Out of the Ashes

by Lori Dillon

  “There is time. I will return soon.”

  “No. We must leave now.”

  “Then, go without me. I will catch up to you when I can.”

  “I forbid it!” Her father grabbed at her, but she slipped out of his reach.

  She backed away, shaking her head and regretting the hurt she saw on her father’s face.

  “You cannot stop me. I have to go to him.”

  Looking one last time at her father, she turned and dashed out into the crowded street.

  *

  Sabina reached the barracks, only to find the gate locked. She shook the iron bars in frustration.

  “Let me in!”

  Desperation tasted as bitter as the dust that lodged in her throat. What if the guards had already fled? How would she get to Dacian?

  Then she saw men on the training field, guards and gladiators alike in their fear, running about aimlessly.

  “Open the gates!” she shouted at them.

  Finally, a young guard appeared before her.

  “Let me in.”

  “You cannot enter now. We are all leaving.”

  Hope surged within her. Was it possible that they were going to set Dacian free?

  “The gladiators, too?”

  The guard shook his head.

  “Only the free ones. The slaves and prisoners will be locked in until it is safe to return.”

  Sabina gripped the iron bars tighter.

  “But you cannot just leave them here!”

  “We cannot take them with us. We do not have enough men to keep them under control outside the gates. It would be our heads should even one escape. They will be safe enough in their cells.”

  She thrust the palla through the bars, holding it open so that he could glimpse the small treasure inside.

  “I will pay dearly for the Myrmillo Dacian’s freedom. Let me in, and all this is yours.” Seeing the indecision on the guard’s face, Sabina pushed on. “It is enough so that you can live comfortably for years wherever you go. You will never have to return to Pompeii to face the consequences of one missing gladiator.”

  The guard looked hesitant. The earth trembled again, and his decision was made. Throwing open the gate, he grabbed the bundle from her hands.

  “Go. Find your lover,” he shouted over his shoulder as he shoved past her. “And may the gods have mercy on you both.”

  Sabina raced across the training field, surprised to see some of the free gladiators—trained warriors and killers in the arena—running about with terror on their hardened faces. She made her way to the slave area of the barracks and found Dacian’s cell with surprising ease despite the madness. She slid back the bolt, and Dacian was in her arms before the heavy wooden door fully opened.

  “You came back.”

  Feeling safe and secure for the first time in what seemed like hours, she squeezed him tighter.

  “I told you I would.”

  “But how—”

  Sabina grabbed his hand and pulled him through the door.

  “We must hurry. Everyone is leaving the city.”

  Dashing out onto the shadowed portico surrounding the training field, Sabina could hear the desperate cries of the prisoners and slave gladiators left behind, locked in their cells.

  Dacian stopped, looking at the barred doors lining the columned walkway.

  “We have to help them.”

  “There is no time.”

  “We must try.” Charging to a cell door, Dacian slid the bolt back and released the man inside. With only a moment’s hesitation, Sabina rushed to the next door. As the ground trembled again beneath their feet, the terrified men stumbled out onto the practice field, confused at the sudden gift of freedom.

  Dacian staggered back as he threw open the last door at the end of the portico.

  “Bellator!”

  Sabina looked inside the cell to see three gladiators sitting on the dusty floor, straining at the chains that bound them to the stone wall in punishment for some forgotten crime. One of them appeared to be Dacian’s friend.

  Dacian found the lock at the end of the chain, but unlike the cell doors, it required a special tool to remove the pin. She glanced around, but no such key was to be found.

  “I cannot get it open,” he roared in desperation as he tried to pry the iron nail from its hole with his fingertips. “The pin will not come out.”

  A fierce rumble shook the barracks. The wall behind them collapsed, and dust filled the air, making Sabina choke. She pulled on Dacian’s arm.

  “It is no use. We must leave now.”

