“Is it not obvious?” He took half a step forward, and I thought he might kiss me, but then he looked away from me, back at the book box I’d carried with us. A thick layer of ash covered it. “We should put your scrolls in the library with a message explaining the situation in which you have found yourself.”
“Now?”
He nodded. “The ash is coming harder and I fear we’re in for worse. Let’s make sure your legacy is preserved.”
“And then?”
“Then we shall discuss my painting of Venus.” Something stirred in me, unexpected but welcome. Melas squeezed my hands and then dropped them. “There’s papyrus in the tablinum. I would name Silvanus if I were you—let history decide what to make of his deception.”
“And what deception is that, painter?” The steward must not have bothered to lock the door behind him. I recognized Silvanus’s voice before I could make out his form in the darkness. “I will take the scrolls and that will be the end of it. I had never intended to hurt you, Kassandra, but my wife tells me that you are not to be trusted, and, indeed, the conversation I have overheard shows she speaks the truth.”
“How did you know I was here?” I asked, backing away from him.
“I had gone to your house looking for you, wanting to get the rest of the poem you owe me,” Silvanus said. “I told your father I’d come to order a volume of Horace’s poetry and then asked after you. He told me about your excursion to visit this library. I found it odd. You cannot be acquainted with the villa’s owner, and would have no reason to be admitted to the house. But then I remembered Melas did work for him. And then your father told me you were carrying a book box with you. It took no leap of imagination to deduce what scrolls it contained and what you intended to do with them. I will not have some upstart former slave smear my reputation, so I came after you. Neither Vulcan’s anger nor Neptune’s will stop me, for I am not the object of it. You are.”
“I have done nothing to anger the gods and you have nothing to fear from me,” I said. “Who would believe my word over yours?”
“I prefer to be above suspicion,” Silvanus said.
“Like Caesar’s wife?” Melas asked. Silvanus charged toward him and struck him hard in the face.
“I mean to go to Rome and become a senator, but my ambitions do not stop there. We have had enough degenerate emperors, have we not? I am cultured and educated and will be adored by all. And I will not have idle rumors about a cheeky slave girl follow me there.”
Melas spat blood and a tooth onto the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ve now ensured that it will be more than idle rumors.”
“No, not when I’ve finished with you.”
What would have happened next, had the gods not interfered, I know not. Silvanus started for Melas again, but my friend sprung to his feet and ran toward me, slipping me a dagger and urging me to make my escape.
“You can’t protect her, painter,” Silvanus said. “I will start on her when I finish you.” With that he lunged at Melas again.
“Run!” my friend ordered.
I obeyed without thinking and charged into the house. The ground was rumbling again, and the rain of ash even more relentless. I could hear screams and crying coming from the city streets as the rest of the population that had not fled during the afternoon desperately searched for shelter or safety or rescue.
I found the library, but before I could deposit my scrolls there, I heard footsteps and Silvanus was upon me.
“Your friend is dead,” he said, standing close. Once again, I could feel his breath against my cheek, but it no longer warmed me. Now, it brought only a dark chill. “I have always admired you, Kassandra, so I will give you a few moments to say whatever you must to your favored gods, but then, you, too, must fall.”
My heart ached for Melas, but now was not the time to mourn. I plunged the dagger my friend had given to me—had he kept it, he might have saved himself—into Silvanus’s gut. It took all my strength, but I managed to drag it upward and twist it hard. He collapsed. The wound would kill him, but not immediately, and I had no time to sit and watch him die. Once he was unconscious, I tugged the bloody weapon free and retreated to a small room near the tablinum, where I have sat for all these hours since, writing my story and waiting for the fall of ash to stop. I believe Silvanus is dead by now, but will not go look until the morning, when it is light again. And then I will find Melas and prepare his body for honorable burial.
