by Ilana Waters
Two hours later, dogs are barking louder, howling, pacing back and forth. Birds cease their chirping. The ground trembles again. Doors creak in their frames. The meat hanging along vendor stalls sways from side to side. Cups and bowls rattle on their shelves. Pompeii pays these things no notice. They are used to such tremors.
Another hour passes. Wild birds fly away from the town; tame ones flutter in their cages. Water stops flowing from the public fountains. People curse and kick the basins, the spouts. They yell for a supervisor to check the aqueducts. There is a sore need for water. It is high summer, and a hot, dry day.
I remember thinking how nice it would be if the gods could send rain.
***
Being a soldier, I was, of course, intimately acquainted with death. Sometimes, we were bitter foes. Other times, we joined forces to rout a mutual enemy. It was my close kinship with death—and the willingness to employ it—that made my formidable reputation. I was one of the youngest generals in the history of Rome, and one who’d earned more than a few triumphal processions. Such renown was also the reason I attracted the attention of the proconsul, or governor, of several African provinces: a Gnaeus Metilius Egnatius by name, whose permanent residence was in Pompeii. It was also how I met the woman whose knowledge would shape the rest of my life . . . and whose face would forever haunt my dreams.
It wasn’t long before I was a comite, as they were called. Comites served as a sort of executive council to the proconsul, helping him make decisions. Although the proconsul was technically the head of the army in his provinces, Egnatius’s knowledge of the military was close to zero. He preferred spending his time at chariot races, or watching gladiators at the amphitheater, to learning the art of war. And so, the fool came to depend on me to manage even the smallest aspects of his militia.
These were the heady days of Caligula, Claudius, and Nero. Contrary to popular belief, that last one did not fiddle as Rome burned. The year was AD 59. I remember, because there’d been a riot at a gladiator contest in Pompeii, and everyone was complaining about the amphitheater’s closure. Little did we know it would remain closed for the next ten years. Without the promise of thrilling violence to while away the hours, I thought Pompeii would hold little draw. How laughable that turned out to be.
Pompeii is about 150 miles south of Rome. She had all the accoutrements of a modern city at that time. Cobblestoned roads. Theaters. Libraries. Slave markets. Aqueducts, like miles-long bridges, with huge dome cutouts underneath. Before us, in the distance, loomed Vesuvius, peaceful and serene as she’d ever been. She hadn’t so much as grumbled for nearly a thousand years. With the volcano on one side, and the shining Bay of Naples on the other, Pompeii was nothing less than a coastal jewel.
It was late in the afternoon, springtime. We’d just come from the baths—myself, Egnatius, and his other comites—and were on our way to the proconsul’s house for some revelry. Egnatius’s bodyguards followed closely—a dozen solidly built men. The primary one marched, stone-faced, steps ahead of Egnatius, ready to clear the way of any rowdy crowds.
The noise of the busy streets was all around, from the shops on the ground floors to the apartment buildings above. Though only eight or nine stories high, they were to us what I imagine skyscrapers are to you, now. We could hear rumblings of the horse-drawn carriages so often used in town. Then, the larger carts came groaning by. The whips of the drivers cracked over and over as they urged their oxen forward. There was the incessant pounding of metalworkers, the cries of vendors, the shouts of drunken soldiers on leave.
From the next street over, we could hear the wails of a funeral procession headed just outside one of the city gates. Soon, the dearly departed would be laid to rest in a lane of tombs that lined the way into Pompeii. These miniature “houses of the dead,” some two stories tall, were necessary because citizens could not be buried within town limits. Of course, this was the law throughout the empire, not just in Pompeii.
Mounds of clothing hid people’s faces as they carried their garments to the fuller’s to be washed. Important men, like Egnatius and myself, wore togas. Egnatius’s had broad, purple stripes denoting his station. The freedmen around us wore only tunics. Because Pompeii was near a port, it was always full of interesting foreign visitors, in all manner of color and costume. A man in Spanish dress next to me splashed water on his face from one of the public fountains. Slaves—in shabbier tunics—shuffled by in chains, single file. I recognized the owner’s name on some of their brands and tattoos—a fate I’d managed to avoid during my own servitude.
