A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii

by Stephanie Dray

  When all the cats had been killed, three venatores lay dead in the golden circle. Their blood soaked into the sand, turning areas of it crimson. Several of the hunters had been badly injured. Loops of gut hung from one’s belly, while jagged stumps of bone jutted from another’s arm. One man had been bitten on the shoulder and had claw marks down both legs, but the worst of all was the venator who’d had a lion rip off half of his face. These unfortunates thrashed about, calling for their mothers, for help, for an end to their suffering. But instead of being allowed to leave, or having a surgeon sent in to tend them, the rhinoceros was goaded into the arena.

  “No one deserves to die like that,” pronounced his father through pursed lips as the massive beast gored the first man it found, before tossing him into the air and trampling him as he fell. “Not even criminals. Kill them quickly and be done.”

  “Aye.” Before his time in the legions, Rufus would have watched dispassionately. Now he looked away in distaste. There had been so many casualties because the venatores were not professional beast hunters, but convicted prisoners. Even Pansa’s purse wasn’t bottomless, thought Rufus.

  He scanned the dignitaries’ boxes, but Pansa hadn’t arrived yet. With a little luck, he would have taken his seat by the time Pugnax came out. If Pansa saw Pugnax win, he’d be more likely to agree to him fighting in another of his contests. And if the ground kept shaking as it had this morning, that would surely be held soon. On the back of a victory, the payment would far exceed today’s meager hundred denarii.

  Be patient, Rufus told himself. Put together with my winnings from the betmaker, I’ll have over two hundred denarii. That will appease Jucundus. I won’t gamble a single coin of what’s left, by everything I hold sacred. What’s left will keep me and Mustius in food and fuel until the next purse comes in.

  For all his good intentions, Rufus knew how tempting it would be to place a bet on some of the fights that came later in the day. He was a good judge of the local fighters. He could double his two hundred denarii, perhaps even triple or quadruple it. What would Jucundus say if he produced such an amount? Don’t even think about it. You’ll lose every last denarius, said a little voice in his head, one Rufus knew all too well. It was his moral side, and he was used to tramping over it in his hobnailed sandals. With an effort, he stopped himself short of doing so again. He would seek out Jucundus the instant that he’d collected his winnings. Once the money had been handed over, the temptation would be gone, because he’d have virtually nothing to spend.

  “How did a maggot lowlife like you get a good seat like this, eh?”

  Rufus would have fallen as he was yanked backward but for the hand gripping the back of his tunic. Twisting his head to try and see his assailant, he managed to scramble his legs off his bench and onto the flooring behind. His heart sank as he recognized the bandy-legged man he’d spotted earlier. “I have friends in high places,” he began.

  “Shut it,” growled Bandy Legs, twisting his fist further into Rufus’ tunic. “I’m not interested.”

  “What is the meaning of this outrage?’ demanded Satrius, his face purpling. “Release my son at once!”

  “This sewer rat is your offspring? I should have guessed. There is some resemblance, I suppose, although you look ready to cross the Styx.”

  “How dare you?” Rising, Satrius tottered forward, but Rufus waved him back.

  He longed to wheel on Bandy Legs, punching and gouging, but there was no point in making a scene. Despite his military training, he wasn’t in the best physical shape. Bandy Legs might best him. In addition, the people around them were watching, and listening to every word. If his reputation weren’t to sink deeper into the mud, he had to play along.

  “Stop, Father. This is Jucundus’ man. I’m sure that his master just wants a word with me.”

  “Yes, that’s all.” Bandy Legs’ snicker suggested that far more might be on offer.

  “I’ll be back soon,” said Rufus with a confident smile. “Why don’t you put a few coins on Pugnax while you can? The betmakers won’t be accepting wagers for much longer.”

  “That’s good advice,” Bandy Legs agreed. “You might as well waste some of your money now, old man, because you won’t be around to enjoy it for much longer.”

  “Leave my father out of it, you dog,” Rufus snarled.

