Lindsey Davis - Vesuvius by Night

Painters, according to plasterers, were worse.

‘All based on intensive research!’ Larius had answered Pyris, with an exaggerated wink. He deliberately made much of figuring in a nipple on one of the party-boys’ courtesans. Then Marciana brought him lunch, so he quickly had to pretend he was only touching up the goodtime girl’s diagonal garland.

Today the big room they were working on, being more formal, had lush red and gold panels rather than white, alternated with dramatic black. Half finished, the work was on schedule. They had reached Larius’s favourite task, the pictures; he loved this stage, beautifying a room as if it were hung with framed art. He was ready for the significant scene – a nice bit of mythology. Always proper in a public room.

He was all set up. He had lightly scribed a basic scheme, measured out with compasses. He had positioned his brushes. On the floor and on a scaffold for the higher work, he had stationed pigment pots of various sizes, each small enough to be held conveniently in the hand while he worked; the pigments were ready, with spatulas, water, and eggs and oil for binding. Marciana would come in and help him with that. He would work rapidly but thoughtfully, changing pots unhurriedly, then painting with fast, sure brush strokes.

He had been about to start when his daughter called him.

As soon as he saw what was happening to the mountain, he thought dryly that the mythical painting was done for. Myth was occurring here. No one alive had experience of such natural force, so Larius could not have predicted that the biggest event in Campania for a thousand years was about to happen. But he was bright, and sensitive to what he saw. Foreboding struck him at once.

Jupiter. Jupiter and all the gods in the Pantheon.

A column of debris was being pushed up into the sky above Vesuvius, higher and higher, at enormous speed. Incalculable to those on the ground, masses of it hurtled up for miles. Eventually the dense pillar broadened out at the top, disseminating like the branches of a stone pine or the cap of a gigantic mushroom. Pulsating clouds of fiery material writhed like the steaming entrails of some huge beast when its belly was slashed open in the arena.

All that crud is going to come down on us, thought Larius.

He lifted his face. The wind was blowing this way. Pompeii was what, five miles from Vesuvius? The choking clouds would land here.

He tugged Marciana’s hand. ‘We have to leave, chuck. We must get away.’ She looked up at him, verifying his decision. ‘Trust me,’ he said. Trust Father. Even though he’s terrified.

She nodded. ‘How can we go?’

‘I’ll find Erodion and his cart.’

Then, before he could stop her, Marciana snatched her hand from his grasp and was off up the street. ‘Dollies!’

‘Stay at the widow’s. I’ll come and get you!’ yelled Larius. It would take time to rootle out their lugubrious neighbour from his Pompeian mistress’ bower, in order to persuade him to produce the cart unscheduled. Erodion was not known for rallying in emergencies. His wife handled any crises.

Larius strode back indoors. Standing in consternation, the lads looked to him to say what was up; they had heard the stunning explosion but were scared to go and look.

‘Drop everything. Just leave it. Shit on a stick; this is a big one.’

Conscientious, they still stood, unsure. Hylus could not help letting his eyes go to the main panel, gauging the state of the plaster. Young Pyris quavered, ‘What about the client?’

‘Let me square it with the client. Don’t bother with your stuff. Get going; save yourselves, lads, before it’s too late.’

Their stuff was here; they slept on site. Larius telling them to abandon their things made them jump to. This was serious. They put down their pots and brushes. Even Three Coats began struggling down from the scaffold; his joints were swollen and crippled, so he had to take it gingerly. He knocked a whole bucket of slopping wet plaster all down the newly painted wall but Larius, who would normally have been enraged, gestured to forget it and just get moving.

They could run for the port. A boat would take them off, assuming there were any boats. Hylus grabbed money for fares or bribes. Or they could head out of town, inland, putting distance between themselves and the coming catastrophe. It would be all right. They had enough time. Even if Larius couldn’t find Erodion and the cart, so had to travel with his daughter at her little legs’ pace, all of them at that moment still had time to escape.

Slowly it dawned on Nonius that the street noises were unusual.

He must have dozed off after his first awakening and could not tell how long had passed. Had he slept through another bloody big earthquake? Six hundred sheep slaughtered in the fields by poisonous gases? Upper floors of houses damaged so badly they would simply be bricked up and never used again? Temples tottering, granaries groaning, columns smashing down in pieces? Some buildings destroyed so completely they had to be demolished and their plots given over to agriculture? People killed?

Hades, it had better not be any of the clients he had carefully sweetened up for his financial projects! Don’t say his efforts had been for nothing. Nonius hated waste.

He jumped out of bed.

Sudden motion was an error. He sat back down on the mattress edge, allowing his sore head to normalise before he stirred again. Once the room slowly stopped spinning, he found last night’s tunic, his scruffy one, which was scrubbled up on the floor where he had dropped it. He pulled on the garment, automatically straightening the folds to hang well. He was so vain, he stayed to comb his hair. Too befuddled to find his nitcomb, he used the painter’s. When he had finished, instead of putting it back on Larius’s small bedside tray, Nonius dropped it into his own luggage pack.

Only then did he finally drag himself down the steps into the street outside. As he opened the door, the light beyond seemed hazy. Nonius coughed. People were walking or running downhill towards the port. There was constant movement through the streets, like when the amphitheatre disgorged its audience after the games and everyone went home at once. Hundreds of people were flowing in one direction, purposefully. Some carried bundles, some hoisted small children on their shoulders so they could move faster. He saw wheel-barrows, piled with household goods. There were cries of alarm, even screams of panic. But most walked as fast as they could in grim silence.

A pattering sound was everywhere, a sound like heavy rain in a Mediterranean storm. It was unceasing and regular, though occasionally broken by a loud crack. When Nonius ventured over the threshold, he jumped back, exclaiming. Bloody hell, it hurt! Small pebbles, like hail but harder, were showering from a darkening sky. There were gusts of a really bad smell.

Nonius, who was still woozy, took his time to gather what was going on. The rain of stones, ash-coloured, cinder-like, stinging and biting, filled the air. He wanted to hide, to cover up bare skin, to duck his head, to flee back indoors. But even half asleep, Nonius soon saw that sheltering was not for him.

Seeing his puzzlement, someone named the mountain. ‘Vesuvius!’ Vesuvius had blown up? Jupiter Best and Greatest.

He had to be out. He had things to do. He would be extremely busy. This was his great chance. The foolish people of Pompeii were leaving their homes. Stupidly or not, they believed it was a temporary evacuation, after which they would come back. So they left most of their possessions behind.