We marched past wave after wave of goblet and jewelry displays that glinted in the sun. Carved animal carcasses dangled from above butcher’s stalls, all but waiting to drop into the watering mouths below. Steam rose from vats of rich, hot food in row after row of stalls. Hungry dogs and lazy cats wound their way around a sea of legs. Cripples and madmen slumped in doorways. Children laughed and shrieked, chasing each other, darting between the adults.
If only something could be done about the damn smell. Citizens dumped animal and human refuse directly into the street in those days. Eventually, the rains would wash it away, but never soon enough for my liking. As we made our way over the stepping stones that kept us above the filth, we gratefully inhaled the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. Only the wealthy had kitchens in their homes; the common lot lugged raw dough daily to bakeries to make use of the ovens. We went past fishmongers, frescoes, graffiti, until we finally arrived at the home of Egnatius—so large, it spanned the entire block. Egnatius’s servants greeted us at the door, with word their mistress—his wife—was still getting ready.
“This is the first time you’ve ever been in my home, isn’t it, Titus?” Egnatius barely glanced at the bowing servant as we made our way to the atrium at the house’s center. His bodyguards stepped to the sides and lined the room, ever vigilant. “Welcome, welcome! I hope it meets your expectations,” he said slyly.
“I’d wager it exceeds them, my lord.” Indeed, the home was among the most impressive I’d seen. Servants scurried back and forth over mosaic floors and their thousands of delicate tiles. Intricately woven tapestries cascaded down the walls. Scenes of landscapes and dancing gods mingled, courtesy of murals boasting bright colors characteristic of the region. There were rich blues, greens, and a deep crimson called Pompeian red. Every stick of furniture that was not marble was made of rare and expensive wood, inlaid with silver, gold, or ivory.
Not far off, I could see doors opening into not one, but several dining rooms, where I would later enjoy many feasts held by Egnatius. Beyond that, I glimpsed a peristyle surrounding a sizable open-air courtyard, well laid out with hedges, paths, fountains, and statues. We passed Egnatius’s prominently displayed ancestral shrine, the busts and wax masks of his ancestors following us with their glowering eyes.
A few yards away, statuettes of the protector gods of the home, and of the genius—Egnatius’s life force—sat serenely in a shrine among their offerings. This tiny altar, more private than the ancestral one, resembled the entrance to a temple, with two columns supporting a triangular pediment nestled into the wall.
“I hear Publicus Valerius is building himself a villa in nearby Herculaneum,” Egnatius said. “I was thinking I might do the same. Good to get out of the city every once in a while.” He waved vaguely around him, the rings covering his short fingers catching the dusky light. In his fifties, Egnatius was a good six inches shorter than I, with tufts of hair sprouting everywhere except the top of his head. His eyelids drooped so much, one worried the next blink might shut them permanently. He was also one of those men whose weak chins were on too-familiar terms with their necks.
Cispius, a fellow comite and magistrate, nodded. “A wise idea, Proconsul. Splendid way to take advantage of the view of the Bay of Naples.” He expertly sidestepped the sunken pool of water underneath the atrium’s skylight.
“More and more are doing it these days,” agr
eed Nerius, a senator. “Herculaneum’s garnering a reputation as a resort town among the best sets.”
“You could join me there, Titus.” Egnatius smiled at me broadly. “What with you soon having the funds to build your own villa. Think of all the fun we could have, dashing about unsupervised!” he chuckled.
It was true. I’d just come off a particularly successful campaign and was quite pleased with myself. Of course, I’d had to torture a few of the conquered in front of the rest—just so I could quell the dissidents long enough to sell them off. Bloody lot of trouble, too. But my men were rallying around me more than ever, and my personal coffers were growing nicely. I was only a few years past twenty, and in my prime. All in all, it was an invigorating time to be alive. But my mind was never far from the next campaign, the next prize.
