Steven Saylor - Arms of Nemesis

We entered the Cup from the north, skirting the narrows between the Cape of Misenum and the small island of Procida. Directly before us, at the far side of the bay, loomed the larger island of Capri, like a craggy finger pointing skyward. The sun was high, the day was fine and clear without a touch of haze on the water. Between us and the opposite strait that separates Capri from the Promontory of Minerva the water was spangled with the multicoloured sails of fishing boats and the bigger sails of the trading ships and ferries that circle the bay, carrying goods and passengers from Surrentum and Pompeii on the south side to Neapolis and Puteoli on the north.

We rounded the headland, and the entire bay opened before us, glittering beneath the sun. At its apex, looming above the little village of Herculaneum, rose Vesuvius. The sight always impresses me. The mountain towers on the horizon like a great pyramid flattened at the top. With its fertile slopes covered by meadows and vineyards, Vesuvius presides over the Cup like a bounteous, benevolent god, an emblem of steadfastness and serenity. For a while, in the early days of slave revolt, Spartacus and his men took refuge on the higher slopes.

The Fury stayed close to the land, circling the Cape of Misenum and then turning her back on Vesuvius to glide majestically into the hidden harbour. The sails were furled; sailors ran about the deck securing ropes and tackles. I pulled Eco out of the way, fearing that without a yoice to protect himself he might be stepped on or tangled in the swinging ropes. He gently shrugged my hand from his shoulder and rolled his eyes. I'm not a boy any longer, he seemed to be saying, but it was with a boy's excitement that he turned his head this way and that, trying to observe everything at once, craning his neck and skittering about with a look of awe on his face. His eye missed nothing; in the rush of confusion he grabbed my arm and pointed towards the skiff that had pushed off from the docks and was making its way towards the Fury.

The boat pulled alongside. Marcus Mummius leaned over the bulwark, shouting a question. After he heard the reply he threw back his head and let out a sigh — whether of relief or regret I could not tell.

He looked up and scowled at my approach. 'Nothing was resolved in my absence,' he sighed. 'You'll be needed after all. At least the journey wasn't wasted.'

'Then you can tell me officially now that my employer is Marcus Crassus?'

Mummius looked at me ruefully. 'You think you're awfully clever, don't you? I only hope you'll be half that clever when the need comes. Now off with you — down the ladder!'

'And you?'

'I'll follow later, after I've seen to the ship. For now you're in the hands of Faustus Fabius. He'll take you to the villa at Baiae and see to matters there.'

Eco and I descended to the skiff, where a tall redheaded man in a dark blue tunic stood waiting to greet us. His face was young, but I saw the lines of age at the corners of his cat-green eyes; he was probably in his middle thirties, about the same age as Mummius. He clasped my hand, and I saw the flash of a patrician ring on his finger, but a gold ring was hardly necessary to show that he came from an old family. The Fabii are as old as the Cornelii or Aemilii, older than the Claudii. But even without the ring and without the name I would have known him for a patrician. Only a Roman noble of the most venerable ancestry can pull back his shoulders quite so stiffly and hold his chin so rigidly upright — even in a small, rocking boat — without looking either pompous or ridiculous.

'You're the one they call the Finder?' His voice was smooth and deep. As he spoke he arched one eyebrow, such a typical patrician gesture that I sometimes wonder if the old nobility have an extra muscle in their foreheads for just this purpose.

'Gordianus, from Rome,' I said.

'Good, good. Here, we'd better sit, unless you're an excellent swimmer.'

Tm hardly a swimmer at all,' I confessed. Faustus Fabius nodded. 'This is your assistant?' 'My son, Eco.'

'I see. It's good that you've arrived. Gelina will be relieved. For some reason she took it into her head that Mummius might be able to get back by late last night. We all told her that was impossible; even under the very best conditions the ship couldn't return before this afternoon. But she wouldn't listen. Before she went to bed she arranged to have messengers descend to the harbour, one every hour, to see if the ship had arrived. The household is in chaos, as you can imagine.'

He saw the blank look on my face. 'Ah, but Mummius has told you next to nothing, I suppose. Yes, those were his instructions. Never fear, all shall be made clear to you.' He turned his face to the breeze and took a deep breath, letting his unfashionably long hair flutter in the wind like a red mane.

I looked about the harbour. The Fury was by far the largest vessel. The rest were small fishing boats and pleasure craft. Misenum has never been a particularly busy port; most of the trade that flows into and out of the Cup is channelled through Puteoli, the busiest port in all Italy. Yet it seemed to me that Misenum was more quiet than it should be, considering its proximity to the luxurious district of Baiae and its famous mineral springs. I said as much to Faustus Fabius.

'So you've been here before?' he asked.

'A few times.'

'Well acquainted with trading vessels and business on the Campanian coast, are you?'

I shrugged. 'Business has brought me to the Cup now and again over the years. I'm no expert on sea traffic, but am I wrong to say that the harbour appears rather empty?'

He made a slight grimace. 'Not wrong at all. Between the pirates at sea and Spartacus inland, trade everywhere in Campania has come to a standstill. Hardly anything moves on the roads or the sea lanes — which makes it all the more amazing that Marcus was willing to send the Fury after you.'

'By Marcus you mean Marcus Mummius?'

'Of course not; Mumrnius doesn't own a trireme! I mean Marcus Crassus.' Fabius smiled thinly. 'Oh, but you weren't supposed to know that, were you, at least not until you landed? Well, here we are. Hold on for the jolt — these clumsy rowers, you'd think they were trying to ram an enemy vessel. A stint on the Fury might do them some good.' I saw the slaves at the oars cower, or pretend to.

As we stepped onto the dock I looked back again at the harbour. 'You mean to say there's no trade at all these days?'

Fabius shrugged. I ascribed his grimace to the patricians' traditional disdain for all matters of commerce. 'Sailboats and skiffs shuttle back and forth across the Cup, of course, exchanging goods and passengers between the villages,' he said. 'But it's a rarer and rarer occurrence to see a big ship from Egypt or Africa or even Spain come in from the sea headed for the big docks at Puteoli. Of course, in another few weeks travel by sea will stop altogether for the winter. As for goods from inland, all of the south of Italy is under the shadow of Spartacus now. He's made his winter stronghold in the mountains around Thurii, after spending all summer terrorizing the region east of Vesuvius. Crops were destroyed, farms and villas were burned to the ground. The markets are empty. It's a good thing the locals needn't live off bread; no one around here will starve so long as there are fish in the Cup or oysters in Lake Lucrinus.'

He turned and led us across the dock. 'I don't suppose there are any shortages in Rome, despite the troubles? Shortages are not allowed in Rome.'

' "The people fear, but suffer not," ' I quoted from a recent speech I had heard in the Forum.

Fabius snorted. 'It's just like the Senate. They'll go to any lengths to see that the rabble in Rome remains comfortable. Meanwhile, they can't manage to send a decent commander against either Spartacus or the pirates. What a congregation of incompetents! Rome has never been the same since Sulla opened the doors of the Senate as a reward to all his rich cronies; now trinket salesmen and olive oil merchants line up to give speeches, while gladiators rape the countryside. It's only luck that Spartacus has so far lacked either the brains or the nerve to march on Rome itself.'