Lindsey Davis

VESUVIUS BY NIGHT

Chapter 1

Our introduction to Nonius the scrounger.

The girl had gone. It was no surprise. Leaving was what girls did. Few of those that Nonius brought home stayed until he roused himself from stupor, even though they had to be very drunk to come with him in the first place.

The night before, his voice would have been loud in calling for the wine, although he knew how to absent himself just as the tavern bill was brought, leaving others to pay up. A wink to some equally sly waitress, who had been serving whatever party he latched onto would bring her back here with him at the end of the night. It might not be for his sexual prowess, which most bargirls derided on principle, but because he could offer a bed. For him and for them, this was better than dossing down in a stable with the beasts.

It was normal for such companions to skedaddle before he woke up. They had to be back at the places where they worked, seamy wine bars down by the Marine Gate or raucous hovels around the amphitheatre. These scrawny women in their off-the-shoulder tunics were needed to give the marble-patched counters a cursory wipe down and start selling snacks to morning customers, however groggy they felt. Most of the Empire was fuelled by street food.

They rarely bothered to say goodbye. Most couldn’t stand the thought of daytime conversation with Nonius. Once in a while, some scrupulous woman might even feel ashamed of herself for accepting his invitation. It never affected Nonius. He had no conscience.

At least if his partner had gone before he dragged his eyes open, his incoming landlord would not see her. There was an unspoken rule that Nonius could bring back visitors, since it was difficult to stop him, but only so long as nobody threw up and he left the sheets clean. Nonius preferred any of his overnight companions to make themselves scarce early or inevitably they looked at the new arrival with much more interest than they showed him. His landlord was a tall, fine-looking lad, still in his twenties, who retained traces of the carefree adventurer he had been when younger. On returning home after work, he was generally tired out, yet he could summon up a twinkle for a barmaid, especially if he found her naked in his bed.

The landlord was married, but his family lived in a different town. The kind of women who came home with Nonius would view a wife who lived elsewhere as no hindrance, indeed her very absence would encourage them to cosy up, counting the landlord as unattached. They saw a subtle difference in status between a man who worked and his disreputable subtenant who never paid for anything. Girls knew what they preferred. Nonius might pretend not to care, but he liked his floozies to leave the scene before they decided there was better available. Let the landlord find his own women. Nonius told himself, the one vice he never had was pimping.

In fact that was simply lack of opportunity. Any women whose life he had tried to manage had laughed in his face. And oh yes, he had tried it. Nonius had tried most things.

The landlord took over the room at night; that was an absolute rule. It was, after all, his room. He returned in the evening, grunted, turned Nonius out of the bed and fell into it himself. He would leave again at first light, sometimes still in the dark if his current job was any distance away. Nonius paid him a small fee to use the bed by day, while the other man, a painter, was out creating frescos.

‘Pornographic?’ Nonius had asked, with interest.

‘Double portraits of staid married couples,’ lied the painter. There were many erotic pictures in Pompeii, and some were commissions done by him. But from what Nonius could gather, he was mainly a landscape artist.

Nonius initially viewed this as a mimsy occupation, so he was surprised at how businesslike the other man could be. His landlord was wily enough to extract the room fee in advance, and he never loaned any of it back, however much Nonius pleaded.

‘No, sorry, you’ll have to cadge off your mother again,’ he would say, even though he had no idea whether a mother existed. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ he then joked annoyingly. ‘you sold her into slavery! Well, maybe your grandad will mortgage his farm to help you out, Nonius. It’s no good asking me, I have three daughters’ dowries to find and four no-good sons who won’t leave home.’

Given his age, this was clearly untrue. Any children he had must still be infants. Artistic types were full of fantasies, Nonius thought, and this mean bastard was polishing them up deliberately to tease his penniless tenant.

‘You heartless turd,’ Nonius would respond glumly. He expected to live off other people. It never struck him that someone might see through him and fail to go along with it. Life had taught him that people were idiots.

Unbeknown to him, the painter did have five children, all born in the last eight years, plus a belief that he probably ought to provide for them. Sometimes – not in his wife’s hearing – he called himself stupid for bringing this upon himself, but in fact he was extremely intelligent. He knew he needed to take care with money and believed he could handle Nonius. Nonius thought otherwise.

Their different attitudes to cash coloured their relationship and could yet cause it to come to grief. The painter earned a good screw, Nonius believed; he must do. He worked all hours, apparently enjoying it, and was said to be a good artist, his skills much sought-after. Earthquake damage from nearly two decades ago, followed by further seismic upheaval, meant Pompeii was full of opportunities for a decorator with a reputation. The landlord must be saving up his wages. Nonius had yet to discover where he kept his stash, which he planned to steal. It was best to wait as long as possible, so there would be more money. Also, once he lifted the moneybag, he would have to vanish, which was always inconvenient. If he needed to hole up away from the action, Nonius wanted his haul to be worthwhile.

Action, for Nonius, did not involve work as the rest of us know it, merely the slick separation of other people from property they thought theirs. Whether earnings or inheritance, he liked to show owners that their money and valuables were meaningless baubles; they should not grieve if these were lost to them. Ideally, they should acquire more so he had a second chance to rob them.

Nor should they be enraged about their sweet daughters and willing wives, should Nonius happen to run into these other ‘commodities’ while they were plying looms or having their hair done. Women were his (he believed) as much as bronze household gods, chalices, gold finger rings, coin hoards, or any ivory cupboard knobs a carpenter had carelessly left while he went for better fixing-screws. Nonius had been known even to tickle up arthritic old nurses and vague-eyed grandmothers. Pompeii was famously dedicated to Venus and, he said, he must keep in good fettle.

As he romped his way through the female population, there were rarely complaints. He claimed they liked his attention. However, it could be because any woman who thought of complaining tended to find that Nonius had vanished like a mouse through a knothole.

He knew when to flit. Having a nose for danger was a key skill. He could tell at a glance if a house was too dangerous to wander into ‘accidentally’. His preferred tactic was to saunter inside, wiping his feet on the Beware of our Dog mosaic, admire the place like an invited guest, search out a fine silver cup or tray that was crying out to be carried off under his none-too-clean tunic, then grope a startled woman as he left – before she realised what was happening. If he could slide out without causing an alarm, the slaves copped the blame.

Nonius had seen every variant of the mosaic doggie doormat. He knew all those bristling creatures, black ears pricked, big collars stiff with spikes, eager to have your leg off with their bared teeth, yet harmlessly stuck in tile limbo. He knew from experience that homes guarded by motto mats with silent barks generally did not have a real dog, but relied on nothing worse than a half-asleep porter who spent too much time in the kitchen. If someone banged the big bronze seahorse knocker, the porter would drag himself to the door to insult them and, if possible, refuse them entry. Nonius therefore did not knock. Why invite problems?

Sometimes front doors had locks. Often, in fact. This was a bustling seaboard town, full of sailors, traders, horny-handed fisherfolk, the occasional soldier, runaway slaves, and countryfolk with straw in their hair who had been sent down from the hills to make money any way they could. Windows that overlooked the street had heavy bars too. Nonius had ways around that. He carried a big metal ring full of different latch-lifters. Most locksmiths sold picking tools for people who had lost their keys, and many had encountered Nonius making obviously false claims about ‘his’ house key having gone missing inexplicably. But his favourite method was simply to wait until some oversexed young master popped out for a secret tryst with a prostitute, or a careworn kitchen-maid was sent running for more bread rolls in a hurry; if they left the door slightly ajar to assist their return, he weaselled in.

When he strolled out again, perhaps carrying a filched pillowcase that he tightly wound to stop its contents rattling, he liked to close the front door properly behind him. He had a mischievous streak.

These days, however, Nonius maintained that his burgling career was over. He was moving up.

The crunch had come while he was first badgering his landlord to agree their rooming arrangement. The painter refused to share his doss with a sneak-thief. This unreasonable attitude ought to have been the first sign he was no airy-fairy soul with stars in his brain, but so hard-headed he was positively ethical. He could be stubborn too. When he would not budge, Nonius firmed up an idea he had for branching out. Pompeii was a town full to its battered old defensive walls with businessmen who thought they knew all about commerce. Nonius planned to convince them that they needed his financial know-how to help make even more money. He was going to help rich people get richer quicker. At least, that would be the claim. Certainly a hunk of what they already possessed would be withdrawn from an armoured bankbox to find its way to Nonius in advance of whatever ‘rock solid’ investment he proposed. When the mad scheme failed to materialise, he would be long gone.

Nonius had explained his sparkly new career to the painter, calling himself a financial adviser, which he insisted was so much more worthy than being a thief. The painter suspected it was much the same thing, but felt other people must take their chances. They were free to exercise choice. So was he, and since hiring out his bed would help pay his rent, he chose to take Nonius at face value.

When Nonius moved in, his meagre luggage included an awning pole he had filched from a schoolmaster, which left a class of seven-year-olds sitting out in full sun while they chanted their times tables. This stolen pole could be threaded through the top of a smart tunic and hung up to keep the garment nice. The tunic was a pleasant emerald-coloured number he had picked up from one of the clothes-mangers in a bathhouse changing-room; it had red braid around the neckline, extended down the front in go-faster-to-the-top stripes. In his new business outfit he could pass himself off as acceptable in a better class of bar, where men with cash to invest could be singled out as potential clients, otherwise known as victims.

The routine was one he had always used: Nonius quietly attached himself to their party in a way that made them feel they had known him for years. He wormed his way in with screamingly funny, very raunchy jokes and an offer of drinks all round, while he generously called for more olives and nuts. He stuck with them all evening. Along the way, he sold them the dream. They paid for the wine out of gratitude.

Greed, Nonius knew, overcomes natural intelligence. Men who were perfectly capable of managing estates or industries complained with dreary predictability that the big earthquake had damaged their livelihoods. These were Pompeii’s wine-suppliers, parfumiers and fish pickle brewers; statue importers and bronze vessel manufacturers; not to mention accountants, auctioneers and lawyers who serviced the other businessmen. To Nonius’ mild surprise, the latter class, advisers themselves, were the easiest to bamboozle.

It was true Pompeii had been devastated by that earthquake; the damage was so bad even the Emperor, Nero at the time, had paid for some repairs. Not many; just enough to make him look good – not enough, griped the businessmen routinely. A second earthquake two years later happened when Nero was performing a harp concert for what he viewed as his adoring public; he insisted on continuing to the end of his recital, then the theatre collapsed moments after it was evacuated. That barely dented his local popularity, especially since his gorgeously beautiful, fabulously rich wife Poppaea came from these parts.

Money counted here. Though they were still prosperous in fact, townsmen of substance hankered for the better days they believed they had known before the quakes. Such men were ready to fall for a promise from Nonius of easy returns; even the astute among them – those canny few who, like his landlord, doubted his probity – even they would eventually follow their colleagues like sheep. No one wants to be left out.

Nonius possessed no investment experience. All he knew was how to bluff. He had noticed that most advice on any subject is handed out by people with no practical knowledge, only the ability to sound good. Self-assurance happened to be his chief talent. He had also reached a time of life when he looked as if he had kicked around the world enough to have gained special insights, so his lived-in features and silver-grey sideburns made him very persuasive to men who were on their fourth flagon of mellow Vesuvian wine. They loved to think they caroused with other men of the world. They were blind to the fact that the world of Nonius was a stinking midden.

Perhaps Nonius sensed that time was running out; some day he would lose his luck. Clumsiness already threatened his touch as a thief, and his slippery trickster skills might start to waver too. So he was aiming for a different existence, one with fewer risks of exposure. The Bay of Neapolis was the best place in the world for leading a life of leisure. Nonius planned to make a quick killing, then retire on the proceeds.

The first trial of his business plan had been convincing the potential landlord that his new career was a goer. Fortunately the painter had vaguely considered having a roommate. Daywork tradesmen often bunked down together, for company and to save money; as a worker in the building trade, sharing was nothing new to him so winning him over had merely been good practice as Nonius tried out his spiel.

That was how the new career would operate too: identifying a perceived need in a client, then saying that he, Nonius, was here to satisfy he need. Mutual advantage. Good as my word. Utterly reliable. Grasp this wonderful failsafe opportunity, honoured sir, for it cannot be kept open much longer, I am cutting my own throat as it is. I, Nonius, through my private contacts have secured a risk-free privilege, which is available for a limited period only. Don’t tell your friends or they’ll all want it. I would jump in myself, but I am heavily committed elsewhere at the moment. I like you. There is no need for the tiresome burden of documentation, I trust you, simply give me your deposit and the deal is clinched…

Part of his skill would be to sell solutions to clients who did not even realise, until he told them, that they had a problem.

Really, the painter had grasped that all the flash talk was rubbish, but Nonius was well able to ignore others’ scepticism, so long as he got what he wanted. So now they rubbed along in the shared room, more or less in harmony. When the painter fell into bed after a long day creating frescos, Nonius went out in his sharp tunic to gain clients. He picked them up as they enjoyed relaxation in the better class of bar – larger establishments that offered space inside as well as counters on the street, and with secluded gardens. Most had a pricelist on the wall that included ‘Falernian’, which might even be the real thing.

Wine – 1 as

Good wine – 2 asses

Falernian – 4 asses

Fellatio – anything between 1 as and 7

Tips – at your discretion, sir

Plus bar staff who didn’t pick their noses, or at least not in front of you.

When Nonius had tickled up a new prospect successfully, or better still a consortium of these idiots, he would come home and change into his grubby clothes, then go back out to the lower class of dive to drink himself silly in celebration, until dawn broke and the painter took his brushes out to work. Then Nonius, with or without female company, could come home again and have the bed.

The room was a small bare space above a cheap front shop that had been carved out of a once-fine large house. In Pompeii such remodelling was rife. One-time gracious mansions were divided into upper-storey apartments and ground-level bakeries and laundries, fitted with street-side workshops, and flanked with booths and bars. Even their exterior walls were hired out for advertisements and electioneering. This situation both provided for, and in itself encouraged, a shifting population. Families and businesses came and went in the refurbished properties, while a whole new range of entrepreneurs flourished through leasing real estate. Many were freed slaves, flexing their financial muscles and not caring that trade was supposedly dirty. Some were merely from families that had once been kept down socially by an older and more snobbish local élite, but who, since the earthquake upset everything, were emerging into confidence, status and power.

The entrepreneurs lived in better houses than they rented out, homes which they decorated fashionably. This brought continual work for painters. And Nonius was sure, if he himself could offer the right temptations, it would bring a fortune to him.

He had noticed his landlord wore a sardonic expression while this was explained. Jupiter’s jockstrap, that dauber thought a lot of himself. He was not from around here. It was said he had been born and bred in Rome. It damn well showed. He was a cocky sod. While he was listening to his customers’ generally daft ideas for décor, this supposedly brilliant artist might appear mild-mannered enough, but clearly he believed himself superior to anyone in Campania. He must set customers straight without them noticing he thought their own taste dire. Presumably the wiser ones just let him get on with it. He preferred to be given a free hand; he knew that when they saw what he painted they would be delighted. He was very sure of his talent.

