Fine, Sabinus thought, trot out the election graffiti, again. Whichever of his supporters had painted, “Vote for Sabinus, his grandmother works hard for his election” on a wall really hadn’t done him any favors. I am quite certain my grandmother sees you as I do: all corruption and guile wrapped in a pleasing appearance. He didn’t say it, but gods he wanted to.
“This is not about our personal history, Pansa—”
“Everything is.” Another smile.
If he was interrupted one more time, Sabinus wasn’t sure his temper—much as others considered it one of his finest qualities—would hold.
“Aedile”—it cost Sabinus something to use the official form of address, and the slight bow he gave to accompany it cost him more still—“the signs, as I have told you before, are significant: wells and springs drying up outside the city despite the summer rainfall, dead fish in the Sarno, the increasing frequency and severity of tremors. Surely you felt the strong tremor a short while ago.”
“We’ve had tremors before. They are part of living in Pompeii and mean nothing. Nor are these the first to bring down scaffolds or walls since Nero’s quake.”
“Your family, like mine, was here then,” Sabinus replied, grasping on to the reference. “You lived through the devastation. Gods, Pansa, we are still rebuilding seventeen years later.” Longer than my bride-to-be has been alive. Where did that thought come from? This was not a time to think of women or weddings, but to be honest, Aemilia was never far from his thoughts lately. He could see her in his mind’s eye: bent over her mother, comforting that lady as he left the Lepidus villa to come in search of Pansa, her red hair, caught in the sunlight, making her lovely skin even more translucent.
“Yes.” Pansa’s voice shattered the vision, and he no longer sounded amused. “And one of the things you demand is that I order any scaffolding adjacent to primary roads be taken down. A major inconvenience to many. An order sure to delay work and make me unpopular. Yet you say this isn’t personal?” Pansa straightened his shoulders, showing off his height. Rubbing it in. “Forget your grandmother, Sabinus—you are an old woman! If I were to order evacuations every time a few pieces of crockery were shaken off the shelves in this city, Pompeii would be destroyed in no time. Not by tremors, but by fear. I cannot allow that. The Cuspii Pansae cannot allow that.”
“I am not asking for evacuations. I am asking you to lay plans for them should they become necessary.”
“And I,” Pansa stepped right up to Sabinus, thrusting a well-manicured finger into his chest, “am asking why I should do anything for you when you go behind my back? When you send letters of a hysterical nature, implying I am not doing my job?”
So he knew about the letter to Admiral Pliny. So soon. Sabinus had not expected his correspondence to go unreported. Pansa had spies in the same abundance that he had money. But Sabinus had believed it would take longer for his appeal to the august Admiral to be discovered.
He drew another measured breath. “Because, I am telling you that something enormous is coming. And because, Pansa, you have a duty to the city and to its inhabitants—a duty that encompasses more than presiding over public festivals.”
A step back. A smile re-fixed in place. Damn but Pansa was composed. “I like festivals. I like entertainments of all sorts. People cheer me. Has anyone ever cheered you, Sabinus?” Without waiting for an answer—“No, I thought not.”
Sabinus’ head was beginning to throb, possibly from clenching his jaw muscles.
“We have gladiatorial games coming up in a few days. The money has already been spent to host them. I am not going to start a panic that might thin the crowds. It is in the public interest that the games go forward. After all, they may appease the gods and stop the tremors that so worry you.”
“Have a bet on a gladiator, do you?” Pansa did not care about appeasing the gods, just about adding to his purse. Sabinus was not a betting man himself, but that was a wager he would have taken.
“The scaffolding will stay in place, the games will go on. I will have a lovely afternoon watching men bravely fight and then I will come to your wedding and admire your bride.”
Sabinus’ head wasn’t just throbbing now; he could actually hear his blood in his ears. He was fairly certain he was turning red as well.
“I’ll give you this, Sabinus, you secured a nubile young thing. Her father’s fortune would be reason enough to marry her, but you get good looks, too. I ought to be more worried about the former because you will be better funded next time you run against me. But let’s just say that whenever I see your Aemilia in the theater or marketplace, it’s not the richness of her dress that draws my eye.”
