The chariots thundered past and Diadumenus, sitting beside him, clutched his arm and screamed, “On, the Greens!” in a transport of excitement, Martial tried hard to look attentive.
A second day’s journey by coach brought Pliny and Zosimus to the lovely hill town of Ameria, where they were met by the bailiff of the farm, who had brought saddle horses for them. The farm lay about four miles west of the town.
At a walking pace, they took their way through the rolling country, thick with oak and poplar. Away on their right, Mt. Soracte, a towering wedge of granite, soared above the hills; behind them on the distant horizon stretched the folded masses of the Apennines. In the deep shade of leafy trees the air was autumn crisp, while Rome, sixty miles below, still sweltered through the last days of summer. Rome. Pliny shook himself to drive the image from his mind; he would not think of Rome, not today. Though his purpose was “business,” he savored his illicit freedom like a truant schoolboy. How good it was just to have a horse between his legs again! He breathed deeply—more deeply, he felt, than he had in weeks.
They reached the farm toward evening. Pliny was ravenously hungry. The food was plain, but satisfying. After dinner he dictated a note to Calpurnia to tell her that he had arrived safely, though being careful not to say where. Then he went to bed and slept more soundly than he had in days, lulled by the croaking of the frogs.
The next morning he was up with the sun. He spent an hour with the bailiff, a good-natured and capable man, going over accounts and the rest of the day riding with him round the property. The farm pleased him; it was well worth the asking price—and Pliny was canny about such things. Barley and wheat stood high in the well-watered fields and the tenants were already at work with their sickles getting in the harvest. He stopped and talked with some, though he could barely understand their Umbrian patois. But they seemed to be prospering. What a delight to be here, rubbing soil between his fingertips, slapping a cow’s backside. Weren’t all Romans farmers at heart, born for this life!
But the next morning Pliny—Roman senator, respected lawyer, acting vice prefect, loving husband, expectant father—awoke feeling ill at ease. How long could he prolong this holiday? There was really nothing more to be done here. He had written his report to Fabatus, urging him to buy. What now? Must he return to Rome today? The thought depressed him.
But the bailiff, who was a repository of local lore, had thought of a small diversion for him. He described a certain lake in the neighborhood, sacred to the local folk. “Lake Vadimon it’s called, on t’other side Tiber and worth the seeing, your honor. Funny things happen in that lake. I’ll say no more,” he winked mysteriously, “but ye ought visit it before ye go.”
Pliny was happy to comply. Was not investigating marvels in his blood, after all? His uncle had, of course, been a prodigious collector of them, though he had never heard him speak of this one as far as he could recall. With directions from the bailiff, he and Zosimus mounted up, carrying a picnic lunch and a jar of the local wine in their saddle bags.
They struck off toward the Tiber, across fields and through dripping woods. Where the ground fell away sharply, they put their horses down the slope and splashed across the river, surprising an ox who had come down for its morning drink. A raw chill was in the air, making their horses’ nostrils steam. Here Father Tiber wound between high, narrow banks, overhung with willows, honeysuckle, and wild vine. They followed its twisting course downstream about five miles, then stopped in a clearing and ate their lunch. After resting, they continued on their way, took a wrong turning and got lost for a time.
But toward evening, at last, they came upon the lake. In fact, they smelled it before they saw it, so strong was the stench of its sulfurous water. Lake Vadimon was of moderate size and perfectly even all around, like a wheel lying on its side. Pliny and his young companion pushed through bulrushes waist-high down to the water’s edge, and Pliny knelt and cupped the water in his hand. It was whitish and thick to the touch, and tasted like medicine. And yet the cows drank it; he could see six or seven of them crowding down to the shore on the farther side.
“Patrone,” said Zosimus, “it’s a marvelously nasty place.” He batted at a cloud of gnats that hung about their heads. “But I can see no other marvels hereabouts.”
They were just turning to go. The air had been dead still, but suddenly a breeze sprang up, ruffling the water.
“Patrone!”
Pliny turned back and stared, rubbed his eyes and stared again. “Yes, I see! Extraordinary!”