The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  ‘There were three of them? You are sure? And the Batavian killed all three?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ulpius shakes his head. ‘How could they have known where you were? Did anyone know you were hiding in Pompeii?’

  ‘I sent a boy to deliver a message to one of my maids. I wrote a letter to Titus, letting him know I was alive. The boy was to give it to my maid.’

  ‘Which maid?’ Ulpius asks. ‘Jacasta?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘A different girl.’

  Ulpius frowns. ‘Is she reliable?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Ulpius is thinking, but with his blindfold and ruined eyes, he looks like a lifeless statue. ‘It’s possible that your message was intercepted. Or the boy who delivered it knew who you were and tried to profit from it. Word somehow got to the Parthians that you were in Pompeii.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ I say. ‘But the boy I hired – he did not seem to know me. And what would the Parthians hope to gain by killing me?’

  ‘That was their mission. Kill the Flavians. And Titus was too well protected. And, I suspect, they needed a distraction to escape Italy. Something to draw attention away from the ports. They didn’t know Fortuna was on their side?’

  ‘It was?’

  ‘Yes. Vesuvius has provided a better distraction than they could have ever hoped for.’

  Another tremor shakes the earth.

  Gaius

  24 August

  The home of admiral Secundus, Misenum

  ‘Gaius,’ Mother says, her voice trembling. ‘How much longer must we stay outside?’

  ‘As long as the tremors continue,’ I say. ‘The buildings have stayed standing so far. But there will come a point when they can’t withstand it any longer.’

  We are in the garden, under a lemon tree. Dozens of plump lemons lie on the ground, shaken loose by the earth’s tremors. Uncle Pliny left on his rescue mission several hours ago. I had tried to stay busy inside, but the tremors became too great. I have been sending Zosimos to the pier to see if word has come from Uncle Pliny. He is coming back now, shaking his head. ‘Nothing, Master. The sailors I spoke to doubt whether your uncle’s ships could return, given the wind and the sea. They could be waiting for more favourable conditions.’

  I picture Uncle Pliny at Rectina’s home in Oplontis – or wherever he had to land – calm, confident, enjoying himself as the world unravelled before him. I try my best to emulate his example. I have Zosimos fetch Livy and, taking a seat beside my mother, resume taking notes.

  The tremors continue.

  Mother abandons her weaving and finds comfort in the arms of her maid. Huddled together, they rock each other, waiting for it all to end. I clench my stylus and close my eyes.

  *

  Uncle Pliny’s Spanish client, Scipio the Spaniard, arrives in the eighth hour.

  ‘Scipio,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see your uncle before I run north. To see if he needed me.’

  He looks about the garden and sees mother and her maid under a lemon tree. He sees my books and wax tablet.

  ‘But what are you doing?’ he asks. ‘Are you reading? The world is ending. You must find safety.’

  ‘Uncle Pliny is on a rescue mission near Vesuvius. I am waiting for him to return.’

  ‘You’re mad.’ Scipio grabs me by the shoulders. ‘Come. I’m heading north, toward Rome. I’ve spoken to people fleeing the cities under Vesuvius. The closer to the mountain the greater the danger. Everyone is heading north, to safety. Your uncle may already be headed that way himself.’

  I push him away. ‘All is fine. Nature is nothing to fear,’ I say, echoing Uncle Pliny.

  Scipio shakes his head. ‘Stubbornness runs in the family, doesn’t it? If you survive, tell your uncle I was here.’

  He turns and leaves.

  Zosimos watches Scipio go. He says, ‘Master Gaius, I know we must wait for the admiral, but there are many in the household who are scared. They fear for their lives. How much longer will we stay?’

  There are two slaves standing behind Zosimos. They are shivering, pale faced, their shoulders stooped. They look defeated and terrified.

  I want to wait for Uncle Pliny, to be brave – but would he do the same? I don’t think so. His main concern would be those in his household. ‘You’re right, Zosimus. Gather everyone in the household. Tell them to bring only what they can carry. We’ll leave a note for Uncle Pliny, so he knows where to find us.’

