In the Shadow of Vesuvius

by Tasha Alexander

  We walked the following two miles in silence. At the villa, I found Colin coated in a layer of fine dust, the tub filling in the private bath connected to our bedroom. “Kat got tired of staying home and begged me to take her to Taylor’s dig,” he said sheepishly, tossing aside his now-grimy tweed jacket and unbuttoning his shirt.

  “How is her wrist?”

  “The injury is nominal,” he said. “Though it ought never have happened.”

  “No, it shouldn’t have, but I will not stand here and take the blame for it. You’ve said your piece on the subject and there’s no sense discussing it further.”

  “It’s not that I—”

  “You’ve already made your feelings clear,” I said. “All I will say is this. You wanted her to rest today, yet she convinced you to take her on an excursion. It is not so easy to bend her to your will, is it?”

  He did not reply. I hated the tension hanging in the air between us.

  “There was a telegram downstairs from Mr. Walker’s editor at The New York Times.” I held the paper up to him. “Apparently, their correspondent in Rome was one of his closest friends. I thought I’d arrange to meet him.”

  “An excellent plan,” he said. “That could prove most enlightening.” Finished undressing, he lowered himself into the tub and looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Emily. I shouldn’t hold you responsible for what happened. It was wrong of me.”

  I nodded and pressed my lips together. “Did anything of note occur when you were at the dig?”

  He looked grateful for the change of subject. “I heard more about Callie’s romantic history than I’d ever care to,” he said.

  “She talked to you about that? I’m shocked.”

  “She didn’t, her brother did.”

  “Not very sporting of him to gossip about his sister.”

  “I wouldn’t call it gossip,” Colin said. He took a breath, ducked under the water, came up, and lathered soap in his hair. “Concern, more like. She has a certain amount of money at her disposal, not so much that she would be a target for fortune hunters, but enough that she’s self-sufficient. He fears this will discourage her from ever settling down.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” I asked. “She’s an intelligent lady of independent means. I don’t imagine there are many husbands who would tolerate her working as an archaeologist.”

  “A fair point.” He disappeared under the water to rinse the soap from his hair, pushing his curls back from his forehead as he reemerged. “There was something off about all of it. I’d swear Carter was as uneasy about Bainbridge getting hurt as Callie. Pass me a towel, will you?” He rose from the tub, temporarily shattering my ability to think rationally or speak. What a pity Praxiteles had not lived to sculpt him; it would have been the master’s finest work.

  “Another thing. Stirling wouldn’t let Kat photograph him. I’m not sure she noticed, but I did. She’d removed her arm from her sling and was taking candid shots. Every time he might have been in a frame, he’d turn away,” he said. “I invited them all to a picnic dinner tonight, Taylor’s crew, but at the dig, not here. The tables are being set up even as we speak. I’m hoping that a combination of wine, good company, and a complete lack of formality will encourage them to give something—anything—away that might help us better understand what we have on our hands.”

  When we informed the others of the plan, Jeremy balked at the idea of informality and insisted on full evening kit, but Ivy and I, after consulting each other, decided to wear walking suits and sturdy boots. Kat took our approach a step further, donning a slim pair of trousers, a fitted jacket that reached to her mid-thighs, and knee-high boots. Her father’s eyes widened with horror when he saw her, but he said nothing.

  By the time we reached the site, servants from our villa had set up a long table laden with a sumptuous array of cold food: thin-sliced prosciutto and salami, hunks of savory cheeses, olives, figs, crusty bread dipped in buttery olive oil, dried apricots, and a velvety red wine. Most of Mr. Taylor’s workers had filled their plates and eschewed the table, gathering instead on rocks near where they’d spent the day digging. Socializing at a distance from their employer was, no doubt, more enjoyable than staying close and being on their best behavior. Their laughter—fueled by the wine—brought an air of merriment to the evening. The rest of us congregated closer to the buffet. Jeremy sat next to Callie, who started to lecture him on excavation reports. I assumed he was feigning interest, but something in his eyes suggested otherwise.

