In the Shadow of Vesuvius

by Tasha Alexander

  “A Greek girl like you should prefer the Iliad,” he said, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes disapproving.

  “I was born in Pompeii and raised in a Roman household. I’m more Roman than Greek,” I snapped, “so don’t be impertinent.”

  “Even if I didn’t know your ancestry, your golden hair would have alerted me to your Macedonian roots. You shouldn’t be ashamed of them.”

  I bristled as he said this, hating his words. “I have no interest in discussing anything with you other than the frescoes in my room.” He and his crew had already completed much of the rest of the house, and I had to begrudgingly admit that his work was good. Naturally, my father had chosen scenes from Greek mythology and epics; he was proud of his heritage. But it was Melas’s miniature landscapes that most captured my imagination. Those, and the delicate floral garlands in our triclinium.

  Melas said nothing more about Greece or Rome, about Virgil or Homer, but pulled out a tablet and silently started to make sketches as I described what I wanted. By the time I had convinced him to include a panel showing the scene from the Aeneid in which Venus appears to her son dressed as Diana, it was nearly time for dinner, and my father interrupted us.

  “Kassandra, my dear, fetch us a meal from across the street. Melas, will you join us?”

  “I’m sure he’s better things to do, Father,” I said.

  “I would be delighted to, Aristeides,” the painter said. “Perhaps your daughter can explain to me all the ways she finds Virgil superior to Homer.”

  My father laughed. “Don’t encourage her. She will come around to the truth on her own, if we give her enough time and space.”

  I glowered at them, pulled on a veil, shouted for our slave Telekles—no Roman sees irony in the fact that former slaves own slaves of their own—and went to Galen’s wretched thermopolium. Graffiti, painted red, covered the upper sections of the walls on either side of his doorway, begging votes for Cnaeum Helvium Sabinum, who was running for aedile. According to the message, Galen’s waitress Maria was doing the asking. I’d never heard her express the slightest interest in politics. Galen greeted me warmly, calling me by name, and, as always, insisted on speaking Greek. I told him we needed food for three and that I didn’t care what it was. While he filled containers for me, I ducked into the bakery three doors down and got one of their last loaves of bread. Ordinarily, I went to one further away, where the owner ground his own wheat and baked all day, but I didn’t care if what we had tonight was slightly stale. I had no desire to impress Melas.

  Telekles chafed whenever he was called on to serve me. He had aspirations of becoming a copyist and much preferred waiting on my father. He carried the tray Galen had prepared only after telling me it was beneath him. Telekles was twelve years old, but behaved more like a man of forty. I quite liked the contradictions in him.

  Back at the house, my father and Melas were in the triclinium, reclining on adjacent couches. I cringed. Here we were, entertaining a tradesman, about to dine on street food, and they were sprawled out as if ready for an elegant banquet. I bit back my criticism. As mistress of the house, if I wanted things to improve, I would have to see to it myself.

  To be fair, Galen had done a respectable job. His chicken in prune sauce was better than I could have hoped, and he’d put some lavender in the salad. My father always insisted on drinking decent wine, and tonight was no exception. A flagon of his finest Falernian sat on the table in front of his couch. Telekles wasn’t pretty enough to serve it; that was the domain of Lysander, another of our slaves, who filled a beaker for me, cutting it with the right amount of water.

  “Your father has ordered me to refrain from all comments pertaining to your taste in poetry,” Melas said. “He also tells me that you write verse yourself.”

  “I do, although my talents are modest.”

  “You exhibit the humility of a true Roman girl.” I did not miss the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Why do you stay here if you hate all things Roman so much?” I asked.

  “I shan’t forever,” he said. “At the moment, there’s no better place for me to earn a living, but once I’ve saved up enough, I will return to Greece, buy an olive grove, and content myself with pressing oil and indulging in pastoral fantasies. Perhaps, in a nod to Virgil, I’ll keep bees as well.”