  To his surprise, Bandy Legs subsided. “That way.” He shoved Rufus toward the passage leading to the outside of the amphitheater. With an apologetic glance at his father, Rufus obeyed. The faces of the nobles he passed were either knowing or disapproving, or both. He saw no sympathy.

  To Rufus’ relief, there was no one waiting with a knife in the gloom of the tunnel. Relax, he told himself. If Jucundus wanted me dead, he wouldn’t order it in so public a place.

  Even so, he flinched away from Bandy Legs’ next hefty push. Yet again, he wished that he were still in the legions, and about to fight a battle, with his men around him. But those days were gone, and it was his own fault that he was in this sorry situation. Seeing Jucundus’ familiar shape at the end of the tunnel, along with several other figures, Rufus’ stomach lurched.

  For all his wealth, Jucundus hadn’t been blessed with looks or stature—unlike Pansa, who’d been blessed with the looks of a god. Although it was well covered by his fine toga, Jucundus’ gut exaggerated his lack of height. A long nose wasn’t the worst feature in the world, but his was broad too, dominating his face. The large wart on his left cheek drew everyone’s eyes. Like many middle-aged men with a receding hairline, he combed his thinning locks forward, fooling no one but himself with his appearance. Today his hair lay in neat, oiled lines on his sweating forehead. To cap it all, Jucundus’ ears stuck out at right angles to his head.

  Truly, you should be called “Urceus,” thought Rufus. You might have a slave to hold an umbrella over your head, but you still look like a damn jug. An ugly one at that.

  Out loud, he said, “Greetings, Jucundus. It’s always a pleasure.”

  “Always the silver-tongued one, aren’t you?’ Jucundus sneered. He gestured.

  Before Rufus could react, Bandy Legs had struck him with a heavy object—a cudgel, perhaps—in the side of his right knee. With a roar of agony, he collapsed. Jucundus watched impassively. He let Bandy Legs kick Rufus a number of times in the belly before waving him off.

  Coughing and sucking air into his empty lungs, Rufus managed to sit up. “Was that really necessary?”

  “I’d say so,” snapped Jucundus. “You missed out on a beating this morning. Where were you?”

  “Where was I when?” Rufus immediately regretted his cheek. It took a longer moment for him to catch his breath after Bandy Legs had kicked him again.

  “Two of my boys called to your rooms just after dawn. They found only your crippled servant.”

  “Ah, then. My servant—is he badly injured?”

  An amused snort. “I’m told he’ll live. Where were you?”

  Poor Mustius, thought Rufus. Somehow he stilled his hate for Jucundus. “I had gone to the baths. I was woken early, you see, by the tremors. From the bathhouse, I went to check on Pugnax. My fighter.”

  “I know who Pugnax is.” Scorn dripped from Jucundus’ voice. “It’s a shame that I didn’t make you sell him before today. Whatever measly sum he raised would have meant a little more money for me.”

  “Pugnax will triumph,” said Rufus robustly. “And when he does, I’ll have two hundred denarii to give you. That’s only the start. He’ll win his next fight, and the one after that.”

  “Ha! The lanista tells me that Murranus is in the best form of his career. I’ll take his word over yours. By sundown, you’ll be without a gladiator. Then you’ll have nothing to give me but whatever paltry things you haven’t gambled away. I’ll see you evicted too.”

  Dread filled Rufus at the prospect of Pugnax dying. As to Jucundus’ second threat … “Evicted?”

  “Once your debts have been proved to the town court, I can’t see P
ansa wanting a tenant like you. You’ll be on the street within days.”

  Rufus clenched his jaw. “And the money I owe you?”

  “You’ll pay that back by coming to work for me.”

  “I see.” Looking at Bandy Legs, he could imagine the type of toil that would be expected of him. “Where will I sleep? How will I eat?”

  “You’ll have a roof over your head, never fear, and food in your belly. All costs will be deducted from your pay, of course, as in the legions.”

  Rufus could imagine the hovel he’d be expected to sleep in, the slop he would be fed with Jucundus’ other low-paid workers. It wouldn’t come cheap, though. There would be precious little left each week to give Jucundus. He was to become a slave in everything but name. His shame battled with real anger. There had to be a way out of this.

