While the ancient Pompeiians had no idea Vesuvius was a volcano—it had not erupted for seven hundred years—their contemporary counterparts could not claim that same ignorance. They knew all too well what the mountain could do, yet this neither dissuaded them from living in its shadow nor from farming the same fields destroyed so long ago. Today, a small stream of smoke was rising from the peak, and I asked Jeremy if it was unwise to ascend the slopes.
“That happens with great regularity, I’m told,” he said. “Even your Baedeker’s mentions it. It’s nothing to cause alarm. We aren’t ancient Romans, Em. We’re armed with science now, and there are no signs of imminent eruption. If you want something more exciting, you only need turn to Mount Stromboli, south of here. It’s constantly erupting. I’m quite taken with the idea of visiting—apparently one can climb it when the smoke isn’t too dense.”
“I never expected you to have so much knowledge of volcanoes.”
“I can’t take credit. Callie told me most of it. She puts my ignorance to shame.”
“I thought you’ve always cherished your ignorance,” I said. “It’s a much-lauded pillar of your charm.”
He frowned. “Quite. But perhaps it’s time to expand those pillars. Or rebuild them. Or … I don’t know. Insert whatever architectural metaphor you think appropriate.”
The sky had begun to clear and Vesuvius loomed directly in front of us. I tried to imagine what it must have looked like before the eruption, when it rose far above its current height, in the shape of a perfect cone. As much as it dominated the landscape now, it would’ve been even more impressive prior to that infamous day in August, AD 79.
Our carriage snaked up the steep road, winding through vineyards and the lush farmers’ fields that fill the Campanian countryside, navigating terrifying hairpin turns until we reached a wire rope railway. Jeremy had already procured tickets, and soon we were zooming up the steep slopes of the mountain. A short while later, we alighted from the funicular and were greeted by a Cook’s guide, required at this part of the site. He led us over the path, strewn with ash and pumice, to the crater. We passed several ladies who refused this short walk—it would take even the least energetic individual no more than a quarter of an hour—and were, instead, carried in porte-chaises that looked monstrously uncomfortable as they bounced along. These conveyances may have been direct descendants of the litters used by the ancient Romans, but they were a poor imitation. No ornate boxes with curtained windows here, only stiff wooden chairs with poles attached to the sides, each carried by two unhappy looking men. It could not be a pleasant way to earn a living.
At the top, we peered over the edge into the smoking crater. The guide assured me, as had Jeremy, that this was not indicative of imminent eruption, and after we had made a thorough exploration of the area, took us to a spot where we could see soft lava. We trod carefully, not wanting to burn the soles of our boots, and Jeremy pressed a coin into the not-quite-liquid stone. That done, we picked a pleasant spot to stand and take in the view. The city of Naples sprawled below us to the west, a labyrinth of buildings and streets impossibly close together. Looking straight ahead through the sparkling waters of the Bay of Naples (most of the morning’s clouds had blown away, leaving the sunlight to dance on the waves) we could make out the Tyrrhenian Sea, dotted with rocky islands.
We remained there for some time, mesmerized by the scenery, our guide keeping a tactful distance. At last, sated with beauty, we headed back toward the footpath, but before we reached it, Jeremy came to a dead stop and grabbed my arm.
“What is Callie doing here with him?” he asked, pointing at two figures standing next to the crater.
“That’s Mario Sorrentino, the guide who took Mr. Walker around Pompeii. She must have hired him to bring her here,” I said.
“Only Cook’s guides are allowed on this side of the mountain,” Jeremy said, “so he’s not acting in any sort of official capacity. And Callie refused to come with me today because she had work that could not be neglected. Something about a wall she thought might collapse. Yet here she is. Apparently the wall was not so important as Mario.” The tone in his voice made it all too clear what he suspected Callie wanted from Mario. They were standing awfully close together, engaged in a conversation that could be described either as heated or passionate, but without seeing their faces more clearly—or hearing their words—I couldn’t tell which. Jeremy made a sound akin to that of a bear growling. “She knew I would be here and is deliberately slighting me.”
“You have no evidence for such an outrageous claim. There’s no sense standing around writing fictions when we can so easily learn the truth.” I took him firmly by the arm and we trudged back to the crater, our guide keeping an even greater distance than he had before. I hailed Callie as we approached, careful to ensure that my tone was all enthusiasm. “I see you, too, decided it was an excellent day to explore the summit of Vesuvius.”
“Not quite,” Callie said, turning to avoid looking at Jeremy. “Mario told me he had found some artifacts up here yesterday and thought I would be interested in them. I was skeptical, as the area is so well traveled it’s unlikely anything new would turn up. My concerns were merited. Our expedition has proved a complete waste of time. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a great deal of work to do.” She turned on her heel and started for the footpath. Jeremy pressed his lips together, his brow furrowed.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “I’m going after her.”
This left me with Mario. I glowered at him. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we? Artifacts on the summit of a volcano?”
“I did not tell her that,” the Italian said. “I cannot explain why she would lie so shamelessly.”
“How do you know her?”
