Pompeii (14 page)
The engineer followed the progress of the riders as they disappeared behind the tombs, leaving only a blur of brown dust above the white sarcophagi to show where they had passed. He stood for a few moments—he barely knew them, yet so many of his hopes, so much of his future went with them!—then he retraced his steps toward the city gate.
It was only as he joined the line of pedestrians queuing at the gate that he noticed the slight hump in the ground where the tunnel of the aqueduct passed beneath the city wall. He stopped and swiveled, following the line of it toward the nearest manhole, and saw to his surprise that its course pointed directly at the summit of Vesuvius. Through the haze of dust and heat the mountain loomed even more massively over the countryside than it had above the sea, but less distinctly; more bluish-gray than green. It was impossible that the spur should actually run all the way on to Vesuvius itself. He guessed it must swerve off to the east at the edge of the lower slopes and travel inland to join up with the
Augusta
’s mainline. He wondered where exactly. He wished he knew the shape of the land, the quality of rock and soil. But
He went back through the shadowy gate and into the glare of the small square, acutely aware suddenly of being alone in a strange town. What did
Pompeii
know or care of the crisis beyond its walls? The heedless activity of the place seemed deliberately to mock him. He walked around the side of the castellum aquae and along the short alley that led to its entrance. “Is anyone there?”
No answer. He could hear the rush of the aqueduct much more clearly here, and when he pushed open the low wooden door he was hit at once by the drenching spray and that sharp, coarse, sweet smell—the smell that had pursued him all his life—of freshwater on warm stone.
He went inside. Fingers of light from two small windows set high above his head pierced the cool darkness. But he did not need light to know how the castellum was arranged, for he had seen dozens of them over the years—all identical, all laid out according to the principles of Vitruvius. The tunnel of the
Pompeii
spur was smaller than the
Augusta
’s main matrix, but still big enough for a man to squeeze along it to make repairs. The water jetted from its mouth through a bronze mesh screen into a shallow concrete reservoir divided by wooden gates, which in turn fed a set of three big lead pipes. The central conduit would carry the supply for the drinking fountains; that to its left would be for private houses; that to its right for the public baths and theaters. What was unusual was the force of the flow. It was not only drenching the walls. It had also swept a mass of debris along the tunnel, trapping it against the metal screen. He could make out leaves and twigs and even a few small rocks. Slovenly maintenance. No wonder Corax had said the water-slave was useless.
He swung one leg over the concrete wall of the reservoir and then the other, and lowered himself into the swirling pool. The water came up almost to his waist. It was like stepping into warm silk. He waded the few paces to the grille and ran his hands underwater, around the edge of the mesh frame, feeling for its fastenings. When he found them, he unscrewed them. There were two more at the top. He undid those as well, lifted away the grille, and stood aside to let the rubbish swirl past him.
“Is somebody there?”
The voice startled him. A young man stood in the doorway. “Of course there’s somebody here, you fool. What does it look like?”
“What are you doing?”
“You’re the water-slave? Then I’m doing your fucking job for you—that’s what I’m doing. Wait there.” Attilius swung the grille back into place and refastened it, waded over to the side of the reservoir, and hauled himself out. “I’m Marcus Attilius. The new aquarius of the
Augusta
. And what do they call you, apart from a lazy idiot?”
“Tiro, aquarius.” The boy’s eyes were open wide in alarm, his pupils darting from side to side. “Forgive me.” He dropped to his knees. “The public holiday, aquarius—I slept late. I—”
“All right. Never mind that.” The boy was only about sixteen—a scrap of humanity, as thin as a stray dog—and Attilius regretted his roughness. “Come on. Get up off the floor. I need you to take me to the magistrates.” He held out his hand but the slave ignored it, his eyes still flickering wildly back and forth. Attilius waved his palm in front of Tiro’s face. “You’re blind?”
“Yes, aquarius.”
A blind guide. No wonder Corax had smiled when Attilius had asked about him. A blind guide in an unfriendly city! “But how do you perform your duties if you can’t see?”
“I can hear better than any man.” Despite his nervousness, Tiro spoke with a trace of pride. “I can tell by the sound of the water how well it flows and if it’s obstructed. I can smell it. I can taste it for impurities.” He lifted his head, sniffing the air. “This morning there’s no need for me to adjust the gates. I’ve never heard the flow so strong.”
“That’s true.” The engineer nodded: he had underestimated the boy. “The mainline is blocked somewhere between here and Nola. That’s why I’ve come, to get help to repair it. You’re the property of the town?” Tiro nodded. “Who are the magistrates?”
“Marcus Holconius and Quintus Brittius,” said Tiro promptly. “The aediles are Lucius Popidius and Gaius Cuspius.”
“Which is in charge of the water supply?”
“Popidius.”
“Where will I find him?”
“It’s a holiday—”
“Where’s his house, then?”
“Straight down the hill, aquarius, toward the Stabian Gate. On the left. Just past the big crossroads.” Tiro scrambled to his feet eagerly. “I can show you if you like.”
“Surely I can find it by myself?”
“No, no.” Tiro was already in the alley, anxious to prove himself. “I can take you there. You’ll see.”
They descended into the town together. It tumbled away below them, a jumble of terra-cotta roofs sloping down to a sparkling sea. Framing the view to the left was the blue ridge of the Surrentum peninsula; to the right was the tree-covered flank of Vesuvius. Attilius found it hard to imagine a more perfect spot in which to build a city, high enough above the bay to be wafted by the occasional breeze, close enough to the shore to enjoy the benefits of the Mediterranean trade. No wonder it had risen again so quickly after the earthquake.
