Pompeii

young. Like himself and the engineer. And if it proved to be his last? Well then: it was an appropriate wine to end on.
    When he announced that he was going to bed he could see that they assumed he must be joking. But no, he assured them, he was serious. He had trained himself to fall asleep at will – even upright, in a saddle, in a freezing German forest. This? This was nothing! 'Your arm, engineer, if you will be so kind.' He wished them all good night.
    Attilius held a torch aloft in one hand and with the other he supported the admiral. Together they went out into the central courtyard. Pliny had stayed here often over the years. It was a favourite spot of his: the dappled light on the pink stone, the smell of the flowers, the cooing from the dovecote set in the wall above the veranda. But now the garden was in pitch darkness, trembling with the roar of falling stone. Pumice was strewn across the covered walkway and the clouds of dust from the dry and brittle rock set off his wheezing. He stopped outside the door of his usual room and waited for Attilius to clear a space so that he could pull it open. He wondered what had happened to the birds. Had they flown away just before the manifestation started, thus offering a portent, if an augur had been on hand to divine it? Or were they out there somewhere in the black night, battered and huddled? 'Are you frightened, Marcus Attilius?'
    'Yes.'
    'That's good. To be brave, by definition, one has first to be afraid.' He rested his hand on the engineer's shoulder as he kicked off his shoes. 'Nature is a merciful deity,' he said. 'Her anger never lasts forever. The fire dies. The storm blows itself out. The flood recedes. And this will end as well. You'll see. Get some rest.'
    He shuffled into the windowless room leaving Attilius to close the door behind him.

    The engineer stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, watching the rain of pumice. After a while he heard loud snores emanating from the bedroom. Extraordinary, he thought. Either the admiral was pretending to be asleep – which he doubted – or the old man really had nodded off. He glanced at the sky. Presumably Pliny was right, and the 'manifestation', as he still insisted on calling it, would begin to weaken. But that was not happening yet. If anything, the force of the storm was intensifying. He detected a different, harsher sound to the dropping rock, and the ground beneath his feet was trembling, as it had in Pompeii. He ventured out a cautious pace from beneath the canopy, holding his torch towards the ground, and immediately he was struck hard on his arm. He almost dropped the torch. He grabbed a lump of the freshly fallen rock. Pressing himself against the wall he examined it in the light.
    It was greyer than the earlier pumice – denser, larger, as if several pieces had been welded together – and it was hitting the ground with greater force. The shower of frothy white rock had been unpleasant and frightening but not especially painful. To be struck by a piece of this would be enough to knock a man unconscious. How long had this been going on?
    He carried it into the hall and gave it to Torquatus. 'It's getting worse,' he said. 'While we've been eating, the stones have been getting heavier.' And then, to Pomponianus, 'What sort of roofs do you have here, sir? Flat or pitched?'
    'Flat,' said Pomponianus. 'They form terraces. You know – for the views across the bay.'
    Ah yes, thought Attilius – the famous views. Perhaps if they had spent a little less time gazing out to sea and rather more looking over their shoulders at the mountain behind them, they might have been better prepared. 'And how old is the house?'
    'It's been in my family for generations,' said Pomponianus proudly. 'Why?'
    'It isn't safe. With that weight of rock falling on it – and on old timber, too – sooner or later the joists will give way. We need to go outside.'
    Torquatus hefted the rock in his hand. 'Outside? Into this?'
    For a moment nobody spoke. Then Pomponianus started to wail that they were finished, that they should have sacrificed to Jupiter as he had suggested right at the beginning, but that nobody ever listened to him –
    'Shut up,' said his wife. 'We have cushions, don't we? And pillows and sheets? We can protect ourselves from rocks.'
    Torquatus said, 'Where's the admiral?'
    'Asleep.'
    'He's resigned himself to death, hasn't he? All that nonsense about wine! But I'm not ready to die, are you?'
    'No.'