Ampliatus.”
Attilius could see at once that he had made a mistake. The eager light of gossip was immediately extinguished in Musa’s eyes. “I don’t know anything about that,” he muttered, and busied himself with his bag of food. “He was a fine man, Exomnius. He was good to work for.”
Was, thought Attilius. Was a fine man. Was good to work for. He tried to make a joke of it. “You mean he didn’t keep dragging you out of bed before dawn?”
“No. I mean he was straight and would never try to trick an honest man into saying more than he ought.”
“Hey, Musa!” shouted Corax. “What are you going on about over there? You gossip like a woman! Come and have a drink!”
Musa was on his feet at once, swaying down the deck to join the others. As Corax threw him the wineskin, Torquatus jumped down from the stern and made his way toward the center of the deck, where the mast and sails were stowed.
“We’ll have no need of those, I fear.” He was a big man. Arms akimbo he scanned the sky. The fresh, sharp sun glinted on his breastplate; already it was hot. “Right, engineer. Let’s see what my oxen can do.” He swung his feet onto the ladder and descended down the hatch to the lower deck. A moment later, the tempo of the drum increased and Attilius felt the ship lurch slightly. The oars flashed. The silent Villa Hortensia dwindled farther in the distance behind them.
The Minerva pushed on steadily as the heat of the morning settled over the bay. For two hours the oarsmen kept up the same remorseless pace. Clouds of steam curled from the terraces of the open-air baths in Baiae. In the hills above Puteoli, the fires of the sulfur mines burned pale green.
The engineer sat apart, his hands clasped around his knees, his hat pulled low to shield his eyes, watching the coast slide by, searching the landscape for some clue as to what had happened on the Augusta .
Everything about this part of Italy was strange, he thought. Even the rust-red soil around Puteoli possessed some quality of magic, so that when it was mixed with lime and flung into the sea it turned to rock. This puteolanum, as they called it, in honor of its birthplace, was the discovery that had transformed Rome . And it had also given his family their profession, for what had once needed laborious construction in stone and brick could now be thrown up overnight. With shuttering and cement Agrippa had sunk the great wharves of Misenum, and had irrigated the empire with aqueducts—the Augusta here in
Campania
, the Julia and the Virgo in Rome , the Nemausus in southern Gaul . The world had been remade.
But nowhere had this hydraulic cement been used to greater effect than in the land where it was discovered. Piers and jetties, terraces and embankments, breakwaters and fish farms had transformed the
Bay
of
Neapolis
. Whole villas seemed to thrust themselves up from the waves and to float offshore. What had once been the realm of the super-rich—Caesar, Crassus, Pompey—had been flooded by a new class of millionaires, men like Ampliatus. Attilius wondered how many of the owners, relaxed and torpid as this sweltering August stretched and yawned and settled itself into its fourth week, would be aware by now of the failure of the aqueduct. Not many, he would guess. Water was something that was carried in by slaves, or which appeared miraculously from the nozzle of one of Sergius Orata’s shower-baths. But they would know soon enough. They would know once they had to start drinking their swimming pools.
The farther east they rowed, the more Vesuvius dominated the bay. Her lower slopes were a mosaic of cultivated fields and villas, but from her halfway point rose dark green, virgin forest. A few wisps of cloud hung motionless around her tapering peak. Torquatus declared that the hunting up there was excellent—boar, deer, hare. He had been out many times with his dogs and net, and also with his bow. But one had to look out for the wolves. In
Attilius could see at once that he had made a mistake. The eager light of gossip was immediately extinguished in Musa’s eyes. “I don’t know anything about that,” he muttered, and busied himself with his bag of food. “He was a fine man, Exomnius. He was good to work for.”
Was, thought Attilius. Was a fine man. Was good to work for. He tried to make a joke of it. “You mean he didn’t keep dragging you out of bed before dawn?”
“No. I mean he was straight and would never try to trick an honest man into saying more than he ought.”
“Hey, Musa!” shouted Corax. “What are you going on about over there? You gossip like a woman! Come and have a drink!”
Musa was on his feet at once, swaying down the deck to join the others. As Corax threw him the wineskin, Torquatus jumped down from the stern and made his way toward the center of the deck, where the mast and sails were stowed.
“We’ll have no need of those, I fear.” He was a big man. Arms akimbo he scanned the sky. The fresh, sharp sun glinted on his breastplate; already it was hot. “Right, engineer. Let’s see what my oxen can do.” He swung his feet onto the ladder and descended down the hatch to the lower deck. A moment later, the tempo of the drum increased and Attilius felt the ship lurch slightly. The oars flashed. The silent Villa Hortensia dwindled farther in the distance behind them.
The Minerva pushed on steadily as the heat of the morning settled over the bay. For two hours the oarsmen kept up the same remorseless pace. Clouds of steam curled from the terraces of the open-air baths in Baiae. In the hills above Puteoli, the fires of the sulfur mines burned pale green.
The engineer sat apart, his hands clasped around his knees, his hat pulled low to shield his eyes, watching the coast slide by, searching the landscape for some clue as to what had happened on the Augusta .
Everything about this part of Italy was strange, he thought. Even the rust-red soil around Puteoli possessed some quality of magic, so that when it was mixed with lime and flung into the sea it turned to rock. This puteolanum, as they called it, in honor of its birthplace, was the discovery that had transformed Rome . And it had also given his family their profession, for what had once needed laborious construction in stone and brick could now be thrown up overnight. With shuttering and cement Agrippa had sunk the great wharves of Misenum, and had irrigated the empire with aqueducts—the Augusta here in
Campania
, the Julia and the Virgo in Rome , the Nemausus in southern Gaul . The world had been remade.
But nowhere had this hydraulic cement been used to greater effect than in the land where it was discovered. Piers and jetties, terraces and embankments, breakwaters and fish farms had transformed the
Bay
of
Neapolis
. Whole villas seemed to thrust themselves up from the waves and to float offshore. What had once been the realm of the super-rich—Caesar, Crassus, Pompey—had been flooded by a new class of millionaires, men like Ampliatus. Attilius wondered how many of the owners, relaxed and torpid as this sweltering August stretched and yawned and settled itself into its fourth week, would be aware by now of the failure of the aqueduct. Not many, he would guess. Water was something that was carried in by slaves, or which appeared miraculously from the nozzle of one of Sergius Orata’s shower-baths. But they would know soon enough. They would know once they had to start drinking their swimming pools.
The farther east they rowed, the more Vesuvius dominated the bay. Her lower slopes were a mosaic of cultivated fields and villas, but from her halfway point rose dark green, virgin forest. A few wisps of cloud hung motionless around her tapering peak. Torquatus declared that the hunting up there was excellent—boar, deer, hare. He had been out many times with his dogs and net, and also with his bow. But one had to look out for the wolves. In
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