Across the Waters of Time- Pliny Remembered Read online

  ACROSS THE WATERS OF TIME:

  PLINY REMEMBERED

  A novel by

  Ken Parejko

  Fortunate indeed is the one to whom the gods

  have granted power

  to do something worth recording,

  or to write what is worth reading.

  Most fortunate of all is the one

  who can do both.

  Such a man was my uncle.

  Pliny the Younger, in a letter to Tacitus

  Copyright 2012 Ken Parejko

  Cover Art by Daniel Nesseth

  Material excerpted from THE HYMNS OF ORPHEUS ｩ 1993 by R.C. Hogart with permission of Phanes Press c/o Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC Newburyport MA and San Francisco CA

  www.Redwheelweiser.com

  Chapter 1

  The Bay of Naples

  Aug. 24, 79 C.E.

  And you wait, are awaiting the one thing

  that will add infinitely to your life;

  the powerful, the extraordinary,

  when stones awaken

  and the depths turn towards you.

  Rainer Maria Rilke, Remembering

  The Mare Nostrum, stirred as it was by the palsied hand of the earth, came at us in mountainous swirling swells, one after another, larger then larger and there was no telling from what direction.

  We climbed again, against all odds foot by brutal foot upward, hard pull by hard pull when topping the swell the big Liburnian paused, shook itself, surrendered to its next feral downward slide.

  Clutching the rail I retched, again. Admiral or not I had no more control over my stomach than of the mountain, or the sea.

  The thin stream of bile burned in my throat, already scorched by the hot and bitter air. Around me the world rose and fell and tumbled and rose and fell and tumbled again. Now all the learning, the knowing of so many things and the remembering and the writing of them all meant nothing. Now even Titus, friend and emperor, could not help me. Caecilius wouldn't be of any help, who I love more than myself, thankfully left behind at the admiralty. It came down to these motley forty who would bear themselves and me to safety or would this be our common ship of death?

  So they pulled and pulled, and groaned and pulled, and lifting my face up from the rail to face the onslaught of sea and sky, I thought: they would pull now with only one arm, or legless or if like a diving sea-eagle we should plunge beneath the next crashing swell, as obediently pull under the waves as over them.

  The sky too was sick, vomited over us a dark smoky shower of ash and rocks still hot from the bowels of the earth, which when they hit the sea hissed like stone-struck serpents.

  The earth too, our magnanimous tutor, was sick and angry, fed up with mankind’s abuse. It lifts us, I thought, and shakes us to stir us from our ignorance.

  The wind swirled, its sudden squalls pushing us this way then that. The men cried out as they pulled, cried to one another, to me and to the angry sea and the fates which seemed to have deserted them. The din of their voices joined the roar of the sea and beyond it the hidden angry mountain.

  Turn back, someone yelled, why in Hades name don’t we turn back!

  Then first-mate Marius’ thick Egyptian accent: Stop your damned complaining you lazy bastards and pull!

  Staring ahead through the tossing sea in hopes of catching a glimpse of beach or Vesuvius’ high crown only made me queasier. I turned to focus on the flackering sails and mayhem of men and oars which was the dire imprimatur of our fate. They worked the oars with the determination of the damned; here and there one or two who’d given up lay sprawled over the deck, supine in fear. Suddenly hit by falling pumice one cried out, dropped his oar and clutched his head. Nearby a pair clutched each other, oars resting in their laps, their faces masked with dust-clotted cloths, terror shining from their eyes, dumbly watching the catastrophe unfold.

  But Lucius, faithful old Lucius, sat still at my feet, clutching pen and papyrus, as he had all these years ever-ready for the next wave of dictation.

  It seemed days or even weeks ago, time was so confused, yet it had been only hours since Plinia awakened me from my afternoon nap.

  There’s an angry cloud going up from Vesuvius, she said. Come and see!

