Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  CHAPTER TEN

  As they slip into the lane alongside the Villa of the Golden Bracelet, heavy drops of rain bounce off their heads. Their footsteps echo on the hard stones as they hurry through the deserted streets of Pompeii, through tourists escaping from the weather to waiting buses. Frances breaks into a run to keep up with Marcello. They pass the old dog cowering beneath the portal of the ruined house, no longer interested enough in them to bark.

  He rounds a corner and she follows. But the lane splits into three, each heading in a different direction, and she can no longer see him. She stops, the rain now pelting down, soaking her hair and face.

  ‘Got you!’ Marcello jumps out from a doorway and grabs her. They shriek with laughter and he takes her hand. ‘C’mon, I don’t want you to get lost.’

  She glimpses signposts on walls, Via Terme, Via della Fortuna, Via Stabiana, as he guides her quickly through the ancient streets. ‘Not far now.’

  They turn right into Via dell’Abbondanza, a much wider road stretching out of sight. Some of the large paving stones are missing and the holes are filling with water. They splash through the puddles. They’re both puffing and dripping wet when he stops suddenly and pulls her into a doorway. ‘This is it.’

  ‘Another House of Clues?’ She looks into the ruins, where splashes of red, gold and cobalt blue stain the brick walls. The room ahead is without a roof and the tiled water collector recessed in the ground is full of rainwater. Beyond lie a covered courtyard and a garden.

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ he teases her. ‘Let’s make a dash for it.’

  She follows him through the rain to the shelter of a large portico supported by fluted columns, the greyish white limestone worn at their bases. The garden is surprisingly formal; box hedges frame small paths and manicured lawns planted with sculpted fig trees. She pokes her head into dark alcoves decorated with remnants of old frescoes and scans the recesses of the courtyard.

  Marcello is standing looking at a large mural. She sees on his face an expression she has come to know; the look of satisfaction when he has made some discovery. She goes to him and what she sees truly surprises her. ‘It’s her! The woman under the sea!’

  The painting is of a naked woman reclining in a large shell-like boat. A small angel is riding a dolphin in the water on one side of her and another is peering over the edge of the boat on the other.

  ‘The goddess of love, Venus. That’s our mystery woman, without her clothes.’

  ‘She’s beautiful.’ Frances looks closer. The woman is wearing gold jewellery on her wrist and ankles and the same gold necklace.

  ‘Did you realize it was her when we saw the face under the water?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure until I came back to check, but I had a good idea it was the same image. Venus is painted in hundreds of different ways, depending on the fashion of the day. And this one here,’ he points at the mural, ‘is unique to this part of the world. The Pompeiians and the Romans who went to Baia worshipped Venus and built temples dedicated to her.’

  ‘Look at her hair, it’s so curly. It’s the same style as the mosaic.’

  ‘Who knows, it could have been the same model. Women then used hot irons to curl their hair.’

  ‘And make-up?’

  ‘Of course, influenced by the Egyptians. We’ve found brushes, mirrors and little jars, still with traces of minerals in them that were used for colour.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Yes, look at her eyes and her lips. They used vermilion to paint their lips and cheeks and painted their eyes with green and blue shadow made from crushed malachite and azurite.’

  ‘Nothing much has changed then, we’ll still do anything for fashion. No pubic hair either—maybe she had a Brazilian.’

  Marcello laughs. ‘Yes, pubic hair didn’t figure in classical art.’

  ‘She has quite a virginal look about her for the goddess of love, don’t you think?’

  ‘Ah, that could be deliberate. The mythology has it that Venus was born of the sea and her virginity was perpetually renewed. But I prefer to think she has a worldly expression.’ He steps away to look at the sky. ‘Still raining. But if you like I’ll show you another version that’s quite different.’

  They run out of the crumbling villa, across two more lanes and into the doorway of another. As Frances wipes the rain from her face on her sleeve, Marcello takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs her cheeks dry. His own dark hair is matted to his head and dripping. She takes the handkerchief from him and mops up the water.