“I will take my leave,” Sabinus had to choke the words out. The thought of Pansa casting lustful looks at Aemilia made his throat close.
As Sabinus turned to go, Pansa added, his tone light, “If you want me to act on your suggestions, engineer, I suggest you come back with less talk and more coin. I am not an unreasonable man.”
Sabinus ignored the insult, and considered bribing the aedile for a moment—but to pay a dishonorable man was to throw money away. So he kept walking, out of the forum and into the street. There he paused, breathing heavily. The unseasonably warm autumn air did little to relieve the pounding in his head. He needed something to draw the blood elsewhere and take his mind off his various troubles and worries. He knew just the thing. He turned his step in the direction of his favorite caupona. The wine was good and the spicy sausages better, but more importantly there was a woman there who would wipe his mind blank. Not the skinny, swarthy whore with the sharp tongue who belonged to the place, but her rosy, well-rounded sister, Capella, who was always both friendly and obliging.
IT was not until she got off her knees to rinse out her mouth that Sabinus felt a twinge of guilt—for thinking of Aemilia while Capella had him between her lips.
“Will you take a glass with me?” he asked with a certain contrition.
Capella paused in the process of tidying her glorious golden mane, and looked at him curiously. They were not in one of the little street-side cubicles where she ordinarily plied her trade, but rather above the caupona; Sabinus didn’t mind paying for the added privacy. Capella smiled at him. “Until my master notices—he doesn’t like me to linger too long with one customer.”
When they’d settled at a table in a dark corner, far from the open front of the place and thus less likely to be seen by anyone who knew Sabinus well, Capella spoke again. “I think something is bothering you, and I believe I know what it is.”
Could she know? Could she be concerned about the tremors too?
“A man of your age and stature shouldn’t be nervous about marrying,” she continued, offering a smile. “Marriage is a blessed thing, a gift from the goddess, and I think you will enjoy having a wife to cook for you. Besides, any woman would be lucky to have you. Is she pretty, your betrothed?”
“She is pretty.” And she does not need to cook for me, he thought. Someone will do that for her. Someone will dress her, do her hair, carry her purchases in the marketplace, and refill her lamps—all unimaginable luxuries to the girl who sat across from him. He lowered his voice. “Maybe too pretty for me. Or better say, maybe I am not pretty enough for her. I suspect she is infatuated with a youth nearer her own age.”
“Does he return her affection?”
“What youth would not?” Sabinus cut himself off before his bitterness ran away with him. Why was he telling her this—something he had not said out loud to any other? Telling his secret insecurities to a tavern maid? Perhaps it was her kindness. He perceived that quality in Capella whenever they met.
“Beauty is a great attractor for the young,” Capella conceded. “But as she grows in wisdom, your wife will come to value other virtues. Does a little infatuation bother you so much?”
“Of course.” Again his own candor surprised him. “I saw them together this morning. He was standing so close to her, and her eyes … Let’s ju
st say they never regard me in such a manner.”
Capella gave a musical laugh. “Do you know how few Roman husbands care how their wives’ eyes regard them? You have a secret streak of romance in that practical soul, Sabinus! For that reason alone, your bride is lucky to have you.”
Romantic? He had never thought himself so. Watching Aemilia grow up, knowing long before she did that Lepidus intended her for him, Sabinus had thought of himself as tending his future property. But perhaps he had been falling in love. This was a painful and slightly embarrassing thought. He shuffled his feet beneath the table and cleared his throat. “I am not romantic. I am a man more interested in engineering than poetry.”
“And you wish to engineer a happy marriage, don’t you? If I may be so bold, I recommend you worry less about the arrows of Cupid. Your wife-to-be is surely a high-born girl. There is nothing, therefore, to fear in terms of her virtue.”
