Pompeii

by T. L. Higley

  "The sea is not safe, nor are your homes! We must flee the city. Gather your households. Move south!"

  Some stopped to listen. Most hurried on, as though he were a crazed prophet, foretelling doom while the sun still warmed them. He smacked a fist against his palm and paced the platform. The message he shouted today outweighed any political speech. The vicious enemy above them overshadowed even Nigidius Maius.

  Ariella grabbed at his ankle from beneath the dais. "It is not your responsibility to save them all. You have done what you can."

  She was right, but the useless flight of the people toward the sea frustrated him. Still, he must see to his own.

  He expected the entrance to the prison to be untended, but when they reached the narrow set of steps that led underground, they found that the guard had been tripled. As though the escape of criminals threatened the city more than the evil in the sky. Two burly soldiers stood at the steps, their pilum crossed at the opening, and another stood within the recess, shoveling out the ash and rocks that clogged the opening.

  Cato scrambled through the remaining distance, Ariella's hand in his own and Micah somewhere behind them. "You must let them out." The guards wore a mixed expression of fear and duty. "They will be trapped under there!"

  One of the soldiers inclined his head to the third. "He'll keep it clear."

  "And you will be buried beside him. Think, men! Who will hold you accountable for fleeing your own death?"

  But they had been trained too well, and looked over his head, silent.

  Cato cursed under his breath. Could the three of them, unarmed, overpower the soldiers? "Who has given the order to keep them here?"

  "Nigidius Maius. He was here only a short time ago, ensuring that the prison remain full."

  Maius. So this was where he had been when Cato had searched for him in his villa. Had he now returned to his daughter? Would they run to safety, leaving some to die in cells?

  Ariella squeezed his hand and turned her face to speak to him. With the fabric covering her mouth, the guards would not hear. "We must find weapons and come back. They will not give up their duty without a fight."

  Cato looked down on her sweet face, so earnest in her willingness to take up arms for him, for Portia. His beautiful and fearsome warrior. He kissed the top of her head once more, then led her and Micah from the prison.

  "There are those with more influence here than we have. Seneca and Europa will know how to get into the prison." And it will give me a chance to see how they fare.

  Ariella's eyes brightened above her mask. "I have been worried for them."

  "It should not take long to reach their home." He turned to Micah. "You should cover your face. The night is not over yet."

  The grand house of Europa and Seneca lay in the eastern district, perhaps a league from the Forum. Could they reach it without being pummeled by falling cinders? Stay close to the walls, and stay together. What time was it? The early dusk was disorienting. Did it near the time of the evening meal?

  But the townspeople were unconcerned with food. Many of them had strapped small cushions to their heads, to soften the blow of the falling fist-sized rocks. Strange sight. Man, woman, and child hurrying through the half-buried streets with terrified faces under their comical head coverings. Many clutched ornate wooden lock boxes. All they could carry, fearing the worst: that they would not return.

  Cato had not released Ariella's hand since the Forum. They twisted through the crowd. A sudden and white-hot flash of light drew him up, and she rammed his back.

  The crowd paused, as they had when the stones began to fall. As if an unseen god controlled the movement of each one, halting and setting in motion according to his whim. They looked to the sky, to the menacing gray cloud.

  Another flash. A collective scream. Summer lightning, but arcing horizontally through the darkness. No daggers thrown to earth, these ragged red sparks branched from one side of the sky to the other. Lit up the underside of the cloud with an angry orange glow.

  They pushed on. Every new flare brought sharp screams. Ash coated his tongue, burned his eyes, rattled in his lungs. How long could they survive?

  Fires cropped up through the city. He glimpsed them through the open upper portion of abandoned doorways—both the insulae and wealthy homes. The city burned above and below.

  At last they reached the house. The door was unbarred, though rock and ash buried a third of it. Had they left? He entered without a call of greeting, pulling Ariella across the hidden threshold. Micah brought up the rear. The three pulled their masks below their chins.

  Silence reigned. Ash drifted through the open atrium roof and settled on the bright flowers. Bizarre paradox of vibrant life coated with the cremated remains of the mountain.

  "Europa? Seneca?"

  Ariella ran to the triclinium. "Jeremiah?"

  No answer.

  A shadow caught his eye in a doorway near the back of the courtyard, familiar in its massive build. "Cyrus?"

  The bald Persian slave edged forward.

  "Are they hidden?"

  The slave crossed his bulky arms. "Taken."

  Cato's heart lurched. "Killed?"

  Cyrus's eyes narrowed to angry slits. "Arrested. Because of the faith. They were accused of treasonous acts and imprisoned."

  Ariella gasped and extended her hand to the ruined garden. "Now?"

  "The soldiers came this morning, when all was well. Rounded them up and marched them off."

  Cato raked a hand through his hair, finding it full of ashes. "And now he keeps them there, in certain death. He has gone mad." A flicker of madness threatened Cato's own mind. Could he do nothing to help anyone?

