“Silvanus would never have married a vapid girl,” Melas said. “He’s far too ambitious to have a useless wife. I wonder that he even stays in Pompeii. A man of his family and fortune could do well in Rome.”
“His family has a house on the Palatine Hill,” I said, “but he prefers Pompeii.”
“Who wouldn’t prefer Pompeii? Rome is crowded and filthy.”
“And Pompeii isn’t?” I snorted. “The streets are a disgrace.”
“You know quite a lot about our friend Silvanus,” Melas said. “Lepida must enjoy regaling you with stories about him.”
I deduced from his tone that he did not believe Lepida to be my source. I shrugged. “Is that so surprising? She’s a new bride and enamored with her husband.”
“I see,” he said. I did not like the way he was looking at me. “What are you working on now? Your father tells me he has hired two new copyists so that you might have more time for your poetry. Do we have a budding Sappho in our midst?”
“I prefer epics,” I said. “Not that I would have the hubris to—”
“Spare me the false modesty. So you’re writing an epic. Is it of Rome or of Greece?”
“It tells the tale of a hero making his way back to Rome after the end of the Civil Wars.”
“A Roman Odysseus?” Melas asked.
“No, nothing like that. The wars took him away from the city, but his discovery of a set of sacred vessels in the deserts of Egypt sends him on a new journey. The thousand-year-old crone who had protected them for centuries is dying and incapable of returning them to their rightful place.”
“Which is?”
“I’m not quite sure yet, nor is he. She dies before she can tell him and leaves him with a riddle. If he can solve it, the answer will lead him to the location of the next clue.”
“So it’s a quest, really, where, I can only assume, he faces tests of strength and bravery in order to set things right, as it were?”
“Yes, and feats that require intellectual prowess as well,” I said.
“I’d love to read it.”
I laughed. “Not before the entire work is complete. And, then, only if I deem it worthy.”
“It worthy or I?”
“It,” I said. “You’ve a decent appreciation for poetry, so if it’s not good enough, I’d prefer to be spared your teasing about my shortcomings.”
“You could let me see the beginning now, so that I might offer useful insight into what you’ve already got.”
“Not a chance, my friend,” I said. “You’ll see not one single line before I’ve written the last.”
“You called me your friend,” Melas said. “Which makes it likely I will die of shock long before you’re finished with your great work. At least tell me the name of your hero.”
“Gaius Antonius Vitalis.”
“Very Roman, Kassandra, very Roman. Reminiscent of both Julius Caesar and Marc Antony. Do you long for a return of the Republic?”
“My politics don’t come into it, and at any rate, everyone calls him Vitalis. There’s no reason to consider the rest of his name.”
“No need to get defensive,” Melas said. “I’ve always known Antony deserved better than Augustus’s slander. But, then, I’m not really Roman, am I?”
“Sometimes, Melas—more often than not—I despise you.”
1902
33
I had come to dread breakfast. All the progress I had made in Rome toward forging a civil relationship with Kat seemed to have eroded into nothing. On this particular morning, she asked why I had the bad manners to pour milk in my cup before tea and then informed Colin she was tired of being kept home and out of our investigation. I admired her pertinacity, but her father was having none of it, wanting to protect her from the darker sides of the world, especially after her attack. Rather than holding this against him, she adjusted her sling and blamed me.
“I’ve little tolerance for ladies who are happy to follow their own unconventional paths but throw stones at anyone else who tries to follow,” she said, picking at the eggs on her plate. “They’re worse than men because they’re hypocrites.”
“What are you three planning for the day?” Ivy asked. “I’m going to work on a watercolor of the Forum Baths for Robert. Perhaps it’s time you had a family outing, with no talk of murder. Kat, your stepmother knows a great deal about ancient plays. More Greek than Roman, admittedly, but perhaps she could—”
“I despise the theater,” Kat said. “And we can’t avoid talk of murder. What’s more important than bringing Mr. Walker’s killer to justice?”
“I quite agree,” I said. I understood—and appreciated—Colin’s desire to shield his daughter from our work, but suspected it was a futile endeavor. “About the murder, not the theater. But Ivy’s suggestion has merit. Let’s go to the ruins and play tourist. Perhaps something there will inspire us to see the case in a new way.”
“Personally, I’m considering making an offering at the Temple of Isis,” Kat said, “in the hope that the goddess can assist in our quest.”
Her father laughed. “At this point, that might not be a bad idea.”
Fear not, Dear Reader, that my worthy husband had abandoned his religious morals and embraced the pagan, although I cannot in good conscience make any statement on the subject regarding his daughter’s beliefs. We headed off to the Temple of Isis. Its ruins included nothing recognizably Egyptian, just the usual sort of Roman colonnade surrounding the ruins of the usual sort of Roman temple, perched at the top of the usual set of stairs.
“Is it marble, or stucco made to look like it?” I asked, stepping closer to better examine the cladding on the cella, the rectangular room that would have originally housed a large statue of the goddess. Kat had removed her sling (as she did whenever it proved inconvenient), pulled the Brownie out of her bag, and was taking pictures of me. Could this be a sign of improving relations between us?
