A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii

by Stephanie Dray

  A hundred paces from the theater, his lips twisted upward. The bellows of the lanista were already audible. If he were ordering about the gladiators this early, Pugnax wouldn’t have had time to feel worried. The guards at the gate, two scarred army veterans whom Rufus knew, grinned and saluted when they saw him. “Tesserarius,” said the more senior.

  “There’s no need for that, brothers,” Rufus replied in a half-hearted way, but the little reminder of his former status lifted his spirits, as always. “The lanista is in fine fettle this morning. I could almost hear him at the forum baths.”

  “He’s in a bad mood. The heat kept him awake half the night, he says.”

  “Like all of us. But what can we do?” added the second guard with a shrug.

  “Aye, but just when he was falling back to sleep, the tremors woke him again.”

  Rufus felt a twinge of concern. “There’s been nothing about the games being canceled, has there?”

  The senior guard shook his head. “It takes more than that to put off a man like Pansa.”

  “Have you seen Pugnax?” Rufus watched the men’s faces carefully.

  The senior guard chuckled. “Oh, yes. He went for a run before dawn. Said he’d had a dream that the gods would favor him if he did. Did the whole bloody perimeter of the walls, in his armor, and ended up at the temple to Mars, where he offered a sacrifice. He came back with a huge grin plastered all over his face. Murranus is a dead man, he said.”

  “Excellent.” Previously, Pugnax had been a little worried about facing Murranus, a murmillo and fellow “Neronian” who’d been bought not long before from the imperial gladiator school at Capua. Rufus felt himself smile. Today was going to be a good day. Pugnax was going to win. “I hope you’ll be betting on him?”

  The guards exchanged a look. “We might do, sir, yes.”

  Rufus didn’t care if they believed that Pugnax’s run of bad luck was over or not. He did. “Let me in, will you?”

  “Of course, sir.” The senior guard stepped away from the archway that formed the barracks’ entrance.

  The hobs on the soles of Rufus’ sandals clashed off the plain mosaic floor in the short passageway, reminding him of the immense noise as his legion had marched along imperial roads. In summer, the dust had been unbearable, but the sound of thousands of feet hitting the ground in unison had always filled him with pride. Even now, he loved to see soldiers on the move.

  Beyond the passage was a square open area, filled with training gladiators, and surrounded on all sides by a colonnaded walkway. The lanista’s apartment and the bedrooms of the best fighters were situated above, on the second floor. As Rufus had expected, the lanista was standing on the wooden balcony outside his quarters, where he could best oversee his men. Apart from his well-cut tunic, the short-haired man looked no different than many of his fighters. His muscles rippled under nut-brown skin that was welted with cicatrices, and under his lowered brows, his eyes were hawk-keen. He took in the visitor at once. “Rufus. You’re here early.” He didn’t sound pleased.

  Rufus kept his face serene. “It’s an important day. I wanted to see Pugnax.”

  “A man who’s on his last chance. Murranus will gut him, or I’m no judge. Then I’ll no longer have to feed the greedy bastard. He eats more porridge than any two other fighters,” said the lanista with a scowl. He pointed to a far corner of the training area. “He’s over there.”

  “My thanks.” Rufus strode off down the walkway, glad that he’d remained calm. It was unusual for a private citizen to have a gladiator here, among a lanista’s troop, but the legal agreement he’d made with the trainer still stood. It was odd, but he had Pansa to thank for it—another reason to be grateful to his second largest creditor. A year ago almost to the day, Pansa had been sufficiently impressed with Pugnax—a fighter whom Rufus had just purchased—to lean on the lanista to let Pugnax live and train among his men.

  “He’ll be a fine addition to your lot. Neronians of his quality always bring in the crowds,” Pansa had said. Rufus had been overjoyed, but Pugnax’s instruction in Capua had made little difference to his subsequent career. That would all change today, thought Rufus determinedly. Pompeii would see what Pugnax the Neronian was capable of.

  “Take it easy, Murranus!”

  The name halted Rufus in his steps. He searched for Murranus amid the nearest gladiators. There was only one murmillo, recognizable because of his fish-crested helmet.