  Ariella grasped his hands, brought his eyes to her own. "We must free them, Quintus. The believers and Portia. We can do this together." Her steady voice sharpened his focus. Portia and the church. But there were others he could not forget.

  "Micah—" he turned to Ariella's young brother, always so quiet—"I need your help. My mother and sister, in my home . . . will you go to them?"

  The young man straightened and nodded.

  "They will be frantic at my absence, and they need to leave the city. Help them gather what valuables they can carry, hide the remainder, and bring them both to the Stabian Gate. We will meet you there. Will you remember the way to the house?"

  His eyes were somber. "I will find it."

  Cato looked into his eyes and gripped his arm. "Watch the sky, Micah. And the mountain. If we do not come—"

  Micah returned his grip, the clasp of friends. "I will keep your loved ones safe." His eyes flicked to Ariella.

  Cato nodded, offering Micah his own vow. "And I will do the same for you."

  Ariella threw her arms around her brother. "We will come to you soon, I promise. Do not fear."

  Should he send Ariella with her brother? Was it wrong to force them to part? And yet he had sworn he would not let her go again. And you need her help. He let them say their goodbyes and went to Cyrus. "We need weapons."

  The loyal slave drew in a breath that expanded his mighty chest. "You shall have them." He pounded a fist across his chest. "And another to fight by your side."

  CHAPTER 46

  Ariella watched Micah climb through the half-buried doorway, back into the open street. Tears welled, but it was right. He should go to Octavia and Isabella. And she must help free Portia and the others. Her heart ached at the separation, but she would see him again.

  Cyrus brought bread and wine. Not hungry, she ate and drank for strength. The bread tasted of ashes and the wine soured in her chest.

  The home had some weapons. Not many. Two swords and a small assortment of time-dulled daggers.

  They covered their faces once more, gripped their weapons and trudged through the gravelly atrium to the door, ducked through the opening and regained the street.

  They moved in a single line now, holding their weapons instead of each other. He had not spoken to her of his heart. How could he?
But his eyes and his lips had said much. She would refuse to be his mistress, but he knew that. She followed him through the streets, which had grown quieter since they came this way. Cyrus came behind.

  The lightning continued. Would it ever stop? Night had fallen, and with the walls of houses blocking the view of the mountain and the darkness obscuring the sky, one could almost forget the horror that overshadowed them. But those flashes of terror—each one screamed the truth.

  Deliver us, Hashem.

  The name of the Lord is a strong tower, the righteous run into it and are safe.

  Words from childhood. Were they still so much a part of her? What kind of Jew called on the Creator only in times of distress?

  Most of them.

  This was truth, and the history of her people. And yet, did He not deliver, again and again?

  She struggled to keep up, her breath coming in short gasps, but her mind fixed elsewhere.

  Yes, Hashem was sovereign over the affairs of men, whether her rebellious spirit chose to acknowledge it or not. Refusing to bow her knee, raising her fist, these actions did nothing to put her in control, did they? She could accept His sovereignty, or she could deny it. Either way, Hashem still ruled. Extending blessing and allowing evil, and who could fathom the mind of the Creator?

  True, her life had been mostly evil of late. But still, there was good. Micah had been returned to her. She had found Quintus.

  Quintus. She had called him by his praenomen earlier, and he had not reacted. It had come naturally, for in her heart, she had called him such since the first time she learned his name.

  Another flash illuminated the ash-clogged street. With the crowds dispersed, the light revealed a scattering of dead bodies, lying where they had been struck down. Some lay abandoned, others cradled in the arms of their loved ones. They passed a young girl, clutching an older man to her chest. She rocked and wailed, insensible to danger. Ariella's heart wrenched. But they must move on.

  The sight of such tragedy might have crushed the spirit of another, but Ariella found that the will to fight, the flaming heart of a warrior she had claimed in the arena, rose up within her with a strength she had never known. She clutched her dagger securely, her heart pounding and palms slick with the familiar anticipation of battle.

  Invincible, no. But a warrior for Hashem. Would He accept her, after all she had done to refuse Him? There was only one way to be accepted, she saw that now. The once-for-all atonement of Yeshua's sacrifice, applied to her.

  They passed an open doorway, and her right leg dislodged gravel, slipping down into the entrance. Cyrus grabbed her from behind and lifted her back to the loose upper level of stones. They marched on.

  The strange smell that had drifted through the city strengthened. Sulfur. The smell of fire . . . of the underworld.

  Halfway to the prison, a wrenching crash sounded to their left. They paused, listening. Another quake?

  Quintus turned, his eyes dark. "The roofs are collapsing. They cannot hold the weight."

  Ariella closed her eyes. The sound was horrific. The sound of a city dying. The streets had emptied. Where were the people? Had they escaped out of the town, or did they huddle in their homes, believing they were safe, while the gray world crashed down on their heads?

  Cyrus prodded her from behind. "We can do nothing for them."

  They reached the Forum at last. Ariella called on the fight within, readied her mind for the battle. In the darkness it was impossible to see how many guards remained at the entrance to the underground prison.

