Pompeii by Robert Harris

sandals, a pisspot. It was not much to show for a lifetime. Neither of the chests was locked, he noticed.
    He glanced toward the staircase, but the only sound coming from below was snoring. Still holding the lamp, he lifted the lid of the nearest chest and began to rummage through it with his free hand. Clothes—old clothes mostly—that, as he disturbed them, released a strong smell of stale sweat. Two tunics, loincloths, a toga, neatly folded. He closed the lid quietly and raised the other. Not much in this chest, either. A skin-scraper for removing oil in the baths. A jokey figure of Priapus with a vastly extended penis. A clay beaker for throwing dice, with more penises inlaid around its rim. The dice themselves. A few glass jars containing various herbs and unguents. A couple of plates. A small bronze goblet, badly stained.
    He rolled the dice as gently as he could in the beaker and threw them. His luck was in. Four sixes—the Venus throw . He tried again and threw another Venus. The third Venus settled it. Loaded dice.
    He put away the dice and picked up the goblet. Was it really bronze? Now he examined it more closely, he was not so sure. He weighed it in his hand, turned it over, breathed on it and rubbed the bottom with his thumb. A smear of gold appeared and part of an engraved letter P. He rubbed again, gradually increasing the radius of gleaming metal, until he could make out all the initials.
    N. P. N. l. A.
    The “l” stood for “libertus” and showed it to be the property of a freed slave.
    A slave who had been freed by an owner whose family name began with a P, and who was rich enough, and vulgar enough, to drink his wine from a gold cup.
    Her voice was suddenly as clear in his mind as if she had been standing beside him.
    “My name is Corelia Ampliata, daughter of Numerius Popidius Ampliatus, owner of the Villa Hortensia . . .”
     
    The moonlight shone on the smooth black stones of the narrow street and silhouetted the lines of the flat roofs. It felt almost as hot as it had been in the late afternoon; the moon as bright as the sun. As he mounted the steps between the shuttered, silent houses, he could picture her darting before him—the movement of her hips beneath the plain white dress.
    “A few hundred paces—yes, but every one of them uphill!”
    He came again to the level ground and to the high wall of the great villa. A gray cat ran along it and disappeared over the other side. The glinting metal dolphins leaped and kissed above the chained gate. He could hear the sea in the distance, moving against the shore, and the throb of the cicadas in the garden. He rattled the iron bars and pressed his face to the warm metal. The porter’s room was shuttered and barred. There was not a light to be seen.
    He was remembering Ampliatus’s reaction when he turned up on the seashore: “What’s happened to Exomnius? But surely Exomnius is still the aquarius?” There had been surprise in his voice and, now he came to think about it, possibly something more: alarm.
    “Corelia!” He called her name softly. “Corelia Ampliata!”
    No response. And then a whisper in the darkness, so low he almost missed it: “Gone.”
    A woman’s voice. It came from somewhere to his left. He stepped back from the gate and peered into the shadows. He could make out nothing except a small mound of rags piled in a drift against the wall. He moved closer and saw that the shreds of cloth were moving slightly. A skinny foot protruded, like a bone. It was the mother of the dead slave. He went down on one knee and cautiously touched the rough fabric of her dress. She shivered, then groaned and muttered something. He withdrew his hand. His fingers were sticky with blood.
    “Can you stand?”
    “Gone,” she repeated.
    He lifted her carefully until she was sitting, propped against the wall. Her swollen head dropped forward and he saw that her matted hair had left a damp mark on the stone. She had been whipped and badly beaten,