Pompeii
Page 6
‘Showers of milk, of blood, of flesh, of iron, of wool, of bricks. Portents. The earth at the centre of the world. Earthquakes. Chasms. Air-holes. Combined marvels of fire and water: mineral pitch; naptha; regions constantly glowing. Harmonic principle of the world . . .’
He was moving more quickly than the water pipes were emptying and when he passed through the triumphal arch that marked the entrance to the port he could see that the big public fountain at the crossroads was still flowing. Around it was grouped the usual twilight crowd – sailors dousing their befuddled heads, ragged children shrieking and splashing, a line of women and slaves with earthenware pots at their hips and on their shoulders, waiting to collect their water for the night. A marble statue of the Divine Augustus, carefully positioned beside the busy intersection to remind the citizens who was responsible for this blessing, gazed coldly above them, frozen in perpetual youth.
The overloaded ferry had come alongside the quay. Her gangplanks, fore and aft, had been thrown down and the timber was already bowing under the weight of passengers scrambling ashore. Luggage was tossed from hand to hand. A taxi owner, surprised by the speed of the exodus, was running around kicking his bearers to get them on their feet. Attilius called across the street to ask where the ferry was from, and the taxi owner shouted back over his shoulder, ‘Neapolis, my friend – and before that, Pompeii.’
Pompeii.
Attilius, on the point of moving off, suddenly checked his stride. Odd, he thought. Odd that they had heard no word from Pompeii, the first town on the matrix. He hesitated, swung round and stepped into the path of the oncoming crowd. ‘Any of you from Pompeii?’ He waved the rolled-up plans of the Augusta to attract attention. ‘Was anyone in Pompeii this morning?’ But nobody took any notice. They were thirsty after the voyage – and, of course, they would be, he realised, if they had come from Neapolis, where the water had failed at noon. Most passed to either side of him in their eagerness to reach the fountain, all except for one, an elderly holy man, with the conical cap and curved staff of an augur, who was walking slowly, scanning the sky.
‘I was in Neapolis this afternoon,’ he said, when Attilius stopped him, ‘but this morning I was in Pompeii. Why? Is there something I can do to help you, my son?’ His rheumy eyes took on a crafty look, his voice dropped. ‘No need to be shy. I am practised in the interpretation of all the usual phenomena – thunderbolts, entrails, bird omens, unnatural manifestations. My rates are reasonable.’
‘May I ask, holy father,’ said the engineer, ‘when you left Pompeii?’
‘At first light.’
‘And were the fountains playing? Was there water?’
So much rested on his answer, Attilius was almost afraid to hear it.
‘Yes, there was water.’ The augur frowned and raised his staff to the fading light. ‘But when I arrived in Neapolis the streets were dry and in the baths I smelled sulphur. That is why I decided to return to the ferry and to come on here.’ He squinted again at the sky, searching for birds. ‘Sulphur is a terrible omen.’
‘True enough,’ agreed Attilius. ‘But are you certain? And are you sure the water was running?’
‘Yes, my son. I’m sure.’
There was a commotion around the fountain and both men turned to look. It was nothing much to start with, just some pushing and shoving, but quickly punches were being thrown. The crowd seemed to contract, to rush in on itself and become denser, and from the centre of the melee a large earthenware pot went sailing into the air, turned slowly and landed on the quayside, smashing into fragments. A woman screamed. Wriggling between the backs at the edge of the mob, a man in a Greek tunic emerged, clutching a waterskin tightly to his chest. Blood was pouring from a gash in his temple. He sprawled, picked himself up and stumbled forwards, disappearing into an alleyway.
And so it starts, thought the engineer. First this fountain, and then the others all around the port, and then the big basin in the forum. And then the public baths, and then the taps in the military school, and in the big villas – nothing emerging from the empty pipes except the clank of shuddering lead and the whistle of rushing air –
The distant water organ had become stuck on a note and died with a long moan.