In the opinion of Nonius, this arrogant, tight-arsed young Roman was just ripe to have his self-assurance pricked, by Nonius helping himself to all the money that painter had saved up. It was going to happen. When Nonius was ready. When – and even he had to admit this was proving difficult – when Nonius had managed to find out where the painter’s savings actually were.

In his mind, the future loot had acquired colour, substance, and ludicrous bulk. He had been thinking about his landlord’s money so much that he had lost all sense of proportion. He was now imagining a silver hoard so glorious it needed to be guarded by mythical beasts. He believed that men in the building trade were generally paid with coinage but that sometimes, when a customer had a tricky cashflow, they were offered rewards in kind. Nonius, who could be just as imaginative as any of the best fresco painters and mosaicists around the Bay, now pictured more than mounds of glimmering sesterces; he dreamed of unexpectedly fine works of art, antique Greek statues and vases, tangles of curiously-set jewels…

The tight-fisted swine had hidden his hoard too well. It was not in the room. Nonius searched everywhere, taking up floorboards one by one, then hammering them down again. Since he had the place by daylight, he could see what he was doing so knew he hadn’t missed it. Nothing was here.

The landlord did get paid. Nonius had observed him obsessively. The painter always had money in his purse, a little corded leather bag he kept around his neck, from which he took coppers to buy a flatbread or an apple from a street stall. He could pay his way (a concept Nonius viewed askance) and never seemed troubled by financial anxiety in the way destitute people were. Nonius could spot that. He had been there.

Nonius would get him. In the meantime, until the particular day in question dawned, life continued for them both with its gentle cycle. Like a plumb-bob in motion, they came and went in their terrible bleak room, one swinging in, one swinging out, passing each other with barely a nod, never sharing a meal or a philosophical conversation, yet constantly linked by a mutual thread of existence.

When Nonius took his turn in the bed, once he finished with any female companion – assuming he could be bothered, and assuming she didn’t order him to screw himself and leave her be – he would sleep like the dead, or at least the hungover. Since being hungover was so regular for him, it passed without too much pain, normally around the time the light began to fade at dusk. He usually woke and was ready to decamp when his landlord’s weary feet climbed the stone steps from the street.

But on the day in question, it was different. He woke much sooner than he wanted. Nonius abruptly reached consciousness while there was still sunlight streaming through the broken shutters at full intensity. His body sensed it was only about midday, though sounds from outside seemed not quite right.

Nonius lay spread-eagled, face down. He had ended up diagonally on the mattress, tangled in the sheet, unsure for a few moments where the ends and sides of the narrow bed were in relation to him. He felt a fear of falling out. He would have groaned, but could not summon the energy.

He thought he knew what was going on. He realised that what had woken him was a peculiar sensation, a sense of his bed shifting beneath him during unnatural reverberations. Anyone who experiences this, even for the first time, knows it must be an earthquake. Even in places where earthquakes have never happened before, the occurrence is so strange it is unmistakeable. It ought to be unsettling, yet Nonius had lived through seismic activity, so he felt neither alarm nor surprise. People said, ‘This is Campania, what do you expect?’ Earthquakes regularly happened. In the past, the street level in Pompeii rose or sank by several feet. The shoreline changed. On the way out to Cumae lay fiery, sulphurous fields and lakes whose dead air killed birds overhead. The earth was rocky and barren there; it stretched and heaved, spewing hot fumaroles of steam or gas. Poets wrote of it as the entrance to Hades.

For the past four days minor tremors had been felt. Locals cursed, but were used to it. Noises cracked and grumbled deep underground. The credulous believed giants were walking the earth. The racket was growing louder but as the days passed people took less notice.

Was there now to be another significant earthquake? Nonius knew that when the ground began rippling in waves, as if solid earth had turned to water, the sensible rule was to leave your building. Best not to be indoors when your house falls down. Even if somebody eventually dug you out, if anyone bothered, you might be dead of fear and suffocation by the time they pulled off the rubble.

He still felt too hungover to move. He just thought about it. Staying put was the way to get killed. Nonius ought to evacuate. Still, he told himself that being out in the open was dangerous too. This particular house had survived in the past. It was shored up, with walls and ceilings patched, but the fresco painter, who knew about building stability, had once said it only needed maintenance; he reckoned it looked safe for the time being.

Nonius must have slept through some upheaval. The noise seemed to have ceased now, yet he guessed what had been happening. Sod it. If it was midday, he had not yet rested long enough to want to rouse himself. Last night’s girl had gone. She had raided his purse, damn her; with one eye, he could see it lying on the floor, obviously empty. If he went out he would only get a bite to eat if he cadged off some old acquaintance, and most of them were wise to him.

So Nonius stayed where he was, prone on the bed, not troubling himself to go outside.

So far, he had no idea that this time everything was different.

Chapter 2

Next the painter, who regards himself as a less raffish character. However, he has had his moments.

The painter witnessed what happened. He had left the room where he was about to start once the plaster was ready, and walked outside. The tremors of the past few days had unsettled him. Though he pretended to ignore his tension, the recent subterranean activity had been growing worse.

‘Come and see!’ his daughter had called from the street doorway, sounding more curious than alarmed, yet excited. ‘Father, look at this!’

He had been standing back from the main wall of the big room, taking the measure of its central panel where he was ready to paint a mythological scene. The new top coat of plaster was just reaching its critical stage. Even so, he went to find out what she wanted, after first encouraging his junior, Pyris, who was putting a black wash on a panel. It was well within the boy’s competence, so the painter could leave him to it.

Hylus, the other man in their team, was crouched down by the dado touching up a merry scene of cupids racing in chariots drawn by little goats. ‘Fresco cupids have a bloody hard life. I hope this bunch are grateful I’m letting them be boy racers. They’re constantly at it, working their wings off, making perfumes, weaving at looms, being goldsmiths. I bet their pay stinks too,’ joked Hylus, who often wittered on while he was working.

‘One’s got a boil on his bum,’ commented a plasterer. He was up on the scaffold, annoyingly. That ought to have been done by now, way back when the coffered ceiling and coves were put up and painted. They were supposed to finish first so the decorators could move top-down. Anyone other than a crack-brained plasterer would see that was the sensible way to programme a job.

‘Shit, it’s a drip; thanks, Three Coats. Fetch me a rag, will you, Pyris?’ Hylus was clearly thinking only a plasterer would make such a big deal of pointing it out. Three Coats, named for his endless lessons on how to build a fine surface, smirked. A sound wall in fact had six coats, three in the rough and three smooth with marble dust, but the painters, who were competent plasterers themselves, never let him finish telling them.

That smirk from Three Coats had irritated the painter more than usual, so it had been a good idea to move away. Popping out to see what his daughter wanted avoided snapping at the other man. As team leader, he liked to keep the peace.

He could not afford to disappear for long. Frescos must be painted at the right moment. Now that Three Coats had filled in his panel and its design was roughly marked out, he had to work fast, before the wet plaster went off. In fresco, colours were not simply laid on the surface but were sucked into the glossy final layer of the finish while it remained moist. This made the paint survive household knocks better, and it could be washed down without losing colour. They always assured their customers it would last forever.

Sometimes they completed details dry, but that was for a reason, or so they claimed. Actually they might not have finished in time and had no wet cloths to keep the plaster workable. They pretended to be using a ‘specialist technique’. Painters knew how to preserve their mystique.

The recent shudders from deep within the earth had disturbed and annoyed the team leader. He possessed a sense of danger, though he could live with risk. He just worried about their work. The current site had suffered before; next door, where they had also been working this month, the bakery oven had sustained major cracks in the big earthquake and was now being repaired yet again. Most of the flour mills were completely out of action. This morning, when he and his team turned up here, they had anxiously inspected all the walls; having to check every day for overnight disturbance made him depressed, even though everyone who worked in Pompeii routinely endured their work being damaged. At least the townsfolk tenaciously rebuilt; shockwaves meant a surge in property renovation, which was excellent, although you never knew if what you finished for your customer would survive the next upheaval.

An artist who cared could end up having a breakdown. At this point in the job, any flying dust was a nightmare. And what was the point of putting your soul into your work, if your efforts might be cracked apart or even brought down? If people liked your style they would call you back for repairs, but creating a scene for a second time was unsatisfactory. You could get tired of constantly redoing jobs. Artists dream that what they produce will last for generations – small hope in the Campanian earthquake zone.

Anyway, when customers had something done twice, even if the fault was unavoidable, there was always a niggle about the extra payment. He hated the stress.

So these past four days of tectonic agitation had left him restless. The uncertainty had made him surly and unable to paint well. He needed to settle before he started the new panel. As team leader, he did not need to ask anyone’s permission. He had moved away from his paints, as if to take a pee or find a bite to eat from his knapsack.

In reply to his young daughter’s call he stepped right outside the building. For a moment he stood quietly and looked up and down the side-street. It was being dug up in several places: there was already a long trench for what seemed like endless work to the water supply, god knows what engineer had thought that up. And now, next to the house, a cess-pit had been excavated, its ghastly contents piled up everywhere. That made the third in the sidestreet.

Householders would be glad if their indoor toilets stopped smelling, but they were not pleased about the haphazard dungheaps. This was even worse than normal. Pompeii’s streets could be foul. Sometimes a frustrated householder put up a sign on his exterior wall, saying Do not shit here, stranger, move on! It only gave passers-by ideas, and if it didn’t work for individuals, it was hardly going to deter the dead-eyed, cack-handed, bloody-minded workmen who carried out civic contracts, not when they had mounds of stupendously ponging sludge to store somewhere while they dug a big hole.

He stepped around the piles carefully and went in search of his daughter. She wasn’t to be seen on the main road, so he turned and cautiously retraced his path. He had to go right to the other end of the side street before he found her, standing stock still at a corner, balanced on a stepping stone. Unlike the more sedate town of Herculaneum where his wife lived, Pompeii had no proper drainage; the town sloped steeply down to the sea so when it rained, surface water just dashed along its streets towards the port, carrying every kind of rubbish. The stepping stones were handy, though a magnet to children. One more worry…

‘What have you seen, chuck?’

‘There’s a fire behind the mountain.’

His daughter Marciana, eight years old, was the original reason the painter had rented a room of his own. She stayed with him sometimes. It gave him an excuse to limit how much he fraternised with his colleagues, being something of a loner. Even before he decided to sublet, his daughter had camped out downstairs at the lodgings. Now, no way was he having her come into contact with Nonius. Nonius, with his various unpleasant habits, had no idea Marciana even existed.

When he found her outside, the curly-haired little girl was rapt, staring towards the dramatic view of Mount Vesuvius; the tall local mountain, beloved of Bacchus and one-time refuge of Spartacus the rebel slave, dominated sightlines, elegantly framed by the distant city gates. Lush to its familiar high, craggy summit, packed with prosperous farms and vineyards, Vesuvius was one of many peaks in the area, yet it stood slightly isolated from the rest, with special charm. That must be why it had its own name. Five miles from the sea, it was always touched by threads of incoming cloud, dreaming in sunlight as it had done for generations.

‘Come out of the road!’

Many a child in the Empire was killed by an accident with a cart; drivers were madmen, utterly thoughtless, often drunk or dozing too. Anxious to retrieve his moppet, the painter was nevertheless distracted by what had so fixed her attention.

Behind the mountain as they saw it from Pompeii, clouds of grey smoke were filling the sky. If it was a forest fire, this was a strange one. The painter remembered hearing a sharp bang, but it had been distant and at the time he’d been concentrating on mixing a paint colour.

Nobody had ever suggested Vesuvius was volcanic, as far as he knew. If that had ever been true, it was long extinct. Most hills in the Italian landmass looked similar in form, from the long barricade of the Apennines to this circle of ancient peaks around the Bay of Neapolis. The Apennines were unstable, with regular landslides, rockfalls, mudflows and sinkholes. But the painter believed Italy had only one active volcano, the legendary Etna in Sicily. He dreamed of going south to see it, so he could paint Etna spewing fire, with the philosopher Empedocles throwing himself into the crater in order to prove he was immortal – while the mountain contemptuously hurled one of his sandals back to show he was not. The possibilities for contrast between dark and fiery light, the chance to show violent activity, were seriously alluring. Well, one day…

Not here though. Not here, despite recent warning signs. When, this very week after the Rustic Vine God Festival, growers had returned to town after inspecting their Vesuvian grapes before harvest, they claimed to have seen the ground bulging and even seen fumaroles like those that boiled and steamed in the Phlegraean Fields. They reckoned their vines were being scorched, ruined by unusual ash deposits.

Many chose to disbelieve them, which was the convenient response. A straggle of nervous folk did take fright. Everyone else said they were only looking for an excuse to visit relatives or to escape nagging spouses. Many of their neighbours were trapped in inertia, because if they left, where could they go? People had to live.

As the painter looked at the smoke, now almost draping Vesuvius in a grey fog, his mouth went dry. He felt his heart lurch. He reached for his daughter, intending to bring her back onto the pavement, when a new event happened. They heard it and felt it: a terrific rolling bang, the movement of air hurting their ear-drums, panic striking the soul. It was so strong the painter staggered, almost thrown off balance. Clutching at him, the child cried out.

‘Hades,’ he said to himself. He often talked out loud to nobody. He recovered. He grasped his daughter by the hand, feeling her cower against his leg, hearing her whimper.

What he and the child saw next was utterly unexpected. Rooted to the spot, he could not believe what he was watching. It was momentous. The top of the mountain had blown right off.

He was a fatalist. He knew straightaway that he would not paint the waiting wall panel.

Chapter 3

So the painter and his daughter sensibly decide what to do.

The painter’s name was Larius. Larius Lollius.

Everything had begun for him twenty-three years before, in an upstairs room high over a forlorn back alley on the Aventine Hill in Rome. He was born the first child of hopeless parents, who claimed they had wanted him, but never sounded persuasive. His mother, Galla, was a floppy, washed-out woman, exhausted by life even before she produced too many offspring; his squint-eyed father, Lollius, was a Tiber water-boatman, a feckless predator on such as she, yet a man who would never resolve his family’s distress by decently abandoning them. He vanished whenever things got tough, but always returned to cause more upset and land Galla with yet another child. Off again when the bills came in. Rollicking home once more, just when his children were learning to prefer the peace of his absence.

Galla belonged to a large family and when Larius was fourteen, better-off relatives had kindly brought him on holiday to the Bay of Neapolis. It was the most beautiful spot in the Empire, perhaps the best in the world. That huge bowl of enclosed water, surrounded by cliffs and mountains, bewitched him. The call of ships and the sea turned his young brain, until his entrancement took the form of falling in love. First love. His first mistake in life. The fatal one.

