The Last Girls of Pompeii

by Kathryn Lasky

  Fifteen

  SURA HAD A PERFECT VIEW OF the fat neck of Livia Octavia from where she was seated in the second row of the family box. She thought again of how awkward this would be—she and Julia cheering for Bryzos, and Livia undoubtedly hurrahing Gavianus.

  The official parade, the pompa, had already begun when Julia and Marcus appeared. All the gladiators, including animals ranging from lions, bears, and cheetahs in cages to camels and elephants were marching around the arena led by musicians playing horns, tubas, and pipes.

  “Marvelous musicians, Cornelius,” Livia leaned across her husband to speak to her brother -in -law.

  Hah, thought Sura, it’s not the musicians’ horns she’s after. Livia Octavia was craning her head about now and rising from her seat to spot Gavinius as the double row of gladiator combatants approached. Julia turned around and gave Sura a quick smile, then offered her the effusio, a light sprinkling of perfumed water, that Marcus had bought her to cool herself off. Sura shook her head no.

  The music ceased as the parade came to a halt in front of the official podium. Cornelius Petreius stood up. As one of the sponsors it was his duty to begin the games. This was an immensely proud moment for the entire family but Sura was shocked when she saw the look on Julia’s face as she watched her father. Pure bitterness poured from her. Like heat, her anger seemed to almost ripple the air around her. Cornelius now raised his hand and in a clear strong voice spoke. “Those who are about to fight, we salute you!”

  The animal hunts, the venaitones, were always first. After the parade the animals in the cages had been returned to pens beneath the arena. A net was immediately put up to protect those spectators who sat the closest. Cornelius Petreius gave a signal. Gates were raised, and half a dozen lions and several panthers stampeded into the arena to the cheers of the crowd. There was a deafening roar as an elephant lumbered out from another gated opening and stood for several seconds looking slightly dazed and confused. Then from the far side of the arena twenty venatores, trained hunters, ran out with their javelins hoisted.

  “Bravo brother! An elephant. That must have cost you!” Marcus’s father said to Cornelius Petreius.

  “Nothing is too good for Pompeii,” Cornelius Petreius replied in a voice loud enough to be heard by anyone remotely close to where the family sat. A wave of applause rose from the surrounding spectators and a scatter of “Hail Petreius” could be heard.

  Yet Julia seethed. Did no one else notice it? Sura wondered. Julia must have found out about the plan to send her to the Temple of Damia. She had arrived with Marcus. Had he actually told her? But he had made Sura swear not to say a word. Well, there was not time for this now, Sura thought. She must pray for her brother. Gavianus and Bryzos were the fourth pair scheduled to fight.

  The minutes dragged on. It was agonizing. The first pair featured a secutor, or chaser, and a dimachaerus, a gladiator who fought with two swords. The technique was for the secutor to chase his opponent around the field exhausting him. The secutor wore full helmet with tiny eye-holes which limited his vision considerably, and his two-sworded opponent, although not as fast a runner, had a strategy that seemed to be paying off. The opponent insisted, quite boldly on fighting close. Not running, but rather dodging. The dimachaerus’s footwork of shifts and dodges was magnificent.

  “By Jupiter!” Cornelius Petreius exclaimed. “This fellow is wearing the secutor out with hardly any running at all.”

  A clash rang out and then there was a flash of something spinning through the air. It all happened quite suddenly. The secutor was down, his sword struck from his hand. Sprays of blood dappled the sunlight—for in fact the hand had taken flight with the sword.

  The crowd roared their approval. “Oh dear!” Cornelius turned to Flavia’s husband, Cuspius Pansa. “Now what is our dear lanista Aurelius going to do with a one handed gladiator?”

  “One combat too many for this secutor, but he was good in his day. Faustinus will use him as a teacher,” Cuspius Pansa replied.

  Immediately handkerchiefs were raised and waved in the air and the cry to spare him went up. This was purely formal. It was very seldom that the gladiator was commanded to kill his opponent. The crowd knew that these fighters cost dearly and could not be merely thrown away. Over the years this secutor had pleased them. Cornelius Petreius stood up, his thumb raised high over his head giving the missum, the signal that the secutor’s life should be spared. Sura saw Julia again looking at him intently, but not with bitterness. She looked as if she was about to cry. What was going on with her dear mistress?

