Pompeii (32 page)
“She was ill. I let her sleep—”
“Get her! Now!” He shoved her in the direction of the staircase, turned, and hurried toward his study.
It wasn’t possible; she wouldn’t dare . . .
He knew there was something wrong the moment he picked up the lamp and took it over to his desk. It was an old trick, learned from his former master—a hair in the drawer to tell him if a curious hand had been meddling in his affairs—but it worked well enough, and he had let it be understood that he would crucify the slave who could not be trusted.
There was no hair. And when he opened the strongbox and took out the document case there were no papyri, either. He stood there like a fool, tipping up the empty
capsa
and shaking it like a magician who has forgotten the rest of his trick, then hurled it across the room where it splintered against the wall. He ran out into the courtyard. His wife had opened Corelia’s shutters and was standing on the balcony, her hands pressed to her face.
Corelia had her back to the mountain as she came through the Vesuvius Gate and into the square beside the castellum aquae. The fountains had started to run again, but the flow was still weak and from this high vantage point it was possible to see that a dusty pall had formed over
Pompeii
, thrown up by the traffic in the waterless streets. The noise of activity rose as a general hum above the red roofs.
She had taken her time on the journey home, never once spurring her horse above walking pace as she skirted Vesuvius and crossed the plain. She saw no reason to speed up now. As she descended the hill toward the big crossroads, Polites plodding faithfully behind her, the blank walls of the houses seemed to rise on either side to enclose her like a prison. Places she had relished since childhood—the hidden pools and the scented flower gardens, the shops with their trinkets and fabrics, the theaters and the noisy bathhouses—were as dead to her now as ash. She noticed the angry, frustrated faces of the people at the fountains, jostling to jam their pots beneath the dribble of water, and she thought again of the aquarius. She wondered where he was and what he was doing. His story of his wife and child had haunted her all the way back to
Pompeii
.
She knew that he was right. Her fate was inescapable. She felt neither angry nor afraid anymore as she neared her father’s house, merely dead to it all—exhausted, filthy, thirsty. Perhaps this would be her life from now on, her body going through the routine motions of existence and her soul elsewhere, watchful and separate? She could see a crowd in the street up ahead, bigger than the usual collection of hangers-on who waited for hours for a word with her father. As she watched they seemed to break into some outlandish, ritualistic dance, leaping into the air with their arms outstretched, then dropping to their knees to scrabble on the stones. It took her a moment to realize that money had been thrown to them. That was typical of her father, she thought—the provincial caesar, trying to buy the affection of the mob, believing himself to be acting like an aristocrat, never recognizing his own puffed-up vulgarity.
Her contempt was suddenly greater than her hatred and it strengthened her courage. She led the way around to the back of the house, toward the stables, and at the sound of the hooves on the cobbles an elderly groom came out. He looked wide-eyed with surprise at her disheveled appearance, but she took no notice. She jumped down from the saddle and handed him the reins. “Thank you,” she said to Polites and then, to the groom, “See that this man is given food and drink.”
She passed quickly out of the glare of the street and into the gloom of the house, climbing the stairs from the slaves’ quarters. As she walked she drew the rolls of papyri from beneath her cloak. Marcus Attilius had told her to replace them in her father’s study and hope their removal had not been noticed. But she would not do that. She would give them to him herself. Even better, she would tell him where she had been. He would know that she had discovered the truth and then he could do to her what he pleased. She didn’t care. What could be worse than the fate he had already planned? You cannot punish the dead.
It was with the exhilaration of rebellion that she emerged through the curtain into the house of Popidius and walked toward the swimming pool that formed the heart of the villa. She heard voices to her right and saw in the drawing room her future husband and the magistrates of
Pompeii
. They turned to look at her at exactly the moment that her father, with her mother and brother behind him, appeared on the steps leading to their old home. Ampliatus saw what she was carrying and for one glorious instant she saw the panic in his face. He shouted at her—“Corelia!”—and started toward her, but she swerved away and ran into the drawing room, scattering his secrets across the table and over the carpet before he had a chance to stop her.
It seemed to the engineer that Vesuvius was playing a game with him, never coming any closer however hard he rode toward her. Only occasionally, when he looked back, shielding his eyes against the sun, did he realize how high he was climbing. Soon he had a clear view of Nola. The irrigated fields around it were like a clear green square, no larger than a doll’s handkerchief lying unfolded on the brown Campanian plain. And Nola itself, an old Samnite fortress, appeared no more formidable than a scattering of tiny children’s bricks dropped off the edge of the distant mountain range. The citizens would have their water back by now. The thought gave him fresh confidence.
He had deliberately aimed for the edge of the nearest white-gray streak and he reached it soon after the middle of the morning, at the point where the pastureland on the lower slopes ended and the forest began. He passed no living creature, neither man nor animal. The occasional farmhouse beside the track was deserted. He guessed everyone must have fled, either in the night when they heard the explosion or at first light, when they woke to this ghostly shrouding of ash. It lay on the ground, like a powdery snow, quite still, for there was not a breath of wind to disturb it. When he jumped down from his horse he raised a cloud that clung to his sweating legs. He scooped up a handful. It was odorless, fine-grained,
warm
from the sun. In the distant trees it covered the foliage exactly as would a light fall of snow.