  “Well?”

  Jucundus’ question rammed home the brutal truth that he had no choice. “Very well. I accept.”

  “I knew you’d see sense.” Jucundus’ smile was toothy, like one of the large eels found deep under the sea. He turned to go.

  Rufus rallied the last of his hope. “And if Pugnax should win? Will you accept two hundred denarii as a payment until I can arrange his next fight?”

  “Pugnax is going to lose!”

  “You’re probably right—but if he doesn’t? I swear on my life, and that of my ailing father, that I will pay you back every last denarius, starting today. Just give me a little time.”

  Jucundus regarded him down his long nose, as he might a speck of shit on his toga. After a moment, he shrugged. “You’ve caught me in a good mood. So be it. Pay me two hundred denarii today, and my men will leave you be for a week. If you haven’t paid me the same sum by that time, court proceedings will begin. You’ll also wind up with a broken nose and cracked ribs, rather than your servant.”

  “Thank you,” muttered Rufus, relieved, and sorrowful for Mustius at the same time.

  Trumpets rang out from within the amphitheater, silencing the crowd. A herald began to speak, sparking off a few cheers.

  “The gladiators will be parading soon. That’s always worth a look.” Without another word, Jucundus strolled off down the tunnel, his entourage in tow.

  Rufus glared after him. You’re an evil bastard, he thought. May Pluto take you soon. It was tempting to think of drawing a blade across Jucundus’ throat, but Rufus had had to slay too many men during his army career. Nearly all had been in the heat of battle, but there had been times when prisoners taken were too much trouble to keep alive. Cold-blooded murder was no longer his way. He wondered about asking Pugnax to kill Jucundus, but even that was not to his taste. A man needed to sort out his own problems, and as honestly as he could.

  Even if that meant working for Jucundus for the foreseeable future.

  That isn’t going to happen, Rufus thought fiercely. Pugnax will beat Murranus!

  So he hoped with all his heart.

  RUFUS’ father didn’t believe a word of his muttered explanation about Jucundus wanting assurance about Pugnax’s chances, before placing a large bet on him. Satrius could not interrogate Rufus further, however. After a fanfare of trumpets, a pair of gladiators emerged onto the circle of sand to rapturous applause. The clash pitted a classic pairing of a retiarius, a net fighter, against a secutor, or pursuer. The two men were relatively inexperienced—hence their appearance in the first contest of the day—but their arrival was greeted with unbridled approval from the audience.

  There were still fewer people than would have been normal by this stage of a games, thought Rufus. Few things were more attractive to the average citizen than fights at the arena. Animal hunts were enjoyable for some, but nothing brought the crowds flocking in the way two men engaged in mortal combat did. The shedding of gladiators’ blood, even if they no longer fought during funeral rites as they once had, was sacred. And everyone loved blood. They loved it even more if the shedding of it was laid on for them free, by the notaries of their town, and if they could gamble upon the outcome of the fights. They seemed to love it even more today, perhaps because they believed it would placate the gods, and put a stop to the earth tremors.

  Under normal circumstances, Rufus also enjoyed gladiatorial contests. He didn’t like it when men died because of the crowd’s whim, though. So when the retiarius lost, and the spectators didn’t think he had fought well enough, he was one of the few who waved his hand in the air and shouted “Mitte! Let him go!” Waving his square of linen, Satrius weakly echoed his call, but the vast majority of the audience felt differently. A forest of thumbs jabbed at throats, and thousands of voices roared, “Iugula! Kill him!” The thick, hot air reverberated with the blood lust, the desire for someone to die. Pansa, who had arrived in time for the clash, was in no mood to go against the spectators’ wishes. Almost at once, he gave the signal, stabbing his own right thumb toward his Adam’s apple. It seemed he felt the shedding of blood appropriate today, too.

  Poor bastard, thought Rufus, but like everyone else, his eyes were locked on the pair of gladiators.

