Pompeii

by Harris, Robert

  The senator was less impressed. He folded his arms and pushed himself back in the chair, as if he had somehow made himself look a fool by watching a childish trick. ‘I don’t know what’s significant about that. So the table trembles? It could be anything. The wind –’

  ‘There is no wind.’

  ‘– heavy footsteps somewhere. Or perhaps Pomponianus, here, was stroking one of the ladies under the table.’

  Laughter broke the tension. Only Pliny did not smile. ‘We know that this world we stand on, which seems to us so still, is in fact revolving eternally, at an indescribable velocity. And it may be that this mass hurtling through space produces a sound of such volume that it is beyond the capacity of our human ears to detect. The stars out there, for example, might be tinkling like wind chimes, if only we could hear them. Could it be that the patterns in this wineglass are the physical expression of that same heavenly harmony?’

  ‘Then why does it stop and start?’

  ‘I have no answer, Cascus. Perhaps at one moment the earth glides silently, and at another it encounters resistance. There is a school which holds that winds are caused by the earth travelling in one direction and the stars in the other. Aquarius – what do you think?’

  ‘I’m an engineer, admiral,’ said Attilius tactfully, ‘not a philosopher.’ In his view, they were wasting time. He thought of mentioning the strange behaviour of the vapour on the hillside that morning, but decided against it. Tinkling stars! His foot was tapping with impatience. ‘All I can tell you is that the matrix of an aqueduct is built to withstand the most extreme forces. Where the Augusta runs underground, which is most of the way, she’s six feet high and three feet wide, and she rests on a base of concrete one and a half feet thick, with walls of the same dimensions. Whatever force breached that must have been powerful.’

  ‘More powerful than the force which shakes my wine?’ The admiral looked at the senator. ‘Unless we are not dealing with a phenomenon of nature at all. In which case, what is it? A deliberate act of sabotage, perhaps, to strike at the fleet? But who would dare? We haven’t had a foreign enemy set foot in this part of Italy since Hannibal.’

  ‘And sabotage would hardly explain the presence of sulphur.’

  ‘Sulphur,’ said Pomponianus suddenly. ‘That’s the stuff in thunderbolts, isn’t it? And who throws thunderbolts?’ He looked around excitedly. ‘Jupiter! We should sacrifice a white bull to Jupiter, as a deity of the upper air, and have the haruspices inspect the entrails. They’ll tell us what to do.’

  The engineer laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny about that?’ demanded Pomponianus. ‘It’s not so funny as the idea that the world is flying through space – which, if I may say so, Pliny, rather begs the question of why we don’t all fall off.’

  ‘It’s an excellent suggestion, my friend,’ said Pliny soothingly. ‘And, as admiral, I also happen to be the chief priest of Misenum, and I assure you, if I had a white bull to hand I would kill it on the spot. But for the time being, a more practical solution may be needed.’ He sat back in his chair and wiped his napkin across his face, then unfolded and inspected it, as if it might contain some vital clue. ‘Very well, aquarius. I shall give you your ship.’ He turned to the captain. ‘Antius – which is the fastest liburnian in the fleet?’

  ‘That would be the Minerva, admiral. Torquatus’s ship. Just back from Ravenna.’

  ‘Have her made ready to sail at first light.’

  ‘Yes, admiral.’

  ‘And I want notices posted on every fountain telling the citizens that rationing is now in force. Water will only be allowed to flow twice each day, for one hour exactly, at dawn and dusk.’

  Antius winced. ‘Aren’t you forgetting that tomorrow is a public holiday, admiral? It’s Vulcanalia, if you recall?’

  ‘I’m perfectly aware it’s Vulcanalia.’

  And so it is, thought Attilius. In the rush of leaving Rome and fretting about the aqueduct he had completely lost track of the calendar. The twenty-third of August, Vulcan’s day, when live fish were thrown on to bonfires, as a sacrifice, to appease the god of fire.

  ‘But what about the public baths?’ persisted Antius.

  ‘Closed until further notice.’

  ‘They wont like that, admiral.’