  He’s staring at her hard, his brown eyes glistening. She raises her face to his and their lips meet. It’s the gentlest of kisses. Frances feels so drawn to him but something holds them both back.

  ‘Frances…’

  She smiles at him and presses her forefinger onto his lips. ‘I think you’re already attached?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Not now?’

  He looks away and answers her question with his own. ‘And you?’

  ‘I was too—maybe I still am. I was very involved with a man in New Zealand but we’ve drifted apart. Now, I’m not sure.’

  He grins at her. ‘Ah, complications. You’ll be pleased to learn that such love trysts are as old as, well, as old as Venus.’

  She follows him inside the ancient villa and through a series of rooms. On the wall in front of them is another fresco of a couple. ‘Venus and Mars.’ Marcello turns to see her reaction.

  Mars is standing behind Venus and reaching around to touch her breast. Venus looks very surprised. Frances bursts out laughing.

  ‘I think the artist was being kind to her. Cheating…that’s something Venus knew all about.’ Marcello smiles wickedly. ‘She was the wife of Vulcan, God of Fire and Volcanoes, but she betrayed him and fell in love with Mars, God of War.’

  He walks into the next room where there is a line of fading frescoes in different panels of the wall. ‘These paintings are based on Homer’s story of the betrayal in the Odyssey. There’s Vulcan on the right, sitting on his throne and thoroughly pissed off. And there, on the left, is Venus and Mars going for it in bed.’

  They stand together in front of the next panel.

  ‘There you see Vulcan, who was a blacksmith, making a net of chains that can never be broken. And here,’ he says moving along, ‘the lovers are trapped beneath the net. In the next panel there’s Vulcan with Apollo, the God of the Sun, looking at his guilty prisoners.’

  ‘And the moral of the story?’

  ‘It’s an old story, isn’t it—a tale of betrayal but also a tale of when love dies. When I was younger, those things were black and white, but the moral of the story today? I don’t really know.’

  He moves into the next room and crouches beside another painting, of a scroll, an inkstand and a quill. Some Latin lines are on the scroll but many words have worn away. He looks up at her. ‘It’s a fragment of a poem about Venus, but I think it is still very beautiful. Can you understand the words?’

  ‘No. My knowledge of Latin is pretty basic. Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant,’ she recites.

  ‘Well, you’re on the right track, it’s about love.’

  She leans over and follows his fingers along the words as he translates.

  ‘I don’t think a Venus made of marble would be as favourable to me as…’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes. So everyone can finish it off as they like.’

  ‘And how would you finish it?’

  He stands and pauses for a moment. Then he looks at her and says: ‘I don’t think a Venus made of marble would be as favourable to me as one without adornment but as natural and beautiful as thee.’

  Before she can reply, he pulls her close. Now they kiss slowly and deliberately, Frances enjoying the sensual feelings he induces. ‘Quite the poet,’ she responds at last.

  A loud roaring interrupts them. ‘The rain must have stopped. That sounds like chainsaws. They must be cutting down the trees.’


  The noisy interference breaks the mood. ‘Unlike the gods, we mere mortals can’t live on love alone.’ Marcello laughed. ‘If we hurry we might be in time for lunch.’

  The streets of Pompeii have started to fill with people again as they return to the entrance to the old city. They step aside as large groups of tourists spread out across the paths. The surface is wet and slippery and Frances can smell the fresh aftermath of the rain. She feels she is in a beautiful yet ominous dream and can imagine the way the town used to look before the destruction; a town throbbing with life, its people living and loving as if there was no tomorrow, no one suspecting for a moment that for them, there would be no tomorrow.

  ‘Scandalous,’ Marcello mutters.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The trees.’ He points to a hillside just inside the walls of the city. ‘We had to take out two of those big trees for the excavations. They’re right over a major villa we’re working on and there was no choice. That’s where the noise is coming from.’

  A small group of men in yellow overalls is cutting branches off a large tree with a chainsaw.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ she asks.

  ‘The cost. Eighty thousand euro to remove the trees.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No. That’s the price. Whenever you want a job done anywhere, the contract has to go out to certain people and the price comes back. You have no choice.’

