Book
Reviews
|
|||
|
Go to Executive Times
Archives |
|||
|
Pompeii
by Robert Harris Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
|
||
|
Click on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
|
||
|
|
|||
|
Salve Lucrum Fans of historical novels will get a
special kick out of Robert Harris’ new novel, Pompeii.
Harris uses finely selected descriptive language to present the sights,
smells and sounds of the ancient Roman world over a few days preceding and
following the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in the year 79. With gratitude from we
lesser fans of the genre, Harris doesn’t drone on with more details than are
needed to present a fast-paced story. We expect that Harris’ volcanic science
was well researched, and the fictional account he presents remains consistent
with the probable sequence of historical events. Here’s an excerpt from the
end of chapter “Hora Sexta” (pp. 105-113): Baths were not a luxury. Baths were the foundation of civilization. Baths were what raised even the meanest citizen of Rome above the level of the wealthiest hairy-assed barbarian. Baths instilled the triple disciplines of cleanliness, healthfulness, and strict routine. Was it not to feed the baths that the aqueducts had been invented in the first place? Had not the baths spread the Roman ethos across Europe, Africa, and Asia as effectively as the legions, so that in whatever town in this far-flung empire a man might find himself, he could at least be sure of finding this one precious piece of home? Such was the essence of Ampliatus’s lecture as he
conducted Attilius around the empty shell of his dream. The rooms were
unfurnished and smelled strongly of fresh paint and stucco and their
footsteps echoed as they passed through the cubicles and exercise rooms into
the main part of the building. Here, the frescoes were already in place.
Views of the green Nile, studded with basking crocodiles, flowed into scenes
from the lives of the gods. Triton swam beside the Argonauts and led them
back to safety. Neptune transformed his son into a swan. Perseus saved
Andromeda from the sea monster sent to attack the Ethiopians. The pool in the
caldarium was built to take twenty-eight paying customers at a time, and as
the bathers lay on their backs they would gaze up at a sapphire ceiling, lit
by five hundred lamps and swimming with every species of marine life, and
believe themselves to be floating in an undersea grotto. To attain the luxury he demanded, Ampliatus was
employing the most modern techniques, the best materials, the most skillful
craftsmen in Italy. There were Neapolitan glass windows in the dome of the
laconicum—the sweating room—as thick as a man's finger. The floors and the
walls and the ceilings were hollow, the furnace that heated the cavities so
powerful that even if snow lay on the ground, the air inside would be
sweltering enough to melt a man's flesh. It was built to withstand an
earthquake. All the main fittings—pipes, drains, grilles, vents, taps,
stopcocks, shower nozzles, even the handles to flush the latrines—were of
brass. The lavatory seats were Phrygian marble, with elbow rests carved in
the shape of dolphins and chimeras. Hot and cold running water throughout. Civilization. Attilius had to admire the vision of the man.
Ampliatus took so much pride in showing him everything that it was almost as
if he was soliciting an investment. And the truth was that if the engineer
had had any money—if most of his salary had not already been sent back home
to his mother and sister—he might well have given him every last coin, for he
had never encountered a more persuasive salesman than Numerius Popidius
Ampliatus. "How soon before you're finished?" "I should say a month. I need to bring in the
carpenters. I want some shelves, a few cupboards. I thought of putting down
sprung wood floors in the changing room. I was considering pine." "No," said Attilius. "Use
alder." "Alder? Why?" "It won't rot in contact with water. I'd use
pine—or perhaps cypress—for the shutters. But it would need to be something
from the lowlands, where the sun shines. Don't touch pine from the mountains.
Not for a building of this quality." "Any other advice?" "Always use timber cut in the autumn, not the
spring. Trees are pregnant in the spring and the wood is weaker. For
clamping, use olive wood, scorched—it will last for a century. But you
probably know all that." "Not at all. I've built a lot, its true, but
I've never understood much about wood and stone. It's money I understand. And
the great thing about money is that it doesn't matter when you harvest it.
It's a year-round crop." He laughed at his own joke and turned to look
at the engineer. There was something unnerving about the intensity of his
gaze, which was not steady, but which shifted, as if he were
constantly measuring different aspects of whomever he addressed, and Attilius
thought. No, it's not money you understand,
it's men—their strengths and their weaknesses;
when to flatter, when to frighten. "And you, aquarius?" Ampliatus said quietly, "What it
is that you know?" "Water." "Well, that's an important thing to know.