  Murranus was sparring against a thraex, a Thracian. Both men bore wooden swords, but they were in the full armor they’d wear in the arena. As well as his helmet, Murranus had a large, rectangular shield. A single greave covered his leading, left leg, and protective padding encased his right arm. His opponent wore the griffon-crested helmet so characteristic of the thraex; he also had thick fabric and metal padding on his right arm. Because his curved shield was quite small, the thraex’s greaves were very tall, reaching up to mid-thigh.

  It was clear that Murranus was the more skilled fighter. Clashing his shield off that of the thraex, he drove him back several steps, battering his sword off the other’s helmet in a flurry of blows.

  “Murranus!” shouted the lanista even as the thraex’s knees buckled. “This is a training session, remember! Save your efforts for the arena.”

  “Lanista.” Murranus raised his sword in salute before watching with evident pleasure as his opponent rose groggily to his feet.

  Rufus hurried off along the walkway before Murranus saw him. His confidence in Pugnax was a little weaker than it had been, but he wasn’t going let that show. “Pugnax!” he called. “I hear you’ve been up for hours. Would you care for a cup of wine, to grease the joints?”

  PUGNAX was taking this fight with deadly seriousness, thought Rufus proudly. He’d had the innkeeper dilute his wine to a far greater extent than the normal ratio of one to four. “I have to stay sharp,” he said, his brown eyes dancing. “There’ll be time to get drunk tonight.”

  “There will. And the night after, and the night after that.” Rufus regarded his gladiator with pride. Pugnax was probably ten years younger than him—so, about thirty-something, which was old for a fighter. Fortunately, he didn’t look it. There wasn’t a gray hair to be seen in his thick black thatch, and his broad, pleasant face was unmarred by wrinkles. If it weren’t for his crooked nose, he’d have been handsome. Like most fighters, he was heavily built. The layer of fat that covered his well-developed physique was a form of protection against injury, allowing him to take flesh wounds that didn’t damage the muscles underneath.

  “Did you see Murranus training?”

  Nonplussed by the direct question, Rufus floundered for an answer. “Err, yes.”

  “He’s looking good, eh?”

  “I suppose.” It felt wrong to say something positive about Pugnax’s opponent.

  “There’s nothing wrong with speaking the truth, master. He’s been out in the yard from dawn until dusk for weeks now.”

  “He seemed sharp,” admitted Rufus, wondering what Pugnax was playing at.

  “I’m glad. It wouldn’t look good if I defeated him too easily. Everyone likes a close contest.” Pugnax bared his teeth. “He won’t see tomorrow’s dawn, though, I swear it.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Rufus clapped him on the arm.

  In unison, they clinked their clay cups together. “To victory,” said Rufus. And to Jucundus giving me a little more time once I’ve given him my winnings, he added silently.

  “To victory,” echoed Pugnax.

  They both drank deep.

  “How long does a man have to wait to get by?” cried a voice outside.

  “Calm down, graybeard,” growled someone in reply.

  “I’ve been following you for an eternity now. You’re stopping at every damn inn.”

  “Course I am. Lucius Caecilius Jucundus supplies all the taverns in this quarter with their wine, and today is delivery day. If you’ve got a problem with that, me and my mate would be happy t
o discuss it further. If you prefer, you could take it up with Jucundus directly.”

  Like most, the caupona they were in was open-fronted. Rufus peered out onto the street. A wagon drawn by two donkeys had pulled up right outside. Its load was an enormous leather bag; the wine within was dispensed at the back, from a long metal tube with a tap at one end. Two farm workers, both solid as tree trunks, were in charge. It wasn’t clear which one had intimidated the old man with a small cart behind, but both looked capable. The short cudgels in their hands were further proof of their willingness to use force.

  The innkeeper had seen what was going on. A pair of slave girls were sent outside, one small and dark, the other buxom and blonde, each managing to carry a pair of medium-sized amphorae over their shoulders. The old man watched with poorly concealed resentment as Jucundus’ men set about filling the vessels with the speed of ill snails. There were at least two other vehicles that were being delayed, but no one dared challenge the deliverymen.

  “I wonder if there’s anyone in Pompeii who likes Jucundus?” muttered Rufus angrily.

  “D’you owe him money, master?” Pugnax’s stare was appraising.

