Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  ‘In more ways than one.’ She leans over to kiss him lightly on the lips and enjoys his warm response. ‘Tell you all about it later. I need to recover a bit first.’

  He reaches over and buckles her seat belt. ‘We’re heading north, to a convent in the hills. You can catch up on some sleep.’

  Frances dozes on and off as Marcello stops and starts, pushing through the congestion. Two hours later, she’s fully awake and aware she’s been sleeping with her head on his shoulder. ‘Not far now,’ he says as they exit the Rome freeway.

  The day is sunny and cool and they leave behind patches of morning fog that cling to the road like balls of cotton wool. They skirt around a village and are soon driving up a long, winding road. Thick pine forests crowd them on both sides and Frances winds down the window to drink the fresh mountain air.

  Marcello refers to a scrap of paper on the dashboard with handwritten directions. ‘It’s at the top of this road. I’ve told the nuns to expect us.’

  ‘The nuns? Have you been here before?’

  ‘No. I’ve been trying to visit for years and they’ve only just agreed. They have a renowned collection of manuscripts from the Middle Ages but they’re not keen on sharing them. But I got lucky. One of my cousins knows the Mother Superior so she helped pave the way.’

  The trees thin and give way to green and yellow pastures. A stone wall hugs the roadside. It’s broken in places and some spindly sheep have escaped through a large gap to graze on the other side of the road. Marcello beeps the horn loudly as one wanders in front of them. It hurriedly retreats.

  They follow the wall up a hill where it is intersected by a tall stone archway. Marcello brakes suddenly and swerves through. The vehicle crunches onto a gravel driveway. Rows of grapevines race up a rise, tended by two nuns in long black habits. They look up briefly as Frances and Marcello drive past, then continue with their work. Below them a large vegetable garden glows in the sunshine.

  A cluster of buildings lies ahead. They pull up outside the biggest, a church made of the same grey stones as the wall with a cross on top of it, next to a bell tower.

  The slamming of the doors and the scraping of their feet on the gravel shatter what seems to be complete silence. They stand together for a moment, unsure of where to go, when suddenly they hear the voices of a women’s choir, coming from the direction of the church. They climb a dozen or so steps to the heavy metal doors, but when Marcello tries to open them they won’t budge.

  Salve regina, mater misericordiae.

  The Gregorian chant trickles out of the church as pure as a stream of crystal-clear water. Marcello pulls her sleeve and gestures her to follow.

  A long two-storey brown brick building extends from the church and seems to encase it in a square. They find the entry, a discreet recess with a pair of wooden doors. A closed-circuit camera is positioned above them. Marcello rings a bell. No one answers so he rings it again. Thirty seconds or so later, they hear someone sliding open a small partition in the wall.

  ‘Si?’ The woman’s voice is young. They can see her silhouette through a lattice screen.

  ‘Marcello Vattani and Frances Nelson—we’re from the university. We have an appointment with Mother Superior.’

  The bolts securing the doors are noisily released and an African nun, her dark face gleaming beneath a white wimple and black veil, beckons them inside.

  They follow, her long habit rustling as she walks, across a cobble-stoned courtyard to another set of doors. She unlocks the doors and they find themselves in a long corridor lined with lush green pot plants. Their shoes squeak on the highly polished floor and when they reach a staircase, the nun turns to speak to them for the first time.

  ‘Mother Superior has been called away,’ she apologizes, ‘but Sister Scholastica is expecting you. She runs the library.’

  At the top of the stairs, she leads them into a darkened chapel where they pause. A bank of candles near the altar throws enough light on the walls for them to see remnants of old frescoes, a holy man and woman ascending into the arms of angels in heaven while beneath them, snarling devil figures burn in hell.

  ‘Our patron saints. In the fifteenth century,’ the nun whispers.

  ‘Recognize hell?’ Marcello says under his breath to Frances.

  She peers closer. The shape of Vesuvius with the satanic figures wallowing in agony in the fiery crater is unmistakable.

