Their best effort was a dining-room. Larius had taken the lead on that. Stuck awkwardly between a stable and the flour mills, the bakers hired out the room commercially to bring in extra cash. In keeping with its purpose, it now held witty scenes of banqueting. The women had been made to look as if they were hired-in professionals, though in one scene these caterers were not professional enough; a serving maid was tottering and having to be supported, drunk. Meanwhile one of the young male guests had collapsed on his couch. In another picture all the girls looked as sloshed as their men; one seemed unaware she was upending her winecup, though in fairness, although one of the males was raising a drinking horn with panache, his crony had fallen back on the couch with one arm dangling. He was very, very far out of it, assuming he could feel anything at this point of the night …
‘Wishful thinking!’ Pyris had chortled. The wide-eyed young trainee, a gullible boy, was in constant awe of the lives he believed his elders enjoyed, based on their wild boasts. He ought to have known better: he went around with them, so had seen for himself that the whole team had fairly restrained habits. After a hard day, they were too tired for debauchery. It was the plasterers who drank themselves silly and went at it like rabbits with as many women as they could get their hands on. Plasterers, according to painters, were utterly notorious.
Painters, according to plasterers, were worse.
‘All based on intensive research!’ Larius had answered Pyris, with an exaggerated wink. He deliberately made much of figuring in a nipple on one of the party-boys’ courtesans. Then Marciana brought him lunch, so he quickly had to pretend he was only touching up the goodtime girl’s diagonal garland.
Today the big room they were working on, being more formal, had lush red and gold panels rather than white, alternated with dramatic black. Half finished, the work was on schedule. They had reached Larius’s favourite task, the pictures; he loved this stage, beautifying a room as if it were hung with framed art. He was ready for the significant scene – a nice bit of mythology. Always proper in a public room.
He was all set up. He had lightly scribed a basic scheme, measured out with compasses. He had positioned his brushes. On the floor and on a scaffold for the higher work, he had stationed pigment pots of various sizes, each small enough to be held conveniently in the hand while he worked; the pigments were ready, with spatulas, water, and eggs and oil for binding. Marciana would come in and help him with that. He would work rapidly but thoughtfully, changing pots unhurriedly, then painting with fast, sure brush strokes.
He had been about to start when his daughter called him.
As soon as he saw what was happening to the mountain, he thought dryly that the mythical painting was done for. Myth was occurring here. No one alive had experience of such natural force, so Larius could not have predicted that the biggest event in Campania for a thousand years was about to happen. But he was bright, and sensitive to what he saw. Foreboding struck him at once.
Jupiter. Jupiter and all the gods in the Pantheon.
A column of debris was being pushed up into the sky above Vesuvius, higher and higher, at enormous speed. Incalculable to those on the ground, masses of it hurtled up for miles. Eventually the dense pillar broadened out at the top, disseminating like the branches of a stone pine or the cap of a gigantic mushroom. Pulsating clouds of fiery material writhed like the steaming entrails of some huge beast when its belly was slashed open in the arena.
All that crud is going to come down on us, thought Larius.
He lifted his face. The wind was blowing this way. Pompeii was what, five miles from Vesuvius? The choking clouds would land here.
He tugged Marciana’s hand. ‘We have to leave, chuck. We must get away.’ She looked up at him, verifying his decision. ‘Trust me,’ he said. Trust Father. Even though he’s terrified.
She nodded. ‘How can we go?’
‘I’ll find Erodion and his cart.’
Then, before he could stop her, Marciana snatched her hand from his grasp and was off up the street. ‘Dollies!’
‘Stay at the widow’s. I’ll come and get you!’ yelled Larius. It would take time to rootle out their lugubrious neighbour from his Pompeian mistress’ bower, in order to persuade him to produce the cart unscheduled. Erodion was not known for rallying in emergencies. His wife handled any crises.
Larius strode back indoors. Standing in consternation, the lads looked to him to say what was up; they had heard the stunning explosion but were scared to go and look.
‘Drop everything. Just leave it. Shit on a stick; this is a big one.’
Conscientious, they still stood, unsure. Hylus could not help letting his eyes go to the main panel, gauging the state of the plaster. Young Pyris quavered, ‘What about the client?’
‘Let me square it with the client. Don’t bother with your stuff. Get going; save yourselves, lads, before it’s too late.’
Their stuff was here; they slept on site. Larius telling them to abandon their things made them jump to. This was serious. They put down their pots and brushes. Even Three Coats began struggling down from the scaffold; his joints were swollen and crippled, so he had to take it gingerly. He knocked a whole bucket of slopping wet plaster all down the newly painted wall but Larius, who would normally have been enraged, gestured to forget it and just get moving.
They could run for the port. A boat would take them off, assuming there were any boats. Hylus grabbed money for fares or bribes. Or they could head out of town, inland, putting distance between themselves and the coming catastrophe. It would be all right. They had enough time. Even if Larius couldn’t find Erodion and the cart, so had to travel with his daughter at her little legs’ pace, all of them at that moment still had time to escape.
Chapter 4
Nonius properly wakes up and grasps what wonders this may bring for him.
