side of Vesuvius, to find the break on the Augusta. Someone must go with him. Why don't you throw for the privilege?'
'Whoever wins goes with Corax!' exclaimed Musa.
'No,' said Attilius. 'Whoever loses.'
Everyone laughed, except Corax.
'Whoever loses!' repeated Becco. 'That's a good one!'
They took it in turns to roll the dice, each man clasping his hands around the cup as he shook it, each whispering his own particular prayer for luck.
Musa went last, and threw a dog. He looked crestfallen.
'You lose!' chanted Becco. 'Musa the loser!'
'All right,' said Attilius, 'the dice settle it. Corax and Musa will locate the fault.'
'And what about the others?' grumbled Musa.
'Becco and Corvinus will ride to Abellinum and close the sluices.'
'I don't see why it takes two of them to go to Abellinum. And what's Polites going to do?'
'Polites stays with me in Pompeii and organises the tools and transport.'
'Oh, that's fair!' said Musa, bitterly. 'The free man sweats out his guts on the mountain, while the slave gets to screw the whores in Pompeii!' He snatched up his dice and hurled them into the sea. 'That's what I think of my luck!'
From the pilot at the front of the ship came a warning shout – 'Pompeii ahead!' – and six heads turned as one to face her.
She came into view slowly from behind a headland, and she was not at all what the engineer had expected – no sprawling resort like Baiae or Neapolis, strung out along the coastline of the bay, but a fortress-city, built to withstand a siege, set back a quarter of a mile from the sea, on higher ground, her port spread out beneath her.
It was only as they drew closer that Attilius saw that her walls were no longer continuous – that the long years of the Roman peace had persuaded the city fathers to drop their guard. Houses had been allowed to emerge above the ramparts, and to spill, in widening, palm-shaded terraces, down towards the docks. Dominating the line of flat roofs was a temple, looking out to sea. Gleaming marble pillars were surmounted by what at first appeared to be a frieze of ebony figures. But the frieze, he realised, was alive. Craftsmen, almost naked and blackened by the sun, were moving back and forth against the white stone – working, even though it was a public holiday. The ring of chisels on stone and the rasp of saws carried clear in the warm air.
Activity everywhere. People walking along the top of the wall and working in the gardens that looked out to sea. People swarming along the road in front of the town – on foot, on horseback, in chariots and on the backs of wagons – throwing up a haze of dust and clogging the steep paths that led up from the port to the two big city gates. As the Minerva turned into the narrow entrance of the harbour the din of the crowd grew louder – a holiday crowd, by the look of it, coming into town from the countryside to celebrate the festival of Vulcan. Attilius scanned the dockside for fountains but could see none.
The men were all silent, standing in line, each with his own thoughts.
He turned to Corax. 'Where does the water come into the town?'
'On the other side of the city,' said Corax, staring intently at the town. 'Beside the Vesuvius Gate. If –' he gave heavy emphasis to the word '– it's still flowing.'
That would be a joke, thought Attilius, if it turned out the water was not running after all and he had brought them all this way merely on the word of some old fool of an augur.
'Who works there?'
'Just some town slave. You won't find him much help.'
'Why not?'
Corax grinned and shook his head. He would not say. A private joke.
'All right. Then the Vesuvius Gate is where we'll start from.' Attilius clapped his hands. 'Come on, lads. You've seen a town before. The cruise is over.'
They were inside the harbour now. Warehouses and cranes crowded against the water's edge. Beyond them was a river – the Sarnus, according to Attilius's map – choked with barges waiting to be unloaded.
'Whoever wins goes with Corax!' exclaimed Musa.
'No,' said Attilius. 'Whoever loses.'
Everyone laughed, except Corax.
'Whoever loses!' repeated Becco. 'That's a good one!'
They took it in turns to roll the dice, each man clasping his hands around the cup as he shook it, each whispering his own particular prayer for luck.
Musa went last, and threw a dog. He looked crestfallen.
'You lose!' chanted Becco. 'Musa the loser!'
'All right,' said Attilius, 'the dice settle it. Corax and Musa will locate the fault.'
'And what about the others?' grumbled Musa.
'Becco and Corvinus will ride to Abellinum and close the sluices.'
'I don't see why it takes two of them to go to Abellinum. And what's Polites going to do?'
'Polites stays with me in Pompeii and organises the tools and transport.'
'Oh, that's fair!' said Musa, bitterly. 'The free man sweats out his guts on the mountain, while the slave gets to screw the whores in Pompeii!' He snatched up his dice and hurled them into the sea. 'That's what I think of my luck!'
From the pilot at the front of the ship came a warning shout – 'Pompeii ahead!' – and six heads turned as one to face her.
She came into view slowly from behind a headland, and she was not at all what the engineer had expected – no sprawling resort like Baiae or Neapolis, strung out along the coastline of the bay, but a fortress-city, built to withstand a siege, set back a quarter of a mile from the sea, on higher ground, her port spread out beneath her.
It was only as they drew closer that Attilius saw that her walls were no longer continuous – that the long years of the Roman peace had persuaded the city fathers to drop their guard. Houses had been allowed to emerge above the ramparts, and to spill, in widening, palm-shaded terraces, down towards the docks. Dominating the line of flat roofs was a temple, looking out to sea. Gleaming marble pillars were surmounted by what at first appeared to be a frieze of ebony figures. But the frieze, he realised, was alive. Craftsmen, almost naked and blackened by the sun, were moving back and forth against the white stone – working, even though it was a public holiday. The ring of chisels on stone and the rasp of saws carried clear in the warm air.
Activity everywhere. People walking along the top of the wall and working in the gardens that looked out to sea. People swarming along the road in front of the town – on foot, on horseback, in chariots and on the backs of wagons – throwing up a haze of dust and clogging the steep paths that led up from the port to the two big city gates. As the Minerva turned into the narrow entrance of the harbour the din of the crowd grew louder – a holiday crowd, by the look of it, coming into town from the countryside to celebrate the festival of Vulcan. Attilius scanned the dockside for fountains but could see none.
The men were all silent, standing in line, each with his own thoughts.
He turned to Corax. 'Where does the water come into the town?'
'On the other side of the city,' said Corax, staring intently at the town. 'Beside the Vesuvius Gate. If –' he gave heavy emphasis to the word '– it's still flowing.'
That would be a joke, thought Attilius, if it turned out the water was not running after all and he had brought them all this way merely on the word of some old fool of an augur.
'Who works there?'
'Just some town slave. You won't find him much help.'
'Why not?'
Corax grinned and shook his head. He would not say. A private joke.
'All right. Then the Vesuvius Gate is where we'll start from.' Attilius clapped his hands. 'Come on, lads. You've seen a town before. The cruise is over.'
They were inside the harbour now. Warehouses and cranes crowded against the water's edge. Beyond them was a river – the Sarnus, according to Attilius's map – choked with barges waiting to be unloaded.
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