uncorked the tube and reached gingerly inside, extracting a small scroll about a foot square. It was yellow with age, though not as old as Philodemus’ papyrus scrolls, and some of the ink had crystallized and smudged on the surface. Pliny held the sheet close and sniffed the ink. ‘Probably not sulphate,’ he murmured. ‘Though it’s hard to tell, there’s so much sulphur in the air today.’
‘You smell it too?’ Claudius said. ‘I thought it was just me, bringing it back from my visits to the Phlegraean Fields.’
‘Bitumen.’ Pliny sniffed the ink again. ‘Bitumen, no doubt about it.’
‘That makes sense,’ Claudius said. ‘Oily tar rises to the surface all round the Sea of Gennesareth. I saw it.’
‘Indeed?’ Pliny scribbled a note in the margin of the text. ‘Fascinating. You know I have been experimenting with ink? My Alexandrian agent sent me some excellent gall nuts, cut from a species of tree in Arabia. Did you know they are made by tiny insects, which exude the gall? Quite remarkable. I crushed them and mixed them with water and resin, then added the iron and sulphur salts I found on the shore at Misenum. It makes a marvellous ink, jet black and no smudging. I’m writing with it now. Just look at it. Far better than this inferior stuff, oil soot and animal skin glue, I shouldn’t wonder. I wish people wouldn’t use it. Whatever this writing is, I fear it won’t last as long as old Philodemus’ rantings.’
‘It was all I could find.’ Claudius took a gulp of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’d used up all my own ink on the voyage out.’
‘You wrote this?’
‘I supplied the paper, and that concoction that passes as ink.’
Pliny unrolled the papyrus and flattened it on a cloth he had laid over the sticky mess on the table. The papyrus was covered with fine writing, neither Greek nor Latin, lines of singular flowing artistry, composed with more care than would normally be the case for one accustomed to writing often. ‘The Nazarene?’
Claudius twitched. ‘At the end of our meeting, on the lake shore that night. He wanted me to take this away and keep it safely until the time was right. You read Aramaic?’
‘Of course. You have expertly taught me the Phoenician language, and I believe they are similar.’
Pliny scanned the writing. At the bottom was a name. He read the few lines directly above it, looked up, then read them again. For a moment there was silence, and utter stillness in the room. Claudius watched him intently, his lower lip trembling. A waft of warm air from outside the balcony brought with it a sharp reek of sulphur, and from somewhere inland came a distant sound like waves along the seashore. Claudius kept his eyes on Pliny, who put down the scroll and raised his hands together, pensively.
‘Well?’ Claudius said.
Pliny looked at him, and spoke carefully. ‘I am a military man, and an encyclopedist. I record facts, things I have seen with my own eyes or had recounted to me on good authority. I can see that this document has the authority of the man who wrote it, and who signed his name on it.’
‘Put it away,’ Claudius said, reaching out and grasping Pliny’s wrist. ‘Keep it safely, the safest place you can find. But transcribe those final lines into your Natural History . Now is the time.’
‘You have made copies?’
Claudius looked at Pliny, then at the scroll, and suddenly his hand began shaking. ‘Look at me. The palsy. I can’t even write my own name. And for this I don’t trust a copyist, not even Narcissus.’ He got up, picked up the scroll and went over to a dark recess beside the bookcase filled with papyrus sheets and old wax tablets, then knelt down awkwardly with his back to Pliny. He fumbled around for a few moments, got up again and turned round, a cylindrical stone container in his hands. ‘These jars came from Saïs in Egypt, you know,’ he said. ‘Calpurnius Piso stole them from the Temple of
‘You smell it too?’ Claudius said. ‘I thought it was just me, bringing it back from my visits to the Phlegraean Fields.’
‘Bitumen.’ Pliny sniffed the ink again. ‘Bitumen, no doubt about it.’
‘That makes sense,’ Claudius said. ‘Oily tar rises to the surface all round the Sea of Gennesareth. I saw it.’
‘Indeed?’ Pliny scribbled a note in the margin of the text. ‘Fascinating. You know I have been experimenting with ink? My Alexandrian agent sent me some excellent gall nuts, cut from a species of tree in Arabia. Did you know they are made by tiny insects, which exude the gall? Quite remarkable. I crushed them and mixed them with water and resin, then added the iron and sulphur salts I found on the shore at Misenum. It makes a marvellous ink, jet black and no smudging. I’m writing with it now. Just look at it. Far better than this inferior stuff, oil soot and animal skin glue, I shouldn’t wonder. I wish people wouldn’t use it. Whatever this writing is, I fear it won’t last as long as old Philodemus’ rantings.’
‘It was all I could find.’ Claudius took a gulp of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’d used up all my own ink on the voyage out.’
‘You wrote this?’
‘I supplied the paper, and that concoction that passes as ink.’
Pliny unrolled the papyrus and flattened it on a cloth he had laid over the sticky mess on the table. The papyrus was covered with fine writing, neither Greek nor Latin, lines of singular flowing artistry, composed with more care than would normally be the case for one accustomed to writing often. ‘The Nazarene?’
Claudius twitched. ‘At the end of our meeting, on the lake shore that night. He wanted me to take this away and keep it safely until the time was right. You read Aramaic?’
‘Of course. You have expertly taught me the Phoenician language, and I believe they are similar.’
Pliny scanned the writing. At the bottom was a name. He read the few lines directly above it, looked up, then read them again. For a moment there was silence, and utter stillness in the room. Claudius watched him intently, his lower lip trembling. A waft of warm air from outside the balcony brought with it a sharp reek of sulphur, and from somewhere inland came a distant sound like waves along the seashore. Claudius kept his eyes on Pliny, who put down the scroll and raised his hands together, pensively.
‘Well?’ Claudius said.
Pliny looked at him, and spoke carefully. ‘I am a military man, and an encyclopedist. I record facts, things I have seen with my own eyes or had recounted to me on good authority. I can see that this document has the authority of the man who wrote it, and who signed his name on it.’
‘Put it away,’ Claudius said, reaching out and grasping Pliny’s wrist. ‘Keep it safely, the safest place you can find. But transcribe those final lines into your Natural History . Now is the time.’
‘You have made copies?’
Claudius looked at Pliny, then at the scroll, and suddenly his hand began shaking. ‘Look at me. The palsy. I can’t even write my own name. And for this I don’t trust a copyist, not even Narcissus.’ He got up, picked up the scroll and went over to a dark recess beside the bookcase filled with papyrus sheets and old wax tablets, then knelt down awkwardly with his back to Pliny. He fumbled around for a few moments, got up again and turned round, a cylindrical stone container in his hands. ‘These jars came from Saïs in Egypt, you know,’ he said. ‘Calpurnius Piso stole them from the Temple of
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