“I see her and Signore Carter around the ruins,” he said. “We all work there, so it is no surprise, is it? She stops to speak with me on occasion, and sometimes goes to my brother’s restaurant.”
I could well believe Callie would talk to him. He was far too handsome for her to ignore. “So why were the two of you here, if not for archaeological purposes?”
“It is irrelevant.”
“I should prefer to draw my own conclusions after hearing all the facts,” I said. “If it was for a romantic assignation—”
“Why would you think that?”
“The duke invited Miss Carter to come here with him today. She refused. And now she comes with you. Why?”
Mario shrugged. “Perhaps she does not like his grace.” He all but spat the words.
“If you and Miss Carter are … attached in some way, I will not sit in judgment of you. You’re both adults, free to do as you choose.”
“Forgive me, Lady Emily, I should not have let my temper get the better of me. I bear the duke no ill will. No doubt he is an excellent man and I would be lucky to count him as a friend. But as for Signorina Carter, there is nothing between us. You have reached the wrong conclusion. She asked me to meet her, so that we might speak about a topic that has lately been of much interest to me, and I suggested this location as it is a place where one’s conversations will not easily be overheard.”
“What is this topic?” I asked.
“Nothing that concerns you. I will say nothing further, as I gave my word to keep what we discussed private, but I swear to you that there is no romantic attachment. I would never involve myself with such a lady. Nor, if he is wise, should your friend.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Signorina Carter is not what she seems. There is nothing more he needs to know. Trust my advice and tell him to protect his heart.”
The Cook’s guide, hovering some feet behind us, was looking at his watch, pretending to find it utterly fascinating. “You cannot leave me with so little, Mario,” I said. “My friend is quite fond of Miss Carter. If his feelings put him at risk, I need to know why.”
“I can tell you nothing more. Is not my warning enough?”
“Not without an explanation. Please, Ma
rio. This feels like something more than the suggestion that she will toy with his affections. You know a murder occurred in the excavations. Does your warning have something to do with that?”
A shadow crossed his face—not a change in the hue of his complexion, but an actual shadow, the sun disappearing behind a stray cloud, as if the ghosts of Pompeii were making a point. “If Signore Walker had found himself involved with her, he would not have been murdered, Lady Emily. He would have fallen on his own sword, like a good Roman.”
AD 79
26
“I can’t keep doing this,” I said the next day, sitting across from Silvanus in the sad little dirt garden of our wretched bar. The same surly waiter from our previous visit had scowled at me when I crossed the filthy threshold, and I promised myself I would not come back again. “Your wife is coming to see me later today. How am I to pretend I didn’t meet with you earlier?”
“Why would the subject arise?” he asked, motioning for more wine.
“Why would it not? She’s going to ask me what I did today and I don’t like to lie. There’s no need for this secrecy. You should tell her you’re interested in my poetry. Such generous treatment of an unknown poetess would make you rise in her esteem.”
“I have no need to rise any further in her esteem,” he said. “And my wife has little interest in poetry.”
Perhaps he did not know his wife so well as he thought. “I have no need to deceive my dearest friend and will not be persuaded to do so. I’m no longer a slave who must obey whatever you command.”
“You were never compelled to do what I asked.” He leaned in close to me. “I wasn’t your master.”
“Then what are you?”
“I’m trying to be your friend and your patron.” Once again, the intensity of his tone and the fire in his eyes belied his words.
“A patron does not hide in the shadows.”
“Is that so? You are an expert on how patrons behave? Have you given any consideration to what I’m trying to do for you? You’re a woman, a Greek, only recently freed from slavery. You have no money and no status. Do you think the intellectuals of Rome would embrace you as a poet? Speak of your work as they do that of Virgil or Horace? You’re nothing to them. They wouldn’t deign to read you, nor would they hire anyone to recite your work at their dinner parties.”
Angry tears smarted in my eyes, infuriating me even more than his words. I didn’t want Silvanus to think I was some feebleminded woman with wounded feelings. “I had no such expectations and did nothing to seek out your support. I know my place all too well.”
“I want to change that place,” he said, his voice soft now. “I want to elevate you, and I have proved that by making sure the entire city has seen your work. Everyone here reads graffiti. By keeping my patronage a secret—even from my dear wife, for despite her best efforts, I fear she would be unable to resist telling others of your gift for verse and how I’m trying to nurture it—we ensure that no one knows your identity. Not yet. Let them come to love your poetry. Let them clamor for more. And only when they know your talent is as great as Virgil’s will we reveal who you are.”
“You’re mad,” I said. “My talent is nowhere near that of Virgil.”
“Spare me the modesty. You’re too intelligent to be unaware of your worth. Finish your epic. Keep bringing it to me here. I’m a busy man, Kassandra. Memorizing poetry is a time-consuming act, but one I’m willing to do for you.”
“You’re memorizing my poetry?”
“So that I can recite it for a group of specially chosen guests when the time is right.” There had long been a craze for poetry recitation at banquets, and some patrician men had proven expert at the art; others hired poets or actors to do it. I should have expected that Silvanus was one of the former. “Why do you make this difficult for me? I can easily walk away and never speak of this again. I can find another poet, but it is you, Kassandra, whom I want.”
