It was too steep a climb for his horse. He dismounted and found a shady spot where he could tie its reins to a tree. He scouted around for a stick and selected one about half as thick as his wrist – smooth, grey, long-dead – and with that to support his weight he set out to begin his final ascent.
The sun up here was merciless, the sky so bright it was almost white. He moved from rock to cindery rock in the suffocating heat and the air itself seemed to burn his lungs, a dry heat, like a blade withdrawn from a fire. No lizards underfoot here, no birds overhead – it was a climb directly into the sun. He could feel the heat through the soles of his shoes. He forced himself to press on, without looking back, until the ground ceased to rise and what was ahead of him was no longer black rock but blue sky. He clambered over the ridge and peered across the roof of the world.
The summit of Vesuvius was not the sharp peak that it had appeared from the base but a rough and circular plain, perhaps two hundred paces in diameter, a wilderness of black rock, with a few brownish patches of sickly vegetation that merely emphasised its deadness. Not only did it look to have been on fire in the past, as the Greek papyri had said, but to be burning now. In at least three places thin columns of grey vapour were rising, fluttering and hissing in the silence. There was the same sour stench of sulphur that there had been in the pipes of the Villa Hortensia. This is the place, thought Attilius. This is the heart of the evil. He could sense something huge and malevolent. One could call it Vulcan or give it whatever name one liked. One could worship it as a god. But it was a tangible presence. He shuddered.
He kept close to the edge of the summit and began working his way around it, mesmerised to begin with by the sulphurous clouds that were whispering from the ground and then by the astonishing panoramas beyond the rim. Away to his right the bare rock ran down to the edge of the forest, and then there was nothing but an undulating green blanket. Torquatus had said that you could see for fifty miles, but to Attilius it seemed that the whole of Italy was spread beneath him. As he moved from north to west the Bay of Neapolis came into his vision. He could easily make out the promontory of Misenum and the islands off its point, and the imperial retreat of Capri, and beyond them, as sharp as a razor-cut, the fine line where the deep blue of the sea met the paler blue of the sky. The water was still flecked by the waves he had noticed the night before – scudding waves on a windless sea – although now he thought about it perhaps there was a breeze beginning to get up. He could feel it on his cheek: the one they called Caurus, blowing from the north-west, towards Pompeii, which appeared at his feet as no more than a sandy smudge set back from the coast. He imagined Corelia arriving there, utterly unreachable now, a dot within a dot, lost to him forever.
It made him feel light-headed simply to look at it, as if he were himself nothing but a speck of pollen that might be lifted at any moment by the hot air and blown into the blueness. He felt an overwhelming impulse to surrender to it – a yearning for that perfect blue oblivion so strong that he had to force himself to turn away. Shaken, he began to pick his way directly across the summit towards the other side, back to where he had started, keeping clear of the plumes of sulphur which seemed to be multiplying all around him. The ground was shaking, bulging. He wanted to get away now, as fast as he could. But the terrain was rough, with deep depressions on either side of his path – ‘cave-like pits of blackened rock’, as the Greek writer had said – and he had to watch where he put his feet. And it was because of this – because he had his head down – that he smelled the body before he saw it.
It stopped him in his tracks – a sweet and cloying stink that entered his mouth and nostrils and coated them with a greasy film. The stench was emanating from the large dust bowl straight ahead of him. It was perhaps six feet deep and thirty across, simmering like a cauldron in the haze of heat, and what was most awful, when he peered over the side, was that everything in it was dead: not just the man, who wore a white tunic and whose limbs were so purplish-black Attilius thought at first he was a Nubian, but other creatures – a snake, a large bird, a litter of small animals – all scattered in this pit of death. Even the vegetation was bleached and poisoned.
The corpse was lying at the bottom, on its side, with its arms flung out, a water-gourd and a straw hat just beyond its reach, as if it had died straining for them. It must have lain out here for at least two weeks, putrefying in the heat. Yet the wonder was how much of it remained. It had not been attacked by insects, or picked to the bone by birds and animals. No clouds of blowflies swarmed across its half-baked meat. Rather, its burnt flesh appeared to have poisoned anything that had tried to feast on it.