  Then time seemed to quicken for Sura. Before she knew it, the fourth pair of gladiators was standing in front of the podium offering their respects to the sponsor as was customary. Livia was standing up cheering madly. The sun gleamed off Gavianus’s trident, and his net was draped almost casually over his shoulder. Bryzos carried a shield and his broad sword. That was all. It was a contest between the fish-man and the fisherman for that was what the murmillo and the retiarus were modeled on.

  To Sura it seemed like an unfair match. The murmillo had no chance of getting close. He had to escape the periphery of the net when it was cast. His sword could not compare in length with the trident. In the past, Bryzos’s skill had been in separating the retiarius from his net and thus throwing him off balance. Would it work this time?

  Sura’s fists were clenched in her lap. With every fiber of her body she willed her brother quickness and strength. The combat began with an agonizing intensity as the two gladiators started to circle each other. Gavianus coaxed Bryzos into making a few feinting thrusts. He wanted to judge the range of his opponent with his sword and to see how he manipulated his shield.

  Then Bryzos made a bold dash close in. Gavianus threw the net, but Bryzos was out of range by the time it landed. Good, thought Sura, now he knows how wide that net can be cast.

  This went on for some time. Sura could feel the crowd growing impatient. There were a few shouts. “Hurry up with it fishman!” But neither the fishman nor the fisherman were to be rushed.

  Bryzos darted in once more. This time Gavianus did not throw the net. He had barely retreated when Bryzos immediately began another rush. Gavianus looked startled at the quickness, and this time threw the net. But it was a bad throw, and once more Bryzos escaped.

  “He’s thinking offensively my dear. Quite unusual for a murmillo.” Livia’s husband Marcus leaned over and said to her. “Wouldn’t you say this fellow has our Gavianus stumped? He’s having to think defensively.”

  “No. Never,” she said firmly. “It’s a ruse.”

  Was it a ruse? Sura wondered frantically. If so did Bryzos see it? There was a sudden tremendous roar from the crowd. The fisherman had thrown his net. It had not caught Bryzos but his sword. Once again Sura saw a blade go flying through the air. By the gods he has nothing now, she thought. Only his shield.

  Livia clapped her hands gleefully. “You call that defensive, Marcus? I told you he was clever.”

  Sura wanted to put her hands around the woman’s fat neck and strangle her. What would Bryzos do now? Please dear gods help him. Help him. He has been caught once by a net. Not again. Julia turned around and looked at Sura. But Sura merely shook her head.

  Bryzos appeared very cool, despite his vulnerable state. With an almost casual air he began walking around in a lazy circle. The crowd began to boo. This was terrible. If they were booing now, if Bryzos was wounded they would demand a kill and not mercy. Gavianus was between Bryzos and his sword. To get to it Bryzos would have to come within range of the net. It was an impossible situation. Gavianus could rush him at any second and cast his net, and Bryzos would have absolutely nothing with which to protect himself. His only hope would be to separate Gavianus from his net, but he would still have the trident and Bryzos would have nothing. Bryzos was moving more quickly now but he was nowhere near his sword. Still he was definitely making Gavianus move about. He was living up to his name, Bryzos, which meant “quick” in the
Tracian language.

  “What’s the fellow doing?” Sura heard someone say. A hush had fallen upon the spectators. The sun beat down on the arena. The shadows that minutes ago had seemed short had lengthened imperceptibly. It was when Sura saw the two shadows, the one of her brother and that of Gavianus briefly intersect, that it burst upon her what Bryzos’s strategy was. He had maneuvered Gavianus so that he was facing east, but Bryzos was facing west into the setting sun. Bryzos now began manipulating his shield. His only defense had now become his offense. He was using the shield as a weapon. The sun began flashing off it, and blades of light cut through the air. The retiarius wore no helmet, thus no visor. From where Sura sat she could see Gavianus hesitate. Bryzos is blinding him!

