The Last Girls of Pompeii Read online

  What Sura would truly miss, if they were ever separated, would be Julia. Julia and her family had marked the beginning of Sura’s life. Her earliest real memories went back to the time of Julia’s birth. She remembered everyone crying because the baby had been born with an ugly arm. But to Sura she was perfect. And taking care of Julia made her feel important. Even though she was barely five years old at the time of Julia’s birth, Sura and the wet nurse were the only ones who could quell the baby’s crying. And when Julia was weaned, she and Sura grew even closer. Sura looked over at her now.

  “This is fun,” Julia said. “I love doing things when everyone else is asleep. It’s like a spice. It adds flavor to whatever you’re doing.” Sura chuckled softly. Julia had such an original way of saying things.

  “But it’s time to go in. You have an early day tomorrow,” Sura said.

  “Just one more minute.”

  “You promised, Julia!” Sura said trying not to raise her voice.

  “All right.” Julia swam toward the stairs. “I still don’t see why I have to go along to yet another augur. “

  “Your mother wants you there.”

  “Papa doesn’t go.”

  “He can’t. He has his shipping business to run, and now that he’s a magistrate, he has to go to the forum. Come on to bed. I will fan you,” Sura urged.

  “I don’t think Mother likes it that he is a magistrate.”

  “Now why would that be? It’s a great honor.”

  “You have to spend money when you’re a magistrate—putting on games and such for the people. That means less money for weddings and for repairs to the Temple of Venus.”

  Sura looked at her closely, pressing her lips together and making a low “hmm” sound as she considered what Julia had just said.

  “Believe me, it’s true, Sura. I know about these things. It’s politics.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Sura replied.

  Julia slipped into her bed wet, not bothering to pull up the thin sheet. Sura crouched by the wall and pulled a string that was attached to a date-palm frond and began to fan her. The drafts from the fan, although they were warm, were better than nothing. Julia thought that in all this heat it was impossible to even imagine that a cool current of air could be stirred up. The air had hardly moved for days, for weeks. There was not even a ripple on the surface of the bay which lay less than a thousand feet from their villa. The blue water looked as if it had been enameled.

  I might as well be enameled myself, Julia thought. Nothing moves, nothing stirs, nothing breathes. It’s as if everything has been holding its breath all summer. I want it to be autumn. Cornelia will certainly be married by then. Flavia is already married. I will be the only child left at home. That will be nice.

  There was a sudden pocket of silence in the night, and Julia was jerked back from the brink of sleep. The soft whisks of the palm frond had ceased, its cooling breeze swallowed in the nighttime heat. Sura must have fallen asleep. Odd, Julia thought, how something stopping, the absence of sound, could awaken you. She yawned and turned over, pushing her dead arm out from under her so it would not be numb in the morning. Numb, enameled, still, dead. So many words to describe feelings that were not really feelings at all but the absence of them.

  Two

  JULIA FELT HER SHOULDER BEING shaken. “Get up, get up, mistress.” Sura was bending over her, the long straight black hair brushing her cheek. “Your mother wants to set off within the hour.”

  “You know that means two hours Sura. She’s always late.”

  “Get up now, please.”

  “Can you tell her I have a stomach ache and it will only get worse when I see those augurs slitting chickens and pulling out their guts!” She made a phlegmy sound of disgust in the back of her throat.

  “You tried that last time, Julia. It didn’t work.”

  “All right, all right! I just don’t see why I have to go. There’s no reason.”

  “You’re mother wants it—that’s reason enough. It’s customary.”

  A few minutes later after Sura had helped her put on her tunic, Julia sat in front of the mirror as Sura dressed her hair.

  “Up or down?” Sura asked.

  “Up—all the way up. It’s too hot to have it hanging around my shoulders. When is my fringe going to be long enough to pull back?”

  “Not yet, mistress.”

  “Can you slick it back with some water and pomade?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Julia observed her reflection in the mirror. She looked so different from her sisters in every respect, not just her arm. Her eyes were the darkest blue, while theirs were bright cornflower blue like their mother’s. Her hair was not black but a rather boring brown, while theirs was blonde, also like their mother. But Julia’s mother did help her own hair color along with a dye made of animal fat and ash. And Julia was the only one with freckles that no amount of powder seemed to cover, especially in the summer when they stretched across her nose and cheeks. Julia didn’t really think they were ugly, but they violated all conventional standards of beauty.

  Julia could now hear her mother’s voice drifting out through the shutters of her dressing room next door, as the ornatrix who came each morning to style her hair worked. It was a soft argument between her mother and father. They had been having this squabble all summer. Julia could only catch fragments, but it did not take too much imagination to fill in the rest. She could almost see her mother fingering the amber cupid pendant.

  “Now five thousand sesterces, it’s not that much Cornelius.”

  “It’s half a wedding,” her father replied.

  “But not nearly as much as the games you’re putting on,” her mother countered.

  “Herminia we have been through this before. I am a magistrate now, newly elected to the ordo.”

