In the Shadow of Vesuvius

by Tasha Alexander

  This made me laugh. I was grateful for the distraction and ready to get down to work. From the Herculaneum Gate in the northwest corner of the city, we made our way through structure after structure. The homes of the wealthy proved the simplest to search; there was an obvious path through most of them. The labyrinth of what tourists dismiss as insignificant was more difficult, with countless rooms and storage spaces, stairways and alcoves, and claustrophobic corridors that appeared to lead nowhere.

  While the main streets of the city were relatively wide, the rest were narrow and close, with no space between the façades of the buildings lining them. There was no distinction between residential and commercial areas. Even the largest homes owned by the wealthiest families were surrounded by shops and taverns. Vesuvius loomed over it all, a constant reminder of its destructive force. Our exhaustive exploration gave me an entirely different perspective on the place than I had gained from casually wandering through it as a tourist. Now, I could imagine what it must have been like to live there—constant bustle—and could almost hear the clatter of donkey carts in the streets, the splashing of water, the sound of shopkeepers hawking their goods. What it didn’t do, however, was reveal a single cast of a body that shouldn’t have been there.

  I consulted my map. “We’ve only a small bit of Region IX left to cover. The Central Baths should be straightforward. We’ve finished with the dyehouse and the inn, but there are still two more houses.”

  “More like mazes. I’m beginning to have a deep appreciation for what Theseus suffered in his search for the Minotaur,” Jeremy said.

  “I’m shocked to find you so well versed in mythology,” I said. “Surely you haven’t been reading Bulfinch?”

  “Of course not, but I have paid a certain amount of attention when Miss Carter talks about it. Ladies do like a gent who can listen, and you know I make a habit of hoarding quotes and little bits of useless information that give one the appearance of being educated.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “Heaven forbid anyone realize you actually are educated.”

  “My time at Harrow is eclipsed only by that I spent at Oxford in total hours dedicated to making sure I learned absolutely nothing.”

  “Yet you spent so many more years at Harrow,” I said.

  “My efforts—or lack thereof—were more concentrated at university. I had matured.”

  He wanted us to believe that, and may even have believed it himself, but I remembered his marks at school were never all that bad. He didn’t want to disappoint his father, not that he ever would admit such a thing. After the old duke died during his son’s second year at university, Jeremy did not step up to his new responsibilities, instead making a point of behaving even more outrageously. He took great pride in having come down from Oxford with a degree he claimed would disgrace every Bainbridge ancestor, but at the same time, his refusal to move his mother into the dowager house at Farringdon, the family estate in Kent, offered a glimpse into the gentleman he truly was. He wouldn’t allow her to lose both her husband and her home in one fell blow, regardless of what tradition dictated.

  “The awful truth about you, my friend, is that you aren’t nearly so blackhearted as you’d like everyone to believe,” I said.

  “Don’t ever say such a thing in public, Em. I may have loved you madly since you were ten years old, but I will never forgive you if you destroy my reputation.”

  “I can’t decide which of you is more ridiculous,” Ivy said, dropping onto a stone block in the middle of a bakery. Its large oven, fashioned from brick and shaped like a low beehive (I borrow the description from Herr Mau), looked strikingly similar to its modern counterparts, and three large mills that would have been turned by donkeys, dominated the room next to it. “I’m convinced my heels are bruised. How far do you think we’ve walked today? And how much further do we have to go?”

  Pulling my friend to her feet, I all but dragged her through the Central Baths and the House of Marcus Lucretius. She rallied a bit in the expansive garden at the House of Epidius Rufus, rhapsodizing as to how it must have looked filled with flowers and a tinkling fountain. Jeremy, apparently unmoved, lit a cigarette and paid more attention to its smoke streaming into the sky than to anything else around him. Then, in a room—numbered 20 by Fiorelli—off the atrium, probably used as a triclinium, I noticed something that did not belong.

