In the Shadow of Vesuvius Read online

  “I suppose you’re Mario Sorrentino?” I asked.

  “Yes, and you are the two loveliest ladies in Pompeii, Lady Emily Hargreaves and Mrs. Ivy Brandon. Please, you must call me Mario. I already feel as if we are old friends.”

  “I am only interested in speaking about Clarence Walker.”

  Mario grinned. “Yes, yes, your husband said as much in the many notes he left for me. What do you wish to know?”

  But before I could ask a single question, I heard someone calling my name and turned to see Kat rushing toward us, blood streaming down her cheek.

  “I’m hurt. Help me, please!”

  A quick examination revealed the scratch on Kat’s cheek superficial. More concerning was the way she was holding her wrist. “What happened?” I asked.

  “I was taking photographs when someone pushed me and I lost my balance. I broke the fall with my hand and injured my wrist. Fortunately, my camera escaped harm.”

  “Someone pushed you?” Horrified, I felt my heart pounding. Colin would never forgive me for having left her alone. I should have tried harder to stop her. “I wish I knew more about first aid. How does one tell if a bone is broken?”

  “Do you want me to fetch a doctor?” Mario asked.

  “Let me see what I can do,” Ivy said, her face gray, her eyes wide and serious. “Can you move it, Kat?”

  Kat twisted her hand and nodded. “Yes, but it hurts.”

  Ivy gently touched the girl’s wrist. “I don’t feel a break. Make a fist.” Kat did as instructed. “Now wiggle your fingers. Good. There’s quite a bit of swelling, but it doesn’t appear to be broken. Probably a sprain. Let’s get you home and we’ll wrap it. The doctor can come to you there.”

  “How do you know so much, Mrs. Brandon?” Kat asked, all but fluttering her eyelashes at Ivy.

  “Six children prepare one for most minor injuries,” Ivy said.

  “I’m so fortunate you’re here. Not everyone is so skilled.” She looked at me with a pointed expression.

  The two gentlemen who’d been so taken with Priapus must have heard the commotion, and came running toward us. “What can we do to assist? We’re at your service.”

  Kat smiled at them and fixed her gaze on Mario’s handsome face. She blushed and then fainted. Or at least did a credible job of pretending. Given her injury, I ought not have judged her, but it was impossible not to notice that she didn’t let herself fall until he was close enough to catch her. The performance was nothing short of graceful, a demonstration of perfect timing. And for someone in a dead faint, she had quite a satisfied smile on her face.

  AD 79

  16

  More than a month passed in our new house before I received a message from Lepida, inviting me to spend the afternoon with her. I dressed carefully, in my best tunic, pale blue linen, the color of the sea after sunrise. We didn’t have the money to spare for a litter—my father spent everything on books and wine—so I had to walk. As a result, I could not wear my prettiest sandals, but instead had to content myself with sturdier shoes that would stand up to the cobbles and filth on the streets. I hopped across the stepping-stones at the crossroad by the Stabian Baths and continued on until I reached the Forum, which was as crowded as ever. I saw three lines of another of my poems scrawled onto a wall. Encouraged by this, I darted between clusters of merchants and a group of students gathered around their teacher and marched on, past the earthquake-damaged Temple of Jupiter until I came to the enormous façade of my friend’s domus, one of the largest houses in the city. Glorious images of the twins Castor and Pollux with their horses greeted me as I approached, and the doorman called for a slave to take me to his mistress, who received me in a large peristyle garden, lush with greenery and filled by the scent of jasmine.

  “It’s too fine a day to be inside, don’t you agree?” Lepida asked, greeting me with an affectionate embrace and sitting me next to her on a marble couch covered with soft cushions. A slave with a tray stepped forward and handed us each a silver beaker full of cool wine. We sipped in silence for a few minutes, neither of us sure what to say. I didn’t consider it my place to speak first, and was relieved when she, at last, did.