  “The ordo, the ordo, that’s all I ever hear about. . . .” Her mother’s despairing voice dwindled away to a low whisper but Julia knew they were talking about her father’s election as one of the magistrates who headed the city council, the ordo. Her father’s position in Pompeii in the past three or four years had steadily risen. He was no longer simply a wealthy ship builder, now he was a distinguished leader of the city. It was expected that leaders would sponsor gladiatorial games for the entertainment of the public, and the games were very expensive.

  “And Pansa,” Julia heard her father say.

  He was speaking of Cuspius Pansa to whom they were now related by Flavia’s marriage to his son.

  “We should be proud. . .” he paused. “We are proud to be related to the family that has contributed more to the restoration of the amphitheater than an other family of Pompeii. There had not been games in this city for several years. And now look what Cuspius Pansa has done in just the last three years. We have games again!” Seventeen years before there had been a devastating earthquake that had left the amphitheater in ruins. “Herminia, it is expected that I should involve myself in civic philanthropy, and we are now related through marriage to the family of all families that is the most responsible for the rebuilding of the amphitheater and sponsorship of games. This is an obligation expected of me both as a magistrate and because of the connection between our families.”

  “I know, Cornelius. But it was not only the amphitheater that was damaged in the earthquake. The Temple of Venus was as well. We could become to the temple what Cuspius Pansa is to the games and the amphitheater.”

  “But two weddings in one summer. We cannot be all things at the same time, Herminia.” Then he muttered something about goddesses and daughters, but Julia could not hear it clearly. She really didn’t need to hear it all. The gist of her parents’ heated discussion was all too familiar to her: the temple versus the amphitheater. Her mother could not understand how an arena for bloody games could be restored prior to what she called “an arena for a goddess,” and not just any goddess—Venus Pompeiana the protecting goddess of the city. What galled her even more was that the temples of
other gods, lesser ones in her opinion, had already been restored. In particular she objected to the restoration of the Temple of Isis, the most completely rebuilt of any of the temples through the extreme generosity of Numerius Popidius Ampliatus—formerly a slave!

  Julia rolled her eyes at Sura, “See, I told you Mother would be late. They have to have their daily argument. Has Father already seen his clients?”

  “Most of them. You just be waiting for your mother in the lararium for morning worship when they come down. Promise me.”

  “All right.” Julia sighed as she stood up and slipped her deep rose colored palla over her shoulder, hiding her arm.

  By the time Julia descended to the main floor of the villa she could hear the impatient hubbub of the remainder of her father’s “clients” as they were called, awaiting their patron’s arrival. A wealthy Roman citizen was obliged, if not by law than by custom, to distribute money, food or small gifts daily to those upon whom he was dependent for votes and small services, and to his freed slaves. In return the patron received the support of the clients in his own endeavors, which might range from campaigning for an office in the civic government to tracking down a runaway slave to finding a good rate for an expensive wine for a celebration.

  As Julia entered the lararium she saw her older sister Cornelia already kneeling in front of the shrine. The death masks of her great-grandparents and her grandfather hung to one side of a tall cupboard. Cornelia looked up as if to say, You’re late again. In her hands she held the petals of one of the white roses from the garden as her morning offering to their household gods. Julia had brought a gold cup of scented water to set on the altar. She kneeled next to Cornelia and whispered. “Don’t look at me that way. I’m not late. Mother’s not even here yet.”

  “I wasn’t looking at you any way,” Cornelia replied coldly.

  “Yes, you were,” Julia argued.

  Herminia Petreia bustled in with her husband.

  “Girls, girls! Quit this squabbling.” Herminia scolded.

  Why don’t they quit theirs? Julia mused.

  “Mother,” Cornelia whined. “She is so childish.”

  “Me, childish!” Julia exclaimed. “What about you? You’re about to be married. You’re eighteen. I’m twelve.”

  “Stop it, both of you!” Their mother said firmly.

  Behind Herminia and her husband Cornelius the rest of the household slaves filed into the lararium. Cornelius as the head of the family also functioned as the priest in this morning worship. He began with his usual invocation bending before the masks of his parents and those of his wife’s to thank them for their wisdom and goodness. As he concluded Herminia stepped forward holding a plate with a small pile of crumbs. It was believed that the lares, or the spirits of the family’s ancestors resided in the floor. The crumbs which had fallen during the course of the previous day’s meals were swept up and an offering was made to them. Herminia kneeled and presented the plate of crumbs.

  As soon as she had risen Cornelius opened the cupboard to reveal the representations of Venus and the other household gods. The cupboard was made of wood and looked quite ordinary on the outside but when opened it revealed a splendid interior that had been painted to look like marble. Within the cupboard was a miniature temple, the temple of Venus as it had appeared before the earthquake. This was Julia’s favorite part of the ceremony. There were “marble” steps leading up to a portico supported by gleaming “marble” columns and perfectly centered was a tiny real marble statue of Venus with her golden girdle. Flanking the temple on each side was a niche. The one to the left revealed a painting of Jupiter, the father of all the gods. The one on the right held a painted image of Venus, wife of Jupiter, and next to Venus in the same niche was Minerva, goddess of wisdom. These three represented the Triad of Pompeii. After the doors were opened there was another short prayer, The Calling, a greeting and giving of thanks to these gods. When it concluded Cornelia offered her rose petals to the triad. Following Cornelia, Julia came with her golden bowl of scented water from which she sprinkled a few drops in front of each of the gods and goddesses.

