The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection

by Lawrence, Caroline

  Passing between the harbour and the town walls, Lupus and Clio saw an official standing beneath the arch of the Sea Gate.

  ‘By order of the magistrate,’ he shouted, ‘do not leave the city. The tremors are not dangerous! Stay in your homes, or they may be looted! Return to your homes immediately, I say!’

  A few people hesitated when they heard his words, but most kept their heads down as they hurried past him through the gate.

  ‘I thought Flavia’s uncle was going to tell them about the mountain,’ said Clio.

  Lupus grunted yes.

  ‘Then I don’t understand why that man in the toga is telling people not to leave.’

  At first sight, the Villa Pomponiana seemed deserted. It was now late morning, baking hot, with only a breath of wind from the bay.

  Jonathan was sweating as he and Flavia helped Mordecai lift Xanthus off Modestus. Nubia led the donkey across to the stables while they carried Xanthus up the steps to the dining-room and eased him onto a dining couch. The farm manager’s broken ankle and ribs would mend, but his punctured lung was grave.

  Aristo had been carrying old Frustilla on his back. As soon as he set her down she and Miriam went off to find a basin and water so that Mordecai could treat Xanthus.

  ‘Find Tascius, if you can,’ said Mordecai, glancing up at Jonathan and Flavia.

  They nodded and ran through the silent rooms and inner courtyards.

  At last they found Tascius in the atrium, hunched in front of the household shrine. He heard them enter, and lifted his head from his hands.

  ‘They’ve all left me. My wife, my daughters, most of my slaves. Not even a live chicken to sacrifice to the gods.’

  ‘We’ve got to get away from here,’ said Jonathan. ‘Something terrible is going to happen. We think Vesuvius is going to erupt. Flavia’s Uncle Gaius and Vulcan have gone to warn people in the towns.’

  Tascius looked at them stupidly.

  ‘Vesuvius is a volcano,’ said Flavia. ‘It’s going to erupt!’

  ‘When? How?’

  ‘Soon! I mean, we don’t know exactly,’ said Jonathan, ‘but we must leave!’

  ‘If you’re right . . . Jupiter! My wife and daughters are in Herculaneum.’

  ‘Can’t we rescue them in your boat?’ asked Flavia.

  Tascius shook his head. ‘Could have yesterday, when the wind was from the south. But not today. Can’t even sail out of Stabia today.’

  It was almost noon when Clio and Lupus rode their horse through the bright, sunny streets of Herculaneum. It was a smaller, prettier town than Pompeii, with red roofs and palm trees, but it seemed all the more vulnerable because of the huge mountain which loomed above it, filling half the sky.

  ‘Until last year, we used to live here,’ Clio said, looking around. ‘I’ve never seen it so quiet.’

  As they passed a tavern, two drunks called out from the shady doorway.

  ‘Hey! Haven’t you heard? The god Vulcan passed by earlier and told everyone to flee the city. And they all believed him. All except for us! We get free wine!’

  His companion snorted. ‘Ha! “Vulcan” is probably going through their money boxes right now.’ He drained his wine-cup and stepped outside the tavern. ‘Nice-looking horse . . . Want us to take her off your hands?’ He nodded at his companion and the two of them lurched towards the children.

  Clio stuck out her tongue at the men and kicked her heels. The tired mare trotted down the hill and out through the Neapolis Gate.

  In the dining-room of the Villa Pomponiana, Nubia shivered and hugged Nipur tightly.

  It was just past midday and she stood beside Flavia watching Mordecai try to save the farm manager’s life. Xanthus had suddenly begun to cough blood and seemed unable to breathe. His face was a horrible blue colour. Nubia saw tiny beads of sweat on Mordecai’s forehead as he and Miriam tried to staunch the flow of blood.

  A moment earlier, the noonday heat had been stifling. Now the air around her was freezing cold.

  Nubia shivered again.

  She had felt this presence once before.

  The day the slave-traders had burnt her family’s tents and murdered her father. Was the presence death? Or something worse?

  The floor vibrated under Nubia’s feet, like one of Scuto’s silent growls. The earth itself was angry, but no one else seemed to notice.

  Nubia glanced back over her shoulder towards Vesuvius. And froze.