  So as I do I puffed and wheezed my way up the Cape for a better look. It was true, from the mountain’s summit a cloud of black smoke and dust grew high into the sky like a huge pine tree, its branches stretching each moment farther out over the Bay. Small explosions threw rocks and ash from the mountain’s mouth as the pine leaned closer toward me. I thanked the earth then for the gift of studying an eruption up close, huffed down the path back to the admiralty and ordered the fleet’s fastest Liburnian readied. I asked Caecilius if he’d join me but Fortune smiled on us all when he chose to stay with his mother.

  Dragging old Lucius along I hurried down to the harbor, where a crowd had already gathered to stare and chatter over Vesuvius' show. I had one foot already on the ship when a courier breathlessly brought me a letter. It was from Rectina, the widow of Lucilius Bassus who I'd first met while fighting in Judea, and who was killed retaking Masada. Rectina was living out her years in Herculaneum and just a week ago had come over for a visit when we’d laughed and talked over old times. She and Plinia were close friends. Ever-thoughtful as she always was Rectina had brought Caecilius another new marvel, cast in bronze, from the workshops of Pompeii.

  My dear friend Pliny, she’d scribbled onto a wax-tablet. Come quickly. There are thousands stranded on the beach. Bring as many ships as you can.

  So as I waited impatiently for the fleet to assemble I watched the mountain’s growing anger. At last we cast off, twenty tiny ships in a long line out of Misenum’s calm harbor to sail, in a great, angry sea, straight toward disaster.

  What choice did I have?

  You can find it, if you want, in the first chapter of my Natural History:

  Deus est mortali iuvare mortalem.

  What utter silliness, all these gods! So many -- who could believe in any one or handful of them? No, if there be a God, it is nature herself, the earth and all its creatures, and mankind and all our thoughts and deeds. So it came to me suddenly one night working in my study: God is people helping people.

  Then as we headed eastward, twenty ships in a swelling sea, the mountain disappearing behind its own veil of smoke and ash, I remembered good old Vespasian’s warning. Be careful, he said. They’ll put you on a pedestal, like they’ve done to me then they’ll swallow whatever you write and cough it up again. Mark me, he’d said, one day you’ll hear your own words bantered in the marketplace. And once again he was right. Just weeks after my encyclopedia was published I was at Ostia on my way to visit Titus, when I overheard a centurion: Deus est mortali iuvare mortalem, as though it were the gods themselves speaking.

  At first I’d smiled, then almost cried.

  And as I clutched the tossing rail I remembered that yesterday the Volcanalia had begun: in Rome's Forum yesterday at dawn's first light they’d taken the stone mundus from the opening to the underworld, allowing the dark chthonic powers to escape and swarm over our world. My God, I thought...

  The smoke grew thicker, the ash pouring down on us now like driving rain. I knew the fleet was somewhere out there in the dust and ash, but I couldn’t see even one. I was just thinking that at any moment a ship could suddenly appear and after crashing into each other we’d both go under when a fishing-boat, small and vulnerable and running as fast it could away from the disaster, suddenly appeared and passed so close I could almost reach out and touch it. For an instant, before it was lost again in the maelstrom, its handful of passengers were revealed to me, faces full
of fear. “Go back!” They shouted, waving frantically. “Turn around!” Then they were gone, like premonitory wraiths from a confused dream.

  Turn around?

  Yes, it was worth considering wasn’t it, this turning around.

  And so I considered it, ran it past the analytics I'd cobbled together many years ago which Vespasian and I fine-tuned when he became emperor, and I'm proud to say, we applied to the rebuilding of the empire. Simplicity itself, it goes like this: gather up as many facts as you can find, prioritize them by relevance and credibility, then use them to chart whatever course of action reaps the greatest benefit for the greatest number.

  The facts, raining down on us from the sky and rising up at us from the tossing, darkening sea, were far too relevant, and screamingly credible. Our present course was leading us straight into disaster. From the bottom of the sea we could be of no use to anyone. Ergo, the first thing was to save ourselves.

  Hard as it was, I had for the moment at least to abandon Rectina to the Fates.

