Pompeii

in the distance, moving against the shore, and the throb of the cicadas in the garden. He rattled the iron bars and pressed his face to the warm metal. The porter's room was shuttered and barred. There was not a light to be seen.
    He was remembering Ampliatus's reaction when he turned up on the seashore: 'What's happened to Exomnius? But surely Exomnius is still the aquarius?' There had been surprise in his voice and, now he came to think about it, possibly something more: alarm.
    'Corelia!' He called her name softly. 'Corelia Ampliata!'
    No response. And then a whisper in the darkness, so low he almost missed it: 'Gone.'
    A woman's voice. It came from somewhere to his left. He stepped back from the gate and peered into the shadows. He could make out nothing except a small mound of rags piled in a drift against the wall. He moved closer and saw that the shreds of cloth were moving slightly. A skinny foot protruded, like a bone. It was the mother of the dead slave. He went down on one knee and cautiously touched the rough fabric of her dress. She shivered, then groaned and muttered something. He withdrew his hand. His fingers were sticky with blood.
    'Can you stand?'
    'Gone,' she repeated.
    He lifted her carefully until she was sitting, propped against the wall. Her swollen head dropped forward and he saw that her matted hair had left a damp mark on the stone. She had been whipped and badly beaten, and thrown out of the household to die.
    N. P. N. l. A: Numerius Popidius Numerii libertus Ampliatus. Granted his freedom by the family Popidii. It was a fact of life that there was no crueller master than an ex-slave.
    He pressed his fingers lightly to her neck to make sure she was still alive. Then he threaded one arm under the crook of her knees and with the other grasped her round her shoulders. It cost him no effort to rise. She was mere rags and bones. Somewhere, in the streets close to the harbour, the night-watchman was calling the fifth division of the darkness: 'Media noctis inclinatio' – midnight.
    The engineer straightened his back and set off down the hill as the day of Mars turned into the day of Mercury.

MERCURY

    23 August

    The day before the eruption

Diluculum

    [06:00 hours]

'Prior to AD 79, a reservoir of magma had accumulated beneath the volcano. It is not possible to say when this magma chamber began to form, but it had a volume of at least 3.6 cubic kilometres, was about 3 km below the surface, and was compositionally stratified, with volatile-rich alkalic magma (55 percent SiO2 and almost 10 per cent K2O) overlying slightly denser, more mafic magma.'
Peter Francis, Volcanoes: A Planetary Perspective

    At the top of the great stone lighthouse, hidden beyond the ridge of the southern headland, the slaves were dousing the fires to greet the dawn. It was supposed to be a sacred place. According to Virgil, this was the spot where Misenus, the herald of the Trojans, slain by the sea god Triton, lay buried with his oars and trumpet.
    Attilius watched the red glow fade beyond the tree-crested promontory, while in the harbour the outlines of the warships took shape against the pearl-grey sky.
    He turned and walked back along the quay to where the others were waiting. He could make out their faces at last – Musa, Becco, Corvinus, Polites – they were becoming as familiar to him as family. No sign yet of Corax.
    'Nine brothels!' Musa was saying. 'Believe me, if you want to get laid, Pompeii's the place. Even Becco can give his hand a rest for a change. Hey, aquarius!' he shouted, as Attilius drew closer. 'Tell Becco he can get himself laid!'
    The dockside stank of shit and gutted fish. Attilius could see a putrid melon and the bloated, whitened carcass of a rat lapping at his feet between the pillars of the wharf. So much for poets! He had a sudden yearning for one of those cold, northern seas he had heard about – the Atlantic, perhaps, or the Germanicum – a land where a deep tide daily swept the sand and rocks; some place healthier than this tepid Roman lake.
    He said, 'As long as we fix the Augusta, Becco can screw every girl in Italy for all I care.'
    'There you go, Becco. Your prick will soon be as long as your nose –'
    The ship the admiral had promised was moored before them: the Minerva, named for the goddess of wisdom, with an owl, the symbol of her deity, carved into her prow. A liburnian. Smaller than the big triremes. Built for speed. Her high stern-post reared out behind her, then