  Domitilla

  25 August

  The home of Pomponianus, Stabiae

  It’s nearly morning and I’m flanked by torches. Yet it is still darker than a moonless night. With my arm outstretched, I can see my hand and no further.

  The courtyard is filled with ash and stones, piled up to my knees. The ash has changed. It was once grey, nearly white. Now it’s a sinister black. Wading through it is like pushing through heavy snow after a blizzard. The rotting smell of sulphur is also new. It burns my nose; my eyes water. We pass Pomponianus’s slaves who are trying to smother a beam of wood that has caught fire. Halfway across the courtyard, I can hear Pliny snoring.

  Pomponianus knocks on the door. ‘Admiral!’ He sounds exhausted and shaken. ‘Please wake up. Our lives hang in the balance.’

  The admiral’s secretary does not wait for his master to rise. He begins to pull on the door, but it is blocked by the ash and stones in the courtyard. Spartacus slams his hand on the door. ‘Master!’

  We hear the admiral on the other side of the door. ‘What’s wrong, Spartacus? Are you pushing on the door? Move.’

  ‘No, Master,’ Spartacus yells. ‘It’s the debris. It’s up to our knees in the courtyard. You will need to push.’

  ‘Is it? Curious,’ Pliny says. ‘Alright. On three. One. Two. Three.’

  Spartacus and Pomponianus pull on the door’s handle. We can hear Pliny grunting as he pushes from the other side. The door opens wide enough for the admiral to squeeze through.

  Pliny stares at the ground, marvelling at the accumulated debris. He smells the air. ‘Is that sulphur?’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ Spartacus says. ‘The phenomena have grown more ominous. The ash is black now, and the earth tremors are more frequent.’

  ‘Curious,’ Pliny says.

  The admiral’s laboured breathing has grown worse. He sounds as though he has just finished sprinting across the courtyard.

  ‘Admiral,’ I say, ‘we fear Pomponianus’s home could fall down on our heads. We need a plan.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Let’s gather everyone together.’

  *

  Inside the atrium, the air is thick with heat and the bitter taste of ash.

  The murmuring crowd gathers before Pliny. ‘As I see it, we have two, possibly three options,’ he says. ‘We can remain inside, we can go to the ships, or we can walk north.’

  The crowd hollers their preference.

  Pliny waves his arms and the crowd quiets. ‘We must pick the least dangerous course, of course. Staying inside is possibly the most dangerous. Brick homes such as this can withstand tremors, but only up to a certain point. I think it only a matter of time before Pomponianus’s home falls.’

  ‘But if we leave,’ someone interjects, ‘it is too dark to walk. And the falling stones could kill a man.’

  ‘I agree. The darkness is not ideal but lack of light will not kill a man,’ Pliny says. ‘As for the stones, we can use items from this house to protect ourselves.’

  ‘Where to then?’ a man yells.

  ‘The safest course is to head back to the shore and wait for the sea to improve,’ Pliny says. ‘There are so many of us, going north, through difficult terrain – it would be slow and treacherous. And—’

  Pliny coughs uncontrollably. He braces himself by putting his hand on his secretary’s shoulder. When he’s done, blood stains his lower lip. He continues, ‘And we do not know if the conditions are worse inland. They very well could be.’ He takes
a deep breath. ‘Well? Shall we head to the shore?’

  The crowd agrees with the admiral’s suggestion with reluctant silence.

  *

  The sea is a slurry of floating pumice stone and ash. The sky is so dark we cannot see past the breaking waves. We have no hope of leaving by ship. We will have to wait.

  Many of us are wearing a pillow tied to the top of our head to protect us from the pumice stones that continue to fall. Others, like the Batavian, have made makeshift shields out of items from Pomponianus’s home. Tables and chairs with the legs removed.

  Captain Verecundus and his crew decide to take their chances inland. ‘Good luck to you, Mistress,’ he says. ‘I hope to find you in Baiae, alive and well.’

  ‘Good fortune, Captain.’

  They march off into the darkness. Those of us who remain take shelter beside the hull of one of Pliny’s ships. Sails are removed to create a canopy. We have to swat ash and pumice stone off of it, over and over again, and from ourselves, for fear of being buried alive.