  The room was decorated with paintings showing the musical contest between Apollo, playing his lyre, and the Phrygian satyr, Marsyas, the first to master the double flute, which Athena had invented and then discarded, not liking the unattractive way the instrument made her cheeks puff. The satyr believed himself in possession of a talent greater than Apollo’s, and the Muses judged the ensuing competition. Needless to say, Apollo won, for he could play the lyre upside down, a feat nigh-impossible with a flute. Four of the room’s panels depicted the Muses, and directly beneath the center of each of them, on the floor, was a single clay disc, similar to those used as voting ostraca in ancient Athens. Once a year, the citizens would vote, yes or no, on a simple question: Is anyone a threat to our democracy? If the majority said yes, they would reconvene a few months later, each person bringing with him an ostracon upon which he had written the name of the man he considered a potential tyrant. (I need hardly mention the Athenian ladies were entirely excluded from this process.) Whoever got the most votes was exiled. Like those used in Athens, the ostraca I found were painted black, with a small hole in the middle. Scratched into the surface of each, revealing the red pottery beneath, was a single word: Hargreaves.

  “This does not bode well for Colin,” Ivy said. “It’s obviously meant as a threat.”

  “Let’s not leave him to have all the fun. My surname is Hargreaves as well,” I said, gathering the discs and wrapping them carefully before putting them into my bag. “Someone doesn’t like us investigating, but that doesn’t necessarily constitute a threat to our safety. It may be nothing more than a message to say we should stop what we’re doing.”

  “Is it too much to hope you will heed the advice?” Jeremy asked. “If you are in danger, I could whisk you off to Rome—no, Florence. I can’t go back to Rome until I’m certain that wretched mother of that wretched girl isn’t still there.”

  “Don’t bother making any travel plans,” I said. “If anything, this encourages me as it suggests the murderer is still in Pompeii, and further, that he isn’t a student of ancient history, given that he chose an anachronistic vehicle for his message. The Romans didn’t use ostraca, only the Greeks.”

  “So not an archaeologist, then?” Ivy asked.

  “Who else but an archaeologist would wrap the body in plaster?” Jeremy asked.

  “The method is not the same as that used by the archaeologists,” I said.

  Ivy pressed her lips together. “Perhaps the difference is meant to deliberately deceive.”

  “A definite possibility,” I admitted. “Regardless, if the murderer is still here, he must either be local or have some connection to the excavations. There’s not much else in the city. Let’s finish our search for casts and then visit the stands outside the ruins to see if any of them sell souvenirs of this sort.” We made our way through the remaining structures in our section of the map, careful not to sacrifice thoroughness to speed, but found nothing else. Our survey of the merchants beyond the ancient walls was only slightly more fruitful. Three of them carried discs of the type we had found. They had Roman names scratched on them, compounding the historical error of their presence. True, the Greeks had colonized southern Italy, but, even so, ostraca did not make sense as a souvenir of Pompeii. When I inquired about this, the merchants all shrugged, unconcerned. How many people would notice, let alone care? Tourists wanted anything that looked ancient. As for who had bought them? No one remembered anything about the customers in question.

  Fatigued, we returned to the villa, where Colin and his daughter were sipping whisky on the terrace with Callie. Kat shot a look that dared me to comment
, so I ignored her. She then convinced Jeremy to join them. So much for his adoption of all things Italian at the exclusion of everything else. I pulled my husband aside, wanting to show him the ostraca privately.

  “You can see that someone painted over the Roman name, let it dry, and then scratched Hargreaves into it,” I said as he examined one of the discs.

  “Ten years of exile, wasn’t it?” Colin asked. “Do you think we’d be allowed to choose the location? I could do with ten years alone with you on Santorini.”

  “Don’t joke,” I said. “You know this is serious. I found them under a group of paintings of the Muses Calliope included.”

  “You suspect Miss Carter might be responsible?” he asked. “Surely she wouldn’t be so clumsy. Drawing deliberate attention to the Muses would be akin to signing her work.”