  “It is too strange, is it not, that we should feel awkward with each other? You have been my closest friend since birth, my partner in every scheme of my childhood, and here we are, with nothing to say to each other? Tell me true, has your elevation from slavery led you to renounce my friendship?”

  We both laughed at the inanity of the question. “It’s odd to feel no obligation to fulfill your every whim,” I said, adopting her teasing tone as my own.

  “I prefer it,” Lepida said. “I’ve never considered you anything but my equal.”

  “Probably because I was no more skilled at doing your hair than you are. I see you’re in better hands now.” She was the perfect image of a fashionable lady, her raven tresses elaborately styled, enormous pearls dangling from her ears, and a remarkable emerald necklace strung around her neck.

  “Silvanus does like to see me well turned out,” she said, a sly smile creeping onto her face.

  “Married life suits you.”

  “I am fortunate my father chose for me such a fine husband.”

  “As fine as you had hoped?”

  “Finer,” Lepida said. “Extremely skilled in every way he ought to be. Not that I have anyone to compare him to.”

  “If you have no complaints, he must be worthy of the compliment.” My cheeks and neck went hot, but Lepida did not seem to notice my blush. I was embarrassed at having ever longed for the touch of the man to whom she was now married. I had given him very little thought since their wedding—there was no time for it, between moving and adapting to my new life as a freedwoman. But now, in his house, I couldn’t help but recall the time I had spent with him. I missed sharing my poetry.

  “We must find you a husband, Kassandra,” Lepida said. “Have you met any men whose attention you long for?”

  “No,” I said. “My life is much duller than it used to be.”

  “Surely not! You have your freedom.”

  “Yes, but am in a position to do very little with it. Your father’s house spoiled me and you know I had the kindest mistress in all of the empire.”

  “You still write poetry, I hope?” Lepida asked.

  “Not so frequently as I used to. The bulk of my time is spent bullying the painter decorating my room into following my orders and copying boring books of rhetoric for my father’s customers.”

  “Then you must start coming to me more often. We’re having a dinner party tonight. Stay for it. You will find the company most diverting.” She clapped for a slave and asked the boy to send a message to my father, telling him I wouldn’t be home until late, and then she turned her attention to my appearance. “You always were prettier than I, with that golden Macedonian hair. I quite envy it. We’ll find something of mine for you to wear. When I’m through, you’ll be more gorgeous than any princess of Troy.”

  1902

  17

  Mario and the English tourists insisted on carrying Kat out of the excavations and helped us put her into a cab. She made sure to regain consciousness before they departed and showered them with a profusion of thanks. The pain of her injury did not interfere with her ability to flirt.

  Given how elusive Mario had proved, I made a point of arranging to meet with him the next day so that we might discuss Mr. Walker. He offered to accompany us back to the villa, but I assured him it was not necessary. When we arrived, Kat begged us not to send for a doctor and shut herself up in her room after Ivy neatly bandaged her wrist and secured her arm with a sling. We did not see her again until Colin returned from Naples.

  I started for the foyer the moment I heard the carriage, but did not look forward to telling him what had occurred. No sooner had I opened the door than Kat appeared behind me, her pretty face pale, her sling on prominent display. When he saw she was hurt, Colin brushed past me, picked up his daughter, and c
arried her to a settee in the sitting room, barking for a maid to bring a blanket and ordering a footman to send for the doctor.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I could tell Lady Emily wouldn’t be comfortable having me watch while she was interviewing that guide, so I offered to get out of her way,” Kat said, her voice barely audible. “I went to the House of the Tragic Poet, where I was taking photographs of a fresco when someone came up from behind and pushed me hard, down onto the ground. I broke the fall with my hand, injuring my wrist.”

  “I never suggested—” I started, but Colin interrupted.

  “The details don’t matter,” he said. “Not now. Did you see who did this to you, Kat?”

  “No. But after I fell I thought I caught a glimpse of heavy black boots, running away.”

  “Did the attacker say anything to you?” he asked.

