Vesuvius by Night

Chapter 1

The girl had gone. It was no surprise. Leaving was what girls did. Few of those that Nonius brought home stayed until he roused himself from stupor, even though they had to be very drunk to come with him in the first place.

The night before, his voice would have been loud in calling for the wine, although he knew how to absent himself just as the tavern bill was brought, leaving others to pay up. A wink to some equally sly waitress, who had been serving whatever party he latched onto would bring her back here with him at the end of the night. It might not be for his sexual prowess, which most bargirls derided on principle, but because he could offer a bed. For him and for them, this was better than dossing down in a stable with the beasts.

It was normal for such companions to skedaddle before he woke up. They had to be back at the places where they worked, seamy wine bars down by the Marine Gate or raucous hovels around the amphitheatre. These scrawny women in their off-the-shoulder tunics were needed to give the marble-patched counters a cursory wipe down and start selling snacks to morning customers, however groggy they felt. Most of the Empire was fuelled by street food.

They rarely bothered to say goodbye. Most couldn’t stand the thought of daytime conversation with Nonius. Once in a while, some scrupulous woman might even feel ashamed of herself for accepting his invitation. It never affected Nonius. He had no conscience.

At least if his partner had gone before he dragged his eyes open, his incoming landlord would not see her. There was an unspoken rule that Nonius could bring back visitors, since it was difficult to stop him, but only so long as nobody threw up and he left the sheets clean. Nonius preferred any of his overnight companions to make themselves scarce early or inevitably they looked at the new arrival with much more interest than they showed him. His landlord was a tall, fine-looking lad, still in his twenties, who retained traces of the carefree adventurer he had been when younger. On returning home after work, he was generally tired out, yet he could summon up a twinkle for a barmaid, especially if he found her naked in his bed.

The landlord was married, but his family lived in a different town. The kind of women who came home with Nonius would view a wife who lived elsewhere as no hindrance, indeed her very absence would encourage them to cosy up, counting the landlord as unattached. They saw a subtle difference in status between a man who worked and his disreputable subtenant who never paid for anything. Girls knew what they preferred. Nonius might pretend not to care, but he liked his floozies to leave the scene before they decided there was better available. Let the landlord find his own women. Nonius told himself, the one vice he never had was pimping.

In fact that was simply lack of opportunity. Any women whose life he had tried to manage had laughed in his face. And oh yes, he had tried it. Nonius had tried most things.

The landlord took over the room at night; that was an absolute rule. It was, after all, his room. He returned in the evening, grunted, turned Nonius out of the bed and fell into it himself. He would leave again at first light, sometimes still in the dark if his current job was any distance away. Nonius paid him a small fee to use the bed by day, while the other man, a painter, was out creating frescos.

‘Pornographic?’ Nonius had asked, with interest.

‘Double portraits of staid married couples,’ lied the painter. There were many erotic pictures in Pompeii, and some were commissions done by him. But from what Nonius could gather, he was mainly a landscape artist.

Nonius initially viewed this as a mimsy occupation, so he was surprised at how businesslike the other man could be. His landlord was wily enough to extract the room fee in advance, and he never loaned any of it back, however much Nonius pleaded.

‘No, sorry, you’ll have to cadge off your mother again,’ he would say, even though he had no idea whether a mother existed. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ he then joked annoyingly. ‘you sold her into slavery! Well, maybe your grandad will mortgage his farm to help you out, Nonius. It’s no good asking me, I have three daughters’ dowries to find and four no-good sons who won’t leave home.’

Given his age, this was clearly untrue. Any children he had must still be infants. Artistic types were full of fantasies, Nonius thought, and this mean bastard was polishing them up deliberately to tease his penniless tenant.

‘You heartless turd,’ Nonius would respond glumly. He expected to live off other people. It never struck him that someone might see through him and fail to go along with it. Life had taught him that people were idiots.

