Pompeii

by T. L. Higley

  CHAPTER 26

  Cato was still posturing before the crowd when Ariella made her escape. She ran from the sand, grateful that her injuries were all in her upper body so that she was able to flee the arena without limping, or worse—being carried out.

  In the corridor beyond the arena, Floronius waited, fuming. "What was that? Do you suppose I am going to allow you to be declared the victor—"

  But Ariella did not want to hear it. Wanted none of it, this life of a gladiator, this life of slavery. She dropped her trident and net, ran past Floronius, past the other fighters waiting to be called to the sand, and up the ramped exit to the city. The arch ahead streamed light into the dingy hall and she flew toward it as though chased by demons.

  Her left arm throbbed where it had been sliced open and she dared not look. Her ribs burned and every muscle seemed as though it had been stretched over a fire.

  Still, she ran.

  And as she ran, the truth pounded up through her sandals and into her heart.

  You will never be a true fighter.

  Never make a name for herself as an opponent of anything more than dwarf or beast.

  You will never be free.

  There was nothing for her but to be killed in the arena. Or to run away, be found, and executed.

  And Portius Cato, what of him and his threat? No doubt he would have her scrubbing the barracks latrine and serving porridge to her former colleagues.

  At the thought of slavery in the barracks, her heart and mind turned to Jeremiah, and her feet soon followed. Through the city, drained of people by the games at the end of town, she ran, then walked, then stumbled to reach the house where she had left Jeremiah some nights earlier. She had only this one friend in Pompeii. Where else would she go?

  She reached the massive doors set so close to the street, leaned a weary hand against the wood, and panted. Her arm was a bloody mess, and she had no legitimate right to be here, as she had the night Jeremiah had directed her to this door. Why would they even open the door to her?

  And yet she knocked. Would Jeremiah still be here? She would beg to see him.

  The house slave who greeted her that night again opened the door. She swallowed, searched for the words, but he seemed to recognize her. A glance at her bleeding arm and he pulled the door wider and yelled for someone else.

  A younger woman, the adopted daughter Flora, appeared. Ariella staggered across the threshold. Flora caught her around the waist and led her forward, into the spacious atrium, to a bench beside the impluvium, where water sparkled above the blue and green mosaics of the basin.

  And then she was there, Europa, whom Ariella only now realized she had been longing to see. The woman bustled out of nowhere as though Ariella were an expected guest, directing slaves to bring water, to bring rags, to move Ariella to a front room.

  Ariella let herself be led, silent and numb, to one of the rooms off the atrium, a lavish receiving room, where Europa's husband no doubt met with business associates. The walls were frescoed in red and yellow plasters, with ceiling-high inset squares that fooled the eye into thinking they were paneled, with painted vases and sculptures and bowls of fruit on low tables, all done in the realistic style that made the room seem even bigger, grander.

  Her fuzzy mind still noted that she would be brought here, instead of one of the back rooms, unfinished and rough, where the servants and slaves spent their time.

  "Bring Jeremiah," Europa was saying to Flora. "He will want to see his friend."

  She guided Ariella to a couch and laid her across it, her arm extended where it could be treated. Ariella fixed her eyes on Europa's purple-edged robe, pulled up at the shoulders over her ample bosom and fixed with gold pins. A hopelessness washed over Ariella, as though she had held the tide at bay as she crossed the city and only now it swamped her, drowned her.

  The big Persian brought an orange terracotta basin and some pure white rags, and Europa bathed Ariella's arm with the cool water, pausing each time Ariella gasped.

  "It will heal." Europa squeezed the rag and dipped it again. "But you will have a scar."

  Ariella turned her head to examine the wound and found two cuts, perpendicular, with the horizontal slice shorter than the vertical. She closed her eyes and laid her head back against the cushions.

  Fitting. Her injury formed the symbol of Rome's favorite method of criminal execution: a cross. How many of her countrymen had she seen hanging, tortured, along the roads leading out of Jerusalem years ago? That she should be identified with Israel's destruction, with criminals, seemed only right.

