The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  The Batavian nods. He takes my hand and we head toward the sea.

  *

  The pier. Chaos reigns. It is mid-afternoon, yet the sky is growing dark. Warm ash continues to fall; and stones of pumice – lightweight and porous, the size of pebbles – fall like hail. They are not deadly – not on their own – but they sting.

  The wind is howling and the sea is a tumult of waves and foam, tossing ships against the jetty. The Batavian pushes us through the crowd. Sailors are forcing back the panicking crowd. We see a man – a beggar by the look of him – jump off the pier onto a ship. Two sailors grab him and toss him into the water. The man disappears below the foaming waves. I slow down – surely, we can do something to help the man – but the Batavian keeps dragging me down the pier.

  We pass an old man with a little girl. They look lost and frightened.

  ‘There,’ I say, pointing at a ship. That one.’ The captain is on the pier directing his crew to tie down the sail and add more bumpers between the ship and the shore. Like all of the ships we have seen, he is not intending to leave Pompeii. He looks calm.

  ‘Are you this ship’s captain?’ I say.

  I’m dressed in my stolen tunic and a worn cloak The captain glances at me and says, ‘Bugger off. No free rides. Not today.’

  ‘How much to sail to Baiae?’ I ask.

  He stares. My voice – clear, strong-willed, used to getting its way – gives him pause. I’d wager he rarely hears a voice like mine, and never from a woman. He considers me again. ‘On a normal day, Pompeii to Baiae would cost you a thousand sesterces? But today’ – he points at the smoke billowing from Vesuvius – ‘you can’t afford it.’

  I show him my hairpin. It is a solid gold butterfly with two rubies for its eyes.

  ‘What’s that?’ he says. He recognizes its value.

  ‘Half your reward for taking us to Baiae?’

  ‘Half?’

  ‘I have a matching one at home. I will give it to you as well when you get us to Baiae.’

  ‘You live in Baiae?’

  Pumice stones continue to hit and scatter against the pier. The sky is nearly as dark as the night.

  ‘I have a summer home there.’

  ‘You’re rich then?’

  ‘Very.’

  He nods, as if reaching a conclusion. He offers me his hand. ‘Captain Verecundus at your service.’

  In the distance, there is a loud noise like thunder.

  The old man and the little girl are where we passed them, standing stunned on the pier. ‘Captain,’ I say, ‘those two are with me. See that they are helped on board.’

  ‘As you wish, Mistress,’ he says, before hollering at his crew, ‘We are leaving. For Baiae. Now.’

  His crew is mortified.

  ‘There will be all the wine you can drink in Baiae, boys.’ He claps his hands. ‘Let’s go!’

  *

  The wind howls. Waves of white foam push our ship backward, away from the safety of Baiae. Captain Verecundus screams instructions at his rowers, but his words are barely heard over the violent winds. The sky is black and thick with falling ash collecting on the ship’s deck like snow. Pumice stones and smouldering black stones hit the deck as though thrown from a sling. Fifty oars creak with each stroke through the water and sound on the verge of snapping in two.

  It feels as though we have not moved for hours, that the waves and our oars have reached a standstill. It is impossible to tell, however. The shore is invisible.

  The little girl we found on the pier is named Petra. She’s huddled with her grandfather by the mast. I have gone to her often, to tell her that all will be fine. My words sound emptier by the hour, as my unease calcifies into terror.

  ‘Mistress,’ the captain cries. ‘We cannot reach Baiae. The sea and wind won’t allow it. Our ship will be torn apart if we continue. We must head to shore.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Do what you must, captain. But not Pompeii. Anywhere but where we came from.’

  ‘Our path will be determined by the wind.’

  He shouts instructions at his crew and the ship turns east.

  We are moving with the waves now, rather than against them. Our ship moves so quickly that it hums.

  We continue east. The shore cannot be seen until suddenly it is shockingly close. I see four ships of the Imperial fleet beached before a large villa.

  ‘There, captain,’ I say, pointing at the ships. ‘Take us there.’

  *

  Near the shore the water is filled with floating ash and pumice stones. The ash is like cement, sealing the pumice stones together into large floating boulders. They thump against the hull as it surges on waves towards the shore.