  ‘Well, it can’t be helped. We’ve all grown far too soft, in any case.’ He glanced briefly at Pomponianus. ‘The Empire wasn’t built by men who lazed around the baths all day. It will do some people good to have a taste of how life used to be. Gaius – draft a letter for me to sign to the aediles of Pompeii, asking them to provide whatever men and materials may be necessary for the repair of the aqueduct. You know the kind of thing. “In the name of the Emperor Titus Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, and in accordance with the power vested in me by the Senate and People of Rome, blah blah” – something to make them jump. Corax – it’s clear that you know the terrain around Vesuvius better than anyone else. You should be the one to ride out and locate the fault, while the aquarius assembles the main expedition in Pompeii.’

  The overseer’s mouth flapped open in dismay.

  ‘What’s the matter? Do you disagree?’

  ‘No, admiral.’ Corax hid his anxiety quickly, but Attilius had noticed it. ‘I don’t mind looking for the break. Even so, would it not make more sense for one of us to remain at the reservoir to supervise the rationing –’

  Pliny cut him off impatiently. ‘Rationing will be the Navy’s responsibility. It’s primarily a question of public order.’

  For a moment Corax looked as if he might be on the point of arguing, but then he bowed his head, frowning.

  From the terrace came the sound of female voices and a peal of laughter.

  He doesn’t want me to go to Pompeii, thought Attilius, suddenly. This whole performance tonight – it’s been to keep me away from Pompeii.

  A woman’s elaborately coiffeured head appeared at the doorway. She must have been about sixty. The pearls at her throat were the largest Attilius had ever seen. She crooked her finger at the senator. ‘Cascus, darling, how much longer are you planning to keep us waiting?’

  ‘Forgive us, Rectina,’ said Pliny. ‘We’ve almost finished. Does anyone have anything else to add?’ He glanced at each of them in turn. ‘No? In that case, I for one propose to finish my dinner.’

  He pushed back his chair and everyone stood. The ballast of his belly made it hard for him to rise. Gaius offered his arm, but the admiral waved him away. He had to rock forwards several times and the strain of finally pushing himself up on to his feet left him breathless. With one hand he clutched at the table, with the other he reached for his glass, then stopped, his outstretched fingers hovering in mid-air.

  The wine had resumed its barely perceptible trembling.

  He blew out his cheeks. ‘I think perhaps I shall sacrifice that white bull after all, Pomponianus. And you,’ he said to Attilius, ‘will give me back my water within two days.’ He picked up the glass and took a sip. ‘Or – believe me – we shall all have need of Jupiter’s protection.’

  Nocte Intempesta

  [23:22 hours]

  ‘Magma movement may also disturb the local water table, and changes in flow and temperature of groundwater may be detected.’

  Encyclopaedia of Volcanoes

  Two hours later – sleepless, naked, stretched out on his narrow wooden bed – the engineer lay waiting for the dawn. The familiar, hammering lullaby of the aqueduct had gone and in its place crowded all the tiny noises of the night – the creak of the sentries’ boots in the street outside, the rustle of mice in the rafters, the hacking cough of one of the slaves downstairs in the barracks. He closed his eyes, only to open them again almost immediately. In the panic of the crisis he had managed to forget the sight of the corpse, dragged from the pool of eels, but in the darkness he found himself replaying the whole scene – the concentrated silence at the water’s edge; the body hooked and dragged ashore; the blood; the screams of the woman; the anxio
us face and the pale white limbs of the girl.

  Too exhausted to rest, he swung his bare feet on to the warm floor. A small oil lamp flickered on the nightstand. His uncompleted letter home lay beside it. There was no point now, he thought, in finishing it. Either he would repair the Augusta, in which case his mother and sister would hear from him on his return. Or they would hear of him, when he was shipped back to Rome, in disgrace, to face a court of inquiry – a dishonour to the family name.