  Sura began to hear whispers:

  “What’s wrong with Gavianus?”

  “The clever fellow is blinding him. Look at the sun bouncing off his shield.”

  “The net’s cumbersome. Why not drop it for a moment and get out of the glare?”

  “Drop his net? You show me a retiarius who would willingly drop his net. Gavianus is no fool. He’s biding his time and holding his position. As soon as the sun drops behind the walls of the amphitheater there won’t be any problem for him. He’s just waiting.”

  The hairs on the back of Sura’s neck stood up. The man was right. Oh if only she could stay the sun in its course. Apollo! God of the sun, stop the sun, Sura closed her eyes and prayed. But when she opened them again, the sun was on its inexorable course. In another minute, or perhaps just a few seconds it would be behind the walls of the amphitheater.

  It was not even a minute, and Gavianus wasted not a second. He rushed at Bryzos and flung the net. Bryzos dodged to the side, and there was the sound of the net clanging against the shield, but he was not caught. Gavianus was furious and wheeled about. At just that moment there was a crash of thunder. Lightning streaked down over the top of Vesuvius, illuminating the mountain in an eerie glow. Bryzos tilted his shield. There was a second flash as the shield reflected the bolt. Gavianus stumbled slightly, then rushed forward and hurled his trident. The crowd was on its feet. “It hit him! It hit him!” There was a shrill scream.

  Sura could not see. She climbed atop her seat. Blood coursed down her brother’s arm. The entire arm hung at an odd angle. Gavianus had been separated from his net. His trident lay at Bryzos’s feet. Bryzos bent down and picked up the trident. Despite the fact that both men were separated from their weapons, it was obvious who the winner was—the one who had used the weapons of the gods: sun and thunder. The crowd was crying Bryzos’s name.

  Gavianus looked as if he were in shock. Livia sunk down in her seat and buried her face in her hands.

  “Vulcan’s hero!” Someone shouted.

  Cornelius Petreius stood up and signaled that the combat was finished. Both fighters were summoned to stand in front of the podium. Bryzos’s arm was bleeding badly. Cornelius Petreius presented him with the palm of victory and he walked shakily from the arena.

  Sura got up and rushed out. She immediately went to the corridor beneath the arena where there was a bay for wounded gladiators. By the time she reached her brother, he lay on a stretcher unconscious. A doctor was bending over him.

  “You should not be here,” someone said.

  “I’m his sister.”

  “No matter, get out.”

  “Let her stay,” said the doctor.

  “Will he be all right? Will he get better?” Sura was frantic. Her eyes scoured the doctor’s face for a sign of hope.

  “Get better? Perhaps. Fight again? Never. His arm is ruined, and he has lost a lot of blood.”

  The blood -tained victory palm lay on Bryzos’s chest. Sura came up to him. “Bryzos, it’s me, Sura. You were magnificent.” A pulse flickered beneath his eyes. They opened slowly.

  “I’ll never get caught in a net again, Sura I swear.”

  “No you won’t—ever.”

  “You take the palm.”

  “It’s not mine. I didn’t win.”

  “No matter. I have many. They bring luck. You take this one.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, and let her lips brush his cheek, which was already feverish.

  “Go now,” the doctor said. “He’s weak. You can come visit him tomorrow.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Sura replied. She stood there for a moment wondering where to go. She did not want to return to the podium. She could not face Livia. It was best that she just go home. There was still much to do for the wedding tomorrow. Perhaps it would be better now to keep busy.

  But Sura did not go directly home. She walked past the villa Petreius and straight on through the Forensa Gate to the temple of Vulcan. The temple was deserted now, and in the gathering purple of the twilight she mounted the steps to the altar where the coals still smoldered. On the black stone a scene was carved which showed Vulcan as Quietus the allayer of fire, and Mulciber the charmer of fire.

  “I have nothing to really to offer except my thanks. Had I the money I would have brought a fish. Praised be Vulcan in all your names. In the name of Vulcan the all-powerful god of fire, in the name of Quietus the allayer of fire, and in the name of Mulciber, who charmed the fire from the sky, I offer you the only thing I have that I can call my own.” She knelt down and lay the palm on the smoldering embers.

