Pompeii

brilliant blue sky, hauling the figure of Victory in her golden chariot. The monument was dedicated to yet another Holconius – Marcus Holconius Rufus, dead these past sixty years – and Attilius paused long enough to read the inscription: military tribune, priest of Augustus, five times magistrate, patron of the town.
    Always the same few names, he thought. Holconius, Popidius, Cuspius... The ordinary citizens might put on their togas every spring, turn out to listen to the speeches, throw their tablets into the urns and elect a new set of magistrates. But still the familiar faces came round again and again. The engineer had almost as little time for politicians as he had for the gods.
    He was about to put his foot down to cross the street when he suddenly pulled it back. It appeared to him that the large stepping stones were rippling slightly. A great dry wave was passing through the town. An instant later he lurched, as he had done when the Minerva was moored, and he had to grab at Tiro's arm to stop himself falling. A few people screamed; a horse shied. On the opposite corner of the crossroads a tile slid down a steep-pitched roof and shattered on the pavement. For a few moments the centre of Pompeii was almost silent. And then, gradually, activity began again. Breath was exhaled. Conversations resumed. The driver flicked his whip over the back of his frantic horse and the cart jumped forwards.
    Tiro took advantage of the lull in the traffic to dart across to the opposite side and, after a brief hesitation, Attilius followed, half-expecting the big raised stones to give way again beneath his leather soles. The sensation made him jumpier than he cared to admit. If you couldn't trust the ground you trod on, what could you trust?
    The slave waited for him. His blank eyes, endlessly searching for what he could not see, gave him a look of constant unease. 'Don't worry, aquarius. It happens all the time this summer. Five times, ten times, even, in the past two days. The ground is complaining of the heat!'
    He offered his hand but Attilius ignored it – he found it demeaning, the blind man reassuring the sighted – and mounted the high pavement unaided. He said irritably, 'Where's this bloody house?' and Tiro gestured vaguely to a doorway across the street, a little way down.
    It did not look much. The usual blank walls. A bakery on one side, with a queue of customers waiting to enter a confectionery shop. A stink of urine from the laundry opposite, with pots left on the pavement for passers-by to piss in (nothing cleaned clothes as well as human piss). Next to the laundry, a theatre. Above the big door of the house was another of the ubiquitous, red-painted slogans: 'HIS NEIGHBOURS URGE THE ELECTION OF LUCIUS POPIDIUS SECUNDUS AS AEDILE. HE WILL PROVE WORTHY.' Attilius would never have found the place on his own.
    'Aquarius, may I ask you something?'
    'What?'
    'Where is Exomnius?'
    'Nobody knows, Tiro. He's vanished.'
    The slave absorbed this, nodding slowly. 'Exomnius was like you. He could not get used to the shaking, either. He said it reminded him of the time before the big earthquake, many years ago. The year I was born.'
    He seemed to be on the edge of tears. Attilius put a hand on his shoulder and studied him intently. 'Exomnius was in Pompeii recently?'
    'Of course. He lived here.'
    Attilius tightened his grip. 'He lived here ? In Pompeii?'
    He felt bewildered and yet he also grasped immediately that it must be true. It explained why Exomnius's quarters at Misenum had been so devoid of personal possessions, why Corax had not wanted him to come here, and why the overseer had behaved so strangely in Pompeii – all that looking around, searching the crowds for a familiar face.
    'He had rooms at Africanus's place,' said Tiro. 'He was not here all the time. But often.'
    'And how long ago did you speak to him?'
    'I can't remember.' The youth really was beginning to seem frightened now. He turned his head as though trying to look at Attilius's hand on his shoulder. The engineer quickly released him and patted his arm reassuringly.
    'Try to remember, Tiro. It could be important.'
    'I don't know.'
    'After the Festival of Neptune or before?' Neptunalia was on the twenty-third day of July: the most sacred date in the calendar for the men of the aqueducts.
    'After. Definitely. Perhaps two weeks ago.'
    'Two weeks? Then you must have been one of the last to talk to him. And he was worried about the tremors?' Tiro nodded