At the same time, he had seen local fresco-makers at work and realised he wanted to be a painter. This at least was no mistake – o gratitude, all you wondrous gods – but what he had been born for. His family reckoned he was ‘going through a difficult phase’, by which they meant he was an adolescent boy who read poetry and had high ideals. Ideals were no use to working people in Rome. Poetry made them fear they could no longer control him. But his choosing a career in art was useful. Having a ‘career’ at all was a hilarious novelty, which meant they could stop wondering what to do with him.

When his relatives went home, he stayed. His parents would be furious, but he knew they lacked the energy or resources to come and fetch him. He was free. He had taken charge of himself. He was having a good time, too.

He stayed in Campania with his true love, Ollia, who had been a nursemaid to some children in the holiday group he came with. A podgy, acne-ridden lump, she was a year older and a little dimmer than Larius realised. She was his first girlfriend; somehow he’d wrested her from a brawny local fisherboy, who had caught her eye by throwing nets around attractively. He never caught much.

That boy’s family had hoped he would get Ollia pregnant. They thought that insisting on marriage would allow their lad to adopt a better life in Rome when Ollia went home. Everyone in Rome did well – everyone else knew that. Relatives might gain material advantages from the fisherboy’s lucky transferral to this city of magical prosperity; they might even follow as hangers-on…

Eight years had passed. They were still waiting for it to happen. Even though Ollia lived with Larius, they thought the marriage would come to nothing. One day fate would work for the fishing folk. Slow people, but bizarrely trusting.

Larius and Ollia still saw them occasionally, when they wanted a day by the sea and a fish supper. The lad, Vitalis, hung around; hanging around had always seemed to be his main activity.

For Ollia, marriage turned out dismally. She now knew that she was permanently stuck right here with Larius or, worse, without him. Even if he left her, she would never get away from the life they had foolishly chosen in their teens.

So Ollia was still the painter’s wife and, unless she died in labour, he accepted that she always would be. Their children were Marciana, Ollius and Lolliana, Galliana and Varius. Ollia had named them. Larius would never have foisted ‘Ollius Lollius’ on anyone. She had to do the naming because after their first, which scared the boots off him, Larius managed never to be with her for the births. The last four comprised two sets of twins. He could not even begin to think how ghastly those labours must have been. It was almost enough to put you off sex. Almost.

Marciana, the eldest, was Larius’ favourite. Now eight, she even wanted to paint. She had talent and he was teaching her; it was theoretically impossible for a girl to do this professionally, but if it was what she wanted he would let her work with him. She was in Pompeii now, already able to bind a tint for him, or speak knowledgeably of Egyptian Blue and how a pinch of it sneakily added to chalk white would make the white brighter.

Marciana was regularly driven from Herculaneum in a neighbour’s rackety cart, when the neighbour came to the Saturday market. She brought her father clean laundry, food and news of the family. She would then remain in Pompeii for a few days while the neighbour consorted with his mistress; Marciana stayed with Larius’ landlady, not one of Pompeii’s grand entrepreneurs but a timid widow who lived in her own space on the ground floor, just across a courtyard from where Larius and Nonius slept upstairs.

His room was a dump so drab that Larius told his daughter she was not allowed there. For him it was merely a place to sleep, but if Ollia found out how bad it was, there would be ructions. Marciana understood. She never gave him away to her mother. The child bunked down with the widow, close enough for Larius to keep an eye on her; instinctively, even though she knew all about Nonius, she kept out of his sight. Marciana fed the old woman’s cats, sometimes fed the old lady, who was growing pathetic, then came to the site where she mixed paints and watched her father working. Learning, learning. When their neighbour from Herculaneum, Erodion, had had enough of screwing his secret ladylove, or when the bamboozled husband inconsiderately reappeared, Erodion jumped in his cart, returned to his own wife, and took the painter’s child back to her mother.

Marciana had a battered old basket that she carried to and fro with her. Her dolls poked out of it, a mixed collection made from terracotta, wood and rolled up rags; the rag doll had an arm missing, the wooden one was whittled for her by the other painter, Hylus. She hankered for a fully articulated ivory beauty, styled in the latest fashion; she knew such things existed, although they were too expensive. Every birthday and Saturnalia she hoped. A bright child, she knew it would never happen. Larius, who thought his children were heading for enough disappointments, was wise enough never to be drawn into a promise.

Marciana always had the cranky dolls tucked under an old, moth-eaten napkin in the basket as if they were lined up in bed. While travelling home in the neighbour’s cart, she kept the basket on her lap, solemnly talking to her dollies. Larius had been told their names often, though he forgot. It was hard enough remembering those of his own brood. Well, he knew, though not necessarily which name went with which child. Tough little tykes, they scoffed at him, accepting his vagueness yet perhaps storing up future resentment. You never loved me, you’re a terrible father, you couldn’t even be bothered to remember what my name was!

Hidden under her dolls in the basket were the wages Marciana took home for her family, after carefully deducting an allowance for her father. Nobody ever robbed her. Nonius, the dreadful sub-tenant, had no idea this gap-toothed little girl even existed, so that was how they thwarted him.

Marciana, very observant, had Nonius figured out as soon as she first saw him. ‘You’ll have to make sure that person doesn’t steal all your money, Father.’

‘Right!’

‘I shall take charge of it.’

Larius knew that the women in his family (except for his woefully useless mother) tended to take this line – though not normally at eight years old. He followed orders.

She was a good daughter. It was always a surprise to Larius that he, who could not be called a good father any more than his own was, somehow acquired this sensible, warm-hearted, talented, highly likeable child. And that she loved him.

He knew he did not deserve it. He could be too much like his own father. For instance, there was a gap of some years after Marciana and the first twins, before the second set. It happened when Larius accepted a call for trades to go overseas for a large prestigious building project in faraway Britannia. He was eighteen. At the time, they already had Marciana, and Ollia had just found out from the local wise woman that she was probably expecting a multiple birth next. Larius had matured, enough to see how he had trapped himself in misery, yet not enough to deal with it. Strife and fear for the future darkened his marriage. Good money was promised for the British adventure and he was feeling desperate. He had been working in the huge holiday villas of the very rich that lined the cliffs above Stabiae, fantasy palaces which only emphasised the squalor of his own life.

By then he knew his art. A good artist, who saw his talent, had trained him. Generously gave him chances. Pushed him forward to be noticed by clients. After four years, Larius was no longer an apprentice but an independent painter, specialising in exquisite miniature details. His pictures that would sit in the middle of panelled walls to draw the eye and stop the heart. On the strength of his skills, he was accepted for the fancy British job, which was financed by the new Emperor, Vespasian. He didn’t tell Ollia he was going. He just left a note.

‘How lucky I can read!’ she said grimly.

Larius claimed he needed to earn extra; in truth, he was going on the run from his wife, who knew it. Ollia feared he would never come back. It was a reasonable fear, because he himself dreamed of escape.

He worked abroad for a couple of years, telling himself he had got away. But the climate and provincial limitations of Britannia eventually made him homesick. The palace of King Togidubnus at Noviomagus was nearing completion so he was about to be laid off, then Larius had failed to organise himself to slip anyone the right bribes to obtain contracts on the new public buildings up in Londinium, the only other place in Britain offering work for an artist of his calibre. The south coast, his stamping ground, was becoming a tight spot for him. He had too many feuds with men he had drunkenly beaten up. Various women were after him. He came back to Italy.

He could have gone to Rome.

He should have done.

It was the terror of Ollia’s life that Larius would one day slide away to Rome, without her. Although they both had family there, neither kept up contact. Since they married he had never been back to his birthplace, because he knew that Ollia’s fears were correct; if he returned home, he would be permanently sucked in. Lovely Campania would see the last of him. He would never send for his wife and children; they would become ghosts to him. Larius would be subsumed into the hard drinking and hard living that made his father so repulsive, swamped by the demands of his extended family, taken over by the easy deceits and the fast bright hum of city life.

He was a loner here. It suited him.

On leaving Britain, the allure of the sea and the sunlit skies on this perfect bay drew him. Warmth, colour – and rich patrons wanting top quality décor. He returned to Ollia. It surprised them both. He stayed with her. Which was even more strange.

There were regular quarrels but even so, Larius suspected yet another birth was imminent. He had made things easier by installing his wife in rooms in Herculaneum, a town which was small and select and could be passed off as a good place to bring up children. He normally took jobs elsewhere. Close, but not too close. It stopped the squabbles. Since his return, he’d sobered up as far as he thought reasonable, took a grip on his life as far as he could be bothered. He accepted that what he wanted to do, all he wanted, was to paint.

The rest sometimes felt like a nightmare, but Larius conceded that the nightmare affected Ollia too. He was not blind to her situation. He was contrite, if not excessively. They got by. She believed he loved the children, which she thought must make him happy; ultimately true to her and to the infants they had foisted on the world, he himself never analysed his emotions. Happiness was a mental conceit; he dealt in spatial excellence. He loved the execution of his work and his power to provide pleasure even to strangers; that gave him an easy nonchalance. Within himself he was stable, relaxed, more or less content. Certainly he applied himself.

When things are troublesome, always remember,

keep an even mind, and in prosperity

be wary of too much happiness.

Horace.

A picture is a poem without words.

Horace again – maybe a bit fanciful to someone who actually produced pictures.

Larius knew other poets but had absorbed a lot of Horace. For instance, that quote his filthy subtenant Nonius would choose:

Money first; virtue after.

Larius had grown up, but he still read. Ollia no longer did. During their adolescent courtship, they had bonded through endless discussions of elegiac love poems. The intellectual aspect of Larius was what attracted her, so much that it enabled him to supplant Vitalis the fisherboy, at Oplontis, even though he could show off a fine naked chest, toned muscles, a slick shoelace moustache; he was a virile hunk who obviously knew what to do with his body – which Larius in those days, being fourteen and painfully shy, did not. However, Larius liked reading and thinking; Ollia had thought him so very sophisticated and romantic.

Now, Ollia said she had no time for poems. Presumably it saved her many bitter feelings.

For such a fine artist there would always be employment. At the moment, Larius had this contract for a big building complex close to Pompeii’s main street. Work had been going on here for several years. The residential spaces were empty, with the garden currently in use as a materials store, though a busy street restaurant still operated on one corner and a large integral bakery remained in operation – a positive bread factory, with four querns trundled round and round by half a dozen mules, at least when the querns were working. They were currently idle due to earthquake damage.

The decoration scheme was to be modern yet not completely ludicrous. Larius understood clients. These would not want the most traditional style, which merely consisted of representing in paint other materials, mainly marble; nor would they take to the over-the-top fantastic grotesquery popularised by Nero. ‘But Larius Lollius, what is this supposed to be?…’

Larius himself loved swirling and smearing colours to create mock-marble, but his designs had to meet the desires and prejudices of the persons who paid. Fair enough. His task was to win them over. Make them believe they chose what in fact he had chosen to give them. So he kept faux marbling for a private hobby, nor did he try to force-feed customers the very latest ideas, the kind of crazy perspectives that drove critics to apoplexy.

Larius, who enjoyed a bit of theory when he had time, did his research; he had chortled over that curmudgeonly old architect Vitruvius letting off steam:

images which were used by the ancients are now tastelessly laid aside: monsters are painted rather than natural objects. For columns, reeds are substituted; for pediments, the stalks, leaves, and tendrils of plants. Candelabra are made to support representations of buildings, from whose summits many stalks appear to spring, with absurd figures thereon… such forms never did, and never can exist in nature. These new fashions have taken over, until for lack of competent judges, true art is little esteemed…

Let it out, Vitruvius old man! Try not to burst a blood vessel.

When in doubt, centre a panel with a finch, pecking at a fig. Just too cute. ‘Oh Larius Lollius, the little bird’s adorable!’

There you are. No self-respecting craftsman listened to an architect. Painters and the other trades had all been treated to far too much waffle and nonsense, told too many times to rip out good work on a whim, denigrated in front of a client, blamed for faults that the fancy-arsed arrogant twerp with the note-boards had brought about through his own ignorance. How much better any site would run with a project manager who understood logistics: install a clean latrine, supply beakers of hot mulsum, voice respect for proper skill and experience, pay wages in full and on time – then let your painters do their stuff.

Simplicity, legate.

In the current house, he and his team were now working on a grand reception hall. Pompeii was overrun with guilds, religious cults and political schemers who wanted to control the place. Campanians were diligent plotters. All the best homes had a large, formal reception space where ambitious owners could hold court. A meeting place for the funeral club to get tipsy. A super setting for tasteful soirées where civic votes were rigged.

This saloon would be an impressive one. Other reception rooms had already been painted in white, Larius’ favourite colour-scheme, divided up into panels by the kind of dainty candelabra and ditsy flower garlands that made Vitruvius and others shit splenetic bricks. Each tapestry of elegant sections contained one dramatic black panel at the centre, within which was a scene of polychrome fine art. Larius painted those himself, small pictures of historical scenes, architecture or rocky country views. He was famous for his seascapes. He based them on what he saw here in the Bay. Figures were never problematic for him either.

The team had already had fun on this project. Next door in the bakery, they had turned out conventional still-lives of fish, floating figures with spears or flowers, and couples lightly intertwined as they danced on air. There were scenes of people glimpsed through doorways. Clients always liked fake doorways, with their hints of mystery. Hylus had painted a superb brightly-coloured cockerel pecking at a half-devoured pomegranate beneath a shelf of untouched fruit. Hylus was really shaping up these days; he must have a good career ahead of him.

Their best effort was a dining-room. Larius had taken the lead on that. Stuck awkwardly between a stable and the flour mills, the bakers hired out the room commercially to bring in extra cash. In keeping with its purpose, it now held witty scenes of banqueting. The women had been made to look as if they were hired-in professionals, though in one scene these caterers were not professional enough; a serving maid was tottering and having to be supported, drunk. Meanwhile one of the young male guests had collapsed on his couch. In another picture all the girls looked as sloshed as their men; one seemed unaware she was upending her winecup, though in fairness, although one of the males was raising a drinking horn with panache, his crony had fallen back on the couch with one arm dangling. He was very, very far out of it, assuming he could feel anything at this point of the night…

‘Wishful thinking!’ Pyris had chortled. The wide-eyed young trainee, a gullible boy, was in constant awe of the lives he believed his elders enjoyed, based on their wild boasts. He ought to have known better: he went around with them, so had seen for himself that the whole team had fairly restrained habits. After a hard day, they were too tired for debauchery. It was the plasterers who drank themselves silly and went at it like rabbits with as many women as they could get their hands on. Plasterers, according to painters, were utterly notorious.

Painters, according to plasterers, were worse.

‘All based on intensive research!’ Larius had answered Pyris, with an exaggerated wink. He deliberately made much of figuring in a nipple on one of the party-boys’ courtesans. Then Marciana brought him lunch, so he quickly had to pretend he was only touching up the goodtime girl’s diagonal garland.