  “Won’t you miss painting?”

  “I won’t abandon it altogether, but will no longer rely on it for money. I’ll have more artistic freedom.”

  “My father tells me we’re lucky to have you. Apparently, all of Pompeii is desperate for you to redecorate their homes, yet you took this job, which is on a much smaller scale than you are used to. Why?”

  “I’m a great admirer of your father,” Melas said.

  “Because he is Greek?” I asked.

  Melas shrugged, leaning on his left elbow. “Because he tutored me in my youth. That, and Titus Livius Silvanus asked me to do it as a favor to him.”

  “You’re acquainted with Silvanus?” I asked. This piqued my interest.

  “I decorated his family’s villa in Baiae,” he said. “Silvanus is a bit of a poet himself, you know. Perhaps you would enjoy his work; I understand it owes more to Virgil than Homer by way of inspiration.”

  I hated the way he was smiling at me.

  1902

  15

  After dinner, Colin and I took the curse tablet and headed for our rooms, but Kat stopped us outside the door. “Could I keep it overnight?” she asked, addressing her father, not me. “I’d like to photograph it.”

  “There can’t be enough light to do that now,” I said. “I’d be happy to give it to you in the morning, but at the moment—”

  “I can use reflectors and lanterns. Benjamin showed me how.”

  “Mr. Carter, not Benjamin,” Colin said.

  “Mr. Carter,” she repeated. “Please, Father, let me take it and try.”

  I resented her acting as if I were irrelevant to the discussion. “I’d prefer if we—”

  “You look tired, Lady Emily,” she said, interrupting. “Best that you get some rest now and examine it further in the morning.”

  “There’s no harm in that,” Colin said and handed it to her while I stood, stunned by her impertinence. She kissed him goodnight, waved vaguely in my direction, and sauntered off. As if nothing unusual had occurred, my husband slipped his arm around me and pulled me close.

  “Now we’ll have nothing to distract us for the rest of the evening. However shall we pass our time?” He closed and locked the door behind us and kissed me with an urgency that ordinarily would have left me in a pool of desire, but for the first time in our marriage, I was not seduced by his charms. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” I sighed. “Forgive me.”

  He took a step back and rested his hand gently on my cheek. “I know how challenging things are right now. This case is trickier than most. We don’t have—”

  “It’s not the case.”

  “No? What, then?”

  I turned away from him, debating how candid I should be. I crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. I had watched him with Kat, seen how proud he was of her sharp intelligence and buoyant personality, but I also sensed how guilty he felt at having missed so much of her life. She had grabbed a piece of his heart, and I could hardly begrudge her for that. I could, however, begrudge the shabby manner in which she treated me, as if I were some conniving seductress who had lured him away from her mother. Much though I tried to understand her position—the jealousy she inevitably felt for me—I was finding it catastrophically difficult to deal with her, particularly as my husband was blind to her habit of slighting me. How could such an insightful gentleman be so unaware? Was it because she looked so much like his former lover? Was he incapable of seeing the truth about her?

  And by her, did I mean Kat or her mother? This was my problem. My emotions were in such a tangle. Was I the one infusing tension into my relationship with the girl bec
ause I was unable—or unwilling—to forget how her mother had made me feel?

  Colin sat next to me and, with deft fingers, started to unhook the back of my bodice while he kissed my neck. When I did not respond the way he expected, he stopped. “Something’s distracting you. You’re not worried about Bainbridge, are you?”

  “You can’t possibly believe there’s any chance that thoughts of Jeremy could enter my mind when you’re doing that.”

  “I never like to assume.”

  I should have been enjoying this, but I pulled away.

  “It’s Kat.” I could not bring myself to look at him. Maybe it was a mistake to address the subject. Eventually, she’d accept my role in her father’s life and stop tormenting me. I ought to be patient. At least, that’s what I told myself. In truth, I was too much of a coward to confront Colin about his daughter, and instead, I turned to the other von Lange plaguing me. “Not her, exactly, but her mother.”

