Pompeii

  ‘At the quayside, admiral.’

  ‘We need to move quickly. Climb in next to me, Attilius.’ He rapped his ring on the side of the carriage. ‘Forward!’ Attilius squeezed in beside him as the carriage lurched down the hill. ‘Now tell me everything you’ve seen.’

  Attilius tried to order his thoughts, but it was hard to speak coherently. Still, he tried to convey the power of what he had witnessed when the roof of the mountain lifted off. And the blasting of the summit, he said, was merely the culmination of a host of other phenomena – the sulphur in the soil, the pools of noxious gas, the earth tremors, the swelling of the land which had severed the matrix of the aqueduct, the disappearance of the local springs. All these things were interconnected.

  ‘And none of us recognised it,’ said Pliny, with a shake of his head. ‘We were as blind as old Pomponianus, who thought it was the work of Jupiter.’

  ‘That’s not quite true, admiral. One man recognised it – a native of the land near Etna: my predecessor, Exomnius.’

  ‘Exomnius?’ said Pliny, sharply. ‘Who hid a quarter of a million sesterces at the bottom of his own reservoir?’ He noticed the bafflement on the engineer’s face. ‘It was discovered this morning when the last of the water had drained away. Why? Do you know how he came by it?’

  They were entering the docks. Attilius could see a familiar sight – the Minerva lying alongside the quay, her main mast raised and ready to sail – and he thought how odd it was, the chain of events and circumstances that had brought him to this place, at this time. If Exomnius had not been born a Sicilian, he would never have ventured on to Vesuvius and would never have disappeared, Attilius would never have been dispatched from Rome, would never have set foot in Pompeii, would never have known of Corelia or Ampliatus or Corax. For a brief moment, he glimpsed the extraordinary, perfect logic of it all, from poisoned fish to hidden silver, and he tried to think how best he could describe it to the admiral. But he had barely started before Pliny waved him to stop.

  ‘The pettiness and avarice of man!’ he said impatiently. ‘It would make a book in itself. What does any of it matter now? Put it in a report and have it ready on my return. And the aqueduct?’

  ‘Repaired, admiral. Or at any rate she was when I left her this morning.’

  ‘Then you have done good work, engineer. And it will be made known in Rome, I promise you. Now go back to your quarters and rest.’

  The wind was flapping the cables against the Minerva’s mast. Torquatus stood by the aft gangplank talking to the flagship commander, Antius, and a group of seven officers. They came to attention as Pliny’s carriage approached.

  ‘Admiral, with your permission, I would rather sail with you.’

  Pliny looked at him in surprise, then grinned and clapped his pudgy hand on Attilius’s knee. ‘A scientist! You’re just like me! I knew it the moment I saw you! We shall do great things this day, Marcus Attilius.’ He was wheezing out his orders even as his secretary helped him from the carriage. ‘Torquatus – we sail immediately. The engineer will join us. Antius – sound the general alarm. Have a signal flashed to Rome in my name: “Vesuvius exploded just before the seventh hour. The population of the bay is threatened. I am putting the entire fleet to sea to evacuate survivors.”’

  Antius stared at him. ‘The entire fleet, admiral?’

  ‘Everything that floats. What have you got out there?’ Pliny peered short-sightedly towards the outer harbour where the warships rode at anchor, rocking in the gathering swell. ‘The Concordia I can see, is that? The Libertas. Justitia. And what’s that one – the Pietas? The Europa.’ He waved his hand. ‘All of them. And everything in the inner harbour that isn’t in dry dock. Come on, Antius! You were complaining the other night that we had the mightiest fleet in the world but it never saw action. Well, here is action for you.’

  ‘But action requires an enemy, admiral.’

  ‘There’s your enemy.’ He pointed to the dark pall spreading in the distance. ‘A greater enemy than any force Caesar ever faced.’

  For a moment Antius did not move and Attilius wondered if he might even be considering disobeying, but then a gleam came into his eyes and he turned to the officers. ‘You heard your orders. Signal the Emperor and sound the general muster. And let it be known that I’ll cut the balls off any captain who isn’t at sea within half an hour.’