  But I would not turn us into full retreat.

  Instead we would make for Pomponianus’ villa, not far up Stabia’s beach. Going that way would take us away from the mountain, into clearer air and a safer sea, yet leave us close at hand should the air clear and we become of use.

  “Now! Everyone!” I shouted. “Hard to starboard! Towards Stabia!”

  I didn’t have to tell them twice. They clutched the oars, pulled with all their strength, and slowly, but surely, the ship turned.

  Only as we turned the high swells could catch us broadside, and work at capsizing us.

  “Tack the swells!” I yelled. “For God’s sake quarter them!” My lungs and throat burned from all my shouting and I could barely breath.

  Aimed now as we were toward safety, I forced my eyes closed and for a moment rested my aching body.

  Chapter 2

  A moment later when the sea’s anger abated and the air cleared we could see to dodge the fleet of ships full of refugees streaming westward. The swells lessened, the ship gave up its wild tossing, we made good headway. Catching sight of the beach, crowded with a frightened flotsam of mankind, a shout of joy rose from my men.

  The Liburnian swung to face the swells straight on. The bow grounded and the ship settled in fifty feet from shore.

  “Everyone to shore,” I shouted. “Rest first and we'll see what we can do.” I struggled over the side then foot by foot down the boarding ladder into waist-deep water and waded through low tossing waves onto the beach, where to my surprise Pomponianus stood, himself astonished to find me tossed like flotsam onto the sand.

  “Pliny!” he shouted. “What the devil you doing here?”

  I tried to answer but fell into a fit of coughing. Finally clearing my throat I spat a dark paste into the surf. “I've brought the fleet to help. How are things?”

  “OK so far, thanks to the wind.” Pomponianus took my hand. He was a tall, thin man, still handsome, his eyes, always clear and bright, now set deep in dusty sockets. “But the gods are not smiling on Pompeii, or the other villages along the shore.”

  It was true. Now I had a clear view of the mountain and watched as she dropped great tears of ash over the villages at her feet, orange rivers of fire streaming down her thighs. Then I remembered Drusilla and could only hope she’d stayed at Cumae and not come down to visit her son at Pompeii.

  I’d always admired Pomponianus for his athletic build. But he seemed exhausted, and sat on a nearby chest. There were a dozen big chests, piles of lamps, plates, clothes and paintings scattered on the beach.

  One of his men toweled fine grit off Pomponianus’ forehead. “I’m sending my valuables to Surrentum. Do you think the boats can get through?”

  “I think so. It’s away from the cloud.”

  “And you?”

  I coughed again, could feel my throat closing, and the drawing of each breath became like lifting a big stone from a deep well. I had an idea. “You know, a bath would be just the thing Clear my lungs and let my skin breathe.”

  “A bath?”

  “We’re both filthy with dust and sweat. It’s the best thing for us.

  “But if the wind...”

  “If the wind changes, there's always our boats.” I held my hand out and helped him up. He directed half his servants, gathered around in anxious knots, to load his things onto his fishing-boats and take them to Surrentum, the other half to follow us.

  I told my men to help ferry as many as they could to Surrentum, too. Leave their things, I said, take only them and what they can carry. Then come back for us.

  I headed up the beach through a chaos of humanity, faithful Lucius following. Now, though the air still reeked of sulfur, my breathing eased.

  “The house is a mess,” Pomponianus apologized. He’d been frantically sorting his possessions, deciding what to save, what to leave. As we entered we had to step over thrown piles of clothing, utensils, lamps and candlesticks, vases, sculptures and bedding.

  We headed straight to the tepidarium. Two of his men slathered us with oil then worked the strigils over our skins, scraping off thick layers of sweat and grime. We padded into the hot bath. It was just what we needed. Here was a refuge from the catastrophe outside. Small-talk helped. Pomponianus inquired about my studies. I set off telling him about my Flora of Campania, bored him I’m sure with intimate details about the more interesting plants I’d collected and my new theories about why they were found where they were. Only now and then, when we could feel the floor shift beneath us and the bathwater set up tiny waves, were we reminded that this was no ordinary afternoon spent relaxing in the company of good friends. I hesitated but decided anyway to tell him about Drusilla’s visit, and our trip to Cumae.

