Pompeii (33 page)
It stopped him in his tracks—a sweet and cloying stink that entered his mouth and nostrils and coated them with a greasy film. The stench was emanating from the large dust bowl straight ahead of him. It was perhaps six feet deep and thirty across, simmering like a cauldron in the haze of heat, and what was most awful, when he peered over the side, was that everything in it was dead: not just the man, who wore a white tunic and whose limbs were so purplish-black Attilius thought at first he was a Nubian, but other creatures—a snake, a large bird, a litter of small animals—all scattered in this pit of death. Even the vegetation was bleached and poisoned.
The corpse was lying at the bottom, on its side, with its arms flung out, a water gourd and a straw hat just beyond its reach, as if it had died straining for them. It must have lain out here for at least two weeks, putrefying in the heat. Yet the wonder was how much of it remained. It had not been attacked by insects or picked to the bone by birds and animals. No clouds of blowflies swarmed across its half-baked meat. Rather, its burned flesh appeared to have poisoned anything that had tried to feast on it.
He swallowed hard to keep back his vomit. He knew at once that it had to be Exomnius. He had been gone two weeks or more, and who else would have ventured up here in August? But how could he be sure? He had never met the man. Yet he was reluctant to venture down onto that carpet of death. He forced himself to squat close to the lip of the pit and squinted at the blackened face. He saw a row of grinning teeth, like pips in a burst fruit; a dull eye, half-closed, sighting along the length of the grasping arm. There was no sign of any wound. But then the whole body was a wound, bruised and suppurating. What could have killed him? Perhaps he had succumbed to the heat. Perhaps his heart had given out. Attilius leaned down further and tried to poke at it with his stick and immediately he felt himself begin to faint. Bright lights wove and danced before him and he almost toppled forward. He scrabbled with his hands in the dust and just managed to push himself back, gasping for breath.
“The afflatus of the tainted air near to the ground itself . . .”
His head was pounding. He threw up—a bitter, vile-tasting fluid—and was still coughing and spitting mucus when he heard, in front of him, the crack of dry vegetation being broken by a step. He looked up groggily. On the other side of the pit, no more than fifty paces away, a man was moving across the summit toward him. He thought at first it must be part of the visions induced by the tainted air and he stood with an effort, swaying drunkenly, blinking the sweat out of his eyes, trying to focus, but still the figure came on, framed by the hissing jets of sulfur, with the glint in his hand of a knife.
It was Corax.
Attilius was in no condition to fight. He would have run, but he could barely raise his feet.
The overseer approached the pit cautiously—crouched low, his arms spread wide, shifting lightly from foot to foot, reluctant to take his eyes off the engineer, as if he suspected a trick. He darted a quick glance at the body, frowned at Attilius,
then
looked back down again. He said softly, “So what’s
all this
then, pretty boy?” He sounded almost offended. He had planned his assault carefully, had traveled a long way to carry it out, had waited in the darkness for daylight and had followed his quarry at a distance—
He must have been the horseman I saw behind me,
thought Attilius—all the time relishing the prospect of revenge, only to have his plans thrown awry at the last moment. It was not fair, his expression said—another in the long series of obstacles that life had thrown in the way of Gavius Corax. “I asked you: what’s all this?”
Attilius tried to speak. His voice was thick and slurred. He wanted to say that Exomnius hadn’t been wrong, that there was terrible danger here, but he couldn’t pronounce the words. Corax was scowling at the corpse and shaking his head. “The stupid old bastard, climbing up here at his age! Worrying about the mountain. And for what? For nothing! Nothing—except landing us with you.” He returned his attention to Attilius. “Some clever young cunt from
Rome
, come to teach us all our jobs. Still fancy your chances, pretty boy? Nothing to say now, I notice. Well, why don’t I cut you another mouth and we’ll see what comes out of that?”
He hunched forward, tossing his knife from hand to hand, his face set and ready for the kill. He began to circle the pit and it was all Attilius could do to stumble in the opposite direction. When the overseer stopped, Attilius stopped, and when he reversed his steps and started prowling the other way, Attilius followed suit. This went on for a while, but the tactic obviously enraged Corax—“Fuck this,” he yelled, “I’m not playing your stupid games!”—and suddenly he made a rush at his prey. Red-faced, panting for breath in the heat, he ran down the side of the hollow and across it and had just reached the other slope when he stopped. He glanced down at his legs in surprise. With a terrible slowness he tried to wade forward, opening and shutting his mouth like a landed fish. He dropped his knife and sank to his knees, batting feebly at the air in front of him, then he crashed forward onto his face.
There was nothing that Attilius could do except watch him drown in the dry heat. Corax made a couple of feeble attempts to move, each time seeming to stretch for something beyond his reach, as Exomnius must have done. Then he gave up and quietly lay on his side. His breathing became more shallow, then stopped, but long before it ceased altogether Attilius had left him—stumbling across the bulging, trembling summit of the mountain, through the thickening plumes of sulfur, now flattened by the gathering breeze and pointing in the direction of Pompeii.
Down in the town, the light wind, arriving during the hottest part of the day, had come as a welcome relief. The Caurus raised tiny swirls of dust along the streets as they emptied for the siesta, fluttering the colored awnings of the bars and snack shops, stirring the foliage of the big plane trees close to the amphitheater. In the house of Popidius it ruffled the surface of the swimming pool. The little masks of dancing fauns and bacchantes hanging between the pillars stirred and chimed. One of the papyri lying on the carpet was caught by the gust and rolled toward the table. Holconius put out his foot to stop it.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Ampliatus was tempted to strike Corelia there and then but checked himself, sensing that it would somehow be her victory if he was to be seen beating her in public. His mind moved quickly. He knew all there was to know about power. He knew that there were times when it was wisest to keep your secrets close: to possess your knowledge privately, like a favorite lover, to be shared with no one. He also knew that there were times when secrets, carefully revealed, could act like hoops of steel, binding others to you. In a flash of inspiration he saw that this was one of those occasions.