  It was at the mid-point of the ninth hour, according to the admiral’s water clock, that the Minerva was pushed away from the quayside and slowly began to swivel round to face the open sea. Attilius took up his old position against the rail and nodded to Torquatus. The captain responded with a slight shake of his head, as if to say he thought the venture madness.

  ‘Note the time,’ commanded Pliny and Alexion, squatting beside him, dipped his pen into his ink and scratched down a numeral.

  A comfortable chair with armrests and a high back had been set up for the admiral on the small deck and from this elevated position he surveyed the scene as it swung before him. It had been a dream of his over the past two years to command the fleet in battle – to draw this immense sword from its scabbard – even though he knew Vespasian had only appointed him as a peacetime administrator, to keep the blade from rusting. But enough of drills. Now at last he could see what battle-stations really looked like: the piercing notes of the trumpets drawing men from every corner of Misenum, the rowing boats ferrying the first of the sailors out to the huge quadriremes, the advance guard already boarding the warships and swarming over the decks, the high masts being raised, the oars readied. Antius had promised him he would have twenty ships operational immediately. That was four thousand men – a legion!

  When the Minerva was pointing directly eastwards the double bank of oars dipped, the drums began to beat below decks and she was stroked forwards. He could hear his personal standard, emblazoned with the imperial eagle, catching the wind from the stern-post behind him. The breeze was on his face. He felt a tightening of anticipation in his stomach. The whole of the town had turned out to watch. He could see them lining the streets, leaning out of the windows, standing on the flat roofs. A thin cheer carried across the harbour. He searched the hillside for his own villa, saw Gaius and Julia outside the library, and raised his hand. Another cheer greeted the gesture.

  ‘You see the fickleness of the mob?’ he called happily to Attilius. ‘Last night I was spat at in the street. Today I am a hero. All they live for is a show!’ He waved again.

  ‘Yes – and see what they do tomorrow,’ muttered Torquatus, ‘if half their men are lost.’

  Attilius was taken aback by his anxiety. He said quietly, ‘You think we are in that much danger?’

  ‘These ships look strong, engineer, but they are held together by rope. I’ll happily fight against any mortal enemy. But only a fool sails into combat with Nature.’

  The pilot at the prow shouted a warning and the helmsman, standing behind the admiral, heaved on the tiller. The Minerva threaded between the anchored warships, close enough for Attilius to see the faces of the sailors on the decks, and then she swung again, passing along the natural rock wall of the harbour, which seemed to open slowly, like the wheeled door of a great temple. For the first time they had a clear view of what was happening across the bay.

  Pliny gripped the arms of his chair, too overcome to speak. But then he remembered his duty to science. ‘Beyond the promontory of Pausilypon,’ he dictated hesitantly, ‘the whole of Vesuvius and the surrounding coast are masked by a drifting cloud, whitish-grey in colour, and streaked with black.’ But that was too bland, he thought: he needed to convey some sense of awe. ‘Thrusting above this, bulging and uncoiling, as if the hot entrails of the earth are being drawn out and dragged towards the heavens, rises the central column of the manifestation.’ That was better. ‘It grows,’ he continued, ‘as if supported by a continual blast. But at its uppermost reaches, the weight of the exuded material becomes too great, and in pressing down spreads sideways. Wouldn’t you agree,
engineer?’ he called. ‘It is the weight that is spreading it sideways?’

  ‘The weight, admiral,’ Attilius shouted back. ‘Or the wind.’

  ‘Yes, a good point. Add that to the record, Alexion. The wind appears stronger at the higher altitude, and accordingly topples the manifestation to the south-east.’ He gestured to Torquatus. ‘We should take advantage of this wind, captain! Make full sail!’

  ‘Madness,’ said Torquatus to Attilius, under his breath. ‘What sort of commander seeks out a storm?’ But he shouted to his officers: ‘Raise the main sail!’

  The tranverse pole which supported the sail was lifted from its resting place in the centre of the hull and Attilius had to scramble towards the stern as the sailors on either side seized the cables and began to haul it up the mast. The sail was still furled and when it reached its position beneath the carchesium – ‘the drinking-cup’, as they called the observation platform – a young lad of no more than ten shinned up the mast to release it. He scampered along the yard-arm, untying the fastenings, and when the last was loosened the heavy linen sail dropped and filled immediately, tautening with the force of the wind. The Minerva creaked and picked up speed, scudding through the waves, raising curls of white foam on either side of her sharp prow, like a chisel slicing through soft wood.