  Jeremiah hobbled through the doorway and Ariella lifted a hand in a weak greeting.

  Europa spoke over her shoulder, still tending Ariella with the soft touch of a mother that broke her heart. "She has taken a beating in the arena. She's lost some blood, and I believe a rib or two may be broken. But she will heal."

  Ariella noted Europa's knowledge of her gender and looked to Jeremiah. "You told her."

  Europa snorted. "Told me what? That you are a young woman?" She patted Ariella's cheek. "One does not need to gift of a prophet to see such a thing. Later, when you are ready, you can tell me what brought you to the arena dressed as a boy."

  Ariella sighed, overwhelmed with a mixture of gratitude and weariness.

  "Come, Jeremiah." Europa stood and gave her place to the old man. "Sit with her. Sing her songs of home until she falls asleep."

  Her old friend lowered himself slowly, carefully.

  "You are well?"

  He smiled. "I will be ready to train with you in no time."

  Ariella turned her head away from him. "I am not going back."

  "Hmmm. Have you always gone your own way, Ariella? With no care for Hashem's direction?"

  She shifted and winced. "Hashem cares nothing for me!" It felt good to say it—to declare the truth. No more masks. She was a woman and she had set herself in opposition to the God of her fathers who had long ago abandoned her. Neither of these would she deny any longer.

  Jeremiah brushed the hair from her forehead and obeyed Europa by beginning a soft song.

  Ariella gripped his hand and closed her eyes, trying to recall better times. But she floated on a river of hopelessness, such as had carried her out of Jerusalem nine years earlier and deposited her at the feet of Valerius, where the true humiliation began.

  Jeremiah's voice rose and fell and became a prayer over her, spilled out in her beloved Hebrew as he rocked back and forth, his chants soothing, hypnotic. He sang and prayed of the prophets, of their promise of a Messiah to save Israel. And then his songs grew unfamiliar, words of redemption, of forgiveness and love and purpose, all found in this Yeshua, this Messiah he had claimed.

  But Yeshua was not her Messiah. Had the prophets even spoken truth when they promised that the Creator would one day redeem? The God of Israel was not a good God as she had been taught. How could he be, with what had happened to his city, to his temple, to his people?

  The anger built within her like a solid thing, pushing impossibly against the love Jeremiah claimed that the Creator had for her. Anger and love—two immoveable forces in collision in her heart, the pressure almost too great to bear.

  Ariella felt the tears slide from the corners of her eyes to the cushions, and she let them fall, let herself weep for Jerusalem, for her lost family . . .

  For her future.

  She had done everything for them, and yet they credited her with little.

  Vesuvius looked down on Herculaneum, on Pompeii, on the towns that reaped her benefits unthinkingly, and rivers of magma beneath her surface churned and boiled with resentment.

  Ironic that the towns that prospered because of her rhythmic spewing could also be destroyed by it.

  How much of their riches had been given by her hand? Granite, basalt, pumice—all formed by her cooling magma. Opals and sapphires broken loose from the depths and sent upward to be discovered. Fertilized soil where oranges, lemons, and grapes thrived like nowher
e else.

  And yet she was not appreciated. Not as she should be, not as her true self. If they knew what raged within her, they would show proper respect. But they wanted only her benefits, without paying the price. Ungrateful wretches.

  There had been some who were properly thankful, once. A group of slaves, escaped from tyranny and led by one of their own, a gladiator. They had hidden in one of her craters until the army had come for them, and their leader Spartacus led them down the other side to freedom.

  But that had been many years ago, and there were none who even looked up from their own selfish lives long enough to thank her for everything they had.

  No matter. They would soon regret their inattention.

  CHAPTER 27

  Despite the strange outcome of the arena games, and the attention that followed as Cato made his way back through the city, he did not forget his errand as the sun set. The Christians had promised to take him to his sister. Lucius wanted to come, but Cato convinced him it was better for him to not draw attention.