  “She likes a captive audience,” Benjamin said.

  “She’s fortunate to have a brother willing to put aside his own interests to forward her own,” I said.

  “She would tolerate nothing less.” He sat next to me, putting a plate heaped with meat and cheese in front of him. “The experience here isn’t a total loss for me. I do enjoy photography and have done two paintings I’m rather proud of, both of the Bay of Naples. On my own time, of course.”

  “What do your parents think of your work?” I asked.

  He blanched, ever so slightly. “I’m afraid I lost my parents long ago.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. My father never approved of me.”

  Callie interrupted. “That’s absurd and you know it. He would be oozing pride if he could see your landscapes.”

  “I’d prefer not to discuss it.”

  “There’s no need to be tedious,” she said. “Your work—”

  “Could we please move on to something else?” He glared at her.

  Callie’s tone dripped sweetness. “It’s only that—”

  His voice rose to a shout. “Must you insist on returning to a topic about which you know nothing?” He threw his napkin onto the table.

  “Now, now, let’s all calm down,” Mr. Taylor said. “I, like you, Benjamin, have very little patience. It’s not in my nature and I long ago gave up on trying to cultivate it, the same way I abandoned learning to draw once it became clear I lacked any talent for it. We must accept ourselves for who we are and no one, not even your sister, should force you to try to be something you aren’t.”

  “My wife has made great strides in curbing her impulsive nature,” Colin said, “but I’m skeptical that anyone can change his fundamental nature.”

  “Spoken like an aristocrat,” Benjamin said. Jeremy bristled and Kat laughed.

  “Perhaps you should excuse yourself,” Callie said. “You’re making everyone uncomfortable.”

  Her brother leapt to his feet, knocking against the table, and sending two wineglasses flying. “Perhaps you should stop trying to force me to bend to your will. I’ve already done more than enough, haven’t I? I have half a mind to—”

  “Carter, my good man, get a hold of yourself,” Mr. Stirling said, his tone sterner than I’d heard from him before. “You’ll come to regret your words. An angry man is again angry with himself when he returns to reason. Publilius Syrus.”

  “Naturally I’m the problem, not her.” Benjamin scowled. “I’ve had quite enough.” He stormed off.

  “There’s not enough moonlight for him to get far without a lantern,” Mr. Taylor said. “I’ll go after him and soothe his ruffled feathers.”

  “Forgive me,” Mr. Stirling said. “I ought not have interfered.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Callie reached across the table and took his hand. “When his temper flares, there’s no stopping it.”

  “I should have known better,” Mr. Stirling mumbled. “Confrontation never leads to anything but trouble. Do excuse me. I’m afraid I’m no longer in a mood conducive to social discourse.” He shambled off.

  “Poor man,” Ivy said. “He did nothing wrong.”

  “No one ever benefits from crossing my brother,” Callie said. “I apologize for his behavior and his vile temper.”

  I considered the events of the evening. Benjamin needed to better control his emotions, but that came as no surprise. Mr. Stirling’s incongruous interference was another ma
tter entirely. The dynamic between the two men made me wonder at their relationship. Could one be our murderer and the other his accomplice? It took little imagination to picture Mr. Stirling adopting oblique methods—like the ostraca and the curse tablet—to warn us off our investigation. He knew Benjamin’s propensity for outburst. Did he also know it could lead to violence?

  A thundering crash and a hideous scream interrupted my thoughts. With his usual fluid grace, Colin dashed toward the sound. I gathered my skirts and followed, our friends close on our heels. My husband stopped short as he approached a spot where, moments earlier, a towering pile of debris had stood. The heap had collapsed, burying someone, leaving only his booted foot visible.

  The workers who had dined closer to the excavations reached the scene of the accident before us and had set up a semicircle of lanterns to illuminate the area. We all worked furiously to uncover the man, but no effort could save him. Amidst the rubble sat a large boulder with a pattern of bloodstains that mirrored the gash on the back of the dead man’s skull.

  “It’s Jackson,” Alan Powell, one of the American archaeologists, said, his voice shaking.