  ‘Surely that’s illegal! Don’t people have to tender for the work?’

  ‘In theory, yes. In practice, no. It’s Il Sistema. Pay up or else!’

  ‘Who pays?’

  ‘The government pays. We all lose.’

  Frances shakes her head. ‘It’s something I can’t come to grips with.’

  ‘Nor me, nor most people in this city—it’s another reason we often feel powerless.’

  They reach the car park and climb into Marcello’s four-wheel-drive. The modern town of Pompeii is just a few minutes drive away. Jockeying between lurching tour buses, they soon arrive outside a trattoria, in a small lane off the main street. The tables are occupied but two women who have finished their meals are leaving one near the window.

  ‘Benvenuto! Welcome!’ The patrone ushers them to the table and a waiter appears immediately to reset it.

  ‘Do you want some antipasto?’ Marcello asks. ‘They do a good buffet here.’

  They walk over to a long table covered with platters and bowls.

  Frances looks at the platters of squid, octopus and fish, bowls of grapes, lemons, olives and pomegranates. ‘It’s the same food we saw in all the old paintings, the same food people ate here two thousand years ago.’

  ‘Hard to improve on perfection,’ he laughs. ‘Here, try some of these fresh anchovies.’ He piles them onto two plates and they return to the table.

  Frances feels warm and comfortable with Marcello, but wonders where it will lead. Is she being foolish? After all, she’d seen so many office romances turn into disasters.

  ‘Are you OK? Your green eyes tell me you’re far away.’

  ‘No, I’m right here with you.’ And she means it. So attractive, so attentive, so clever.

  ‘Nothing to worry about with me,’ he smiles. ‘There’s no pressure.’

  At that moment, a woman with a pram bumps into Frances’ chair. ‘Mi scusi,’ she apologizes, ‘so sorry.’

  Frances stands to let her pass and glimpses the chubby round face of a baby girl beneath a lacy shawl. A little boy and his father follow them out of the restaurant.

  ‘Grazie, signorina,’ the man says as they close the door.

  ‘And the same faces,’ she whispers.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The people. The food looks the same and so do the people. That family, their faces could be those on the walls of old Pompeii.’ Frances stops eating and looks out the window at the family walking on the other side of the street, unaware of danger, just the same as their ancestors.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Marcello snaps his fingers. ‘We still have to eat and the food is delicious. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t help thinking of the dead people we saw in the villa.’

  He takes both her hands. ‘It’s always a shock the first time. But they’re a powerful reminder of why we have to make sure people here can escape if Vesuvius erupts again.’

  ‘And if people can’t rely on us scientists,’ she muses, ‘they may have to start relying on the gods again.’

  ‘Or the saints.’ Marcellos smiles. ‘That’s where my grandfather is pinning his hopes.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The silhouette of the old man curves like a puppet on the horizon as he bends over the vines and pulls the grapes. He tugs hard and falls back slightly as a bunch of the rich scarlet fruit comes loose in his hand.

  ‘Nonno!’ Marcello calls out.

  He turns towards them and waves, the breeze ruffling the thin grey hair that has receded from a prominent forehead. ‘I’m coming!’ He picks up the bucket at his feet, drops in the fresh bunch, then steps gingerly over a trench of soil alongside the green and yellow vines that stretch over a rise and out of sight.

  As he moves slowly but assuredly down the hill swinging the bucket, Frances is surprised to see he is wearing a three-piece dark suit and tie and polished black shoes.

  ‘Dressed in his Sunday best to meet you. He’s had that suit for as long as I can remember. Cuts a fine figure for an octogenarian, don’t you think?’

  ‘Pure style!’

  The sun is beating down on the fields and the rows of houses in the village behind. She squints into the sunlight. The purplish brown peak of Vesuvius rises above. The remnants of the river of lava that scorched this landscape in the forties appear stuck to the mountain like strips of silvery grey papier-mâché.

  ‘Marcello! How are you? It’s been too long.’

