Pliniad II: Non Fui, Fui

The seas were not as calm as they should have been. There was barely a boat in sight as the naval craft of Pliny and his rescue fleet rode toward the cities Herculaneum and then Pompeii.

Off in the distance, the Blue Mountain of Vesuvius seemed to have grown a spine stretching toward heaven. As they moved closer, that spine darkened to gray.

The column, this “pine tree” of smoke, as Pliny earlier described it, churned and swirled above the summit. As they drew nearer, Pliny stood at the bow of the ship. Below deck, the slaves roared in rhythm with the drum, unable to see the chaos outside, hearing only the beat that commanded their bodies.

Pliny stood above them, a slave at his side, dictating observations.

“The plume does not rise evenly from the mountaintop,” he said. “At the foot of the mountain we see fires. Whether the fire comes from the mountain itself, or whether the material ejected is hot enough to ignite the land below, remains undetermined. But it is clear that something falls from the column to the earth beneath. It does not merely ascend into the heavens.”

The soldiers around him glanced at one another. They kept themselves busy with rope and sail, both soothed and yet unnerved by the strange calm projected from Pliny and his dutiful scribe.

Dacian by birth, Greek by capture, the slave wrote his master’s words in the Greek language he knew better than Latin. Pliny, though Greek was not his first tongue, spoke it with a refinement earned through decades of scholarship not communication. To the soldiers who looked upon him, he did not seem a scientist but a rhapsode. In ancient tongue foretelling events as though it was a black ship they sailed upon.

Not all aboard had tasks to perform. The nuncio approached him impatiently.

“My lord, it has been nearly an hour and a half since I was dispatched from Domina Rectina. Surely we can make this vessel go faster. Can you not order your men to row harder so that we may reach Pompeii before it is too late?”

Pliny paused his dictation but did not turn to face him.

“If we were to row any faster, messenger, we would pit our oars against the wind. We would strain the rowers, damage the oars, and ultimately slow ourselves. The winds descending from the mountain are strong. We move at the pace that allows us to arrive as swiftly as possible.”

He finally looked at him.

“You are not angry with me or with the ship. You are angry with the wind—and with distance. If fate allows us to reach Rectina in time, we shall do so.”

“My lord! Stern side!”

Pliny turned from the mountain toward the stern. The soldiers parted to create a path.

In the distance lay a merchant barque, packed not with cargo but with people—merchants, fishermen, nobles, anyone who had managed to escape. They were crowded beyond reason. The vessel rode dangerously low.

They clung to ropes, to one another, to anything solid. The ship was taking on water.

“What are they doing?” someone muttered.

“Desperate times make for foolish action when tempered by hope,” Pliny replied. “What must we do? We will rescue them.”

He turned to the commander.

“Signal the fleet. Prepare for boarding.”

A soldier saluted and hurried to the mast.

The nuncio protested. “My lord! Our duty is to Rectina!”

Pliny ignored him.

“Our mission is to rescue all who require it. I care for Rectina. But I am first and foremost commander of these waters. This is my concern.”

The bow, once pointed toward Vesuvius, began to veer.

“Order ramming speed,” Pliny commanded.

The captain hesitated. “Sir… these are civilians. Is it prudent…?”

“We will not ram them. We will simulate a military approach—gain speed, turn hard, board. The barque cannot maneuver. This gives us maneuverability.”

The captain nodded.

The fleet accelerated. As they drew close, the people aboard the merchant vessel began shouting in relief. They rocked the barque in their frenzy.

Several fell overboard.

“Nets! Ropes!” came the order.

Some were caught. Many were not. Weighted by soaked clothing and possessions, they vanished beneath the water.

When Pliny could see individual faces, he ordered:

“Stern rowers, halt! Starboard rowers, brace!”

The maneuver was executed sharply. Oars braced against the current as the ship swerved to align itself alongside the merchant vessel.

“Boarding anchors!”

The cranes swung. Anchors latched.

“Non-boarding crew to starboard to balance!”

The ships collided and steadied. The survivors poured aboard like ants fleeing a shattered mound.

The marines counted and recorded names, class, and place of origin. Most merchants and freemen from Herculaneum, nobles and slaves from Pompeii.

One man clung to the netting and was hauled aboard by four soldiers. He was young, drenched, shaken. He discarded his armor to depths, but boots and hair betrayed his occupation.

Pliny examined him personally.

“Your name, soldier?”

“My Roman name is Marcus, sir.”

The accent was Egyptian. The Latin Broken. The youth haunted.

“What were you doing aboard?”

“Attempting to keep peace.”

“Where are you from?”

“Fayoum.”

“No. Where did this vessel sail from?”

The man hesitated in Latin. Pliny shifted into Greek.

“Herculaneum,” the soldier replied fluently. “We were among the last to leave.”

“The port?”

“It is gone, sir.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“There were three other ships preparing to depart. A wave came past the slopes. The water…” He extended his hand.

It was red, covered in raw, peeling skin.

Pliny looked around at the survivors. Burn marks. Blistered skin. Flesh cooked and bandaged.

“The water was scalding,” Marcus said. “It struck the city. The sea was boiling.”

Pliny turned again to the mountain.

It glowed redder now. The sea beneath it churned. Tiny flecks fell like rain, though no clouds filled the sky. A torrent of fire struck a village along the slope.

He turned to the captain.

“It is likely nothing has survived in Pompeii.”

“There is no point in continuing there,” the captain said quietly.

The nuncio made wordless protest, as his voice raged against his own ability to articulate.

Pliny withdrew toward the stern, passing the burned and stunned survivors.

“Is there a point in going to Pompeii,” he murmured aloud, “or is this mission already a failure? If Pompeii and Herculaneum are struck, perhaps the outer suburbs yet stand.”

He looked at the helmsman.

“Have you the stomach to proceed?”

“Fortune favors the bold, sir.”

The ship rocked in uneasy silence. The mountain’s roar grew louder.

“We sail to Stabiae,” Pliny declared.

He turned sharply.

“Titus and Valens. You will take the nuncio aboard the starboard vessels. Patrol the coast of Herculaneum and Pompeii. Rescue any survivors and return them to Misenum.”

The nuncio lunged forward but was restrained.

“Rectina is counting on you!” he cried. “You abandon her? She called for you! Is this how you repay her? She was your friend. She was.”

“Fuit.” Pliny interrupted him. “Whatever she was, she is not and matters not.”

“What of your duty?”

Pliny did not look back. But he could not look forward either.

“My duty is to those living under my command. I have no obligations to the dead.”

He faced the helmsman. “He is angry with you.” The helmsman said matter of factly.

“He is angry with the winds that brought him here. We sail for Stabiae.”