  Pliny felt his spirits fill with the sail. He pointed to the left. ‘There’s our destination, captain. Herculaneum! Steer straight towards the shore – to the Villa Calpurnia!’

  ‘Yes, admiral! Helmsman – take us east!’

  The sail cracked and the ship banked. A wave of spray drenched Attilius – a glorious sensation. He rubbed the dust from his face and ran his hands through his filthy hair. Below decks, the drums had increased to a frantic tempo, and the oars became a blur in the crashing waves and spray. Pliny’s secretary had to lay his arms across his papers to prevent them blowing away. Attilius looked up at the admiral. Pliny was leaning forwards in his chair, his plump cheeks glistening with sea-spray, eyes alight with excitement, grinning wide, all trace of his former exhaustion gone. He was a cavalryman on his horse again, pounding across the German plain, javelin in hand, to wreak havoc on the barbarians.

  ‘We shall rescue Rectina and the library and carry them to safety, then join Antius and the rest of the fleet in evacuating people further along the coast – how does that sound to you, captain?’

  ‘As the admiral wishes,’ responded Torquatus stiffly. ‘May I ask what time your clock shows?’

  ‘The start of the tenth hour,’ said Alexion.

  The captain raised his eyebrows. ‘So, then – just three hours of full daylight left.’

  He left the implication hanging in the air, but the admiral waved it away. ‘Look at the speed we’re making, captain! We’ll soon be at the coast.’

  ‘Yes, and the wind which drives us forwards will make it all the harder for us to put to sea again.’

  ‘Sailors!’ mocked the admiral above the sound of the waves. ‘Are you listening, engineer? I swear, they’re worse than farmers when it comes to the weather. They moan when there isn’t a wind, and then complain even louder when there is!’

  ‘Admiral!’ Torquatus saluted. ‘If you will excuse me?’ He turned away, his jaw clamped tight, and made his way, swaying, towards the prow.

  ‘Observations at the tenth hour,’ said Pliny. ‘Are you ready, Alexion?’ He placed his fingertips together and frowned. It was a considerable technical challenge to describe a phenomenon for which the language had not yet been invented. After a while, the various metaphors – columns, tree trunks, fountains and the like – seemed to obscure rather than illuminate, failing to capture the sublime power of what he was witnessing. He should have brought a poet with him – he would have been more use than this cautious captain. ‘Drawing closer,’ he began, ‘the manifestation appears as a gigantic, heavy rain cloud, increasingly black. As with a storm viewed from a distance of several miles, it is possible to see individual plumes of rain, drifting like smoke across the dark surface. And yet, according to the engineer, Marcus Attilius, these are falls not of rain but of rock.’ He pointed to the poop deck beside him. ‘Come up here, engineer. Describe to us again what you saw. For the record.’

  Attilius climbed the short ladder to the platform. There was something utterly incongruous about the way in which the admiral had arranged himself – with his slave, his portable desk, his throne-like chair and his water clock – when set against the fury into which they were sailing. Even though the wind was at his back, he could hear the roar from the mountain now, and the towering cascade of rock was suddenly much nearer, their ship as fragile as a leaf at the base of a waterfall. He started to give his account once more and then a bolt of lightning arced across the roiling mass of cloud – not white, but a brilliant, jagged streak of red. It hung in the air, like a vivid vein of blood, and Alexion started to cluck his tongue, which was how the superstitious worshipped lightning.

  ‘Add that to the list of phenomena,’ commanded Pliny. ‘Lightning: a grievous portent.’

  Torquatus shouted, ‘We’re sailing too close!’

  Beyond the admiral’s shoulder, Attilius could see the quadriremes of the Misene fleet, still in sunlight, streaming out of harbour in a V-formation, like a squadron of flying geese. But then he became aware that the sky was darkening. A barrage of falling stones was exploding on the surface of the sea to their right, creeping rapidly closer. The prows and sails of the quadriremes blurred, dissolved to ghost-ships, as the air was filled with whirling rock.