  “Was anyone else with him?” Colin asked. “Do we need to keep digging?”

  “Yes, keep digging. He was talking to someone—I heard voices.” Tears left damp trails through the film of dust on Mr. Powell’s face.

  “Is everyone accounted for?” I asked. While they continued to dig, we listed the names of everyone who had come to dinner. Everyone save Benjamin, Mr. Stirling, and Mr. Taylor was present.

  “I don’t think there’s another body,” Colin said. “Ivy, would you please take my daughter back to the villa?” Kat made a noise of protest, but the look on her father’s face warned her off argument. “Bainbridge, find Carter, Stirling, and Taylor—they may have gone to their digs—and bring them back. Someone else summon the police.”

  “We’re too late to need a doctor,” Mr. Powell said.

  “I’m sorry.” Colin rested his hand on the man’s shoulder. “He could not have survived the blow to his head, no matter how quickly we’d found him.”

  “But why the police?” Mr. Powell asked. “This is obviously an accident. There’s been so much rain lately. We should have expected a landslide.”

  “In the midst of a murder investigation, we cannot assume anything is an accident,” I said. “Why was Mr. Jackson here, away from the rest of you?”

  “We’d all had a certain amount of wine,” Mr. Powell said, “but Jackson more than the rest of us. He decided to head home.”

  “Had he been arguing with anyone?” Colin asked.

  “No,” Mr. Powell said. “We’d had a jolly evening, absent of all strife.”

  “You heard him talking to someone after he left?” I asked.

  “Well … I heard voices coming from this general direction. I can’t be certain his was one of them.”

  None of the others could confirm who was speaking. Two of the men thought the conversation had come from our table and started arguing with the rest about the vagary of traveling sound. When Jeremy returned nearly an hour later, he brought only Mr. Taylor with him. He had not managed to locate Mr. Stirling or Benjamin.

  “I am…” Mr. Taylor’s voice trailed. “I don’t know what to say. We’re careful about how we stack debris. The pile shouldn’t have been unstable, but why was anyone near it in the dark? Did he have a lantern?”

  “We didn’t find one,” Colin said.

  “Then there must have been someone else with him,” Mr. Taylor said. “You’re quite certain there’s not another body?”

  “Yes,” my husband said.

  Mr. Taylor looked at the bloody boulder and winced. “Please tell me there’s no chance this was deliberate?”

  “We’ll know more after the coroner has examined the body,” Colin said, wiping sweat and dust from his face with a handkerchief. “In the meantime, could you please tell me where you’ve been since you left our table?”

  “I followed Carter, as you know. Caught up with him quickly enough, but he refused to talk. Went off in a huff, headed toward town. I decided there was no point in pushing him, so let him go.”

  “Why didn’t you return to us?” I asked.

  “Truth be told, I was more than a little irritated with the boy,” he said. “Didn’t feel much like a party anymore, so I went back to my house.”

  “Did you walk?” Colin asked.

  “Yes, it’s only half a mile from here.”

  “Did you see anyone en route?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Colin nodded. “We’ll need to speak with Stirling and Carter as soon as possible.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Taylor said. “What a dreadful thing. We won’t work tomorrow. It wouldn’t be respectful. I’ll contact Jackson’s family and arrange for his body to be sent to them. Another fresh death in the shadow of Vesuvius. It doesn’t sit right.” He glanced in the direction of the volcano, but the night was too dark to reveal its hulking shape. “Makes a person start to wonder…”

  “Wonder what?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Maybe nothing good comes from disturbing the ancient dead.”

  AD 79

  18

  I succumbed to the attentions of Lepida’s slaves with pleasure. My friend chose for me a gap-sleeved tunic of the finest silk, pale rose in color, and put strands of pearls around my neck and silvered sandals on my feet. She removed the earrings she had worn that afternoon and handed them to me. When I looked into her polished silver mirror, I hardly recognized myself. My lips bloomed with color, and the shadow painstakingly applied to my eyelids with a tiny spatula made them look bluer than ever.

