Pompeii

waded over to the side of the reservoir and hauled himself out. 'I'm Marcus Attilius. The new aquarius of the Augusta. And what do they call you, apart from a lazy idiot?'
    'Tiro, aquarius.' The boy's eyes were open wide in alarm, his pupils darting from side to side. 'Forgive me.' He dropped to his knees. 'The public holiday, aquarius – I slept late – I –'
    'All right. Never mind that.' The boy was only about sixteen – a scrap of humanity, as thin as a stray dog – and Attilius regretted his roughness. 'Come on. Get up off the floor. I need you to take me to the magistrates.' He held out his hand but the slave ignored it, his eyes still flickering wildly back and forth. Attilius waved his palm in front of Tiro's face. 'You're blind?'
    'Yes, aquarius.'
    A blind guide. No wonder Corax had smiled when Attilius had asked about him. A blind guide in an unfriendly city! 'But how do you perform your duties if you can't see?'
    'I can hear better than any man.' Despite his nervousness, Tiro spoke with a trace of pride. 'I can tell by the sound of the water how well it flows and if it's obstructed. I can smell it. I can taste it for impurities.' He lifted his head, sniffing the air. 'This morning there's no need for me to adjust the gates. I've never heard the flow so strong.'
    'That's true.' The engineer nodded: he had underestimated the boy. 'The main line is blocked somewhere between here and Nola. That's why I've come, to get help to repair it. You're the property of the town?' Tiro nodded. 'Who are the magistrates?'
    'Marcus Holconius and Quintus Brittius,' said Tiro promptly. 'The aediles are Lucius Popidius and Gaius Cuspius.'
    'Which is in charge of the water supply?'
    'Popidius.'
    'Where will I find him?'
    'It's a holiday –'
    'Where's his house then?'
    'Straight down the hill, aquarius, towards the Stabian Gate. On the left. Just past the big crossroads.' Tiro scrambled to his feet eagerly. 'I can show you if you like.'
    'Surely I can find it by myself?'
    'No, no.' Tiro was already in the alley, anxious to prove himself. 'I can take you there. You'll see.'

    They descended into the town together. It tumbled away below them, a jumble of terracotta roofs sloping down to a sparkling sea. Framing the view to the left was the blue ridge of the Surrentum peninsula; to the right was the tree-covered flank of Vesuvius. Attilius found it hard to imagine a more perfect spot in which to build a city, high enough above the bay to be wafted by the occasional breeze, close enough to the shore to enjoy the benefits of the Mediterranean trade. No wonder it had risen again so quickly after the earthquake.
    The street was lined with houses, not the sprawling apartment blocks of Rome, but narrow-fronted, windowless dwellings that seemed to have turned their backs on the crowded traffic and to be looking inwards upon themselves. Open doors revealed an ocasional flash of what lay beyond – cool mosaic hallways, a sunny garden, a fountain – but apart from these glimpses, the only relief from the monotony of the drab walls were election slogans daubed in red paint.
    'THE ENTIRE MASS HAVE APPROVED THE CANDIDACY OF CUSPIUS FOR THE OFFICE OF AEDILE.'
    'THE FRUIT DEALERS TOGETHER WITH HELVIUS VESTALIS UNANIMOUSLY URGE THE ELECTION OF MARCUS HOLCONIUS PRISCUS AS MAGISTRATE WITH JUDICIAL POWER.'
    'THE WORSHIPPERS OF ISIS UNANIMOUSLY URGE THE ELECTION OF LUCIUS POPIDIUS SECUNDUS AS AEDILE.'
    'Your whole town appears to be obsessed with elections, Tiro. It's worse than Rome.'
    'The free men vote for the new magistrates each March, aquarius.'
    They were walking quickly, Tiro keeping a little ahead of Attilius, threading along the crowded pavement, occasionally stepping into the gutter to splash through the running stream. The engineer had to ask him to slow down. Tiro apologised. He had been blind from birth, he said cheerfully: had been dumped on the refuse tip outside the city walls and left to die. But someone had picked him up and he'd lived by running errands for the town since he was six years old. He knew his way by instinct.
    'This aedile, Popidius,' said Attilius, as they passed his name for the third time, 'his must have been the family which once had Ampliatus as a slave.'
    But Tiro, despite the keenness of his ears, seemed for once not to have heard.
    They came to a big crossroads, dominated by an enormous triumphal arch, resting on four marble pillars. A team of four horses, frozen in stone, plunged and reared against the