  The ship hits the shore with a jolt; sailors jump into the foaming sea and pull at lines, dragging the ship onto the shore.

  The ash continues to fall – with greater frequency. The Imperial ships are black shadows on the beach. A marine runs up to us, one hand over his head to protect against falling pumice stones.

  ‘Soldier,’ I say, ‘who is in command of your ships today?’

  The marine does not recognise the poorly dressed woman before him. But my voice has the similar effect it had on our ship’s captain. He replies, quickly: ‘The admiral himself, Mistress.’

  My heart lifts. Admiral Secundus. Pliny. I couldn’t have asked for a better man to find.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘We had attempted to rescue the widow Rectina from Oplontis, but the winds forced us to shore here.’ The marine points at the villa. ‘We’ve taken shelter inside the home of Pomponianus.’

  ‘Captain,’ I say to Verecundus, ‘you and your crew will find shelter here. But let me go first.’

  ‘Thank you, Mistress. We will wait at the ship.’

  The Batavian and I follow the soldier to the villa.

  Suddenly the earth moves. The Batavian grabs my arm and we fall to the beach.

  Once the earthquake is over, the Batavian helps me to my feet and we continue our dash to the villa.

  The three of us burst into Pomponianus’s villa. The atrium is lit by two weak oil lamps. There are more than a dozen people huddled around a long table. Dinner is being served. Household staff are in the midst of clearing the first course. Beneath the skylight, where once water collected in a pool, there is a heap of warm ash and pumice stone. Everyone is cowering, as though the ceiling were about to drop on their heads at any moment. The table is at an odd angle and sparsely set.

  As I walk into the atrium, Pomponianus rises and starts wagging his finger. ‘We do not have room to house the poor. Off with you!’

  I pull back my hood.

  ‘Now, Pomponianus,’ I say, ‘is that any way to treat a guest on a day like to today.’

  There are gasps along the table.

  Pliny, who I had not noticed at first, stands. He is beaming. ‘Domitilla!’ He is on me in an instant, pulling me close with his bear-like arms. Then he pushes me away and admires me, like a long-lost relative. His eyes go to the Batavian and then back to me. ‘No doubt you have a story to tell.’

  I look past Pliny to the table of cowering guests. ‘As do you, I’m sure.’

  He smiles. ‘You may not be able to tell, but I am in the middle of a rescue mission.’ Pliny and his nephew were in Misenum this morning. They had experienced the earthquake but hadn’t thought it was serious. Until they spotted the cloud of smoke over Vesuvius. Pliny planned to investigate and had readied three quadriremes to take him close to the phenomenon. As he was leaving, he received a message from Rectina, who lives in Oplontis, which sits at the foot of Vesuvius. Rectina said that there was ash and stone falling from the sky, that it was as dark as night, and that she was prevented from escaping by an unfavourable wind. ‘Thus, my scientific foray became a rescue mission. Good intentions that the wind and seas have stymied. We never made it to Oplontis. The winds sent us here. Poor Rectina. She might still be waiting for me.’

  I tell Pliny parts of my story, refer
ring to the Batavian as little as possible. ‘We were headed to Baiae,’ I say. ‘but, in these conditions, the journey was nearly impossible.’

  ‘Not near impossible,’ Pliny says. ‘The sea is truly impassable at the moment.’

  I had always thought Pliny perpetually composed, too interested in the world to ever be troubled by it. But his excitement as the world is ending is truly remarkable.

  And possibly mad.

  He seems excited about the novelty of what is happening. It is only when Pliny stops talking, as he stands and listens to wait for my reply, that I notice his breathing is laboured – more than usual. Whatever is happening to the air – the heat and ash – it is not to his benefit.

  ‘So, what happened, Pliny? You could not sail away, so you decided to have a feast?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ he says. ‘How else should we wait until the sea is navigable? Speaking of eating, are you hungry?’ I am about to say no, but Pliny puts his arm around my shoulder. ‘Who knows when we will have the opportunity to eat again, Mistress. We will all need the energy.’

  *

  No one speaks. We listen to the sound of Pliny chewing loudly and the hollow thud of pumice stones hitting the roof above. Occasionally one will ricochet through the skylight and everyone at the table jumps with fright.