Unbeknown to him, the painter did have five children, all born in the last eight years, plus a belief that he probably ought to provide for them. Sometimes – not in his wife’s hearing – he called himself stupid for bringing this upon himself, but in fact he was extremely intelligent. He knew he needed to take care with money and believed he could handle Nonius. Nonius thought otherwise.

Their different attitudes to cash coloured their relationship and could yet cause it to come to grief. The painter earned a good screw, Nonius believed; he must do. He worked all hours, apparently enjoying it, and was said to be a good artist, his skills much sought-after. Earthquake damage from nearly two decades ago, followed by further seismic upheaval, meant Pompeii was full of opportunities for a decorator with a reputation. The landlord must be saving up his wages. Nonius had yet to discover where he kept his stash, which he planned to steal. It was best to wait as long as possible, so there would be more money. Also, once he lifted the moneybag, he would have to vanish, which was always inconvenient. If he needed to hole up away from the action, Nonius wanted his haul to be worthwhile.

Action, for Nonius, did not involve work as the rest of us know it, merely the slick separation of other people from property they thought theirs. Whether earnings or inheritance, he liked to show owners that their money and valuables were meaningless baubles; they should not grieve if these were lost to them. Ideally, they should acquire more so he had a second chance to rob them.

Nor should they be enraged about their sweet daughters and willing wives, should Nonius happen to run into these other ‘commodities’ while they were plying looms or having their hair done. Women were his (he believed) as much as bronze household gods, chalices, gold finger rings, coin hoards, or any ivory cupboard knobs a carpenter had carelessly left while he went for better fixing-screws. Nonius had been known even to tickle up arthritic old nurses and vague-eyed grandmothers. Pompeii was famously dedicated to Venus and, he said, he must keep in good fettle.

As he romped his way through the female population, there were rarely complaints. He claimed they liked his attention. However, it could be because any woman who thought of complaining tended to find that Nonius had vanished like a mouse through a knothole.

He knew when to flit. Having a nose for danger was a key skill. He could tell at a glance if a house was too dangerous to wander into ‘accidentally’. His preferred tactic was to saunter inside, wiping his feet on the Beware of our Dog mosaic, admire the place like an invited guest, search out a fine silver cup or tray that was crying out to be carried off under his none-too-clean tunic, then grope a startled woman as he left – before she realised what was happening. If he could slide out without causing an alarm, the slaves copped the blame.

Nonius had seen every variant of the mosaic doggie doormat. He knew all those bristling creatures, black ears pricked, big collars stiff with spikes, eager to have your leg off with their bared teeth, yet harmlessly stuck in tile limbo. He knew from experience that homes guarded by motto mats with silent barks generally did not have a real dog, but relied on nothing worse than a half-asleep porter who spent too much time in the kitchen. If someone banged the big bronze seahorse knocker, the porter would drag himself to the door to insult them and, if possible, refuse them entry. Nonius therefore did not knock. Why invite problems?

Sometimes front doors had locks. Often, in fact. This was a bustling seaboard town, full of sailors, traders, horny-handed fisherfolk, the occasional soldier, runaway slaves, and countryfolk with straw in their hair who had been sent down from the hills to make money any way they could. Windows that overlooked the street had heavy bars too. Nonius had ways around that. He carried a big metal ring full of different latch-lifters. Most locksmiths sold picking tools for people who had lost their keys, and many had encountered Nonius making obviously false claims about ‘his’ house key having gone missing inexplicably. But his favourite method was simply to wait until some oversexed young master popped out for a secret tryst with a prostitute, or a careworn kitchen-maid was sent running for more bread rolls in a hurry; if they left the door slightly ajar to assist their return, he weaselled in.

When he strolled out again, perhaps carrying a filched pillowcase that he tightly wound to stop its contents rattling, he liked to close the front door properly behind him. He had a mischievous streak.

These days, however, Nonius maintained that his burgling career was over. He was moving up.

