“Do not be so sure!” retorted Crispus. “Lactantius is a great admirer of Virgil, and says that he is one of the virtuous pagans who predicted the coming of our Lord.”
“Then I suppose he will not forbid the expedition,” I put in. “Very well. Let us plan to set out early tomorrow, so as to arrive before the heat of the day.”
Somewhat to my surprise, Lactantius not only made no objection, but decided to come along, a scroll of the Aeneid firmly in his hand. Fausta remained at the palace, resting, but the old man and I travelled in litters, while the boys rode little surefooted donkeys from the nearby village up the winding path. A waggon full of picnic gear brought up the rear.
Even in the north of Italia I could find scenes that reminded me of home, but here I knew I was in another land, where the heated air was fragrant with the scent of artemisia and the perfume of the flowers that grew in such profusion in the rich volcanic soil. As we reached the top of the hill above Baiae I called for a halt to rest the bearers and the donkeys and turned to gaze out over the brilliant blue waters of the bay to Neapolis and the perfect cone of Vesuvius beyond. Today no smoke curled from its summit, though the slopes of Vulcan’s forum, a half-day’s journey away, steamed with a variety of foul smells. They called this place the ‘Fields of Fire’, and I could sense the earth-fires below the surface, a constant reminder that nothing was eternal, even the solid ground beneath our feet.
Then we were jolting our way down towards the round blue mirror below. The white columns of the healing baths built on the shore by the first emperors gleamed in the summer sunlight, but we halted in a shady grove in the lee of a hill, and the slaves began to lay out our meal. The boys were already running about, dashing down to test the water, daring each other to dive in.
“Are you sure this is really Lake Avernus?” asked Crispus as Lactantius and I settled ourselves in wicker chairs. “Look, birds are flying across it without harm, and though the water smells a little stagnant, it did us no harm.”
“Virgil must have known it was all right,” said one of the other boys. “They say that Julius Ceasar himself visited those baths.”
“Well, perhaps things were different when Rome was founded,” I said, smiling. “After all, it was over eight hundred years ago. And this is bright summer, remember. In the winter, with a storm coming on, this place might look much more menacing.”
“But where is the ‘wide-mouthed cavern’ of which Virgil tells us?” asked Crispus.
“Perhaps there was once a chasm which has now closed,” answered Lactantius, “for they say that this is a land of changes.” He stretched out one arm in the pose of an orator. Even in this heat he wore a I long robe, and with his white beard flowing over his chest, looked the part of an ancient sage as he unrolled the scroll and began to intone:
“There was a wide-mouthed cavern, deep and vast and rugged, sheltered by a shadowed lake and darkened groves; such vapour poured from these black jaws to heaven’s vault; no bird could fly above unharmed …”
“And when the ground begins to shake, it was an earthquake and not Hecate coming at all?” asked Crispus.
Lactantius nodded, smiling. “Such evil spirits are no more than dreams and delusions, made demonic by men’s fears. When the earth shakes, it is by the will of the Lord God who made it, but it was necessary that Aeneas, who lived long before the light of the Christos came into the world, should be led to found Rome.”
“Yet Virgil himself was a pagan,” I observed.
“He was,” answered Lactantius, “but so noble in soul that the light of God was able to reach him, as it did so many of our greatest poets, men of the highest genius. Seneca and Maro and Cicero, of our own Roman writers, and Plato and Aristotle and Thales and many another among the Greeks, all touch upon the truth at times, and only the custom of their times, which insisted that God was not One, but many, caused them to continue to honour false gods.”