Dog of Pompeii
Tito and his dog Bimbi lived (if you could call it living)
under the wall where it joined the inner gate. They really
didn’t live there; they just slept there. They lived anywhere.
Pompeii was one of the most joyful of the old Latin towns, but
although Tito was never an unhappy boy, he was not exactly
a merry one. The streets were always lively with shining
chariots and bright red trappings; the open-air theaters rocked
with laughing crowds; sham battles and athletic sports were
free for the asking in the great stadium. Once a year the
Caesar visited the pleasure city and the fireworks lasted for
days; the sacrifices in the Forum were better than a show.
But Tito saw none of these things. He was blind—had
been blind from birth. He was known to everyone in the
poorer quarters. But no one could say how old he was, no
one remembered his parents, no one could tell where he
came from. Bimbi was another mystery. As long as people
could remember seeing Tito—about twelve or thirteen years—
they had seen Bimbi. Bimbi had never left his side. He was
not only dog, but nurse, pillow, playmate, mother and father to
Tito.
Did I say Bimbi never left his master? (Perhaps I had
better say comrade, for if anyone was the master, it was
Bimbi.) I was wrong. Bimbi did trust Tito alone exactly three
times a day. It was a fixed routine, a custom understood
between boy and dog since the beginning of their friendship,
and the way it worked was this: Early in the morning, shortly
after dawn, while Tito was still dreaming, Bimbi would
disappear. When Tito awoke, Bimbi would be sitting quietly at
his side, his ears cocked, his stump of a tail tapping the
ground, and a fresh-baked bread—more like a large round
roll—at his feet. Tito would stretch himself; Bimbi would
yawn; then they would eat breakfast. At noon, no matter
where they happened to be, Bimbi would put his paw on Tito’s
knee and the two of them would return to the inner gate. Tito
would curl up in the corner (almost like a dog) and go to sleep,
while Bimbi, looking quite important (almost like a boy), would
disappear again. In half an hour he’d be back with their lunch.
Sometimes it would be a piece of fruit or a scrap of meat,
often it was nothing but a dry crust. But sometimes there
would be one of those flat rich cakes, sprinkled with raisins
and sugar, that Tito liked so much. At suppertime, the same
thing happened. Though there was a little less of everything,
for things were hard to snatch in the evening with the streets
full of people. Besides, Bimbi didn’t approve of too much food before going to sleep. A heavy supper made boys too
restless and dogs too stodgy or heavy—and it was the
business of a dog to sleep lightly with one ear open and
muscles ready for action.
les ready for action.
But, whether there was much or little, hot or cold, fresh
or dry, food was always there. Tito never asked where it
came from and Bimbi never told him. There was plenty of rain
water in the hollows of soft stones; the old egg woman at the
corner sometimes gave him a cupful of strong goat’s milk; in
the grape season the fat wine maker let him have drippings of
the mild juice. So there was no danger of going hungry or
thirsty. There was plenty of everything in Pompeii—if you
knew where to find it—and if you had a dog like Bimbi.
As I said before, Tito was not the merriest boy in
Pompeii. He could not romp with the other youngsters and
play Hare-and-Hounds and I-Spy and Follow-Your-Master and
Kings-and-Robbers with them. But that did not make him
sorry for himself. If he could not see the sights that delighted
the lads of Pompeii, he could hear and smell things they never
noticed. He could really see more with his ears and nose than
they could with their eyes. When he and Bimbi went out
walking, he knew just where they were going and exactly what
was happening.
“Ah,’ he’d sniff and say, as they passed a handsome
villa. “Glaucus Pansa is giving a grand dinner tonight.
They’re going to have three kinds of bread, and roast pigling,
and stuffed goose, and a great stew—I think bear stew—and
a fig pie.” And Bimbi would note that this would be a good
place to visit tomorrow.
