Chapter 15 - In Britanicum Again

I told agent John that the first thing that I wanted was to get something to eat. There was a restaurant in the airport building. He led the way and found a table in a discreet corner. While I was eating my beef stew, he plied me with questions.
'How did the project go, James? One thing I can tell you is that it's now up and running, I hope it proves successful. There were many traders waiting for it to be available, and the price has shot up compared to Cryptocoins. I mean, it was just what everybody needed. Clever old Montafian! And did you get your fee?'

'…'

'Good! And well deserved. Actually, I think you were wise to get out when you could. We were afraid that he would try and keep you hostage. Glad to help you get out. Did you know that Montafian is totally ruthless? He started out with a small gang of scavengers soon after The Virus and just kept expanding. Anybody that gets in has way he just eliminates. The Gnomes of Paris, ha!  More like goblins. He must be getting near the end of what can be scavenged and is trying to diversify. Mind you, he is a clever devil and this gold Sols and hospital stuff may work out very well in the end. And what about his project to create a modern hospital in his secret base? I'm told he has big plans?'

'…'

'Oh? I was hoping you could tell us all about it. And do you really think one of our planes could land on Boulevard Arago now that they have cleared it of trees and other obstacles? You could see it from your office window, right?'

'…'

'Forty metres wide you say? I suppose it's possible as the wingspan is just under 24 metres. Yes, with computer control it might well be. Good! Patients could be flown right in. That's what's really wanted—proper medical care. It seems there are a lot of old hospitals round about there with recoverable stuff. Plenty of old cemeteries too, haha. I wish him every success. Never know, might need to go there myself…you never know… Is his security as good at the say?'

'…'

'Really? Well-guarded, eh? Maybe I'll subscribe for a pot of gold then too. Going up like a rocket at the moment. All aboard!'

'…'

'So all the food comes in by rowing boat. How can that work? Old rail line? That makes sense. And what condition was the old track from Saint-Rémy in?'

'…'

'Not so good, eh? Not to worry, we have a better idea. Oh yes. I know that there are old steam locomotives in repairable condition sitting in a shed at a place called Longueville, east of Paris. There for the taking if the track is good enough. It's the fireboxes that always give out, it seems. They're telling me that they could be converted to granulated charcoal. We shall see.'

'…'

'Of course, the most important thing is to have a solution to the energy problem. Without energy, it's just manpower and horsepower, right? We have the solution: granulated charcoal, fluidised beds, gasification. All not a problem with these forests all around. Our friend Montafian doesn't have an energy source, does he? The oil for his generators will run out soon, and where will he be then? But fair's fair, right? Let him guard the gold and provide the medical care. We all need it. One hand washes the other.'

'…'

'There's something else I wanted to mention, James. It seems that you have experience with making smart machines. Well, we sincerely hope that you will find a place to exercise your talents here in Britiniacum. Where better, eh? How could we let you go? haha! This is a great place! Dogs are welcome here! And we've found you a great place to stay: a Roman villa replica, just for you. There will be nothing to pay. We need your help. You know Pete, don't you? I can get him to show you round and settle you in as soon as you've finished your lunch. No, it's no trouble. Of course you can go by yourself if you prefer. You can't miss it: Villa Aurelia. Here's the key. Straight down the road with the other villas.'

'…'

'You will, of course remember what Meg told you about dealing permanently with Buonaventura. That is the next thing that remains for you to complete your deal. I am giving you time to come up with a plan. Talk to her if you need.

'…'

'It definitely was part of the deal. Anyway, I'll have to be going now. I'll drop in at your villa tomorrow to see what can be arranged, okay? I'm sure you're going to fit in here perfectly.'


He finally left me to finish my meal in peace. I had always thought that in interrogations the trick was to get the suspect blabbering and to find contractions then point them out until it gets into a muddle and finishes by blurting out the truth. If you want to be a successful liar you really do need a good memory. Agent John seemed to be doing it all the other way round. Was this just him being unprofessional or some deeper double-trick? Did it matter?