  “I don’t have any reason to think she’s guilty, but she did admit to seeing Mr. Walker on the boat. Can we take her at her word when she claims not to have an acquaintance with him? If they were involved, he might have followed her to Pompeii. I know it’s absurd, but I can’t help wanting to protect Jeremy. He’s already fallen in love with one murderer and seems rather taken with Callie.”

  “Bainbridge is most decidedly not in love with Miss Carter,” Colin said. “I can promise you other emotions are governing him. He’s a grown man, perfectly capable of protecting himself should it become necessary. You, my dear, are not responsible for him.”

  “I take it you didn’t find anything unusual in your half of the city?” I asked.

  “Nothing to speak of, but I will say that Kat has an uncanny ability to hone in on a person’s character with astonishing speed, a talent her mother possessed as well.”

  I didn’t much relish considering any talent the countess possessed. “Do you think she would be an asset to the family business, as she called it?”

  “I don’t want her to continue her mother’s work, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “I’m well aware of how dangerous that would be. She’s far too young to take on such responsibility.”

  “I may not share the talent that she and her mother do, but am confident I’m on safe ground saying you won’t be able to stop her should she decide to pursue such a course.”

  Colin shook his head and sighed. “Strongheaded ladies are my blessing and my curse. And you, my dear, are without question the most talented lady of my acquaintance, not only when it comes to investigation.”

  I appreciated the compliment but took little pleasure in being part of any group that included the countess. “We must return to the matter at hand. As our search turned up no additional modern casts, it appears our villain has only killed one person. What does that suggest to you? A crime of passion?”

  “Possibly, although he chose a time-consuming method of disposing the body,” Colin said. “Making the cast would’ve involved a not insignificant amount of plaster, and he wouldn’t have been able to move it—a harrowing task, given its weight—until it had dried.”

  “So not Callie, then?” I asked. “Unless someone—her brother, for example—helped her.”

  “We’d need a great deal more evidence before we could support such a claim. Tomorrow we’ll return to the excavations and take a closer look at the shed where supplies are stored. The modern town is too small to have a shop that would sell plaster in that quantity. If he didn’t use what is on hand at the site, he would have had to go to Naples.”

  “Which seems unnecessarily complicated,” I said. “Particularly if he had access to and familiarity with the ruins. How well secured is the site at night?”

  “The gates are locked, but they are hardly impenetrable.”

  “I suspect our villain killed Mr. Walker in the ruins. He could have hidden the body, stayed inside until the site closed, and then applied the plaster under cover of night. The process would not have been nearly so delicate as the casts done by the archaeologists. He wasn’t filling a hollow made by hardened ash, after all, only applying fabric strips coated in plaster to the body. He would’ve had ready access to water. The fountains throughout the city have working taps.”

  “It would have been a messy project,” Colin said. “We should take a walk through the unexcavated areas of the city in the morning. They’re covered by vegetation, but we might be able to identify a clearing he could’ve used as a makeshift workshop.”

  “Have you had any response to the message you sent Mario Sorrentino?”

  “Not yet, but I will keep trying.” He touched my cheek. “It’s good to have a few moments alone with you. I know things are difficult with Kat, and I must apologize again for my choices that led us to this outcome.”

  “There’s no need for you to—”

  “There is, Emily.” He took my hand in his and raised it to his lips. “I am fortunate to have such an understanding wife.”

  Understanding was not a word I would apply to myself. I was still reeling, half-angry, half-stunned, all the way hurt. But how could I admit that to him, when I knew how unreasonable it was? I could not bear to be candid, not when doing so would reveal this unwelcome side of myself. I forced a smile and kissed him on the cheek.

  “We should return to our friends before Jeremy gets himself in too much trouble.”

  Whatever he was up to, we were too late to find out. Ivy and Kat were cozied up on the terrace—the girl made no attempt at concealing her preference for my friend over me—but he and Callie were nowhere to be found.