He swallowed hard to keep back his vomit. He knew at once that it had to be Exomnius. He had been gone two weeks or more, and who else would have ventured up here in August? But how could he be sure? He had never met the man. Yet he was reluctant to venture down on to that carpet of death. He forced himself to squat close to the lip of the pit and squinted at the blackened face. He saw a row of grinning teeth, like pips in a burst fruit; a dull eye, half-closed, sighting along the length of the grasping arm. There was no sign of any wound. But then the whole body was a wound, bruised and suppurating. What could have killed him? Perhaps he had succumbed to the heat. Perhaps his heart had given out. Attilius leaned down further and tried to poke at it with his stick and immediately he felt himself begin to faint. Bright lights wove and danced before him and he almost toppled forwards. He scrabbled with his hands in the dust and just managed to push himself back, gasping for breath.
‘The afflatus of the tainted air near to the ground itself . . .’
His head was pounding. He threw up – bitter, viletasting fluid – and was still coughing and spitting mucus when he heard, in front of him, the crack of dry vegetation being broken by a step. He looked up groggily. On the other side of the pit, no more than fifty paces away, a man was moving across the summit towards him. He thought at first it must be part of the visions induced by the tainted air and he stood with an effort, swaying drunkenly, blinking the sweat out of his eyes, trying to focus, but still the figure came on, framed by the hissing jets of sulphur, with the glint in his hand of a knife.
It was Corax.
Attilius was in no condition to fight. He would have run. But he could barely raise his feet.
The overseer approached the pit cautiously – crouched low, his arms spread wide, shifting lightly from foot to foot, reluctant to take his eyes off the engineer, as if he suspected a trick. He darted a quick glance at the body, frowned at Attilius, then looked back down again. He said softly, ‘So what’s all this then, pretty boy?’ He sounded almost offended. He had planned his assault carefully, had travelled a long way to carry it out, had waited in the darkness for daylight and had followed his quarry at a distance – he must have been the horseman I saw behind me, thought Attilius – all the time relishing the prospect of revenge, only to have his plans thrown awry at the last moment. It was not fair, his expression said – another in the long series of obstacles that life had thrown in the way of Gavius Corax. ‘I asked you: what’s all this?’
Attilius tried to speak. His voice was thick and slurred. He wanted to say that Exomnius had not been wrong, that there was terrible danger here, but he could not pronounce the words. Corax was scowling at the corpse and shaking his head. ‘The stupid old bastard, climbing up here at his age! Worrying about the mountain. And for what? For nothing! Nothing – except landing us with you.’ He returned his attention to Attilius. ‘Some clever young cunt from Rome, come to teach us all our jobs. Still fancy your chances, pretty boy? Nothing to say now, I notice. Well, why don’t I cut you another mouth and we’ll see what comes out of that?’
He hunched forwards, tossing his knife from hand to hand, his face set and ready for the kill. He began to circle the pit and it was all Attilius could do to stumble in the opposite direction. When the overseer stopped, Attilius stopped, and when he reversed his steps and started prowling the other way, Attil
ius followed suit. This went on for a while, but the tactic obviously enraged Corax – ‘Fuck this,’ he yelled, ‘I’m not playing your stupid games!’ – and suddenly he made a rush at his prey. Red-faced, panting for breath in the heat, he ran down the side of the hollow and across it and had just reached the other slope when he stopped. He glanced down at his legs in surprise. With a terrible slowness he tried to wade forwards, opening and shutting his mouth like a landed fish. He dropped his knife and sank to his knees, batting feebly at the air in front of him, then he crashed forwards on to his face.
There was nothing that Attilius could do except to watch him drown in the dry heat. Corax made a couple of feeble attempts to move, each time seeming to stretch for something beyond his reach as Exomnius must have done. Then he gave up and quietly lay on his side. His breathing became more shallow then stopped, but long before it ceased altogether Attilius had left him – stumbling across the bulging, trembling summit of the mountain, through the thickening plumes of sulphur, now flattened by the gathering breeze and pointing in the direction of Pompeii.