The crunch had come while he was first badgering his landlord to agree their rooming arrangement. The painter refused to share his doss with a sneak-thief. This unreasonable attitude ought to have been the first sign he was no airy-fairy soul with stars in his brain, but so hard-headed he was positively ethical. He could be stubborn too. When he would not budge, Nonius firmed up an idea he had for branching out. Pompeii was a town full to its battered old defensive walls with businessmen who thought they knew all about commerce. Nonius planned to convince them that they needed his financial know-how to help make even more money. He was going to help rich people get richer quicker. At least, that would be the claim. Certainly a hunk of what they already possessed would be withdrawn from an armoured bankbox to find its way to Nonius in advance of whatever ‘rock solid’ investment he proposed. When the mad scheme failed to materialise, he would be long gone.

Nonius had explained his sparkly new career to the painter, calling himself a financial adviser, which he insisted was so much more worthy than being a thief. The painter suspected it was much the same thing, but felt other people must take their chances. They were free to exercise choice. So was he, and since hiring out his bed would help pay his rent, he chose to take Nonius at face value.

When Nonius moved in, his meagre luggage included an awning pole he had filched from a schoolmaster, which left a class of seven-year-olds sitting out in full sun while they chanted their times tables. This stolen pole could be threaded through the top of a smart tunic and hung up to keep the garment nice. The tunic was a pleasant emerald-coloured number he had picked up from one of the clothes-mangers in a bathhouse changing-room; it had red braid around the neckline, extended down the front in go-faster-to-the-top stripes. In his new business outfit he could pass himself off as acceptable in a better class of bar, where men with cash to invest could be singled out as potential clients, otherwise known as victims.

The routine was one he had always used: Nonius quietly attached himself to their party in a way that made them feel they had known him for years. He wormed his way in with screamingly funny, very raunchy jokes and an offer of drinks all round, while he generously called for more olives and nuts. He stuck with them all evening. Along the way, he sold them the dream. They paid for the wine out of gratitude.

Greed, Nonius knew, overcomes natural intelligence. Men who were perfectly capable of managing estates or industries complained with dreary predictability that the big earthquake had damaged their livelihoods. These were Pompeii’s wine-suppliers, parfumiers and fish pickle brewers; statue importers and bronze vessel manufacturers; not to mention accountants, auctioneers and lawyers who serviced the other businessmen. To Nonius’ mild surprise, the latter class, advisers themselves, were the easiest to bamboozle.

It was true Pompeii had been devastated by that earthquake; the damage was so bad even the Emperor, Nero at the time, had paid for some repairs. Not many; just enough to make him look good – not enough, griped the businessmen routinely. A second earthquake two years later happened when Nero was performing a harp concert for what he viewed as his adoring public; he insisted on continuing to the end of his recital, then the theatre collapsed moments after it was evacuated. That barely dented his local popularity, especially since his gorgeously beautiful, fabulously rich wife Poppaea came from these parts.

Money counted here. Though they were still prosperous in fact, townsmen of substance hankered for the better days they believed they had known before the quakes. Such men were ready to fall for a promise from Nonius of easy returns; even the astute among them – those canny few who, like his landlord, doubted his probity – even they would eventually follow their colleagues like sheep. No one wants to be left out.

Nonius possessed no investment experience. All he knew was how to bluff. He had noticed that most advice on any subject is handed out by people with no practical knowledge, only the ability to sound good. Self-assurance happened to be his chief talent. He had also reached a time of life when he looked as if he had kicked around the world enough to have gained special insights, so his lived-in features and silver-grey sideburns made him very persuasive to men who were on their fourth flagon of mellow Vesuvian wine. They loved to think they caroused with other men of the world. They were blind to the fact that the world of Nonius was a stinking midden.

Perhaps Nonius sensed that time was running out; some day he would lose his luck. Clumsiness already threatened his touch as a thief, and his slippery trickster skills might start to waver too. So he was aiming for a different existence, one with fewer risks of exposure. The Bay of Neapolis was the best place in the world for leading a life of leisure. Nonius planned to make a quick killing, then retire on the proceeds.

The first trial of his business plan had been convincing the potential landlord that his new career was a goer. Fortunately the painter had vaguely considered having a roommate. Daywork tradesmen often bunked down together, for company and to save money; as a worker in the building trade, sharing was nothing new to him so winning him over had merely been good practice as Nonius tried out his spiel.