Today the big room they were working on, being more formal, had lush red and gold panels rather than white, alternated with dramatic black. Half finished, the work was on schedule. They had reached Larius’s favourite task, the pictures; he loved this stage, beautifying a room as if it were hung with framed art. He was ready for the significant scene – a nice bit of mythology. Always proper in a public room.

He was all set up. He had lightly scribed a basic scheme, measured out with compasses. He had positioned his brushes. On the floor and on a scaffold for the higher work, he had stationed pigment pots of various sizes, each small enough to be held conveniently in the hand while he worked; the pigments were ready, with spatulas, water, and eggs and oil for binding. Marciana would come in and help him with that. He would work rapidly but thoughtfully, changing pots unhurriedly, then painting with fast, sure brush strokes.

He had been about to start when his daughter called him.

As soon as he saw what was happening to the mountain, he thought dryly that the mythical painting was done for. Myth was occurring here. No one alive had experience of such natural force, so Larius could not have predicted that the biggest event in Campania for a thousand years was about to happen. But he was bright, and sensitive to what he saw. Foreboding struck him at once.

Jupiter. Jupiter and all the gods in the Pantheon.

A column of debris was being pushed up into the sky above Vesuvius, higher and higher, at enormous speed. Incalculable to those on the ground, masses of it hurtled up for miles. Eventually the dense pillar broadened out at the top, disseminating like the branches of a stone pine or the cap of a gigantic mushroom. Pulsating clouds of fiery material writhed like the steaming entrails of some huge beast when its belly was slashed open in the arena.

All that crud is going to come down on us, thought Larius.

He lifted his face. The wind was blowing this way. Pompeii was what, five miles from Vesuvius? The choking clouds would land here.

He tugged Marciana’s hand. ‘We have to leave, chuck. We must get away.’ She looked up at him, verifying his decision. ‘Trust me,’ he said. Trust Father. Even though he’s terrified.

She nodded. ‘How can we go?’

‘I’ll find Erodion and his cart.’

Then, before he could stop her, Marciana snatched her hand from his grasp and was off up the street. ‘Dollies!’

‘Stay at the widow’s. I’ll come and get you!’ yelled Larius. It would take time to rootle out their lugubrious neighbour from his Pompeian mistress’ bower, in order to persuade him to produce the cart unscheduled. Erodion was not known for rallying in emergencies. His wife handled any crises.

Larius strode back indoors. Standing in consternation, the lads looked to him to say what was up; they had heard the stunning explosion but were scared to go and look.

‘Drop everything. Just leave it. Shit on a stick; this is a big one.’

Conscientious, they still stood, unsure. Hylus could not help letting his eyes go to the main panel, gauging the state of the plaster. Young Pyris quavered, ‘What about the client?’

‘Let me square it with the client. Don’t bother with your stuff. Get going; save yourselves, lads, before it’s too late.’

Their stuff was here; they slept on site. Larius telling them to abandon their things made them jump to. This was serious. They put down their pots and brushes. Even Three Coats began struggling down from the scaffold; his joints were swollen and crippled, so he had to take it gingerly. He knocked a whole bucket of slopping wet plaster all down the newly painted wall but Larius, who would normally have been enraged, gestured to forget it and just get moving.

They could run for the port. A boat would take them off, assuming there were any boats. Hylus grabbed money for fares or bribes. Or they could head out of town, inland, putting distance between themselves and the coming catastrophe. It would be all right. They had enough time. Even if Larius couldn’t find Erodion and the cart, so had to travel with his daughter at her little legs’ pace, all of them at that moment still had time to escape.

Chapter 4

Nonius properly wakes up and grasps what wonders this may bring for him.

Slowly it dawned on Nonius that the street noises were unusual.

He must have dozed off after his first awakening and could not tell how long had passed. Had he slept through another bloody big earthquake? Six hundred sheep slaughtered in the fields by poisonous gases? Upper floors of houses damaged so badly they would simply be bricked up and never used again? Temples tottering, granaries groaning, columns smashing down in pieces? Some buildings destroyed so completely they had to be demolished and their plots given over to agriculture? People killed?

Hades, it had better not be any of the clients he had carefully sweetened up for his financial projects! Don’t say his efforts had been for nothing. Nonius hated waste.

He jumped out of bed.

Sudden motion was an error. He sat back down on the mattress edge, allowing his sore head to normalise before he stirred again. Once the room slowly stopped spinning, he found last night’s tunic, his scruffy one, which was scrubbled up on the floor where he had dropped it. He pulled on the garment, automatically straightening the folds to hang well. He was so vain, he stayed to comb his hair. Too befuddled to find his nitcomb, he used the painter’s. When he had finished, instead of putting it back on Larius’s small bedside tray, Nonius dropped it into his own luggage pack.

Only then did he finally drag himself down the steps into the street outside. As he opened the door, the light beyond seemed hazy. Nonius coughed. People were walking or running downhill towards the port. There was constant movement through the streets, like when the amphitheatre disgorged its audience after the games and everyone went home at once. Hundreds of people were flowing in one direction, purposefully. Some carried bundles, some hoisted small children on their shoulders so they could move faster. He saw wheel-barrows, piled with household goods. There were cries of alarm, even screams of panic. But most walked as fast as they could in grim silence.

A pattering sound was everywhere, a sound like heavy rain in a Mediterranean storm. It was unceasing and regular, though occasionally broken by a loud crack. When Nonius ventured over the threshold, he jumped back, exclaiming. Bloody hell, it hurt! Small pebbles, like hail but harder, were showering from a darkening sky. There were gusts of a really bad smell.

Nonius, who was still woozy, took his time to gather what was going on. The rain of stones, ash-coloured, cinder-like, stinging and biting, filled the air. He wanted to hide, to cover up bare skin, to duck his head, to flee back indoors. But even half asleep, Nonius soon saw that sheltering was not for him.

Seeing his puzzlement, someone named the mountain. ‘Vesuvius!’ Vesuvius had blown up? Jupiter Best and Greatest.

He had to be out. He had things to do. He would be extremely busy. This was his great chance. The foolish people of Pompeii were leaving their homes. Stupidly or not, they believed it was a temporary evacuation, after which they would come back. So they left most of their possessions behind.

Let them flee. Flight was for fools. Not Nonius.

He understood at last. Fabulous. For him, this was the best opportunity ever.

Bracing himself, Nonius went out into those streets, where anxious escapees were following each other full of uncertainty, whereas he was full of purpose. Trying to dodge the battering lapilli, the crowd hurried frantically yet seemed to have little idea where they were going. Wailing and selfishly trying to save themselves, while getting in his way, people had no idea. Nonius had to use his chance. Some wore cushions tied on their heads, or were huddled in cloaks, too muffled up and much too scared to see where they were running – and nor did they notice what Nonius was doing. As if he had been born for it, Nonius was making the most of this situation. He worked with joy in his heart.

A middle-aged woman was struggling with her doorlock. ‘Oh madam, let me help with that!’ insisted Nonius, shoving her on her way in a fluster, while palming her latch lifter.

A man left his keys in their usual hiding place, under a plant pot. Nonius observed. After the householder scurried off, Nonius retrieved them.

A pregnant woman had trouble carrying treasured possessions; Nonius offered to help her, seized the bag manfully – then vanished in the gloom.

A slave who had been left behind to guard a place, answered the door to Nonius’ urgent knocking. He sounded official. ‘You have to get out! Everyone has to leave now. Don’t stop for anything, run for it!’

Soon he was madly gathering silver dinnerwares, bronze household gods, gladiator figurines, coins, male and female jewelry. Glass was too fragile, more’s the pity. Bankboxes were beyond him to force, he was in too much of a hurry and had no strong tools; cupboard doors eventually gave way.

A young female slave who had been hiding in a backroom came to investigate the noise. She had the bad luck to run into Nonius, to his delight. Already terrified by the eruption, she could not escape. ‘Well, hello there, darling!’ Her lucky day.

It wasn’t rape.

Rapists always say that though.

She really wanted it. She was a slut, a slave, she made me do it. She shouldn’t have screamed. She was screaming because she enjoyed it. She knew I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t rape.

Hades. This was the most exciting event in this town. Nonius was more thrilled than he had ever been. The spoils were his. All of it, everything. What else could anyone expect?

Chapter 5

In Herculaneum, the painter’s wife attempts to cope.

It was one of the twins who first noticed that something was happening. Varius, the two-year-old boy, had gone out of doors, crying, after being told for the umpteenth time he could not have any more nut-custard, because there was no more. There would be none until Marciana brought money home, whenever that would be. Ollia was reasonably certain Larius would send something, yet since he had once absconded without warning, she never felt entirely secure. She kept an old cooking pot of coins, buried in the garden, a bit of money collected in better times and hoarded, in case she was suddenly destitute.

Those had been hard years for her, when Larius was in Britain. On her own, she’d had to scrape a living. When she could, she took in other people’s children to mind, but most folk around here had families for that. She did mending. Some women spun wool, a Campanian cottage industry but Ollia, who grew up in Rome, had never been taught. Patching tunics or strengthening their necks where seams often tore was tedious and only brought in a pittance.

In summer she could get horrible temporary work serving in a bar, or helping out in kitchens as extra banquet staff when the rich descended on their holiday homes, but then she had to find somewhere to park her own infants, who resented it and played up. She hated having to plead, the risk of being fondled by men she despised, the hostility from others who were equally desperate for the work. She missed her children.

Larius did return, with money, but then she had to fight down her anger against him. He wasn’t naïve; he must have realised, when he left, what his absence would mean. Ollia had been furious. When he turned up again, she could so easily have sent him packing, but she had to think about their children. She had to pretend.

Things were better now. She was here while most of the time he worked away in Pompeii, but they counted themselves a family. In some marriages separation is a good idea. Larius had always been a one for ideas. Their children, who only saw him when he came jauntily bearing presents, adored him, never understanding his faults. They saw their mother all the time and each one had her measure, so her role was more difficult. Plus the struggle to look after them was every day and unrelenting.

Angrily she called Varius back. Screaming no, he ran to hide. She left him to it.

He was more of a handful than any of her others, a defiant little tyrant, but she knew where he would be. He always crawled into the hencoop. He would come to no harm there. When enough time had passed for him to calm down and start to feel he was missing things, Ollia would waddle out to fetch him. She and her toddler would have a little chat as usual – he smelling of poultry shit, whimpering and hiccupping, while she too settled down as she cuddled him. She would sigh, and maybe shed a tear or two herself. Holding her hand, he would then come indoors meekly.

She was tired. It was still barely noon, yet she felt she had been on her feet all day. Sultry weather was not helping. She knew she was expecting again. If it was more twins, she would kill herself. Maybe she needn’t bother: nature would do it. Her mother had carried triplets once. They all died in the birth, including her mother.

No, it mustn’t happen to her. Somebody had to look after these. She had to take care of herself, make sure she was always here for them.

She liked children, fortunately. Hers, with their dark curls and attractive features, were generally a pleasure. They had good times together, at least when there was enough to eat and none of them were sickly. If Ollia had to choose the memory she most cherished, she would pick a lazy day when she took them along the coast to Oplontis for a picnic, sat on the beach there, gazing out to sea. In her mind, this scene took place when Larius was away. It was just her and them. One child lolling against her, the others playing quietly. The blue of the sea meeting the uniform blue of the Neapolis sky, while the hot sun made everyone drowsy. The scent of newly landed octopus cooking on skewers over a fire right there on the shore at sunset. Friends she had known since before she was married, who treated her like family.

The fisherman, Vitalis, her old flame.

Would he have been a better choice? It was too late now, and Ollia had enough folk wisdom to know you should never waste time on regret, not for a man. Well, bloody hell, Ollia; not that one!

Vitalis had never married. A fool might imagine the bronzed, muscular lump was pining for her, but Ollia was too wise to think it. More likely he remained alone because other girls had been wary of his roving eye and, let’s face it, his laziness. When his father and then his uncle died, he took over their fishing boat but he never changed. It was a hard life, so not ideal for Vitalis. He would never put himself out unless he had to, yet he seemed surprised when he then did badly.

Ollia was not surprised at all. Long ago she had palled up with his mother, two wise women shaking their heads over him.

When Larius left her that time, when he went off to Britain without saying a word, Ollia could have had her chance with the fisherboy, She was too taken up with little Marciana and her newborn twins, so she never did anything about it. Nor did Vitalis. His inaction was not due to respect for her married status, nor fear of the burden of children, but just because Vitalis never did anything about anything.

That was life. She knew to this day that Larius might well have stayed away, so she would really have been stuck. But the fisherboy was no better.

Larius did come back, though he was rarely here with her. But since then, he sent money almost every week; Marciana brought it, and there was plenty. Figure painters were well paid.

One thing you had to say for him, Larius worked hard. He loved to paint. He loved that more than he loved Ollia and the little ones, she had to accept it. But this was probably how it would be now, this was probably permanent. To drive him away entirely she would have to make his life very miserable indeed, so she would not do that; it was tempting to nag when they came together, but she resisted. They would survive somehow. And Ollia felt safe that she was no longer alone; in any real emergency, Larius would come to help.

Varius was a child who looked around him, hoping for an excuse to yell his head off in exaggerated terror or disgust. Today he noticed Vesuvius looked peculiar, so after a second of bafflement, he began screaming. As she went out to her little boy and saw what was happening to the mountain, Ollia’s first thought was Larius. He would come for them, he would tell her what to do.

One of her neighbours called out, hurrying away. ‘Have you seen it? We are all leaving, Ollia. Grab your tots and come along with us.’

She was grateful for the offer. But Ollia, wife of Larius the painter, gazed at Mount Vesuvius as it spewed a plug of ash from the depths of the earth and sent clouds of fine material flittering all around the peak, and said no, no thank you. She had to wait here until her husband came, because he would need to know where to find them.

The first emission looked like forest fires smouldering on the side of the mountain. That continued for some time, covering the peak entirely. Ollia went out to watch occasionally as she tidied up after giving the children lunch. Then came a huge noise as if all of Campania was breaking apart, so she ran out of doors again, and witnessed the beginning of the first big eruption. Horrified, she watched a massive column of molten rock and gas climbing ever higher from the peak, desperately close to Herculaneum. The pulsating cloud was grey, with lighter and darker parts as different materials were thrown up. She noticed fires on the mountain itself, then bursts of flame amongst the rising column and flashes like lightning in the dark clouds that were reaching into the sky. The very air felt hot on her face; it seemed to reek of poison.

It was ten miles for Larius to come, even if his journey was not impeded. Logistics were not Ollia’s strength. She did not immediately grasp that to reach his family he would have to travel up the coast road through Oplontis, approaching much closer to this vigorous new volcano. Larius, who had their eldest daughter with him, would want to find safety – and, for him, that lay in the opposite direction.

Chapter 6

People begin to make their escape if they can.