Someone was yelling that the bastard from Neapolis had pushed to the front and stolen the last of the water, and, like a beast with a single brain and impulse, the crowd turned and began to pour down the narrow lane in pursuit. And suddenly, as abruptly as it had begun, the riot was over, leaving behind a scene of smashed and abandoned pots, and a couple of women crouched in the dust, their hands pressed over their heads for protection, close to the edge of the silent fountain.
Vespera
[20:07 hours]
‘Earthquakes may occur in swarms at areas of stress concentrations – such as nearby faults – and in the immediate vicinity of magma where pressure changes are occurring.’
Haraldur Sigurdsson (editor),
Encyclopaedia of Volcanoes
The admiral’s official residence was set high on the hillside overlooking the harbour and by the time Attilius reached it and was conducted on to the terrace it was dusk. All around the bay, in the seaside villas, torches, oil lamps and braziers were being lit, so that gradually a broken thread of yellow light had begun to emerge, wavering for mile after mile, picking out the curve of the coast, before vanishing in the purple haze towards Capri.
A marine centurion in full uniform of breastplate and crested helmet, with a sword swinging at his belt, was hurrying away as the engineer arrived. The remains of a large meal were being cleared from a stone table beneath a trellised pergola. At first he did not see the admiral, but the instant the slave announced him – ‘Marcus Attilius Primus, aquarius of the Aqua Augusta!’ – a stocky man in his middle fifties at the far end of the terrace turned on his heel and came waddling towards him, trailed by what Attilius assumed were the guests of his abandoned dinner party: four men sweating in togas, at least one of whom, judging by the purple stripe on his formal dress, was a senator. Behind them – obsequious, malevolent, inescapable – came Corax.
Attilius had for some reason imagined that the famous scholar would be thin, but Pliny was fat, his belly protruding sharply, like the ramming post of one of his warships. He was dabbing at his forehead with his napkin.
‘Shall I arrest you now, aquarius? I could, you know, that’s already clear enough.’ He had a fat man’s voice: a high-pitched wheeze, which became even hoarser as he counted off the charges on his pudgy fingers. ‘Incompetence to start with – who can doubt that? Negligence – where were you when the sulphur infected the water? Insubordination – on what authority did you shut off our supply? Treason – yes, I could make a charge of treason stick. What about fomenting rebellion in the imperial dockyards? I’ve had to order out a century of marines – fifty to break some heads in the town and try to restore public order, the other fifty to the reservoir, to guard whatever water’s left. Treason –’
He broke off, short of breath. With his puffed-out cheeks, pursed lips and sparse grey curls plastered down with perspiration, he had the appearance of an elderly, furious cherub, fallen from some painted, peeling ceiling. The youngest of his guests – a pimply lad in his late teens – stepped forward to support his arm, but Pliny shrugged him away. At the back of the group Corax grinned, showing a mouthful of dark teeth. He had been even more effective at spreading poison than Attilius had expected. What a politician. He could probably show the senator a trick or two.
He noticed that a star had come out above Vesuvius. He had never really looked properly at the mountain before, certainly not from this angle. The sky was dark but the mountain was darker, almost black, rising massively above the bay to a pointed summit. And there was the source of the trouble, he thought. Somewhere there, on the mountain. Not on the seaward side, but round to landward, on the north-eastern slope.
‘Who are you anyway?’ Pliny eventually managed to rasp out. ‘I don’t know you. You’re fa
r too young. What’s happened to the proper aquarius? What was his name?’
‘Exomnius,’ said Corax.
‘Exomnius, precisely. Where’s he? And what does Acilius Aviola think he’s playing at, sending us boys to do men’s work? Well? Speak up! What have you to say for yourself?’
Behind the admiral Vesuvius formed a perfect natural pyramid, with just that little crust of light from the waterfront villas running around its base. In a couple of places the line bulged slightly and those, the engineer guessed, must be towns. He recognised them from the map. The nearer would be Herculaneum; the more distant, Pompeii.