He put a little in his pocket to take back to show the admiral, and drank some water, swilling the dry taste of the dust from his mouth. Looking down the slope he could see another rider, perhaps a mile away, also making steady progress toward this same spot, presumably led by a similar curiosity to discover what had happened. Attilius considered waiting for him, to exchange opinions, but decided against it. He wanted to press on. He spat out the water, remounted, and rode back across the flank of the mountain, away from the ash, to rejoin the track that led into the forest.
Once he was among the trees the woodland closed around him and quickly he lost all sense of his position. There was nothing for it but to follow the hunters’ track as it wound through the trees, over the dried-up beds of streams, meandering from side to side but always leading him higher. He dismounted to take a piss. Lizards rustled away among the dead leaves. He saw small red spiders and their fragile webs, hairy caterpillars the size of his forefinger. There were clumps of crimson berries that tasted sweet on his tongue. The vegetation was commonplace—alder, brambles, ivy. Torquatus, the captain of the liburnian, had been right, he thought: Vesuvius was easier to ascend than she looked, and when the streams were full there would be enough up here to eat and drink to sustain an army. He could readily imagine the Thracian gladiator, Spartacus, leading his followers along this very trail a century and a half before, climbing toward the sanctuary of the summit.
It took him perhaps another hour to pass through the forest. He had little sense of time. The sun was mostly hidden by the trees, falling in shafts through the thick canopy of leaves. The sky, broken into fragments by the foliage, formed a brilliant, shifting pattern of blue. The air was hot, fragrant with the scent of dried pine and herbs. Butterflies flitted among the trees. There was no noise except the occasional soft hooting of wood pigeons. Swaying in the saddle in the heat, he felt drowsy. His head nodded. Once he thought he heard a larger animal moving along the track behind him but when he stopped to listen the sound had gone. Soon afterward the forest began to thin. He came into a clearing.
And now it was as if Vesuvius had decided to play a different game. Having for hours never seemed to come any closer, suddenly the peak rose directly in front of him—a few hundred feet high, a steeper incline, mostly of rock, without sufficient soil to support much in the way of vegetation except for straggly bushes and plants with small yellow flowers. And it was exactly as the Greek writer had described: a black cap, long ago scorched by fire. In places, the rock bulged outward, almost as if it were being pushed up from beneath, sending small flurries of stones rattling down the slope. Further along the ridge, larger landslides had occurred. Huge boulders, the size of a man, had been sent crashing into the trees—and recently, by the look of them. Attilius remembered the reluctance of the men to leave
Pompeii
.
“Giants have journeyed through the air, their voices like claps of thunder . . .”
The sound must have carried for miles.
It was too steep a climb for his horse. He dismounted and found a shady spot where he could tie its reins to a tree. He scouted around for a stick and selected one about half as thick as his wrist—smooth, gray, long-dead—and with that to support his weight he set out to begin his final ascent.
The sun up here was merciless, the sky so bright it was almost white. He moved from rock to cindery rock in the suffocating heat and the air itself seemed to burn his lungs, a dry heat, like a blade withdrawn from a fire. No lizards underfoot here, no birds overhead—it was a climb directly into the sun. He could feel the heat through the soles of his shoes. He forced himself to press on, without looking back, until the ground ceased to rise and what was ahead of him was no longer black rock but blue sky. He clambered over the ridge and peered across the roof of the world.
The summit of Vesuvius was not the sharp peak that it had appeared from the base but a rough and circular plain, perhaps two hundred paces in diameter, a wilderness of black rock, with a few brownish patches of sickly vegetation that merely emphasized its deadness. Not only did it look to have been on fire in the past, as the Greek papyrus had said, but to be burning now. In at least three places thin columns of gray vapor were rising, fluttering and hissing in the silence. There was the same sour stench of sulfur that there had been in the pipes of the Villa Hortensia.
This is the place,
thought Attilius.
This is the heart of the evil.
He could sense something huge and malevolent. One could call it Vulcan or give it whatever name one liked. One could worship it as a god. But it was a tangible presence. He shuddered.
He kept close to the edge of the summit and began working his way around it, mesmerized to begin with by the sulfurous clouds that were whispering from the ground and then by the astonishing panoramas beyond the rim. Away to his right the bare rock ran down to the edge of the forest, and then there was nothing but an undulating green blanket. Torquatus had said that you could see for fifty miles, but to Attilius it seemed that the whole of
Italy
was spread beneath him. As he moved from north to west the
Capri
, and beyond them, as sharp as a razor cut, the fine line where the deep blue of the sea met the paler blue of the sky. The water was still flecked by the waves he had noticed the night before—scudding waves on a windless sea—although now he thought about it perhaps there
was
a breeze beginning to rise. He could feel it on his cheek: the one they called Caurus, blowing from the northwest, toward
Pompeii
, which appeared at his feet as no more than a sandy smudge set back from the coast. He imagined Corelia arriving there, utterly unreachable now, a dot within a dot, lost to him forever.
It made him feel light-headed simply to look at it, as if he were himself nothing but a speck of pollen that might be lifted at any moment by the hot air and blown into the blueness. He felt an overwhelming impulse to surrender to it—a yearning for that perfect blue oblivion so strong that he had to force himself to turn away. Shaken, he began to pick his way directly across the summit toward the other side, back to where he had started, keeping clear of the plumes of sulfur that seemed to be multiplying all around him. The ground was shaking, bulging. He wanted to get away now, as fast as he could. But the terrain was rough, with deep depressions on either side of his path—“cave-like pits of blackened rock,” as the Greek writer had said—and he had to watch where he put his feet. And it was because of this—because he had his head down—that he smelled the body before he saw it.