“Indeed.” I gave a quick smile. “But what about what I was saying earlier, Egnatius? Should we commit more legionnaires to the border to solidify—?”
“Oh, Titus, your mind never rests for a moment, does it?” Egnatius took a cup of honey-sweetened wine off the tray held out by a servant. “Rome can be left to her own devices for one day without falling down around us. Now, what I want to know is, did you see Plautus’s The Haunted House?”
“I did; it is a most excellent play, your grace.” Cispius took a cup of wine, and a large swallow from it. “Truth be told, I haven’t enjoyed myself so much at the theater since . . .”
The conversation drifted into talk of which actors were better than which, and what salacious goings-on might be happening backstage. I doubt Egnatius would even remember my query, let alone think on it for the rest of the night.
I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. If Egnatius was such a fool, how’d he become proconsul? It will come as no surprise that, in ancient Rome, such appointments owed as much to social connections, bribes, and favors as they did to ability. At times, I think some of the more feebleminded politicians in your modern era would have been quite at home in mine.
Egnatius’s other guests began to arrive. The stone walls soon rang with the sounds of laughter, shouting, and music. Servants strummed on lyres all around us. I was still conversing with Egnatius and the rest of our circle when someone complimented one of the tapestries.
“I can’t take credit.” Egnatius gulped down another cup of wine, one he’d immediately picked up after servants took away the last. “Sabine’s fine taste alone is responsible. You’ve never met her, have you, Titus? Where is she?” He peered over the crowd. “Must be here somewhere . . .” A particularly well-endowed female servant walked by. Egnatius’s eyes stopped scanning the room, locking instead onto the servant’s backside as she walked away.
I trust the gentle reader has no grandiose notions of Egnatius’s fidelity. While men of his class could have their wives executed for indiscretions, they themselves could partake of pleasures of the flesh with impunity. Women were expected to look the other way, and if they didn’t like it, well . . . no one cared what they thought.
Finally, Egnatius spotted his wife. “Ah, here she is now!” He took another swig of wine, then wiped off the drops that dribbled down his chin. We were all clean-shaven in those days, with our hair brushed forward. “Sabine, my love!” He gestured for the woman to join us.
I turned. Then, I saw her.
From that first moment, I knew there was something different about Sabine. It was like that same distant humming I felt at odd times. Of blood and fire and rivers. It was stronger when I felt myself healing rapidly, or when I purposely confused an enemy’s mind so he’d misdirect his troops. If I’d spent my life around other supernatural beings, no doubt I’d have known immediately this was the familiar air we all had. An unspoken aura that helped us know one another, that seemed to whisper the words, magic is here.
It didn’t hurt that she was stunningly beautiful.
I’m not sentimental enough to believe in love at first sight. But lust? Certainly. As she glanced lazily up at me with her dark, liquid eyes, the attraction between us could only be described as physical. As unconquerable as gravity. Like water flowing downhill. As inevitable as that.
She needed no hairdresser to twist her hair into a fashionable set of curls; clearly, nature had blessed her in that area. Her lips needed no red paint, her brows no antimony to frame her magnetic gaze. The powdered, corpse-white faces of the beauties surrounding us seemed stark and disturbing next to Sabine’s. Her skin was the warm reddish-brown of desert sands. Of amber from the east, of their secrets within secrets.
Her long, sleeveless stola had a deliciously round, ample shape, thanks to her generous curves. Silk from China, no doubt—a proconsul’s wife would be paraded around in nothing less. Bracelets and bands designed to look like serpents snaked around her wrists and arms. The glittering of gold and colorful gems only served to make her entire body seem warmer, more alluring. Of course, these were more a proclamation of her husband’s position than her vanity. In those days, patrician ladies were often weighed down with as much jewelry as their bodies could support, whether they liked it or not.