That was how the new career would operate too: identifying a perceived need in a client, then saying that he, Nonius, was here to satisfy he need. Mutual advantage. Good as my word. Utterly reliable. Grasp this wonderful failsafe opportunity, honoured sir, for it cannot be kept open much longer, I am cutting my own throat as it is. I, Nonius, through my private contacts have secured a risk-free privilege, which is available for a limited period only. Don’t tell your friends or they’ll all want it. I would jump in myself, but I am heavily committed elsewhere at the moment. I like you. There is no need for the tiresome burden of documentation, I trust you, simply give me your deposit and the deal is clinched…

Part of his skill would be to sell solutions to clients who did not even realise, until he told them, that they had a problem.

Really, the painter had grasped that all the flash talk was rubbish, but Nonius was well able to ignore others’ scepticism, so long as he got what he wanted. So now they rubbed along in the shared room, more or less in harmony. When the painter fell into bed after a long day creating frescos, Nonius went out in his sharp tunic to gain clients. He picked them up as they enjoyed relaxation in the better class of bar – larger establishments that offered space inside as well as counters on the street, and with secluded gardens. Most had a pricelist on the wall that included ‘Falernian’, which might even be the real thing.

Plus bar staff who didn’t pick their noses, or at least not in front of you.

When Nonius had tickled up a new prospect successfully, or better still a consortium of these idiots, he would come home and change into his grubby clothes, then go back out to the lower class of dive to drink himself silly in celebration, until dawn broke and the painter took his brushes out to work. Then Nonius, with or without female company, could come home again and have the bed.

The room was a small bare space above a cheap front shop that had been carved out of a once-fine large house. In Pompeii such remodelling was rife. One-time gracious mansions were divided into upper-storey apartments and ground-level bakeries and laundries, fitted with street-side workshops, and flanked with booths and bars. Even their exterior walls were hired out for advertisements and electioneering. This situation both provided for, and in itself encouraged, a shifting population. Families and businesses came and went in the refurbished properties, while a whole new range of entrepreneurs flourished through leasing real estate. Many were freed slaves, flexing their financial muscles and not caring that trade was supposedly dirty. Some were merely from families that had once been kept down socially by an older and more snobbish local élite, but who, since the earthquake upset everything, were emerging into confidence, status and power.

The entrepreneurs lived in better houses than they rented out, homes which they decorated fashionably. This brought continual work for painters. And Nonius was sure, if he himself could offer the right temptations, it would bring a fortune to him.

He had noticed his landlord wore a sardonic expression while this was explained. Jupiter’s jockstrap, that dauber thought a lot of himself. He was not from around here. It was said he had been born and bred in Rome. It damn well showed. He was a cocky sod. While he was listening to his customers’ generally daft ideas for décor, this supposedly brilliant artist might appear mild-mannered enough, but clearly he believed himself superior to anyone in Campania. He must set customers straight without them noticing he thought their own taste dire. Presumably the wiser ones just let him get on with it. He preferred to be given a free hand; he knew that when they saw what he painted they would be delighted. He was very sure of his talent.

In the opinion of Nonius, this arrogant, tight-arsed young Roman was just ripe to have his self-assurance pricked, by Nonius helping himself to all the money that painter had saved up. It was going to happen. When Nonius was ready. When – and even he had to admit this was proving difficult – when Nonius had managed to find out where the painter’s savings actually were.

In his mind, the future loot had acquired colour, substance, and ludicrous bulk. He had been thinking about his landlord’s money so much that he had lost all sense of proportion. He was now imagining a silver hoard so glorious it needed to be guarded by mythical beasts. He believed that men in the building trade were generally paid with coinage but that sometimes, when a customer had a tricky cashflow, they were offered rewards in kind. Nonius, who could be just as imaginative as any of the best fresco painters and mosaicists around the Bay, now pictured more than mounds of glimmering sesterces; he dreamed of unexpectedly fine works of art, antique Greek statues and vases, tangles of curiously-set jewels…

The tight-fisted swine had hidden his hoard too well. It was not in the room. Nonius searched everywhere, taking up floorboards one by one, then hammering them down again. Since he had the place by daylight, he could see what he was doing so knew he hadn’t missed it. Nothing was here.