Slowly it dawned on Nonius that the street noises were unusual.
He must have dozed off after his first awakening and could not tell how long had passed. Had he slept through another bloody big earthquake? Six hundred sheep slaughtered in the fields by poisonous gases? Upper floors of houses damaged so badly they would simply be bricked up and never used again? Temples tottering, granaries groaning, columns smashing down in pieces? Some buildings destroyed so completely they had to be demolished and their plots given over to agriculture? People killed?
Hades, it had better not be any of the clients he had carefully sweetened up for his financial projects! Don’t say his efforts had been for nothing. Nonius hated waste.
He jumped out of bed.
Sudden motion was an error. He sat back down on the mattress edge, allowing his sore head to normalise before he stirred again. Once the room slowly stopped spinning, he found last night’s tunic, his scruffy one, which was scrubbled up on the floor where he had dropped it. He pulled on the garment, automatically straightening the folds to hang well. He was so vain, he stayed to comb his hair. Too befuddled to find his nitcomb, he used the painter’s. When he had finished, instead of putting it back on Larius’s small bedside tray, Nonius dropped it into his own luggage pack.
Only then did he finally drag himself down the steps into the street outside. As he opened the door, the light beyond seemed hazy. Nonius coughed. People were walking or running downhill towards the port. There was constant movement through the streets, like when the amphitheatre disgorged its audience after the games and everyone went home at once. Hundreds of people were flowing in one direction, purposefully. Some carried bundles, some hoisted small children on their shoulders so they could move faster. He saw wheel-barrows, piled with household goods. There were cries of alarm, even screams of panic. But most walked as fast as they could in grim silence.
A pattering sound was everywhere, a sound like heavy rain in a Mediterranean storm. It was unceasing and regular, though occasionally broken by a loud crack. When Nonius ventured over the threshold, he jumped back, exclaiming. Bloody hell, it hurt! Small pebbles, like hail but har
der, were showering from a darkening sky. There were gusts of a really bad smell.
Nonius, who was still woozy, took his time to gather what was going on. The rain of stones, ash-coloured, cinder-like, stinging and biting, filled the air. He wanted to hide, to cover up bare skin, to duck his head, to flee back indoors. But even half asleep, Nonius soon saw that sheltering was not for him.
Seeing his puzzlement, someone named the mountain. ‘Vesuvius!’ Vesuvius had blown up? Jupiter Best and Greatest.
He had to be out. He had things to do. He would be extremely busy. This was his great chance. The foolish people of Pompeii were leaving their homes. Stupidly or not, they believed it was a temporary evacuation, after which they would come back. So they left most of their possessions behind.
Let them flee. Flight was for fools. Not Nonius.
He understood at last. Fabulous. For him, this was the best opportunity ever.
Bracing himself, Nonius went out into those streets, where anxious escapees were following each other full of uncertainty, whereas he was full of purpose. Trying to dodge the battering lapilli, the crowd hurried frantically yet seemed to have little idea where they were going. Wailing and selfishly trying to save themselves, while getting in his way, people had no idea. Nonius had to use his chance. Some wore cushions tied on their heads, or were huddled in cloaks, too muffled up and much too scared to see where they were running – and nor did they notice what Nonius was doing. As if he had been born for it, Nonius was making the most of this situation. He worked with joy in his heart.
A middle-aged woman was struggling with her doorlock. ‘Oh madam, let me help with that!’ insisted Nonius, shoving her on her way in a fluster, while palming her latch lifter.
A man left his keys in their usual hiding place, under a plant pot. Nonius observed. After the householder scurried off, Nonius retrieved them.
A pregnant woman had trouble carrying treasured possessions; Nonius offered to help her, seized the bag manfully – then vanished in the gloom.
A slave who had been left behind to guard a place, answered the door to Nonius’ urgent knocking. He sounded official. ‘You have to get out! Everyone has to leave now. Don’t stop for anything, run for it!’
Soon he was madly gathering silver dinnerwares, bronze household gods, gladiator figurines, coins, male and female jewelry. Glass was too fragile, more’s the pity. Bankboxes were beyond him to force, he was in too much of a hurry and had no strong tools; cupboard doors eventually gave way.
A young female slave who had been hiding in a backroom came to investigate the noise. She had the bad luck to run into Nonius, to his delight. Already terrified by the eruption, she could not escape. ‘Well, hello there, darling!’ Her lucky day.
It wasn’t rape.
Rapists always say that though.
She really wanted it. She was a slut, a slave, she made me do it. She shouldn’t have screamed. She was screaming because she enjoyed it. She knew I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t rape.
Hades. This was the most exciting event in this town. Nonius was more thrilled than he had ever been. The spoils were his. All of it, everything. What else could anyone expect?
Chapter 5
In Herculaneum, the painter’s wife attempts to cope.
It was one of the twins who first noticed that something was happening. Varius, the two-year-old boy, had gone out of doors, crying, after being told for the umpteenth time he could not have any more nut-custard, because there was no more. There would be none until Marciana brought money home, whenever that would be. Ollia was reasonably certain Larius would send something, yet since he had once absconded without warning, she never felt entirely secure. She kept an old cooking pot of coins, buried in the garden, a bit of money collected in better times and hoarded, in case she was suddenly destitute.
