Alan Lloyd - Pompeiis Secrets: The Taras Report on Its Last Days

PLAN OF POMPEII

Homeward?

The holds empty.

Then well sail like a gull, scribe. Westward, to fresh lands. He glanced at me wickedly. Youve nothing to tell them back home, yet. Look, we replenish here: He described the shape of a leg in the sand with a blunt finger. Italy. He dropped a pebble in proximity to the shin. The captains eyes shone. He said: The crown of CampaniaVesuvius! When youve seen Vesuvius, youll have something to write about.

My anger verged on mutiny. For a moment, I considered the step seriously. But if I thought to find the crew behind me in opposing the captains project, I was disabused. A strange expectation had gripped the lower deck. Though no more than two of the men had sailed the Tyrrhenian, the willingness of the rest to voyage beyond the bounds of providence tempered my wrath with curiosity.

Encouraging their gossip, I discovered the attraction of Campania. In the mythology of this credulous fraternity, our destination was some kind of paradise, a golden land embracing bounty and indulgence unlimited: fields which yielded three harvests of grain a year, wines of blissful potency, fountained gardens fit for Greek gods, sporting spectacles on a scale to thrill heroes.

They say, averred one weathered veteran, the women look like angels, and lust like men. Whore houses, they believed, vied with temples in profusion; fortunes changed hands in the gaming dens. The imperial ghosts of Rome, I was assured, had rhapsodized Campania: Augustus, Cicero, Nero. The lite of the West still flocked there to rejuvenate.

It was a devils brew. Untutored in the simple virtues of the prophet Zarathustra, as in the wisdom of Ormazd(), the crewmen fell to oar and sail with perverse zest. Borobo lived off my discomfort for many days. Homeward! he would chuckle, baring black incisors. You couldnt urge them homeward, even if they had homes! Or: Youve been telling them tales of the East, scribe. Theyre heading west like dogs with their tails on fire!

THE BAY OF NAPLES AND VESUVIUS

His jesting endured until we reached the foot of Italy. In the narrow straits at its toe, the captain grew watchful; the men subdued. We gave a flotilla of unknown oarships a lot of sea, beaching for refreshment with caution. My foreboding intensified. If Borobo, with his established immunity, his faith in the universal passport of ready gold, had crossed the limits of assurance, what of my lucka lone patriot on the sea of Rome?

We were passing the country of the Bruttians, infested, as it was, by marauding gangs of ill repute. Only prayer sustained me in any hope. Then, at last, we were free of the lands constraint.

With the spray of the Tyrrhenian, the tension eased. Plunging north towards a happily empty horizon, the galley vibrated with renewed expectation, increasingly wishful projections of the promised land which, in the first days of August, loomed wraith-like to starboard. Borobo held course, peering for a landmark.

Hesitantly, my spirits rose.

We were cruising parallel to a sunny coast: an unfurling panorama of pastures and terraces blessed to such perfection by their varied growth that apprehension dissolved in admiration. Orchards of apple and pear adorned the waters edge. The luxuriant leaf of fig was abundant. Among other fruits, I discerned cherry, pomegranate, quince and melon. The foliage of chestnut and almond was evident. So much fatter, I must report, were the milch beasts of Campania than our own animals, that I could scarcely believe they possessed bones.