matter anyway. Today she wasn’t to be a fighter. She was to be an executioner.

The noblewomen were dispersed around the arena at spear-point, the guards throwing swords at their feet. The crowd immediately understood and murmured their approval. Most would no doubt be thanking Jupiter they’d decided to take a chance on the early show. They were going to see their betters brought down to size.

“Pick up the sword!” Achillia yelled at the noblewoman closest to her.

The woman ignored the weapon by her feet and shook her head, as if trying to deny what was happening. Denying the fact she was about to die, when in fact her only hope rested on taking the decision out of the Emperor’s hands, and placing it into the crowd’s. She needed to be brave. She needed to fight.

“Pick up the fucking sword!”

Achillia checked that the nearest trap doors were still shut, but knew it was now unlikely that any animals were going to make an appearance. The editor’s logic was clear. She and the other fighters all had the same type of weapon, but they hadn’t been given any leather pads to protect their arms and legs. She’d assumed this was to increase the chance of blood for the crowd; the frantic kicking of an animal was sometimes hard to control with a sword. But in fact it was because the editor didn’t expect to see any of his fighters injured.

He’d been paid for slaughter, and had decided to maximise the flesh on show. Simple loincloths were more than enough for his fighting girls. No need for pads or armour or shields to stop the crowd seeing jiggling tits as their swords started to swing.

Achillia grunted. The noblewoman in front of her still hadn’t picked up the sword, and she was shaking, her hands clasped, head slightly bowed. The other fighters were not being so patient with their opponents. To Achillia’s left one methodically cut past a noblewoman’s pathetic swordplay, and buried her gladius in the woman’s chest, before withdrawing it and hacking at her throat. The crowd roared as blood spattered across the sand, first a torrent, then a fine spray.

Taking two steps towards her opponent, Achillia shoved the woman hard, knocking her off her feet. She collapsed onto her backside and started to scream. Achillia kicked sand into the woman’s face, and the scream soon turned into coughing.

“Die like a Roman,” Achillia shouted. “Die like a fucking Roman!”

Around them the slaughter was already coming to an end. One noblewoman was dragging herself across the sand, intestines trailing behind her, the novice fighter who’d been so eager before stalking after her, ready to strike the killing blow. But after the initial excitement, the crowd sounded restless. The fights had been too swift. Where was the competition? Where was the fun?

Achillia dropped to her haunches, lifted her blade so that it touched the woman’s face and drew it slowly down across her cheek. She hoped the spilled blood would run into her mouth so this noble bitch could taste it. “Do you have children?”

The noblewoman nodded.

“Do you want to see them again?”

There was no answer. Achillia pushed back onto her feet, then used her right foot to flick the sword into the woman’s lap. “Don’t end your life being a man’s plaything!”

The noblewoman slowly got to her feet. She held the sword out loosely, and started to swing. Too far to the right, then too far to the left, leaving her body exposed. The victory would be easy. But it didn’t need to be fast. From the crowd came a small cheer.

Achillia smiled and lunged forward with her own weapon, catching the oncoming blade halfway through its arc and knocking it aside. She shoved the woman away with her free hand, not letting this rich whore get too close. She met the oncoming blade as it swung again but didn’t knock it from the woman’s grip – even though it would have been easy – slapping her own blade against the noblewoman’s shoulder.

The crowd seemed to get the joke and began to chant. The other fighters joined in, their opponents finished. Achillia let the swordplay continue until she sensed the crowd growing bored. Then she hit the woman hard in the face, dropping her to the ground, and stepped behind her and held her sword to her opponent’s exposed throat.

It was time to give the crowd the decision. Live or die.

4

New Pompeii

PULLUS HEARD THE name clearly, but part of his brain was still trying to dismiss it. Too much time had passed for it to make any sense. And yet his steward stood waiting for his answer, his message dutifully delivered.

“You’re sure?”

Galbo nodded, his weight resting on his staff. He didn’t repeat the name. Although they’d been granted a few minutes’ privacy in the atrium of Calpurnia’s villa, there was always the chance someone would be listening. And it wouldn’t be long before Marcus came to find his teacher to return him to their lesson, especially if he suspected an interesting message had arrived from town.

“Where did you get this from?”

Galbo raised an eyebrow. His stoop was slightly more pronounced than normal but, then again, the old man had travelled all the way out to Calpurnia’s villa from central Pompeii. He hadn’t sent a younger member of the household staff, knowing the message was important. But despite his fatigue, Galbo retained enough sense not to blurt his answer so that it could be overheard. Instead, he beckoned his master forward and whispered directly into Pullus’s ear. “He came with the convoy, then escaped from the quarantine. The now has him.”