  “No. It all happened so fast I hardly had time to get my bearings. Could I please have some water?”

  Colin, motioning for the maid to bring her some, turned to me. “Why hasn’t a doctor examined her?”

  “She wouldn’t allow it,” Ivy said, stepping forward. “And neither Emily nor I did anything to suggest Kat should go off on her own.”

  “How could you let her do such a thing?” Colin’s voice was calm and low, a sure sign of anger.

  “We didn’t let her,” Ivy said.

  “I’m too weak to talk anymore,” Kat said. “Could we send the others away, Father? There’s too much commotion with everyone here.”

  Ivy took me by the arm and dragged me out of the room.

  “She is a cunning little thing,” she said, after we’d retreated to the terrace. “She’s hurt, but not as badly as she’s making out. I wouldn’t expect Colin to be so easily taken in.”

  I wished I shared her surprise. The doctor came and went, but we heard nothing about his visit. Nearly two hours passed before Colin came in search of me.

  “Will you excuse us, Ivy?” he asked, not turning to me until she disappeared into the house. “How could you stand back and watch her go off like that?” He fairly spat the words at me. I’d never seen his eyes so full of anger.

  “I tried to stop her. She doesn’t listen to me and does what she pleases.”

  “She is a young lady who needs to be looked after.”

  “Quite,” I said, biting back the words I wanted to say. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to control her.”

  “She insists she has no idea who pushed her. Apparently she was alone in the House of the Tragic Poet when it happened. Did you speak to anyone in the area?”

  “I thought it more pressing to get her home. By the time she’d reached us, whoever pushed her could have been miles away.”

  He scowled, but I could see that he knew I was correct.

  Ivy and I dined alone that evening; my husband and Kat had trays sent to her room. I spent the rest of the evening on my own, reading in bed, and fell asleep without seeing Colin again. He was already downstairs when I woke the next morning. Breakfast was excruciating as usual, Kat doing everything in her not inconsiderable power to make me as uncomfortable as possible. She was more grating than ever that day, going so far as saying how much she wished I had possessed the strength to keep her from going off alone the day before.

  “Instead, here I am, plagued by this injury.” She sighed, looking down at her sling. “We all bear our crosses. I only wish mine weren’t the design of someone else.”

  “Lady Emily did not force you to abandon us,” Ivy said. “That was your choice alone.”

  “Oh, I know, Mrs. Brandon. Yet if only she had intervened—” She stopped and looked at her father. “My wrist is more painful than you can imagine. I am so full of regret. I wish that everyone—”

  Ivy interrupted. “Emily, isn’t it time for you to leave for your appointment with Mr. Sorrentino? I’d like to accompany you. I’m finished with breakfast and could use an excursion.”

  “I’m off myself,” Kat said. “I promised Benjamin I would help him develop plates today.”

  Colin lowered the newspaper he’d been reading and raised one eyebrow. “Mr. Carter, not Benjamin. You ought not be so familiar with him.” I hadn’t thought he’d been paying attention. “You’re not to go anywhere today. I want you here and resting.”

  “How could you suggest such a thing?” Kat cried. “I’ll collapse under the weight of so much boredom,” she said.

  “Then I’ll stay and keep you company.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Her smile turned salt sweet.

  Ivy and I left before the situation grew even less tolerable. My friend had always possessed an uncanny ability to see through me. “Colin’s fatherly warmth is something to behold, but he’s unconscionably oblivious to the way she slights you. And it’s wrong of him to place any of the blame for her injury on you. I could have tried to stop her, too, but I knew it would be futile.”

  “I find the whole incident perplexing. The House of the Tragic Poet is one of the most popular sites in Pompeii. How could she have found herself alone in one of its rooms?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I shan’t admit it to anyone, even you.” Could she have invented the attack to gain her father’s attention? He was, after all, spending the entire day with her, his only purpose to entertain and soothe.

