Pompeii

Licinius, the governor of Hispania Tarraconensis, had offered him four hundred thousand sesterces for the lot, but he had not been tempted). Two pieces of magnetite, mined in Dacia, and locked together by their mysterious magic. A lump of shiny grey rock from Macedonia, reputed to have fallen from the stars. Some German amber with an ancient mosquito imprisoned inside its translucent cell. A piece of concave glass, picked up in Africa, which gathered together the sun's rays and aimed them to a point of such concentrated heat it would cause the hardest wood to darken and smoulder. And his water clock, the most accurate in Rome, built according to the specifications of Ctesibius of Alexandria, inventor of the water organ, its apertures bored through gold and gems to prevent corrosion and plugging.
    The clock was what he needed. It was said that clocks were like philosophers: you could never find two that agreed. But a clock by Ctesibius was the Plato of timepieces.
    'Alcman, fetch me a bowl of water. No –' He changed his mind when the slave was halfway to the door, for had not the geographer, Strabo, described the luxurious Bay of Neapolis as 'the wine bowl'? 'On second thoughts, wine would be more appropriate. But something cheap. A Surrentum, perhaps.' He sat down heavily. 'All right, Alexion – where were we?'
    'Drafting a signal to the Emperor, admiral.'
    'Ah yes. Just so.'
    Now that it was light, he would have to send a dispatch by flash to the new emperor, Titus, to alert him to the problem on the aqueduct. It would shoot, from signal tower to signal tower, all the way up to Rome, and be in the Emperor's hands by noon. And what would the new Master of the World make of that, he wondered?
    "We shall signal the Emperor, and after we have done that, I think we shall start a new notebook, and record some scientific observations. Would that interest you?'
    'Yes, admiral.' The slave picked up his stylus and wax tablet, struggling to suppress a yawn. Pliny pretended not to see it. He tapped his finger against his lips. He knew Titus well. They had served in Germania together. Charming, cultivated, clever – and completely ruthless. News that a quarter of a million people were without water could easily tip him over the edge into one of his lethal rages. This would require some careful phrasing.
    'To His Most Eminent Highness, the Emperor Titus, from the Commander-in-Chief, Misenum,' he began. 'Greetings!'

    The Minerva passed between the great concrete moles that protected the entrance to the harbour and out into the expanse of the bay. The lemony light of early morning glittered on the water. Beyond the thicket of poles that marked the oyster beds, where the seagulls swooped and cried, Attilius could see the fishery of the Villa Hortensia. He got to his feet for a better view, bracing himself against the motion of the boat. The terraces, the garden paths, the slope where Ampliatus had set up his chair to watch the execution, the ramps along the shoreline, the gantries between the fish-pens, the big eel pond set away from the rest – all deserted. The villa's crimson-and-gold cruiser was no longer moored at the end of the jetty.
    It was exactly as Atia had said: they had gone.
    The old woman had still not recovered her senses when he left the reservoir before dawn. He had lain her on a straw mattress in one of the rooms beside the kitchen, and had told the domestic slave, Phylo, to summon a doctor and to see that she was cared for. Phylo had made a face, but Attilius had told him gruffly to do as he was told. If she died – well, that might be a merciful release. If she recovered – then, as far as he was concerned, she could stay. He would have to buy another slave in any case, to look after his food and clothes. His needs were few; the work would be light. He had never paid much attention to such matters. Sabina had looked after the household when he was married; after she had gone, his mother had taken over.
    The great villa looked dark and shuttered, as though for a funeral; the screams of the gulls were like the cries of mourners.
    Musa said, 'I hear he paid ten million for it.'
    Attilius acknowledged the remark with a grunt, without taking his eyes off the house. 'Well, he's not there now.'
    'Ampliatus? Of course he's not. He never is. He has houses everywhere, that one. Mostly, he's in Pompeii.'
    'Pompeii?'
    Now the engineer looked round. Musa was sitting cross-legged, his back propped against the tools,