Robert Harris - Pompeii

“Are you ill, uncle?”

“No, no.” Pliny propped his chin on his fists and returned his attention to the map. “So is this what has damaged the Augusta? An earthquake?”

“Then surely we would have felt it?” objected Antius. “That last quake brought down a good part of Pompeii. They’re still rebuilding. Half the town is a building site. We’ve had no reports of anything on that scale.”

“And yet,” continued Pliny, almost to himself, “this is certainly earthquake weather. A flat sea. A sky so breathless the birds can scarcely fly. In normal times we would anticipate a storm. But when Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars are in conjunction with the sun, instead of occurring in the air, the thunder is sometimes unleashed by nature underground. That is the definition of an earthquake, in my opinion—a thunderbolt hurled from the interior of the world.”

The slave had shuffled up beside him, carrying a tray, in the center of which stood a large goblet of clear glass, three-quarters full. Pliny grunted and lifted the wine to the candlelight.

“A Caecuban,” whispered Pomponianus, in awe. “Forty years old and still drinking beautifully.” He ran his tongue round his fat lips. “I wouldn’t mind another glass myself, Pliny.”

“In a moment. Watch.” Pliny waved the wine back and forth in front of them. It was thick and syrupy, the color of honey. Attilius caught the sweet mustiness of its scent as it passed beneath his nose. “And now watch more closely.” He set the glass carefully on the table.

At first, the engineer did not grasp what point he was trying to make, but as he studied the glass more closely he saw that the surface of the wine was vibrating slightly. Tiny ripples radiated out from the center, like the quivering of a plucked string. Pliny picked up the glass and the movement ceased; he replaced it and the motion resumed.

“I noticed it during dinner. I have trained myself to be alert to things in nature, which other men might miss. The shaking is not continuous. See now—the wine is still.”

“That’s really remarkable, Pliny,” said Pomponianus. “I congratulate you. I’m afraid once I have a glass in my hand, I don’t tend to put it down until it’s empty.”

The senator was less impressed. He folded his arms and pushed himself back in the chair, as if he had somehow made himself look a fool by watching a childish trick. “I don’t know what’s significant about that. So the table trembles? It could be anything. The wind—”

“There is no wind.”

“Heavy footsteps somewhere. Or perhaps Pomponianus here was stroking one of the ladies under the table.”

Laughter broke the tension. Only Pliny did not smile. “We know that this world we stand on, which seems to us so still, is in fact revolving eternally, at an indescribable velocity. And it may be that this mass hurtling through space produces a sound of such volume that it is beyond the capacity of our human ears to detect. The stars out there, for example, might be tinkling like wind chimes, if only we could hear them. Could it be that the patterns in this wineglass are the physical expression of that same heavenly harmony?”

“Then why does it stop and start?”

“I have no answer, Cascus. Perhaps at one moment the earth glides silently, and at another it encounters resistance. There is a school that holds that winds are caused by the earth traveling in one direction and the stars in the other. Aquarius—what do you think?”

“I’m an engineer, admiral,” said Attilius tactfully, “not a philosopher.” In his view, they were wasting time. He thought of mentioning the strange behavior of the vapor on the hillside that morning, but decided against it. Tinkling stars! His foot was tapping with impatience. “All I can tell you is that the matrix of an aqueduct is built to withstand the most extreme forces. Where the Augusta runs underground, which is most of the way, she’s six feet high and three feet wide, and she rests on a base of concrete one and a half feet thick, with walls of the same dimensions. Whatever force breached that must have been powerful.”

“More powerful than the force that shakes my wine?” The admiral looked at the senator. “Unless we are not dealing with a phenomenon of nature at all. In which case, what is it? A deliberate act of sabotage, perhaps, to strike at the fleet? But who would dare? We haven’t had a foreign enemy set foot in this part of Italy since Hannibal.”

“And sabotage would hardly explain the presence of sulfur.”

“Sulfur,” said Pomponianus suddenly. “That’s the stuff in thunderbolts, isn’t it? And who throws thunderbolts?” He looked around excitedly. “Jupiter! We should sacrifice a white bull to Jupiter, as a deity of the upper air, and have the haruspices inspect the entrails. They’ll tell us what to do.”

The engineer laughed.

“What’s so funny about that?” demanded Pomponianus. “It’s not so funny as the idea that the world is flying through space—which, if I may say so, Pliny, rather begs the question of why we don’t all fall off.”

“It’s an excellent suggestion, my friend,” said Pliny soothingly. “As admiral, I also happen to be the chief priest of Misenum, and I assure you, if I had a white bull to hand I would kill it on the spot. But for the time being, a more practical solution may be needed.” He sat back in his chair and wiped his napkin across his face, then unfolded and inspected it, as if it might contain some vital clue. “Very well, aquarius. I shall give you your ship.” He turned to the captain. “Antius—which is the fastest liburnian in the fleet?”

“That would be the Minerva, admiral. Torquatus’s ship. Just back from Ravenna.”

“Have her made ready to sail at first light.”

“Yes, admiral.”

“And I want notices posted on every fountain telling the citizens that rationing is now in force. Water will only be allowed to flow twice each day, for one hour exactly, at dawn and dusk.”

Antius winced. “Aren’t you forgetting that tomorrow is a public holiday, admiral? It’s Vulcanalia, if you recall?”

“I’m perfectly aware it’s Vulcanalia.”

And so it is, thought Attilius. In the rush of leaving Rome and fretting about the aqueduct he had completely lost track of the calendar. The twenty-third of August, Vulcan’s day, when live fish were thrown onto bonfires, as a sacrifice, to appease the god of fire.

“But what about the public baths?” persisted Antius.

“Closed until further notice.”

“They won’t like that, admiral.”

“Well, it can’t be helped. We’ve all grown far too soft in any case.” He glanced briefly at Pomponianus. “The empire wasn’t built by men who lazed around in the baths all day. It will do some people good to have a taste of how life used to be. Gaius—draft a letter for me to sign to the aediles of Pompeii, asking them to provide whatever men and materials may be necessary for the repair of the aqueduct. You know the kind of thing. ‘In the name of the Emperor Titus Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, and in accordance with the power vested in me by the Senate and People of Rome, blah blah’—something to make them jump. Corax—it’s clear that you know the terrain around Vesuvius better than anyone else. You should be the one to ride out and locate the fault, while the aquarius assembles the main expedition in Pompeii.”

The overseer’s mouth flapped open in dismay.

“What’s the matter? Do you disagree?”

“No, admiral.” Corax hid his anxiety quickly, but Attilius had noticed it. “I don’t mind looking for the break. Even so, would it not make more sense for one of us to remain at the reservoir to supervise the rationing—”

Pliny cut him off impatiently. “Rationing will be the navy’s responsibility. It’s primarily a question of public order.”