  This was followed by long, and for Julia unendurable, moments of silent worship, in which she tried to guess what each of her family members was praying for. Very little effort was necessary these days. She knew all too well their prayers. Her mother was hoping for at least two augurs to agree to a wedding date for Cornelia. She also wanted a windfall of money so that she could put on a wedding worthy of their social position and repair the architrave, the recessed panel with beautiful sculpture that adorned the main facade of the temple of Venus. Cornelia was praying that her mother would not insist on two augurs but just settle for one. Their father was praying that somehow he could come up with an extra ten thousand sesterces for the restoration of the temple his wife so dearly wanted. And Julia was just praying for autumn to come, when the wedding would be over, and the weather cooler, and her tutor would return from Rome. Then they could begin lessons again and forget all about weddings!

  Three

  A FEATHER DRIFTED LAZILY OVER the bloody tangle of chicken guts that lay on the slab of marble. A haruspex, an augur who specialized in interpreting animal entrails, crouched over to study them. His toga was spattered with spurts of blood. Julia couldn’t help but wonder how many togas he went through in one day. The heat rose rose in waves rippling the air. Everything appeared swimmy, and the entrails themselves behind this pulsing scrim of air seemed to move ever so slightly. Did Julia feel a small tremor beneath her feet? She saw the flash of the haruspex’s eyes as they slid nervously to look beyond the marble slab at the distant hills. He felt it too! This certainly could not be a good sign if at the very moment the entrails were read the earth trembled. Julia stole a glance at her mother and Cornelia. They were so intent on the haruspex that Julia doubted they had even felt it. Jupiter! how many of these idiots did they have to go to? Yesterday it had been an augur who specialized in thunderbolts, because two nights before there had been dry lightning over Mount Vesuvius. He didn’t precisely say no to the date, but nor did he give an true affirmation. So off they went to see the haruspex Lucretius, who although just a beginner was considered quite good.

  “Possibly, possibly,” the augur was now saying. “You say the twenty-fourth day of August is what you have planned on for the marriage of Cornelia to Cassius Marcellus? Fine young man, fine young man. And what sign was he born under?” All while he spoke, he pored over the steaming entrails. Julia could feel the mounting excitement of her mother and sister. Cornelia’s mouth was half open as if she were holding her breath in anticipation. The color rose in their mother’s cheeks.

  Is this fellow an idiot? Julia thought. The ground just shook! She had felt it, and she knew that the haruspex had as well.Marcus was right. These fools said whatever was necessary to get a good fee. But would her mother sink to bribery? Maybe it wasn’t so much that her mother had bribed him outright. Perhaps he had just read her like a book, read her urgency, her hopes, as well as her denial. This man was probably better at reading human minds than chicken guts. And now he was actually saying what they had so longed to hear. “I would see no problem with the date of the twenty-fourth day of this month. None whatsoever.” Cornelia let out a little squeal of delight. Their mother smiled broadly. And from a pouch she carried under her palla she slipped Lucretius some gold coins.

  As they were about to walk back to the litter that awaited them, Julia’s palla slipped off her shoulder revealing her withered arm. Her mother and sister were ahead and did not hear the haruspex gasp. But when she turned to look at the him she saw that his eyes were glazed with fear. What was wrong with him? She gave him a scowling look. And then it dawned on her. I wonder if he thinks I have more powers than he does.

  By the time Julia climbed into the litter, her mother and Cornelia were already arguing. “But Mother, why do we have to go there?”

  “I want just one more opinion, that’s all.”

  “But wha
t if she says no?”

  “I think we can still go ahead, dear. I would just feel better if she would say yes too.”

  “Are we going to the Sibyl of Sarnus?” Julia groaned.

  Both she and Cornelia hated going to this sibyl, who lived in a cave at the mouth of the Sarnus River near the harbor of Pompeii. They were always left to wait well outside of the cave, but Julia hated seeing her mother go into it to meet with the sibyl. This particular sybil was said to read the eyes of fish, which both Julia and her sister both found horribly disgusting even though they didn’t have to witness it.

  To reach the Sibyl of Sarnus they had to pass by their own villa again. There the slaves who were carrying them were exchanged for fresh litter bearers, due to the extreme heat. This did not take long, and they were soon on their way again. As they approached the sacred precincts of the Temple of Venus Julia saw Cornelia touch her bulla. She knew what her sister was praying for—that the Sibyl of Sarnus would not spoil things. Her mother was most likely thinking what ten thousand sesterces could do to rebuild the wrecked sanctuary of her goddess.

  They passed through the gates of Forenses and soon enough they were in a narrow street in the midst of the port. The harbor was crammed with double-ended two-masted trading ships, many built in the shipyard of Julia’s father. This passage through the port was almost worth the trip to the Sibyl of Sarnus. There was everything from anywhere that anyone could imagine. Julia looked out from the curtained window of the litter to see if the brilliantly colored parrot that had been for sale the week before had been sold.