  Ivy’s brow crinkled. “I can make a fair guess. She feels threatened by you, unreasonable though that is. You’ve had her father all these years and now she wants him to herself.”

  “No doubt she blames me for her mother’s death.”

  “She’s too smart to do that, but it’s understandable—even if erroneous—that she views you as the person who kept her from having a normal family. We both know the countess would never have settled for an ordinary life.”

  “I can’t tell her that,” I said. “She worships the memory of her mother and I won’t be the one to cast the harsh light of reality on the situation.”

  “She’ll grow tired of sniping at you soon enough. She’s a bright, cheerful sort of girl, intelligent and witty. If we’d met her in other circumstances, I’m sure we’d adore her.”

  “I’m trying very hard to adore her in these circumstances. Colin, at least, deserves that. I wish she didn’t make it so difficult.”

  Mario was waiting for us at a small café near the excavations. He ordered coffee for us—ignoring me when I said I didn’t care for the beverage—and told us about his background. He had never set out to work as a guide, but there were few other options in Pompeii. As a boy, he had done menial jobs for the archaeologists, carrying baskets of rubbish and fetching supplies. He’d never shown a particular aptitude for more academic work nor had interest in training as an archaeologist. A consummate storyteller, excelling in creating vivid—if often fictional—accounts of the ancient city, he was soon one of the most popular guides in the area.

  “What do you remember about Mr. Walker?” I asked.

  Mario shrugged. “He was like any tourist, aside from taking many notes as we walked through the site. I recall that he had not before traveled abroad. Signore Walker, he does not like boats. They make him ill. He hated every minute of his crossing of the Atlantic. He came only for his job. I told him he should visit Rome and Florence, but he wanted to go home. He liked the ruins well enough, but had no appreciation for the soul of the place.”

  “So it would be correct to say you weren’t fond of him?” Ivy asked.

  “Oh, no, signora. I would not have you so misled. He was a good man—kind, paid me well, and was grateful for my assistance. We cannot all be moved by the same things, and Signore Walker, his passion was New York, his home. He loved the city and wanted to write only about that. The people and their secrets, he said, were richer than those anywhere else in the world.”

  “Are you surprised that he returned to Pompeii?” I asked.

  “Si. As I said, he showed no affinity for the site, but something must have inspired him to come back. T
his was long ago, Lady Emily, and a guide meets new people every day. It all feels like a different lifetime to me now. I am afraid I can only remember that Signore Walker was a decent, honorable man, who deserved a better end than that he received.”

  I couldn’t fault him for being able to provide no further information. What reason did he have to remember one client out of hundreds?

  That done, my mind returned to Kat. In an attempt to ease my guilt about her—no matter how stubborn she was, I ought to have prevented her from going off on her own—Ivy and I spent the bulk of the day seeking out anyone who might have witnessed the attack on her. I questioned guides, tourists, archaeologists, and guards. The only person who had pertinent information was the man stationed at the entrance of the House of the Tragic Poet.

  “There was no moment, signora, when the house was empty. You see how busy it is. We are full with tourists all through the day. I don’t remember seeing the young lady with the camera, and I swear there was no commotion, no attack, not here.”

  “Have you heard any talk about an attack occurring elsewhere?” I asked.

  “No, signora,” he said. “That sort of thing, it does not happen in Pompeii.”

  “There’s been a murder here,” I said. “That sort of thing does, in fact, happen in Pompeii. Please be alert, and should you learn anything that might be pertinent, let me know.”

  “This is most unexpected,” Ivy said, as we started the long walk back to the villa. I was in no rush to reach it. “Will you tell Colin?”

  “What good would it do?”

  “None that I can see. But dishonesty is a dangerous path, Emily. He should know the truth.”

  “Do we know the truth?” I asked. “She was injured and upset. She might have been confused about where the incident took place. Or her attacker might have done his work quietly. There’s no point bothering Colin with it. He’ll only be angrier if I come to him and suggest she’s lying. I don’t need more strife.”