  Wounded or not, the retiarius was ready to do his duty. Already kneeling, he lifted his chin and gazed straight at the burning sun. Stepping in close, the secutor raised his sword high, checked with Pansa one last time that he was doing the right thing—and brought down his blade in a blur of motion. It entered the retiarius’ flesh exactly where it should, in the hollow at the top of his breastbone. In it went, slicing apart the skin, the subcutaneous layer and the deeper tissues: blood vessels, lungs, and more. The retiarius jerked to and fro on the sharp iron. A bubbling, choking sound left his purpling lips, and he died.

  The secutor tugged free his blade. Jets of blood spouted into the air as it came free, showering him from the waist down, and decorating the sand with lines of crimson. The slack-limbed retiarius toppled sideways and landed with a soft thump.

  The crowd’s satisfied ahhhhh morphed into a roar of “Habet! Hoc habet! He’s got it!” as the secutor raised his bloody sword high.

  The summa rudis, or referee, waved his stick and a team of slaves trotted out with lengths of chains, and hooks. Few noticed the retiarius being dragged away or the “demon” Charon striking him on the head with his hammer, to claim his soul for Pluto. Instead all eyes were on the secutor, who was being awarded a palm wreath and a cash prize, and on Pansa, who was standing to receive public acknowledgement of his generosity.

  “Your man’s on next, isn’t he?” whispered Satrius.

  “Yes,” Rufus replied, his stomach knotting with tension. He wanted to run down to the tunnel and pour some last encouraging words in Pugnax’s ear, but it wouldn’t be permitted. He had to sit tight, and trust in the gods. Trust in his man and his ability. He closed his eyes and prayed some more.

  “There he is!” hissed Satrius, nudging him. “He’s looking good, I have to say.”

  Rufus watched with pride as Pugnax swaggered out of the tunnel, lifting his shield and sword above his head, as if the crowd’s applause was entirely for his benefit. Murranus, a couple of steps behind, did the same, yet he didn’t receive the same response. Pugnax had already drawn most of the attention. Quickly, he spun in a circle, drawing loud laughter and a reprimand from the summa rudis.

  “PUG-NAX!” roared Rufus, eager to keep the audience on his man’s side if possible. “PUG-NAX!”

  To his delight, the call was taken up at once. “PUG-NAX! PUG-NAX! PUG-NAX!”

  Murranus’ fans, who were plentiful, did their best to compete, but the initiative had been lost. For a few moments, the amphitheater echoed to the sound of “PUG-NAX!” Pugnax turned slowly, motioning with his arms, working the spectators for all he was worth.

  Murranus did the same. More and more people began to shout their support for him. “MUR-RAN-US!”

  The shrieking of reed pipes blown by musicians standing under Pansa’s box ended the clamor. An expectant hush fell as both fighters walked to stand in the center of the circle. Perhaps ten steps separated them.r />
  This was it, thought Rufus, licking dry lips.

  Pansa nodded, and the summa rudis gestured with his stick.

  Murranus didn’t hesitate. With an animal roar, he charged at Pugnax.

  “Gods, he wasn’t ready for that,” observed Satrius.

  There’s no need to point it out, thought Rufus irritably, hoping that this elementary mistake wouldn’t prove to be Pugnax’s last. To his relief, Pugnax braced himself so that Murranus’ shoulder charge didn’t send him flying. Parrying a powerful sword thrust, he launched a counterattack, reaching around Murranus’ shield with his curved blade. There was a yelp of pain, and Murranus took several steps backward. The audience behind him roared in appreciation.

  “First blood to the thraex!” Rufus heard the summa rudis shout, and his heart sang.

  As the two fighters circled one another, each looking for a chance to strike, he saw the wound on Murranus’ back. It was over the shoulder blade, and was bleeding profusely.

  “It’s not deep,” said his father.

  “That’s all right. Murranus’ shield is as heavy as a legionary’s scutum. It’ll already be agonizing.”

  Sure enough, Murranus’ left arm had begun to drop. That didn’t mean he was beaten, however. With another fierce cry, he launched himself at Pugnax. Throwing his body weight behind his shield, he drove back Pugnax much as he had earlier with the thraex in the school. In danger of taking a bad wound, Pugnax retreated at speed.