  “Kristiana?” He sat up straight. “Why?”

  “Kat is the very image of her and, hence, a daily reminder of … oh, I don’t know. It’s all ridiculous.”

  He took my face in his hands. “It’s not ridiculous if it’s troubling you.”

  “I always felt so inadequate in her presence and now all those old insecurities are creeping back.”

  “My dear girl, rest assured that you couldn’t be inadequate if you tried. No woman—Kristiana included—could hold a candle to you. I’ve always been honest with you about her. We shared a deep passion and I loved her, but the foundation of our relationship wasn’t our hearts. It sprang unbidden, born of the intensity required by our work. You, Emily, you are the only woman who has ever reached inside and grabbed a piece of my soul. I adore you in a way I could never adore anyone else.”

  “Are there other contenders?” I asked, swatting his arm and forcing something that resembled a smile onto my lips. Talking about Kristiana never improved my mood; I wished I had said nothing.

  He put a finger on my lips. “You’re letting your imagination run wild.”

  “Am I? You didn’t answer the question. Are there other contenders?”

  “I don’t deserve that, Emily. When had I ever given you cause—even for a moment—to worry on that count?”

  “You haven’t.”

  “So why do you level the charge at me?”

  I flung myself back so that I was lying on the bed and draped my arm over my face. “I can’t explain,” I said. “I can’t understand it myself. I don’t know why I feel so vulnerable.”

  “I don’t either and could do without your censure. This is a challenging time for me. Kat is—”

  I didn’t like his tone, but could understand his feelings. “Forgive me. I ought not have said anything. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters a very great deal. She’s my daughter and—”

  I sat up. “I didn’t mean she doesn’t matter. What doesn’t matter is my reaction to the way the situation plays on my emotions. I will try harder to master my response so that you don’t have another source of difficulty.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “None of this can be easy for you. I wish I had never loved anyone but you, wish I had kept my heart for you alone. All I can do is beg your forgiveness and hope that my transgressions—for that is what they were—don’t hurt you more than they already have.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself. No one could say your behavior was outside what’s expected of a gentleman.”

  “I ought to have held myself to a higher standard. I am so very, very sorry.” He kissed my hand. “I shall take whatever measures are necessary to earn absolution. In the meantime, let me offer what comfort I can. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand, then a hundred.” Catullus’s lines softened me, and so thorough—and vigorous—were his attentions, that I could hardly remember the countess’s name when he finished.

  But I did not lose the sinking feeling inside me. If anything, I felt worse. How could I hold anything against him when he was so penitent? I had no right to be hurt by the past, but emotion, as it was wont to do, overpowered rationality.

  * * *

  Breakfast the next morning was a tense affair. To start, Kat made a show of returning the curse tablet to Colin, not so much as acknowledging my presence at the table. I had brought Mr. Walker’s National Geographic with me and was scouring the article about Pompeii, happy to have a distraction. Published two months before the murder, the article was well-written and insightful, giving an overview of both the history of the site and its present status. Numerous photographs accompanied the piece, including portraits of Giuseppe Fiorelli and Augustus Mau, along with a series of lovely pictures of the ruins. A few of the latter included images of archaeologists at work. I paid the most attention to those, recognizing Mr. Richter, Mr. Taylor, and some of the Italian team, but found nothing that might have catalyzed Mr. Walker to return to Pompeii.

  I glanced at my watch, snapped it shut, and closed the magazine. “We’d best set off soon, Ivy.”

  “Are you going to the excavations?” Kat asked. “If so, I’ll join you.”

  “What a capital idea,” Colin said. “I need to go to Naples to check in with the police. Your … er … Emily would be delighted to spend the day with you.”

  “I’ve an appointment to question Mario Sorrentino, but you’re welcome to come,” I said. We had, at last, managed to track down Mr. Walker’s elusive guide.

