The Gathering Of The Spoils Poem by David Lewis Paget

Marcus Julius rose at dawn,
Splashed water on his face,
He'd spent the night at the Lupanare
With a pretty girl from Thrace,
He saw the glow in the morning sky
But shrugged, and went back inside,
Roused the slave from his slumber
Kicked the dog, sat down and sighed.

She'd cost him three Denarius
And money was getting tight,
The marketplace had been quiet of late
And his purse was rather light,
He'd made just ten Sesterces
With his trade the day before,
People were getting nervous but
He'd seen it all before.

Whenever the ground was trembling
As it often used to do,
They thought of the massive earthquake
That had hit in '62,
It had razed the Apollo Temple,
They were still rebuilding now,
Seventeen years of minor quakes
Had slowed the work right down.

But life went on, and food was dear
With slaves not worth their keep,
He only had one, Antonius,
And all that he did was sleep,
It might have been easier with a wife
So Marcus thought aloud,
But out in the street, he heard the feet
And the cries of a nervous crowd.

The sky had suddenly darkened
So they fled, the feeble hearts,
Blocking the ancient carriageway
With their chariots and carts,
He watched the crowd from his window
The Plebeians hurried past,
Soldiers and patricians all
In a jostling, shouting mass.

The slave of Marcus Julius
Was more than terrified,
So he chained him fast to an iron ring
By the strongroom, deep inside,
‘It's only a passing wonder,
We're not going anywhere! '
He locked his door to the street,
Stood by the window space, and stared.

He noted the noble families
Go struggling past his door,
Carrying all of their wealth with them,
And the women carried more,
The day grew dark as a midden
‘Til you couldn't see ahead,
And people screamed for each other
As the younger ones had fled.

Eleven o'clock, it settled down
He ventured into the street,
Lying in piles were goods they'd dropped
In the jostling, and the heat,
For the temperature was rising fast
As he seized what he could find,
Cases of ladies jewellery,
And purses they'd left behind.

He piled the goods in the strongroom
Then got ready to shelter there,
Brushed off the pyroclastic ash
That had settled in his hair,
He laughed out loud as he closed the door
But paused by the slave to say:
‘Our lives are going to get better, I'm
The richest man in Pompeii! '

24 October 2012