Robert Harris - Pompeii

She passed the back of her hand under her nose a couple of times and he realized that she was crying. “He dead?”

“You tell me.” Attilius softened his tone. “The truth is, no one knows.”

“Buy me from Africanus. He said. No whore everyone. Special him. Understand?” She touched her chest and gestured to Attilius, then touched herself again.

“Yes, I understand.”

He looked at Zmyrina with new interest. It was not uncommon, he knew, especially in this part of Italy. The foreign sailors, when they left the navy after their twenty-five years’ service and were granted Roman citizenship—the first thing most of them did with their demob money was head for the nearest slave market and buy themselves a wife. The prostitute was kneeling now, picking up the scattered clothes and folding them, putting them away in the chest. And perhaps it was a point in Exomnius’s favor, he thought, that he should have decided to choose her, rather than someone younger or prettier. Or, then again, perhaps he was just lying and never intended to come back for her. Either way, her future had more or less disappeared along with her principal client.

“He had the money, did he? Enough money to buy you? You wouldn’t think it, to look at this place.”

“Not here .” She sat back on her heels and looked up at him with scorn. “Not safe money here . Money hidden. Plenty money. Someplace clever. Nobody find. He said. Nobody.”

“Somebody has tried—”

“Money not here.”

She was emphatic, and he thought, Yes, I bet you searched it yourself often enough when he wasn’t around. “Did he ever tell you where this place was?”

She stared him, her vermilion mouth wide open, and suddenly she bent her head. Her shoulders were shaking. He thought at first she was crying again, but when she turned he saw that the glint in her eyes was from tears of laughter. “No!” She started rocking again. She looked almost girlish in her delight. She clapped her hands. It was the funniest thing she had ever heard, and he had to agree—the idea of Exomnius confiding in a whore of Africanus where he had hidden his money—it was funny. He began laughing himself, then swung his feet to the floor.

There was no point in wasting any more time here.

On the landing he glanced back at her, still kneeling on her haunches in her split dress, one of Exomnius’s tunics pressed to her face.

Attilius hurried back the way he had come, along the shadowy side street. This must have been Exomnius’s route from the brothel to the castellum aquae. This must have been what he saw whenever he came here—the whores and drunks, the puddles of piss and patches of vomit baked to crusts in the gutter, the graffiti on the walls, the little effigies of Priapus beside the doorways, with his enormous jutting cock dangling bells at its tip to ward off evil. So what was in his head as he walked this way for the final time? Zmyrina? Ampliatus? The safety of his hidden money?

He looked back over his shoulder but no one was paying him any attention. Still, he was glad to reach the wide central thoroughfare and the safety of its glaring light.

The town remained much quieter than it had been in the morning, the heat of the sun keeping most people off the road, and he made quick progress up the hill toward the Vesuvius Gate. As he approached the small square in front of the castellum aquae he could see the oxen and the carts, now fully laden with tools and materials. A small crowd of men sprawled in the dirt outside a bar, laughing at something. The horse he had hired was tethered to its post. And here was Polites—faithful Polites, the most trustworthy member of the work gang—advancing to meet him, holding out his bag and purse.

“You were gone a long while, aquarius.”

Attilius took his bag, ignoring the tone of reproach. “I’m here now. Where is Musa?”

“Still not here.”

“What?” He swore and cupped his hand to his eyes to check the position of the sun. It must be four hours—no, nearer five—since the others had ridden off. He had expected to receive some word by now. “How many men do we have?”

“Twelve.” Polites rubbed his hands together uneasily.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“They’re a rough-looking bunch, aquarius.”

“Are they? Their manners don’t concern me. As long as they can work.”

“They’ve been drinking for an hour.”

“Then they’d better stop.”

Attilius crossed the square to the bar. Ampliatus had promised a dozen of his strongest slaves and once again he had more than kept his word. It looked as if he had supplied a troop of gladiators. A flagon of wine was being handed around, from one pair of tattooed arms to another, and to pass the time they had fetched Tiro from the castellum and were playing a game with him. One of them had snatched off the water-slave’s felt cap and whenever he turned helplessly in the direction of whoever he thought was holding it, it would be tossed to someone else.

“Cut that out,” said the engineer. “Leave the lad alone.” They paid him no attention. He spoke up more loudly. “I am Marcus Attilius, aquarius of the Aqua Augusta, and you men are under my command now.” He snatched Tiro’s cap and pressed it into his hand. “Go back to the castellum, Tiro.” And then, to the slave gang: “That’s enough drinking. We’re moving out.”

The man whose turn it was with the wine regarded Attilius with indifference. He raised the clay jar to his mouth, threw back his head and drank. Wine dribbled down his chin and onto his chest. There was an appreciative cheer and Attilius felt the anger ignite inside himself. To train so hard, to build and work, to pour so much skill and ingenuity into the aqueducts—and all to carry water to such brutes as these, and Africanus. They would be better left to wallow beside some mosquito-infested swamp. “Who is the senior man among you?”

The drinker lowered the flagon. “The senior man,” he mocked. “What is this? The fucking army?”

“You are drunk,” said Attilius quietly. “But I am sober, and in a hurry. Now move. ” He lashed out with his foot and caught the flagon, knocking it out of the drinker’s hand. It spun away and landed on its side, where it lay, unbroken, emptying itself across the stones. For a moment, in the silence, the glug-glug of the wine was the only sound, and then there was a rush of activity—the men rising, shouting, the drinker lunging forward, with the apparent intention of sinking his teeth into Attilius’s leg. Through all this commotion, one booming voice rang louder than the rest—“Stop!”—and an enormous man, well over six feet tall, came running across the square and planted himself between Attilius and the others. He spread out his arms to keep them back.

“I am Brebix,” he said. “A free man.” He had a coarse red beard, trimmed, shovel-shaped. “If anyone is senior, I am.”

“Brebix.” Attilius nodded. He would remember that name. This one, he saw, actually was a gladiator, or rather an ex-gladiator. He had the brand of his troop on his arm, a snake drawing back to strike. “If you are their foreman, you should have been here an hour ago. Tell them that if they have any complaints, they should take them to Ampliatus. Tell them that none has to come with me, but any who stay behind will have to answer for it to their master. Now get those wagons out through the gate. I’ll meet you on the other side of the city wall.”

He turned, and the crowd of drinkers from the other bars, who had come thronging into the square in the hope of seeing a fight, stood aside to let him pass. He was trembling and he had to clench his fist to stop it showing. “Polites!” he called.