Those had been hard years for her, when Larius was in Britain. On her own, she’d had to scrape a living. When she could, she took in other people’s children to mind, but most folk around here had families for that. She did mending. Some women spun wool, a Campanian cottage industry but Ollia, who grew up in Rome, had never been taught. Patching tunics or strengthening their necks where seams often tore was tedious and only brought in a pittance.
In summer she could get horrible temporary work serving in a bar, or helping out in kitchens as extra banquet staff when the rich descended on their holiday homes, but then she had to find somewhere to park her own infants, who resented it and played up. She hated having to plead, the risk of being fondled by men she despised, the hostility from others who were equally desperate for the work. She missed her children.
Larius did return, with money, but then she had to fight down her anger against him. He wasn’t naïve; he must have realised, when he left, what his absence would mean. Ollia had been furious. When he turned up again, she could so easily have sent him packing, but she had to think about their children. She had to pretend.
Things were better now. She was here while most of the time he worked away in Pompeii, but they counted themselves a family. In some marriages separation is a good idea. Larius had always been a one for ideas. Their children, who only saw him when he came jauntily bearing presents, adored him, never understanding his faults. They saw their mother all the time and each one had her measure, so her role was more difficult. Plus the struggle to look after them was every day and unrelenting.
Angrily she called Varius back. Screaming no, he ran to hide. She left him to it.
He was more of a handful than any of her others, a defiant little tyrant, but she knew where he would be. He always crawled into the hencoop. He would come to no harm there. When enough time had passed for him to calm down and start to feel he was missing things, Ollia would waddle out to fetch him. She and her toddler would have a little chat as usual – he smelling of poultry shit, whimpering and hiccupping, while she too settled down as she cuddled him. She would sigh, and maybe shed a tear or two herself. Holding her hand, he would then come indoors meekly.
She was tired. It was still barely noon, yet she felt she had been on her feet all day. Sultry weather was not helping. She knew she was expecting again. If it was more twins, she would kill herself. Maybe she needn’t bother: nature would do it. Her mother had carried triplets once. They all died in the birth, including her mother.
No, it mustn’t happen to her. Somebody had to look after these. She had to take care of herself, make sure she was always here for them.
She liked children, fortunately. Hers, with their dark curls and attractive features, were generally a pleasure. They had good times together, at least when there was enough to eat and none of them were sickly. If Ollia had to choose the memory she most cherished, she would pick a lazy day when she took them along the coast to Oplontis for a picnic, sat on the beach there, gazing out to sea. In her mind, this scene took place when Larius was away. It was just her and them. One child lolling against her, the others playing quietly. The blue of the sea meeting the uniform blue of the Neapolis sky, while the hot sun made everyone drowsy. The scent of newly landed octopus cooking on skewers over a fire right there on the shore at sunset. Friends she had known since before she was married, who treated her like family.
The fisherman, Vitalis, her old flame.
Would he have been a better choice? It was too late now, and Ollia had enough folk wisdom to know you should never waste time on regret, not for a man. Well, bloody hell, Ollia; not that one!
Vitalis had never married. A fool might imagine the bronzed, muscular lump was pining for her, but Ollia was too wise to think it. More likely he remained alone because other girls had been wary of his roving eye and, let’s face it, his laziness. When his father and then his uncle died, he took over their fishing boat but he never changed. It was a hard life, so not ideal for Vitalis. He would never put himself out unless he had to, yet he seemed surprised when he then did badly.
Ollia was not surprised at all. Long ago she had palled up with his mother, two wise women
shaking their heads over him.
When Larius left her that time, when he went off to Britain without saying a word, Ollia could have had her chance with the fisherboy, She was too taken up with little Marciana and her newborn twins, so she never did anything about it. Nor did Vitalis. His inaction was not due to respect for her married status, nor fear of the burden of children, but just because Vitalis never did anything about anything.
That was life. She knew to this day that Larius might well have stayed away, so she would really have been stuck. But the fisherboy was no better.
Larius did come back, though he was rarely here with her. But since then, he sent money almost every week; Marciana brought it, and there was plenty. Figure painters were well paid.
One thing you had to say for him, Larius worked hard. He loved to paint. He loved that more than he loved Ollia and the little ones, she had to accept it. But this was probably how it would be now, this was probably permanent. To drive him away entirely she would have to make his life very miserable indeed, so she would not do that; it was tempting to nag when they came together, but she resisted. They would survive somehow. And Ollia felt safe that she was no longer alone; in any real emergency, Larius would come to help.
Varius was a child who looked around him, hoping for an excuse to yell his head off in exaggerated terror or disgust. Today he noticed Vesuvius looked peculiar, so after a second of bafflement, he began screaming. As she went out to her little boy and saw what was happening to the mountain, Ollia’s first thought was Larius. He would come for them, he would tell her what to do.
One of her neighbours called out, hurrying away. ‘Have you seen it? We are all leaving, Ollia. Grab your tots and come along with us.’
Vesuvius by Night Page 4