The landlord did get paid. Nonius had observed him obsessively. The painter always had money in his purse, a little corded leather bag he kept around his neck, from which he took coppers to buy a flatbread or an apple from a street stall. He could pay his way (a concept Nonius viewed askance) and never seemed troubled by financial anxiety in the way destitute people were. Nonius could spot that. He had been there.

Nonius would get him. In the meantime, until the particular day in question dawned, life continued for them both with its gentle cycle. Like a plumb-bob in motion, they came and went in their terrible bleak room, one swinging in, one swinging out, passing each other with barely a nod, never sharing a meal or a philosophical conversation, yet constantly linked by a mutual thread of existence.

When Nonius took his turn in the bed, once he finished with any female companion – assuming he could be bothered, and assuming she didn’t order him to screw himself and leave her be – he would sleep like the dead, or at least the hungover. Since being hungover was so regular for him, it passed without too much pain, normally around the time the light began to fade at dusk. He usually woke and was ready to decamp when his landlord’s weary feet climbed the stone steps from the street.

But on the day in question, it was different. He woke much sooner than he wanted. Nonius abruptly reached consciousness while there was still sunlight streaming through the broken shutters at full intensity. His body sensed it was only about midday, though sounds from outside seemed not quite right.

Nonius lay spread-eagled, face down. He had ended up diagonally on the mattress, tangled in the sheet, unsure for a few moments where the ends and sides of the narrow bed were in relation to him. He felt a fear of falling out. He would have groaned, but could not summon the energy.

He thought he knew what was going on. He realised that what had woken him was a peculiar sensation, a sense of his bed shifting beneath him during unnatural reverberations. Anyone who experiences this, even for the first time, knows it must be an earthquake. Even in places where earthquakes have never happened before, the occurrence is so strange it is unmistakeable. It ought to be unsettling, yet Nonius had lived through seismic activity, so he felt neither alarm nor surprise. People said, ‘This is Campania, what do you expect?’ Earthquakes regularly happened. In the past, the street level in Pompeii rose or sank by several feet. The shoreline changed. On the way out to Cumae lay fiery, sulphurous fields and lakes whose dead air killed birds overhead. The earth was rocky and barren there; it stretched and heaved, spewing hot fumaroles of steam or gas. Poets wrote of it as the entrance to Hades.

For the past four days minor tremors had been felt. Locals cursed, but were used to it. Noises cracked and grumbled deep underground. The credulous believed giants were walking the earth. The racket was growing louder but as the days passed people took less notice.

Was there now to be another significant earthquake? Nonius knew that when the ground began rippling in waves, as if solid earth had turned to water, the sensible rule was to leave your building. Best not to be indoors when your house falls down. Even if somebody eventually dug you out, if anyone bothered, you might be dead of fear and suffocation by the time they pulled off the rubble.

He still felt too hungover to move. He just thought about it. Staying put was the way to get killed. Nonius ought to evacuate. Still, he told himself that being out in the open was dangerous too. This particular house had survived in the past. It was shored up, with walls and ceilings patched, but the fresco painter, who knew about building stability, had once said it only needed maintenance; he reckoned it looked safe for the time being.

Nonius must have slept through some upheaval. The noise seemed to have ceased now, yet he guessed what had been happening. Sod it. If it was midday, he had not yet rested long enough to want to rouse himself. Last night’s girl had gone. She had raided his purse, damn her; with one eye, he could see it lying on the floor, obviously empty. If he went out he would only get a bite to eat if he cadged off some old acquaintance, and most of them were wise to him.

So Nonius stayed where he was, prone on the bed, not troubling himself to go outside.

So far, he had no idea that this time everything was different.