“Read them,” he said. “I have nothing to hide from my friends.” He stooped and collected the papyri and piled them on the table.
“We should go,” said Brittius. He drained his glass of wine and began to rise to his feet.
“Read them!” commanded Ampliatus. The magistrate sat down sharply. “Forgive me. Please. I insist.” He smiled. “They come from the room of Exomnius. It’s time you knew. Help yourself to more wine. I shall only be a moment. Corelia, you will come with me.” He seized her by the elbow and steered her toward the steps. She dragged her feet but he was too strong for her. He was vaguely aware of his wife and son following. When they were out of sight, around the corner, in the pillared garden of their old house, he twisted her flesh between his fingers. “Did you really think,”
he
hissed, “that you could hurt me—a feeble girl like you?”
“No,” she said, wincing and wriggling to escape. “But at least I thought I could try.”
Her composure disconcerted him. “Oh?” He pulled her close to him. “And how did you propose to do that?”
“By showing the documents to the aquarius. By showing them to everyone. So that they could all see you for what you are.”
“And what is that?” Her face was very close to his.
“A thief. A murderer. Lower than a
slave
.”
She spat out the last word and he drew back his hand and this time he would certainly have hit her but Celsinus grabbed his wrist from behind.
“No, father,” he said. “We’ll have no more of that.”
For a moment, Ampliatus was too astonished to speak. “You?” he said. “You as well?” He shook his hand free and glared at his son. “Don’t you have some religious rite to go to? And you?” He wheeled on his wife. “Shouldn’t you be praying to the holy matron, Livia, for guidance? Ach,” he spat, “get out of my way, the pair of you.” He dragged Corelia along the path toward the staircase. The other two did not move. He turned and pushed her up the steps, along the passage, and into her room. She fell backward onto her bed. “Treacherous, ungrateful child!”
He looked around for something with which to punish her but all he could see were feeble, feminine possessions, neatly arranged—an ivory comb, a silk shawl, a parasol, strings of beads—and a few old toys that had been saved to be offered to Venus before her wedding. Propped in a corner was a wooden doll with movable limbs he had bought her for her birthday years ago and the sight of it jolted him. What had happened to her? He had loved her so much—his little girl!—how had it come to hatred? He was suddenly baffled. Had he not done everything, built all this, raised himself out of the muck, for the sake of her and her brother? He stood panting, defeated, as she glared at him from the bed. He didn’t know what to say. “You’ll stay in here,” he finished lamely, “until I’ve decided what should be done with you.” He went out, locking the door behind him.
His wife and son had left the garden.
Typical, feeble rebels,
he thought,
melting away when my back is turned.
Corelia had always had more balls than the rest of them put together. His little girl! In the drawing room the magistrates were leaning forward across the table, muttering. They fell silent as he approached and turned to watch him as he headed toward the sideboard and poured himself some wine. The lip of the decanter rattled against the glass. Was his hand shaking? He examined it, front and back. This wasn’t like him: it looked steady enough. He felt better after draining the glass. He poured himself another, fixed a smile, and faced the magistrates.
“Well?”
It was Holconius who spoke first. “Where did you get these?”
“Corax, the overseer on the
Augusta
, brought them around to me yesterday afternoon. He found them in Exomnius’s room.”
“You mean he stole them?”
“Found, stole—” Ampliatus fluttered his hand.
“This should have been brought to our attention immediately.”
“And why’s that, your honors?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” cut in Popidius excitedly. “Exomnius believed there was about to be another great earthquake!”
“Calm yourself, Popidius. You’ve been whining about earthquakes for seventeen years. I wouldn’t take all that stuff seriously.”
“Exomnius took it seriously.”
“Exomnius!” Ampliatus looked at him with contempt. “Exomnius always was a bag of nerves.”
“Maybe so. But why was he having documents copied? This in particular. What do you think he wanted with this?” He waved one of the papyri.
Ampliatus glanced at it and took another gulp of wine. “It’s in Greek. I don’t read Greek. You forget, Popidius: I haven’t had the benefit of your education.”
“Well, I do read Greek, and I believe I recognize this. I think this is the work of Strabo, the geographer, who traveled these parts in the time of the Divine Augustus. He writes here of a summit that is flat and barren and has been on fire in the past. Surely that must be Vesuvius? He says the fertile soil around
Pompeii
reminds him of Caetana, where the land is covered with ash thrown up by the flames of Etna.”
“So what?”
“Wasn’t Exomnius Sicilian?” demanded Holconius. “What town was he from?”
Ampliatus waved his glass dismissively. “I believe Caetana. But what of it?”
I must learn the rudiments of Greek,
he thought. If a fool like Popidius could master it, anyone could.
“As for this Latin document—this I certainly recognize,” continued Popidius. “It’s part of a book, and I know both the man who wrote it and the man to whom the passage is addressed. It’s by Annaeus Seneca—Nero’s mentor. Surely even
you
must have heard of him?”
Ampliatus flushed. “My business is building, not books.” Why were they going on about all this stuff?
“The Lucilius to whom he refers is Lucilius Junior, a native of this very city. He had a house near the theater. He was a procurator overseas—in
Natural Questions
. I believe there is even a copy in our own library on the forum. It lays out the foundations of the Stoic philosophy.”