then—how could she have? And, anyway, marriage wasn’t about love, as her grandfather admonished her; that was only in poetry. Yet, Pliny’s love for her was an extraordinary thing. When they were apart, he wrote her love letters that made her blush. And in time she grew to admire his generosity, his patience, his good humor; to take pride in his triumphs; to feel tenderly toward him. And yes, finally, to love him as a woman should love a man.
It had been hard at first. Though hardly more than a child, she was suddenly the mistress of an elegant town house on the Esquiline, surrounded by slaves whom she was expected to manage, while playing the hostess to clever, powerful men and their sharp-eyed wives. Somehow she had managed. She had made her husband proud of her. She had run his house, entertained his friends with her singing and skill with the lyre, would have borne his children, if—no, she wouldn’t think of that now. Yet always that little girl that she had been, the one who cried into her pillow during those first nights while her husband slept placidly beside her—that little girl was still her.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be fine. There’s plenty to keep me busy—the redecorating, my Greek lessons, and I have Ione for company. We’ll console each other while you men are off putting the world to rights. And I think I want to start painting again.”
“Do you? Splendid!” Her eccentric hobby delighted him, precisely because no other Roman woman would do such a thing—and she had a real talent.
“I want to paint Rufus, capture him at this age. They change so fast.”
“Ah.”
They were silent then for a while.
“And you,” she poked him playfully, “you mustn’t skip meals, and don’t overtire yourself, and remember to keep your chest warm.”
Pliny gave her a tender kiss. “Hush now, go to sleep. It’ll soon be dawn and then I’m off.”
***
But dawn came with a sickening lurch of the floor that threw them both out of bed. The floor buckled and a water jug on the bedside table fell to the floor and smashed. The shaking lasted only moments but when it stopped the bedroom wall was crazed with cracks and plaster dust hung in the air. Pliny lay on top of his wife, shielding her with his body, his heart hammering. From distant parts of the palace he heard shouts and cries for help. Then there was the sound of running footsteps and Zosimus and Ione burst through the door—their bedroom was close by—Ione holding Rufus to her, the child screaming.
“Patrone!”
“We’re all right. Give us a minute. I want everyone outside in the courtyard, at once. See to it.”
Zosimus dashed off. Ione helped Calpurnia to her feet and together they tried to comfort the child.
Damage to the palace, it turned out, was slight, only one roof had fallen in and no one was badly hurt. But from the top of the wall Pliny looked out over the city and saw, through an ochre haze, smoke rising in half a dozen places. The sight brought with it a sudden overpowering memory of the explosion of Vesuvius—the buried towns, the flaming countryside, the refugees stunned by disaster. He had been seventeen years old and barely escaped with his life. It still haunted his dreams.
With an effort, he shook off the memory. Fire and looting were their twin enemies now. He ordered his soldiers into the streets to protect the treasury and the temples. He had only two cohorts of auxiliaries, a pitifully small force; they would have to do their best. With his lictors and a gang of public slaves he raced through the rubble-strewn streets to the marketplace where several shops were ablaze, the air filled with flying cinders. To his amazement, he found the citizens simply standing and staring, doing nothing to extinguish the flames. Trajan had taken the extraordinary step of banning every kind of private association in the province—burial societies, workers’ clubs, trade guilds, cult associations, even something as innocent as a volunteer fire department—on the grounds that they always turned into political cabals. Pliny and his men, with much yelling and shoving, got bucket brigades organized. By nightfall the worst was over. He left the scene only when Marinus, his physician, seconded by Calpurnia, insisted that he return to the palace and rest. He was already composing in his head a letter to the emperor begging him to authorize a fire brigade, which he would