Or, as they neared the Forum, “Mm-m! What good
things they have in the Macellum today!” (It really was a sort
of butcher-grocer-market place, but Tito didn’t know any
better. He called it the Macellum.) “Dates from Africa, and
salt oysters from sea caves, and new honey, and sweet
onions, and—ugh!—water-buffalo steaks. Come, let’s see
what’s what in the Forum.” And Bimbi, just as curious as his
comrade, hurried on. Being a dog, he trusted his ears and
nose (like Tito) more than his eyes. And so the two of them
entered the center of Pompeii.
The Forum was the part of the town to which
everybody came at least once a day. It was the Central
Square, and everything happened here. There were no
private houses; all was public—the chief temples, the gold
and red bazaars, the silk shops, the town hall, the booths
belonging to the weavers and jewel merchants, the wealthy
woolen market, the shrine of the household gods. Everything
glittered here. The buildings looked as if they were new—which, in a sense, they were. The earthquake of twelve years
ago had brought down all the old structures and, since the
citizens of Pompeii were ambitious to rival Naples and even
Rome, they had seized the opportunity to rebuild the whole
town. And they had done it all within a dozen years. There
was scarcely a building that was older than Tito.
Tito had heard a great deal about the earthquake,
though being about a year old at the time, he could scarcely
remember it. This particular quake had been a light one—as
earthquakes go. The weaker houses had been shaken down,
parts of the outworn wall had been wrecked; but there was
little loss of life, and the brilliant new Pompeii had taken the
place of the old. No one knew what caused these
earthquakes. Records showed they had happened in the
neighborhood since the beginning of time. Sailors said that it
was to teach the lazy city folk a lesson and make them
appreciate those who risked the dangers of the sea to bring
them luxuries and protect their town from invaders. The
priests said that the gods took this way of showing their anger
to those who refused to worship properly and who failed to
bring enough sacrifices to the altars and (though they didn’t
say it in so many words) presents to the priests. The
tradesmen said that the foreign merchants had corrupted the
ground and it was no longer safe to traffic in imported goods
that came from strange places and carried a curse with them.
Everyone had a different explanation and everyone’s
explanation was louder and sillier than his neighbor’s.
They were talking about it this afternoon as Tito and
Bimbi came out of the side street into the public square. The
Forum was the favorite promenade for rich and poor. The
square was crowded to its last inch. Bimbi’s ears even more
than his nose guided Tito to the place where the talk was
loudest. It was in front of the shrine of the household gods
that, naturally enough, the householders were arguing.
“I tell you,” rumbled a voice which Tito recognized as
bath master Rufus’, “there won’t be another earthquake in my
lifetime or yours. There may be a tremble or two, but
earthquakes, like lightning, never strike twice in the same
place.”
“Do they not?” asked a thin voice Tito had never heard.
It had a high, sharp ring to it and Tito knew it as the accent of
a stranger. “How about the two towns of Sicily that have been
ruined three times within fifteen years by the eruptions of
Mount Etna? And were they not warned? And does that
column of smoke above Mt. Vesuvius mean nothing?”
“That?” Tito could hear the grunt with which one
question answered another. “That’s always there. We use it for our weather guide. When the smoke stands up straight,
we know we’ll have fair weather; when it flattens out, it’s sure
to be foggy; when it drifts to the east—”
“ Yes, yes,” cut in the edged voice. “I’ve heard about
your mountain barometer. But the column of smoke seems
hundreds of feet higher than usual and it’s thickening and
spreading like a shadowy tree. They say in Naples—”
“Oh, Naples!” Tito knew this voice by the little squeak
that went with it. It was Attilio the cameo (gem or stone)
cutter. “They talk while we suffer. Little help we got from
them last time. Naples commits the crimes and Pompeii pays
the price. It’s becoming a proverb with us. Let them mind
their own business.”
“Yes,” grumbled Rufus, “and others, too.”
“Very well, my confident friends,” responded the thin
voice which now sounded curiously flat. “We also have a
proverb—and it is this: Those who will not listen to men must
be taught by the gods. I say no more. But I leave a last
warning. Remember the holy ones. Look to your temples.
And when the smoke tree above Vesuvius grows to the shape
of an umbrella pine, look to your lives.”