I decided against the rhubarb and custard dessert, told the waitress that it was a town expense account meal and walked off down the track to find the villa he had been talking about. I asked a woman on the way and she pointed and said, 'Straight ahead,' giving me a funny look due to my gun and urban camo costume. I said, 'I'm a hunter,' and pointed at Queenie who was trying to sniff her. She seemed relieved.

I had wondered why the controllers' houses in Deva had been modelled after Roman villas, but when I saw the way the centre of Britiniacum was designed, it made more sense. Here the houses had gates that opened onto the street with a built-in shop on each side. Villa Aurelia was the sixth one down. I operated the bell-pull on the gate, a solid structure of thick pieces of wood with ornate carvings round the edges: a bell clanged, I waited, heard footsteps, scrabbling, then a small hatch with a metal grill opened and a voice said, 'Dominus?'
'I'm James Walters. I was told that I could stay here.'
'Yes, Dominus, we were awaiting you. We will open the gate. Please come in.'

Then one side of the gate opened outwards, pushed by the arm of an old man who was nodding and smiling, beckoning me in. Efficient organisation by agent John. I was impressed.

I stepped in and Queenie followed me. The old man and a woman were lined up to greet me in a dim archway leading to a sunlit court further in.
The old man said, 'I'm George, the manservant'—I shook his offered hand—'and this is Freya, our maidservant.' I nodded to her and she curtsied. Amazing!

Freya was young and good-looking. Not too tall, not too slim. She had red hair, tied in a cloth, and a fresh, friendly, freckled face. She could have been the younger sister of Mr Helpful. George was a bit old and bent but looked amiable and knowing.

They carefully closed the gate then led us round the house. The Roman villa looked inwards onto cloistered courtyards. On the outside, there were high blank walls with small barred windows; on the inside, there was a safe and private space. That's what a controller likes! Me too.
This house had two open courtyards. The first one, leading off the street, was paved and had a pool with flickering fish. Round it were rooms on two levels. The second courtyard featured a grass lawn and was surrounded by cloisters. And right at the back was a modest kitchen garden. It seemed that the commercial premises at the front and sides of the building didn't connect to the interior but were rented out to traders. All very liveable.

Freya was all for making me something to eat and drink, but I felt tired out and set myself up in my bedroom above the dining room. Alone at last, I undid my pack and put my things in a cupboard, took my boots off with a sigh of relief, stretched out on the bed and had a think. My communicator was something I always had on me, but somehow it didn't satisfy. I needed a good computer. I missed the one that I'd left in my module in Deva. However, it could hardly have been safe to try and get it back. I suppose I could have asked Meg to try to get it, but I still owed her a way of toppling Buonaventura, and if I disappointed her it all might end very badly.

I thought about buying one, so I checked my resources. My cryptocoin stash was low but my Sols were going through the roof. Agent John had been dead right; a lot of people wanted to unload their dodgy Cryptocoins and get new Sols in exchange for them. The value of the Sol had already tripled and was still going up. Montafian would be delighted with the commissions he would be getting. He would hardly be sending Fat Freddy to hunt me down now. Relief!

And if Sols were going up so well, I could afford the best computer going. I could also just get a new body for Anna (actually listed as “Hentai Maid”) from the Japanese supplier and to hell with Buonaventura. I decided that I would stall with Meg's caper until I had Anna's assistance again. I still didn't have a plan to put the skids under Mr B and she would certainly be able to help me with that. Then what? I hadn't really thought about it. Could we set up house here in this villa? Somehow I couldn't quite see it. Maybe she wouldn't hit it off with Freya. Suddenly complications seemed to grow in all directions, like a supersaturated solution suddenly crystallising. Maybe I shouldn't put her new brain back in and just leave her in “dumb chick” mode. Maybe that's a happier state to be in. No… I had a duty to myself—and to her—to revive her. You might say that the state frozen in her brain computer (and the two backups I had made to be on the safe side) was in many ways a human life. I realised that there could be no turning back now or my life wouldn't make sense. I only wished the problems wouldn't keep circulating through my consciousness. Also, I could see that my uneasiness was beginning to upset Queenie. 'It's okay, girl, everything's fine,' I told her, but she seemed only half convinced, and just wagged her tail limply and gave me the look.
It seemed that I had achieved controller-status and had a great place to live. I turned to my communicator and ordered the best computer I could, regardless of expense. I lay there on the bed staring at the painted ceiling and wondered if the freckles on Freya's face extended all over her body. I must have drifted off to sleep because, the next thing I knew, someone was knocking on the door. I said, 'Come in,' and there was Freya, looking a bit bashful, telling me that it was four o'clock and that tea would be served in the peristylium in half an hour.