“Isn’t there? What if he has kissed her?” Sabinus had no solid evidence of such a thing, but he’d seen it in his mind’s eye for weeks. “What if Cupid’s arrow has struck her, and when she sees me she thinks of him?” This came dangerously close to what he’d been doing himself a short time before—imagining Aemilia while reveling in Capella.
The rosy girl leaned forward and took the very unusual liberty of pressing a small kiss at the corner of his mouth. “So what if he has kissed her?” she asked, as if to remind him that he had done more, much more, than kiss her before they came down to share a drink. With her blue eyes sparkling merrily, Capella added, “And if she sees you and thinks of love and desire, is that not to your benefit? It is a trick I have used many times myself …”
It ought to have enraged him, this coupling of Aemilia’s name and Capella’s work. But, surprisingly, it failed to raise his ire. Still, he felt foolish. Capella was right about one thing, even if her reasons were not his own. As a man, he ought not to worry so much what his betrothed, or his wife for that matter, was thinking. He shrugged and hoped the gesture was convincing. “Whatever her attraction to the boy, she will be mine in a matter of days. And perhaps you are right, perhaps it does not matter what is in her head so long as I am the one in her bed.”
“I suppose I won’t see you here so much then?” Capella asked, as if she might genuinely regret it. “Because if she is yours, then you are also hers, or at least that is what we worshippers of Isis believe.”
Isis? A cult for women. He had no desire to be rude, particularly as Isis worshippers had supported him in the election, but he was still feeling less the man than he would have liked. “I am no woman’s property. So you will most assuredly see me.” He had the sense that his tone lacked conviction. He’d never been a particularly good liar.
And Capella was not fooled for a moment. With an indulgent look, she asked, “Then why are we sharing a farewell cup of wine?”
Before he could answer or feign another unconcerned shrug, his eyes were drawn to the wine in his cup—little ripples disturbed its surface. A tremor! He noticed that Capella’s eyes were on the cup as well. “You see it,” he said with wonder.
She startled, glancing up at him with wide eyes. “And you see it, too? The vision in the cup. Of the fire and darkness?”
“Vision? No. I see waves as upon the sea, only smaller. Results of tremors too slight to be felt by the body. Smaller by far than those that have been scaring horses and breaking bits of statuary these last weeks. I fear they presage an earthquake of such force, such power, that Nero’s quake will be forgotten in its shadow.” He paused. He was relieved that someone other than himself paid attention to the intensifying tremors and associated them with destruction. But he did not like the idea of a prophetic vision. “Tell me what you see,” he said, leaning across the table.
Drawing her brows together, the girl lost some of her color. She bit her lip, as if wary to tell him more, but his prediction plainly frightened her. “I see waves, too—but of a different kind. It started for me in the Temple of Isis. The pilgrims who bring the Nile water were pouring it into the cisterns, and when I looked upon the water I saw a black sky denser and darker than any night. This sky transformed into black swelling rain that fell until it became a river, and the river in turn was washed away by a dark sea of violent power. By this I foresee a flood, coming to wash our spirits clean of flesh and blood. And an ethereal blaze, bigger and brighter than the fire that burns in any lighthouse, which will guide us to salvation.”
Sabinus felt cold. Everything the girl saw could result from an earthquake: waves rushing in from the bay, high enough to sweep away men and buildings, fires raging as buildings fell and lamps with them. So much fire that thick smoke might block the sun, adding to the horror of the destruction. It was as if Capella had seen his fears in that temple cistern. He knew enough of those who followed Isis to know they ascribed great power to the waters of the Nile. For a moment he was in the main atrium of the Lepidus villa, standing beneath the painted views of the Nile that adorned its walls. Could the blue, so calm in paint, really have the power to give visions? If so, surely it would not extend them to a mere tavern maid?
He shook his head to clear it. Everyone knew the Isis temples allowed the imaginations of slaves and women to run wild. He needed to be sensible. If destruction was coming, it could surely—by proper planning—be minimized. The idea of it being redemptive, an idea that shone in Capella’s eyes, was nonsense. Another excuse for inaction.