Tito could hear the air whistle as the speaker drew his
toga about him and the quick shuffle of feet told him the
stranger had gone.
“Now what,” said the cameo cutter, “did he mean by
that?”
“I wonder,” grunted Rufus. “I wonder.”
Tito wondered, too. And Bimbi, his head at a
thoughtful angle, looked as if he had been doing a heavy
piece of pondering. By nightfall the argument had been
forgotten. If the smoke had increased, no one saw it in the
dark.
The next morning there were two of the beloved raisin
and sugar cakes for his breakfast. Bimbi was unusually active
and thumped his bit of a tail until Tito was afraid he would
wear it out. The boy could not imagine whether Bimbi was
urging him to some sort of game or was trying to tell him
something. After a while, he ceased to notice Bimbi. He felt
drowsy. Last night’s late hours celebrating the Caesar’s
birthday had tired him. Besides, there was a heavy mist in the
air—no, a thick fog rather than a mist—a fog that got into his
throat and scraped it and made him cough. He walked as far
as the marine gate to get a breath of the sea. But the blanket
of haze had spread all over the bay and even the salt air
seemed smoky.
He went to bed before dusk and slept. But he did not
sleep well. He had too many dreams—dreams of ships lurching in the forum, of losing his way in a screaming crowd,
of armies marching across his chest, of being pulled over
every rough pavement stone of Pompeii.
He woke early. Or, rather, he was pulled awake.
Bimbi was doing the pulling. The dog had dragged Tito to his
feet and was urging the boy along. Somewhere. Where, Tito
did not know. His feet stumbled uncertainly; he was still half
asleep. For a while he noticed nothing except the fact that it
was hard to breathe. The air was hot. And heavy. So heavy
that he could taste it. The air, it seemed, had turned to
powder—a warm powder that stung his nostrils and burned
his sightless eyes.
Then he began to hear sounds. Peculiar sounds. Like
animals under the earth. Hissings and groanings and muffled
cries that a dying creature might make dislodging the stones
of his underground cave. There was no doubt of it now. The
noises came from underneath. He not only heard them—he
could feel them. The earth twitched; the twitching changed to
an uneven shrugging of the soil. Then, as Bimbi half pulled,
half coaxed him across, the ground jerked away from his feet
and he was thrown against a stone fountain.
The water—hot water—splashing in his face revived
him. He got to his feet, Bimbi steadying him, helping him on
again. The noises grew louder; they came closer. The cries
were even more animal-like than before, but now they came
from human throats. A few people, quicker of foot and more
hurried by fear, began to dash by. A family or two—then a
section—then, it seemed, an army broken out of bounds.
Tito, bewildered though he was, could recognize Rufus as he
bellowed past him, like a water buffalo gone mad. Time was
lost in a nightmare.
It was then the crashing began. First a sharp crackling,
like a monstrous snapping of twigs; then a roar like the fall of
a whole forest of trees; then an explosion that tore earth and
sky. The heavens, though Tito could not see them, were shot
through with continual flickerings of fire. Lightnings above
were answered by thunders beneath. A house fell. Then
another. By a miracle the two companions had escaped the
dangerous side streets and were in a more open space. It
was the Forum. They rested here awhile—how long he did
not know.
Tito had no idea of the time of day. He could feel it
was black—an unnatural blackness. Something inside—
perhaps the lack of breakfast and lunch—told him it was past
noon. But it didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter. He
was getting drowsy, too drowsy to walk. But walk he must.
He knew it. And Bimbi knew it; the sharp tugs told him so. Nor was it a moment too soon. The sacred ground of the
Forum was safe no longer. It was beginning to rock, then to
pitch, then to split. As they stumbled out of the square, the
earth wriggled like a caught snake and all the columns of the
temple of Jupiter came down. It was the end of the world—or
so it seemed. To walk was not enough now. They must run.
Tito was too frightened to know what to do or where to go. He
had lost all sense of direction. He started to go back to the
inner gate; but Bimbi, straining his back to the last inch,
almost pulled his clothes from him. What did the creature
want?