  “They left together,” Kat said, grinning. “Something about a moonlit stroll, although I wonder how they’ll fill the time before the moon rises. His grace is quite a romantic, isn’t he?”

  AD 79

  10

  Most would judge me harshly for the criticism I hurled at my father. I hadn’t been foolish enough to speak it aloud while we were in Plautus’s presence, but I was no silly child, even then. I awoke long before dawn on the morning after Lepida’s wedding and lingered on my bedroll, wondering what the day would bring. My duties would change now that Lepida was gone, and I considered what this might mean for my future. Claudia, her mother, was a generous mistress. With luck, I would find myself assigned to her, or perhaps I’d assist my father in the library. I was an excellent copyist, receiving frequent compliments on my penmanship, knew how to repair scrolls, and was as familiar with the contents of the library as anyone. I could place my hands on any scroll in an instant and would have no trouble maintaining the collection list.

  So when, after I had pulled on a simple wool tunic and grabbed a hunk of bread from the kitchen, my father summoned me to come to Plautus with him, I had already half convinced myself that I was about to be made his assistant.

  In this, I was both absolutely correct and entirely in error.

  Plautus was in his tablinum, finishing up with some clients. I stood next to my father in the doorway, studying the mosaic on the floor, a jumble of fanciful sea creatures. The octopus was especially fine. The clients left and Plautus waved for us to come forward.

  “I will always be grateful for the care you gave my daughter,” he said, smiling at me. “She would not have taken to her education so well without your encouragement and is now poised to be one of the most influential women in Pompeii, an excellent partner for her excellent husband. All great men know the importance of having a wife upon whom they can rely, and Titus Livius Silvanus will value her.”

  “It was my pleasure, dominus,” I said, my head bowed. “I love Lepida like a sister.”

  “Which no doubt has made you wonder why I did not allow you to accompany her to her new home,” Plautus said. “That, my child, is due to your father. He has purchased both his own freedom and yours. As of today, you are no longer slaves. Lepida will now be your friend rather than your mistress.”

  I remember that moment, and the sharp burning in my gut that accompanied it, as if it had happened today. I was elated and terrified, taken totally aback. My father had never hinted we were so close to manumission. So why t
he burning pain, you ask? Why the need to heap blame on my father? Not for buying our freedom—that took me a step closer to becoming a Roman citizen—but for removing us from Plautus’s house. I had grown accustomed not only to the luxury of it, but to its society, its library, the music and poetry that filled its halls. The sculptures in the garden, the exquisite frescoes covering every wall and ceiling. And now, it would never again be my home. Never again would my work be so free from strife, for the job of body slave and companion to Lepida had never been onerous.

  Quite unlike my new life.

  1902

  11

  To remark, casually, that vegetation covered the vast unexcavated sections of Pompeii grossly underestimates the jungle that Colin, Kat (who insisted on accompanying us, but avoided looking at or speaking to me unless absolutely necessary), and I faced the next day. We slogged through it, but found no sign of where the murderer had covered Mr. Walker’s body with plaster.

  Ivy had stayed at the villa, occupied with her embroidery. Jeremy did not appear at breakfast, and when we ran into him that afternoon, he was still wearing yesterday’s suit, which no longer looked quite so fresh as it had. Kat muttered a few comments under her breath about men who stay out all night, but I did not feel it my place to criticize her for speaking about so inappropriate a subject. Jeremy was in right high spirits and accompanied us on our search of the supply shed in which the archaeologists kept their stash of plaster. Comparing the inventory records with what was actually on hand told us that two large sacks were missing. We uncovered not a single clue as to who might have taken them or when, but at least we knew where the murderer had got his plaster, and his familiarity with the archaeologists’ supplies—not to mention his access to them, for there was no sign of forced entry into the shed—suggested that he had some affiliation to the site.