Pompeii

again. 'And Ampliatus? He was a great friend of Ampliatus, was he not? Were they often together?'
    The slave gestured to his eyes. 'I cannot see –'
    No, thought Attilius, but I bet you heard them: not much escapes those ears of yours. He glanced across the street at the house of Popidius. 'All right, Tiro. You can go back to the castellum. Do your day's work. I'm grateful for your help.'
    'Thank you, aquarius.' Tiro gave a little bow and took Attilius's hand and kissed it. Then he turned and began climbing back up the hill towards the Vesuvius Gate, dancing from side to side through the holiday crowd.

Hora quinta

    [11:07 hours]

'Injections of new magma can also trigger eruptions by upsetting the thermal, chemical, or mechanical equilibrium of older magma in a shallow reservoir. New magmas coming from deeper, hotter sources can suddenly raise the temperature of the cooler resident magma causing it to convect and vesiculate.'
Volcanology (second edition)

    The house had a double door – heavy-studded, bronze-hinged, firmly closed. Attilius hammered on it a couple of times with his fist. The noise he made seemed too feeble to be heard above the racket of the street. But almost at once it opened slightly and the porter appeared – a Nubian, immensely tall and broad in a sleeveless crimson tunic. His thick black arms and neck, as solid as tree trunks, glistened with oil, like some polished African hardwood.
    Attilius said lightly, 'A keeper worthy of his gate, I see.'
    The porter did not smile. 'State your business.'
    'Marcus Attilius, aquarius of the Aqua Augusta, wishes to present his compliments to Lucius Popidius Secundus.'
    'It's a public holiday. He's not at home.'
    Attilius put his foot against the door. 'He is now.' He opened his bag, and pulled out the admiral's letter. 'Do you see this seal? Give it to him. Tell him it's from the commander-in-chief at Misenum. Tell him I need to see him on the Emperor's business.'
    The porter looked down at Attilius's foot. If he had slammed the door he would have snapped it like a twig. A man's voice behind him cut in: 'The Emperor's business, did he just say, Massavo? You had better let him in.' The Nubian hesitated – Massavo: that was the right name for him, thought Attilius – then stepped backwards, and the engineer slipped quickly through the opening. The door was closed and locked behind him; the sounds of the city were extinguished.
    The man who had spoken wore the same crimson uniform as the porter. He had a bunch of keys attached to his belt – the household steward, presumably. He took the letter and ran his thumb across the seal, checking to see if it was broken. Satisfied, he studied Attilius. 'Lucius Popidius is entertaining guests for Vulcanalia. But I shall see that he receives it.'
    'No,' said Attilius. 'I shall give it to him myself. Immediately.'
    He held out his hand. The steward tapped the cylinder of papyrus against his teeth, trying to decide what to do. 'Very well.' He gave Attilius the letter. 'Follow me.'
    He led the way down the narrow corridor of the vestibule towards a sunlit atrium, and for the first time Attilius began to appreciate the immensity of the old house. The narrow façade was an illusion. He could see beyond the shoulder of the steward straight through into the interior, a hundred and fifty feet or more, successive vistas of light and colour – the shaded passageway with its black and white mosaic floor; the dazzling brilliance of the atrium with its marble fountain; a tablinum for receiving visitors, guarded by two bronze busts; and then a colonnaded swimming pool, its pillars wrapped with vines. He could hear finches chirruping in an aviary somewhere, and women's voices, laughing.
    They came into the atrium and the steward said, brusquely, 'Wait here,' before disappearing to the left, behind a curtain that screened a narrow passageway. Attilius glanced around. Here was money, old money, used to buy absolute privacy in the middle of the busy town. The sun was almost directly overhead, shining through the square aperture in the atrium's roof, and the air was warm and sweet with the scent of roses. From this position he could see most of the swimming pool. Elaborate bronze statues decorated the steps at the nearest end – a wild boar, a lion, a snake rising from its coils, and Apollo playing the cithara. At the far end, four women reclined on couches, fanning themselves, each with her own maid standing behind her. They