  Everyone except for Pliny.

  Captain Verecundus is invited to join us. His crew takes shelter in a separate room with Pliny’s sailors. The Batavian sits with the other slaves in the corner of the atrium. Our night in Pompeii is over and we are once again master and slave.

  Pliny explains what happened the night of my wedding, after the ships went up in flames. How he helped people out of the sea, and the confrontation between Virgilius’s Praetorians and the Parthians.

  ‘How many people died?’ I ask.

  ‘A good many. Your brothers lived, thank the gods. But I’ve seen your brother escape far worse.’

  I smile, thinking of my invincible older brother. I’m not sure I ever considered Titus being anything but alive and well. ‘And what of my maid, Jacasta?’ I ask.

  ‘She was burned, on her hand and arm. Quite badly. But she lived.’

  I sigh with relief. ‘And the Parthians?’

  ‘Missing. Your brother sent soldiers through the region to find them. But so far they have been unsuccessful.’

  The slaves across the room begin to swap theories on what is happening outside. Our table grows quiet to listen.

  ‘The Giants are rising up in revolt,’ an old man says. ‘They’ve clawed their way to the surface, from the depths of hell. You can hear their trumpets playing their war song. They’re angry. Who wouldn’t be? When they find us, they’ll crush us with their hands. We’re mad not to run. Mad.’

  ‘The whole countryside is alight,’ a grey-haired woman says. ‘You can smell flesh burning.’ She sniffs the air. ‘We will all burn when the day is done.’

  The scholar, Caecinnius Rufus, a guest of Pomponianus when this all began, is seated at the other end of the table. ‘The world is being consumed,’ he whispers, ‘by chaos and fire. The gods are punishing us.’

  Many at the table nod their heads.

  Pliny, however, laughs.

  ‘Rufus,’ he says, ‘you disappoint me. Haven’t you read my book? What is happening today is nothing new.’

  ‘Your book never described anything like this.’ Rufus’s voice has lost its scholarly detachment. It sounds like a twig about to snap in two.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Pliny says. ‘I refer you to book two, chapter one hundred and ten. I describe mountains, always burning, in which Nature rages, threatening to consume the earth with fire. In the past, from such mountains, clouds of ash have been observed. There is Mount Etna, in Sicily; and the summit of Cophantus, in Bactria; and the White Tower in Susa. There is a mountain in Ethiopia . . .’

  ‘I recall the passage, admiral,’ Rufus interrupts, ‘but what do those mountains have to do with the fires consuming the countryside.’

  ‘Let’s not let fear overwhelm our reason.’

  Pliny is enjoying the debate. But then suddenly he is overtaken by a violent cough. When it’s over, for a brief moment, he looks defeated; his eyes are glassy and he is out of breath.

  Pliny clears his throat and continues, though not with the vigour he had before. ‘I also described an event from the Social War, in which the island of Hiera, one of the Æolian isles, erupted in a fire that burned for several days, until the senate performed the proper sacrifices and the fire ceased. It’s obvious, isn’t it? What we are seeing is the same phenomenon. The difference between the fires of Hiera and the fires of Vesuvius is not in kind, but in degree.’

  For Pliny, the world isn’t ending; it has merely become more interesting.

  We watch as he resumes dipping his bread in fishsauce.

  *

  Pliny sends his secretary Spartacus to see if the winds are more favourable. He returns with two men. Both faces are cast in shadow when they enter the atrium; one is bent over a staff.

  They shuffle into the atrium.

  ‘My god, Ulpius!’ I say, realizing who it is. He is accompanied by his freedman Cyrus. ‘What are you doing here?’

  A dozen Praetorians and marines stream into the atrium.

  ‘And where is here?’ Ulpius asks.

  ‘Stabiae.’

  He laughs. ‘See, Cyrus. We missed the mark. We’d been on Caesar’s business, sailing back to Baiae. But the seas had a different plan for us. The winds and the sea pushed us here.’

  Pliny’s secretary adds: ‘The seas are worse than ever, admiral. There is no hope of sailing today.’