  In the pandemonium, Torquatus was everywhere, bellowing orders. Men ran along the deck in the half-light. The ropes supporting the yard-arm were unhitched and the sail lowered. The helmsman swung hard left. An instant later a ball of lightning came hurtling from the sky, touched the top of the mast, travelled down it and then along the yard-arm. In the brilliance of its glare Attilius saw the admiral with his head ducked and his hands pressed to the back of his neck, and his secretary leaning forwards to protect his papers. The fireball shot off the edge of the pole and plunged into the sea, trailing fumes of sulphur. It died with a violent hiss, taking its light with it. He closed his eyes. If the sail had not been lowered it would surely have gone up in flames. He could feel the drumming of the stones on his shoulders, hear them rattling across the deck. The Minerva must be brushing along the edge of the cloud, he realised, and Torquatus was trying to row them out from beneath it – and abruptly he succeeded. There was a final lash of missiles and they burst back out into the sunshine.

  He heard Pliny coughing and opened his eyes to see the admiral standing, brushing the debris from the folds of his toga. He had held on to a handful of stones and as he flopped back into his chair he examined them in his palm. All along the length of the ship, men were shaking their clothes and feeling their flesh for cuts. The Minerva was still steering directly towards Herculaneum, now less than a mile distant and clearly visible, but the wind was getting up, and the sea with it, the helmsman straining to keep them to their course as the waves crashed against the left side of the ship.

  ‘Encounter with the manifestation,’ said Pliny, calmly. He stopped to wipe his face on his sleeve and coughed again. ‘Are you taking this down? What time is it?’

  Alexion tipped the stones from his papers and blew away the dust. He leaned towards the clock. ‘The mechanism is broken, admiral.’ His voice was trembling. He was almost in tears.

  ‘Well, no matter. Let’s say the eleventh hour.’ Pliny held up one of the stones and peered at it closely. ‘The material is a frothy, bubbled pumice. Greyish-white. As light as ash, which falls in fragments no larger than a man’s thumb.’ He paused, and added gently: ‘Take up your pen, Alexion. If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s cowardice.’

  The secretary’s hand was shaking. It was hard for him to write as the liburnian pitched and rolled. His pen slipped across the surface of the papyri in an illegible scrawl. The admiral’s chair slid across the deck and Attilius g
rabbed it. He said, ‘You ought to move below deck,’ as Torquatus stumbled towards them, bareheaded.

  ‘Take my helmet, admiral.’

  ‘Thank you, captain, but this old skull of mine provides quite adequate protection.’

  ‘Admiral – I beg you – this wind will run us straight into the storm – we must turn back!’

  Pliny ignored him. ‘The pumice is less like rock, than airy fragments of a frozen cloud.’ He craned his neck to stare over the side of the ship. ‘It floats on the surface of the sea like lumps of ice. Do you see? Extraordinary!’

  Attilius had not noticed it before. The water was covered in a carpet of stone. The oars brushed it aside with every stroke but more floated in immediately to replace it. Torquatus ran to the low wall of the deck. They were surrounded.

  A wave of pumice broke over the front of the ship.

  ‘Admiral –’

  ‘Fortune favours the brave, Torquatus. Steer towards the shore!’

  For a short while longer they managed to plough on, but the pace of the oars was weakening, defeated not by the wind or the waves but by the clogging weight of pumice on the water. It deepened as they neared the coast, two or three feet thick – a broad expanse of rustling dry surf. The blades of the oars flailed helplessly across it, unable to bring any pressure to bear, and the ship began to drift with the wind towards the waterfall of rock. The Villa Calpurnia was tantalisingly close. Attilius recognised the spot where he had stood with Rectina. He could see figures running along the shore, the piles of books, the fluttering white robes of the Epicurean philosophers.

  Pliny had stopped dictating and, with Attilius’s assistance, had pulled himself up on to his feet. All around the timber was creaking as the pressure of the pumice squeezed the hull. The engineer felt him sag slightly as, for the first time, he seemed to appreciate that they were defeated. He stretched out his hand towards the shore. ‘Rectina,’ he murmured.

  The rest of the fleet was beginning to scatter, the V-formation disintegrating as the ships battled to save themselves. And then it was dusk again and the familiar thunder of pumice hammering drowned out every other sound. Torquatus shouted, ‘We’ve lost control of the ship! Everybody – below decks. Engineer – help me lift him down from here.’