In the Shadow of Vesuvius

by Tasha Alexander

  “Did you confess all this to Mr. Taylor?” I asked.

  “Not in as much detail as I would have liked,” Mr. Stirling said. “I knew my reputation was ruined, and that the story was known in the archaeological community. As a result, I was aware I couldn’t hide my awful past from prospective employers. I broached the subject with Taylor the first time we met to discuss the job. He had heard the gossip, but did not press me to explain myself. It was enough, he said, that I was willing to take responsibility for my actions.”

  “How did you take responsibility for your actions?” Colin asked. “Were you arrested? Tried for your crime?”

  “No, no, that’s not the way things are done for we people of the higher classes, is it?” He frowned. “My friend refused to press charges, not wanting the scandal to wind up in the papers. I returned to him everything I had taken and begged his forgiveness. Believe me, there is nothing I would not do to erase the dreadful incident altogether, but one can never escape one’s past. My punishment is living with my crime. The first and greatest punishment of the sinner is the conscience of sin.”

  “Seneca the Younger?” I asked. Mr. Stirling nodded.

  When he had first sat down across from us, the archaeologist had placed a notebook on the table, the notebook in which he recorded the daily results of the dig. I asked him if I might look in it; he nodded. Page after page was filled with his neat handwriting. More interesting, in the current circumstances, were the sketches he had also included. They showed him to have considerable talent as an artist.

  “These are lovely,” I said. “What sort of pencils do you use?”

  “Faber and nothing else. They’re the best.”

  He returned to work and Colin leaned toward me and spoke in a low voice. “There’s something about him that doesn’t ring true. He’s admitted to being a thief who succumbed to desperation, and his notebook proves him a capable artist. Could he have painted the scene of Alexander? I want to search his digs. Will you remain here and make sure he doesn’t leave?”

  I kept Mr. Stirling distracted until Colin returned, all smiles, to collect me. “Stirling, old chap, I’ve not seen my wife look so radiant in ages. Is she basking in your attention or has she discovered a passion for archaeology?”

  Mr. Stirling sputtered a reply. “I’d never do anything that might lead her to—”

  Colin slapped him on the back. “I’m only teasing. A passion for classics, which Lady Emily has in abundance, naturally leads to a passion for archaeology.”

  The archaeologist sighed. “Forgive me, I’m a bit flustered. I’m not used to—”

  “Nothing to forgive.” Colin grinned at him and took me by the arm.

  “What was that about?” I asked as he helped me into the carriage.

  “Testing the waters, my dear. I wanted to see how agilely he’d react to an unexpected situation.”

  “What did you find in his rooms that made you want to test the waters?” I asked.

  “Four notebooks in which he’s collected research on Alexander the Great. Complete with detailed descriptions of each of the omens foretelling the Macedonian’s death. Not what I expected of a man who claims to be obsessed with Pompeii and nothing else.”

  That evening, after dinner, a maid brought us a small parcel that had been left on the stoop. It contained a scroll of papyrus covered by a scene painted to look like a mosaic. The informed Reader will already have guessed its subject: the third, and final, portent of Alexander’s death. A man, bound as a prisoner, was shown seated on a throne, dressed in royal robes, a Macedonian diadem on his head.

  * * *

  “Does this confirm that Mr. Stirling is our man?” I asked, after retiring to our room to dress for dinner. We hadn’t told our friends about the scroll.

  “It makes him a prime suspect, but we still can’t connect him to Walker,” Colin said. “And what would have been his motive for killing Jackson?”

  “They could’ve argued about the money Mr. Stirling owed him. Or perhaps Mr. Jackson discovered that Stirling had killed Mr. Walker and threatened to expose him.”

  “We still can’t tie Stirling to Walker.”

  “But we can connect Benjamin to Mr. Walker, even if only tenuously.”

  “I recall Taylor offering to give us a tour of Herculaneum on the Sunday of our choice. Let’s see if it’s possible to do the excursion tomorrow, and include Carter, Stirling, Callie, and all of us here. Our suspects might be at ease if they believe we’re playing tourist and we might be able to encourage one of them to admit something significant.”