  An enormous white column was rising from the mountain’s peak.

  The fact that it was rising in complete silence made it all the more terrifying.

  Lupus hit the ground with a force that knocked the breath out of him. He was dimly aware of Clio beside him and the mare’s bulk above them, blocking out the sunlight as she reared. For an awful moment he thought the falling horse would crush them both.

  Then, with a scream of terror, the mare found her balance and galloped off towards the south.

  Lupus had still not managed to get air back into his lungs. Finally it came in a great sobbing breath. Clio’s body beside him remained terribly still.

  He heard thunder and felt the ground shudder beneath him. Then Lupus saw what had terrified the horse.

  Rising straight into the air from the mountain above him was a huge pillar of white smoke and ash.

  Vesuvius was erupting, and he was at its very base!

  The thunder continued, rumbling up from the earth itself. Bits of gravel and tiny fragments of hot pumice began to rain down on Lupus.

  Ignoring this stinging hail, he shook Clio and patted her cheeks. He tried to call her name, but the only sound that came from his mouth was an animal-like groan.

  Lupus had never wanted his tongue back so badly. He wanted it back so that he could curse every god who existed.

  But he didn’t have a tongue and he couldn’t curse the gods, even though Clio was dead.

  The sound of the volcano reached Stabia a moment after Jonathan watched his father stab Xanthus.

  The farm manager had been raving, calling out to the gods. Grimly, Mordecai had told Miriam to get the long needle from his capsa. She had reached into the cylindrical leather case and pulled out a long, wickedly sharp knife.

  They stared in horrified fascination at Xanthus’s blue, gasping face. Mordecai ripped open the injured man’s tunic, fixed the point of the needle at his side between two ribs and pushed. There was a sound like air escaping as the needle pierced the dying man’s lung. Then Xanthus gasped and his chest seemed to swell. The colour began to return to his face.

  ‘Thank God,’ whispered Mordecai. ‘Miriam, make a poultice to seal –’

  At that moment the sound of deep thunder reached them. They all turned to look behind them.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Dear Apollo’ Aristo said.

  ‘Not now!’ cried Mordecai. ‘Not now!’

  The thick column above the cone of Vesuvius, white against the brilliant blue sky, was already beginning to blossom.

  Even as they watched, the top of the cloud spread and flattened, until it had taken the shape of an enormous umbrella pine.

  The mountain had been thundering for an eternity.

  He had been carrying her body forever. Chips of hot pumice and grit spattered him like hail, so that there were a hundred tiny cuts and burns on his arms and legs and face.

  Sometimes he fell and sobbed, then he picked her up again and continued up the dirt path between black, flame-shaped cypress trees. If there was a place reserved in the afterlife to punish the wicked, this was it. He knew he had failed and deserved no less.

  And so he carried her on up the path to the smoking villa and the waiting god, who stood staring at him in disbelief and amazement. Truly the smith god, whose dwelling place was beneath the earth in darkness and fire, must be king of this realm, and so he handed the little girl’s body to Vulcan.

  Then Lupus fainted.

  Tascius stumbled down the steps and stood in the middle of the green lawn, st
aring at the volcano with his arms outstretched.

  ‘The gods!’ he cried. ‘They can’t bear our evil any more. They can’t bear my evil. It’s Vulcan. It’s Vulcan’s anger. The gods tested me and I failed.’ He fell to his knees on the grass and began to scratch his cheeks.

  The others looked at him aghast.

  After a moment, Mordecai left Xanthus and went down the steps and into the hot sunlight. He tried to help Tascius to his feet.

  ‘Tascius,’ he said firmly, ‘you are a Roman soldier and commander. You must take charge. You must get the household on board your boat and prepare to sail as soon as the wind shifts.’

  ‘It’s no use!’ Tascius pointed at the volcano. ‘Vulcan’s anger has come upon me and I must die.’ He grasped his own tunic and ripped it at the neck.

  ‘Titus Tascius Pomponianus!’ cried Mordecai, gripping the Roman’s wrists, ‘If it is indeed time for you to die, let your death be honourable. Set an example to these young people.’