  Sixteen

  JULIA STOOD IN CORNELIA’S ROOM. They had just finished the ceremony in which Cornelia had dedicated her toys, her clothes, and even her bulla to the household gods. Now her mother and a slave tucked Cornelia’s hair, now washed and combed, into the crimson net for sleeping so it would not tangle and cause problems for the ornatrices in the morning hours, near dawn, before the wedding.

  “I can’t believe that it was just over a month ago that I was doing the same for Flavia on the eve of her wedding!” Herminia exclaimed.

  “And now it is my turn!” Cornelia said, with a more than a tinge of triumph in her voice.

  And though I too shall marry, Julia thought as she watched this custom, I shall never wear the crimson net. She wondered where she might be on the night of her wedding. Marcus said they would go first to Rome and then perhaps north.

  Herminia turned to her other daughter. “Julia, you seem quiet tonight, and during the games as well. Are you not feeling well? We can’t have our one of our bridesmaids ill.”

  “No Mother I am fine. Just a little tired.”

  “Well, you should go to bed early then.”

  “But do you know what you are supposed to do, Julia?” Cornelia snapped.

  “Yes, Cornelia I have seen it done many times. After the sacrifice and after the witnessing of the contract I watch Valeria lead you to Cassius’s side and you join hands.”

  “Yes, and there will be no more of that bit of silliness like this morning at the Temple of Vulcan, No slipping of sleeves.”

  “Now, now Cornelia,” Herminia cautioned. “We have been through that already. It was an accident.” Both Julia and Cornelia knew it was no such thing.

  “But do you know what you are to do after the banquet, in the procession to my new home?” Cornelia asked.

  “You have told me a dozen times, and if you recall I was in the procession when Flavia went to Cuspius’s house. So I do know.”

  “But you were not a bridesmaid. It’s different. For example first are the torch bearers, and then the flute players and Valeria will be right behind them, and then Flavia, and then you.”

  “I know. Valeria carries the distaff and Flavia carries the spindle and then when we arrive at the house and Cassius has carried you over the threshold Valeria will lead you to the couch.” It was a mechanical recitation of her role in delivering the nova nupta, the newly married woman, to her bridegroom.

  Of course she would not be there for it, because she and Marcus would have left at the height of the banquet when the guests were reeling with wine. Too bad Cornelia, you’ll have to find someone else. Maybe Sura. Then you can wipe your dirty hands on her hair
one last time.

  But every time Julia thought of Sura, something clenched deep inside her. It was wonderful that her brother had survived, had won. But he looked as if he had been badly wounded. What if Bryzos did die, and she herself had run off with Marcus? Poor Sura. She would be left with no one, except of course, the disgusting fuller, Stephanus. She would be so alone. The thought of this was unbearable.

  Julia came to her room, where Sura was waiting for her. She sat down at her dressing table. Sura began to take the pins from her hair and comb it. How many nights had they gone through this ritual? How accustomed she had grown to the feeling of Sura’s fingertips working through her hair, gently untangling snarls, sweeping into submission a recalcitrant curl that sprung from a braid or a bun. She should pay attention, for how would she know how to do this by herself? She had barely even run a comb through her own hair. In a certain way it seemed like such a silly concern. But at the same time, it was symbolic to Julia of the change that was about to transpire and alter her and Sura’s lives forever.

  “So will your brother be all right, Sura?”

  “I don’t know. He has lost so much blood.”

  They continued talking for a few minutes. It was awkward and stiff for both of them. She doesn’t know that I know what she knows, Julia thought. Would she be surprised if I told her that I knew that I was to be given to the temple of the Bona Dea, or that she had talked to Marcus, or that I know she is to be sold to Stephanus? It suddenly seemed so ridiculous to Julia. This was the person that she was closest to in the world. She had never spent a night in her life without Sura sleeping on the pallet by her bed. And now what they were not saying lay like an immense ocean between them.

  Julia raised her hand to the top of her head. She placed it on Sura’s hand that was holding the comb. “Stop,” she said.

  “What?”

  Julia turned around. She did not want this to be a mirror conversation.