F YOU STAND INSIDE THE RU-INS OF POMPEII AND LISTENVERY, VERY HARD, YOU CANALMOST HEAR THE CREAK-ING OF CART WHEELS, THE TUMULT OF THE
MARKETPLACE, THE ECHOES OF ROMAN
VOICES. FEW MODERN VISITORS WOULD
CARE TO CONJURE THE GHOST CITY’S
MOST STRIKING FEATURE, ITS APPALLING
STENCH—TOGAS WERE BRIGHTENED BY
BLEACHING WITH SULFUR FUMES, ANI-
MAL AND HUMAN WASTE FLOWED DOWN
STREETS WHENEVER IT RAINED HEAVI-
LY—BUT ON THIS PLEASANTLY PINEY DAY
IN EARLY SPRING, POMPEII HAS THAT PECU-
LIAR STILLNESS OF A PLACE WHERE CALAM-
ITY HAS COME AND GONE. THERE’S A WHIFF
OF MIMOSA AND ORANGE BLOSSOM IN THE
SALT AIR UNTIL, SUDDENLY, THE WIND
SWOOPS DOWN THE “VICOLO DEI BALCONI,”
ALLEY OF THE BALCONIES, KICKING UP THE
ANCIENT DUST ALONG WITH IT.