  Captain Verecundus appears to know Ulpius. He rises from the table and they embrace. ‘Fitting I’d run into you on the strangest day of my life.’

  They talk quietly for a moment, like long lost friends. I am too tired to guess how they know each other.

  A space is cleared for Ulpius beside me. There is a noticeable change in Pliny. He stares at Ulpius with a look he rarely shows: distrust. Or possibly disgust. I had thought the coldness between them had thawed.

  Ulpius cannot see Pliny’s glare. He asks for bread, for fishsauce, for wine.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of you, Ulpius,’ Pliny says.

  ‘Have you?’ Ulpius dips his bread.

  A large stone collides with the roof. Everyone in the room crouches and looks up. We wait to see if the ceiling will come crashing down.

  Pliny remains focused on Ulpius. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I have been thinking about a comment you made.’

  ‘You will have to be more specific, Secundus. I am a true wit.’

  ‘You will recall that you recently stated to me – with absolute certainty – the number of times the Parthian hostage, Meherdates, met with the emperor Nero. It was a remarkable observation,’ Pliny says. ‘How could a Spanish provincial know such an event of the Imperial court?’

  There is a shift in Ulpius. He drops his bread and aims his ruined eyes at the admiral.

  ‘And so,’ Pliny continues, ‘finding this inexplicable, I went to the historians, to the authors who were in Rome at the time, during Claudius’s reign, when Nero was an entitled prince running about the Palace. I read Rusticus and Corbulo and other historians. I thought, now this must be how Ulpius knew what he did.’

  Ulpius’s freedman whispers in his ear, but Ulpius waves him away.

  ‘But I reviewed all of the histories and found not a word about the number of times Meherdates met with the Tyrant.’

  ‘Pliny,’ I say, trying to diffuse what seems a pointless argument, ‘this is an odd time to speak about history. Can this wait for another time?’

  Pliny ignores me. To Ulpius, he says, ‘I could tell you the number of times that I met with Nero. But I was there, in Rome. You won’t find it in any history book. I’m sure Nero could tell you as well. Couldn’t he?’

  A sequence of large stones hit the roof and those around our table shudder. Our host Pompo
nianus – whose spirit is waning – squawks like a bird.

  I am not sure what Pliny’s complaint is with Ulpius, but this is neither the time nor the place.

  ‘Now Pliny,’ I say, ‘I’m sure this can wait. Ulpius has just been through a great ordeal – as we all have.’

  Pliny stares at Ulpius. ‘Confess,’ he says.

  ‘Confess to what?’ Ulpius says.

  Pliny waits for what feels like an eternity, then he smiles, as though he’s won a great victory. ‘I can see I’m right.’ He laughs. ‘A coward cannot escape his nature.’ He slides his chair back with the help of his secretary. ‘I think I will close my eyes and get some rest, as we wait for the seas to clear.’

  The admiral’s breathing is ragged. He has trouble standing. His secretary has to help him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lucius,’ I say to Ulpius, after Pliny has left. ‘I’m not sure what has gotten into the admiral.’

  ‘I do,’ Ulpius says. ‘But it’s no fault of yours.’

  ‘What business of Caesar’s brought you here?’

  Ulpius fills in the blanks of Pliny’s story. Senator Sulpicius was suspected of helping the Parthians, so Titus ordered soldiers to watch his home, secretly. Prefect Virgilius left a young tribune in charge who didn’t stop or question anyone seen leaving. A woman visited Sulpicius’s, and then she left with three men. They headed east, towards the cities along the bay, rather than inland or north.

  ‘Marcus and Theseus were there,’ Ulpius says. ‘They sent word to me about the three men leaving Sulpicius’s. I wouldn’t have been much help watching Sulpicius’s home, or storming it, if it came to that. So, with the Prefect’s blessing, I took two dozen soldiers to see if we could find the three men who’d left Sulpicius’s.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We never found them. We went to Putoeli first. My best guess was they had gone to the largest port to secure passage on a ship. It would be the safest way to escape Italy. We had no luck there, so we headed east. We went to Herculaneum and then we were heading to Pompeii when the wind and seas sent us here.’

  ‘I might know what happened to those three men.’ I tell Ulpius how three Parthians found the Batavian and me in Pompeii.