The street was lined with houses, not the sprawling apartment blocks of
Rome
, but narrow-fronted, windowless dwellings that seemed to have turned their backs on the crowded traffic and to be looking inward upon themselves. Open doors revealed an occasional flash of what lay beyond—cool mosaic hallways, a sunny garden, a fountain—but apart from these glimpses, the only relief from the monotony of the drab walls were election slogans daubed in red paint.
THE ENTIRE MASS
HAVE
APPROVED THE CANDIDACY OF CUSPIUS FOR THE OFFICE OF AEDILE.
THE FRUIT DEALERS TOGETHER WITH HELVIUS
VESTALIS UNANIMOUSLY URGE THE ELECTION OF
MARCUS HOLCONIUS PRISCUS AS MAGISTRATE
WITH JUDICIAL POWER.
THE WORSHIPPERS OF
ISIS
UNANIMOUSLY URGE THE ELECTION OF LUCIUS POPIDIUS SECUNDUS AS AEDILE.
“Your whole town appears to be obsessed with elections, Tiro. It’s worse than
Rome
.”
“The free men vote for the new magistrates each March, aquarius.”
They were walking quickly, Tiro keeping a little ahead of Attilius, threading along the crowded pavement, occasionally stepping into the gutter to splash through the running stream. The engineer had to ask him to slow down. Tiro apologized. He had been blind from birth, he said cheerfully—dumped on the refuse tip outside the city walls and left to die. But someone had picked him up and he’d lived by running errands for the town since he was six years old. He knew his way by instinct.
“This aedile, Popidius,” said Attilius, as they passed his name for the third time, “his must have been the family that once had Ampliatus as a slave.”
But Tiro, despite the keenness of his ears, seemed for once not to have heard.
They came to a big crossroads, dominated by an enormous triumphal arch, resting on four marble pillars. A team of four horses, frozen in stone, plunged and reared against the brilliant blue sky, hauling the figure of Victory in her golden chariot. The monument was dedicated to yet another Holconius—Marcus Holconius Rufus, dead these past sixty years—and Attilius paused long enough to read the inscription: military tribune, priest of Augustus, five times magistrate, patron of the town.
Always the same few names, he thought. Holconius, Popidius, Cuspius . . . The ordinary citizens might put on their togas every spring, turn out to listen to the speeches, throw their tablets into the urns and elect a new set of magistrates. But still the familiar faces came round again and again. The engineer had almost as little time for politicians as he had for the gods.
He was about to put his foot down to cross the street when he suddenly pulled it back. It appeared to him that the large stepping-stones were rippling slightly. A great dry wave was passing through the town. An instant later he lurched, as he had done when the
Minerva
was moored, and he had to grab at Tiro’s arm to stop himself falling. A few people screamed; a horse shied. On the opposite corner of the crossroads a tile slid down a steep-pitched roof and shattered on the pavement. For a few moments the center of
Pompeii
was almost silent. And then, gradually, activity began again. Breath was exhaled. Conversations resumed. The driver flicked his whip over the back of his frantic horse and the cart jumped forward.
Tiro took advantage of the lull in the traffic to dart across to the opposite side and, after a brief hesitation, Attilius followed, half expecting the big raised stones to give way again beneath his leather soles. The sensation made him jumpier than he cared to admit. If you couldn’t trust the ground you trod on, what could you trust?
The slave waited for him. His blank eyes, endlessly searching for what he could not see, gave him a look of constant unease. “Don’t worry, aquarius. It’s been happening all the time this summer. Five times, ten times, even, in the past two days. The ground is complaining of the heat!”
He offered his hand but Attilius ignored it—he found it demeaning, the blind man reassuring the sighted—and mounted the high pavement unaided. He said irritably, “Where’s this damn house?” and Tiro gestured vaguely to a doorway across the street, a little way down.
It did not look much. The usual blank walls. A bakery on one side, with a line of customers waiting to enter a confectionary shop. A stink of urine from the laundry opposite, with pots left on the pavement for passersby to piss in (nothing cleaned clothes as well as human piss). Next to the laundry, a theater. Above the big door of the house was another of the ubiquitous, red-painted slogans:
HIS NEIGHBORS URGE THE ELECTION OF LUCIUS POPIDIUS SECUNDUS AS AEDILE. HE WILL PROVE WORTHY.
Attilius would never have found the place on his own.
“Aquarius, may I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Where is Exomnius?”
“Nobody knows, Tiro. He’s vanished.”
The slave absorbed this, nodding slowly. “Exomnius was like you. He could not get used to the shaking, either. He said it reminded him of the time before the big earthquake, many years ago. The year I was born.”
He seemed to be on the edge of tears. Attilius put a hand on his shoulder and studied him intently. “Exomnius was in
Pompeii
recently?”
“Of course. He lived here.”
Attilius tightened his grip. “He lived
here
? In
Pompeii
?”
He felt bewildered and yet he also grasped immediately that it must be true. It explained why Exomnius’s quarters at Misenum had been so devoid of personal possessions, why Corax had not wanted him to come here, and why the overseer had behaved so strangely in
Pompeii
—all that looking around, searching the crowds for a familiar face.
“He had rooms at Africanus’s place,” said Tiro. “He was not here all the time. But often.”
“And how long ago did you speak to him?”