Water is at least as valuable as money." "Is it? Then why aren't I a rich man?" "Perhaps you could be." He made the
remark lightly, left it floating for a moment beneath the massive dome, and
then went on, his voice echoing off the walls: "Do you ever stop to
think how curiously the world is ordered, aquarius? When this place is open,
I shall make another fortune. And then I shall use that fortune to make
another, and another. But without your aqueduct, I could not build my baths.
That's a thought, is it not? Without Attilius, no Ampliatus." "Except that it's not my aqueduct. I didn't
build it—the emperor did." "True. And at a cost of two million a mile!
'The late lamented Augustus'—was ever a man more justly proclaimed a deity?
Give me the Divine Augustus over Jupiter any time. I say my prayers to him
every day." He sniffed the air. "This wet paint makes my head ache.
Let me show you my plans for the grounds." He led them back the way they had come. The sun was
shining fully now through the large open windows. The gods on the opposite
walls seemed alive with color. Yet there was something haunted about the
empty rooms—the drowsy stillness, the dust floating in the shafts of light,
the cooing of the pigeons in the builders' yard. One bird must have flown
into the laconicum and become trapped. The sudden flapping of its wings
against the dome made the engineer's heart jump. Outside, the luminous air felt almost solid with
the heat, like melted glass, but Ampliatus did not appear to feel it. He
climbed the open staircase easily and stepped onto the small sundeck. From
here he had a commanding view of his little kingdom. That would be the
exercise yard, he said. He would plant plane trees around it for shade. He
was experimenting with a method of heating the water in the outdoor pool. He
patted the stone parapet. "This was the site of my first property.
Seventeen years ago I bought it. If I told you how little I paid for it, you
wouldn't believe me. Mark you, there was not much left of it after the
earthquake. No roof, just the walls. I was twenty-eight. Never been so happy,
before or since. Repaired it, rented it out, bought another, rented that.
Some of these big old houses from the time of the republic were huge. I split
them up and fitted ten families into them. I've gone on doing it ever since.
Here's a piece of advice for you, my friend: there's no safer investment than
property in Pompeii." He swatted a fly on the back of his neck and
inspected its pulpy corpse between his fingers. He flicked it away. Attilius
could imagine him as a young man—brutal, energetic, remorseless. "You
had been freed by the Popidii by then?" Ampliatus shot him a look. However hard
he tries to be affable, thought Attilius, those
eyes will always betray him. "If that was meant as an insult,
aquarius, forget it. Everyone knows Numerius Popidius Ampliatus was born a
slave and he's not ashamed of it. Yes, I was free. I was manumitted in my
masters will when I was twenty. Lucius, his son—the one you just met—made me
his household steward. Then I did some debt-collecting for an old moneylender
called Jucundus, and he taught me a lot. But I never would have been rich if
it hadn't been for the earthquake." He looked fondly toward Vesuvius.
His voice softened. "It came down from the mountain one morning in
February like a wind beneath the earth. I watched it coming, the trees bowing
as it passed, and by the time it had finished this town was rubble. It didn't
matter then who had been born a free man and who had been born a slave. The
place was empty. You could walk the streets for an hour and meet no one
except for the dead." "Who was in charge of rebuilding the
town?" "Nobody! That was the disgrace of it. All the
richest families ran away to their country estates. They were all convinced
there was going to be another earthquake." "Including Popidius?" "Especially Popidius!" He wrung his
hands, and whined, " 'Oh, Ampliatus, the gods have forsaken us! Oh,
Ampliatus, the gods are punishing us!' The gods! I ask you! As if the gods
could care less who or what we fuck or how we live. As if earthquakes aren’t
as much a part of living in Campania as hot springs and summer droughts! They came creeping back, of course, once
they saw it was safe, but by then things had started to change. Salve lucrum!
'Hail profit!' That's the motto of the new Pompeii. You'll see it all over the
town. Lucrum gaudium! 'Profit is joy!' Not money, mark you—any
fool can inherit money. Profit. That takes skill." He spat over the low
wall into the street below. "Lucius Popidius! What skill does he have?