  I sent a note to Mr. Taylor, who replied without delay, delighted to organize the expedition. Colin and I rose early the next morning and took breakfast in our room rather than with the others on the terrace, hammering out the details of our strategy. We would approach Mr. Stirling first and then, if necessary, turn to Benjamin.

  We made a large—and lively—party as we piled into carriages and set off. Kat insisted that Colin sit next to her, leaving Ivy and me across from them. I’ve no doubt that if she could have got me into a different vehicle altogether, she would’ve. As it was, she monopolized her father’s conversation during the drive. This irritated me less than usual, as it gave me time to collect my thoughts, review our plans, and compose myself.

  The scavi at Herculaneum are much smaller in scope than those in neighboring Pompeii. Most of the ruins remained buried, not only by approximately eighty feet of solid, volcanic rock, but also by a modern city. The original excavations at the site were conducted on behalf of the Kings of Naples, and, as at Pompeii, were done with an eye toward enhancing the royal collections. Instead of systematically removing the layer of rock over the ancient structures, early excavators dug narrow tunnels into the buildings, enabling them to pop in, search for treasure, and pop back out. The rediscovery of the Roman city was made by Ambrogio Nocerino, while he was digging a well in 1709. He did not hit water, but instead found something of far greater value: the remains of Herculaneum’s theater. Thrill—and terror—must have filled him as he descended into the shaft, probably with nothing more than a single candle, to find himself standing on an ancient floor, staring into the eyes of long-forgot bronze statues, while he breathed in air that had been sealed away for more than a thousand years.

  Years of plunder followed that accidental discovery. The theater, whose marble decorations had been almost completely intact when Nocerino found it, was now completely stripped. In the 1750s, a Swiss mining engineer, Karl Weber, excavating for the king, happened upon an astonishing find: a villa, nearly a thousand feet long, containing, among other treasures, the contents of its owner’s library: approximately eighteen hundred papyrus scrolls, the only complete ancient library known to modern man. The gasses that swept over Herculaneum during Vesuvius’s eruption resulted in temperatures much hotter than those in Pompeii, instantly carbonizing and preserving the organic material there instead of consuming it by fire.

  Imagine the excitement that must have passed through the soul of every scholar of classics upon learning that, at last, the world would have access to volumes of ancient writings previously believed lost. And then, if you can, envision their disappointment, not only because the King of Naples planned to keep most of the scrolls for himself, but also because every attempt to unroll them caused the papyrus to crumble. In 1753, Antonio Piaggio, a Vatican priest, developed a machine that enabled him to gently open the scrolls without damaging them too badly. The process was painfully slow, and the revealed text difficult to read, but it was better than nothing. To this day, scholars continue the struggle to find a more effective method for dealing with them. Most have been left untouched, in the hopes that someday a better way will be found. What else waits to be discovered? The lost plays of Aeschylus? Early copies of Homer’s epics? Someday, I hope, we will know—and be able to read—the complete collection of this astonishing library.

  As we approached the site through the Vicolo di Mare, Colin gave Kat and Ivy a cur
sory explanation of our plans. Kat, naturally, wanted to play a part, but her father refused.

  “This is not the time for someone of so little experience to lend a hand,” he said. She glowered. “Emily and I will pull Stirling aside first. You can help by keeping the others away from us when we’re with him.”

  “I’d rather interrogate him,” she said.

  “No one is interrogating anyone,” Colin said. “We’re going to draw him out in casual conversation. It’s a delicate procedure.”

  “Kat and I will distract everyone else,” Ivy said, “and ensure it doesn’t appear that you’re speaking to Mr. Stirling for a specific purpose. If he’s not the murderer, whoever is might be put on alert if he—or she—thinks you’re conducting interviews.”

  “Quite right, Ivy,” Colin said. “You’ve a much more devious mind than you let on.” Ivy blushed, pleased with the compliment.

