Pompeii by Robert Harris Page B

or is killed, ephemeral creatures as we are, when the corpses of so many towns lie abandoned in a single spot? Check yourself, Servius, and remember that you were born a mortal man. Can you be so greatly moved by the loss of one poor little woman’s frail spirit?’ ”
    To which, for Attilius, the answer still remained, more than two years later: yes.
     
    He let the warmth soak his body and face for a while, and despite himself he must have floated off to sleep, for when he next opened his eyes the town had gone, and there was yet another huge villa slumbering beneath the shade of its giant umbrella pines, with slaves watering the lawn and scooping leaves from the surface of the swimming pool. He shook his head to clear his mind, and reached for the leather sack in which he carried what he needed—Pliny’s letter to the aediles of Pompeii , a small bag of gold coins, and the map of the Augusta .
    Work was always his consolation. He unrolled the plan, resting it against his knees, and felt an immediate stir of anxiety. The proportions of the sketch, he realized, were not at all accurate. It failed to convey the immensity of Vesuvius, which still they had not passed, and which must surely, now he looked at it, be seven or eight miles across. What had seemed a mere thumb’s-width on the map was in reality half a morning’s dusty trek in the boiling heat of the sun. He reproached himself for his naÏveté—boasting to a client, in the comfort of his library, of what could be done, without first checking the actual lie of the land. The rookie’s classic error.
    He pushed himself to his feet and made his way over to the men, who were crouched in a circle, playing dice. Corax had his hand cupped over the beaker and was shaking it hard. He did not look up as Attilius’s shadow fell across him. “Come on, Fortuna, you old whore,” he muttered and rolled the dice. He threw all aces—a dog—and groaned. Becco gave a cry of joy and scooped up the pile of copper coins.
    “My luck was good,” said Corax, “until he appeared.” He jabbed his finger at Attilius. “He’s worse than a raven, lads. You mark my words—he’ll lead us all to our deaths.”
    “Not like Exomnius,” said the engineer, squatting beside them. “I bet he always won.” He picked up the dice. “Whose are these?”
    “Mine,” said Musa.
    “I’ll tell you what. Let’s play a different game. When we get to Pompeii , Corax is going out first to the far 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 the Greek kid going to do?”
    “Polites stays with me in Pompeii and organizes 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,