  ‘The church convinced everyone that the volcano was hell. Made their job of keeping everyone in line a bit easier,’ Marcello tells her.

  A bout of coughing comes from a seat at the back of the chapel. Their eyes have adjusted to the light and they can see a gnarled old nun wrapped in a shawl. She ignores them and seems interested only in the book she is reading.

  They pass through to another much narrower corridor. The young sister points to a door ahead. ‘I’ll leave you here. That’s where you go.’ She turns back abruptly and they are left alone.

  ‘I feel like I’m back in the Middle Ages,’ Frances giggles nervously.

  ‘It’s a closed order,’ he whispers. ‘Probably very little has changed here for the last five hundred years. They’re even wearing the same clothes!’

  Frances taps lightly on the door and hears a shuffling. The door is opened by a tiny nun holding a walking frame. She has a gold crucifix attached to the front of her habit and smiles at them sweetly. ‘Welcome.’ Her voice is girl-like. ‘I’m Sister Scholastica. Come in.’

  Sister Scholastica is barely 150 cm tall. They follow her into the room where she takes several minutes to limp to her desk in the middle of the long wood-panelled room. With great difficulty, the sister eases herself onto her chair, richly inlaid with mosaics. Behind her against the wall are glass-doored cabinets full of books. They sit opposite her in two upright chairs and as the nun peers at them over the desk, Frances feels as if she is back at school.

  ‘Tell me what you want to know.’

  While Marcello explains their search for the Pliny manuscripts, Frances gazes at her face. She has perfect, unlined skin, like a child’s, and her lips are unusually red, yet her gait suggests she is not a young woman. Her face is slightly contorted and Frances guesses she may have suffered a stroke. Whether or not she is in pain, she cannot tell.

  ‘Yes, the Pliny manuscripts. We have a codex, a book of them.’

  Marcello slaps his leg. ‘You hear that, Frances? We have come to the right place.’

  Sister Scholastica beams. ‘As you know, Pliny the Younger wrote about the Pompeii eruption and the death of his uncle Pliny the Elder, who was killed in the aftermath, in a series of letters to his friend Tacitus, a renowned Roman historian. Like all scholars, he wrote on papyrus scrolls, which in our moist Italian conditions would only have survived for a century or two—indeed, some were lost forever. Fortunately, after the conversion to Christianity, many were copied, included Pliny’s. Then copied again, and again, many times over the centuries—ours is one of the oldest in existence.’

  Although physically frail, it is evident Sister Scholastica is intellectually razor sharp and fully cognisant of the immense historical and academic value of the convent’s collection of medieval books, manuscripts and codices.

  She turns in her seat and points towards one of the cupboards. ‘I had one of the sisters take it down earlier, from up there. Would you mind fetching it? It’s over on that shelf.’

  Marcello nearly leaps out of his chair.

  ‘Wait!’ She passes him a pair of white gloves. ‘You must wear these.’

  He slides on the gloves and quickly returns with a large book, placing it gently on the desk. ‘May I?’ His eyes are shining with excitement.

  She nods and he picks up the book, carefully turning it over and over in his hands. He traces his finger over the title: ‘Epistulae I-VIIII’.

  ‘These are volumes one to nine of letters he wrote to various people. There is a tenth correspondence written much later when he was an important official of Rome, bet
ween himself and the Emperor Trajan. The one you have has 247 letters, including the ones about Vesuvius.’

  Marcello strokes the book like a baby kitten. ‘I can’t believe I have this in my hands!’

  Embossed with gold Latin text and finely etched drawings of saints and scholars, the green leather cover is in remarkably good condition.

  The old woman smiles. ‘It’s more than five hundred years old and written on the finest vellum, parchment made of goatskin.’

  ‘May I?’ Frances points at another pair of gloves on the desk next to the nun. She smiles and passes them to her, and Frances is immediately engrossed. ‘The artwork is so fine.’

  Sister Scholastica looks pleased. ‘All done by our sisters,’ she says proudly. ‘Our order is one of the oldest and while the monks usually get the credit for these things, many nuns came from educated backgrounds and were highly literate.’