  Rufus tried to conceal his surprise, not that Pugnax was aware of his debts—he mentioned them often enough as a reason for Pugnax to win—but because he’d never named names. A sigh escaped him. It was logical to guess that Jucundus—one of the town’s most prominent moneylenders—might be one of his creditors. “Yes. A lot. If you lose, well—” He stopped himself. If that happened, Pugnax wouldn’t be around to care. “Never mind.”

  “I’ll win, master. The priest at the temple of Mars said so. You’ll have some money at least to give that leech Jucundus.” Pugnax leaned in close. “You know the fuller’s workshop around the corner?”

  “Yes,” replied Rufus, confused. “Why?”

  “Meet me there in a few moments, when the mayhem has died down.” Pugnax winked, and with that, he was gone.

  Intrigued, Rufus watched as Pugnax sauntered to the far side of the street. Jucundus’ men paid him no heed; he looked like any other pedestrian. Whistling tunelessly, Pugnax made a show of reading the election notices that had been painted on the wall right on the corner. Many enjoined citizens to vote for a certain Julius Polybius—but the responding graffiti advised in no uncertain terms that Polybius was corrupt, a degenerate, or both. Now and again, as anyone might, he glanced at the wagon and what lay behind it.

  What in Hades is he planning? Rufus wondered. Intuition told him that it was something to do with the wine, and that it wouldn’t be good. It was playing with fire to do anything that would piss off a man as powerful as Jucundus, but in that instant, Rufus didn’t care. His rage at Jucundus, impotent for so long, bubbled at the back of his throat, and so he observed in silence, and waited to see what Pugnax would do.

  At length, Pugnax moved on from the notices to the coppersmith’s. There he began to peruse the wares on display, picking up a bracelet here, and a pot there. He studied the wagon again.

  Rufus felt a pang of worry. What if they noticed him? The sound of children’s voices, high-pitched with excitement, drew his attention away from Pugnax. A schoolmaster, complete with a dozen pupils in tow, came into view. A bearded, stern-looking man with a writing slate in one hand and a switch in the other, he was scolding his charges for talking, for not listening to what he was saying, for not walking fast enough.

  Pugnax made his move at the same time as the boys crowded past the wagon, blocking the path of a woman carrying a basket of freshly woven wool. With bated breath, Rufus watched Pugnax disappear from sight behind the vehicle. The woman was complaining to the tutor about his students’ behavior. While apologizing, he tried to grab the ear of the boy nearest him. His target ducked back out of the way, stepped backward off the pavement and collided with one of the donkeys that was tethered to the wagon. In reply, it kicked him. The boy screamed, and all eyes turned in his direction.

  Rufus longed to go outside for a better view, but he dared not, in case someone remembered later that he’d been there, had anything to do with whatever Pugnax was at. He poured some more wine, and took a swallow. “What food have you got?” he asked the buxom blonde, who was quite attractive. Rufus forgot his rumbling stomach for several heartbeats. If—when—Pugnax won, he could always come back here for a screw.

  “Bread. Cheese. Olives. Fried fish. If you’re really hungry, I can cook you up some stew.” The slave’s gaze slid to the commotion outside.

  Rufus decided against eating. Whatever food his father had would cost him nothing. “Hmmm. Let me think on it.”

  “Shout when you’ve decided,” said the slave girl, mopping her brow, and wandering to the edge of the pavement.

  A moment or two passed. Then, despite the plethora of noises from the street, Rufus’ ears picked out the sound of liquid spilling to the ground. Lots of it. There were no fountains nearby to overflow, and in his gut he knew it wasn’t a chamber pot being emptied from above.

  “Jupiter’s hairy ass crack—who’s done that?” roared a voice—it had to be one of the deliverymen.

  “What?” cried his companion.

  “Are you blind, you fool? Look!” screeched the first man. “Someone’s cut a fucking great hole in the leather!”

  “Wine!” shouted another man. “There’s wine pouring out all over the street, citizens. Grab a jug, a beaker, a pot, anything! Free wine!”

  Rufus had to look at the floor so no one would see his broad smile. Pugnax was responsible. No doubt he’d done it low down, too, so the entire contents of the bag would be lost.

  “Free wine! Free wine!”