His knife is still at my side, for until I see Silvanus’s corpse, I will remain on guard. I cannot free myself from the image of his face as I twisted the knife in him, but the air is becoming hotter and hotter, and I am finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. My limbs have grown weak and the heat is unbearable, so here I will stop my account, having given the full story, written on this scroll that accompanies the poem of which I am so proud. But, now, on this awful night, all I can think of are the words of Virgil, not my own.
His limbs went slack and chill, and his life fled with a cry, indignant, below to the shades.
1902
47
“I’ve never been the sort of man who would wantonly harm another human being,” Mr. Taylor said, the lamp casting ghastly shadows on his face. “It’s not in my nature, as you’ve had ample time to observe. I’m generous and intelligent and a man capable of doing great things for the world. Not many surpass my philanthropy, and the work I am funding at Pompeii will not only bring delight to tourists, but will expand our knowledge of ancient Rome. It will also improve the science of archaeological method. Consider how I am supporting Callie’s career and forwarding a cause dear to your own heart, that of the advancement of women’s rights.”
“Your achievements are to be lauded,” I said. I had no doubt now that he was our murderer, but was not about to confront him while alone with him, a hundred feet underground. I would keep him talking—distract him—and convince him I harbored no suspicions about him. “Finding myself here with you in an ancient villa with a magnificent library prompts me to ask if you have ever considered funding its modern equivalent.”
“I’m happy to leave that to Carnegie.”
“I appreciate your devotion to science, Mr. Taylor. I realize you are passionate about history—ancient Rome in particular—but not many of your colleagues are content to support efforts that don’t bring them public recognition. Your method is more honorable, seeking neither fame nor glory. It is a rare man who is content keeping to the background.”
“You do understand me, don’t you, Lady Emily?” His eyes darkened as he stared into mine.
“I believe so,” I said. All this time, I had been surreptitiously evaluating our surroundings, trying to determine how I might best get away from him. We were in a small room not far from the peristyle, but I was not confident I could easily retrace our steps. The maze of corridors through the villa would be confusing even if flooded with light.
He stepped toward me. “And now you’re happy to sit and chat about libraries when, moments ago, you were overwhelmed by claustrophobia and wanted to flee. I see what you’re doing. You know I can’t let you leave these tunnels, not now that you understand me and why I shun recognition. I’ve given you opportunity after opportunity to stop this futile investigation—how many warnings did I send?—in how many ways did I appeal to your better judgment? I knew that as a student of ancient Greece you’d understand the ostraca, but they had no effect. I followed you to Naples with the curse tablet and slipped it into your parcels without you ever suspecting I had done it. Benjamin had to tell me he was taking the day off, so I knew of your plans. And the paintings of Alexander’s omens. You didn’t believe me capable of producing them, because I’ve hidden from you my artistic talent. Art was my first love. That’s why I wanted to make sure Carter had time for his paintings. I never meant for your husband to be injured when I threw the marble into the Temple of Isis. I don’t want to hurt anyone. All I was trying to do was put you off. Bu
t now, here we are, both of us aware of my guilt.”
“I know nothing about the specific circumstances of Mr. Walker’s death,” I said. “If he attacked you—or threatened you—you were acting in self-defense, and—”
He laughed, a hideous, inhuman sound. “Come now, it is beneath you to try to wriggle out of your fate. We’re all governed by our natures, and yours compels your dedication to the pursuit of justice, no matter the cost. Mine drives me to live a good life, to make the world better. You’ve threatened my ability to do that, and I can’t stand by and accept what we both know you’ll do if I let you go back to the surface.”
“A good man would let me return to my friends.”
He shook his head. “There are times when we are faced with situations, terrible situations that force us to act against our natures. You’ve tricked me into one of those situations now.”
“Like Clarence Walker did before?” I would get every ounce of information I could from him while I figured out a way to escape. “Is that how this all started? Or was it earlier, in the mines of Montana?”
“The mines are worse than hell, not because of their diabolical working conditions, but because of what they do to the minds of men.”
