Lindsey Davis - Vesuvius by Night

That was life. She knew to this day that Larius might well have stayed away, so she would really have been stuck. But the fisherboy was no better.

Larius did come back, though he was rarely here with her. But since then, he sent money almost every week; Marciana brought it, and there was plenty. Figure painters were well paid.

One thing you had to say for him, Larius worked hard. He loved to paint. He loved that more than he loved Ollia and the little ones, she had to accept it. But this was probably how it would be now, this was probably permanent. To drive him away entirely she would have to make his life very miserable indeed, so she would not do that; it was tempting to nag when they came together, but she resisted. They would survive somehow. And Ollia felt safe that she was no longer alone; in any real emergency, Larius would come to help.

Varius was a child who looked around him, hoping for an excuse to yell his head off in exaggerated terror or disgust. Today he noticed Vesuvius looked peculiar, so after a second of bafflement, he began screaming. As she went out to her little boy and saw what was happening to the mountain, Ollia’s first thought was Larius. He would come for them, he would tell her what to do.

One of her neighbours called out, hurrying away. ‘Have you seen it? We are all leaving, Ollia. Grab your tots and come along with us.’

She was grateful for the offer. But Ollia, wife of Larius the painter, gazed at Mount Vesuvius as it spewed a plug of ash from the depths of the earth and sent clouds of fine material flittering all around the peak, and said no, no thank you. She had to wait here until her husband came, because he would need to know where to find them.

The first emission looked like forest fires smouldering on the side of the mountain. That continued for some time, covering the peak entirely. Ollia went out to watch occasionally as she tidied up after giving the children lunch. Then came a huge noise as if all of Campania was breaking apart, so she ran out of doors again, and witnessed the beginning of the first big eruption. Horrified, she watched a massive column of molten rock and gas climbing ever higher from the peak, desperately close to Herculaneum. The pulsating cloud was grey, with lighter and darker parts as different materials were thrown up. She noticed fires on the mountain itself, then bursts of flame amongst the rising column and flashes like lightning in the dark clouds that were reaching into the sky. The very air felt hot on her face; it seemed to reek of poison.

It was ten miles for Larius to come, even if his journey was not impeded. Logistics were not Ollia’s strength. She did not immediately grasp that to reach his family he would have to travel up the coast road through Oplontis, approaching much closer to this vigorous new volcano. Larius, who had their eldest daughter with him, would want to find safety – and, for him, that lay in the opposite direction.

The painters Hylus and Pyris, accompanied by Three Coats the plasterer, reached the harbour outside the Marine Gate. In a tight group, with plenty of attitude, they were able to push their way through the other fugitives. In the terrible gloom, people were losing each other. Friends and family called out in panic.

‘Ione!’

‘Glaucus!’

‘Bloody Greeks,’ muttered Hylus as he tripped over a young girl who seemed to be blind; grasping her by the shoulders, he set her facing the right way but then left her.

At the shore, ships owned by wealthy men had been laden, ready to transport them and their possessions to safety; they might take others on board if their crews were decent and had room. However, these vessels were all trapped, prevented from launching by a strong onshore wind. The sea was whipped up unusually. Further out, the painters could see a small number of boats heading into the coast in a rescue attempt, including one large military trireme that must have been sent from the naval base at Misenum. These were held up for another reason: when pumice from the eruption landed in the sea, it floated. Pieces started small. However, they cooled rapidly once they hit water, then welded together into large solid plates of debris. Awkward bobbing barriers crowded the shallows. Chunks of this crud blocked inbound shipping. While the men watched, even the oared trireme gave up and veered away, heading instead for Stabiae. For the crowds who had hurried to the shore in hope, escape by sea looked impossible.

Hylus and Pyris glanced at each other. After summing up the chaotic harbour scene, they did not hesitate. Others were milling about the moorings indecisively, but the painters set off on foot at once, turning south towards the River Sarno which they would cross, away from the town and its turbulent mountain. The constantly increasing layer of ash was making it difficult to walk. They were already wading through it, hot between the open toes of their work boots. The coating of fine cinders on buildings and roads was rising steadily so the two painters, with their professional knowledge of physical materials, understood their situation was highly dangerous. They needed to travel fast.

Three Coats, who like so many old workers was very severely crippled, had told them to go on ahead and leave him. If and when Larius came by in transport, the plasterer could rely on being picked up. Hylus and Pyris felt some uncertainty, but let themselves be persuaded. That was how it was that day: no time for debate. Every man for himself. In their hearts they knew that if Three Coats had been a painter they would probably have carried him, but all the prejudices of their trade worked against him now.

He had been the butt of secret jokes for a long time. Like many, years of heavy work had brought arthritis on him; his was much worse than normal wear and tear. He was bent over, hook-backed, his lower limbs twisted. He walked only with a painful hitch and roll. How he managed to do his work at all was a miracle, yet somehow he scraped together the energy and will. The other plasterers had left him with the painters to relieve themselves of the responsibility, then they went off to another job.

He was still a good plasterer, though agonisingly slow. Larius had tolerated his frailty, knowing the elderly man had no other way to make a living. His team looked sideways at Larius sometimes, wondering if the time had come for him to tell the project manager to hire a faster worker, one who would be safe on ladders. So far Larius had never broached it. Instead he carried buckets for Three Coats, sometimes even hauled the disabled old man himself up a scaffold, pretending it was horseplay.

Three Coats normally liked to pretend he was no different from anybody else. But today he knew his failings had finally caught up with him. He could not walk through the ash that lay in a deep fluid carpet like soft blizzard snow. He had to watch Hylus and Pyris set off through the knee-high sludge, in gathering murk, heading down the coast road towards the Surrentum peninsular. They would have the choice of turning inland or moving along the far side of the bay. Resigned, Three Coats stayed at the Marine Gate. There were arched tunnels, a high central entrance for vehicles with two lower ones for pedestrians. He sat down on a stone bench outside one of the pedestrian arches, waiting for Larius to come along and give him the lift he so badly needed.

Larius never came. Hindered by his physical condition, the plasterer would make it no further.

Larius found his neighbour from Herculaneum, Erodion, at the house where, he knew, Erodion stayed with a fruiterer’s wife if the fruiterer was away. Tending his orchards, presumably, while somebody else was gaily plundering his plums.