Pompeii's Secrets: The Taras Report on Its Last Days

By Alan Lloyd

Combining fictional characterisation and factual research Alan Lloyd asks who were these people who lived in Pompeii and what were their lives like in those last days before the disaster? Alan Lloyd, an acclaimed historian and novelist, breathes life into the ghosts that haunt the empty streets, quiet courtyards and silent rooms of Pompeii while stirring the imagination of everyone who has seen the well-preserved ruins of the ancient city. Through the eyes of Taras, Lloyd's imaginatively reconstructed narrator, we discover the real Pompeii, its geography, history and culture with a compelling urgency as the city's last day approaches. Alan Lloyd's brand of popular history concentrates on the details and colour that make for engrossing reading, the skilful depiction of a seminal moment in history and, above all, a readable narrative. Pompeii's Secrets is an engrossing adventure novel, as well as a fascinating historical survey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Souvenir Press
• Release date: Jun 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780285642348

Alan Lloyd

Alan Lloyd is the author of more than 30 books, including Destroy Carthage, Marathon, and The Taras Report on the Last Days of Pompeii.

Book preview

PART ONE

‘Who art thou, whose art though?’

—Yasna 43.vii.

Being required by the ministry to record the extraordinary circumstances of my visit to Campania, the prodigies of that land, and the ordeal encountered there, I, Taras the Mede, loyal subject of the empire of Parthia, declare this statement true before all-knowing god. The implications I leave to the minister, and god himself.

1: How I came to Campania

The Syrian’s roots were indeterminate. He shipped from Tyre, at the conflux of East and West, passing freely in the ports of Roman empire, accepted for what he was—an illiterate sea-tramp, devoid of ideology. But if events were to dwarf, better men to diminish him, his role at first was pre-eminent. Without him, this report would not have reached the Eastern World(1).

For myself, having taken to the road during hard times, I struggled to Tyre as a merchant’s scribe, there to fall jobless in a strange and uncaring port. In desperation, I applied for work to Captain Borobo. The Syrian eyed me malevolently.

‘A Mede? What would I want with a scribbler from the wilderness?’

‘They told me you needed a ship’s clerk.’

‘Come back, Mede, when you find one.’

I’m trained in languages, accountancy, letters of many kinds.…’

‘Easterners! Peasants, camel-drovers, the lot of them.’

I omit the obscenities from his speech, which, like his appearance, was execrable. I can still see his carious teeth and gnawed fingernails. Retreating with aversion, I was caught by the shoulder in a brutal grip. ‘She’s loaded to the scuppers, scribe. Get aboard and make an inventory. We sail with tomorrow’s dawn. And Mede,’ he gave me a rough push, ‘don’t think I’m prejudiced. Any trouble, and you’ll bleed as red as anyone.’

Thus in the spring of the Roman year 832—

A.D.

79 by the reckoning of the Nazarene iconoclasts—I started my voyage west. Not, it will be noted, with any planned itinerary, but blindly, of economic necessity. Beneath the captain’s coarse skin, and coarser humour, his schemes were unknown to me. I sensed only that to obstruct them would be perilous.

HOW TARAS REACHED POMPEII

Borobo’s ship was a creaking, brine-festooned tyranny. The crew, now belaboured, now imprecated, grudgingly gave their best. The pugnacity evidenced by the armoury he carried, and a cruel scar on his lower face, was a byword, I learned, from the Nile delta to the Thasos straits.

Certainly, pirates steered respectfully clear of us. In the market, it was another tale. Our ports of call revealed Borobo the merchant, full of cunning and unctuous charm. I found the merchant as distasteful as the galley boss.

It serves no purpose to dwell on the trading run. Enough to observe that, while my clerical skills were un-faulted, my manners more than flattered the captain and his clients. Distinction impresses none so much as those who scoff at it, and Borobo’s jibes assumed an edge of clumsy affability. Pragmatically, I humoured his mood against pay-day—and the chance, at last, to be done with him.