  *

  Morning does not come. I wonder if it ever will, whether the sun has been extinguished. The air is dense with sulphur and ash. I feel as though I am going to choke on it. The sea remains mountainous and unnavigable; the wind unrelenting.

  Suddenly, from the direction of Vesuvius, there is an explosion – so strong that it shakes the earth, followed by the sound of an inferno scorching the countryside.

  A fire is visible in the distance.

  We stare in the direction of Vesuvius. We wait for a fire to consume us all.

  But it doesn’t come. Only a stronger smell of sulphur.

  People are crying and praying to the gods.

  I go to Pliny and kneel beside him. ‘The sea is not improving, admiral. We should leave. We should run.’

  His eyes are slow to focus on me. ‘Domitilla?’ he says. He looks disoriented. His secretary is on his knees, holding a wet cloth on his master’s forehead. I did not think it possible, but his breathing has grown worse.

  ‘Water, Spartacus. Please.’

  Spartacus leaves.

  I grab Pliny by the arm. ‘We need to get you to where the air is less oppressive,’ I say, trying to help him stand. He raises a foot off the ground, before collapsing back to the sail he is using as a bed.

  ‘I will remain here, I think.’ His voice is solemn. ‘Make sure your brother listens to you,’ he says.

  ‘Pliny, don’t talk—’

  He waves his hand, interrupting me.

  ‘Listen to me, Mistress. Ensure the emperor heeds your advice. He trusts you. He relies on you.’

  I feel tears forming.

  ‘You must get everyone away from here. But first, before you go, get me Ulpius. I would like a word with him.’

  With the help of his freedman, Ulpius is brought to Pliny’s side. They speak in whispers. Ulpius nods, gravely.

  Pliny removes a ring and hands it to Ulpius.

  When they are finished, Pliny waves me over. ‘I shall give it one final effort,’ he says. ‘But if I cannot make it, you must keep this group moving. Go north. Stay on this side of the Sorno river. Give Vesuvius a wide berth.’

  I take Pliny’s hand and kiss it. ‘You are a credit to the empire.’ I begin to cry. ‘To our family.’

  ‘As are you, my dear.’

  The group is organised into double file. We have ten torches – which barely provides enough light to see a pace in any direction. One of Pomponianus’s slaves, a local Campanian boy who knows the region well, is put at the head of the column. I make sure little Petra and her grandfather are close to me.

  Pliny is the last to join the line. Spartacus helps his master stand and puts the admiral’s arm on his shoulders.

  They take two steps towards us and then Pliny collapses. His breathing quickens.

  Spartacus is crying out, ‘No, no, no.’

  Pliny’s breathing grows faster and shorter.

  We are unable to do anything but watch.

  Pliny’s final breath seems to stick in his lungs: he breathes in but not out. He grabs his chest, his body spasms for a time, and then it finally relaxes, as life escapes him.

  The admiral – the invincible, tireless Pliny – is gone.

  Spartacus sobs.

  All of us are paralyzed.

  The Batavian walks to Pliny and glides his hand over the admiral’s face, closing his eyes. He grabs Spartacus by the arm and drags him to his feet. ‘Come,’ the Batavian says. He pulls Spartacus toward us and he eventually relents. He joins the line, still sobbing.

  We start to walk north.

  Pliny’s body is left on the shore, buried under warm black ash.

  *

  The hill is steep and densely populated with trees. Everyone grips the filthy tunic of the man or woman ahead of them, making a human chain. Our torches provide enough light that we do not trip on the earth, but little more. The local boy seems to know the way and for a time we move with purpose.

  There is another explosion in the distance. We stop and wait for a fire to consume us. The earth trembles and a few people lose their balance and fall to the forest floor.

  But no fires come.

  We keep walking.

  Our torches begin to run out of fuel. They extinguish one after the next. When the last one goes out, it is as though we are locked in a room in the middle of the night without a window.

  There is a weight to the darkness. A presence.

  We stand in silence, shaking with fear.

  More than one person is crying.

  I kneel beside little Petra, the girl we brought from Pompeii. I can’t see her or she me. I grip her hand and whisper that everything will be okay.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’

  The voice belongs to Ulpius.

