Robert Harris - Pompeii

Attilius stared distractedly down into the depths of the matrix. He was remembering his exchange with Corax in the Piscina Mirabilis the previous afternoon: Corax’s sneer— “He knew this water better than any man alive. He would have seen this coming”— and his own unthinking retort— “Perhaps he did, and that was why he ran away.” For the first time he had a presentiment of something terrible. He could not define it. But too much was happening that was out of the ordinary—the failure of the matrix, the trembling of the ground, springs running backward into the earth, sulfur poisoning . . . Exomnius had sensed it, too.

The fire of the torches glowed in the tunnel.

“Musa?”

“Yes, aquarius?”

“Where was Exomnius from? Originally?”

“Sicily, aquarius.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Sicily. Which part exactly?”

“I think the east.” Musa frowned. “Caetana. Why?”

But the engineer, gazing across the narrow moonlit plain toward the shadowy mass of Vesuvius, did not reply.

JUPITER

24 August

The day of the eruption

HORA PRIMA

[06:20 hours]

At some point, hot magma interacted with ground-water

seeping downwards through the volcano, initiating the first event,

the minor phreato-magmatic eruption which showered fine-grained

grey tephra over the eastern flanks of the volcano. This probably

took place during the night or on the morning of 24 August.

— VOLCANOES: A PLANETARY PERSPECTIVE

He kept his increasing anxiety to himself all through the sweltering night, as they worked by torchlight to repair the matrix. He helped Corvinus and Polites on the surface mix the wooden troughs of cement, pouring in the quicklime and the powdery puteolanum and a tiny amount of water—no more than a cupful, mind, because that was the first secret of making a good cement: the drier the mixture, the stronger it set—and then he helped the slaves carry it down in baskets into the matrix and spread it out to form a new base for the conduit. He helped Brebix smash up the rubble they had dug out earlier and they added a couple of layers of that into the base for strength. He helped saw the planks they used to shutter the walls and to crawl along over the wet cement. He passed bricks to Musa as he laid them. Finally he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Corvinus to apply the thin coat of render. (And here was the second secret of perfect cement: to pound it as hard as possible, “hew it as you would hew wood,” to squeeze out every last bubble of water or air that might later be a source of weakness.)

By the time the sky above the manhole was turning gray he knew that they had probably done enough to bring the Augusta back into service. He would have to return to repair her properly. But for now, with a bit of luck, she would hold. He walked with his torch to the end of the patched-up section, inspecting every foot. The waterproof render would be setting even as the aqueduct started to flow again. By the end of the first day it would be hard; by the end of the third it would be stronger than rock.

If being stronger than rock means anything anymore. But he kept the thought to himself.

“Cement that dries underwater,” he said to Musa when he came back. “Now that is a miracle.”

He let the others climb up ahead of him. The breaking day showed that they had pitched their camp in rough pasture, littered with large stones, flanked by mountains. To the east were the steep cliffs of the Apenninus, with a town—Nola, presumably—just becoming visible in the dawn light about five or six miles away. But the shock was to discover how close they were to Vesuvius. It lay directly to the west and the land started to rise almost immediately, within a few hundred paces of the aqueduct, steepening to a point so high the engineer had to tilt his head back to see the summit. And what was most unsettling, now that the shadows were lifting, were the streaks of grayish-white beginning to appear across one of its flanks. They stood out clearly against the surrounding forest, shaped like arrowheads, pointing toward the summit. If it had not been August he would have sworn that they were made of snow. The others had noticed them as well.

“Ice?” said Brebix, gawping at the mountain. “Ice in August?”

“Did you ever see such a thing, aquarius?” asked Musa.

Attilius shook his head. He was thinking of the description in the Greek papyrus: “The ash thrown up by Etna’s flames makes the land particularly good for vines.” “Could it,” he said hesitantly, almost to himself, “could it perhaps be ash ?”

“But how can there be ash without fire?” objected Musa. “And if there had been a fire that size in the darkness we would have seen it.”

“That’s true.” Attilius glanced around at their exhausted, fearful faces. The evidence of their work was everywhere—heaps of rubble, empty amphorae, dead torches, scorched patches where the night’s fires had been allowed to burn themselves out. The lake had gone, and with it, he noticed, the birds. He had not heard them leave. Along the mountain ridge opposite Vesuvius the sun was beginning to appear. There was a strange stillness in the air. No birdsong of any sort, he realized. No dawn chorus. That would send the augurs into a frenzy. “And you’re sure it was not there yesterday, when you arrived with Corax?”

“Yes.” Musa was staring at Vesuvius, transfixed. He wiped his hands uneasily on his filthy tunic. “It must have happened last night. That crash that shook the ground, remember? That must have been it. The mountain has cracked and spewed.”

There was a general muttering of uneasiness among the men and someone cried out, “That can only be the giants!”

Attilius wiped the sweat from his eyes. It was starting to feel hot already. Another scorching day in prospect. And something more than heat—a tautness, like a drumskin stretched too far. Was it his mind playing tricks, or did the ground seem to be vibrating slightly? A prickle of fear stirred the hair on the back of his scalp. Etna and Vesuvius—he was beginning to sense the same terrible connection that Exomnius must have recognized.

“All right,” he said briskly. “Let’s get away from this place.” He set off toward Corelia. “Bring everything up out of the matrix,” he called over his shoulder. “And look sharp about it. We’ve finished here.”

She was still asleep, or at least he thought she was. She was lying beside the more distant of the two wagons, curled up on her side, her legs drawn up, her hands raised in front of her face and balled into fists. He stood looking down at her for a moment, marveling at the incongruity of her beauty in this desolate spot—Egeria among the humdrum tools of his profession.

“I’ve been awake for hours.” She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. “Is the work finished?”

“Close enough.” He knelt and began collecting together the papyri. “The men are going back to Pompeii. I want you to go on ahead of them. I’ll send an escort with you.”

She sat up quickly. “No!”

He knew how she would react. He had spent half the night thinking about it. But what other choice did he have? He spoke quickly. “You must return those documents to where you found them. If you set off now you should be back in Pompeii well before midday. With luck, he need never know you took them, or brought them out here to me.”

“But they’re proof of his corruption.”

“No.” He held up his hand to quiet her. “No, they’re not. On their own, they mean nothing. Proof would be Exomnius giving testimony before a magistrate. But I don’t have him. I don’t have the money your father paid him or even a single piece of evidence he spent any of it. He’s been very careful. As far as the world is concerned, Exomnius was as honest as Cato. Besides, this isn’t as important as getting you away from here. Something’s happening to the mountain. I’m not sure what. Exomnius suspected it weeks ago. It’s as if—” He broke off. He didn’t know how to put it into words. “It’s as if it’s— coming alive. You’ll be safer in Pompeii.”