  Dacian shook his head. He wasn’t ready to give up yet. He wedged his foot against the wall and pulled at the chains where they attached to the stones, trying to release the men with the strength of his bare hands. Sabina watched the muscles of his neck and arms tense from the effort, sweat beading on his forehead.

  Finally, he stopped straining, exhausted. He shook the iron links in frustration, as if by doing so they might crumble to dust as easily as the unsteady walls around them.

  “I cannot leave them here. They will not have a chance.”

  “But we do not have the key. Dacian, please. You cannot save them all.” His own words echoed through her head, words he’d spoken to her the first time she came to him in the dark confines of his cell. You cannot save us all. This time, she knew it to be true.

  She glanced at Bellator, and they shared a look filled with remorse. I am sorry. Sabina mouthed the words to him, and the gladiator nodded, bravely resigned to his fate.

  Dacian looked at her, his face devoid of hope, full of agony and misery at the futility of it all. What would become of his friends, these men in chains?

  “Go,” Bellator said to him in a voice calm with the acceptance of death. “Perhaps you will be one of the lucky ones. Go, my friend. Do not look back.”

  Dacian squeezed Bellator’s arm in silent regret. Then he grabbed Sabina’s hand, and they ran.

  *

  As they dashed down the cobblestone streets, people bumped into one another from all sides, trampling those who could not keep up.

  Terrified mothers grabbed for their children, and men rushed to gather what belongings they could carry. Others took advantage of the confusion and pillaged the merchants’ shops and villas. Food sat on vendors’ stoves, pots boiling over, unattended. Urns and lamps were knocked into the street, their flames spreading in the spilled oils.

  Sabina led Dacian down the street toward the Porta Stabia. Overturned carts blocked the road at the narrow passageway. Abandoned by their masters, frightened oxen and mules pulled in vain at their twisted harnesses. There would be no escape from Pompeii through there.

  Backtracking, Sabina and Dacian pushed against the crowd toward the Porta Nuceria, the falling stones and ash now rising to their knees in some places. They passed dogs howling to be released from the chains tethering them to the houses they had been left to guard.

  Dacian glanced up at a sky grown dark with thick clouds holding back the sun. The afternoon turned as black as night, adding to the confusion in the streets. The pungent smell of sulfur filled the air, making them cough and choke.

  He jerked to an abrupt halt as Sabina stumbled and fell. Her crumpled body lay on the ground, her hand still clutched in his. Her dazed eyes stared at the ground, and blood trickled from a wound on her head where a falling rock must have struck her.

  Leaning down, he lifted her into his arms. He needed to get her away from the crowds of frantic people. He needed time to think. Having never been outside the walls of the gladiator barracks on his own, Dacian wasn’t sure how to get out of the city.

  People dashed within the chaos, while others lay deathly still in the streets, unlucky ones who, like Sabina, had fallen victim to the stones tossed down from above.

  Dacian darted into a merchant’s shop, the vendor’s wares abandoned as if the shopkeeper had just stepped out for a moment. He carried Sabina to the back and was surprised to find a man, woman, and th
ree children huddled in the shadows.

  “Is your wife injured?” the woman asked.

  “She is not my…” He paused, realizing they had not noticed his slave belt. Otherwise, she would not have made the assumption nor offered them aid. “Yes. Can you help her?”

  Dacian laid Sabina down on the cool tile of the shop floor, and the woman bent over her to wipe at the blood on Sabina’s face.

  He looked at the man.

  “Thank you for allowing us to come into your shop.”

  “Oh, this is not our shop. My children could not go on any longer, so we came in to seek shelter from the falling stones. We will wait here until it is safe again.” The man glanced at the gladiator slave belt, visible now that Dacian was no longer holding Sabina in his arms. He looked Dacian in the eye, a silent warning in the father’s hard stare. “You and your wife are welcome to take shelter with us.”

  Relief eased Dacian’s mind. Though he did not like it, the man likely realized a gladiator with fighting skills might come in handy against the panicked masses in the streets.

  Sabina groaned, and Dacian turned to her.

