Robert Harris - Pompeii

He was moving more quickly than the water pipes were emptying and when he passed through the triumphal arch that marked the entrance to the port he could see that the big public fountain at the crossroads was still flowing. Around it was grouped the usual twilight crowd—sailors dousing their befuddled heads, ragged children shrieking and splashing, a line of women and slaves with earthenware pots at their hips and on their shoulders, waiting to collect their water for the night. A marble statue of the Divine Augustus, carefully positioned beside the busy intersection to remind the citizens who was responsible for this blessing, gazed coldly above them, frozen in perpetual youth.

The overloaded ferry had come alongside the quay. Her gangplanks, fore and aft, had been thrown down and the timber was already bowing under the weight of passengers scrambling ashore. Luggage was tossed from hand to hand. A taxi owner, surprised by the speed of the exodus, was running around kicking his bearers to get them on their feet. Attilius called across the street to ask where the ferry was from, and the taxi owner shouted back over his shoulder, “Neapolis, my friend—and before that, Pompeii.”

Pompeii .

Attilius, on the point of moving off, suddenly checked his stride. Odd, he thought. Odd that they had heard no word from Pompeii, the first town on the matrix. He hesitated, swung round, and stepped into the path of the oncoming crowd. “Any of you from Pompeii?” He waved the rolled-up plans of the Augusta to attract attention. “Was anyone in Pompeii this morning?” But nobody took any notice. They were thirsty after the voyage—and of course they would be, he realized, if they had come from Neapolis, where the water had failed at noon. Most passed to either side of him in their eagerness to reach the fountain, all except for one, an elderly holy man, with the conical cap and curved staff of an augur, who was walking slowly, scanning the sky.

“I was in Neapolis this afternoon,” he said when Attilius stopped him, “but this morning I was in Pompeii. Why? Is there something I can do to help you, my son?” His rheumy eyes took on a crafty look, his voice dropped. “No need to be shy. I am practiced in the interpretation of all the usual phenomena—thunderbolts, entrails, bird omens, unnatural manifestations. My rates are reasonable.”

“May I ask, holy father,” said the engineer, “when you left Pompeii?”

“At first light.”

“And were the fountains playing? Was there water?”

So much rested on his answer, Attilius was almost afraid to hear it.

“Yes, there was water.” The augur frowned and raised his staff to the fading light. “But when I arrived in Neapolis the streets were dry and in the baths I smelled sulfur. That is why I decided to return to the ferry and to come on here.” He squinted again at the sky, searching for birds. “Sulfur is a terrible omen.”

“True enough,” agreed Attilius. “But are you certain? And are you sure the water was running?”

“Yes, my son. I’m sure.”

There was a commotion around the fountain and both men turned to look. It was nothing much to start with, just some pushing and shoving, but quickly punches were being thrown. The crowd seemed to contract, to rush in on itself and become denser, and from the center of the melee a large earthenware pot went sailing into the air, turned slowly, and landed on the quayside, smashing into fragments. A woman screamed. Wriggling between the backs at the edge of the mob, a man in a Greek tunic emerged, clutching a waterskin tightly to his chest. Blood was pouring from a gash in his temple. He sprawled, picked himself up, and stumbled forward, disappearing into an alleyway.

And so it starts, thought the engineer. First this fountain, and then the others all around the port, and then the big basin in the forum. And then the public baths, and then the taps in the military school, and in the big villas—nothing emerging from the empty pipes except the clank of shuddering lead and the whistle of rushing air . . .

The distant water organ had become stuck on a note and died with a long moan.

Someone was yelling that the bastard from Neapolis had pushed to the front and stolen the last of the water, and, like a beast with a single brain and impulse, the crowd turned and began to pour down the narrow lane in pursuit. And suddenly, as abruptly as it had begun, the riot was over, leaving behind a scene of smashed and abandoned pots, and a couple of women crouched in the dust, their hands pressed over their heads for protection, close to the edge of the silent fountain.

VESPERA

[20:07 hours]

Earthquakes may occur in swarms at areas of stress concentrations—

such as nearby faults—and in the immediate vicinity of

magma where pressure changes are occurring.

—HARALDUR SIGURDSSON (EDITOR)

ENCYCLOPEDIA OF VOLCANOES

The admiral’s official residence was set high on the hillside overlooking the harbor and by the time Attilius reached it and was conducted onto the terrace it was dusk. All around the bay, in the seaside villas, torches, oil lamps, and braziers were being lit, so that gradually a broken thread of yellow light had begun to emerge, wavering for mile after mile, picking out the curve of the coast, before vanishing in the purple haze toward Capri.

A marine centurion in full uniform of breastplate and crested helmet, with a sword swinging at his belt, was hurrying away as the engineer arrived. The remains of a large meal were being cleared from a stone table beneath a trellised pergola. At first he did not see the admiral, but the instant the slave announced him—“Marcus Attilius Primus, aquarius of the Aqua Augusta!”—a stocky man in his middle fifties at the far end of the terrace turned on his heel and came waddling toward him, trailed by what Attilius assumed were the guests of his abandoned dinner party: four men sweating in togas, at least one of whom, judging by the purple stripe on his formal dress, was a senator. Behind them—obsequious, malevolent, inescapable—came Corax.

Attilius had for some reason imagined that the famous scholar would be thin, but Pliny was fat, his belly protruding sharply, like the ramming post of one of his warships. He was dabbing at his forehead with his napkin.

“Shall I arrest you now, aquarius? I could, you know, that’s already clear enough.” He had a fat man’s voice: a high-pitched wheeze, which became even hoarser as he counted off the charges on his pudgy fingers. “Incompetence to start with—who can doubt that? Negligence—where were you when the sulfur infected the water? Insubordination—on what authority did you shut off our supply? Treason—yes, I could make a charge of treason stick. What about fomenting rebellion in the imperial dockyards? I’ve had to order out a century of marines—fifty to break some heads in the town and try to restore public order, the other fifty to the reservoir, to guard whatever water’s left. Treason—”

He broke off, short of breath. With his puffed-out cheeks, pursed lips, and sparse gray curls plastered down with perspiration, he had the appearance of an elderly, furious cherub, fallen from some painted, peeling ceiling. The youngest of his guests—a pimply lad in his late teens—stepped forward to support his arm, but Pliny shrugged him away. At the back of the group Corax grinned, showing a mouthful of dark teeth. He had been even more effective at spreading poison than Attilius had expected. What a politician. He could probably show the senator a trick or two.

He noticed that a star had come out above Vesuvius. He had never really looked properly at the mountain before, certainly not from this angle. The sky was dark but the mountain was darker, almost black, rising massively above the bay to a pointed summit. And there was the source of the trouble, he thought. Somewhere there, on the mountain. Not on the seaward side, but round to landward, on the northeastern slope.