By now we were far beyond the world of Eastern history, even that of the fabled days of Darius(2). From Rhodes and Crete, we had coast-hopped northwest, profits mounting, stock diminishing, until by midsummer I looked forward impatiently to turning round. Back in Tyre, I would use my discharge emolument to retrace my steps overland, returning to the ancestral plateau and old friends. I did not anticipate the shock ahead.

The last of our cargo sold, we had beached on remote Cephallenia and were checking the treasury. Borobo caressed the coins unhurriedly. ‘When the men are fit,’ he announced at length, ‘we’ll be pushing off.’ My eagerness to do as much was unconcealed. ‘They’ll need no urging,’ I predicted, ‘on the homeward trip.’

PLAN OF POMPEII

‘Homeward?’

‘The hold’s empty.’

‘Then we’ll sail like a gull, scribe. Westward, to fresh lands.’ He glanced at me wickedly. ‘You’ve nothing to tell them back home, yet. Look, we replenish here:’ He described the shape of a leg in the sand with a blunt finger. ‘Italy.’ He dropped a pebble in proximity to the shin. The captain’s eyes shone. He said: ‘The crown of Campania—Vesuvius! When you’ve seen Vesuvius, you’ll have something to write about.’

My anger verged on mutiny. For a moment, I considered the step seriously. But if I thought to find the crew behind me in opposing the captain’s project, I was disabused. A strange expectation had gripped the lower deck. Though no more than two of the men had sailed the Tyrrhenian, the willingness of the rest to voyage beyond the bounds of providence tempered my wrath with curiosity.

Encouraging their gossip, I discovered the attraction of Campania. In the mythology of this credulous fraternity, our destination was some kind of paradise, a golden land embracing bounty and indulgence unlimited: fields which yielded three harvests of grain a year, wines of blissful potency, fountained gardens fit for Greek gods, sporting spectacles on a scale to thrill heroes.

‘They say,’ averred one weathered veteran, ‘the women look like angels, and lust like men.’ Whore houses, they believed, vied with temples in profusion; fortunes changed hands in the gaming dens. The imperial ghosts of Rome, I was assured, had rhapsodized Campania: Augustus, Cicero, Nero. The élite of the West still flocked there to rejuvenate.

It was a devil’s brew. Untutored in the simple virtues of the prophet Zarathustra, as in the wisdom of Ormazd(3), the crewmen fell to oar and sail with perverse zest. Borobo lived off my discomfort for many days. ‘Homeward!’ he would chuckle, baring black incisors. ‘You couldn’t urge them homeward, even if they had homes!’ Or: ‘You’ve been telling them tales of the East, scribe. They’re heading west like dogs with their tails on fire!’

THE BAY OF NAPLES AND VESUVIUS

His jesting endured until we reached the foot of Italy. In the narrow straits at its toe, the captain grew watchful; the men subdued. We gave a flotilla of unknown oarships a lot of sea, beaching for refreshment with caution. My foreboding intensified. If Borobo, with his established immunity, his faith in the universal passport of ready gold, had crossed the limits of assurance, what of my luck—a lone patriot on the sea of Rome?

We were passing the country of the Bruttians, infested, as it was, by marauding gangs of ill repute. Only prayer sustained me in any hope. Then, at last, we were free of the land’s constraint.

With the spray of the Tyrrhenian, the tension eased. Plunging north towards a happily empty horizon, the galley vibrated with renewed expectation, increasingly wishful projections of the promised land which, in the first days of August, loomed wraith-like to starboard. Borobo held course, peering for a landmark.

Hesitantly, my spirits rose.

We were cruising parallel to a sunny coast: an unfurling panorama of pastures and terraces blessed to such perfection by their varied growth that apprehension dissolved in admiration. Orchards of apple and pear adorned the water’s edge. The luxuriant leaf of fig was abundant. Among other fruits, I discerned cherry, pomegranate, quince and melon. The foliage of chestnut and almond was evident. So much fatter, I must report, were the milch beasts of Campania than our own animals, that I could scarcely believe they possessed bones.