  “I do wish you’d train me in the art of interrogation,” Kat said, the comment directed to her father, not me. “I understand you’re something of a master. Why don’t you send Lady Emily to Naples and interview Mr. Sorrentino yourself?”

  He raised an eyebrow, but smiled as he drained the last of his coffee. “My wife is at least as talented as I.”

  “I suppose it would be a nice opportunity for the two of us to spend time together.” Her smile was sickly sweet.

  Not delighted at the idea of passing the day dodging her barbs and criticism, I wished I could think of a reason to prevent her from coming, but it didn’t matter, because the moment we entered the ruins, she begged off to take pictures. Pretending to want to spend time with me was nothing more than a ploy to go off on her own. It wasn’t appropriate for a young lady to wander around unaccompanied, but I was not her mother. I knew I couldn’t stop her, but I had to try. She met my effort with derision, so I gave up.

  Ivy raised an eyebrow. “She shouldn’t go by herself.”

  “If you can prevent her, have at it,” I said. “She won’t listen to me.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right, but I don’t like it. It can’t be safe for her to traipse around alone in a foreign country when a murderer is at loose.”

  “Do you think she’d care if we raised the point? It’s not as if we can physically restrain her.” I had no wish to discuss the topic further.

  We made our way up the Vicolo di Mercurio in the northern part of the city, toward the House of the Vettii, where Mario Sorrentino was to meet us. The vestibule still displayed a considerable amount of its original paint, including a shocking depiction of the god Priapus. If the reader is uncertain as to why this deity of fertility might startle a lady of good breeding, I recommend consulting any book of Greco-Roman mythology; Bulfinch is my favorite. The ancient Romans did not share the prudish values of our current time, as one was constantly reminded in Pompeii, not only by this Priapus, but by the frequent use of the phallus throughout the city. There is an entire room in the National Archaeology Museum in Naples that displays erotic art. Today, it is kept locked—its contents horrified King Francis I of Naples on a visit to the museum with his wife and daughter in the early nineteenth century—and only gentlemen of mature age and respected morals are allowed to enter it. Apparently, we ladies are too delicate for such a thing. I managed to lay eyes on Priapus only because the metal shutters covering him had been unlocked for two English gentlemen who paid to
have it opened. When they noticed me, they quickly motioned for the guard to close it.

  Ivy blushed and went inside, but I remained longer than I would have if the visibly uncomfortable gentlemen hadn’t been present. How absurd to hide such a painting from women! Let them bristle a bit. Their nervous tittering made it clear that, gentlemen or not, they were incapable of dealing with the content of the work, and I had great doubts as to them possessing respected morals.

  Once I’d tormented them enough, I stepped into the atrium, the central court found in every Roman house, and joined Ivy, who was standing at the edge of a large marble impluvium—a basin that, in antiquity, would have been filled with rainwater—situated directly below an opening in the roof called the compluvium. From there, we had a spectacular view through to the colonnaded peristyle. Cherubs were painted on the pillars that led to it, and on the walls, the decoration consisted of black panels surrounded by cinnabar red borders and blocks of yellow, with painted columns. In the center of each of the black panels was a floating figure: Poseidon, Apollo and Daphne, Perseus and Andromeda, among others. The garden itself held a riot of bronze and marble sculptures, bits of numerous fountains, four marble tables, including one supported by three legs in the shape of lions, and a considerable amount of shrubbery, planted in the spots the archaeologists identified during their initial excavation of the house.

  A young man was leaning lazily against one of the peristyle’s white columns, and I was about to reprimand him when I noticed a badge around his neck, identifying him as an official guide.

  “You ought to know better,” I said.

  He shrugged. “It survived the eruption. It can survive me.” Regardless of this impertinent opinion, he stepped away from the column, looking at me through hooded eyes. The expression in them told me he was too–well aware of his dashing good looks.