  A crowd descended with the speed of seagulls on a piece of rotting meat. The opportunists had containers of every kind. One man had a chamber pot; Rufus even spied an attractive patrician woman with white-blonde hair, who, when she saw him eyeing her up, gave him a most unexpected wink. The mob jostled and pushed to get a place near the streams of ruby red wine. Those with nothing to collect the liquid cupped their hands and drank as much as they could before others shoved them out of the way. Helpless before the mob, Jucundus’ men stood by and glowered. Rufus could hear them arguing about who the culprit might have been, and what would happen to them as a result.

  This was why he loved Pompeians, thought Rufus. They were so resilient. Show them some free wine, and they forgot all of their worries, even the unexplained earth tremors. Biting the inside of his cheek to hold in his mirth, he sauntered outside. Mounting the raised doorstep of a house, he scanned the street beyond the wagon. There was no sign of Pugnax, which explained the deliverymen’s confusion. It had been utter genius to act when he had, Rufus thought. It was a shame that Jucundus would never know that it had been his man who was responsible, although to be truthful, he didn’t need the trouble that would surely follow such a revelation. Better to enjoy it in secret, he concluded, ambling around the corner in search of the fuller’s.

  Pugnax wasn’t there, but he arrived from the opposite direction before Rufus had much chance to examine the various wool tunics on sale within. Red-faced and sweating, he snorted with delight when Rufus greeted him. That set Rufus off. They both dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. The slave who was attending the shop’s front counter looked on uncomprehendingly.

  Rufus regained control first. “Gods, but I haven’t enjoyed a joke as much in an age,” he said, wiping away tears of amusement. “My thanks, Pugnax. I needed that.”

  Pugnax gave him the same wink as he had before. “My pleasure, master. It was worth the risk, eh?”

  “Damn it, yes!” Glancing at the sun, Rufus grew serious. “It’s time to visit my father. I want to see him before going to the arena.”

  “Shall I accompany you?”

  “Today’s your day,” said Rufus with a smile. “What’s best for Pugnax the Neronian?”

  “I’ll walk with you, master.”

  Rufus inclined his head in grave acknowledgement, as he might at Saturnalia, when
slaves became the masters for one night. “As you wish.”

  “THANK all the gods for the awning, and Pansa, who paid for it,” said Satrius, using a square of linen to pat the moisture from his forehead and the bags under his cheeks. He pointed upward, at the massive strips of cloth that were suspended on long poles over much of the arena. “It would be worse than Hades in here if it weren’t for those.”

  “Aye,” replied Rufus, studying the mottled color of his father’s complexion sidelong, and trying not to worry. On a good day, Satrius looked like an older version of himself. In these good seats that Rufus had managed to secure, he resembled a freshly expired corpse. It was no surprise. The best seating was low down in the amphitheater, near the arena. Even with the awnings, it was warmer than the caldarium in any of the city’s baths. Was that why the place was half empty? he wondered. Or was it because more people than he’d realized had left town, scared by the shaking of the earth? Either way, Rufus hoped the decreased attendance wouldn’t sway Pansa toward calling the games off.

  “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for you to come out.”

  “Rubbish, my boy. I want to see this contest. This is going to be your day, and Pugnax’s. I’d never forgive myself if I missed it. Besides, the fight will take place soon. We can leave the moment it’s over.”

  Rufus half smiled, but wished that he’d held off visiting his father until later. He should have anticipated that Satrius would insist on attending. It would have been better to check on Mustius, but Rufus had been put off doing that by the heavy who still lingered close to his door. He offered up a prayer to Aesculapius, the god of medicine. Watch over my father, I ask you, Great One. Do not take him from me yet, please.

  A piteous cry was instantly followed by a roar from the crowd, and their attention was drawn back to the circle of sand. As part of the day’s entertainment, Pansa had paid for a score of African antelope, five lions, and one rhinoceros—the famed “Ethiopian bull”—to be hunted down in the arena. Rufus had been busy when the antelope were herded into the open to meet the venatores, the men who would end the antelopes’ lives. He had seen them from a slit window in the network of tunnels that ran beneath the seating, but his priority had been to get Pugnax a good spot in one of the alcoves by the doors that opened onto the sands. In the time it had taken him to do that, greasing the palm of a guard with his last denarii, most of the antelope had been slain. The few survivors hadn’t lasted much longer. Desultory applause had met their demise, but a real cheer of enthusiasm had risen when the first lion had been released.