Pompeii Read Online Free PDF Page B

exquisite than the emptiness of relief. The voice of the victim cries out, the blood spurts, and then—what? Just another death.
    The best part had been the beginning: the slow preparation, followed by the long period when the slave had merely floated, his face just above the surface—very quiet now, not wanting to attract any attention from what was beneath him, concentrating, treading water. Amusing. Even so, time had dragged in the heat, and Ampliatus had started to think that this whole business with eels was overrated and that Vedius Pollio was not quite as stylish as he had imagined. But no: you could always rely on the aristocracy! Just as he was preparing to abandon the proceedings, the water had begun to twitch and then—plop!—the face had disappeared, like a fisherman’s plunging float, only to bob up again for an instant, wearing a look of comical surprise, and then vanish altogether. That expression, in retrospect, had been the climax. After that, it had all become rather boring and uncomfortable to watch in the heat of the sinking afternoon sun.
    Ampliatus took off his straw hat, fanned his face, looked around at his son. Celsinus at first appeared to be staring straight ahead, but when you looked again you saw his eyes were closed, which was typical of the boy. He always seemed to be doing what you wanted. But then you realized he was only obeying mechanically, with his body: his attention was elsewhere. Ampliatus gave him a poke in the ribs with his finger and Celsinus’s eyes jerked open.
    What was in his mind? Some Eastern rubbish, presumably. He blamed himself. When the boy was six—this was twelve years ago—Ampliatus had built a temple in Pompeii , at his own expense, dedicated to the cult of Isis . As a former slave, he would not have been encouraged to build a temple to Jupiter, Best and Greatest, or to Mother Venus, or to any of the other most sacred guardian deities. But Isis was Egyptian, a goddess suitable for women, hairdressers, actors, perfume-makers, and the like. He had presented the building in Celsinus’s name, with the aim of getting the boy onto Pompeii ’s ruling council. And it had worked. What he had not anticipated was that Celsinus would take it seriously. But he did and that was what he would be brooding about now, no doubt—about Osiris, the sun god, husband to Isis , who is slain each evening at sundown by his treacherous brother, Set, the bringer of darkness. And how all men, when they die, are judged by the Ruler of the Kingdom of the Dead, and if found worthy are granted eternal life, to rise again in the morning like Horus, heir of Osiris, the avenging new sun, bringer of light. Did Celsinus really believe all this girlish twaddle? Did he really think that this half-eaten slave, for example, might return from his death at sundown to wreak his revenge at dawn?
    Ampliatus was turning to ask him exactly that when he was distracted by a shout from behind him. There was a stir among the assembled slaves and Ampliatus shifted further round in his chair. A man whom he did not recognize was striding down the steps from the villa, waving his arm above his head and calling out.
     
    The principles of engineering were simple, universal, impersonal —in Rome , in Gaul , in
Campania
—which was what Attilius liked about them. Even as he ran, he was envisaging what he could not see. The mainline of the aqueduct would be up in that hill at the back of the villa, buried a yard beneath the surface, running on an axis north to south, from Baiae down to the Piscina Mirabilis. And whoever had owned the villa when the Aqua Augusta was built, more than a century ago, would almost certainly have run two spurs off it. One would disgorge into a big cistern to feed the house, the swimming pool, the garden fountains: if there was contamination on the matrix, it might take as long as a day for it to work through the system, depending on the size of the tank. But the other spur would channel a