He can drink in cold water and piss out hot, and that's about the limit of
it. Whereas you"—and again Attilius felt himself being sized
up—"you, I think, are a man of some ability. I see myself in you, when I
was your age. I could use a fellow like you." "Use me?" "Here, for a start. These baths could do with
a man who understands water. In return for your advice, I could cut you in. A
share of the profits." Attilius shook his head, smiling. "I don't
think so." Ampliatus smiled back. "Ah, you drive a hard
bargain! I admire that in a man. Very well—a share of the ownership,
too." "No. Thank you. 1m flattered. But my family
has worked the imperial aqueducts for a century. I was born to be an engineer
on the matrices, and I shall die doing it." "Why not do both?" "What?" "Run the aqueduct, and advise me as well. No
one need ever know." Attilius looked at him closely, at his crafty,
eager face. Beneath the money, the violence, and the lust for power, he was
really nothing bigger than a small-town crook. "No," he said
coldly, "that would be impossible." The contempt must have shown in his face because
Ampliatus retreated at once. "You're right," he said, nodding.
"Forget I even mentioned it. I’m a rough fellow sometimes. I have these
ideas without always thinking them through." "Like executing a slave before finding out if
he's telling the truth?" Ampliatus grinned and pointed at Attilius.
"Very good! That's right. But how can you expect a man like me to know
how to behave? You can have all the money in the empire but it doesn't make
you a gentleman, right? You may think you're copying the aristocracy, showing a bit of
class, but then it turns out you're a monster. Isn't that what Corelia called
me? A monster?" "And
Exomnius?" Attilius blurted out the question. "Did you have an
arrangement with him that nobody ever knew about?" Ampliatuss smile did not waver. From down in the
street came a rumble of heavy wooden wheels on stone. "Listen—1 think I
can hear your wagons coming. We'd better go down and let them in." The
conversation might never have happened. Humming to himself again, Ampliatus
dodged across the rubble-strewn yard. He swung open the heavy gates and as
Polites led the first team of oxen into the site he made a formal bow. A man
Attilius did not recognize was leading the second team; a couple more sat on
the back of the empty cart, their legs dangling over the side. They jumped
down immediately when they noticed Ampliatus and stood looking respectfully
at the ground. ~ "Well done, lads," said Ampliatus. "I'll
see you're rewarded for working a holiday. But it's an emergency and we've
all got to rally round and help fix the aqueduct. For the common good—isn't
that right, aquarius?" He pinched the cheek of the nearest man.
"You're under his command now. Serve him well. Aquarius: take as much as
you want. Its all in the yard. Torches are inside in the storeroom. Is there
anything more I can do for you?" He was obviously eager to go. "I shall make an inventory of what we
use," said Attilius formally. "You will be compensated." "There's no need. But as you wish. I wouldn't
want to be accused of trying to corrupt you!" He laughed, and pointed
again. "I'd stay and help you load myself—nobody ever said that Numerius
Popidius Ampliatus was afraid of getting his hands dirty!—but you know how it
is. Were dining early because of the festival and I mustn't show my low birth
by keeping all those fine gentlemen and their ladies waiting." He held
out his hand. "So! I wish you luck, aquarius." Attilius took it. The grip was dry and firm; the
palm and fingers, like his own, callused by hard work. He nodded. "Thank
you." Ampliatus grunted and turned away. Outside in the
quiet street his litter was waiting for him and this time he clambered
straight into it. The slaves ran around to take up their positions, four men
on either side. Ampliatus clicked his fingers and they hoisted the
bronze-capped poles—first to waist height, and then, grimacing with the
strain, up onto their shoulders. Their master settled himself back on his
cushions, staring straight ahead—unseeing, brooding. He reached behind his
shoulder, unfastened the curtain and let it fall. Attilius stood in the
gateway and watched him go, the crimson canopy swaying as it moved off down
the hill, the little crowd of weary petitioners trudging after it. He went back into the yard. It
was all there, as Ampliatus had promised, and for a while Attilius was able
to lose himself in the simple effort of physical work. It was comforting to
handle the materials of his craft again—the weighty, sharp-edged bricks, just
big enough to fit a man's grasp, and their familiar brittle clink as they
were stacked on the back of the cart; the baskets of powdery red puteolanum,
always heavier and denser than you expected, sliding across the rough boards
of the wagon; the feel of the timber, warm and smooth against his cheek as he