  He was invited into the home of Seneca and his wife, Europa, but kept in the atrium as the slave went to fetch his master.

  Ariella had not been far from his thoughts since she fled the arena hours earlier. He stopped at the barracks, but Drusus shook his head, denying knowledge of her whereabouts. This seemed to be truth, as the lanista was furious over her disappearance, especially after the spectacle of the afternoon.

  Could she be here, in the house of Europa? He had seen her in this home once, but would she come here after her injury? He longed to be certain that the cuts were not dangerous. Europa appeared, and almost he asked her about Ariella, but in the end held his tongue, unsure of what the woman knew of the gladiator in disguise.

  "We must wait awhile." Europa indicated that he follow her deeper into the house, around the stone half-wall that bordered the gardens and into the colonnade that ran alongside it. "It must be fully dark before we attempt to get you into the prison." She looked him up and down and smiled. "And we must get you other clothes."

  Cato looked down at his toga, wrapped and draped with fashionable precision. "What? Not the right attire for a prison visit?"

  Europa ushered him into the triclinium where he had been that first night. "No one in your position goes there."

  "You do."

  She studied him a moment. "I can see why Jeremiah speaks of you highly. I sense in your heart a strong passion for justice."

  Cato lowered his head. She had seen too much. "I only want to help my sister."

  "Your sister. The city. Those oppressed by evil."

  Cato shrugged. Wasn't there a lighter topic?

  She patted his arm and motioned for him to sit on one of the plump cushions placed on the benches around the low tables. "I believe you are still finding yourself, Portius Cato. And I believe the hand of God is on you, to use you for His purposes. We shall see."

  A chill passed through Cato at her words, as though she were some sort of oracle telling his future. He said nothing.

  Europa's husband, Seneca, joined him in the triclinium, and food and wine were brought to pass the time. Cato found the man fascinating, and listened to his tales of fortune on the seas with delight. Ironic that Ariella had guessed correctly, though the fish symbol near the door held another meaning. But as the night fell, their mood fell with it, and the somber journey became their focus.

  Cato was given a servant's tunic, and he stripped and changed. Europa draped a heavy mantle over his shoulders, as though he were of Eastern descent, to further disguise his jawline. Another man came to the door to escort Cato through the streets and Cato was shocked to see it was Albus, the madman from the Forum, now in his right mind. They crossed sidewalks and stepped over gutters in silence, moving toward the Forum and its underground cells. The city smelled of sewage at night, and the purple-green mountain that always shed such beauty over the landscape disappeared into the inky darkness. The clouds that had grown thicker through the day blotted out the moon.

  Cato could not keep quiet, however. "I saw you. That day in the Forum. With Seneca."

  Albus slowed. "The day I was set free."

  "What held you?"

  "Not what. Who. The demons took my mind and body years ago."

  "And now?"

  Albus laughed. "Once Yeshua has set you free, you are free indeed. There is nothing left but to follow Him."

  Freedom. The word clashed with their prison errand—and with the bondage of his own heart.

  Cato had been given a large basket to carry, and he kept his face half-hidden. They approached a darkened doorway and Cato followed the younger man past a guard and down a flight of shadowy steps that grew damper as they descended. Somewhere at the bottom a torch flickered uneasily, and an oily smoke filtered up to his assault his nose.

  Portia is down here.

  Anger and powerlessness swept over him, as strong as he had felt earlier when Ariella faced her opponent.

  Another guard sat at the bottom of the steps, and he jumped to his feet, rubbing his eyes, at their approach. Cato's escort whispered to him, as though they were acquainted. The guard stepped to Cato and rifled through the contents of the basket, clean tunics, and loaves of bread. Cato kept his head down, but the guard's attention was on his cargo. He nodded once, jerked a thumb over his shoulder and regained his seat.

  His new friend led him deeper into the underground chamber. "We are allowed to bring supplies to the prisoners several times each week. A charitable pursuit looked on with favor by the city's officials, thankfully." And not the least of their charities, Cato knew.