  We alighted from the carriages, and Mr. Taylor gave us each a candle, explaining that the excavations were far below the modern city. We followed him down to an ancient street and walked until we reached a two-story house whose spectacular garden still had all of its twenty columns standing. Callie let Jeremy take her arm, while Ivy positioned herself between Mr. Taylor and Benjamin. Kat, sulking a bit, followed behind.

  “Stirling, can you explain the makeup of these neighborhoods?” Colin asked. “Obviously, a wealthy family lived in this house, but what about the buildings surrounding it? It appears that there was living space above the shops.”

  “Quite right,” Mr. Stirling said. “As soon as the others are done, I can take us to one of the best-preserved examples, a caupona, which is something like our modern taverns, a place where one could get food, drink, and lodging.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be able to pull them away from the frescoes,” I said. “Let’s go ahead. They can follow when they’re ready.”

  He led us to a remarkable structure. The front wall of the building was missing, leaving it open like a dollhouse, but what was inside more than made up for that. On the ground floor, large amphorae stood, still stacked against the wall, the wooden racks above them empty. In the neighboring room, a balcony, its wooden railing intact, would have served as a storage area. Higher up, the second story, red, black, and cream paint visible on its walls, contained the remains of a bronze bed.

  “I adore getting these glimpses into ancient life,” I said. “It reminds me how similar the Romans were to us. Tell me, do any other periods of history speak to you the way this does?”

  “When I was in Illinois, excavating mounds, I was tantalized and frustrated at the same time,” Mr. Stirling said. “We know so little about the daily life of the tribes who built them. I desperately wanted to learn more. But that was nothing more than flirtation, really. The Greco-Roman world is my first love.”

  “Was it always Pompeii?” Colin asked. “At school, I ran through any number of obsessions—Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great.”

  “All little boys are taken with Alexander,” Mr. Stirling said, the words tumbling too quickly from his mouth. “Fascinating man. So much to admire. But for me, nothing compares to Pompeii.”

  “Stirling!” Mr. Taylor popped his head out of the house next door and called down the street. “We’re heading for the theater. Join us?”

  “I believe that was an order, not a suggestion,” Mr. Stirling said. We returned to the others, hanging back, so that we might continue our conversation.

  “Taylor’s lucky to have you,” Colin said. “You’ve an admirable intellect and both the patience and the eye for detail so critical to archaeologists.”

  “You’re kind to say so, but I’m fortunate as well. Given my history, I’m relieved to have any position.”

  “We all make mistakes,” I said. We reached a gloomy flight of steps, damp and chilly, and it felt more like we were descending into some icy version of Hades than into a theater. “I can’t count the number of mortifying things I’ve done. Some situations offer no decent way out.”

  “True words, Lady Emily. None of us like to act dishonorably, but sometimes, there’s no other option.”

  The Stygian darkness at the bottom of the stairs swallowed us, our candles all but useless. Benjamin, Jeremy, and Callie were far on the other side of the theater, standing on the stage, their location revealed by the dim dots of their candles. We couldn’t see them well, but could hear their voices, growing louder and louder until Callie shouted.

  “Oh, for crying out loud! I can’t believe you would mention that, of all things, here and now!”

  “Maybe you should’ve owned up to it long ago,” Benjamin said. The anger in his words echoed against the ancient walls. “But he’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter. As usual, everything’s neatly taken care of, at very little cost to yourself.”

  “What are you suggesting, Carter?” Jeremy asked.

  “You’d best keep out of it,” Benjamin said. I heard scuffling and footsteps and then the sound of a fist against flesh. Jeremy grunted. Then another punch and the thud of a body hitting the floor. Colin raced forward, barking orders.

  “Callie, get upstairs! Emily, make sure she obeys.”

  I grabbed Callie’s arm and propelled her toward the daylight at the top of the steps, the noncombatant members of our party close behind. The sounds of fighting followed us, and in a few minutes, the remaining gentlemen emerged, Benjamin sporting a split lip and Jeremy limping, ever so slightly, his left eye turning dark purple. Colin had a firm grip on the American and motioned for me to come to him.