The painters Hylus and Pyris, accompanied by Three Coats the plasterer, reached the harbour outside the Marine Gate. In a tight group, with plenty of attitude, they were able to push their way through the other fugitives. In the terrible gloom, people were losing each other. Friends and family called out in panic.

‘Ione!’

‘Glaucus!’

‘Bloody Greeks,’ muttered Hylus as he tripped over a young girl who seemed to be blind; grasping her by the shoulders, he set her facing the right way but then left her.

At the shore, ships owned by wealthy men had been laden, ready to transport them and their possessions to safety; they might take others on board if their crews were decent and had room. However, these vessels were all trapped, prevented from launching by a strong onshore wind. The sea was whipped up unusually. Further out, the painters could see a small number of boats heading into the coast in a rescue attempt, including one large military trireme that must have been sent from the naval base at Misenum. These were held up for another reason: when pumice from the eruption landed in the sea, it floated. Pieces started small. However, they cooled rapidly once they hit water, then welded together into large solid plates of debris. Awkward bobbing barriers crowded the shallows. Chunks of this crud blocked inbound shipping. While the men watched, even the oared trireme gave up and veered away, heading instead for Stabiae. For the crowds who had hurried to the shore in hope, escape by sea looked impossible.

Hylus and Pyris glanced at each other. After summing up the chaotic harbour scene, they did not hesitate. Others were milling about the moorings indecisively, but the painters set off on foot at once, turning south towards the River Sarno which they would cross, away from the town and its turbulent mountain. The constantly increasing layer of ash was making it difficult to walk. They were already wading through it, hot between the open toes of their work boots. The coating of fine cinders on buildings and roads was rising steadily so the two painters, with their professional knowledge of physical materials, understood their situation was highly dangerous. They needed to travel fast.

Three Coats, who like so many old workers was very severely crippled, had told them to go on ahead and leave him. If and when Larius came by in transport, the plasterer could rely on being picked up. Hylus and Pyris felt some uncertainty, but let themselves be persuaded. That was how it was that day: no time for debate. Every man for himself. In their hearts they knew that if Three Coats had been a painter they would probably have carried him, but all the prejudices of their trade worked against him now.

He had been the butt of secret jokes for a long time. Like many, years of heavy work had brought arthritis on him; his was much worse than normal wear and tear. He was bent over, hook-backed, his lower limbs twisted. He walked only with a painful hitch and roll. How he managed to do his work at all was a miracle, yet somehow he scraped together the energy and will. The other plasterers had left him with the painters to relieve themselves of the responsibility, then they went off to another job.

He was still a good plasterer, though agonisingly slow. Larius had tolerated his frailty, knowing the elderly man had no other way to make a living. His team looked sideways at Larius sometimes, wondering if the time had come for him to tell the project manager to hire a faster worker, one who would be safe on ladders. So far Larius had never broached it. Instead he carried buckets for Three Coats, sometimes even hauled the disabled old man himself up a scaffold, pretending it was horseplay.

Three Coats normally liked to pretend he was no different from anybody else. But today he knew his failings had finally caught up with him. He could not walk through the ash that lay in a deep fluid carpet like soft blizzard snow. He had to watch Hylus and Pyris set off through the knee-high sludge, in gathering murk, heading down the coast road towards the Surrentum peninsular. They would have the choice of turning inland or moving along the far side of the bay. Resigned, Three Coats stayed at the Marine Gate. There were arched tunnels, a high central entrance for vehicles with two lower ones for pedestrians. He sat down on a stone bench outside one of the pedestrian arches, waiting for Larius to come along and give him the lift he so badly needed.

Larius never came. Hindered by his physical condition, the plasterer would make it no further.

Chapter 7

Erodion, his mistress, her husband, his horse and his fate.

Larius found his neighbour from Herculaneum, Erodion, at the house where, he knew, Erodion stayed with a fruiterer’s wife if the fruiterer was away. Tending his orchards, presumably, while somebody else was gaily plundering his plums.

She was a buxom piece, that Nymphe, shameless and up for mischief. She kept her house nice and herself smart. Fashionable hair. An air of understated bossiness that feeble men like Erodion found swimmingly attractive. Popular in the neighbourhood, Nymphe had her own style and was comfortable with it. She was also, it suddenly transpired, pregnant.

This had come as a big surprise to Erodion, whose wife in Herculaneum, Salvia, had never given them children despite his vigorous attempts to fertilise her. He thought offspring would give Salvia an interest – that is (so the idiot imagined), she would then be too busy to question what he got up to on his trips, suspiciously sniffing his clothes for strange perfumes, interrogating Larius and Marciana, generally nagging in a wifely way. He was a pain, and Salvia knew it.

Erodion reckoned himself an expert in wives and their ways, due to his frequent observation of two of them. One his, one not. This allowed him to be both personally prejudiced and entirely disinterested when he discussed women. He ran the full gamut of misogynist thought. He enjoyed holding forth, imposing his opinion on others in a merciless, dolorous way. On anyone who put up with it, at least; Larius tended to give him the elbow once he started.

Erodion was a market gardener so he prospered. Campania, with its famous three or four harvests a year, had the most fertile soil and the best climate in Italy. His leeks and cabbages were stupendous, his onions exquisite, his artichokes and asparagus made eaters weep with pleasure. Whenever Erodion came to market in Pompeii – when I’m allowed out of the house, he would mutter bitterly; when the sly worm wriggles off, his wife would say – he went home afterwards with enough money to allay her curiosity, even after he had provided lavish presents for his mistress. Salvia received smaller, fewer presents than the fruiterer’s wife – except a pair of superb snake bracelets, which became hers the time Erodion accidentally mixed up his parcels. Nymphe’s loss, that week.

Even when he came up with the right gift, it was hard to know what Nymphe saw in him, for he was a lax-bellied, big-headed, puffy-faced swine with swollen legs and a pointy nose. It could be she had her own problems. That the fruiterer, Rufius, was so often away himself suggested to Larius that he might be embroiled with someone else’s wife at Nucera or Capua, venues to which Rufius assured Nymphe he must journey frequently to dispose of his own juicy produce in their markets. Since the complex arrangement apparently kept them all happy – Erodion, Nymphe, Rufius, Salvia (well, maybe not Salvia) – Larius merely smiled over it to himself and never commented.

Larius might have laughed about it with Ollia, who of course knew Erodion and the badly neglected Salvia in Herculaneum, but he had not discussed their neighbour’s behaviour lest it gave Ollia ideas about what he, Larius, might be getting up to while he was working away in Pompeii. Why invite trouble? Domestic distrust would be all the more unfair, given that Larius never got up to anything.

Well, pretty well never. And if he did, it was not important.

He knew where Erodion’s lovenest was, so he hastened there, knocked loudly, pushed past a slave who opened up; talking tough, Larius demanded that his neighbour come out at once and hitch up the cart so they could leave town. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to pinch your horse, Erodion!’ It was a knock-kneed, foul-breathed ancient beast; Larius wished Erodion had stopped wasting his money on Nymphe and bought a better one.

But there was chaos in the fruiterer’s house. When Vesuvius blew, Erodion had offered to take Nymphe to safety, Larius discovered; but she’d refused to travel. He’d been gallantly insistent, but she’d cut him off and stated why: she was expecting. Running away from the explosion wasn’t an option.

Erodion innocently assumed the baby was his. Some men would run from such a predicament. Erodion, it turned out, was the kind of reckless sentimentalist who immediately wanted to desert his legitimate wife; he took the instant decision to acknowledge this child, unborn though it was, with Nymphe barely showing yet, and that he, she and their little one should live in bliss.

Nymphe wailed aloud at this terrible idea. Erodion beat his head in frustration that she could not see what was being offered – not merely escape but the subsequent bliss. Neither of the lovers was paying real attention to the erupting volcano, too close for comfort.

Actually, Larius, the father of five if not six, reckoned Nymphe’s condition was obvious. He was astounded Erodion had not noticed before. As for bliss, in Larius’ experience that was a myth, and not the kind of myth he could paint.

Plunged into this daft scenario, thinking fast, Larius suggested that Erodion might be wise to wait before busting up two homes – or even three, if the fruiterer also had a complicated relationship in Nucera or Capua, some fraught affair which might be altered by his dutifully taking on his wife’s baby. Also, said Larius as wisely as if he had in truth been there for the births of those twins, pregnancy involves many dangers and uncertainties; besides, he pointed out, unless Nymphe and her husband had never engaged in intercourse there was no way to be sure who had given her a child. Rufius might genuinely be the one with rights.

No use. Whether from honest good-heartedness or a paternalistic desire for possession of what he saw as his goods, Erodion was still laying claim to this foetus that, a few beats of time before, he had not known about.

‘Stop being an idiot, Erodion. Just get lost,’ said Nymphe. Clearly she was a practical woman. Nymphe had flair. Larius wondered if his neighbour wasn’t the only lover she had been stringing along when her husband went to market.

Erodion was about to burst with stress when a voice – the fruiterer, Larius assumed – was heard at the front door, loudly calling to Nymphe. He must have returned from fruit-selling and fornication (if he did that) and when he saw Vesuvius erupt, he rushed to his house to comfort his expectant wife. ‘I am here; love. You are all right now!’

He had a deep voice, that of a burly man. He sounded forceful. Larius, a veteran bar-brawler when young, judged that Erodion was about to be laid out cold.

If he had come home quietly, Rufius could well have marched in to find an agitated stranger needing to be punched in the teeth. Nymphe, however, seized the moment while Rufius (a well-trained beast domestically) was bent over on the threshhold, taking off his outdoor shoes. He had to beat the soles together to knock off cinders, which fortunately delayed him.

Nymphe opted for Rufius like a loyal wife, or at least one who knew that husbands who follow house-rules are to be treasured. She ordered Erodion to exit by the back way – and get out fast. To make sure, she kicked him from behind, while Larius pulled him from in front. She slammed the door after them and they heard her cooing, ‘O Rufius, I am so glad you’ve come, I am so frightened!’

‘Two-timing bitch!’ snarled Erodion. That was no way to speak of the mother of his child, if it was his, but Larius kept mum.

Other things were on his mind. Now he could haul his sullen neighbour away to prepare the cart for urgent travel. As they whipped up the tetchy old horse to go and collect Marciana, Larius decided to take the reins. Erodion sat sunk in gloom. His life had changed. He had lost his lover, been deprived of his unborn heir; life was brutal, fate was cruel…

‘Erodion, we have worse changes ahead! The whole bloody world’s exploding. We may be going to die today. Shut up, will you?’

‘You’re heartless. I’ve lost everything!’

‘Don’t be daft, you still have Salvia.’

Not the right answer. ‘Barren bitch.’

‘Bollocks, she’s a perfectly nice woman.’

That was debateable, for Salvia possessed a sharp tongue (she needed it), but Larius had his hands full trying to forge a passage down a narrow street against an oncoming tide of people, while the ever-descending lava fragments were darkening the world to near-impenetrable gloom. Nevertheless, since he was philosophical, he could not help reflecting.

Many a tricky situation would be exposed today. Not the duplicity of Nymphe and Erodion perhaps, though that had been close: Rufius could so easily have rushed in to find his wife, wearing fancy ear-rings that he had not bought for her, enjoying a light lunch with a strange man, who was so much at home he had brought his own comfortable house slippers. The small staff of slaves would have been disloyally hoping they could watch the post-prandial gropes. Probably the intruder would have been gulping up his egg salad from the favourite bowl of Rufius…

Narrow escape. Let’s hope we can all manage another one and get out of Pompeii.

They passed the house where Larius had been working. He jumped down, ran indoors and picked up his set of best brushes. These were British badger and squirrel hair, lovingly cleaned and cared for, each marked with his initials on the stock. Tools of his trade. The one thing you save. All over Pompeii doctors were catching up surgical instruments, surveyors were packing their measuring equipment in custom-designed satchels, priests were running away from temples with valuable objects of obscure religious design. Votive bowls were flitting mysteriously all over town.

Coming out, Larius nodded to the baker, who was standing on his doorstep looking impatient. His was the largest bread-making firm in Pompeii. He seemed to be alone now; he must have despatched his staff, slaves and freeborn, to safety. ‘Aren’t you leaving?’

‘Got a piglet and a bird half done on the cooking fire.’ The man shook himself so clouds of flour dust flew off him, mingled with fallen ash that he had acquired from standing outside among the volcanic lapilli. He coughed.

‘Madness!’ called Larius, back on the cart. ‘Forget lunch. Don’t expect us to help you eat it, not today! You need to leave.’ He had worked for this man; they had a good relationship.

There was nobody at the street bar on the corner, except his ghastly subtenant, Nonius. Nonius was working his way along all the beakers of wine that customers had abandoned half-full on the crazy-paved marble counters. He was so busy emptying saucers of olives and washing them down, he did not see Larius, who made no attempt to call out.

At the widow’s house, he turned the cart with some difficulty so it would be ready for their flight, and left Erodion in charge of it.

He ran indoors, calling for his daughter and the widow, his frail landlady, whom in kindness he intended to bring along with them. He found Marciana in a state of tearful panic. ‘She won’t leave without her cats!’

‘Oh hell. She must, chuck. It’s not safe to stay.’

The timorous old woman appeared, then began wailing. Once, she had been respectable. These days, she looked like a hag in a cave from some legend: wild strands of hair, mad eyes, a dirty tunic that she never changed, hands like claws; yet ultimately pitiful. Larius agreed to have a quick look for her pets, so with a muffled curse he started searching. He felt a professional obligation; he had drawn them from life a couple of times, since cats prowling after birds were a popular motif.

The garden was filling up with deposits; lapilli were finding their way in through open windows, ash even working under closed doors. No doubt agitated by the eruption, the damned cats were nowhere to be found. Soon Larius abandoned that crazy quest, then ran outside, back to the street with his heart bumping; breathlessly, he climbed upstairs to his room to fetch an old cloak in which to wrap up his daughter to protect her from the falling missiles. On the way he noticed several sacks of goods, a candelabra sticking out of one, which he knew must be treasure stolen from houses by his unscrupulous subtenant.

While Larius was back inside the widow’s apartment, collecting Marciana and failing to persuade the old woman to flee with them, Nonius came along the street.

He was here to pick up his plunder, pondering how he could possibly transport it. When he saw the cart outside, he thanked the gods, even though they had inconsiderately left him with a problem: what to do about Erodion? Oblivious, Erodion was still perched on the driving plank, where Larius had left him. He had the reins in his limp hands, bitterly sunk in his misery at the faithlessness of Nymphe. All around him fell the endless shower of lava, now in much larger fragments.

The widow’s house needed maintenance more than it had showed. With the weight of fallen cinders, its roof began to creak; rafter batons bowed, on the verge of failing; a loose tile slipped and fell. This heavy terracotta pantile smashed down on Erodion, gashing his head open. As he started from his trance at last, bemused by being struck so painfully, he tried to staunch the pouring blood.