  They passed several tiny chambers, with only a narrow door to mark each one, and a squat little window that looked upon the inside of the prison. The cells smelled even worse than the street.

  The young man stopped before the fourth door. "She is here." He took the basket from Cato and indicated that he should step to the tiny window.

  Cato peered through the square opening, but could see nothing in the darkness beyond. "Portia?"

  There came a shuffling, slow and deliberate. Then a pale face at the hole, eyes sunken and hair hanging in stringy clumps. "Quintus? Is that you?"

  Oh, Portia.

  Cato's heart fell to his feet. He beat back the tears that threatened to spill, and reached cold fingers through the square. She studied his hand as though it were a novelty, then clutched at it with a desperation that broke his heart. "Portia, you are ill!" She fared even worse than he had feared.

  She swallowed and leaned her forehead against his hand. "I have been ill, yes. But—but it is not the confinement." She lifted her head, and he saw her own tears streak through the dirt that clung to her pale skin. "Quintus," she whispered, "I am with child!"

  Cato cursed inwardly. No. Not now. "We will get you out, Portia."

  She shook her head. "I have heard things. Maius does not push for a trial yet. He uses me to blackmail you. He will tell you that you must give up the election." She tightened her hold on his hand. "Do not do it, Quintus. Not even for me. He must be stopped."

  Cato's companion was at his side, pushing clean clothing through the opening, and Portia accepted it with a grateful smile. He gave her bread and a jug of something, and she disappeared from the opening to store her treasures.

  When she returned, her spirits seemed lifted, but it shattered Cato again to think that such small comforts could cheer her. "I will stop him, Portia. I promise you. But I will not leave you here."

  "How is Lucius?"

  "Like a ship with no rudder. He mourns your absence every moment."

  She bit her trembling lip at this, but then succumbed to more tears. "You will give him my love?"

  Cato nodded.

  "But do not tell him of my condition, Quintus. Promise me this. I want to tell him myself. And I fear what he might do if he knew. And Maius—I am afraid that Maius would claim that the child—" She seemed unable to speak the words.

  Cato reached through the opening t
o cradle her cheek. "I will not make this promise, dear sister, because I cannot be certain what tomorrow will bring. But if I can keep your secret, I will."

  She leaned into his hand, apparently content with his answer.

  "We must go," Cato's guide said at his shoulder. Cato turned to find the basket empty. The man had already distributed its contents to other prisoners. Were any of them innocent, as Portia?

  Portia brought his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers and he leaned his forehead against the small opening, as close to her as he was able. "I will be back, Portia. Courage!"

  And then they were out, back up the steps into the black night, crossing the city in silence once more. Snatches of drunken laughter and the shrill calls of brothel women echoed through the streets. The respectable citizens were behind their doors and it was the time for other pursuits. Cato followed his companion back to Europa's house, his mind and body numb, his eyes trained on the dark sidewalk and its cat's eye stones.

  Portia and Ariella. Two women with secrets. Two women in trouble.

  The frustration of helplessness surged in his chest, hot and bitter. He marched on, noticed a patch of tiny yellow flowers that bloomed in a crack between sidewalk and house, a surprising bit of beauty in the grubby street. Cato ground his foot into the flowers until they were crushed into the crack. The puny show of power did nothing.

  How could he make a difference in this city, when he could not even save two women? He was a kitten fighting a bull, and would soon be stomped on like the flowers.

  Back at the house of Seneca and Europa he changed his clothes quickly, thanked the couple for their help, and headed back out into the city. Already, his fury had hardened into a new goal.

  The moon still hid behind the night's clouds, making it difficult to judge the time. But Cato decided he did not care if he roused the lanista from his bed. He had business with the man that he intended to conclude tonight.

  Perhaps he could not help Portia immediately. But there was another woman who needed him.

  And he had not lied when he promised she would never again stand in the arena.