There was something about having tea on a lawn in a safe and private place in bright spring sunshine, especially after a dangerous and dodgy mission. All I needed was some company. Still, after making conversation with agent Marty at every meal and having to listen to his unending chatter, it was quite nice to have some peace and quiet. It seemed to me that it would strike a false note and hardly be fair or worthwhile to try and get information out of the servants (I was slipping into master-mode without even thinking), so I just sat there blinking in the sun at my little table, with my legs stretched out and the brim of my cap well down, enjoying the situation. That made me think about clothes. I called George and asked about finding clothes in Britiniacum, as I only had the stuff I was issued at La Santé (apart from what Edward had given me, which hardly seemed suitable). He told me that the usual way was to find a tailor and have clothes made and would I like to have some tailors come to me. I said, 'Why not,' and he told me he would arrange for someone to come round to the villa. He also told me that dinner would be at eight, if that was alright.

I asked him where he was from. He told me that he and Freya were Outsiders and had found shelter in Britiniacum but were not Townsfolk. 'So we have to work here, but that's okay; we really like it here. We're lucky to have the chance. We hope that we'll become Townsfolk eventually.' He added that many Outsiders worked in the sheds and workshops of Britiniacum too. They were all excited about the prospect of being paid with the new gold Sols that they had heard about rather than with the sacks of grain and baskets of potatoes they had been paid with up till now. Interesting! Maybe agent John could show me round the means of production.

Without my prompting him, he told me Freya's story. Apparently, she and her parents had been living as best they could in the outlands and were doing well enough until they were attacked by prowlers who killed her parents, stole everything and had their way with her until she managed to escape and end up here. 'A bad, bad story. Lucky she didn't get knocked up,' George said. I guessed his own story wasn't much better. I decided to treat them as well as I could. I rather liked our little household.
I thought I would go out and have a look round the town with Queenie. There were two stalls in front of our villa. One was selling vegetables, mostly last-year's roots it seemed; it must have still been too early in the year. The other was selling woven baskets of all shapes and sizes. Further down the street we wandered among a bustle and rush of shoppers and such. At one point, I thought I recognised coppicer Pete and quickly turned down a side alley. It was a lot quieter there between the high walls of the villas on either side. The alley led to a lane at the back. I came to a small field with two un-inquisitive horses. Beyond it was the industrial zone of Britiniacum: sheds of all kinds, each on a separate plot. Way at the back, I spotted the bright metal walls of the great aircraft assembly hall that I had visited with Edward. I turned back and found my way to the main street again: no Pete in sight. Time to explore a bit further.
One thing that struck me was that the people seemed full of life here. Back in Deva, the atmosphere was heavier. Drones shifted out of the way unwillingly for controllers escorted by wardens, while technicians like my colleagues and I were caught between them, disliked or distrusted by either group. We were “class traitors”, I suppose. I liked the feel of Britiniacum. I had the impression that the management system of the town was better arranged. Here in Britiniacum, representatives, chosen by lot, formed a council that oversaw the work of professional administrators, and the guards and wardens reported directly to the council.

A bit further down the street was a market square, which was being tidied up for business early next morning. According to a notice, it opened at six in the morning every day but Sunday. This square was surrounded by larger and more substantial buildings, all of brick like the villas. Presumably, this was the town's administration centre, where the council sat.