Colin did not respond except with a grunt. I turned around and saw his hand raised to his temple, which was bleeding. I cried out and rushed to him.
“Some sort of projectile hit me,” he said. “The injury is superficial.”
So far as I could tell, he was right. After pressing my handkerchief against the wound to stop the flow of blood, I told him to keep pressure on it and fairly flew through the temple grounds—Kat close on my heels—in search for the miscreant who had injured him, but found no one. I poked my head out of the entrance. The street beyond was empty. Whoever had struck him had disappeared. “Don’t move,” I said when we returned to his side. “You may have a concussion.”
“I don’t have a concussion.” Colin grimaced. “And head wounds always look worse than they are. Here’s what hit me.” He showed us a piece of marble, approximately six inches square, upon which there was painted a finely rendered image of a lion being savaged by a decidedly tame-looking ass.
I recognized the scene. “Alexander again, the second portent of his demise. The noblest lion in his menagerie was kicked to death by a previously docile ass.” I wiped a smear of my husband’s blood from the corner of the piece. “Did you notice anyone following us? You’re better at detecting such things than I.”
“Not from the villa, I’m certain of that. Once we entered the ruins, it became more difficult to tell. Someone who knows the site would be able to remain unseen by ducking in and out of buildings.”
“You must teach me your methods,” Kat said, frowning. “I want to be able to know when someone is following me.”
“My methods, such as they are, failed in this case, unless I’m to believe whoever flung this stone at me was lying in wait, which seems unlikely as this was a spontaneous excursion. As for you, I’d prefer you keep out of situations that might lead someone to tail you.”
“Naturally,” Kat said, grinning. “Still, I should like you to teach me all the same.”
“That we shall discuss later,” Colin said. “Much later.”
If ever, I thought, re
cognizing the stubbornness in his tone. I looked back down at the stone and touched the lion painted on it. “It’s beautifully done. Whoever painted it has considerable artistic talent.”
“Someone like Benjamin … er, Mr. Carter?” Kat asked.
“Possibly,” I said.
“Whoever it was must have kept it on hand, ready to take advantage of the opportunity to fling it at us whenever he could,” she said. I noticed she was no longer defending Benjamin, as she had before.
“Not the best strategy.” Colin ran his hand through his curls, picked up his hat—which had fallen to the ground when the marble struck him—and sighed. “Let’s go find Carter.” He took me firmly by the hand and led us to Mr. Taylor’s site. Callie hailed us as we approached the excavations and, after we asked where we could find her brother, pointed us to a trench opposite of where she was working. Colin told Kat to stay with her, and he and I went off to talk to Benjamin. He was kneeling on the ground, photographing some small glass objects. Once he was finished, we begged a quiet word, walked with him to the edge of the dig, and showed him the marble.
“This is exquisite work,” he said, taking it from Colin and examining it. “Is it ancient? I’m no archaeologist, but the colors look too bright to be old.”
“We don’t believe it is ancient, no,” my husband said. “Do you recognize the scene it depicts?”
“No, I can’t say I do. It’s certainly unusual. One doesn’t expect an ass to be capable of overpowering a lion. Where did you find it?”
“Have you been on site all morning?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, his tone turning harsh. “Why do you ask?”
“You have not left Taylor’s dig at all?” Colin asked. “No painting in the main excavations?”
“No, I planned to go a bit later when the sun is lower in the sky so that I might—” He stopped and anger clouded his face. “What are you getting at, Mr. Hargreaves?”
“If I ask your colleagues whether you have been here all day, will they confirm what you have told me?”
“Yes, of course.” He looked nervous and started bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What are you implying?”
“Someone threw this piece of marble at my husband, striking him in the head,” I said. “You are a skilled artist, capable of having produced the painting.”
“I’m more than skilled enough, but surely you’re not suggesting I would try to harm anyone? That’s outrageous.”
“If you didn’t throw it at me, you still could have painted it, whether or not you knew the piece’s intended purpose.”
“I see, I see,” Benjamin said. Rivulets of perspiration ran from his temples down his face. “Of course you weren’t accusing me of trying to injure you. You know I would never do that. But this painting, while of outstanding quality, is not my work. I don’t use this particular shade of blue.” He indicated the sky on the marble. “It’s cobalt, and I prefer cerulean. Well, that’s not entirely honest. Cobalt is considerably more expensive and I can’t afford it. Regardless, this is done with oil—see how the paint is still a bit soft?—and I’ve only watercolors with me.”
“So you wouldn’t object to us searching your supplies here as well as in your rooms to confirm that you have no oil paint?” Colin asked.
“Certainly, we can go now.” His tone was defiant but then, in a flash, he looked concerned and spoke more softly. “Tell me, are you seriously injured? This is most concerning.”
“As you can see, I am not,” Colin said.
“That is excellent news, the most excellent.” Benjamin, still bobbing on his feet, looked an absolute mess. “Shall we go to my rooms, then? But, no, first, I should show you the materials I have here.”
