Robert Harris - Pompeii

“An aquarius as priest!” Attilius laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Well, you can tell this heavenly engineer, whoever he is, that the goddesses, in their celestial wisdom, require him to close his main sluice and divert all his water to Beneventum. Make sure it’s done the moment you arrive. Becco—you are to remain behind in Abellinum and see it stays closed for twelve hours. Then you open it again. Twelve hours—as near exact as you can make it. Have you got that?”

Becco nodded.

“And if, by any remote chance, we can’t make the repairs in twelve hours,” said Corax sarcastically, “what then?”

“I’ve thought of that. As soon as the water is closed off, Corvinus leaves Becco at the basin and follows the course of the Augusta back down the mountains until he reaches the rest of us northeast of Vesuvius. By that time it will be clear how much work needs to be done. If we can’t fix the problem in twelve hours, he can take word back to Becco to keep the sluice gate closed until we’ve finished. That’s a lot of riding, Corvinus. Are you up to it?”

“Yes, aquarius.”

“Good man.”

“Twelve hours!” repeated Corax, shaking his head. “That’s going to mean working through the night.”

“What’s the matter, Corax? Scared of the dark?” Once again, he managed to coax a laugh from the other men. “When you locate the problem, make an assessment of how much material we’ll need for the repair job, and how much labor. You stay there and send Musa back with a report. I’ll make sure I requisition enough torches along with everything else we need from the aediles. Once I’ve loaded up the wagons, I’ll wait here at the castellum aquae to hear from you.”

“And what if I don’t locate the problem?”

It occurred to Atillius that the overseer, in his bitterness, might even try to sabotage the entire mission. “Then we’ll set out anyway, and get to you before nightfall.” He smiled. “So don’t try to screw me around.”

“I’m sure there are plenty who’d like to screw you, pretty boy, but I’m not one of them.” Corax leered back at him. “You’re a long way from home, young Marcus Attilius. Take my advice. In this town—watch your back. If you know what I mean.”

And he thrust his groin back and forth in the same obscene gesture he had made out on the hillside the previous day, when Attilius had been prospecting for the spring.

He saw them off from the pomerium, the sacred boundary just beyond the Vesuvius Gate, kept clear of buildings in honor of the city’s guardian deities.

The road ran around the town like a racetrack, passing beside a bronze works and through a big cemetery. As the men mounted their horses Attilius felt he ought to say something—some speech like Caesar’s on the eve of battle—but he could never find those kinds of words. “When this is done, I’ll buy wine for everyone. In the finest place in Pompeii,” he added lamely.

“And a woman,” said Musa, pointing at him. “Don’t forget the women, aquarius!”

“The women you can pay for yourself.”

“If he can find a whore who’ll have him!”

“Screw you, Becco. See you later, cocksuckers!”

And before Attilius could think of anything else to say they were kicking their heels into the sides of their horses and wheeling away through the crowds thronging into the city—Corax and Musa to the left, to pick up the trail to Nola; Becco and Corvinus right, toward Nuceria and Abellinum. As they trotted into the necropolis, only Corax looked back—not at Attilius, but over his head, toward the walls of the city. His glance swept along the ramparts and watchtowers for a final time, then he planted himself more firmly in the saddle and turned in the direction of Vesuvius.

The engineer followed the progress of the riders as they disappeared behind the tombs, leaving only a blur of brown dust above the white sarcophagi to show where they had passed. He stood for a few moments—he barely knew them, yet so many of his hopes, so much of his future went with them!—then he retraced his steps toward the city gate.

It was only as he joined the line of pedestrians queuing at the gate that he noticed the slight hump in the ground where the tunnel of the aqueduct passed beneath the city wall. He stopped and swiveled, following the line of it toward the nearest manhole, and saw to his surprise that its course pointed directly at the summit of Vesuvius. Through the haze of dust and heat the mountain loomed even more massively over the countryside than it had above the sea, but less distinctly; more bluish-gray than green. It was impossible that the spur should actually run all the way on to Vesuvius itself. He guessed it must swerve off to the east at the edge of the lower slopes and travel inland to join up with the Augusta’s mainline. He wondered where exactly. He wished he knew the shape of the land, the quality of rock and soil. But Campania was a mystery to him.

He went back through the shadowy gate and into the glare of the small square, acutely aware suddenly of being alone in a strange town. What did Pompeii know or care of the crisis beyond its walls? The heedless activity of the place seemed deliberately to mock him. He walked around the side of the castellum aquae and along the short alley that led to its entrance. “Is anyone there?”

No answer. He could hear the rush of the aqueduct much more clearly here, and when he pushed open the low wooden door he was hit at once by the drenching spray and that sharp, coarse, sweet smell—the smell that had pursued him all his life—of freshwater on warm stone.

He went inside. Fingers of light from two small windows set high above his head pierced the cool darkness. But he did not need light to know how the castellum was arranged, for he had seen dozens of them over the years—all identical, all laid out according to the principles of Vitruvius. The tunnel of the Pompeii spur was smaller than the Augusta’s main matrix, but still big enough for a man to squeeze along it to make repairs. The water jetted from its mouth through a bronze mesh screen into a shallow concrete reservoir divided by wooden gates, which in turn fed a set of three big lead pipes. The central conduit would carry the supply for the drinking fountains; that to its left would be for private houses; that to its right for the public baths and theaters. What was unusual was the force of the flow. It was not only drenching the walls. It had also swept a mass of debris along the tunnel, trapping it against the metal screen. He could make out leaves and twigs and even a few small rocks. Slovenly maintenance. No wonder Corax had said the water-slave was useless.

He swung one leg over the concrete wall of the reservoir and then the other, and lowered himself into the swirling pool. The water came up almost to his waist. It was like stepping into warm silk. He waded the few paces to the grille and ran his hands underwater, around the edge of the mesh frame, feeling for its fastenings. When he found them, he unscrewed them. There were two more at the top. He undid those as well, lifted away the grille, and stood aside to let the rubbish swirl past him.

“Is somebody there?”

The voice startled him. A young man stood in the doorway. “Of course there’s somebody here, you fool. What does it look like?”

“What are you doing?”

“You’re the water-slave? Then I’m doing your fucking job for you—that’s what I’m doing. Wait there.” Attilius swung the grille back into place and refastened it, waded over to the side of the reservoir, and hauled himself out. “I’m Marcus Attilius. The new aquarius of the Augusta. And what do they call you, apart from a lazy idiot?”

“Tiro, aquarius.” The boy’s eyes were open wide in alarm, his pupils darting from side to side. “Forgive me.” He dropped to his knees. “The public holiday, aquarius—I slept late. I—”