  ‘How long have you been a nun, sister?’

  ‘I went to university first. My parents were very wealthy. Alas, they’re long dead now. I found my vocation when I was twenty-three and wanted to join a contemplative order so I could spend my days praying to the Lord.’ She touches a gold ring on her wedding finger as she speaks. ‘I’ve been here fifty-five years.’

  Frances is stunned. She is nearly eighty years old. More than half a century behind these walls!

  ‘But…’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. Most people can’t understand us. If you want to know whether or not I ever leave here, the answer is no—there is no reason to leave. I am content. Mother Superior travels when necessary to represent us.’

  ‘How many sisters are here?’

  ‘We are less than twenty. You met Sister Benedetta from Nigeria. That’s where the vocations are coming from now. Without young women like her, this convent will not survive after we have gone.’

  She shuffles to her feet and grips the walking frame. ‘I’ll leave you alone to study the manuscripts. I’ve put a marker in the codex so you can find the Vesuvius letters. I’ll be in the chapel praying if you need me.’

  Marcello stands to help her.

  She raises one hand. ‘No need,’ she says. ‘I have all the time in the world.’

  Frances sits side by side with Marcello at the desk as he turns the first page. The parchment is stiff but in excellent condition. The calligraphy is exquisite and each page has finely painted borders and rich illustrations in a palette of red, blue, green and gold. Marcello carefully turns to the middle where a bookmark is placed.

  Frances grins when she sees it features a small image of Saint Scholastica, the nun’s namesake.

  ‘Here!’ Marcello points to a page. ‘The letters to Tacitus from Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus—Pliny’s full name.’

  Frances looks closely at the Latin text. ‘I don’t understand much.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I studied Latin all through university and it’s one of the tools of my trade. Besides, this is one story I know backwards.’ He points to a line of text. ‘This is from letter sixteen. Pliny is describing his view of the eruption from the navy port at Misenum, across the bay.’

  Marcello translates it as he reads, his voice halting but clear. ‘In form and shape the column of smoke was like an enormous pine tree, for at the top of its great height it branched out into several skeins. I assume that a sudden burst of wind had carried it upwards and then dropped it, leaving it motionless, and that its own weight then spread it outwards. It was sometimes white, sometimes heavy and mottled, as it would be if it had lifted up amounts of earth and ashes.’

  He turns to Frances. ‘Amazing! Pliny was only seventeen when he wrote that. His way of describing the scorching column of gas, rock and ash that blasted out of the volcano into the stratosphere and then sat there until it dropped and formed the pyroclastic flows is so vivid.’

  ‘Well, he described it pretty accurately—the world’s first vulcanologist.’

  ‘So true—now listen to how he describes what happened after his uncle left Misenum with a fleet of naval ships to try to rescue people from the coastline near Pompeii. Ash was already falling, hotter and thicker as the ships drew near, followed by pumice and blackened stones, charred and cracked by the flames. Interim e Vesuvio monte pluribus locis latissimae flammae altaque incendia relucebant, quorum fulgor et claritas tenebris noctis excitabatur—’

  ‘Hold up, Marcello,’ Frances nudges him. ‘I love your Latin pronunciation but you’re losing me.’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot to translate. Where was I?’ He runs his finger back a few lines and reads again. ‘Meanwhile on Mount Vesuvius broad sheets of fire blazed at several points, their bright glare emphasized by the darkness of night. But they could not land because the shore was blocked by volcanic debris, so they sailed south and landed at Stabiae.’

  ‘Isn’t that where Pliny the Elder died? At Stabiae?’

  ‘Yes. He went into his friend’s house and rested but the eruption continued so everyone went outside and down to the beach, because they thought it would be safer. That’s where he died. He was only fifty-six but in those days that was regarded as old, and he was overweight. It’s not clear whether he suffocated as a result of the toxic gases or had a heart attack, because many of his companions survived.’