A quick perusal of his painting kit at the site confirmed he had nothing but watercolors and chalk pastels—pastels that could’ve been used to make the drawing we’d seen in the basilica—as well as a tin of Faber pencils, with him. We then set off for his rooms, Kat, on her father’s orders, remaining behind with Callie.
“You can’t keep her wrapped in cotton wool forever,” I said. “She won’t tolerate it.”
“You’re right, of course, but I’m going to do my best to try.”
The Carters were staying in the Albergo del Sole, which provided modest accommodations popular with scholars and those who could not afford the swankier and more convenient Hôtel Suisse. The nondescript building sat almost directly across from the ancient amphitheater, but its exterior belied the cozy atmosphere inside. The man behind the desk, who handed Benjamin the key to his rooms, could not have been friendlier.
We climbed to the first floor. The Carters had a small sitting room between two impossibly narrow bedrooms. The space was surprisingly bright and comfortable.
“Do whatever you will,” Benjamin said, standing back from us, hovering near the door. “I’ve not the slightest idea how this sort of thing works. All I can ask is that you handle our possessions with respect. Callie is unlikely to be happy if she finds her things disturbed.”
We uncovered nothing that could connect Benjamin to the marble slab, but it was impossible not to notice the striking difference in quality between his clothing and possessions and those belonging to his sister. Her dresses, shirtwaists, and suits were beautifully tailored, many from respectable fashion houses in Paris. Benjamin’s suits, in contrast, were adequate examples of what I believe is called ready-to-wear. It was most peculiar, as if their parents’ judgment as to who was held in higher esteem carried on long after their deaths.
What had his parents done to him that Benjamin was willing to accept a station in life so far beneath that of his sister? Callie could have an education, but he couldn’t? She had access to a decent income, while he didn’t have the money to buy cobalt blue paint? The Carters, truly, were a strange family.
AD 79
34
After I had confided in Melas about my work—despite having given him very few details—I plunged into an absolute crisis of confidence. First, I found myself oddly distracted by thoughts of him. Much as I disliked him, he was more interesting than I had first assumed. He knew poetry as well as art, and had proved capable of valuable insights. He might look Greek, but I no longer found him quite so unattractive as I once did. I tried to force myself to focus on my poetry, not the painter, but my words sounded clunky and banal to me, and, days later, I could not free myself from the cruel bondage of self-criticism. I was paralyzed, unable to think and unable to write.
When I next met with Silvanus, I had no new lines for him.
“The Muses have abandoned me,” I said, burying my head in my arms on the table between us. The mistake of this action was immediately apparent; I was sticking to the filthy wooden surface. “Work is impossible.”
“Then you must sacrifice to them, Calliope in particular. I can get you an ox—”
“You don’t understand how hopeless it all is.” I was well and truly wallowing now. “It’s not so simple as a sacrifice, especially if you are the one buying the ox. You’re more likely to win their inspiration than I.”
“There’s no need for sacrilege,” Silvanus said. “All poets feel like this on occasion. It’s inevitable.”
“How would you know?” I lifted my head and looked at him. His noble brow was creased, his eyes dull. I had never seen him so worried.
“Are not such things obvious?” he asked. “There’s always struggle in creation. I’ve dabbled enough myself to know as much. And you, so favored by the Muses cannot be ignorant of it.”
“I tell you, they’ve abandoned me.”
“Well get them back.” His voice startled me with its sharpness, but then immediately turned softer and enticing. “We will start with a sacrifice, tomorrow. I’ll arrange the details. And then you must work, uninterrupted until you have your stride back. Perhaps you should go to the country. My family’s villa in Baiae—”
“I can’t go to your family’s villa. What would people say?”
He
waved his hand as if shooing away an irritating fly. “Of course. A silly suggestion. You must see, Kassandra, how seriously I take your work and your talent. I will find a suitable popa to carry out the sacrifice and speak to the aedituus in charge of the Temple of Apollo. He will know what we should do.”
And that was how I found myself, the next day, in the temple, waiting to hear if the priest, after inspecting the entrails of a pig—Silvanus did not have time to find an ox he considered acceptable—would tell us that the signs were favorable. At last, he did just that. And now, Silvanus insisted, the Muses were back at my side, with Apollo taking an interest as well.
“We’ll meet again tomorrow. I will expect at least three hundred new lines.”
1902
35
The day of Ivy’s Roman banquet was now upon us. I confess to having half forgot about it, consumed by our investigation. Benjamin arrived scandalously early that morning, ready to assist my friend in turning the villa into an ancient paradise. He said very little to me when I found them in a charming little room that opened directly onto the courtyard garden. Within this modern version of a triclinium stood the three wide couches we’d found in Naples, arranged to form a U-shape, with a table in the center. Benjamin, following the advice he’d earlier rejected, had painted them to look inlaid and covered them with plump cushions and bolsters upholstered in varying shades of purple silk.
“Imperial purple,” I said. “The Republic is well and truly dead.”
“The Republic was long gone by the time Vesuvius erupted,” Ivy said, “and I mean us to dine in the manner of the patricians in the last days of Pompeii.”
“Perhaps I should have suggested a different color,” Benjamin began.
In the Shadow of Vesuvius Page 19