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‘Hey, Sophe!’ calls Rusticus, the one-legged beggar of Theatre Street, ‘Who’d you steal the mule from?’ |
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Sophe cheerfully gives him a rude gesture. Riding high on Potiscus she feels like a queen. The mule’s back is broad and his gait is steady. At first, she found she could steer him right and left just by little tugs on his bristly mane. But soon she discovered just a touch on his neck does the same trick. It is a pleasant summer day with a cool sea breeze. From her elevated vantage point she can see which Pompeian men are getting bald and women’s hairpins and how many coins are in the beggars’ cups. Acutus the onion-seller tosses Sophe a peeled white onion which she deftly catches, then crunches like an apple. It brings tears to her eyes, but she knows it will do her good. From her lofty seat on the mule’s back, she is now in a position to receive greetings from some of the balconies: a dog barks at her, a bird trills in a wicker cage and a woman stops beating a rush sleeping mat long enough to give her a toothless grin. Passing some scaffolding on a badly cracked wall, she is high enough to see a bucket of plaster next to the builder’s breakfast, a wedge of brown bread spread with chopped olive relish. She has finished her onion and the builder is nowhere in sight, so she stretches out her hand, grabs it and takes a big bite. The spread is delicious. As she ponders washing it down with some Falernian from the wineskin slung around Potiscus, she has an idea. Amarantus could serve this as a bar-snack, but on fine white bread rather than brown. When she gets to the harbour, she can easily see all the ships docked there. She ignores the smaller fishing boats to her left and scans the bigger ships straight ahead. Nike is a small two-masted corbita that plies between Rome and Surrentum, stopping at Puteoli and Herculaneum on the way. Europa is a fine merchant ship that sails around the Greek islands bringing sponges from Symi, mastic resin from Cos, hardbake from Rhodes and wine from Lesbos. Ammon is a big grain ship from Alexandria that towers over the others like a swan surrounded by ducklings. Today there is a new ship in harbour. It is narrower than the others, shaped like a warship. But there are no oar-ports or ramming beak, and it has the usual lucky swan at the back. She uses her heels to gently nudge Potiscus towards the new ship. When she gets closer, she sees naked porters carrying amphorae down the gangplank. A man with a big wax tablet is taking notes and Balbus, a customs official in a toga, is standing behind him. Sophe gives Potiscus’s mane a tug. When he stops, she swings one of her legs over and lands with a jolt on the sun-warmed stones of the wharf. Before she goes over to the official, she squeezes some Falernian from the wineskin into the palm of her hand and lets Potiscus slurp his reward. ‘Greetings, sir,’ she says politely to Balbus. ‘Is this the ship from Gaza?’ He gives a distracted nod. |
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Sophe moves over to where the sailors are unloading the amphorae. There are lots of men here. She can tell the buyers from the sailors because the buyers are dressed whereas the sailors are naked. Sophe fishes in her greasy belt pouch. Amarantus gave her a big brass dupondius to tip the porter. One of the naked sailors is on his way back to the ship, presumably to get another amphora. Sophe taps him on the arm, keeping her eyes firmly above waist level. ‘Have you seen four amphorae for Sextus Pompeius Amarantus?’ she says. He wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm. ‘Back there, I think.’ Sophe holds up the brass coin. ‘I’ve got this for you if you help me tie them to my patron’s mule.’ He grins and leads the way, weaving around groups of amphorae laid out on the wharf. ‘I think this is them,’ he says, stopping by four amphorae lying on their sides. Sophe leans forward to read the titulus pictus: SEX POMP and then a smudged name starting with an A, which must be Amarantus. She nods. ‘That’s them. Here.’ She takes the hessian ropes from her shoulder and tosses them over Potiscus’s back. ‘My boss says they should fit in there. Two each side.’ The naked sailor wraps some of the rope around Potiscus’s body and expertly attaches the four big wine jars. ‘There!’ He stands back to admire his work. ‘That should do you.’ ‘Thank you, sir,’ says Sophe, and gives him the dupondius. He puts it in his mouth, which is the only place he has to hold it, then nods his thanks and hurries back to the ship. Sophe has just let Potiscus slurp some wine so he will follow, when someone taps her shoulder. |
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‘I believe those are mine,’ says Sextus Pompeius Axiochus. For a moment Sophe is speechless. But only for a moment. ‘No, they’re for my patron, Sextus Pompeius Amarantus.’ ‘Look,’ he says pointing to one of the labels on the neck. ‘They’re clearly marked Sextus Pompeius Axiochus.’ But now that the amphorae are up on Potiscus’s back she can’t quite see the labels. Sophe stands firm. ‘I’m sure they’re for my boss. He wants me to bring them back to his bar on Arena Street. He even gave me a dupondius to pay the porter to load them. Where is that porter?’ She looks around but can’t see him anywhere. ‘Also,’ says Axiochus, ‘I believe that’s my mule!’ Sophe begins to protest but then remembers that Amarantus rescued the mule after the earthquake. Perhaps the mule does belong to Axiochus. ‘Bring the mule,’ Axiochus commands one of his slaves. ‘Please!’ cries Sophe, her face hot. ‘Amarantus needs these amphorae delivered now! We’ve been promising everybody a special new wine from Gaza.’ Axiochus looks around and spots the customs inspector. ‘Balbus!’ he cries, ‘this impudent little cutpurse is trying to steal my wine and my mule. Send one of your slaves to give her a good thrashing!’ Sophe doesn’t stop to see what Balbus will do. Instinct born of three years of living rough kicks in. She turns and runs. |