“No, don’t find another.” The words escaped my lips before I could even think. “I’ll write for you, and we will keep it secret until you’re ready.”
He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Every nerve in my body trembled with pleasure. “Great things will come from this. I promise you that.”
One ought to trust the promise of a well-respected nobleman, but I was anxious when Lepida arrived at my house. I had penned her poem in the heady moments after returning from my meeting with her husband, flush with ambition and hope and no small measure of lust. The emotion readily transferred to my tablet. There was not enough time to copy it before she arrived, so I let her read it and decide for herself if it was good enough. She liked it, so I suggested that she copy it in her own hand. She balked at the idea.
“I’m not trying to claim I wrote it myself,” she said. “And your handwriting is far superior to mine.”
“Will you tell him I wrote it?” I asked.
“I had thought I would, why? Do you think I shouldn’t? You needn’t worry—he would never think you were writing it from your own emotions. A poet can use her words however she chooses, summoning the feelings required for each piece. Silvanus understands that, but if you’d prefer, I won’t identify you as the author. We can let him think it’s Sappho, if you like.”
“He would recognize my verse as unlike hers. I haven’t that much talent. Perhaps you would be happier having me copy something of hers. Once again Love, the loosener of limbs, shakes me, that sweet-bitter irresistible creature.”
“No,” Lepida said. “I want him to have something uniquely his, commissioned by his loving wife. I’ll be vague as to who wrote it. I can tell him I hired someone my father knows. There are countless poets in this city.”
I considered her last statement as I carefully copied my poem onto papyrus, knowing that my identity would be no secret. Silvanus would recognize my handwriting. There was no shortage of poets in Pompeii. So why had Silvanus singled me out? He might claim to appreciate my talent, but he had no real knowledge of it when he first approached me. What, then, had spurred him to pull me aside that night at Plautus’s house? He said he had heard I was a poet. Perhaps Plautus had told him, as he’d initially led me to believe. Or perhaps my friend’s noble husband was hiding his true motives alongside the identity of his hired hand. Did he want more from me than poetry?
1902
27
When I returned from Vesuvius, alone, Jeremy having stayed behind to speak with Callie, I found the villa empty except for Kat, who was still holed up in her darkroom. I retreated to the terrace and gazed across the bay, thinking about Mario. He had not budged, refusing to utter a single word more about Callie and why he was meeting with her at the top of a volcano. The entire situation was so bizarre I hardly knew what to make of it.
Even if the archaeologist and the guide were romantically involved, that would not explain such an odd rendezvous. Callie wouldn’t have ignored her duties at the dig for a tryst. She’d revealed nothing to me during the weeks of our acquaintance that led me to believe she harbored tender feelings for Mario, but, given her not-so-secret views on marriage and attraction, it wasn’t inconceivable that she had embroiled herself in some sort of dalliance. He was the perfect picture of a dashing Italian lover—dark, curly hair, liquid eyes, and a lean, muscular physique.
Kat emerged from inside, carrying the latest batch of photographs she had developed. She had an uncanny ability to capture the essence of individuals, never letting her subjects pose formally, preferring to catch them unaware. She revealed the wicked gleam not often visible in Ivy’s eyes and the loneliness that occasionally crossed Jeremy’s face. My favorite was one that revealed an undeniable passion emanating from Colin as he looked at me. While I would have preferred her to have had the sense to show it to no one but me—I reminded myself that she was very young and either too romantic or bent on embarrassing me—I treasured the image.
“I don’t suppose you have any of the guides who work in the excavations?” I asked.
“Not many, particularly as my father’s unreasonable refusal to let me leave the house had paralyzed my ability to work.”
“Could you show them to me?”
“Is it for the case?”
“It is.”
She smiled slyly, rushed off, and returned quickly with a stack of pictures. Only one showed Mario. He was in constant motion and used expansive hand gestures, so I was not surprised to find it half-blurred. She’d captured him looking sideways at someone out of the frame. There was something shifty in his expression that I had never before noticed. More significant, though, was that I recognized the location, as well as the two tourists in the background. She had taken the picture from the entrance of the House of the Vettii the day I met Mario there, when she was supposedly being attacked.
“When did you take this?” I asked.
“I don’t recall exactly.” She pulled the photograph away from me. “I have others that will interest you more.” She bustled off to her room again and returned with a series of shots she’d taken of the archaeologists at work. Mr. Jackson was in several of them, always staring at Callie.
“Was she looking at him when you took this one, do you remember?” I asked, holding up an image of Callie scowling.
“Yes, she was. I don’t think she much liked him,” Kat said. “He watched her in an unseemly way.”
“I wonder if she ever confronted him about it?”
“Not that I ever saw.”
“No one else has mentioned it,” I said.
“I don’t think most of the others would have noticed. Except Benjamin. He’s always keeping a close eye on her. You can keep these if you think they may prove useful. I’ve more work to do.” She slunk back to her darkroom.
In the Shadow of Vesuvius Page 16
