Robert Harris - Pompeii

“Drafting a signal to the emperor, admiral.”

“Ah yes. Just so.”

Now that it was light, he would have to send a dispatch by flash to the new emperor, Titus, to alert him to the problem on the aqueduct. It would shoot, from signal tower to signal tower, all the way up to Rome, and be in the emperor’s hands by noon. And what would the new Master of the World make of that?

“We shall signal the emperor, and after we have done that, I think we shall start a new notebook and record some scientific observations. Would that interest you?”

“Yes, admiral.” The slave picked up his stylus and wax tablet, struggling to suppress a yawn. Pliny pretended not to see it. He tapped his finger against his lips. He knew Titus well. They had served in Germania together. Charming, cultivated, clever—and completely ruthless. News that a quarter of a million people were without water could easily tip him over the edge into one of his lethal rages. This would require some careful phrasing.

“To His Most Eminent Highness, the Emperor Titus, from the Commander in Chief, Misenum,” he began. “Greetings!”

The Minerva passed between the great concrete moles that protected the entrance to the harbor and out into the expanse of the bay. The lemony light of early morning glittered on the water. Beyond the thicket of poles that marked the oyster beds, where the seagulls swooped and cried, Attilius could see the fishery of the Villa Hortensia. He got to his feet for a better view, bracing himself against the motion of the boat. The terraces, the garden paths, the slope where Ampliatus had set up his chair to watch the execution, the ramps along the shoreline, the gantries between the fish pens, the big eel pond set away from the rest—all deserted. The villa’s crimson-and-gold cruiser was no longer moored at the end of the jetty.

It was exactly as Atia had said: they had gone.

The old woman had still not recovered her senses when he left the reservoir before dawn. He had laid her on a straw mattress in one of the rooms beside the kitchen, and had told the domestic slave, Phylo, to summon a doctor and to see that she was cared for. Phylo had made a face, but Attilius had told him gruffly to do as he was told. If she died—well, that might be a merciful release. If she recovered—then, as far as he was concerned, she could stay. He would have to buy another slave in any case, to look after his food and clothes. His needs were few; the work would be light. He had never paid much attention to such matters. Sabina had looked after the household when he was married; after she had gone, his mother had taken over.

The great villa looked dark and shuttered, as though for a funeral; the screams of the gulls were like the cries of mourners.

Musa said, “I hear he paid ten million for it.”

Attilius acknowledged the remark with a grunt, without taking his eyes off the house. “Well, he’s not there now.”

“Ampliatus? Of course he’s not. He never is. He has houses everywhere, that one. Mostly, he’s in Pompeii.”

“Pompeii?”

Now the engineer looked round. Musa was sitting cross-legged, his back propped against the tools, eating a fig. He always seemed to be eating. His wife sent him to work each day with enough food to feed half a dozen. He stuffed the last of the fruit into his mouth and sucked his fingers. “That’s where he comes from. Pompeii’s where he made his money.”

“And yet he was born a slave.”

“So it goes these days,” said Musa bitterly. “Your slave dines off silver plate, while your honest, freeborn citizen works from dawn till nightfall for a pittance.”

The other men were sitting toward the stern, gathered around Corax, who had his head hunched forward and was talking quietly—telling some story that required a lot of emphatic hand gestures and much heavy shaking of his head. Attilius guessed he was describing the previous night’s meeting with Pliny.

Musa uncorked his waterskin and took a swig, then wiped the top and offered it up to Attilius. The engineer took it and squatted beside him. The water had a vaguely bitter taste. Sulfur. He swallowed a little, more to be friendly than because he was thirsty, wiped it in return, and handed it back.

“You’re right, Musa,” he said carefully. “How old is Ampliatus? Not even fifty. Yet he’s gone from slave to master of the Villa Hortensia in the time it would take you or me to scrape together enough to buy some bug-infested apartment. How could any man do that honestly?”

“An honest millionaire? As rare as hen’s teeth! The way I hear it,” said Musa, looking over his shoulder and lowering his voice, “he really started coining it just after the earthquake. He’d been left his freedom in old man Popidius’s will. He was a good-looking lad, Ampliatus, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his master. The old man was a lecher—I don’t think he’d leave the dog alone. And Ampliatus looked after his wife for him, too, if you know what I mean.” Musa winked. “Anyway, Ampliatus got his freedom, and a bit of money from somewhere, and then Jupiter decided to shake things up a bit. This was back in Nero’s time. It was a very bad quake—the worst anyone could remember. I was in Nola, and I thought my days were up, I can tell you.” He kissed his lucky amulet—a prick and balls, made of bronze, that hung from a leather thong around his neck. “But you know what they say: one man’s loss is another’s gain. Pompeii caught it worst of all. But while everyone else was getting out, talking about the town being finished, Ampliatus was going round, buying up the ruins. Got hold of some of those big villas for next to nothing, fixed them up, divided them into three or four, then sold them off for a fortune.”

“Nothing illegal about that, though.”

“Maybe not. But did he really own them when he sold them? That’s the thing.” Musa tapped the side of his nose. “Owners dead. Owners missing. Legal heirs on the other side of the empire. Half the town was rubble, don’t forget. The emperor sent a commissioner down from Rome to sort out who owned what. Suedius Clemens was his name.”

“And Ampliatus bribed him?”

“Let’s just say Suedius left a richer man than he arrived. Or so they say.”

“And what about Exomnius? He was the aquarius at the time of the earthquake—he must have known Ampliatus.”

Attilius could see at once that he had made a mistake. The eager light of gossip was immediately extinguished in Musa’s eyes. “I don’t know anything about that,” he muttered, and busied himself with his bag of food. “He was a fine man, Exomnius. He was good to work for.”

Was, thought Attilius. Was a fine man. Was good to work for. He tried to make a joke of it. “You mean he didn’t keep dragging you out of bed before dawn?”

“No. I mean he was straight and would never try to trick an honest man into saying more than he ought.”

“Hey, Musa!” shouted Corax. “What are you going on about over there? You gossip like a woman! Come and have a drink!”

Musa was on his feet at once, swaying down the deck to join the others. As Corax threw him the wineskin, Torquatus jumped down from the stern and made his way toward the center of the deck, where the mast and sails were stowed.

“We’ll have no need of those, I fear.” He was a big man. Arms akimbo he scanned the sky. The fresh, sharp sun glinted on his breastplate; already it was hot. “Right, engineer. Let’s see what my oxen can do.” He swung his feet onto the ladder and descended down the hatch to the lower deck. A moment later, the tempo of the drum increased and Attilius felt the ship lurch slightly. The oars flashed. The silent Villa Hortensia dwindled farther in the distance behind them.