  Cyrus, his freedman, must have explained that the torches have gone out because Ulpius then says, ‘What does that matter?’

  For the blind senator, every day is lost in darkness.

  ‘Ulpius,’ I say, trying to control the fear in my voice, ‘can you lead us through this?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘If someone puts me at the head of the line.’

  Ulpius makes his way to the front of the line. The local boy who had been leading stands on my left, gripping my tunic.

  Ulpius starts walking without warning. It’s good to move again. The darkness is still overwhelming, but the sound of our feet on the forest floor, and Ulpius tapping trees and rocks with his staff keep the malevolence at bay.

  We walk for hours, over the hill and out of the forest.

  There is a grey dot on the horizon. It looks like a giant grey eye, watching us walk towards it.

  We keep trudging uphill, toward the grey eye. Slowly the blackness lightens into a dense grey fog. Then the fog begins to dissipate. A quarter of an hour later we step into natural sunlight.

  It is the middle of the day, the sun is overhead.

  Some scream with pleasure. Others drop to their knees to thank their favourite god.

  Behind us is a wall of grey smoke; it stretches north and west, as far as the eye can see.

  Ulpius asks why everyone is reacting as they are.

  ‘We have been delivered from the darkness,’ Pomponianus says.

  ‘Ah,’ Ulpius says, ‘how fortunate for you.’

  Barlaas

  25 August

  Two miles north of Naples

  Marcus returns with Prefect Virgilius and three Praetorians. Their faces are grim.

  ‘The barracks in Baiae were empty,’ Marcus says. He had left hours ago to find help. ‘The entire bay is running north. Or hiding, waiting for this to be over.’ He shakes his head. ‘Some are saying giants have been spotted in the hills around Vesuvius.’

  ‘Giants?’

  Marcus nods. The boy is not one to scare easily, but whatever is happening out there, it has him shaken – all of us.

  Prefect Virgilius looks around the empty villa – the one he left filled with soldi
ers. He is surprised to find only Theseus, Manlius and myself. ‘How long ago did Catullus run off?’

  ‘Three, maybe four hours ago,’ Manlius says. ‘Just before we sent Marcus for more help. The legate said he and his soldiers were needed elsewhere, to help with whatever is happening at Vesuvius.’

  Without hiding my disgust, I say, ‘The little Roman shit was scared. You could see it in his eyes.’

  ‘So how many does that make us?’ Virgilius asks. ‘Eight. Eight against – how many? At least a dozen Parthians and an army of gladiators?’

  Theseus calls from the window where he has been watching Sulpicius’s villa. He says, ‘Sulpicius plans to leave before dawn. We need to move. Now.’

  We abandon the villa. Outside, the air is warm and thick. We are on top of a hill and Sulpicius’s compound is below, with a thin forest of trees in between. To the west, there is Vesuvius and the endless, billowing cloud of smoke.

  ‘Eight against an army,’ Virgilius says, staring at Vesuvius. ‘But it could be worse. Apollo protect those caught under Vesuvius’s shadow.’

  We stand and watch the fire, mesmerized.

  Theseus starts to move downhill and we follow, single file, toward Sulpicius’s villa.

  Halfway down the hill we hear an explosion – a roaring crack – and the ground sways. I put out my arms, trying to keep my balance. Two of the Praetorians fall to the forest floor.

  ‘What was that?’ the Prefect asks.

  No one has the answer.

  We reach a grove of lemon trees. A gladiator is waiting for us, Theseus’s man on the inside. He likely fought in the games – the gladiatorial matches that seem a lifetime ago – but I cannot place him, not without his helmet.

  ‘This is Minnow,’ Theseus says. ‘He’s agreed to help.’

  Minnow squints and counts our group. ‘Is this all of you?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ Theseus says.

  ‘How many are inside?’ Manlius asks.

  ‘Sulpicius has thirty gladiators,’ Minnow says. ‘There’s another dozen Parthians and three Roman soldiers.’

  ‘Shit,’ the Prefect says.

  ‘How is Olympias?’ Marcus asks.

  ‘She’ll be happy to see you,’ Minnow says.