  If I was like a pale rose, with alabaster skin and golden hair, Lepida was the richest jewel in the empire. Her amethyst tunic set off her dark eyes, and her gem-encrusted gold bracelets, necklace, and earrings glistened in the light of the oil lamps that filled the triclinium where we now reclined. My inclusion in the feast had thrown off the numbers, but rather than have another couch brought in, Lepida insisted that I sit next to her, crowding the one she shared with two of their other guests.

  Silvanus greeted me warmly when he saw me, exclaiming that he was happy to count me among his friends. His words were kind, but formulaic. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t easily speak to him, but as those around me, Lepida excepted, showed little interest in my presence, I took the opportunity to watch him. He was even handsomer than I remembered, his face an ideal example of Roman nobility, with an aquiline nose, square jaw, and pleasingly full lips. Most attractive of all was his voice, deep and rich, full of authority. I looked at the synthesis he was wearing—a tunic bordered with wide braid—and the heavy gold cuffs on each of his wrists and could not help recalling the first time Lepida and I had seen him, when we wondered if he had been a soldier and pictured him in leather pteruges and a gleaming cuirass. I remembered hiding near the door of her father’s tablinum, flushed with excitement at the sight of this new visitor. And now, I could not help but laugh, thinking of it.

  “What is it you find so amusing, Kassandra?” Silvanus asked. He stared directly into my eyes, his face ever so slightly flushed, but not with wine.

  “Nothing of consequence, I assure you, sir,” I said, my cheeks turning at least six shades darker than the rose of my tunic. I couldn’t bring myself to return his stare. There was a brief pause in conversation. I was certain he’d expected me to say something witty, but I could think of nothing. The poet had lost all her words. Soon enough the moment passed, and everyone went back to discussing whatever it was they had been discussing before. And then, they started talking about a poet whose work had captivated the city.

  “No one knows who he is,” the man said, “but everyone is obsessed with the lines of his that keep showing up in graffiti. He has an unparalleled talent. Plays with words in a way that I wouldn’t have thought possible. The rumor is he’s written an epic worthy of Virgil.”

  “I’ve heard t
he same,” Silvanus said, “and am quite certain there’s no more talented poet in all of Pompeii.” He stared directly at me.

  “How do you know he lives here?” Lepida asked. My heart was pounding. Could they be talking about my own verse?

  “It’s much discussed by reliable sources,” her husband replied. He glanced at me, and our eyes met, for the barest instant. I knew then, without doubt, that it was my words being complimented. I hardly knew what to think. I was delighted and terrified and utterly unable to form a coherent thought while they continued to laud my work, going so far as to quote their favorite bits. Bits that Silvanus had paid to have written on walls throughout the city.

  When the conversation veered in a different direction, Lepida leaned closer to me. “Are you enjoying yourself? You’re awfully quiet.”

  “I’m wholly out of my element.”

  “Not any longer, you aren’t,” she said. “You’re free now and this is your world. You don’t belong in a poky little house with no entertainments. You must spend more time with me, so that you get used to moving in fashionable company.”

  “I don’t think your fashionable company knows what to do with me.”

  “They’ll learn. You’re too pretty not to attract their attention. Give them time, my dear, and before you know it, we’ll find you a husband who suits you.”

  “Lepida, you’re too kind to me,” I said. “We both know the men of your acquaintance have no need for a recently freed slave who has no hope of ever acquiring a fortune.”

  “Your father could easily acquire a fortune,” Lepida said. “He’s the most sought-after tutor in Campania and now a bookseller as well. All he needs to do is save up enough to buy a few vineyards, and he’ll be well on his way.”

  Much though I adored my friend, she did not grasp my economic circumstances. It was true, many freedmen earned vast fortunes, but not as tutors or booksellers, and my father had no interest in other, more lucrative business endeavors. But there was more to the issue than simply money. Romans cared about their history and their ancestors. Yes, a citizen of good family desperate for an infusion of cash might be persuaded to take a rich bride of decidedly lower social standing, but that was far from the ideal.