Attilius straightened his back. ‘I need,’ he said, ‘to borrow a ship.’
He spread out his map on the table in Pliny’s library, weighing down either side with a couple of pieces of magnetite which he took from a display cabinet. An elderly slave shuffled behind the admiral’s back, lighting an elaborate bronze candelabrum. The walls were lined with cedarwood cabinets, packed with rolls of papyri stacked end-on, in dusty honeycombs, and even with the doors to the terrace pushed wide open, no breeze came off the sea to dispel the heat. The oily black strands of smoke from the candles rose undisturbed. Attilius could feel the sweat trickling down the sides of his belly, irritating him, like a crawling insect.
‘Tell the ladies we shall rejoin them directly,’ said the admiral. He turned away from the slave and nodded at the engineer. ‘All right. Let’s hear it.’
Attilius glanced around at the faces of his audience, intent in the candlelight. He had been told their names before they sat down and he wanted to make sure he remembered them: Pedius Cascus, a senior senator who, he dimly recalled, had been a consul years ago and who owned a big villa along the coast at Herculaneum; Pomponianus, an old Army comrade of Pliny, rowed over for dinner from his villa at Stabiae; and Antius, captain of the imperial flagship, the Victoria. The pimply youth was Pliny’s nephew, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus.
He put his finger on the map and they all leant forward, even Corax.
‘This is where I thought originally that the break must be, admiral – here, in the burning fields around Cumae. That would explain the sulphur. But then we learnt that the supply had gone down in Nola as well – over here, to the east. That was at dawn. The timing is crucial, because according to a witness who was in Pompeii at first light, the fountains there were still running this morning. As you can see, Pompeii is some distance back up the matrix from Nola, so logically the Augusta should have failed there in the middle of the night. The fact that it didn’t can only mean one thing. The break has to be here’ – he circled the spot – ‘somewhere here, on this five-mile stretch, where she runs close to Vesuvius.’
Pliny frowned at the map. ‘And the ship? Where does that come in?’
‘I believe we have two days’ worth of water left. If we set off overland from Misenum to discover what’s happened it will take us at least that long simply to find where the break has occurred. But if we go by sea to Pompeii – if we travel light and pick up most of what we need in the town – we should be able to start repairs tomorrow.’
In the ensuing silence, the engineer could hear the steady drip of the water clock beside the doors. Some of the gnats whirling around the candles had become encrusted in the wax.
Pliny said, ‘How many men do you have?’
‘Fifty altogether, but most of those are spread out along the length of the matrix, maintaining the settling tanks and the reservoirs in the towns. I have a dozen altogether in Misenum. I’d take half of those with me. Any other labour we need, I’d hire locally in Pompeii.’
‘We could let him have a liburnian, admiral,’ said Antius. ‘If he left at first light he could be in Pompeii by the middle of the morning.’
Corax seemed to be panicked by the mere suggestion. ‘But with respect, this is just more of his moonshine, admiral. I wouldn’t pay much attention to any of this. For a start, I’d like to know how he’s so sure the water’s still running in Pompeii.’
‘I met a man on the quayside, admiral, on my way here. An augur. The local ferry had just docked. He told me he was in Pompeii this morning.’
‘An augur!’ mocked Corax. ‘Then it’s a pity he didn’t see this whole thing coming! But all right – let’s say he’s telling the truth. Let’s say this is where the break is. I know this part of the matrix better than anyone – five miles long and every foot of her underground. It will take us more than a day just to find out where she’s gone down.’
‘That’s not true,’ objected Attilius. ‘With that much water escaping from the matrix, a blind man could find the break.’
‘With that much water backed up in the tunnel, how do we get inside it to make the repairs?’
‘Listen,’ said the engineer. ‘When we get to Pompeii, we split into three groups.’ He had not really thought this through. He was having to make it up as he went along. But he could sense that Antius was with him and the admiral had yet to take his eyes from the map. ‘The first group goes out to the Augusta – follows the spur from Pompeii to its junction with the matrix and then works westwards. I can assure you, finding where the break is will not be a great problem. The second group stays in Pompeii and puts together enough men and materials to carry out the repairs. A third group rides into the mountains, to the springs at Abellinum, with instructions to shut off the Augusta.’
