Robert Harris - Pompeii

“The pettiness and avarice of man!” he said impatiently. “It would make a book in itself. What does any of it matter now? Put it in a report and have it ready on my return. And the aqueduct?”

“Repaired, admiral. Or at any rate she was when I left her this morning.”

“Then you have done good work, engineer. And it will be made known in Rome, I promise you. Now go back to your quarters and rest.”

The wind was flapping the cables against the Minerva’ s mast. Torquatus stood by the aft gangplank talking to the flagship commander, Antius, and a group of seven officers. They came to attention as Pliny’s carriage approached.

“Admiral, with your permission, I would rather sail with you.”

Pliny looked at him in surprise, then grinned and clapped his pudgy hand on Attilius’s knee. “A naturalist! You’re just like me! I knew it the moment I saw you! We shall do great things this day, Marcus Attilius.” He was wheezing out his orders even as his secretary helped him from the carriage. “Torquatus—we sail immediately. The engineer will join us. Antius—sound the general alarm. Have a signal flashed to Rome in my name: ‘Vesuvius exploded just before the seventh hour. The population of the bay is threatened. I am putting the entire fleet to sea to evacuate survivors.’ ”

Antius stared at him. “The entire fleet, admiral?”

“Everything that floats. What have you got out there?” Pliny peered shortsightedly toward the outer harbor where the warships rode at anchor, rocking in the gathering swell. “The Concordia. The Libertas . Justitia . And what’s that one—the Pietas ? The Europa .” He waved his hand. “All of them. And everything in the inner harbor that isn’t in drydock. Come on, Antius! You were complaining the other night that we had the mightiest fleet in the world but it never saw action. Well, here is action for you.”

“But action requires an enemy, admiral.”

“There’s your enemy.” He pointed to the dark pall spreading in the distance. “A greater enemy than any force Caesar ever faced.”

For a moment Antius did not move and Attilius wondered if he might even be considering disobeying, but then a gleam came into his eyes and he turned to the officers. “You heard your orders. Signal the emperor and sound the general muster. And let it be known that I’ll cut the balls off any captain who isn’t at sea within half an hour.”

It was at the midpoint of the ninth hour, according to the admiral’s water clock, that the Minerva was pushed away from the quayside and slowly began to swivel around to face the open sea. Attilius took up his old position against the rail and nodded to Torquatus. The captain responded with a slight shake of his head, as if to say he thought the venture madness.

“Note the time,” commanded Pliny, and Alexion, squatting beside him, dipped his pen into his ink and scratched down a numeral on a piece of papyrus.

A comfortable chair with armrests and a high back had been set up for the admiral on the small deck and from this elevated position he surveyed the scene as it swung before him. It had been a dream of his over the past two years to command the fleet in battle—to draw this immense sword from its scabbard—even though he knew Vespasian had only appointed him as a peacetime administrator, to keep the blade from rusting. But enough of drills. Now at last he could see what battle stations really looked like: the piercing notes of the trumpets drawing men from every corner of Misenum, the rowboats ferrying the first of the sailors out to the huge triremes and quadriremes, the advance guard already boarding the warships and swarming over the decks, the high masts being raised, the oars readied. Antius had promised him he would have twenty ships operational immediately. That was four thousand men—a legion!

When the Minerva was pointing directly eastward the double bank of oars dipped, the drums began to beat belowdecks, and she was stroked forward. He could hear his personal standard, emblazoned with the imperial eagle, catching the wind from the sternpost behind him. The breeze was on his face. He felt a tightening of anticipation in his stomach. The whole town had turned out to watch. He could see them lining the streets, leaning out of the windows, standing on the flat roofs. A thin cheer carried across the harbor. He searched the hillside for his own villa, saw Gaius and Julia outside the library, and raised his hand. Another cheer greeted the gesture.

“You see the fickleness of the mob?” he called happily to Attilius. “Last night I was spat at in the street. Today I am a hero. All they live for is a show!” He waved again.

“Yes—and see what they do tomorrow,” muttered Torquatus, “if half their men are lost.”

Attilius was taken aback by his anxiety. He said quietly, “You think we are in that much danger?”

“These ships look strong, engineer, but they’re held together by rope. I’ll happily fight against any mortal enemy. But only a fool sails into combat with nature.”

The pilot at the prow shouted a warning and the helmsman, standing behind the admiral, heaved on the steering oar. The Minerva threaded between the anchored warships, close enough for Attilius to see the faces of the sailors on the decks, and then she swung again, passing along the natural rock wall of the harbor, which seemed to open slowly, like the wheeled door of a great temple. For the first time they had a clear view of what was happening across the bay.

Pliny gripped the arms of his chair, too overcome to speak. But then he remembered his duty to science. “Beyond the promontory of Pausilypon,” he dictated hesitantly, “the whole of Vesuvius and the surrounding coast are masked by a drifting cloud, whitish-gray in color, and streaked with black.” But that was too bland, he thought: he needed to convey some sense of awe. “Thrusting above this, bulging and uncoiling, as if the hot entrails of the earth are being drawn out and dragged toward the heavens, rises the central column of the manifestation.” That was better. “It grows,” he continued, “as if supported by a continual blast. But at its uppermost reaches, the weight of the exuded material becomes too great, and in pressing down spreads sideways. Wouldn’t you agree, engineer?” he called. “It is the weight that is spreading it sideways?”

“The weight, admiral,” Attilius shouted back. “Or the wind.”

“Yes, a good point. Add that to the record, Alexion. The wind appears stronger at the higher altitude, and accordingly topples the manifestation to the southeast.” He gestured to Torquatus. “We should take advantage of this wind, captain! Make full sail!”

“Madness,” said Torquatus to Attilius under his breath. “What sort of commander seeks out a storm?” But he shouted to his officers: “Raise the mainsail!”

The transverse pole that supported the sail was lifted from its resting place in the center of the hull and Attilius had to scramble toward the stern as the sailors on either side seized the cables and began to haul it up the mast. The sail was still furled, and when it reached its position beneath the carchesium—“the drinking cup,” as they called the observation platform—a young lad of no more than ten shinnied up the mast to release it. He scampered along the yardarm, untying the fastenings, and when the last was loosened the heavy linen sail dropped and filled immediately, tautening with the force of the wind. The Minerva creaked and picked up speed, scudding through the waves, raising curls of white foam on either side of her sharp prow, like a chisel slicing through soft wood.

Pliny felt his spirits fill with the sail. He pointed to the left. “There’s our destination, captain. Herculaneum! Steer straight toward the shore—to the Villa Calpurnia!”