  They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tascius at last, taking a deep breath and nodding his head. ‘The gods may have taken everything else, but they cannot take my dignity. Not unless I allow it.’ Slowly the old soldier rose to his feet. ‘You are right, doctor. I’ll prepare the boat at once.’

  Someone was pouring cool water down Lupus’s scorched throat. It went down the wrong way and he had to sit up to cough.

  When he had caught his breath, he opened his eyes. Vulcan stood over him, with Rectina close beside him. Their brown eyes, so similar, were filled with tenderness and concern.

  One of Clio’s younger sisters, Urania, was clinging to Rectina’s skirts. Thalia hovered nearby, her face swollen and blotched with weeping. Lupus was aware of a thunder in his ears and a sound like hail on the roof.

  Rectina held the beaker out again and Lupus drained it.

  ‘How did you find us?’ asked Vulcan when Lupus had finished. ‘God must have guided you.’

  Lupus snarled and gave the rudest gesture he knew. He meant it for the gods, but Vulcan recoiled as if he had been struck. Then he swallowed.

  ‘You have been through terrible things, Lupus. We all have. Don’t be afraid.’

  Lupus wanted to explain that he wasn’t afraid – he was furious. But he couldn’t, so he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. The house rattled around them as if it were a moving carriage.

  Lupus felt a cool, moist sea sponge on his forehead and he heard Rectina’s gentle voice.

  ‘Thank you for bringing my little Clio back to me, Lupus,’ she said. ‘At first we feared she was dead, but when Vulcan laid his hands on her and prayed –’

  Lupus was off the couch in an instant. He pushed past Rectina and Vulcan and looked frantically around. He stood in the middle of an elegant red and black atrium, with chairs and couches and easy access to the garden, but he saw none of it.

  All he saw was Clio in her grubby orange tunic, sitting on the couch opposite him, smiling weakly. She was pale and dishevelled, but she was very much alive.

  ‘My boat’s ready to sail,’ said Tascius, coming up the steps from the direction of the beach. ‘Packed and provisioned with food and water.’ He wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm.

  ‘Most of my slaves have gone. I’ve posted the remaining few to guard the boat. Promised them a passage to safety and their freedom as a reward.’ He slumped into a chair and turned his face towards Vesuvius.

  Jonathan looked round at the others. ‘If the boat’s ready, shouldn’t we go?’

  ‘Wind’s still against us,’ said Tascius. ‘Stronger now, too.’

  ‘Maybe we could go to the harbour of Stabia and hire a boat there,’ Jonathan persisted.

  ‘They’re at the mercy of the wind, just as we are. The only boats which might escape are small rowing boats or the big oared warships.’

  ‘Couldn’t we go in a carriage?’ suggested Flavia. She had her arm around a whimpering Scuto and was trying to soothe him.

  ‘Rectina has taken it,’ said Tascius. ‘I have a small cart and a chariot. But they’re of no use.’

  ‘Then we should walk.’ Jonathan was finding it hard to breathe, but it was not the asthma that pressed hard on his chest. It was fear.

  ‘We can sail as far in one hour as we could walk in twelve,’ said Tascius, and then added, ‘if the wind shifts.’

  ‘But what if the wind doesn’t shift?’ asked Jonathan.

  ‘A gamble we’ll have to take.’

  ‘Father!’ cried Jonathan in desperation.

  Mordecai looked up from the couch. ‘I’m sorry, Jonathan. This man can’t be moved and if I leave him he’ll die.’

  ‘Then so will we,’ said Jonathan bleakly.

  ‘Lupus,’ said Vulcan, raising his voice to be heard above the volcano’s thunder. ‘We need your help.’

  Lupus looked up at him and nodded. He sat beside Clio, with his arm protectively round her shoulders, still amazed by what had happened to her. Had she just been unconscious? He was certain she had died.

  ‘Lupus? Are you listening? Good. The road north has just been blocked by a landslide and my mother’s only sailing boat has been stolen. We’re trapped at the foot of a volcano.’

  A sharp cracking sound cut through the steady background rumble and they all paused as the house shuddered. A marble statue in the garden toppled forward and crashed to the ground.