Down in the town, the light wind, arriving during the hottest part of the day, had come as a welcome relief. The Caurus raised tiny swirls of dust along the streets as they emptied for the siesta, fluttering the coloured awnings of the bars and snack-houses, stirring the foliage of the big plane trees close to the amphitheatre. In the House of Popidius it ruffled the surface of the swimming pool. The little masks of dancing fauns and bacchantes hanging between the pillars stirred and chimed. One of the papyri lying on the carpet was caught by the gust and rolled towards the table. Holconius put out his foot to stop it.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
Ampliatus was tempted to strike Corelia there and then but checked himself, sensing that it would somehow be her victory if he was to be seen beating her in public. His mind moved quickly. He knew all there was to know about power. He knew that there were times when it was wisest to keep your secrets close: to possess your knowledge privately, like a favourite lover, to be shared with no one. He also knew that there were times when secrets, carefully revealed, could act like hoops of steel, binding others to you. In a flash of inspiration he saw that this was one of those occasions.
‘Read them,’ he said. ‘I have nothing to hide from my friends.’ He stooped and collected the papyri and piled them on the table.
‘We should go,’ said Brittius. He drained his glass of wine and began to rise to his feet.
‘Read them!’ commanded Ampliatus. The magistrate sat down sharply. ‘Forgive me. Please. I insist.’ He smiled. ‘They come from the room of Exomnius. It’s time you knew. Help yourself to more wine. I shall only be a moment. Corelia, you will come with me.’ He seized her by the elbow and steered her towards the steps. She dragged her feet but he was too strong for her. He was vaguely aware of his wife and son following. When they were out of sight, around the corner, in the pillared garden of their old house, he twisted her flesh between his fingers. ‘Did you really think,’ he hissed, ‘that you could hurt me – a feeble girl like you?’
‘No,’ she said, wincing and wriggling to escape. ‘But at least I thought I could try.’
Her composure disconcerted him. ‘Oh?’ He pulled her close to him. ‘And how did you propose to do that?’
‘By showing the documents to the aquarius. By showing them to everyone. So that they could all see you for what you are.’
‘And what is that?’ Her face was very close to his.
‘A thief. A murderer. Lower than a slave.’
She spat out the last word and he drew back his hand and this time he would certainly have hit her but Celsinus grabbed his wrist from behind.
‘No, father,’ he said. ‘We’ll have no more of that.’
For a moment, Ampliatus was too astonished to speak. ‘You?’ he said. ‘You as well?’ He shook his hand free and glared at his son. ‘Don’t you have some religious rite to go to? And you?’ He wheeled on his wife. ‘Shouldn’t you be praying to the holy matron, Livia, for guidance? Ach,’ he spat, ‘get out of my way, the pair of you.’ He dragged Corelia along the path towards the staircase. The other two did not move. He turned and pushed her up the steps, along the passage, and into her room. She fell backwards on to her bed. ‘Treacherous, ungrateful child!’
He looked around for something with which to punish her but all he could see were feeble, feminine possessions, neatly arranged – an ivory comb, a silk shawl, a parasol, strings of beads – and a few old toys which had been saved to be offered to Venus before her wedding. Propped in a corner was a wooden doll with movable limbs he had bought her for her birthday years ago and the sight of it jolted him. What had happened to her? He had loved her so much – his little girl! – how had it come to hatred? He was suddenly baffled. Had he not done everything, built all of this, raised himself out of the muck, for the sake of her and her brother? He stood panting, defeated, as she glared at him from the bed. He did not know what to say. ‘You’ll stay in here,’ he finished lamely, ‘until I have decided what should be done with you.’ He went out, locking the door behind him.
His wife and son had left the garden. Typical, feeble rebels, he thought, melting away when his back was turned. Corelia had always had more balls than the rest of them put together. His little girl! In the drawing room the magistrates were leaning forward across the table, muttering. They fell silent as he approached and turned to watch him as he headed towards the sideboard and poured himself some wine. The lip of the decanter rattled against the glass. Was his hand shaking? He examined it, front and back. This was not like him: it looked steady enough. He felt better after draining the glass. He poured himself another, fixed a smile and faced the magistrates.
