Free Pompeii by Robert Harris

remarkable, Pliny,” said Pomponianus. “I congratulate you. I’m afraid once I have a glass in my hand, I don’t tend to put it down until it’s empty.”
    The senator was less impressed. He folded his arms and pushed himself back in the chair, as if he had somehow made himself look a fool by watching a childish trick. “I don’t know what’s significant about that. So the table trembles? It could be anything. The wind—”
    “There is no wind.”
    “Heavy footsteps somewhere. Or perhaps Pomponianus here was stroking one of the ladies under the table.”
    Laughter broke the tension. Only Pliny did not smile. “We know that this world we stand on, which seems to us so still, is in fact revolving eternally, at an indescribable velocity. And it may be that this mass hurtling through space produces a sound of such volume that it is beyond the capacity of our human ears to detect. The stars out there, for example, might be tinkling like wind chimes, if only we could hear them. Could it be that the patterns in this wineglass are the physical expression of that same heavenly harmony?”
    “Then why does it stop and start?”
    “I have no answer, Cascus. Perhaps at one moment the earth glides silently, and at another it encounters resistance. There is a school that holds that winds are caused by the earth traveling in one direction and the stars in the other. Aquarius—what do you think?”
    “I’m an engineer, admiral, ” said Attilius tactfully, “not a philosopher.” In his view, they were wasting time. He thought of mentioning the strange behavior of the vapor on the hillside that morning, but decided against it. Tinkling stars! His foot was tapping with impatience. “All I can tell you is that the matrix of an aqueduct is built to withstand the most extreme forces. Where the Augusta runs underground, which is most of the way, she’s six feet high and three feet wide, and she rests on a base of concrete one and a half feet thick, with walls of the same dimensions. Whatever force breached that must have been powerful.”
    “More powerful than the force that shakes my wine?” The admiral looked at the senator. “Unless we are not dealing with a phenomenon of nature at all. In which case, what is it? A deliberate act of sabotage, perhaps, to strike at the fleet? But who would dare? We haven’t had a foreign enemy set foot in this part of Italy since Hannibal .”
    “And sabotage would hardly explain the presence of sulfur.”
    “Sulfur,” said Pomponianus suddenly. “That’s the stuff in thunderbolts, isn’t it? And who throws thunderbolts?” He looked around excitedly. “Jupiter! We should sacrifice a white bull to Jupiter, as a deity of the upper air, and have the haruspices inspect the entrails. They’ll tell us what to do.”
    The engineer laughed.
    “What’s so funny about that?” demanded Pomponianus. “It’s not so funny as the idea that the world is flying through space—which, if I may say so, Pliny, rather begs the question of why we don’t all fall off.”
    “It’s an excellent suggestion, my friend,” said Pliny soothingly. “As admiral, I also happen to be the chief priest of Misenum, and I assure you, if I had a white bull to hand I would kill it on the spot. But for the time being, a more practical solution may be needed.” He sat back in his chair and wiped his napkin across his face, then unfolded and inspected it, as if it might contain some vital clue. “Very well, aquarius. I shall give you your ship.” He turned to the captain. “Antius—which is the fastest liburnian in the fleet?”
    “That would be the Minerva, admiral. Torquatus’s ship. Just back from Ravenna .”
    “Have her made ready to sail at first light.”
    “Yes, admiral.”
    “And I want notices posted on every fountain telling the citizens that rationing is now in force. Water will only be allowed to flow twice each day, for one hour exactly, at dawn and dusk.”
    Antius winced. “Aren’t