Pompeii (37 page)

Leaning on the arm of his secretary, and without a backward glance, the admiral shuffled out of his library.

Attilius had ridden past the Piscina Mirabilis, over the causeway into the port, and was beginning his ascent of the steep road to the admiral’s villa when he saw a detachment of marines ahead clearing a path for Pliny’s carriage. He just had time to dismount and step into the street before the procession reached him.

“Admiral!”

Pliny, staring fixedly ahead, turned vaguely in his direction. He saw a figure he did not recognize, covered in dust, his tunic torn, his face, arms, and legs streaked with dried blood. The apparition spoke again. “Admiral! It’s Marcus Attilius!”

“Engineer?” Pliny signaled for the carriage to stop. “What’s happened to you?”

“It’s a catastrophe, admiral. The mountain is exploding—raining rocks.” Attilius licked his cracked lips. “Thousands of people are fleeing east along the coastal road. Oplontis and
Pompeii
are being buried. I’ve ridden from
Herculaneum
. I have a message for you”—he searched in his pocket—“from the wife of Pedius Cascus.”

“Rectina?” Pliny took the letter from his hands and broke the seal. He read it twice, his expression clouding, and suddenly he looked ill—ill and overwhelmed. He leaned over the side of the carriage and showed the hasty scrawl to Attilius:

Pliny, my dearest friend, the library is in peril. I am alone. I beg you to come for us by sea—at once—if you still love these old books and your faithful old Rectina.

“This is really true?” he asked. “The Villa Calpurnia is threatened?”

“The entire coast is threatened, admiral.” What was wrong with the old man? Had drink and age entirely dulled his wits? Or did he think it was all just a show—some spectacle in the amphitheater, laid on for his interest? “The danger follows the wind. It swings like a weathervane. Even Misenum might not be safe.”

“Even Misenum might not be safe,” repeated Pliny. “And Rectina is alone.” His eyes were watering. He rolled up the letter and beckoned to his secretary, who had been running with the marines beside the carriage. “Where is Antius?”

“At the quayside, admiral.”

“We need to move quickly. Climb in next to me, Attilius.” He rapped his ring on the side of the carriage. “Forward!” Attilius squeezed in beside him as the carriage lurched down the hill. “Now tell me everything you’ve seen.”

Attilius tried to order his thoughts, but it was hard to speak coherently. Still, he tried to convey the power of what he had witnessed when the roof of the mountain lifted off. And the blasting of the summit, he said, was merely the culmination of a host of other phenomena—the sulfur in the soil, the pools of noxious gas, the earth tremors, the swelling of the land that had severed the matrix of the aqueduct, the disappearance of the local springs. All these things were interconnected.

“And none of us recognized it,” said Pliny, with a shake of his head. “We were as blind as old Pomponianus, who thought it was the work of Jupiter.”

“That’s not quite true, admiral. One man recognized it—a native of the land near Etna: my predecessor, Exomnius.”

“Exomnius?” said Pliny sharply. “Who hid a quarter of a million sesterces at the bottom of his own reservoir?” He noticed the bafflement on the engineer’s face. “It was discovered this morning when the last of the water had drained away. Why? Do you know how he came by it?”

They were entering the docks. Attilius could see a familiar sight—the
Minerva
lying alongside the quay, her mainmast raised and ready to sail—and he thought how odd it was, the chain of events and circumstances that had brought him to this place at this time. If Exomnius had not been born a Sicilian, he would never have ventured onto Vesuvius and would never have disappeared, Attilius would never have been dispatched from
Rome
, would never have set foot in
Pompeii
, would never have known of Corelia or Ampliatus or Corax. For a brief moment, he glimpsed the extraordinary, perfect logic of it all, from poisoned fish to hidden silver, and he tried to think how best he could describe it to the admiral. But he had barely started before Pliny waved him to stop.

“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!”

“Yes, admiral! Helmsman—
take
us east!”

The sail cracked and the ship heeled. A wave of spray drenched Attilius—a glorious sensation. He rubbed the dust from his face and ran his hands through his filthy hair. Belowdecks, the drums had increased to a frantic tempo, and the oars became a blur in the crashing waves and spray. Pliny’s secretary had to lay his arms across his papyri to prevent them blowing away. Attilius looked up at the admiral. Pliny was leaning forward in his chair, his plump cheeks glistening with sea-spray, eyes alight with excitement, grinning wide, all trace of his former exhaustion gone. He was a cavalryman on his horse again, pounding across the German plain, javelin in hand, to wreak havoc on the barbarians.