‘Well?’
It was Holconius who spoke first. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘Corax, the overseer on the Augusta, brought them round to me yesterday afternoon. He found them in Exomnius’s room.’
‘You mean he stole them?’
‘Found, stole –’ Ampliatus fluttered his hand.
‘This should have been brought to our attention immediately.’
‘And why’s that, your honours?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ cut in Popidius excitedly. ‘Exomnius believed there was about to be another great earthquake!’
‘Calm yourself, Popidius. You’ve been whining about earthquakes for seventeen years. I wouldn’t take all that stuff seriously.’
‘Exomnius took it seriously.’
‘Exomnius!’ Ampliatus looked at him with contempt.
‘Exomnius always was a bag of nerves.’
‘Maybe so. But why was he having documents copied? This in particular. What do you think he wanted with this?’ He waved one of the papyri.
Ampliatus glanced at it and took another gulp of wine. ‘It’s in Greek. I don’t read Greek. You forget, Popidius: I haven’t had the benefit of your education.’
‘Well I do read Greek, and I believe I recognise this. I think this is the work of Strabo, the geographer, who travelled these parts in the time of the Divine Augustus. He writes here of a summit that is flat and barren and has been on fire in the past. Surely that must be Vesuvius? He says the fertile soil around Pompeii reminds him of Caetana, where the land is covered with ash thrown up by the flames of Etna.’
‘So what?’
‘Wasn’t Exomnius a Sicilian?’ demanded Holconius. ‘What town was he from?’
Ampliatus waved his glass dismissively. ‘I believe Caetana. But what of it?’ He must learn the rudiments of Greek, he thought. If a fool like Popidius could master it, anyone could.
‘As for this Latin document – this I certainly recognise,’ continued Popidius. ‘It’s part of a book, and I know both the man who wrote it and the man to whom the passage is addressed. It’s by Annaeus Seneca – Nero’s mentor. Surely even you must have heard of him?’
Ampliatus flushed. ‘My business is building, not books.’ Why were they going on abou
t all this stuff?
‘The Lucilius to whom he refers is Lucilius Junior, a native of this very city. He had a house near the theatre. He was a procurator overseas – in Sicily, as I remember it. Seneca is describing the great Campanian earthquake. It’s from his book, Natural Questions. I believe there is even a copy in our own library on the forum. It lays out the foundations of the Stoic philosophy.’
‘“The Stoic philosophy!”’ mocked Ampliatus. ‘And what would old Exomnius have been doing with “the Stoic philosophy”?’
‘Again,’ repeated Popidius, with mounting exasperation, ‘isn’t it obvious?’ He laid the two documents side by side. ‘Exomnius believed there was a link, you see?’ He gestured from one to the other. ‘Etna and Vesuvius. The fertility of the land around Caetana and the land around Pompeii. The terrible omens of seventeen years ago – the poisoning of the sheep – and the omens all around us this summer. He was from Sicily. He saw signs of danger. And now he’s disappeared.’
Nobody spoke for a while. The effigies around the pool tinkled in the breeze.
Brittius said, ‘I think these documents ought to be considered by a full meeting of the Ordo. As soon as possible.’
‘No,’ said Ampliatus.
‘But the Ordo is the ruling council of the town! They have a right to be informed –’
‘No!’ Ampliatus was emphatic. ‘How many citizens are members of the Ordo?’
‘Eighty-five,’ said Holconius.
‘There you are. It will be all over the town within an hour. Do you want to start a panic, just as we’re starting to get back on our feet? When we’ve got the prophecy of the sibyl to give them, to keep them sweet? Remember who voted for you, your honours – the traders. They won’t thank you for scaring their business away. You saw what happened this morning, simply because the fountains stopped for a few hours. Besides, what does this add up to? So Exomnius was worried about earth tremors? So Campania has ashy soil like Sicily, and stinking fumaroles? So what? Fumaroles have been part of life on the bay since the days of Romulus.’ He could see his words were striking home. ‘Besides, this isn’t the real problem.’
Pompeii Page 23