  The two men stretch their arms out and hug tightly. As they embrace, Frances sees the old man is as tall as his grandson. Marcello takes his hand and brings him to her. ‘Grandfather, Frances Nelson. Frances, this is Raphaele Vattani.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you and welcome to my home.’ He puts his hand on his heart and then grips hers firmly. ‘Marcello, you forgot to tell me how beautiful she is.’ His smile lights up his lined face and dark eyes.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me. I’ve been looking forward to hearing some of your stories,’ she smiles back.

  ‘Plenty of time for that. Come and try some of my wine first.’ His warmth makes her feel instantly at ease and when he takes her arm, she happily walks with him. They leave the fields through a gateway and cross the road to a small white-washed cottage with tiny windows. Raphaele beckons them into the cool of the house.

  He puts the bucket of grapes down next to a sink in the small combined lounge and kitchen, crammed with old furniture. The floor is covered in blue and white tiles that are clean but worn. Framed photographs hang haphazardly on the walls and a faded lace curtain covers the doorway to what seems to be the only other room. Marcello urges her to join him on a wooden bench at an oblong wooden table in the centre of the room.

  ‘This is where my father and his brothers and sisters were born and I used to come here all the time when I was a boy.’ He taps the wood. ‘We had lots of family feasts at this table.’

  ‘Where did they all sleep?’

  ‘Anywhere they could find a spot,’ Raphaele interrupts with a laugh. He comes towards them with a pewter tray holding a bottle of wine and three glasses.

  ‘It wasn’t unusual for people to have as many as fifteen children in those days. Marcello’s grandmother and I were lucky. We had only six. We slept through there,’ he indicates through the doorway, ‘and the kids slept on bunks. Sometimes the little ones were three to a bed. I always remember seeing small feet dangling out. We all managed, they were hard days but happy days.’

  As he pours the wine, the daylight picks up the shiny red hue in the glasses. He passes one to each of them. ‘Salute
!’ he shouts.

  ‘Cheers!’ Frances replies. She sips the wine that tastes mellow and dry. The two men are watching her expression closely. ‘Very good, I like it a lot. Did you make it?’

  Raphaele grunts. ‘I used to in the old days. Now all my grapes go to a cooperative in the village and they are pressed there and made into wine. It’s much quicker and I think it’s still good. Like everything today, a lot easier.’

  A black and white wedding photo of a young Raphaele and his dark-haired bride hangs next to a tiny shrine with a statue of Mary. The woman is wearing a small lace veil and her lipstick accentuates a wide smile that reminds Frances of Marcello. ‘That’s Teresa, my wonderful wife. Nearly ten years now since she died.’ As he shakes his head, a small tear appears in his right eye.

  ‘Come on, Nonno, no time for crying today.’ Marcello pats his shoulder. ‘Frances wants to hear your stories about Vesuvius.’

  As he clears his throat Frances takes a green cotton handkerchief from her bag and passes it to him. ‘Thank you. Of course. I’m sorry. I’m a silly old man.’

  ‘No,’ she presses his large hand that is tanned and heavily veined. ‘It’s natural. Your wife looks beautiful.’

  As she sits with him, his emotion quickly taps into her own. She notices the cuffs on his suit jacket are starting to fray. The collar of his pressed white shirt is a trifle tight, pressing onto his neck but his royal blue tie is perfectly knotted. She glances back to the photo to Teresa and she chokes back her own tears, remembering her losses.

  Raphaele tops up each of the glasses and sighs. ‘We met when we were fourteen. She lived in the next village,’ he begins. ‘It was just a year or two before Vesuvius erupted. We children took part in processions at the different churches. It was a bit of a competition between the parishes to see who put on the best show. One day all the kids came from the next town, curious to see what we were doing. That’s when I saw Teresa for the first time. She was so beautiful I was in awe of her, wearing a white dress and a little veil, like a bride. And like all the other girls, she carried a small basket with rose petals they scattered through the church. She was with her parents and I was too scared to talk to her, but I plucked up the courage after the mass.’