Rounding a headland, we entered a broad bay. I heard Borobo bellow from the foredeck; saw him pointing a stubby arm.

Rooftops were glistening abeam … ordered streets … pillared conclaves … all vivid in the crystal light. Running forward, I followed the captain’s gaze. To our front reared a peak of majestic loft and solitude. Taller mountains we possess in the Zagros, and more austere. But this was no common height, for, incredibly, the slopes from foot to summit were wreathed in the grape, in jewelled vine—an erection, indeed, of fecundity.

2: How I Entered the City

The surrounds of Vesuvius, it should be known, possessed sundry communities of diverse size, as well as individual dwellings scattered by sea and farm. Also, southeast of the height, lay a river which, inviting ingress, led immediately to the port and conurbation of Pompeii, a favoured city of this land. Here, we harboured and sought accommodation.

Among a score or more taverns, several took lodging guests. With the captain—the crew being destined to sleep aboard—I found myself in an inviting house, with broad tables and a good, pungent kitchen, looking forward to congenial fare at last. But first, a note on the city and its populace.

A thriving market and pleasure centre of perhaps 20,000 residents, Pompeii was situated on the north bank of the River Sarno; that is, between the stream and the slopes of Vesuvius. Its mellow wall, once serving to hold off aggressive tribes, bounded about 65 hectares in the shape, roughly speaking, of an arrowhead, point inland, seaward wall flat, dismantled in part for development.

At intervals round the wall were a number of square towers, also seven gates, the latter of varying size and age. Some, of imposing depth, enclosed courts; others were simple vaulted passageways. From five gates, highways led into the countryside towards places such as Naples, Stabia, Nocera, these in Campania.

Outside the walls were extensive cemeteries, for the law proscribed burial in the city. Indeed, so substantial were Pompeian tombs that the environs could scarcely have found space for them. Instead, they lay beside the approach roads, impressive credentials for the town ahead. Within the walls, two landmarks were vividly memorable.

At the eastern extremity of Pompeii, a massive amphitheatre, abutted by gymnasium, provided a sporting arena with sufficient seating for every adult in the city and far around.

To the west stood a fine colonnaded area, the forum. Rectangular in shape, of 155 by 38 metres, bounded by bureaucratic, commercial and religious offices, the forum was the venue for markets and civic gatherings. Here, town and country met to bargain, and slaves were sold. On market days, the tall pillars were garlanded.

Between these features, and elsewhere, the urban layout conformed to an ingenious geometry, its main thoroughfares crossing with grid-like regularity(4). This is not to say that the visitor was awed by uniformity. Rather, the many widths of the streets, some mere alleys; the numerous kinks and curves in their progress; the multiformity of adjacent balconies, porches and shopfronts; the cunning placement of flora and fountain; the contrast of sun and shade; splashes of brightly-hued stucco—all made for diverting variety.

In the main streets, side-walks raised the pedestrian above the water and refuse which soiled the roads. The same service was performed at crossing points by stepping-stones, so arranged that the wheels of cart and chariot were not checked. These avenues, dappled with grey and yellow paving slabs, remained pleasantly temperate even at high sun, maintaining that degree of warmth and humidity which best invokes well-being in mankind.

Pompeii indulged the senses on every side. With the scent from sheltered gardens mingled the odours of spiced cooking. With the splash of fountains, and the trill of cage-birds, came the notes of the street musician, song and laughter from the wine shops. All pleasures were advertised. Baths and brothel, barber and tailor, bistro and drinking house, each signalled its presence in bold paint.

Only in proclaiming the comfort of their homes were the Pompeians reticent, for the modest frontage of the town villas belied the elegance which lay behind.

Penetrating the suburbs with the captain, I was already conscious of a general prosperity. Swart farmers, voluble and sharp-eyed, followed pack-beasts so sleek they might have graced royal carriages. Leisured Romans from outlying villas swirled to town in showy chariots. The peasant children, sturdy and exhuberant, romped at the heels of tawny young matrons whose robust, rhythmic deportment was a sharp reminder of the privations of galley life.

