Pompeii

his horse again, pounding across the German plain, javelin in hand, to wreak havoc on the barbarians.
    'We shall rescue Rectina and the library and carry them to safety, then join Antius and the rest of the fleet in evacuating people further along the coast – how does that sound to you, captain?'
    'As the admiral wishes,' responded Torquatus stiffly. 'May I ask what time your clock shows?'
    'The start of the tenth hour,' said Alexion.
    The captain raised his eyebrows. 'So, then – just three hours of full daylight left.'
    He left the implication hanging in the air, but the admiral waved it away. 'Look at the speed we're making, captain! We'll soon be at the coast.'
    'Yes, and the wind which drives us forwards will make it all the harder for us to put to sea again.'
    'Sailors!' mocked the admiral above the sound of the waves. 'Are you listening, engineer? I swear, they're worse than farmers when it comes to the weather. They moan when there isn't a wind, and then complain even louder when there is!'
    'Admiral!' Torquatus saluted. 'If you will excuse me?' He turned away, his jaw clamped tight, and made his way, swaying, towards the prow.
    'Observations at the tenth hour,' said Pliny. 'Are you ready, Alexion?' He placed his fingertips together and frowned. It was a considerable technical challenge to describe a phenomenon for which the language had not yet been invented. After a while, the various metaphors – columns, tree trunks, fountains and the like – seemed to obscure rather than illuminate, failing to capture the sublime power of what he was witnessing. He should have brought a poet with him – he would have been more use than this cautious captain. 'Drawing closer,' he began, 'the manifestation appears as a gigantic, heavy rain cloud, increasingly black. As with a storm viewed from a distance of several miles, it is possible to see individual plumes of rain, drifting like smoke across the dark surface. And yet, according to the engineer, Marcus Attilius, these are falls not of rain but of rock.' He pointed to the poop deck beside him. 'Come up here, engineer. Describe to us again what you saw. For the record.'
    Attilius climbed the short ladder to the platform. There was something utterly incongruous about the way in which the admiral had arranged himself – with his slave, his portable desk, his throne-like chair and his water clock – when set against the fury into which they were sailing. Even though the wind was at his back, he could hear the roar from the mountain now, and the towering cascade of rock was suddenly much nearer, their ship as fragile as a leaf at the base of a waterfall. He started to give his account once more and then a bolt of lightning arced across the roiling mass of cloud – not white, but a brilliant, jagged streak of red. It hung in the air, like a vivid vein of blood, and Alexion started to cluck his tongue, which was how the superstitious worshipped lightning.
    'Add that to the list of phenomena,' commanded Pliny. 'Lightning: a grievous portent.'
    Torquatus shouted, 'We're sailing too close!'
    Beyond the admiral's shoulder, Attilius could see the quadriremes of the Misene fleet, still in sunlight, streaming out of harbour in a V-formation, like a squadron of flying geese. But then he became aware that the sky was darkening. A barrage of falling stones was exploding on the surface of the sea to their right, creeping rapidly closer. The prows and sails of the quadriremes blurred, dissolved to ghost-ships, as the air was filled with whirling rock.

    In the pandemonium, Torquatus was everywhere, bellowing orders. Men ran along the deck in the half-light. The ropes supporting the yard-arm were unhitched and the sail lowered. The helmsman swung hard left. An instant later a ball of lightning came hurtling from the sky, touched the top of the mast, travelled down it and then along the yard-arm. In the brilliance of its glare Attilius saw the admiral with his head ducked and his hands pressed to the back of his neck, and his secretary leaning forwards to protect his papers. The fireball shot off the edge of the pole and plunged into the sea, trailing fumes of sulphur. It died with a violent hiss, taking its light with it. He closed his eyes. If the sail had not been lowered it would surely have gone up in flames. He could feel the drumming of the stones on his shoulders, hear them rattling across the deck. The Minerva must be brushing along the edge of the cloud, he realised, and