Then suddenly, he understood. Bimbi was telling him
the way out—urging him there. The sea gate, of course. The
sea gate—and then the sea. Far from falling buildings and
heaving ground. He turned, Bimbi guiding him across open
pits and dangerous pools of bubbling mud, away from
buildings that had caught fire and were dropping their burning
beams. Tito could no longer tell whether the noises were
made by the shrieking sky or the agonized people. He and
Bimbi ran on—the only silent beings in a howling world.
New dangers threatened. All Pompeii seemed to be
thronging toward the marine gate and, squeezing among the
crowds, there was the chance of being trampled to death. But
the chance had to be taken. It was growing harder and harder
to breathe. What air there was choked him. It was all dust
now—dust and pebbles, pebbles as large as beans. They fell
on his head, his hands—pumice stones from the black heart
of Mt. Vesuvius. The mountain was turning itself inside out.
Tito remembered a phrase that the stranger had said in the
Forum two days ago: “Those who will not listen to men must
be taught by the gods.” The people of Pompeii had refused to
heed the warnings; they were being taught now—if it was not too
late.
Suddenly it seemed too late for Tito. The red-hot
ashes blistered his skin, the stinging vapors tore his throat.
He could not go on. He staggered toward a small tree at the
side of the road and fell. In a moment Bimbi was beside him.
He coaxed. But there was no answer. He licked Tito’s hands,
his feet, his face. The boy did not stir. Then Bimbi did the last
thing he could—the last thing he wanted to do. He bit his
comrade, bit him deep in the arm. With a cry of pain, Tito
jumped to his feet, Bimbi after him. Tito was in despair, but
Bimbi was determined. He drove the boy on, snapping at his
heels, worrying his way through the crowd; barking, baring his
teeth, heedless of kicks or falling stones. Sick with hunger,
half dead with fear and sulfur fumes, Tito pounded on,
pursued by Bimbi. How long, he never knew. At last he staggered through the marine gate and felt soft sand under
him. . He was at the beach, but not yet on a boat towards
safety. He was so close! Then Tito fainted...
Someone was dashing sea water over him. Someone
was carrying him toward a boat.
“Bimbi,” he called. And then louder, “Bimbi!” But Bimbi
had disappeared.
Voices jarred against each other. “Hurry—hurry!” “To
the boats!” “Can’t you see the child’s frightened and starving!”
“He keeps calling for someone!” “Poor boy, he’s out of his
mind.” “Here child—take this!”
They tucked him in among them. The oarlocks
creaked; the oars splashed; the boat rode over toppling
waves. Tito was safe. But he wept continually.
“Bimbi!” he wailed, “Bimbi! Bimbi!”
He could not be comforted.
Eighteen hundred years passed. Scientists were
restoring the ancient city; excavators were working their way
through the stones and trash that had buried the entire town.
Much had already been brought to light—statues, bronze
instruments, bright mosaics, household articles; even delicate
paintings had been preserved by the fall of ashes that had
taken over two thousand lives. Columns were dug up, and
the Forum was beginning to emerge.
It was at a place where the ruins lay deepest that the
Director paused.
“Come here,” he called to his assistant. “I think we’ve
discovered the remains of a building in good shape. Here are
four huge millstones that were most likely turned by slaves or
mules—and here is a whole wall standing with shelves inside
it. Why! It must have been a bakery. And here’s a curious
thing. What do you think I found under this heap where the
ashes were thickest? The skeleton of a dog!”
“Amazing!” gasped his assistant. “You’d think a dog
would have had sense enough to run away at the time. And
what is that flat thing he’s holding between his teeth? It can’t
be a stone.”
“No. It must have come from this bakery. You know it
looks to me like some sort of cake hardened with the years.
And, bless me, if those little black pebbles aren’t raisins. A
raisin cake almost two thousand years old! I wonder what
made him want it at such a moment?”
“I wonder,” murmured the assistant.
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