  “She will be fine,” the woman said. “It is merely a scratch.”

  He sat down on the floor with his back against the wall and pulled Sabina into his lap, letting her head lay against his chest.

  “Rest. We will stay here for a while.”

  Sabina snuggled closer to him.

  “That sounds wise.” She placed her small hand in his, entwining their fingers. “Husband.”

  Dacian squeezed her tight, clutching at the impossible dream of the beautiful girl in his arms ever being his.

  *

  They hid in the shop and held each other close as the world fell down around them. Pebbles and ash rained down into the room from the opening in the roof. As each hour passed, the hill of stone and rubble filling the merchant’s cistern grew taller and overflowed, forcing them all to climb the ladder to the second story to avoid being buried alive.

  There they waited, until outside all suddenly grew quiet.

  “Is it over?” The man shifted a child on his lap as his wife held the other two to her side.

  “Do you think it is safe to leave?” she asked him.

  Dacian listened. Not a sound could be heard from the street. The stones had ceased to fall, and the world seemed to stand still.

  “Let us go now,” he said, “while we have the chance.”

  They crawled out an open window near the roof of the building and emerged into a changed world. The ground now rose to meet second story windows and rooftops. It was impossible to tell what time of day it was. The sky was black with smoke, the sun gone from view as if the gods had plucked it from the sky.

  Dacian and Sabina looked toward the mountain, unable to see its majestic peak in the distance. Floating soot burned their eyes, and they had to cover their mouths to breathe. They turned and followed the merchant’s family, stumbling over the debris filling the streets as they tried to make their way to the city gates.

  They had taken no more than a few steps when an enormous blast rent the air, nearly knocking them off their feet. The sound of a thousand chariots roared closer and closer.

  Panic seized them all.

  “Run!” Dacian shouted.

  The heat wave hit them first, the blast of hot air slamming them all to the ground. Dacian covered Sabina’s body with his own in a desperate effort to shield her. His large warrior’s hand cupped her head, pressing her face into his chest. A rush of searing wind surrounded them, the hot gases sucking the air from his lungs.

  Dacian’s eyes stung, and Sabina’s image blurred before him. He could feel her thrashing beneath him, struggling for a precious breath of air. But there was none.

  All too soon, Sabina went still in his arms, her eyes closing as if in peaceful slumber. Dacian took one last look at her beloved face, then laid his head down next to hers.

  As they held each other in an eternal embrace, the ashes continued to fall, covering them like a gentle blanket of snow.

  Chapter 5

  “Well, I’d have to say you were right about the sparks.”

  Smithers clicked the remote control, and the screen disappeared into the clouds.

  Marsha gasped. “Oh dear, what was that?”

  “It’s called an eruption. Volcanoes do that every now and then.”

  “Well, nobody told me about a scheduled natural disaster.” Marsha turned and glared at Hershel. “Did you know anything about this?”

  “Me? No, no. Of course not.”

  Smithers drummed his fingers on his desk. “It was in the memo. Didn’t either of you read it?”

  Marsha looked at Smithers with wide owl eyes.

  “Memo? What memo?”

  Smithers sighed deeply and rubbed at his frown-creased forehead.

  “The one that came out at the turn of the century. It had all the scheduled natural disasters listed, including this one.”

  “Oh, pooh. How am I expected to remember back that far?”

  “That was only seventy-nine years ago. It was almost yesterday.”

  Marsha reached over and swatted Hershel on the arm.

  “Why didn’t you remind me?”

  Hershel scooted out of harm’s reach before she could bat at him again.

  “If you couldn’t remember it, how do you think I was supposed to? You’re the one who always keeps track of that sort of thing.”

  Marsha turned to face her boss, pulling her gray knit sweater more tightly around her frail frame. She put on her most business-like demeanor and even had the bravado to look down her nose at him—or at least try to.

