The bottom of the staircase gave way to a tunnel hewn through solid rock. Not rock, I realized, but the ash and mud that had buried the city in a mad rush. Sixty-five feet of the stuff had converged on the town, engulfing it in moments.
“Farmers discovered the walls about a hundred years ago.” Baldini struck flint to steel and lit candles that lay in preparation on a bench below, enclosing them into lanterns. He handed a flickering lantern to each of us. “That is the official story. Truth to tell, I’ve found evidence of digging that must have happened long before that. Perhaps by villagers taking bits and pieces to shore up their own houses or to sell for extra coin. Why not?” Baldini shrugged, spangles of light moving on the walls as his lantern swung. “All these things down here that no one wanted?”
“It is fascinating.” Grenville lifted his light and peered into the tunnel. “And gruesome at the same time. I remember having nightmares as a boy reading about the poor souls caught in the ash and heat.”
“Indeed, I still feel the tragedy of it.” Baldini put himself in front of us and headed down the dark tunnel. “Almost two thousand years between that day and this, and I am still heavy-hearted for those people. It must have been terrifying. My family descends from an Ancient Roman one, and I suppose I feel some affinity for them.”
Grenville glanced at me, his face neutral. The likelihood a man could trace his family in an unbroken line to the deep past was improbable, but perhaps this was how Baldini explained his ardent interest in ancient times.
The more regular shapes of walls began to poke through the rounded tunnel, and my own interest was thoroughly caught. People had lived here, worked here, loved here, fought here, gone through the day-to-day minutiae of life. Not understanding the ways of volcanos—they’d not even had a word for it until after the eruption—they hadn’t discerned the warning signs and hadn’t known to flee.
Baldini halted in a doorway not far along, showing us the interior space of what had been a house. Our candlelight fell on walls that were as red as the day they were painted. A small bright blue, yellow, and red mosaic high on the wall depicted a woman, nude, her hips swathed in cloth, gazing imperiously at us. Though this image was made up of hundreds of tiny tiles, the shading of her skin was as well done as in any oil painting by a great master.
“Exquisite,” I breathed.
“Venus, we think.” Baldini swept his light over the walls on the far side of the room, where great chunks of plaster had been gouged out. “Who knows what she gazed at there? So much was taken over the past century, transported to palaces, hidden away from us all.”
“Kings always nick the best bits for themselves,” Brewster grunted as he scanned the room.
“They do indeed, Mr. Brewster,” Baldini said in fervent agreement.
We walked on. Baldini took us through more doorways into rectangular rooms, a few with mosaics that had either been too difficult to chisel out, or else the treasure hunters hadn’t thought them worth bothering about.
I found them beautiful. A craftsman all those years ago had hunched over his picture to get it just right before it was plastered into the wall for us to admire now.
No one else was in the tunnels. We were alone in our quest today, our footsteps the only ones in the muffled hush.
“Excavation ceased some years ago,” Baldini explained when I asked him about the absence of others. “A few gentlemen—including Herr Winckelmann, who wrote so much about ancient art—protested about how Herculaneum was being looted instead of studied, and the treasure hunters went elsewhere. Easier pickings in Pompeii, in any case.”
“Still, there must be much to find here.” Grenville gestured with his walking stick at a wall painted to resemble pillars.
“Oh, yes. Much, much more. Alas, excavations are expensive, and those who fund them want to keep the best things for themselves. As Mr. Brewster observed, kings take treasures to gaze upon, and then Bonaparte robbed those kings to pile things in the Louvre.” His tone held disgust.
“Much of what Bonaparte took has been restored,” Grenville pointed out. “The horses of St. Mark’s to Venice, for instance.” We’d had a similar discussion with Grenville’s friends, the topic a heated one in this part of the world.
“But so much has not.” Baldini kept his words quiet, but I heard his outrage. “Many things are still sequestered away, and it will take years to find them all. What was robbed of us was not just wealth, but knowledge.”
“I agree,” Grenville said. “And I imagine the not-so-famous paintings and sculptures will be more difficult to reclaim.”
“You would be correct, sir.” Baldini took us around a corner into an even darker tunnel, ending the conversation. “Now, there is a mosaic in this room that is quite lovely.”
In spiteof Brewster’s misgivings, Baldini did not lure us into a blind tunnel where men lay in wait to beat us, nor did he seal us into one of the many chambers he showed off so enthusiastically.
Some hours later, we emerged from the darkness, blinking at the bright sunshine. I gazed over the site as we left it, the hardened earth waiting to give up its treasures.
Part of the reason for my brief journey here with Grenville was to discover whether it would be safe to bring my family to see the ruins. I thought Peter would handle himself admirably, and Gabriella too was of a robust nature. My wife perhaps would not enjoy climbing over rocks and through tunnels, but she’d appreciate the artwork we’d seen.
We returned to the tavern in the village and retrieved our horses for the ride to Pompeii.
It was late afternoon when we reached the inn Grenville’s man of business had arranged. We’d eat and sleep here tonight, starting out fresh in the morning.
The inn was full, with travelers from all over the world. More than a few were British, although Germans made up a good part of the crowd. Frenchmen had come as well, scholarly gentlemen who spoke quietly together in a corner.
The Englishmen hailed us, happy to greet fellow countrymen. Grenville standing them a round of local wine also helped to smooth the waters.
I ate and drank, but I was too restless to sit and gossip with the lot. Grenville, who enjoyed speaking with those who traveled to see art and antiquities, was deep into conversation with several gentlemen. I quietly excused myself for a stroll in the open air.
Much had happened today, the earthquake, the thrown knife, the descent into the chill darkness of the past. I would have much to write to my wife, Gabriella, and Peter.