Even the beggar who importuned us at the wayside was wholesome and well-shod.

Among all ranks, the women went shamelessly unveiled. To Eastern eyes, perhaps no trait was so marked in these people as immodesty. Yet such was the lack of affectation, so congenital their aplomb, that they seemed to find no wrong in it. Roman women of noble birth ventured on the streets with no more company than a serving maid, bargaining with shop-keepers, conversing with male acquaintances.

Women of humbler caste showed even less reserve. From doorways, behind refreshment stands, in shops and hostelries, the stranger was accosted by the fearless glances of enticing girls. Lusts and liaisons were undisguised. The graffiti of the city—as ubiquitous as it was dexterous, since the Pompeians were exceedingly literate—spelled out the passions of the populace for all to see.

Marcus loved Spendusa; Rufus loved Cornelia. Staphylus loved both Quieta and Romula. The combinations were endless. Ardour was unsuppressed. ‘He who would separate lovers would bind the winds‚’ exclaimed one writer. ‘What is the use of a Venus if made of marble?’ cried the dauber of another wall. Again: ‘If you know the meaning of love, let me come to you.’

A compilation of all to be read in the most casual excursion of the city would fill pages. My sample will be short. Here, a woman addressed her feelings to one Fortunatus, ‘you sweet little darling, you great fornicatoť. There, perhaps Fortunatus himself begged that he might ‘always and everywhere be potent’ in congress. Some put their thoughts in verse. Exercised by an apparent fashion for shaving the pubic hair(5), a scribbler vouched laconically:

I like a girl with a proper mat, still perfect and unshorn;

That I may snuggle from the cold, as in a coat she’s worn.

If such publications were open to all eyes, so, even, more strikingly, were the many statues of naked, sometimes impassioned deities, and the pictorial prominence of the phallus on shop-front and sign-board. Repeatedly, erect penises, painted or sculpted, some several feet in length, met the gaze of the visitor, betokening the fertility, the sensuality of this land.

Nor, my lord, did the city want for cleanliness. Apart from a profusion of washing facilities, lavatories were in all public places, and notices warned against defecating in the street or against walls. The urinals were even turned to profit, for fullers bought the liquid and used it in cleansing wool.

Altogether, the discovery of Pompeii was a revelation so astonishing that the problems of revictualling ship, of renewing our cargo, were obliterated from my mind.

By evening, the tavern, steamy with cooking, was full of life. Travellers sat at the tables over brimming bowls. Around the saloon, a variety of cold edibles, sausages, cheeses, and others, hung from wooden pegs(6). Two serving girls attended the dishes while the landlord promoted his liquor trade. Some customers were playing dice. An old man muttered solemnly in his cups. Nearby, a brawny group, gladiators or soldiers, swilled wine boisterously, one clowning with a large coiled trumpet of gleaming bronze.

Others made sport of a girl, holding tit-bits before her and egging her to promises. ‘Coming to the barracks tonight, Maria? No barracks, no food, Mariai!’

One of their number, a huge fellow with humped shoulders, stood apart, unsmiling, lost in a different mood. Now and then, he looked our way inquiringly.

I attributed his interest to Borobo. The size of the captain’s purse, and his thirst, was conspicuous to everyone. The more he drank, the looser became his tongue. The landlord beamed indulgently. He, too, had voyaged, as a legionary to Africa. ‘Ask the boys from the barracks, there. I’ve served my time. I know a man when I see one.’ In truth, he knew a spending man. The captain’s cup was refilled as quickly as he emptied it.

First, he must try the landlord’s Pompeiana. Then he must sample another wine, Vesuvium, heady and fine to taste(7). The innkeeper warmed to his lucrative customer. Soon, nothing would do but we must go to the games with him. All Campania would be at the arena in a day or two. ‘I