  “You mean the Judean Drusilla?” Pomponianus asked. He seemed surprised.

  “Have you met her?”

  “No but of course I’ve heard of her.” Whatever he thought of her, he kept to himself.

  He’d had what seemed to me a long happy marriage, became a widower only a year ago. “Well my friend,” he said. “Good. It’s about time you found yourself a woman.”

  I’d heard it before, only lately it seemed closer to the truth.

  “Do you think so?”

  We closed our eyes and for a while forgot the day’s troubles. I followed Pomponianus into the bracing frigidarium, which as it does made me feel fully alive. A quick massage and we slipped into clean togas and made our way to the dining room, the air still rich with sulfur. Alone, our fears might have gotten the better of us. But in each others' presence we felt surprisingly at ease. What would come, would come, and so we calmed each other, reclined to eat and talk politics. We agreed that Titus seemed only too ready to squander the money, political capital and reputation his father had gone through so much trouble to build up.

  Evening came and it grew darker outside. Through the north-facing windows when now and again the wind parted the dust-clouds and falling ash we saw flashes of flame bursting out of the angry mountain's summit along with many smaller fires up and down her side. The servants, who could not control their anxiety, watched with us, and muttered that the fires were the flames of the underworld, come to devour us. I assured them they were likely house-fires out of control when people had abandoned their hearths. Only now the fires seemed to be sliding down the side of the mountain, toward Herculaneum, ribbons of molten metal like the fiery tongues of the dogs of fate lapping up everything in their way.

  “Shouldn’t we make a break for it?” Pomponianus asked.

  But it seemed to me that with food and water, and a roof to protect us, it was safer to stay.

  I’d written about everything, including great storms, earthquakes, volcanoes and other freaks of nature and so much to my embarrassment I was considered an expert on just about everything. So they deferred to my judgment. We told the servants we'd spend the night there in the villa, and they must all try and get some sleep. We wished each other a good night’s rest and
separated. I’ve always been a good sleeper, when I put my mind to it. A few hours a night is all I need, but when I want it, there it is. I drifted off, though visited by vague and discomforting dreams. Drusilla was there, and Plinia and Caecilius, too, trying to warn me of something. In another Drusus came to me, as he had years before. Only now his image flickered in and out of focus, and this time I could barely hear what he was saying. Only again, something about the Orphic Hymns.

  It was already dawn when I was awakened by one of the earth’s loud groans, though in my dream-mind it was Drusus who groaned, mortally wounded in the deep forests of Germany. I raised myself erect and padded out into a strange new world, full of dust and ash and wailings natural and unnatural. Ashes lay almost knee-deep in the peristyle, and the ground shook now and then like a ship in uneven seas.

  Pomponianus, refreshing himself with a light wine, could offer me no reassurances. He'd slept fitfully, he said, until awakened by his servants, who recounted the night’s events.

  “While you were snoring away,” he said, “they were too afraid to sleep and one by one made their way back into the dining room, huddling together and muttering prayers to all the gods they could think of. Now and then the earth shook, and when it shook they said it groaned hideously. And sometimes, they said, from the direction of the angry mountain came an eerie wailing, as though the earth were in the pangs of birth, or death.

  They told me they paced the rooms and stared at the villa’s walls, as though by watching them they might keep them from crashing in.

  In the middle of the night the wind had changed, bringing a steady rain of ash, then stones, ever larger and larger, bumping onto the roof, setting up a devilish rattle. Outside the ash and stones began to pile up, in places knee-deep or deeper, filtering down into the impluvium and building up in gray dusty drifts around the peristyle, the air growing thicker and thicker. Convinced it would soon be impossible to leave, they began to panic.