“Was that what led to the bar fight that resulted in the death of Mr. Walker’s brother, Fergus?”
“I never meant that man any harm,” Mr. Taylor said, clenching his fist. “I don’t drink to excess and avoided the saloons because I knew all too well how ugly things got in them. But my business partner did not share my scruples. There was trouble that night, over some girl, and he and Fergus started arguing. It was Fergus who landed the first blow, Fergus who is to blame. Things got bad, and the girl came to me, begging me to help. By the time I arrived, my partner was a bloody heap, half-dead. I tried to reason with Fergus, but he was in no state for listening, and started in on me. Gave me a terrible beating. I fought back, as hard as I could, and everything around me went red. I didn’t know what I was doing until I realized I was on top of him, battering him. Someone pulled me off. I could see then that Fergus was not long for the world, and I was not about to let my entire life be derailed by trying to defend an innocent man from the brutal attack of a ne’er-do-well.”
“So you left Montana?” I asked. “Who could blame you for that? You’re not a violent man, Mr. Taylor. You were acting in self-defense.”
“I wasn’t willing to run the risk of being branded a murderer. I made my way east, to New York, and traded work for passage on a ship. I deserved another shot. I changed my name from Felix Morgan to Balthazar Taylor during the crossing and, when I landed in Southampton, determined to make a fresh start.”
“That’s why you had Morgan’s cuff links,” I said. “They had always been yours.”
“Yes, they were a gift from my mother. I kept them as a reminder of that former life. I constructed the remains of the camp hoping it would inflame your interest in finding the elusive Felix Morgan. I knew you planned to meet Carter that morning at the House of Marco Lucretius Fronto, and I knew he always returned from that area to my dig via a little-traveled route. I set up the site and left the red fabric where you could not miss it.”
He was standing too close to me. I inched back and tried to get him talking about his life rather than his attempts to elude justice for his crimes. “After you reached Southampton, did you go to Vienna and meet Herr Baeder?” I asked.
“Yes. As soon as I adopted my new persona, my fortunes changed. What better confirmation that I was following the correct course of action? Herr Baeder knew I had no experience, but he took me under his wing. By the end of three years, I had acquired an unimaginable amount of money. Soon, I owned a house in Vienna and a mansion on Fifth Avenue in New York and had the respect of all those people who before would have refused my acquaintance. From then on, I have made it my mission to do what I can for those less fortunate than myself.”
“How did Mr. Walker find you?”
“Because I had the misfortune to wind up in a picture that accompanied an article in National Geographic,” he said.
“The article Mr. Walker brought with him when he returned to Pompeii,” I said. “But why was that significant? He knew you were here when he came to research his article. You told me you met him.”
“I lied. I saw him from a distance the day he arrived. He’d been milling around in search of someone to give him a basic understanding of archaeological technique. I panicked. If he saw me, he’d recognize me. You don’t forget the face of the man who killed your brother. I fled to Rome and stayed there until he’d left.”
“He never saw you?” I asked.
“No. I thought I was free and clear of him. But I got careless a couple of years later and let my guard down. I ought have been more careful to stay clear of that magazine photographer. I didn’t know he was taking the picture, let alone that he would bother to identify every individual in it, even those of us in the background. Such irony. It’s not as if I was unaware of the risk. I had counseled Stirling to avoid being photographed, because he didn’t want his old Harvard friends to know where he was.”
“You let Kat photograph you.”
“She’s little more than a child. What would she have ever done with her pictures that might have exposed me? If I’d refused to cooperate with her, that might have drawn your attention. I decided that was a greater risk than letting a girl pursue a harmless hobby.”
“But you attacked her. Did she say something that made you believe she might publish her photos?”
“I never laid a hand on the girl. I would not harm one so innocent.”
I believed him, partly because I had never quite accepted Kat’s story, and partly because it fit with his character. Convinced he was a good man, he would not have struck out in violence unless he felt she posed a threat. “So Mr. Walker recognized you in National Geographic?”