  He turns the page. ‘This is how Pliny described it from stories he was told later. They debated whether to stay inside or take their chance outside. The buildings were shaking violently, swaying to and fro as if they were torn from their foundations. Outside showers of hot ash and stones were raining down. To protect themselves, they tied pillows around their heads. It was now day everywhere else, but a deeper darkness prevailed than in the thickest night.

  ‘He then describes how they persuaded Pliny the Elder to leave the house because it was filling up with pumice. They carried him to the beach to see if they could escape to sea but the waves were too high so they laid him down on a sail cloth. The flames and smell of sulphur drove the others to take flight and roused him to stand up with the help of two servants. Suddenly he collapsed, I imagine because the noxious fumes choked him. His body was found intact and uninjured, still fully clothed and looking more like a man asleep than dead.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  Frances touches the pages of the codex gently, a tangible link with the past. ‘The story is still incredibly moving.’

  ‘It is. Now, let’s see,’ Marcello turns back a few pages. ‘I must concentrate on what we really need to know—the date.’

  He puts his index finger on the top line and reads to himself. ‘This is it, exactly what I had hoped for. Nonum kalends novembres.’

  ‘November. The ninth of November?’

  ‘The Roman calendar was different. The Romans counted backwards from the following month from three fixed points—the kalends, the first day of the month; the nones, the day of the half moon; and the ides, the full moon. So nonum kalends means nine days before the beginning of November. That makes it the twenty-fourth of October in today’s calendar. The manuscript in Florence said nonum kalends septembres, which is the date generally accepted, the twenty-fourth of August. Others have just said nonum kalends with no mention of a month.’

  Marcello smiles broadly at Frances. ‘You realize what this means—this date backs up all the other findings—the seasonal food, the silver coin and, most importantly for us, the wind patterns. The Pompeii eruption definitely happened later in the year, and that has consequences for all of us. If Vesuvius erupts again, at the same time of year in a period with the same wind patterns, people will have to be ready to leave their homes immediately. Otherwise they could perish in the pyroclastic flows.’

  Frances looks over Marcello’s shoulders as he turns over more pages. ‘There’s the word Baiae. Is that the same place as Baia? What does it mean?’

  Marcello looks at the text closely. ‘Baiae is the original Latin spelling, although sometimes it’s written as Baios, after the Greek helmsman of Ulysses, who journeyed all along the
coast. Now let me see. This is all new to me.’ Marcello, brow furrowed, silently reads the text several times.

  ‘Remarkable,’ he says at last. ‘Listen to this. Baiae, to me, is a place of great beauty, a paradise of earthly pleasures. That our mighty emperors choose to build their summer mansions on the limestone cliffs above the dappled turquoise waters is no surprise. It is also a source of joy for me to engage in the pleasures this jewel has to offer we Romans. The harbour is a safe haven for our great ships. It provides us with a magnificent feast of fish for our tables. The vines are healthy, giving up fat harvests of grapes that produce the finest of wines. The miraculous thermal waters feed the glorious bathhouses of Venus, Mercury and Diana and restore our tired bodies. But take heed! Do not spoil or take for granted this gift from the gods. The earth moves more violently than before. Sulphur bursts in great waves from the bowels of Hades. Building more and more houses on the cliffs, more places of commerce on the watermark is not wise. For Neptune is waiting to swallow us up if we anger him.’

  ‘It’s Pliny’s warning!’ Frances exclaims. ‘He recognized the dangers of volcanism, and he was right. He’s describing the houses we saw under the sea!’

  Frances runs her hand down the book. They are so absorbed, they don’t even notice Sister Scholastica is back in the room.

  ‘Have you found what you wanted?’

  Marcello stands up and reaches over her walking frame to hug her, and the little nun laughs in delighted surprise.

  ‘Better than we could have imagined! Have a look, sister.’

  Frances watches them, both clearly excited. Marcello picks up the book and points to the crucial words describing the date: Nonum kalends novembres. Sister Scholastica can’t stop smiling. Frances detects she has even allowed herself a bit of pride. Proud the codex has survived and proud of the members of her order who created it.