Following the street further, brick construction gave way to wood. Here the houses were clapboard sided, some decorative and some plain. There were rows of low-rise buildings with wooden boardwalks: offices and shops. This was the part of town I had seen with Edward. Still further down, the road became a track through fields leading all the way to the perimeter. I turned round and went back.

When I got back to my villa, George let me in. He told me that agent John had left word that he would drop by the next day at tea time. He also told me that a tailor would be coming the next morning at nine thirty. Inside the villa, the shadows were lengthening so the lamps were being lit: Britiniacum had not got round to installing a public electricity supply, so we had to use oil lamps, the smell of which pervaded much of the villa. But you got used to it. At least my communicator ran on a direct-ethanol fuel cell. As far as heating went, there as a wood stove in the dining room and wood-fired range in the kitchen, so we were quite comfortable. I still wondered what it would be like in January. I supposed you got used to the cold too.

I had my dinner in the dining room and they had theirs in the kitchen. Freya had brought in my meal on a tray and fussed over laying it all out properly before me: steaming potée au choux with fresh bread, a jug of local red wine, a piece of cheese and some fruit. Proper French comfort food. Just what I needed.

Freya reappeared to clear away and bring me cup of coffee. As she was leaving, she turned to me with a coy smile and asked, 'Will you be needing anything else?' I said I wouldn't (half regretting it). I sat there, in the dim dining room, listening to the quietness of the villa. Another boring, lonely evening in perspective. It reminded me of when I was back in my module in Deva, like a lonely monkey pining in a cage.

Here, there was no computer to interact with, just my little communicator to send messages. At the back of the room there were shelves of old books, presumably scavenged from the empty homes of the dead. Most of them were in French, but there were some in English, notably a full set of paperbacks with lurid covers and discoloured pages by some early twentieth-century author called Dennis Wheatley. I picked out The Devil Rides Out and, bored stiff, sat down near the lamp to read it.

It was a well-written but silly tale of a set of heroes who finally triumph over a devil-worshipper cult, all set in high-society England between the two world wars. I soon got immersed in the book, despite myself. I kept on reading it until I got to the end, hours later.

Then reality flooded back and I felt cheated, by myself. Even reading a book like that barely helped. Company and entertainment seemed to fulfil a basic need in humans, and indeed in other animals, of not letting the mind freewheel. If the mind had nothing to keep it occupied, it turned back on itself and tried to rationalise. We understood ourselves and other beings in terms of their motivations, and so to understand the world we naturally ascribed meaning to it. Then we were forced to accept that the world and life didn't have meaning: they just were. There was no use in asking why but only how. This made the world a cold and empty place of immanence without transcendence—and of frightening meaninglessness.

To break the mind out of this pattern of thought, one could whistle or, better, watch an old film, listen to music, have a row with the family or read a book like The Devil Rides Out. Anything but be left in front of oneself—the Zen paradox.

Also, we seemed to somehow need to retain a grain of magic in life to make it liveable. I found that contact with nature helped a lot. I couldn't help thinking of my trip up the River Seine as a moment to treasure, although it nearly ended so badly, and despite my having nearly shot the survivors in the water. For instance, the books of J. R. R. Tolkien conveyed a feeling that the world was becoming a dull, mundane place as the elves and even Sauron departed. Also, it seemed that, in nineteenth-century England, there had been a romantic movement that sought to counterbalance the feeling that magic was seeping out of life—with poetry and paintings that attempted to show a transcendent side to the human condition. Yet much of this was imbued with feelings of almost unbearable loss and regret. I was reminded of an extract from a poem by Lord Tennyson from that time:

        O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
                And thinner, clearer, farther going!
         O sweet and far from cliff and scar
                The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

And a poem in Chinese by Su Dongpo (1009—1066):

庐山烟雨浙江潮，未到千般恨不消。
到得还来别无事，庐山烟雨浙江潮

Mount Lu in misty rain; the tidal waves of the River Zhe.

When I had not seen them, no rest from the pain of longing!

I went there and returned…
It was nothing special.
Mount Lu in misty rain; the tidal waves of the River Zhe.