The senator looked up sharply. ‘Can that be done? In Rome, when an aqueduct has to be closed for repairs, it stays shut down for weeks.’
‘According to the drawings, senator, yes – it can be done.’ Attilius had only just noticed it himself, but he was inspired now. The whole operation was taking shape in his mind even as he described it. ‘I have never seen the springs of the Serinus myself, but it appears from this plan that they flow into a basin with two channels. Most of the water comes west, to us. But a smaller channel runs north, to feed Beneventum. If we send all the water north, and let the western channel drain off, we can get inside to repair it. The point is, we don’t have to dam it and build a temporary diversion, which is what we have to do with the aqueducts of Rome, before we can even start on the maintenance. We can work much more quickly.’
The senator transferred his drooping eyes to Corax. ‘Is this true, overseer?’
‘Maybe,’ conceded Corax grudgingly. He seemed to sense he was beaten, but he would not give up without a fight. ‘However, I still maintain he’s talking moonshine, admiral, if he thinks we can get all this done in a day or two. Like I said, I know this stretch. We had problems here nearly twenty years ago, at the time of the great earthquake. Exomnius was the aquarius, new in the job. He’d just arrived from Rome, his first command, and we worked on it together. All right – it didn’t block the matrix completely, I grant you that – but it still took us weeks to render all the cracks in the tunnel.’
‘What great earthquake?’ Attilius had never heard mention of it.
‘Actually, it was seventeen years ago.’ Pliny’s nephew piped up for the first time. ‘The earthquake took place on the Nones of February, during the consulship of Regulus and Verginius. Emperor Nero was in Neapolis, performing on stage at the time. Seneca describes the incident. You must have read it, uncle? The relevant passage is in Natural Questions. Book six.’
‘Yes, Gaius, thank you,’ said the admiral sharply. ‘I have read it, although obviously I’m obliged for the reference.’ He stared at the map and puffed out his cheeks. ‘I wonder –’ he muttered. He shifted round in his chair and shouted at the slave. ‘Dromo! Bring me my glass of wine. Quickly!’
‘Are you ill, uncle?’
‘No, no.’ Pliny propped his chin on his fists and returned his attention to the map. ‘So is this what has damaged the Augusta? An earthquake?’
‘Then surely we would have felt it?’ objected Antius. ‘That last quake brought down a good part of Pompeii. They’re still rebuilding. Half the town is a building site. We’ve had no reports of anything on that scale.’
The slave had shuffled up beside him, carrying a tray, in the centre of which stood a large goblet of clear glass, three-quarters full. Pliny grunted and lifted the wine to the candlelight.
‘A Caecuban,’ whispered Pomponianus, in awe. ‘Forty years old and still drinking beautifully.’ He ran his tongue round his fat lips. ‘I wouldn’t mind another glass myself, Pliny.’
‘In a moment. Watch.’ Pliny waved the wine back and forth in front of them. It was thick and syrupy, the colour of honey. Attilius caught the sweet mustiness of its scent as it passed beneath his nose. ‘And now watch more closely.’ He set the glass carefully on the table.
At first, the engineer did not see what point he was trying to make, but as he studied the glass more closely he saw that the surface of the wine was vibrating slightly. Tiny ripples radiated out from the centre, like the quivering of a plucked string. Pliny picked up the glass and the movement ceased; he replaced it and the motion resumed.
‘I noticed it during dinner. I have trained myself to be alert to things in Nature, which other men might miss. The shaking is not continuous. See now – the wine is still.’
‘That’s really remarkable, Pliny,’ said Pomponianus. ‘I congratulate you. I’m afraid once I have a glass in my hand, I don’t tend to put it down until it’s empty.’