  He picked up the lamp and took it to the shelf at the foot of the bed, setting it down among the little shrine of figures that represented the spirits of his ancestors. Kneeling, he reached across and plucked out the effigy of his great-grandfather. Could the old man have been one of the original engineers on the Augusta? It was not impossible. The records of the Curator Aquarum showed that Agrippa had shipped in a workforce of forty thousand, slaves and legionaries, and had built her in eighteen months. That was six years after he built the Aqua Julia in Rome and seven years before he built the Virgo, and his great-grandfather had certainly worked on both of those. It pleased him to imagine that an earlier Attilius might have come south to this sweltering land – might even have sat on this very spot as the slaves dug out the Piscina Mirabilis. He felt his courage strengthening. Men had built the Augusta; men would fix her. He would fix her.

  And then his father.

  He replaced one figure and took up another, running his thumb tenderly over the smooth head.

  Your father was a brave man; make sure you are, too.

  He had been a baby when his father had finished the Aqua Claudia, but so often had he been told the story of the day of its dedication – of how, at four months old, he had been passed over the shoulders of the engineers in the great crowd on the Esquiline Hill – that it sometimes seemed to him he could remember it all at first hand: the elderly Claudius, twitching and stammering as he sacrificed to Neptune, and then the water appearing in the channel, as if by magic, at the exact moment that he raised his hands to the sky. But that had had nothing to do with the intervention of the gods, despite the gasps of those present. That was because his father had known the laws of engineering and had opened the sluices at the head of the aqueduct exactly eighteen hours before the ceremony was due to reach its climax, and had ridden back into the city faster than the water could chase him.

  He contemplated the piece of clay in his palm.

  And you, father? Did you ever come to Misenum? Did you know Exomnius? The aquarii of Rome were always a family – as close as a cohort, you used to say. Was Exomnius one of those engineers on the Esquiline on your day of triumph? Did he swing me in his arms with the rest?

  He stared at the figure for a while, then kissed it and put it carefully with the others.

  He sat back on his haunches.

  First the aquarius disappears and then the water. The more he considered it, the more convinced he was that these must be connected. But how? He glanced around the roughly plastered walls. No clue here, that was for sure. No trace of any man’s character left behind in this plain cell. And yet, according to Corax, Exomnius had run the Augusta for twenty years.

  He retrieved the lamp and went out into the passage, shielding the flame with his hand. Drawing back the curtain opposite, he shone the light into the cubicle where Exomnius’s possessions were stored. A couple of wooden chests, a pair of bronze candelabra, a cloak, sandals, a pisspot. It was not much to show for a lifetime. Neither of the chests was locked, he noticed.

  He glanced towards the staircase, but the only sound coming from below was snoring. Still holding the lamp, he lifted the lid of the nearest chest and began to rummage through it with his free hand. Clothes – old clothes mostly – which, as he disturbed them, released a strong smell of stale sweat. Two tunics, loincloths, a toga, neatly folded. He closed the lid quietly and raised the other. Not much in this chest, either. A skin scraper for removing oil in the baths. A jokey figure of Priapus with a vastly extended penis. A clay beaker for throwing dice, with more penises inlaid around its rim. The dice themselves. A few glass jars containing various herbs and unguents. A couple of plates. A small bronze goblet, badly tarnished.

  He rolled the dice as gently as he could in the beaker and threw them. His luck was in. Four sixes – the Venus throw. He tried again and threw another Venus. The third Venus settled it. Loaded dice.

  He put away the dice and picked up the goblet. Was it really bronze? Now he examined it more closely, he was not so sure. He weighed it in his hand, turned it over, breathed on it and rubbed the bottom with his thumb. A smear of gold appeared and part of an engraved letter P. He rubbed again, gradually increasing the radius of gleaming metal, until he could make out all the initials.

  N. P. N. l. A.

  The l stood for libertus and showed it to be the property of a freed slave.

  A slave who had been freed by an owner whose family name began with a P, and who was rich enough, and vulgar enough, to drink his wine from a gold cup.

  Her voice was suddenly as clear in his mind as if she had been standing beside him.

  ‘My name is Corelia Ampliata, daughter of Numerius Popidius Ampliatus, owner of the Villa Hortensia . . .’

  The moonlight shone on the smooth black stones of the narrow street and silhouetted the lines of the flat roofs. It felt almost as hot as it had been in the late afternoon; the moon as bright as the sun. As he mounted the steps between the shuttered, silent houses, he could picture her darting before him – the movement of her hips beneath the plain white dress.

