Pompeii

telling her.
    'She looked something like you. And she had a temper, too, like yours.' He laughed briefly, remembering. 'We were married three years.' It was madness; he could not stop himself. 'She was in childbirth. But it came from the womb feet first, like Agrippa. That's what the name means – Agrippa – aegre partus – "born with difficulty" – did you know that? I thought at first it was a fine omen for a future aquarius, to be born like the great Agrippa. I was sure it was a boy. But the day went on – it was June in Rome, and hot: almost as hot as down here – and even with a doctor and two women in attendance, the baby would not move. And then she began to bleed.' He closed his eyes. 'They came to me before nightfall. "Marcus Attilius, choose between your wife and your child!" I said that I chose both. But they told me that was not to be, so I said – of course I said – "My wife." I went into the room to be with her. She was very weak, but she disagreed. Arguing with me, even then! They had a pair of shears, you know – the sort that a gardener might use? And a knife. And a hook. They cut off one foot, and then the other, and used the knife to quarter the body, and then the hook to draw out the skull. But Sabina's bleeding didn't stop, and the next morning she also died. So I don't know. Perhaps at the end she did despise me.'

    He sent her back to Pompeii with Polites. Not because the Greek slave was the strongest escort available, or the best horseman, but because he was the only one Attilius trusted. He gave him Corvinus's mount and told him not to let her out of his sight until she was safely home.
    She went meekly in the end, with barely another word, and he felt ashamed of what he had said. He had silenced her well enough, but in a coward's way – unmanly and self-pitying. Had ever an unctuous lawyer in Rome used a cheaper trick of rhetoric to sway a court than this ghastly parading of the ghosts of a dead wife and child? She swept her cloak around her and then flung her head back, flicking her long dark hair over her collar, and there was something impressive in the gesture: she would do as he asked but she would not accept that he was right. Never a glance in his direction as she swung herself easily into the saddle. She made a clicking sound with her tongue and tugged the reins and set off down the track behind Polites.
    It took all his self-control not to run after her. A poor reward, he thought, for all the risks she ran for me. But what else did she expect of him? And as for fate – the subject of his pious little lecture – he did believe in fate. One was shackled to it from birth as to a moving wagon. The destination of the journey could not be altered, only the manner in which one approached it – whether one chose to walk erect or to be dragged complaining through the dust.
    Still, he felt sick as he watched her go, the sun brightening the landscape as the distance between them increased, so that he was able to watch her for a long time, until at last the horses passed behind a clump of olive trees, and she was gone.

    In Misenum, the admiral was lying on his mattress in his windowless bedroom, remembering.
    He was remembering the flat, muddy forests of Upper Germany, and the great oak trees that grew along the shore of the northern sea – if one could speak of a shore in a place where the sea and the land barely knew a boundary – and the rain and the wind, and the way that in a storm the trees, with a terrible splintering, would sometimes detach themselves from the bank, vast islands of soil trapped within their roots, and drift upright, their foliage spread like rigging, bearing down on the fragile Roman galleys. He could still see in his mind the sheet lightning and the dark sky and the pale faces of the Chauci warriors amid the trees, the smell of the mud and the rain, the terror of the trees crashing into the ships at anchor, his men drowning in that filthy barbarian sea –
    He shuddered and opened his eyes to the dim light, hauled himself up, and demanded to know where he was. His secretary, sitting beside the couch next to a candle, his stylus poised, looked down at his wax tablet.
    'We were with Domitius Corbulo, admiral,' said Alexion, 'when you were in the cavalry, fighting the Chauci.'
    'Ah yes. Just so. The Chauci. I remember –'
    But what did he remember? The admiral had been trying for months to write his memoirs – his final book, he was sure – and it was