  “I don’t think Stirling’s our man,” he said to me in a voice so low it was difficult to hear. “Callie slipped up and said something that caused Carter to accuse her of having had an interlude with Mr. Walker on the ship. She admitted it, infuriating the boy, who started hurling abuse, accusing her of ill-treating every man of her acquaintance. Bainbridge stepped in to defend her honor, such as it is. I stopped them before they could do too much damage to each other. I’m taking Carter back to the villa, where I can interrogate him in private. It would be best if no one else followed. Give me three hours, at least.”

  AD 79

  44

  I almost fell over when I saw Lepida there, in the grotty garden of that awful bar. She was scowling at me, rage evident on her noble face and in her clenched fists. I bit my lip so hard I drew blood and considered turning around and running away. I would never have to see her or her husband again.

  It was tempting, but I couldn’t do it. I owed her more than that.

  “I never believed you capable of so thoroughly betraying me,” she said. “Sit, why don’t you. I’ve ordered wine in the hopes that it might dull the pain of your evil deeds.”

  “I’ve never betrayed you, Lepida,” I said.

  “For a poetess, you have an inadequate grasp of the meaning of words. Have you not been meeting my husband here, in this disgusting place? Don’t bother to deny it; I know the truth. I had a slave follow him and he saw the two of you. I didn’t think he liked the slums so much, but I am told men have strange and varied tastes. He took you first when you were still a slave, I’m sure. I may not like it, but I accept that such things are common and to be expected. Does he like it better now that you’re free? Now that your relationship is forbidden and illicit?”

  “Lepida, you misunderstand entirely. I’ve never been intimate with Silvanus. We did meet here, yes, but not for any nefarious purpose.”

  She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “That you have the audacity to try to foist such a feeble lie upon me is a worse betrayal still.”

  “Silvanus came to me, like you did, wanting a poem,” I said. “That is all. We met here, yes, but only so that I might give him more of my poetry.”

  “Your poetry.” Her words, venom-laced, matched the hatred in her dark eyes. “I don’t deny you have a certain talent, but you are young and maudlin. What use would he have for your verse?”

  I paused, conscious that I had pr
omised Silvanus I wouldn’t tell Lepida what I was writing. “He could tell you better than I. All I can do is plead with you to believe the truth: there is nothing but poetry between Silvanus and me. Nothing.”

  “My husband is a skilled poet himself. Why would he want the verses of some worthless slave? The only explanation is that you’re some sort of sorceress, a Circe who seduced him, taking sick delight in the knowledge you were stealing the husband of your closest friend. I have no one to blame but myself. Who is stupid enough to take a slave into her heart, to believe her as close as a sister? We were born on the same day, both daughters of a great earthquake. You know what they say about us, either that we are favorites of the gods or that we are cursed. It’s only now that I see it all clearly. Apollo is the sun and Diana the moon, but we’re twins of another sort: good and evil. I have the favor of the gods, but you, you vicious, untrustworthy wench, you are cursed. You bring misery to those who love you. You steal what is not yours. And there’s no doubt—not even the smallest sliver—that you will come to a terrible, terrible end.”

  Tears stung in my eyes, but this time, they did stem from sadness and hurt, not anger. “Lepida please.” I reached for her hands, but she pulled them away. “You have this all wrong. I swear on all the gods that I’ve never touched your husband. Ask him—ask him what has transpired between us.”

  “I’ve already done that,” she said. “Why do you think I’m here? He told me everything, every sordid detail. Unlike you, he doesn’t lie about his actions.”

  “I’m not lying! You must believe me. It was only poetry.”

  She rose from the bench, knocking it over behind her, but not seeming to notice. She walked around the table, pulled me to my feet, and spat in my face. “I curse you, Quinta Flavia Kassandra. I curse your life and mind and memory and liver and lungs mixed up together, and your words, your thoughts, and your memory. I bind your tongue, so that it will be twisted and devoid of success. I beg the goddesses to end your life in a torment of fire and rock from which you cannot escape, a death more painful than that known by any human before.” She spat in my face again, pushed me onto the ground, and stormed away.