Nonius picked up the heavy tile from the road. He jumped up on the cart. There, he smote the woozy market gardener again and again, holding the rooftile two-handed to batter his skull, until his victim stopped moving.

It was irrelevant now whether Erodion had fathered Nymphe’s baby. Nonius had killed him.

Nonius heaved the lifeless body off the cart, then quickly fetched his sacks of treasure and drove off. When Larius came out of the house with his daughter, who was carrying her precious basket, they saw their neighbour lying in the street. Erodion was already partly buried by a thin blanket of pumice. A pantile covered with brains lay beside his corpse.

‘He is dead,’ Marciana pronounced, hard of heart. ‘Don’t cry, dollies; he’s no loss!’ Larius had been dithering but he stopped and gazed down at her. He loved her at this age: old enough to be cheeky, though still young enough to sometimes need him. The cart they were relying on to save them had vanished yet she seemed insouciant. ‘Someone took the horsey. They won’t get far.’ Of her own accord, Marciana spun away quickly inside the house, returning without her basket. ‘Less to carry. Maybe we can come back for them… So, Father, the old lady is hiding in her pantry. It’s just you and me – time for us to get out of here!’

Chapter 8

Ollia acts.

Slowly, slowly, the painter’s wife reached her decision. She recognised that she must not rely on Larius. She had to deal with this herself.

In Herculaneum, they did not have, or not yet, the constant fall of pumice that had been landing further south. With the wind still blowing away from them, only a light covering of ash lay here. But there was alarming geological activity, with swirling clouds of noxious gas and violent underground shudders, accompanied by constant loud noises. Ollia had always hated earthquakes. This was more extreme than anything she had ever known; it made buildings sway and threaten to come crashing down. Vesuvius was in such flux that the mountain itself was re-shaping, while the land heaved under huge pressures. Although the sky-high column of debris still held up in its enormous cloud, Ollia became terrified.

The noises were unearthly. When they lessened, her neighbourhood had an eerie quiet. Most people had left. Only invalids, the old, or the very pregnant had remained this long in their houses. Even they, if they could, had begun shuffling slowly to what they prayed was safety. Very soon the whole town would be empty. Ollia must go too.

Her sudden sense of isolation scared her. Normally people were working, singing, chattering. Wheels creaked. Donkey bells rang. In this unsettling absence of daily clamour, her few chickens in the yard that passed for a garden were audibly agitated. With the children’s help she collected her anxiously fluttering hens, penning them in the coop. While she was outside, she dug up her cache of emergency coins. Dealing with this gave her a last chance to consider what to do. In Herculaneum that day, a woman with small children and no transport had few options.

She put an amulet on each child to avert the evil eye. Subdued, they complied.

‘You may take one toy each. Varius, I said one; bring your chariot. That’s your favourite.’ Though innately disobedient, Varius clutched his miniature quadriga, with its mad-eyed driver; it had moving wheels, well sort of, though Ollia often had to fiddle with eyebrow tweezers to get them to go again for him, when they seized up. Lolliana and Galliana had collected a doll each; Ollia was a conventional mother. Lolliana really yearned for a toy sword but Ollia had pooh-poohed that. Ollius brought his pottery pig moneybox. He liked to persuade his siblings to put any coppers they had into his box through the slot, then would not let them have their money back. The family all joked he would grow up to be a banker.

‘Now everyone use the potty.’

‘Everyone use the potty,’ they mimicked, though without malice. ‘Tinkle, tinkle!’ Chorusing Mother’s instructions had become a new routine lately. When they went on an expedition it was a joke they enjoyed, including Ollia in their glee. To look after this large group of children, she had to be organised; they accepted her methods, were even proud of how she managed.

Now she tried not to let them see how fraught she felt, while they pretended not to notice, which was their way of helping. They lined up and weed as much as they could. She gave each a kiss for being good. Then Ollia took the younger twins each by the hand, while the elder twins went on the outside, grasping their younger siblings’ free fists.

‘Stay together.’

‘Stay together!’

‘Are we going to the seaside?’ For them that meant Oplontis.

‘Wait and see. It’s a surprise.’

How true. She had no idea where they should go. To safety – but where was safe?

Automatically, Ollia set out in the direction she had seen her neighbours hurrying earlier, which was downhill along one of the main roads, towards the shore. Escape by boat. That made her nervous, for even after living near the ocean for almost a decade, Ollia could not swim, nor could these children. Larius, whose oarsman father on the Tiber in Rome had long ago taught him, was himself teaching Marciana, but he never saw enough of the others; he promised, but it never happened. Ollia wouldn’t let them go on boats, except the fishing smack owned by Vitalis when it was safely hauled up on dry land.

By now only a scatter of fugitives still made their way along the streets. She glimpsed a few dark figures down side alleys, but the place was ghostly. The civic area lay behind her, the basilica and theatre. They passed through pleasant residential parts of this well-ordered town, until they reached the area where rich people had commandeered the seaward approach for enormous coastal residences, fabulous second homes with swimming pools, libraries, breezy terraces to walk on while gazing out at grand views. Below those high-end resort properties, a row of vaulted sheds had been hacked into the cliff, sometimes used for laid-up boats, sometimes for storage. Ollia and her now frightened group of infants ended up among a crowd there.

She had done the right thing, clearly. She had chosen what hundreds of others also thought best. Nobody could criticise her. Mothers are so often afraid of being blamed.

Someone said the fishing fleet had gone out at dawn and not returned, but other boats were coming. It was unclear where this information originated, though for the desperate it had a ring of truth. Standing at the choppy water’s edge they looked out to sea and wanted to believe.

Tension was high, yet people stood there patiently. Everyone was frightened, but they did not know what else to do. They would wait to be rescued, and if no boats came by nightfall, they would all shelter in the boatsheds.

A fishing smack rocked in. It was empty, no catch today from those teeming waters. The man said shoals of fish were floating out in the bay, all dead, as if the sea had poisoned them.

The crowd surged forwards, but the fisherman waved an oar aggressively so they pulled back. He took off a small group, people he knew, though when he plied the oars again his boatload seemed to lack direction, he himself rowing with an air of hopelessness.

Herculaneum grew dark very early, and it was very dark indeed. All afternoon people stood waiting, in a kind of ghastly twilight. Nobody spoke much. Behind the town, loud terrible sounds continued from deep within the earth, which seemed no longer solid but boiling. As the mountain kept hurling molten rocks and ash ever skywards, people eventually began to move under cover.

‘When can we go home?’ pleaded a sad, scared child.

‘Not yet,’ said Ollia. She did not know that they might as well have done.

Chapter 9

Larius and his daughter fleeing.

Earth tremors shook Pompeii too, with noise and clouds of sulphur. The ash lay so deep, Marciana was tiring by the minute; she had no hope of wading far through the filthy material, which had landed in such quantities that roads showed only as dips, making the mounded walkways featureless deathtraps. The famous Pompeii stepping-stones, the bollards protecting fountains and altars, the worn ruts in the road surface now lay treacherously buried.

Ash and small lapilli kept falling. Doorways were blocked. Balconies held piles of the grey-white stuff. Some frightening alteration meant the debris shower now contained larger lumps of rock. These cinders were three times as big as when the eruption started, and they felt hotter. Larius saw someone struck so hard they fell and could not continue. A child might be killed outright. He was afraid he would be killed and his child left to fend for herself in this nightmare.

The terrible darkness was increasing. Ash coated them so they felt sticky with it, tasting grit, breathing in particles that clogged their lungs. Every few moments they had to shake themselves, to ease their clothes.

This was not going to work. Nobody who tried to escape on foot would make it. They had left it too late. They had too far to go.

Larius started considering whether to take shelter and simply wait for the emissions to finish. He did not like the idea.

They reached the house with the bakery; the baker was just coming out, bringing a panniered donkey. He was about to lock in his others. They were valuable animals. He used them to turn the flour mills or for deliveries. He still imagined he was coming back, to continue with his thriving business.

Frantic, Larius caught at his tunic sleeve. ‘Lend me one! I’ll pay for it. I’ll give you anything…’ He gestured wildly to his struggling daughter. The baker liked her. Marciana looked up at the man, a natural little actress, putting it on. I am young; it is your choice, but please save me, kind soft-hearted sir…

It worked. ‘Have the hinny. You’d bloody well better bring him back for me, Larius!’

Each animal was desperate to leave the stable anyway. They could hear whinnying and kicking. When the loaned beast came crashing out of doors, Larius had to jump to hold him before he bolted. This one was wild, tall though, part donkey, part small horse. Larius put Marciana up in front of him so he could hold her, dug in his heels heartlessly and rode. He rode for some time behind the baker himself, who had also decided to mount his delivery beast, until they became separated, losing each other; in those terrible streets full of dangerous blackness and flying debris nobody would expect a friend to stop and search.

Larius stayed up on the pavements, because of the roads’ hidden potholes and stepping-stones. At every side street he had to encourage their mount to drop down its front hooves and cross, unable to tell where the road was, or how high the next pavement up which it had to scramble. The hinny panicked; he panicked, but they had to go on.

In places they forced their way through groups of other fugitives, but sometimes there was no one about, and they felt they were the last people on earth. Their hinny, fearful and keen to escape, was wading, sliding, staggering. Larius leaned forwards, over Marciana, talking in its hairy ears, encouraging, soothing. Hell, he was soothing all of them. He and the child were equally scared.

‘Are we going to die?’

He made a reassuring noise. With neither saddle nor stirrups, he was constantly struggling for balance. Any father knows how to pretend he is concentrating on the job in hand too much to answer a hard question.

Any daughter knows how to interpret that. At least we are together, thought Marciana. Doggedly brave, she would not have wanted her loved papa to be here in trouble on his own.

Still fairly innocent, she wondered what this adventure would be like. Larius, whose heart had never stopped sinking since the crisis kicked off, did not want to find out.

His first idea had been to follow his mates, travelling down to the Marine Gate. He and Marciana were starting from the very centre of the town. No direction would be quicker than any other, except that if they continued towards the water they would be on the main street, which was wider and more familiar, then eventually pass through the Forum. That would be a clear open space for the hinny to cross on level ground. Though Larius wrestled with the idea, he decided against it. Most of the civic buildings were in a state of renovation. Pompeii was in the throes of a really big rebuilding project: a huge new temple of Venus half completed, the old Temple of Jupiter decommissioned and its statuary dismantled, bath complexes under repair, markets being reorganised. He knew the Forum had been obstructed with building materials which must now be partly hidden under erupted detritus, hard-edged clutter that would be tricky to manoeuvre around. It could bring the horse down.

Besides, people had rushed towards the sea. Pompeii had disgorged a multitude, who would be clogging the jetties and the roads to the south. He envisaged chaos. If there were any boats, they would be full. And, Larius guessed, maybe there were none. People might hope in vain. If there turned out to be no sea transport, everyone would rush away hysterically overland, causing hideous congestion on the roads.

No one would regulate an evacuation. Larius did not know, but it wouldn’t have surprised him, that even the commander of the fleet at Misenum only rowed over to help a personal friend, with no apparent thought for the ordinary populace. A managed fleet of triremes and local shipping could have achieved something. No such plan was initiated.

Save the rich and sod the poor. What changes?

Still thinking, Larius knew where one possible boat existed, a boat owned by a crack-brain so bone idle he would probably be sitting on the beach right now, watching the mountain’s pyrotechnics, dimly chewing an anchovy. Vitalis.

Larius made up his mind. He would struggle up to Oplontis, then make Vitalis row him up the coast. If not, he’d pinch the boat and row it himself. So Larius turned off before the Forum, then rode the hinny out by the Herculaneum Gate.

He was heading towards the volcano, but also to the town where his wife and other children were. He had a ridiculous hope that he might somehow collect them. Ollia, he knew, would trust him to try. Dear gods, they were both barmy; he hoped Ollia had had the sense to get away without waiting.

Even so, he was going there. He felt an unexpected focus; his wife and the twins seemed oddly remote from his own immediate predicament, yet they were tugging at his heart. A desperate concern was the daughter in his arms. Always prone to sickness, she had begun coughing and spluttering scarily. Marciana might boss him like an adult, but now Larius felt acutely aware of how slight her body was, a father’s dread of how a young child’s hold on life can suddenly become fragile.

Ollia must have experienced this many times when her children were sick in their feckless father’s absence. For the first time, Larius felt genuine sympathy for her troubles.

You are helpless. You do all you can for them, but nature ignores your desperation. You cannot let your own burden fall on them, or your fear communicate; you must conceal your pain. They may live or die; you are unable to do anything except watch as they stay or go from you.

Now it was his turn to cope. Now Larius was alone with it. Jupiter, this was a disaster.

Chapter 10

In the boatsheds.

‘It’s smelly! I don’t want to go in there.’

‘Just a bit of seaside pong. Don’t make a fuss.’

‘When will it be over?’

‘I don’t know, it’s no use asking me. We all have to be patient. Just be a good girl, will you?’

A soldier was directing the crowd taking shelter. ‘Let’s keep it civilised – put the women and children right inside. The young men can stay out on the beach, if there’s a shortage of space…’ Ollia felt grateful for his guidance, grateful for any. ‘Come further along, there will be more room in the next shed.’

Aged about forty, he was in uniform, armed and carrying a toolbag. Had he been on leave or on a mission? He was making himself useful. He helped Ollia, lifting one of the younger twins against his shoulder, scooping the other under his free arm as they found a shed that still had room. ‘Are these all yours?’

‘All mine, and another on its way,’ she answered firmly. She could see him eyeing her up, hoping she was just their nurse. Ollia made it clear she was a married woman, respectable, unavailable. Larius wouldn’t want her getting friendly with a soldier. Anyway – for heavens’ sake!

Ollia had long ago learned to complain about Campanian men, overlooking what those in her home city had been like. She let him help, but only because suspicion of a stranger kept Varius quiet. Ollius was staring at the man’s sword. So was Lolliana, but the girls shrank against their mother shyly.

Once inside the dark boatshed, the soldier subtly moved on, taking his unwelcome overtures. Probably he just wanted a companion to take his mind off his own fear. Maybe he would be lucky, find some other young woman to flirt with.

After she rebuffed the soldier, Ollia listened and was surprised by how freely her companions were talking to strangers in this shared nightmare. ‘I was just fetching in my bedcovers from airing as if it was any ordinary day! Then this happened. It’s terrible…’

‘Terrible,’ Ollia sympathised automatically, not wanting to be reminded how bad it all was. More than usual, she was conscious of being from Rome where people were brusque and private. Ollia needed to see what was going to happen before she commented on any of it.

She was hungry. They all were. She had brought no food. They must do without – she would have to find something tomorrow for them. She was tired too, desperately weary after this awful day and her fear of what was yet to happen.

From inside the sheds, which faced out to sea, those sheltering could no longer see the mountain’s fiery outbursts, though they heard and felt reverberations from endless explosions inside the deep magma chamber. Under cover of the vaulted roofs, with a whole escarpment above them to muffle the outside commotion, people might feel a little more secure.