“Do not worry.” He allowed his hand to rest for just a moment on hers. “The city’s officials may be slow to listen to me, but they are reasonable men. Should disaster come, they will do their duties. And I, I will keep an eye out for you while doing mine.”
“I am not worried,” Capella said, reaching down to her ankle and fingering one of the small charms that hung there. All the charms were the same. Sabinus thought each looked like an inverted drop of water from which a long straight bar extended downward, crossed by a shorter horizontal one. The color had returned to the girl’s cheeks. “I need never worry,” she touched the token again, “for Isis is my guide and salvation.”
He rolled his eyes, but he hoped that she did not notice.
AEMILIA
“WELL, my treasure, a buyer has come to relieve me of that infernal animal.” Father plants a kiss on the top of my head as I sit weaving. Although I cut him dead this morning, I cannot resist looking up and smiling. “Will you come to the stables with me while I transact my business? You might even find occasion to hide a little something while we are there.” He winks. The stool before Mother’s loom is empty. She is lying down with a headache, doubtless the lingering result of her overexcitement in the garden this morning. “But perhaps not this.” The hand that was behind Father emerges, and his fingers open to reveal an exquisite agate ring with shades of orange and russet rippling through it. “It reminded me of your hair.”
Looking at the jewel and at my immaculately and expensively dressed father, anyone might think he was a patrician from an ancient and preferred family rather than the grandson of a freedman. Then again, he always tells me that the state of his coffers gives his lineage away. “Remember, my girl, some of the greatest wealth in Rome belongs to those who’ve had the nerve and industry to earn it.”
“I will come.” I take the ring, then kiss his hand. He beams.
“Hurry. We would not be rude and keep her waiting.”
Her?
A slender form in a dress of brilliant scarlet stands before the stall, attended by a slave. She has hair so blonde it is nearly white. She leans on the gate, eyes devouring the stallion inside, who tosses his head and paws the ground.
“Lady,” father bows, “it is an honor. This is my daughter, Lucia Aemilia Lepida.” The woman glances at me, but only for a moment before her eyes return to the horse.
“Diana of the Cornelii.” She reaches up to seize the stallion’s tossing nose. I notice that her palm is as callused as a groom’s although the name of the Cornelii is old and noble. I
would be chastised roundly should I allow my hands to become so. “How did a wine merchant come to own a racing stallion?”
“A combination of desperation and bad luck, Lady. I had a debtor who could not pay me other than by relinquishing this brute. He is too high-strung to be of any use to me for business or pleasure. Never advance credit to a chariot faction director, Lady, even if the vast quantity of wine he orders is for his wedding.”
She gives a swift nod like a man. “Let’s see him move.”
The grooms lead the horse up and down in the dusty yard outside. Muscle bunches under his red hide like silk, and Diana of the Cornelii smiles broadly. “I like a chestnut,” she says to no one in particular, as she watches the motion of the flashing legs. A lock of hair escapes its combs. The name Diana suits her. She is a huntress, lovely and unkempt. Did she travel all this long way from Rome alone? If so, how did she manage such a thing?
The grooms bring the stallion to a halt, and she bends to run her hands over a foreleg. No ring on her left hand, I notice. I rotate the plain betrothal ring Sabinus placed on my finger, a ring I secretly take off at night. She must be at least a decade older than me. How has she escaped being some man’s property, just as this horse may shortly be hers? I envy her freedom.
“He’s a bit heavy, but he might anchor a team on the inside.” She peels the horse’s lips back to examine his teeth. He does his best to bite her, but she merely swats him on the nose. “What are you asking for him, Lucius Aemilius Lepidus?”
My father cannot be beaten at haggling when it comes to his business. He drives a hard price for an amphora of wine, and does it with a smile. But on this occasion, he is bested. I listen in astonishment as the woman in the red dress pushes him to half his asking price. To see a Lady of high birth conducting her own business! It is unbelievable.
“You have the better of me, Lady,” Father says ruefully, but he does not look unhappy. Doubtless he is just pleased to have the stallion off his hands and no longer terrifying our grooms.
A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii Page 6