  ‘My mother has an idea,’ continued Vulcan. ‘It’s our one chance of escape. If we can get a message to Admiral Pliny across the bay, he might send war ships to rescue not just us, but all the others trapped here at the foot of the volcano. My mother is writing the message now.’

  Lupus made a gesture with his palms up and grunted. The sense was clear: ‘How?’

  ‘Rectina has a small rowing boat in the boathouse down by the shore,’ said Vulcan. ‘I can row, but because of my foot I cannot run. When we reach Misenum, someone will have to take the message quickly to the admiral. Clio says you are fast and brave. Also, you know what Pliny looks like.’

  A shower of gravel and pumice fragments rattled on the roof above them.

  ‘I wanted to go,’ said Clio. ‘But they say I’m too weak. You’ll go, won’t you?’

  Without hesitation, Lupus nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Rectina, coming into the room. She staggered a little, for the earth was still vibrating beneath them. ‘I’ve just finished writing this message. Pliny will not refuse me. He is a brave man.’

  She handed Lupus an oilskin packet about the size of his thumb. It had been tied with leather cords, dipped in liquid wax and sealed with her signet ring, the coiling hearth-snake of good fortune.

  ‘When you get to Misenum,’ Rectina said, ‘you must run as fast as you can to the admiral’s house. It’s at the very top of the hill. Three enormous poplar trees stand beside the entrance. Do you understand, Lupus? Vulcan will row. And you will run.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘May the gods protect you.’

  At the Villa Pomponiana, they stared across the bay towards the mountain, praying for the wind to change. But the cloud of ash above Vesuvius was unfurling to the south and they could see their prayers had not yet been answered.

  Presently, while Mordecai and Miriam quietly worked to keep Xanthus breathing, Tascius told them the true story of Vulcan’s birth.

  ‘I first met Pliny when he was a guest in this very house,’ Tascius began, pouring himself a cup of wine.

  ‘He served with my father in Germania. They grew close on campaign. Pliny was very like my father. A brilliant scholar as well as a man of action. I was a good soldier, but not clever. Pliny was the man my father always hoped I would be.’

  He paused and looked around at them. Beneath the solid line of his eyebrows his eyes looked bruised.

  ‘I’ve never spoken of this to anyone. Look who I’m telling now. Jews, slaves and children.’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll be dead soon.’

&
nbsp; He took a sip of wine.

  ‘When Rectina and I were first married, she lived here. With my parents. I was away on campaign most of the time. That was when Pliny came here as a guest, to finish his biography of my father. Pliny is old and stout now like me. But eighteen years ago he was in his prime.’

  Tascius paused and stared into his wine-cup, as if he could see the past reflected in the dark liquid.

  ‘I was often away. Pliny was always here. With my father. And with Rectina. Once I caught them speaking together, laughing. That was when I first suspected.’

  ‘Nine months later, after Pliny went back to his dusty scrolls, Rectina gave birth to a son. A son born with a mark of the gods’ disapproval. A clubfoot.’

  ‘Do you mean . . .?’ Flavia gasped as she realised what Tascius was saying.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tascius. ‘Vulcan is not my son. He is Pliny’s!’

  In a small rowing boat on the vast bay of Neapolis, Lupus watched the blacksmith in awe. Vulcan had been rowing for nearly an hour. He had only paused twice: first to shrug off the cloak meant to protect him from the rain of gravel and ash, and later to strip off even his tunic. Now he sat in a loincloth, his powerful chest and arms dripping with sweat. The veins stood out on his arms and hands, pumping blood to muscles that must be screaming with pain.

  The blacksmith’s gentle face was frozen in a grimace. It was bloody and blackened with a hundred tiny cuts and scorches. His lips were cracked and dry. Lupus knew that ashes had burnt the inside of Vulcan’s mouth, as they had his, and that it must be agony for him to swallow.

  Lupus took a swig from the water gourd Rectina had given them and then offered it to the smith.

  His teeth bared, Vulcan shook his head and continued to pull with every fibre of his being towards Misenum, still four miles distant.

  ‘Does Vulcan know that Pliny is his father?’ asked Flavia.

  Tascius shook his head. ‘I don’t believe he does know. Unless of course he’s reached Rectina at Herculaneum and she’s told him.’