She wasn’t as young as some of the other wives I’d seen; I’d put her at thirty or forty. Though I'd soon learn I was as wrong in that as many other things about her. It would be some time before she told me how witches could glamour themselves to look any age they wished. We can even stop the clock on our mortality for an indefinite period of time. She could’ve been hundreds—or even thousands—of years old. She never did tell me.
“She looks . . . well, my lord.” I hid a hard swallow behind a cup of wine, struggling to tear my eyes away.
“Doesn’t she, though?” Egnatius beamed—not because he appreciated her beauty, but because other men did. When he could have as many women as he desired, a comely wife merely reinforced his status. She was as much a trinket as the jewels that hung on her. “Sabine’s constitution mirrors yours, Titus,” he continued as she walked over to us. “For she is never ill, and always glowing with youthful vitality.”
“Truly, the gods have smiled upon us,” I murmured. In actuality, I thought no such thing.
“Wish they’d confer such smiles upon me,” Egnatius grumbled. “Third time this season I’ve battled the gout.” His eyes snapped up. “Which reminds me, Claudius said he had a remedy. He just got a new slave from Greece, a physician. Claudius! A word!” He waved to a man across the road, then strode over, comite flunkies at his heels.
At the same moment, Sabine arrived by my side. She glanced over her shoulder at the husband who’d momentarily forgotten her, then gave me an apologetic smile. It was one I imagined she had to employ frequently. We bowed to one another and introduced ourselves.
She probably holds Egnatius in about as high esteem as I do, I thought. I narrowed my eyes. Odd. I should be able to see if she does or doesn’t. Why can’t I read her thoughts?
Sabine gave me a knowing smile. “Well, finally, I meet the great Titus Aurelius. Egnatius speaks of nothing but your miraculous exploits.
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “The way he speaks of them to me, one would think he hardly noticed.”
Sabine laughed softly. “It must seem that way. But, believe me, he’s delighted to have found such a . . . capable general.” I couldn’t tell if the pause was so she could sip wine, or to appreciate a split-second glance at my waist.
“Leaving him more time to spend at home with a beautiful wife.” I moved closer. I tried not to run my eyes all over her frame; I didn’t want to appear too eager. The last thing one wants a woman to know is how much power she holds over you. But I was already speeding through a mental list of the ways her appetites could indulge mine.
“You flatter me.” She turned slightly, looking over the ocean of guests. Now, I could not see quite as much of her body as before. “I hear your campaign in Volubilis was successful.”
“Yes, the natives there make fine workers . . . with a little convincing. Soon, we may even be able to push into
Mauretania.” So what if she’s a little older than most of my other lovers? There’s something to be said for experience. Perhaps I’ll even learn a few new tricks . . .
“No doubt my husband was as indispensable as ever.” Sabine sniffed. “You know how he enjoys working diligently for the glory of Rome.” There was a guffaw from the other corner of the room. We turned in time to see Egnatius nearly trip over his toga onto a senator. It ended with Egnatius spraying wine from his mouth in laughter, a sound somewhere between a choked belch and a wheeze. Sabine sighed and angled her body back to me.
Perhaps you think I harbored vague notions of danger or guilt by taking Egnatius’s wife. Rest assured, dear reader, I was troubled by neither fear of being caught, nor scruples. Egnatius would never find out. He was an imbecile. And I was hungry.
“But enough about the provinces.” Without taking my eyes off her, I placed my wine cup on a stand. A servant whisked it away. “Where does a goddess like yourself hail from?” She had an accent that didn’t sound like it was entirely from Pompeii. The Roman Empire was on its way to being the largest in the world at this point. She could have come from almost any continent, been the child of dozens of lands.
“From the bosom of the earth, same as you,” she said coyly. Next to us, oil lamps dangled from hooks on a man-sized bronze stand. I watched as the light played off her gleaming skin.
“Yes, but where in Rome?” I purred. Again, I tried to read her thoughts, but they were impenetrable. Still, the night was young. I had time for a game of cat and mouse.
“Does it matter?” She lifted her wine cup, and all but caressed her throat with it.