“He read the magazine religiously, not that I knew that until he told me. As soon as he saw it, the jig was up. He knew exactly where to find me. He didn’t announce his arrival. Hid in the shadows until he found me alone. And then, he confronted me, saying he would give me the opportunity to explain my side of the story.”
“The bar fight was not murder,” I said. “You could’ve defended yourself against any charges made regarding it.”
“Not without destroying my reputation. And what does a man have without that? He said he’d write a piece illustrating how much good a man could do even after having committed so vile a crime. He pretended to believe I deserved rehabilitation, but I knew he was bent on nothing but revenge. I had to stop him, or my life’s work would’ve been for naught. I didn’t consciously choose to kill him, but again my nature deserted me, and again I saw red. The next thing I knew, my hands were around his throat, and he was as dead as his brother, all those years ago.”
“So you covered the body in plaster and hid it in plain sight?” I asked.
“Yes. An inspired plan, you must agree.”
“When did Mr. Jackson figure out what you’d done?”
“Jackson? He had no idea. He was a competent archaeologist, but never showed any interest outside of the field.”
“Some might consider his employer committing murder as the sort of thing that might have drawn his attention.”
“I had nothing to do with his death. I would never take a life unless absolutely necessary. I do everything in my power to avoid such situations, but unfortunately did not have the foresight to anticipate coming up against someone whose own nature would compel her to destroy me. You should’ve left well enough alone. I have no desire to harm you, yet you leave me with no choice.” The veins in his temples pulsed. “Why, why do people keep doing this to me? Forcing me to act in a manner that goes completely against the kind of man I am?”
Now was not the time to point out the deep flaws in Mr. Taylor’s understanding of his own nature. I was terrified, trapped with a murderer, and could think of only one thing to do. I lifted my skirts and
kicked him as hard as I could—in a part of his anatomy no respectable lady should so much as consider, but a part Colin had assured me would bring a man to his knees—knocking him to the ground. He dropped his lamp as he fell. I grabbed it, kicked him again, and ran toward the peristyle.
But I turned in the wrong direction, and instead of finding myself in the remains of the ancient garden, I was in another room, slightly bigger than the one in which I’d left Mr. Taylor. I could hear him following me. My only advantage was the lamp, but I knew he had carried candles as well. He must have paused long enough to light one of them, and was now coming, hard on my heels.
I couldn’t go back without running into him, so I would instead have to find some other route to the peristyle. Knowing the general layout of Roman houses, I was confident this would not prove impossible, but at the same time, I was not certain where I was relative to the garden. There was nothing to do but press on. The room I was in had two doors; I exited through the one I had not entered.
Columns! I was in the peristyle! Relief flooded over me. But, no, the feeling was short-lived. The space was too small and its columns much closer together than those in the peristyle—later, I learned it was a first century BC atrium, but then, all I knew was that I was not heading in the right direction. I retraced my steps to the edge of the colonnade and turned to the right. A few feet further along was another passage, which I ducked into, praying it would take me in the general direction of a tunnel that would lead me back to the garden. From there, I knew I could find my way to the ladder.
I heard footsteps and extinguished the lamp—I had matches and could relight it—as I could not risk giving away my location. He must be in the atrium now, but instead of turning, as I had, it sounded as if he were going straight across it. I held my breath, waiting as the echo of his boots grew more distant. I started to move again, slowly, as I could not see, feeling my way along the wall.
The wall opened into a tiny room—a cubiculum, as I discovered when I paused to relight my lamp. My hands were shaking so violently that I had to sit down in order to compose myself before I could strike a match. When I did, and light pulsed against the darkness around me, I saw that I was not the only occupant of the space. Not more than a foot away from me was a skeleton lying on the mosaic floor. Whoever it was must have taken shelter here during the eruption, curling up in a fetal position. I had a deep affinity for this fallen soul and prayed that I would not meet death here as well.
In the Shadow of Vesuvius Page 25