carried it across the yard; and finally the quicklime, in its bulbous clay
amphorae—difficult to grasp and heave up onto the cart. He worked steadily with the other men and had a
sense at last that he was making progress. Ampliatus was undeniably cruel and
ruthless and the gods alone knew what else besides, but his stuff was good
and in honest hands it would serve a better purpose. He had asked for six
amphorae of lime but when it came to it he decided to take a dozen and
increased the amount of puteolanum in proportion, to twenty baskets. He did
not want to come back to Ampliatus to ask for more; what he did not use he
could return. He
went into the bathhouse to look for the torches and found them in the largest
storeroom. Even these were of a superior sort—tightly wadded flax and resin
impregnated with tar; good, solid wooden handles bound with rope. Next to
them lay open wooden crates of oil lamps, mostly terracotta, but some of
brass, and candles enough to light a temple. Quality, as Ampliatus said: you
couldn't beat it. Clearly, this was going to be a most luxurious
establishment. "It will be the finest baths
outside Rome . . ." He was suddenly curious and with his arms full of
torches he looked into some of the other storerooms. Piles of towels in one,
jars of scented massage oil in another, lead exercise weights, coils of rope
and leather balls in a third. Everything ready and waiting for use;
everything here except chattering, sweating humanity to bring it all to life.
And water, of course. He peered through the open door into the succession
of rooms. It would use a lot of water, this place. Four or five pools,
showers, flush latrines, a steam room . . . Only public facilities, such as
the fountains, were connected to the aqueduct free of charge, as the gift of
the emperor. But private baths like these would cost a small fortune in water
taxes. And if Ampliatus had made his money by buying big properties,
subdividing them, and renting them out, then his overall consumption of water
must be huge. He wondered how much he was paying for it. Presumably he could
find out once he returned to Misenum and tried to bring some order to the
chaos in which Exomnius had left the Augustas records. Perhaps he wasn't paying anything
at all. He stood there in the sunlight, in the echoing
bathhouse, listening to the cooing pigeons, turning the possibility over in
his mind. The aqueducts had always been wide open to corruption. Farmers
tapped into the mainlines where they crossed their land. Citizens ran an
extra pipe or two and paid the water inspectors to look the other way. Public
work was awarded to private contractors and bills were paid for jobs that
were never done. Materials went missing. Attilius suspected that the
rottenness went right to the top—even Acilius Aviola, the Curator Aquarum
himself, was rumored to insist on a percentage of the take. The engineer had
never had anything to do with it. But an honest man was a rare man in Rome;
an honest man was a fool. The weight of the torches was making his arms ache.
He went outside and stacked them on one of the wagons, then leaned against
it, thinking. More of Ampliatus's men had arrived. The loading had finished
and they were sprawled in the shade, waiting for orders. The oxen stood
placidly, flicking their tails, their heads in clouds of swarming flies. If
the Augusta’s accounts, back at the Piscina Mirabilis, were in such a mess,
might it be because they had been tampered with? He glanced up at the cloudless sky. The sun had
passed its zenith. Becco and Corvinus should have reached Abellinum by now.
The sluice gates might already be closed, the Augusta starting to drain dry.
He felt the pressure of time again. Nevertheless, he made up his mind and
beckoned to Polites. "Go into the baths," he ordered, "and
fetch another dozen torches, a dozen lamps, and a jar of olive oil. And a
coil of rope, while you're at it. But no more, mind. Then, when you've
finished here, take the wagons and the men up to the castellum aquae, next to
the Vesuvius Gate, and wait for me. Corax should be coming back soon. And
while you're at it, see if you can buy some food for us." He gave the
slave his bag. "There's money in there. Look after it for me. I shan't
be long." He brushed the residue of brick dust and puteolanum
from the front of his tunic and walked out the open gate. Harris makes Pompeii
come alive, and he brings readers into the lives of the main characters in
ways that encourage page turning. Steve Hopkins, December 22, 2003 |
|||
|
|
|||
|
ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The
recommendation rating for this book appeared in the January 2004
issue of Executive
Times URL
for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Pompeii.htm For
Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins &
Company, LLC • 723 North Kenilworth Avenue • Oak Park, IL 60302 E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
|||