  ‘A few hundred paces – aye, but every one of them uphill!’

  He came again to the level ground and to the high wall of the great villa. A grey cat ran along it and disappeared over the other side. The glinting metal dolphins leapt and kissed above the chained gate. He could hear the sea in the distance, moving against the shore, and the throb of the cicadas in the garden. He rattled the iron bars and pressed his face to the warm metal. The porter’s room was shuttered and barred. There was not a light to be seen.

  He was remembering Ampliatus’s reaction when he turned up on the seashore: ‘What’s happened to Exomnius? But surely Exomnius is still the aquarius?’ There had been surprise in his voice and, now he came to think about it, possibly something more: alarm.

  ‘Corelia!’ He called her name softly. ‘Corelia Ampliata!’

  No response. And then a whisper in the darkness, so low he almost missed it: ‘Gone.’

  A woman’s voice. It came from somewhere to his left. He stepped back from the gate and peered into the shadows. He could make out nothing except a small mound of rags piled in a drift against the wall. He moved closer and saw that the shreds of cloth were moving slightly. A skinny foot protruded, like a bone. It was the mother of the dead slave. He went down on one knee and cautiously touched the rough fabric of her dress. She shivered, then groaned and muttered something. He withdrew his hand. His fingers were sticky with blood.

  ‘Can you stand?’

  ‘Gone,’ she repeated.

  He lifted her carefully until she was sitting, propped against the wall. Her swollen head dropped forward and he saw that her matted hair had left a damp mark on the stone. She had been whipped and badly beaten, and thrown out of the household to die.

  N. P. N. l. A: Numerius Popidius Numerii libertus Ampliatus. Granted his freedom by the family Popidii. It was a fact of life that there was no crueller master than an ex-slave.

  He pressed his fingers lightly to her neck to make sure she was still alive. Then he threaded one arm under the crook of her knees and with the other grasped her round her shoulders. It cost him no effort to rise. She was mere rags and bones. Somewhere, in the streets close to the harbour, the nightwatchman was calling the fifth division of the darkness: ‘Media noctis inclinatio’ – midnight.

  The engineer straightened his back and set off down the hill as the day of Mars turned into the day of Mercury.

  MERCURY

  23 August

&
nbsp; The day before the eruption

  Diluculum

  [06:00 hours]

  ‘Prior to AD 79, a reservoir of magma had accumulated beneath the volcano. It is not possible to say when this magma chamber began to form, but it had a volume of at least 3.6 cubic kilometres, was about 3 km below the surface, and was compositionally stratified, with volatile-rich alkalic magma (55 percent Si02 and almost 10 per cent K20) overlying slightly denser, more mafic magma.’

  Peter Francis, Volcanoes: A Planetary Perspective

  At the top of the great stone lighthouse, hidden beyond the ridge of the southern headland, the slaves were dousing the fires to greet the dawn. It was supposed to be a sacred place. According to Virgil, this was the spot where Misenus, the herald of the Trojans, slain by the sea god Triton, lay buried with his oars and trumpet.

  Attilius watched the red glow fade beyond the tree-crested promontory, while in the harbour the outlines of the warships took shape against the pearl-grey sky.

  He turned and walked back along the quay to where the others were waiting. He could make out their faces at last – Musa, Becco, Corvinus, Polites – they were becoming as familiar to him as family. No sign yet of Corax.

  ‘Nine brothels!’ Musa was saying. ‘Believe me, if you want to get laid, Pompeii’s the place. Even Becco can give his hand a rest for a change. Hey, aquarius!’ he shouted, as Attilius drew closer. ‘Tell Becco he can get himself laid!’

  The dockside stank of shit and gutted fish. Attilius could see a putrid melon and the bloated, whitened carcass of a rat lapping at his feet between the pillars of the wharf. So much for poets! He had a sudden yearning for one of those cold, northern seas he had heard about – the Atlantic, perhaps, or the Germanicum – a land where a deep tide daily swept the sand and rocks; some place healthier than this tepid Roman lake.