They were packed in, hundreds of them, including the elderly and invalids. Many were women and children, as if the male population had selfishly made off earlier, leaving their dependents. But that was unfair. Most men would have been elsewhere this morning, going about their normal business out in the fields or on the water. If they had not rushed home, perhaps they had been simply prevented by events.

Maybe, thought Ollia with a shudder, her Larius had been struck down and was lying hurt. Dear gods, she hoped he had got Marciana with him. She wanted her daughter, but she had to trust that Larius would look after her. He was strong, capable, sensible enough beneath all the painting and poetry…

‘Ollius, stay here; don’t wander off!’ The little boy would vanish if she took her eyes off him. Always curious. No idea of remembering where the others were. The last thing she needed was a lost child.

Somehow, they found space to lie down. Ollia tucked the children beside her, leaving room for other people, keeping her own within close reach in the dark. The twins were silent, deeply subdued by today’s strange experience, aware of the adults’ fear. Eventually her youngest slept, though they whimpered in their dreams. Her six-year-olds lay motionless, but they were more conscious of danger; heads close, they had been whispering together. Now she knew they were tense, listening, on the verge of crying.

Outside it must be night now. Smoke and ash created utter darkness. A few lamps and lanterns had been lit in the boatshed interior, sparse pinpoints of flame that barely touched the intense blackness. The people around her were quiet, though not completely still. There was a constant faint shuffle of movement. Adults, unable to sleep, talked together in low murmurs. They struck up a muted camaraderie even though they could not see one another. Some were in family parties. Others simply sat or lay, frozen in misery.

Ollia felt like that. She was a mother being brave for her children. Nevertheless it was so dark she could let tears trickle unseen. Holding in sobs, she closed her eyes. Soon, surprisingly, she drowsed, soothed by the warm presence of her babies against her, somehow falling into sleep because she was so exhausted and shocked.

It helped that she was not alone here. It helped that she was surrounded by other people, all feeling lost and traumatised, all waiting out this dreadful night in shared terror. A woman stepped carefully over the still forms of her companions. Excusing herself if she disturbed anyone, she murmured, ‘Must get outside for a bit. I’m desperate for fresh air…’

Outside, the air had no freshness; it was sickly with gas and turbid with ash fragments, but she steadied herself against a wall, head up as if searching for the invisible sky. Around and above Vesuvius, bright lights were flickering like sheet lightning, though the flames were much larger.

As the woman had expected, as she had even subconsciously planned (surprising herself), she soon heard a quiet footfall. It was the helpful soldier. She had made sure he heard her say where she was going. He found her by instinct in the blackness. He was tall, she remembered. Sturdy, but he had a bad leg, legacy of a wound, an accident, a kick from a horse. She had noticed his equipment; sword, dagger in its scabbard, the ornamental metal belt that symbolised the military, with its sporran-like hanging chains to protect his manly tackle.

Soldiers had their way of avoiding a complete unbuckle; in the pitch black, the woman heard quiet chinks as he shifted his belt, hauling it sideways around him, out of the way. He’s had practice, she thought, liking to know; tonight she was desperate for competence.

She did not want endearments, let alone softening up in the way her ludicrous husband thought he must bring presents. She had her own jewellery with her. She wore both the emerald bezel ring and a carnelian engraved with a hen and three chickens; she carried safe a further collection, two snake-headed gold bangles, pearl ear-rings any noblewoman would be glad to wear… Gifts of love, pretended her faithless husband; gifts of guilt, she realised – though she took them. Never underestimate the earning power of a betrayed woman.

The soldier was no catch; she had already glimpsed by lantern light that he had three teeth missing, which she guessed was not from battle but brawling.

There were people all around them on the beach but it was dark and anyway, all inhibitions were dispensed with tonight. It was understood why they had sought each other out. They shared a snatch of conversation, sizing one another up before proceedings began.

‘Is this worse than war?’ the woman asked, meaning the commotion around them.

‘No,’ he answered frankly. ‘In war you will always have someone to blame, and normally someone to hate too.’

‘Can’t you loathe nature?’

‘No point,’ he said.

Without a word more, they reached for each other.

Later, while they were still outside, standing and gazing at the volcano’s pyrotechnics, for some reason the soldier asked, ‘Are you married?’

‘Somehow I don’t think that matters tonight!’ replied Salvia.

The wife of Erodion, sneaky market gardener and serial adulterer, was neither bitter nor enjoying a sense of revenge. She felt a lot better, actually. Better than she had felt for years. So if these were her last moments of existence, for Salvia tonight was satisfactory.

She and the soldier moved apart but they both stayed outside on the beach.

Everything was altering.

Above Vesuvius, the column had rocketed up all day, pushed out by the mountain and then sucked upwards by atmospheric pull; now it reached its greatest height of nearly twenty miles. Large missiles shot upwards, destabilising the lighter contents. The stupendous elemental cloud mass collapsed. Everything aloft fell back upon itself, down into the fiery caldera that had been throwing up white-hot gases and molten rock from the earth’s crust. Immeasurable forces fought, causing a new stage of activity. Abruptly, with more power than anything on earth, the volcano’s violent contents welled up and overflowed.

Chapter 11

Larius indomitably reaches Oplontis, where the fisherboy is as useless as he has always been.

On a clear day the journey from Pompeii to Oplontis is not far. In his time, Larius had driven, ridden or walked this coastal road, enjoying a chance to absorb the natural beauty of the bay, while his thoughts went off into their own freewheeling. Sometimes he had to curse an obstructive carrot cart; but sometimes a bonny farm girl would offer distraction if he pretended interest in her olive oil. Even if she snubbed his chat, there would be a stall of fish pickle to tempt a purchase, fishing boats to watch, or his own hopes and dreams to polish up. He had always liked this road.

Once, on the same journey, his uncle, Falco, had given him a strange heart-to-heart, explaining contraception, such as it existed. Five, going on six children later, Larius was the first to admit the discussion had been wasted on him. Still, today he thought of his uncle, a man with a reputation for problem-solving. Well, get out of this one, Falco!

The sight of the volcano ahead kept Larius resolute. As long as he could, he rode the baker’s hinny. With its fairly willing cooperation, he had passed out of Pompeii through a necropolis, a street of noble tombs outside the Herculaneum Gate. Later, other fugitives would simply give up their flight right there, so near the town, overcome by fumes, heart attacks or pure exhaustion. But Larius had gone through early enough; had made it to open country, travelling out on this shore road that he knew so well, though today it was unrecognisable under the rising deposits of magma, viewed through a choking veil of smoke.

He managed the couple of miles to Oplontis. He was not sure how he did this; still, although Larius seemed a dreamer, he had always been stubborn. Maybe dreamers have to be. Besides, he felt desperate. He had a wife, four distant children, and this other child to save, let alone himself. He would not give up.

He was not ready to leave his existence. He had pictures to paint. He unexpectedly wanted a chance to make things happier between him and Ollia; he also wanted to watch their children blossom into fine young people. His girl might defy convention and be a famous woman painter. The others were promising characters too. He would be a better father, if only it was allowed. Hell, he might even be a better husband. He definitely wanted to be a better artist.

He knew he was good. He believed he still had more in him.

Oplontis was a hamlet. It was dominated by a huge imperial villa that once belonged to the family of Nero’s wife, though for years no one imperial had stayed there. The Flavian emperors preferred to holiday in their own Sabine hills. If they ever turned up in Neapolis, their chamberlains imposed upon some hapless senator. Larius had once been in to look, so he knew that even though the long swimming pool in Poppaea’s place was being used by locals as a fishpond, the statues in the gardens were extremely fine, while indoors it had gorgeous, innovative art on its walls.

A couple of families had smaller villas, the kind used for a mix of pleasure and rustic industries, but mainly Oplontis was a dead hole these days, all mullet nets and battered scallop creels.

Larius had guessed right: down on the beach, all the sensible fishermen had left, taking out their families before the sea became impassable; only the hopeless Vitalis had dallied. There must have been others who felt trapped by their own indecision, but they had taken to their heels now. This man had always lacked motivation. He must have sat here, hoping the volcano would simply shut down, or that the ghastly scenes around him were all a puzzling dream…

Larius arrived at crunch time. Finally, even Vitalis had accepted he should make a move. He had spent time plugging holes in his boat and hunting for his favourite oar. He had gathered up his free-range cousins and his vague-eyed mother, who was all of ninety. They had packed their fishing smack, which was not large, with a crazy collection of barrels and baskets, then all squashed aboard. The boat sat unnervingly low. Nevertheless, Vitalis was now posing on the end, plying the long oars with his chest out-thrust, as if he were still showing off his body to girls. All the sneering local girls had gone, hours earlier.

Larius hailed him. Vitalis backed the oars. Any excuse to stop moving. He had barely travelled any distance; they were still in the shallows. A couple of his relatives were batting at monstrous mats of floating pumice, trying to clear a path.

‘Who’s that?’ called Vitalis, although he knew.

‘Me, Larius, Ollia’s husband. I’ve got Marciana, can you take us with you?’

One of the cousins shouted out that no they bloody couldn’t, they were bound to sink. True. If Larius climbed in, the weight of a strong twenty-three-year-old would make that craft capsize. It was the same one he first saw a decade ago, which Vitalis had barely maintained. Even if it stayed afloat, the ramshackle old thing was too laden to be rowed far. Only Vitalis had oars anyway, the cousins were half-heartedly wielding poles and brooms to push aside the welded pumice and other flotsam that cluttered the sea.

The waves looked rough. They had shipped water. One of them bailed morosely. As a water boatman’s son, Larius assessed the situation with grim, professional eyes. His father would say, don’t touch it.

The old woman, who had always been kind to Ollia, squawked that they could squeeze in the little one. Ruled by his mother, Vitalis even fixed his oars and trod dangerously forward, teetering among his relatives who grabbed at him dangerously. Though terminally hopeless, Vitalis had always been good-natured. He held out his arms to take Marciana, as Larius picked her up and began to paddle out with her.

She clung to her father. Struggling wildly, Marciana refused to go. She had never been a screamer, but she screamed now. It was too heart-rending. Larius gave in and returned to the beach where pumice scrunched beneath his feet as he floundered and nearly lost his balance. Had he failed Marciana? He kept her, kept hold of her; wept with frustration, yet accepted his own unwillingness to send her off alone on a risky vessel, with people he regarded as feckless and a man he had never liked.

So he and his child remained together at Oplontis. They watched the fisherboat slowly leaving for as long as they could see it, though it was soon lost from view in the darkness. Vitalis rowed, not with the strong, seated pulls of trireme oarsmen, but with the standing method used all over the Mediterranean, a kind of leisurely sculling that appeared inadequate, yet which took the boat out steadily until only a short time later it was far from shore.

Night seemed to fall. Maybe it was still daytime, but this seemed like night. Was there a moon? If so, it was completely blotted out.

Larius was too exhausted to continue. He sat down against an old hut that had half collapsed under fallen ash. More ash rained down.

He would rest. He would give his daughter a night’s respite. Tomorrow they would try to travel on to Herculaneum, foolish thought. For now, they would stop here.

Deep inside the volcano something must have changed. The ceaseless fall of white lapilli altered. Larger, blacker tephra descended in hot chunks three times bigger than before, now inches across, among a new shower of terrifying heavy rocks. These fell with stunning speed. Nobody was safe outside. So, leaving the hinny on the beach, Larius abruptly picked up his daughter; carrying her tight in his arms, he put his head down and ran for his life.

When he crashed into one of the lesser villas, the first place he came to, he was amazed to find its once-gracious rooms were full of people.

A dirty tide of humanity had fled, some like himself from Pompeii though others were local. Sometimes during earthquakes people took to the fields to avoid the risk of being crushed under falling masonry. Now, after the all-day punishing descent of volcanic matter, these wanted a good roof above them. As night came, fugitives were reconciled to staying here.

If the villa’s owner was present, Larius never saw him. Maybe the place was not in the possession of people of substance, or maybe they no longer used it for the high-life. Still, there were oil lamps and someone had lit a few.

Rustic equipment was everywhere. One room contained an enormous pomegranate crop, the ripe fruit spread evenly on mats. Not having eaten or drunk for hours, Larius and Marciana helped themselves.

‘Tuck in. Don’t expect snack-vendors coming round with hot sausage trays… We can leave a payment in a dish.’

‘I don’t think so, Father!’ Smeared with juice and enjoying this snatch of banter, Marciana perked up. ‘Shall I look for their cutlery canteen with the antsy-fancy pomegranate seed-picks?’

‘Daft beggar. Use your fingers.’

He licked one of his and tried to rub smuts off her white little face. It merely spread the dirt. Larius stared at his pigtailed tot, still swathed in the cloak he had wrapped around her at the widow’s house, feeling his love well up. Something caught in his throat. Aware, but ignoring paternal sentiment, Marciana went on eating pomegranates.

They poked around, searching for somewhere to rest. Everyone else seemed to have gone to the basement, as if it might be safer. Among their fellow fugitives, dimly viewed in near darkness, they discovered a subtle hierarchy. The rich, clutching jewel caskets and cash boxes, shunned those who might turn on them and rob them. They clustered in one room. In another, the rest eyed everyone darkly. Neither group wanted anyone else to join them.

He and Marciana came back up to the reception area. Plebeian to his soul and still a city boy at heart, Larius cursed the country bastards hogging the space where he wanted to settle his daughter for the night. The child was utterly done in. Hell, he was. If humanly possible, he would not have them spend this night huddled by a spiky bankbox in the godforsaken atrium with volcanic hoggin and rocks dropping through the roof and the risk that Campanian clod-hoppers would trample them in the dark. Nobody would give him an oil lamp, or he would have gone in search of an empty bedroom.

They wandered hand in hand to the huge double-height courtyard. The centre space was deep in volcanic debris, which had even buried a mass of upended amphorae that had been waiting to be filled. The intended grape or olive harvest must be lost in the fields, choked or burned.

Tentatively feeling for stair treads, they climbed to the upper storey where they cleared the deep ash by shoving it off the balcony. Marciana was by now so tired and drained, she dropped asleep immediately against a remaining drift of debris. After making sure she would not sink in and suffocate, Larius went for a short mooch, wading along the dark upper verandah. Fathers have to check the house. Fathers prowl the perimeter, on guard. When a long day ends, fathers wander off by themselves, looking up at the stars while perhaps they fart quietly to show that they don’t give a damn, while they think about their responsibilities.

There were no stars. But if you could ignore the constant volcanic commotion, there was time to think. Indeed, there was nothing else to do. This was when Larius Lollius the painter took stock, having an enforced pause in his desperate journey. Sheltered with his daughter at least temporarily, he assessed their plight.