And a bon mot by Woody Allen from the Annie Hall screenplay:

It reminds me of that old joke - you know, a guy walks into a psychiatrist's office and says, hey doc, my brother's crazy! He thinks he's a chicken. Then the doc says, why don't you turn him in? Then the guy says, I would but I need the eggs. I guess that's how I feel about relationships. They're totally crazy, irrational, and absurd, but we keep going through it because we need the eggs.

And I needed Anna. Meanwhile, I was still wondering what she meant by “we will need to pass on our union in some sublimated way”, one of the last things she had said to me.

It was time for bed. I took a lamp from its bracket and went upstairs to the bedroom, somewhat warmed by the fire in the room below. I got ready to go to bed in the silent house. When I was under the covers, again I found myself thinking about how the mind needed to be kept occupied, and I wondered how it would be with Anna back. It also occurred to me that, actually, I didn't really need to reinstall the brain in a body. I could just as well run it and communicate with it without installing. Well, I didn't feel ready for that, and anyway the brain was still at Aigrefoin.

The next morning was cool and misty, a sign that it would probably be a sunny, warm day. Breakfast was at eight o'clock, so I washed, dressed and came down the stairs to the dining hall. George and Freya trailed in to wish me a good morning: what did I want for breakfast and what were the instructions for the day? George reminded me that a tailor would be coming that morning and that agent John would be coming for tea, which meant four thirty sharp.

After breakfast, I had a good look round the villa with George as a guide. He explained to me how the water systems worked and how the roof didn't leak. I asked him who owned the villa and he told me that a ten-year lease had been put in my name and was surprised that I didn't know that. There were cleverly-made Roman-style mosaics on the ground floors and Art Deco frescos on the walls. All very cheerful and bright. In one room leading off the peristylium there was a household shrine dedicated to Mithras the Sun God with a candle burning. George asked me if I would be holding a service there on Sundays? To this I rashly answered, 'Of course,' then started wondering how I would do it. At least Sunday was a few days away. Maybe I could ask agent John.

The little visit was cut short by the doorbell. It was the tailor, exactly on time.

He was a small man with a twinkle in his eye who immediately started to flannel me. 'Greetings, Dominus. Such a pleasure to meet you. What a fine villa. May I enter? I will remove my shoes, with your permission. I'm Aymar, at your service, tailor by trade. Your man graciously invited me to see if I could be of service. May we proceed to the fitting room? I will show you my wares.'

This was the first I had heard of a “fitting room”, but George seemed to know, and led the way.

One of the smaller rooms off the atrium had been set up with table, shelves and mirror, I was interested to see. This was some kind of setup. I pretended not to mind.

George then left us to it, at which Aymar rummaged in his capacious bag, proudly produced a book of sketches and flourished it in the air. 'Allow me to present my humble book of croquis.' He placed the sketchbook on the table and proceeded to turn the pages to show me. To cut a long story short, he finally persuaded me that the latest fashion was Russian dress, which according to him was particularly practical and the latest thing that everyone wanted to wear—although he would give my order top priority, of course. So, it was round-neck loose shirts, red and black trousers, boots and astrakhan hat for me, simpler stuff for George and a couple of long dresses for Freya, one red and one blue, and boots for going out. While he was offering me credit, I reflected to myself that I could easily afford this (although I had done my best to bargain anyway).

I asked him about underclothes for Freya and he tittered, 'Oh no, really? Our womenfolk don't wear them. No need! Nothing like a bit of fresh air, hihi.' I remembered Jemima and realised that he must have been right. This wasn't Deva.

He finally left, promising to come back straight after lunch for the first fitting. George and Freya were both excited about the idea of new clothes, and for free. Actually, I was a bit excited too.

As promised, he came back after lunch and measured us all, trying to impress us with French tailoring terms such as fils de sens, droit fil, trois ronds de fronces and très bien comme il faut. George stood stiff and proud as he was measured. Freya turned out in a long nightdress affair that was rather thin and got tape-measure giggles, looking at me slantwise.

When he was finally finished, promising to come back the day after tomorrow for some fittings, it was time to get ready for tea with agent John.