Robert Harris - Pompeii

The senator looked at him, then said grimly, “The emperor is concerned about you.”

That gave Pliny a twinge in his heart, right enough. He was a member of the imperial council himself. Why had he not been invited to this meeting, to which Pedius was hurrying?

“What are you implying? That he thinks I’m past it?”

Pedius said nothing—a nothing that said everything. He suddenly opened his arms and Pliny leaned forward and hugged him, patting the senator’s stiff back with his pudgy hand. “Take care, old friend.”

“And you.”

To his shame, when Pliny pulled back from the embrace, his cheek was wet. He stayed on the quayside, watching until the ships were out of sight. That was all he seemed to do these days: watch other people leave.

The conversation with Pedius had stayed with him all afternoon, as he shuffled back and forth on the terrace, periodically wandering into the library to check Alexion’s neat columns of figures. “The emperor is concerned about you.” Like the pain in his side, it would not go away.

He took refuge, as always, in his observations. The number of “harmonic episodes,” as he had decided to call the tremors, had increased steadily. Five in the first hour, seven in the second, eight in the third, and so on. More striking still had been their lengthening duration. Though they were too small to measure at the beginning of the day, as the afternoon went on Alexion had been able to use the accuracy of the water clock to estimate them—first at one-tenth part of the hour, and then one-fifth, until finally, for the whole eleventh hour, he had recorded one tremor only. The vibration of the wine was continuous.

“We must change our nomenclature,” muttered Pliny, leaning over his shoulder. “To call such movements an ‘episode’ will no longer suffice.”

And increasing in proportion with the movement of the earth, as if man and nature were bound by some invisible link, came reports of agitation in the town—a fight at the public fountains when the first hour’s water discharge had ended and not everyone had filled their pots; a riot outside the public baths when they had failed to open at the seventh hour; a woman stabbed to death for the sake of two amphorae of water—water!—by a drunk outside the Temple of Augustus; now it was said that armed gangs were hanging around the fountains, waiting for a fight.

Pliny had never had any difficulty issuing orders. It was the essence of command. He decreed that the evening’s sacrifice to Vulcan should be canceled and that the bonfire in the forum must be dismantled at once. A large public gathering at night was a recipe for trouble. It was unsafe, in any case, to light a fire of such a size in the center of the town when the pipes and fountains were dry and the drought had rendered the houses as flammable as kindling.

“The priests won’t like that,” said Antius.

The flagship captain had joined Pliny in the library. The admiral’s widowed sister, Julia, who kept house for him, was also in the room, holding a tray of oysters and a jug of wine for his supper.

“Tell the priests that we have no choice. I’m sure Vulcan in his mountain forge will forgive us, just this once.” Pliny massaged his arm irritably. It felt numb. “Have all the men, apart from the sentry patrols, confined to their barracks from dusk on. In fact, I want a curfew imposed across the whole of Misenum from vespera until dawn. Anyone found on the streets is to be imprisoned and fined. Understood?”

“Yes, admiral.”

“Have we opened the sluices in the reservoir yet?”

“It should be happening now, admiral.”

Pliny brooded. They could not afford another such day. Everything depended on how long the water would last. He made up his mind. “I’m going to take a look.”

Julia came toward him anxiously with the tray. “Is that wise, brother? You ought to eat and rest—”

“Don’t nag, woman!” Her face crumpled and he regretted his tone at once. Life had knocked her about enough as it was—humiliated by her wastrel husband and his ghastly mistress, then left widowed with a boy to bring up. That gave him an idea. “Gaius,” he said, in a gentler voice. “Forgive me, Julia. I spoke too sharply. I’ll take Gaius with me, if that will make you happier.”

On his way out, he called to his other secretary, Alcman, “Have we had a signal back yet from Rome?”

“No, admiral.”

“The emperor is concerned about you . . .”

He did not like this silence.

Pliny had grown too fat for a litter. He traveled instead by carriage, a two-seater, with Gaius wedged in next to him. Beside his red and corpulent uncle he looked as pale and insubstantial as a wraith. The admiral squeezed his knee fondly. He had made the boy his heir and had fixed him up with the finest tutors in Rome—Quintilian for literature and history; the Smyrnan, Nicetes Sacerdos, for rhetoric. It was costing him a fortune but they told him the lad was brilliant. He would never make a soldier, though. It would be a lawyer’s life for him.

An escort of helmeted marines trotted on foot on either side of the carriage, clearing a path for them through the narrow streets. A couple of people jeered. Someone spat.

“What about our water, then?”

“Look at that fat bastard! I bet you he’s not going thirsty!”

Gaius said, “Shall I close the curtains, uncle?”

“No, boy. Never let them see that you’re afraid.”

He knew there would be a lot of angry people on the streets tonight. Not just here, but in Neapolis and Nola and all the other towns, especially on a public festival. Perhaps Mother Nature is punishing us, he thought, for our greed and selfishness. We torture her at all hours by iron and wood, fire and stone. We dig her up and dump her in the sea. We sink mineshafts into her and drag out her entrails—and all for a jewel to wear on a pretty finger. Who can blame her if she occasionally quivers with anger?

They passed along the harbor front. An immense line of people had formed, queuing for the drinking fountain. Each had been allowed to bring one receptacle only and it was obvious to Pliny that an hour was never going to be sufficient for them all to receive their measure. Those who had been at the head of the line already had their ration and were hurrying away, cradling their pots and pans as if they were carrying gold. “We shall have to extend the flow tonight,” he said, “and trust to that young aquarius to carry out the repairs as he promised.”

“And if he doesn’t, uncle?”

“Then half this town will be on fire tomorrow.”

Once they were free of the crowd and on the causeway the carriage picked up speed. It rattled over the wooden bridge, then slowed again as they climbed the hill toward the Piscina Mirabilis. Jolting around in the back Pliny felt sure he was about to faint and perhaps he did. At any rate, he nodded off, and the next thing he knew they were drawing into the courtyard of the reservoir, past the flushed faces of half a dozen marines. He returned their salute and descended, unsteadily, on Gaius’s arm. If the emperor takes away my command, he thought, I shall die, as surely as if he orders one of his praetorian guard to strike my head from my shoulders. I shall never write another book. My life force has gone. I am finished.

“Are you all right, uncle?”

“I am perfectly well, Gaius, thank you.”

Foolish man! he reproached himself. Stupid, trembling, credulous old man! One sentence from Pedius Cascus, one routine meeting of the imperial council to which you are not invited, and you fall to pieces. He insisted on going down the steps into the reservoir unaided. The light was fading and a slave went on ahead with a torch. It was years since he had last been down here. Then, the pillars had been mostly submerged, and the crashing of the Augusta had drowned out any attempt at conversation. Now it echoed like a tomb. The size of it was astonishing. The level of the water had fallen so far beneath his feet he could barely make it out until the slave held his torch over the mirrored surface, and then he saw his own face staring back at him—querulous, broken. The reservoir was also vibrating slightly, he realized, just like the wine.