Pompeii

noticed Attilius staring and there was a little flutter of laughter from behind their fans. He felt himself redden with embarrassment and he quickly turned his back on them, just as the curtain parted and the steward reappeared, beckoning.
    Attilius knew at once, by the humidity and by the smell of oil, that he was being shown into the house's private baths. And of course, he thought, it was bound to have its own suite, for with money such as this, why mix with the common herd? The steward took him into the changing room and told him to remove his shoes then they went back out into the passageway and into the tepidarium, where an immensely fat old man lay face down, naked, on a table, being worked on by a young masseur. His white buttocks vibrated as the masseur made chopping motions up and down his spine. He turned his head slightly as Attilius passed by, regarded him with a single, bloodshot grey eye, then closed it again.
    The steward slid open a door, releasing a billow of fragrant vapour from the dim interior, then stood aside to let the engineer pass through.
    It was hard at first to see very much in the caldarium. The only light came from a couple of torches mounted on the wall and from the glowing coals of a brazier, the source of the steam which filled the room. Gradually Attilius made out a large sunken bath with three dark heads of hair, seemingly disembodied, floating in the greyness. There was a ripple of water as one of the heads moved and a splash as a hand was raised and gently waved.
    'Over here, aquarius,' said a languid voice. 'You have a message for me, I believe, from the Emperor? I don't know these Flavians. Descended from a tax-collector, I believe. But Nero was a great friend of mine.'
    Another head was stirring. 'Fetch us a torch!' it commanded. 'Let us at least see who disturbs us on a feast day.'
    A slave in the corner of the room, who Attilius had not noticed, took down one of the torches from the wall and held it close to the engineer's face so that he could be inspected. All three heads were now turned towards him. Attilius could feel the pores of his skin opening, the sweat running freely down his body. The mosaic floor was baking hot beneath his bare feet – a hypocaust, he realised. Luxury was certainly piled upon luxury in the house of the Popidii. He wondered if Ampliatus, in the days when he was a slave here, had ever been made to sweat over the furnace in midsummer.
    The heat of the torch on his cheek was unbearable. 'This is no place to conduct the Emperor's business,' he said and pushed the slave's arm away. 'To whom am I speaking?'
    'He's certainly a rude enough fellow,' declared the third head.
    'I am Lucius Popidius,' said the languid voice, 'and these gentlemen are Gaius Cuspius and Marcus Holconius. And our esteemed friend in the tepidarium is Quintus Brittius. Now do you know who we are?'
    'You're the four elected magistrates of Pompeii.'
    'Correct,' said Popidius. 'And this is our town, aquarius, so guard your tongue.'
    Attilius knew how the system worked. As aediles, Popidius and Cuspius would hand out the licences for all the businesses, from the brothels to the baths; they were responsible for keeping the streets clean, the water flowing, the temples open. Holconius and Brittius were the duoviri – the commission of two men – who presided over the court in the basilica and dispensed the Emperor's justice: a flogging here, a crucifixion there, and no doubt a fine to fill the city's coffers whenever possible. He would not be able to accomplish much without them so he forced himself to stand quietly, waiting for them to speak. Time, he thought: I am losing so much time.
    'Well,' said Popidius after a while. 'I suppose I have cooked for long enough.' He sighed and stood, a ghostly figure in the steam, and held out his hand for a towel. The slave replaced the torch in its holder, knelt before his master and wrapped a cloth around his waist. 'All right. Where's this letter?' He took it and padded into the adjoining room. Attilius followed.
    Brittius was on his back and the young slave had obviously been giving him more than a massage for his penis was red and engorged and pointing hard against the fat slope of his belly. The old man batted away the slave's hands, and reached for a towel. His face was scarlet. He scowled at Attilius. 'Who's this then, Popi?'
    'The new aquarius of the Augusta. Exomnius's replacement. He's come from Misenum.' Popidius broke open the seal