  “Apparently neither of us received that memo. You know how messed up the deliveries can be around here sometimes. Why, I remember once—”

  “It really doesn’t matter now, does it?” Smithers picked up a document from his desk and waved it in front of them. “Do you know what this is?”

  Marsha squinted at the fluttering paper, trying to read the small print. Hershel nearly fell out of his chair as he tried to lean closer to get a good look at it.

  “It’s their contract. A contract you both signed back when Male 2028 was conceived and Female 5923 was well into the planning stages.”

  Smithers pulled a pair of bifocals from his breast pocket and perched them on his hawk-like nose.

  “It clearly states here that these two mortals are to join, go forth and multiply, live a long and prosperous life, then report directly to their assignments up here when their time on Earth is over.” Smithers removed his glasses and set them and the contract carefully on his desk. “They can’t very well do that when they’re dead, now, can they?”

  “No, I don’t suppose they can,” Hershel replied.

  “So, what do you two propose we do about this little situation?” Smithers looked at them as if the answer should be quite obvious.

  “Well, we could… maybe…” Hershel finally shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s usually done in a situation like this?”

  Smithers slapped his hands down on his desk. “Situations like this don’t happen. He doesn’t like it when things don’t go according to plan.”

  Marsha held up her hand, a tiny space showing between her thumb and forefinger. “Perhaps we could get permission for a teenie, weenie miracle?”

  “And just what kind of miracle were you thinking of?”

  “I don’t know.” Marsha shrugged. “He could raise them from the dead. He did it with Lazarus, after all.”

  “Lazarus was an old man buried in a cool, dark crypt. And his resurrection was planned, I might add. However, your clients have been barbecued from the inside out and buried under fifteen feet of ash, rock, and what’s left of that mountain. There’s not exactly a great deal left of them to raise, even if He was inclined to do so.”

  “Oh, dear.” Marsha cast a worried look Hershel’s way. “Whatever shall we do?”

  “Don’t look at me. I wasn’t the one who thought
the Mediterranean would be a lovely place for them to fall in love.”

  “It was a lovely place, until that volcano had to go and spoil everything.”

  “Enough!” Smithers growled. He glared at them for what seemed like an eternity and then scribbled something down on a piece of paper. “Although this is highly irregular, I’m going to approve for Female 5923 and Male 2028 to have another life. You two find an appropriate place and time for them. And for heaven’s sake, don’t let anything go wrong this time.”

  *

  The chamomile tea was exactly the right temperature and flavored with just a hint of lemon. It did wonders to warm old bones. As Marsha raised the dainty china cup decorated with delicate pink flowers for another sip, she spied Hershel reaching for his second piece of pound cake.

  A voice whispering in her ear made Marsha nearly spill the tea all over Eleanor Donnelly’s prize lace tablecloth.

  “Mr. Smithers needs to see you both in his office. Now.”

  Looking over her shoulder, she spied the messenger angel standing behind her in his crisp white suit, clipboard held firmly in hand. He wore his short black hair slicked back and a pair of half-bifocals perched on the end of his pointy nose.

  Marsha glanced at Hershel, who had stopped in mid-chew with cake crumbs poking out of the corner of his mouth. He swallowed with obvious difficulty as her teacup clattered in its matching saucer.

  “Whatever could he want to see us for now?” She feigned innocence, even as Hershel stared at the messenger, his eyes bugging out in fish-eyed guilt.

  “I believe there has been another problem with your clients.”

  “Oh, dear.” Marsha’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Not again.”

  “You’d better hurry,” the angel prodded. “He doesn’t look very pleased.”

  “Does he ever?” Hershel asked as he scooted his chair back.

  “I’ve never seen him this angry before,” the angel said as he motioned for them to speed up. “In fact, I even heard him say something about a permanent reassignment.”

  “For our clients?” Marsha asked.

  “No, for you two.”

  “Oh my, this does sound serious.” She stood up and brushed nonexistent crumbs from her sweater. “Come, Hershel, we’d best hurry.”