Now, Larius faced the likelihood that he would not survive this. Standing alone in a peristyle of somebody else’s villa as it slowly filled with still-hot magma, he wondered whether they would be forced to simply stop right here. It felt too unsafe. What choice was there? As far as he had seen downstairs by wavering lamplight, this place once possessed fine decoration of the kind he had spent his adult life creating. It had been turned over to industry and barely lived in, or at least not used for the leisured life its first owners must have planned. But it was being swallowed up in filth, filth he could taste, filth that had made his daughter cough her lungs out, and which was stifling him too. He felt the grit in his teeth, dust sticky on his skin and clothes, debris clustered in his hair. Oplontis was slowly being buried. Anyone who stopped moving would be buried too.

Now, looking out and up, Larius could see Vesuvius. The coast below the mountain was shrouded in impenetrable dark, while huge flames of different colours rent the high slopes and the sky above the volcano. Sometimes there were single streaks of light, sometimes a snaking trail, sometimes whole showers of pyrotechnics shaken out through the billowing blackness. All around grumbled the noise of whatever was happening far underground. Innumerable farms must have been destroyed. Crops and vineyards were buried, hundreds of animals were dead. People too. Even those who had managed to stay alive until now were facing cataclysmic danger.

This was when Larius cursed his fate, and he cursed from his soul, using the worst words he knew. Here he was, an eyewitness. He wanted to paint this. Generations of painters would strike awe in viewers with their Vesuvius by Night. For them would be movement and torment, fire and darkness, horror and suggested noise. They could position tiny figures, stricken by fear, contrasted against the enormity of ungovernable natural forces. Many would achieve this from imagination alone, for you cannot force a volcano to erupt when you need a model. He could have done it from life. But Larius knew, recreating this dramatic scene would never be for him.

He could only stare, as he thought of his own short life and his family – then in his wry way accepted the aching pain of so much wasted opportunity. He was a fatalist. He knew, tonight, this was the end of everything for him.

He went back to his daughter and squatted beside her, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands. All over the area people took that pose. It was a position in which they could rest – but also the posture of despair.

Chapter 12

Nonius proceeds towards magnificent prosperity. Can a man with no conscience really be happy? Of course he can.

Back in Pompeii, there had been a lull caused by the combination of nightfall and the increased ferocity of falling pumice. No one now ventured onto the streets. Pale ash lay to chest height; it was rising several inches every hour. If, from his resting place at Oplontis, Larius had given any thought to his former subtenant, he might have assumed Nonius would still be tirelessly attempting to rob people. But Nonius had gone. It was what men did, those with an instinct for self-preservation – or those protected by the gods.

The good people of Pompeii had entrusted themselves to many deities’ protection that day. Venus Pompeiana, their town’s chosen dedicatee, whose huge half-built temple towered over the Forum, stared out dramatically to the turbulent sea. Bona Dea, the Good Goddess, received many frightened pleas. Egyptian Isis. The goddess Fortune herself, who leaned on a rudder with which she governed human destiny. Apollo, light-hearted, talented past patron of the city. Giant phaluses that symbolised life, small ones with ridiculous wings or hanging bells. Jupiter the king of all… Despite amulets, signet rings, statuettes, pleadings, vows and prayers, the gods with their heartless, ruthless neutrality lent no help.

Fortune helps those who help themselves, thought Nonius, the cheery villain who had been so tenaciously helping himself to other people’s property.

As the eruption started he had worked, harder than ever in his life, continuing through as much of the day as he could. Treading the ash, peering through the murk, forcing open half-blocked doors as he battered his way in to find secreted riches. Luckily in the best houses, their valuables had been displayed in the atrium, easy to find unless owners had snatched up their treasure and inconsiderately run off with it – ignoring the need to supply Nonius.

Enough was left for him. People had locked up, intending to come home tomorrow. People buried stuff, yet left behind their spades. People dropped things as they ran. As the day had grown worse and those who remained from choice or helplessness cowered in ever deeper hiding places, Nonius coughed and staggered, yet he obtained many delightful sets of silver drinking wares: trays, jugs, pairs of cups, mixing bowls, snack saucers, spoons and ladles, little tripod stands to place your drink upon, even egg cups. He gathered dishes and jugs that were designed for religious offerings. He snatched bags of coins. He took jewellery: chains, ear-rings, bangles, finger rings, pendants, brooches, filigree hairnets. If he found no gold, he did not reject silver, alloys, even iron if it looked to have a value.

Then as the day went on, before ash filled gardens and made doors quite immovable, before he was brought to a standstill, Nonius departed from Pompeii. His sense of timing remained sharp. While roofs and balconies began to collapse all across the town, he was travelling out. He saw fires – and saw the falling pumice quench them. He heard screams and cries for help but he kept going. He was safe by the time the ceilings smashed down in the house where Larius had once worked. By then so much ash had descended, the newly decorated plasterwork landed not on the mosaic floor but on fully four feet of debris that had already poured into the house, the bakery, the garden, the stables full of panicked beasts. The baker’s hog and poultry were still on the cooking bench, definitely overcooked.

While others were trapped inside buildings or buried in the streets, Nonius escaped. While people and animals died in Pompeii, he lived. It could have been different. If Fortune was fair, Nonius would have been stuck in the doomed town. He might even have found salvation. If endings were truly cathartic in real life, he could have carried out some great act of selfless sacrifice. He might have saved someone else, or at least offered comfort to somebody deserving.

Alternatively, if the Fates had taken another view of his despicable past, for retribution he could have been made to suffer. The Fates could have trapped him in a building collapse, perhaps quite accidentally, then left him there to await death – with its coming certainty a painful punishment.

Not him.

Nonius left. Erodion’s raggedy knock-kneed horse took him and a heavy cartload of plunder safely inland. Worse, far worse for those who like justice, Nonius was even at that stage planning to come back. Once the hot slurry cooled in the devastated town, Nonius would be there again. He would find his way amongst the buried buildings, remembering where the best homes were, digging down to salvage statues, stripping out expensive marble, grabbing any portable plunder that remained. Other looters would be killed by further building collapses, but not him.

For him, what did the future hold? One day a man of great wealth would turn up in another town, under another name. Even ‘Nonius’ had never been his own. He had been born somewhere north of Campania, making his way from one town and one scam to another, evading detection, escaping the law, ducking the authorities’ notice, playing the nobody; whenever he could no longer pull it off, he slickly moved on, like any corrupt crook with blood on his hands who never left a forwarding address. He had passed through one location after another, always slipping away at the right moment, until one day in Herculaneum he had seen a benefactor’s statue near the Suburban baths. Master of acquiring power by association, he stole the name as his own validation. On leaving Pompeii he would do the same again, ‘Nonius’ becoming ‘Holconius’.

‘Are you related?’

‘Distantly, I believe…’

He would not return to live amidst ruination. Economic blight never attracts such men. So, after making huge wealth, the compulsive survivor would head towards retirement elsewhere. He left the cart to disintegrate in someone else’s orchard. Towards Erodion’s horse he felt no gratitude; for the wheezing beast there was no rewarding pasture in its old age. He handed it in to a knacker’s yard. Still, rather than being worked to death by Nonius, that horse may have welcomed being turned into pies.

The man himself would live frugally, conserving his cash as those whose wealth does not reside in land tend to do, from fear it may slip from them. He had wondered whether to apply for land, when estates that had belonged to disappeared residents were officially redistributed. There was a killing to be made there, but with his instinct for self-preservation, Nonius/Holconius chose not to subject himself to the narrow-eyed stare of a commissioner sent by a hard-headed Flavian Emperor.

With old age, he would become known as a miser. The sparse number of slaves who cared for him would lead pitiful lives, beaten and barely kept alive. He would never try to bribe them into anything that passed for loyalty, even though he was terrified of being left alone. Suspicion of others’ motives would govern him. After all, he himself had lived as the worst of men, so he expected to be cheated.

But he would stick it out for years. When the time came to take to his bed finally, it would be nothing like the bed he had once shared with Larius Lollius. That had had uneven legs, hard slats for support, a lumpen, flea-ridden mattress, one thin pillow. The retirement bed of Nonius was to be a stately wide antique, with bronze fittings (stolen) and ivory inlays (bought with loot). His mattress would be well-corded and evenly stuffed with fine Campanian wool, his pillows made from softest down, his laundered sheets smooth and his coverlet embroidered.

Nonius would die in his sleep peacefully, there in his own bed.

Chapter 13

The next volcanic stage.

For others it had been different.

The peril that not even Nonius could have survived occurred close to midnight. That was when the vast cloud’s weight collapsed back into the volcano’s chamber. Super-heated material then churned with new energy into a different reaction. Mud and steam, heated to a primeval temperature, were sent rolling out of Vesuvius at ground level. The first surge headed straight for Herculaneum.

This was not a slow creep of lava, like those in other eruptions from milder mountains, that local people come to view as it gloops like red-hot porridge over slopes and fields. This was a devastating torrent that rushed at incredible speed, white-hot, yet not even a fireball for it contained too many compressed solids. The avalanche crashed into buildings, either smashing them apart or pouring through windows and doors to fix them in an eternal mould. It covered two miles from peak to coast in moments, destroying all. Battered and splintered material was caught up and carried. Where buildings spontaneously burst into flames, those flames were immediately smothered by rock, mud and detritus.

With the surge came heat. This heat was four times greater than that of boiling water. As it punched across the countryside it carbonised wood, cooked fat, evaporated moisture, desiccated bone. No living thing survived. Uprooted trees were swept away. Any cattle that had escaped previously were lost now. All the birdlife that Larius and other painters loved to portray perished, along with fish and shell-fish, snails, insects, worms, mice. The few people in their homes, the many collected on the beach all died there, and they died at once.

Out of doors, the soldier may have glimpsed the surge’s approach. He may have heard its roar approaching. Before he even gasped, that heat killed him. His corpse pitched forwards, face down, fracturing bones, while his skull split open as his brain boiled. Further along, Erodion’s wife Salvia fell dead on the beach too. Inside the boatsheds, the heat took everyone. Ollia, the watchful mother, opened her eyes instinctively as the noise exploded, yet she and her children took no last breath but were lost, while the sleeping still slept.

This death is terrible to us now. Then and there, nobody realised. No one felt terror or had time to panic. There were no cries. It came too fast for pain or understanding. They were gone. All gone.

So much physical rubble pushed across Herculaneum that the coastline permanently moved out more than a thousand yards. Meanwhile in the normally tideless bay, the sea behaved differently. Shocks deep under the ocean floor caused a great movement. Salt water was suddenly sucked out for a long distance, exposing the seabed, stranding marine life, revealing long-lost wrecks – and creating new ones. Silently, the same sea then gathered into a tall, swelling wave that moved at awesome speed as it returned again, thundered inland, then retreated to its natural place.

Captured in this was Vitalis. His labouring boat was tossed end to end, and everyone thrown out. Drowning is said to be an easy death. For those who have to endure it, it cannot be easy enough.

No one would know how many were lost in that most beautiful of bays. No one could count the people who drowned helplessly out there in the terrifying dark.

Larius would never learn that his decision to keep Marciana with him was as good as any he could have made. Oplontis was buried deep by that first pyroclastic flow, along with Herculaneum. The same unstoppable avalanche of molten mud and rock spread out over the near coast, with its immediate intolerable heat. Larius Lollius died with his eldest daughter almost at the same instant as his wife and other children. Like them, he never knew what happened.

A consequence of such intense heat, well known to firefighters, is that human tendons suddenly contract. In death by thermal heat, an involuntary spasm causes corpses to clench their fists and bring them up defensively. This might have pleased Larius. In his wry way, he would appreciate that when he was taken, he looked like somebody defying fate.

Chapter 14

Afterwards.

During that night, the cloud above Vesuvius rose up and collapsed repeatedly. Massive surges continued, six in all. Herculaneum was buried seventy-five feet deep. With the third or fourth surge, the direction changed; it became Pompeii’s turn. One pyroclastic flow reached the town’s walls, its molten contents swirling round them though not entering. Anyone who attempted to flee as the surge came towards them managed only yards. Anyone who had made it outside the gates, died there and was buried. Everyone left in the town was killed by heat.

The next flow surged right over the walls, on top of the dumped deposits of its predecessor. This one rolled through Pompeii, entering buildings where anybody who had remained there already lay dead.

Even when morning should have come, a cloud of utter blackness rolled out and smothered the whole area around the bay and inland, terrifying people. Although it was possible to survive, many begged for death to end their terror. Destruction continued around the coast to other towns such as Baiae and Stabiae, burying the fine holiday resorts that had once been beloved of the wealthy. Deep ash covered everything, as far as Surrentum and Misenum, and out to the islands. The effects went further. Dirt and atmospheric darkness easily reached Rome. Taken high into the skies and carried by the wind, spewed filth was to blight crops and cause pestilence in countries far from Italy. Traces would mark the ice at the earth’s poles.

But on the second day the eruption ended. Convulsions continued underground as the land settled, but the fiery chamber had completely emptied. Weak sunlight tried to break through a wan haze. Slowly the expelled material began to cool and harden. Its forlorn crackle could be heard, but otherwise there was silence. Nothing else moved.

People would come searching. There would be official and unofficial salvage through the ensuing centuries. Pompeii and Herculaneum might be lost to the memory for a time but they would be found again. From the best and worst motives, people would be drawn to the bay. Traces of the dead, material items, and surviving art would strike generations with curiosity, awe and excitement. Scientists of all disciplines would find work. Writers would speculate, salaciously or with compassion. Unthinking people, poorly inducted, might fail to show reverence. Many would not linger. Yet in those places where thousands of the dead once walked and some still lie, in Pompeii and Herculaneum, the tug of human suffering will always reach those who are open to feeling, those who possess imagination.

And – Larius was right, of course – painters would be drawn to that place where painting had once been so important, to capture the visual wonder of violent destruction and to suggest what it ought to say to us. As long as art exists, artists will collect their pigments and take up their best brushes to paint Vesuvius by Night.

Also by Lindsey Davis

The Course of Honour

Rebels and Traitors

Master and God

A Cruel Fate

THE FALCO SERIES

The Silver Pigs

Shadows in Bronze

Venus in Copper

The Iron Hand of Mars

Poseidon’s Gold

Last Act in Palmyra

Time to Depart

A Dying Light in Corduba

Three Hands in the Fountain

Two for the Lions

One Virgin too Many

Ode to a Banker

A Body in the Bath House

The Jupiter Myth

The Accusers

Scandal Takes a Holiday

See Delphi and Die

Saturnalia

Alexandria

Nemesis

THE FLAVIA ALBIA SERIES

The Ides of April

Enemies at Home

Deadly Election

The Graveyard of the Hesperides

The Spook Who Spoke Again

Copyright

First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Lindsey Davis 2017

The right of Lindsey Davis to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 473 65885 1

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

Content

Lindsey Davis
VESUVIUS BY NIGHT

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Also by Lindsey Davis

Copyright