  They fought their way across, still a single line, a feeble front with no rear guard. The mountain drew her irresistibly, and she paused to stare at the orange flames at its peak, a grotesque and colossal torch, lighting up the trunk of ash and rock. In the ash-covered world, the flaming mountain seemed the only thing that lived. How was it possible that after all these hours, it still disgorged itself into the sky?

  Forget the mountain. Think only of the battle.

  But when they reached the prison steps, they found only a slight depression in the gravel where the entrance had been. No guards blocked them. Only stone.

  She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her sword-hand. "They heeded your advice." The guards had fled, and left the prisoners buried alive.

  Beside her, Cyrus yanked a handle sticking up from the ash. A shovel. He set to work immediately.

  Ariella tossed her weapon aside and used her feet to kick the gravel away from the opening as he dug. Quintus did the same.

  The mountain blazed, rocks landed around them, and an urgency fell upon them all. They worked in silence, clearing the entrance bit by frustrating bit. When they had opened a narrow channel, enough to squeeze through, she and Quintus took up their weapons once more and pushed through. Cyrus remained above, in case of a cave-in.

  Singing.

  They heard singing as they descended. Ariella's heart swelled with the melody.

  "Portia?" Quintus called into the gloom. "Seneca?" He grabbed a torch from a wall socket, still burning even in the sealed-off tomb.

  The singing ceased, a beat of silence followed, then the sound of a crowd scrambling to its feet, hurrying to cell doors.

  "Cato?" Seneca's voice was strong, confident.

  They moved toward the voice. A hand stretched through the small opening in the door.

  "We will get you out."

  They had prepared themselves for a battle with the guards. The cell doors fell before them easily. Ariella hacked at the wooden bars with her swords and Quintus kicked at others. The prisoners, innocent and guilty alike, tumbled from cells, chattering and embracing each other and their rescuers.

  Ariella fell into Europa's embrace, patted Jeremiah's aging cheek. But above their heads, she watched Quintus as he searched for his sister.

  "Portia?" He clutched at various prisoners in turn. "Portia of the Catonii? Where is she?"

  It was Europa who gave the answer, her hand gentle on his arm. "He came hours ago, when we first arrived. He took her with him."

  Quintus stared down at her, uncomprehending.

  "Nigidius Maius. We were placed here on his orders. After the disaster came, he visited the prison. He seemed fearful that you would come for her, so he told the guards he was removing her to his private cells, in his villa."

  Ariella's arms trembled with fear and fury. It had taken so long to reach the prison. Could they ever hope to rescue Portia from the estate outside the town? A house that lay in the direct path of the spewing mountain? She met Quintus's eyes, tried to convey her sorrow.

  His own eyes had gone cold. He gripped Seneca. "Take your family and get out of the city. The roofs are collapsing and I believe the mountain has more death to rain upon us. There is nowhere safe."

  Seneca wrapped an arm around Flora and said nothing. Ariella could read his heart. How could Flora make such a journey? She clutched Europa's hand. "You must find a way. Please. We will meet you south, beyond the city gate."

  Europa looked to her husband. Would they leave? She could not be sure.

  Quintus was pushing the freed prisoners up through the opening they had cleared. He yelled encouragement to move forward. Many of them must have found the prison a safe refuge compared to the falling sky. But it would not remain so.

  Above ground, she fought her way to his side. "Can we make it?"

  "To the Stabian Gate?"

  She touched his face. "To Portia."

  He shook his head. "I cannot allow you to come. Go with them, help them flee, meet your brother, and my mother and sister."

  Her mouth went dry and she gripped her sword tighter. "You promised Micah you would keep me safe."

  His eyes flashed. "And this is how I will do it! Do you think you will be safer heading toward that?" He jabbed his sword toward Vesuvius.

  She ignored him and said her good-byes to the believers. When they had ventured off she turned back to him. "You do not even know where Maius keeps his private cells."r />
  He rammed his sword down into the rubble. "I will find them." He took her in his arms, pulled his mask away so she could read his face. "Please, my love, be safe."

  The words struck the breath from her chest, but she would not be dissuaded. She pushed away, took up his sword, and handed it to him.

  "I stay with you."

  CHAPTER 47

  They traveled across a foreign landscape barren of life, devoid of color.

  Cato led the way, both grateful and fearful that Ariella followed. Their sandals sank in the ash and rock, sometimes to the ankle but often deeper. Progress was slow.

  It must be well after sunset now, though the sun had been absent since midday. The column of fire ahead of them lit the gray streets and the fields beyond with an unnatural warmth, a glow that sickened rather than comforted.

  They picked their way up the Street of Tombs, many of the repositories of the dead already buried. Not even the dead were safe, and the sight proved that there was nowhere to hide. There was no end to the falling ash, and Cato tried to calculate the rate at which it fell. How many hours until the city ceased to exist?

  Behind him, Ariella yelped. He spun to the sound. Had she been hit?

  She held up her hand, as if to signal that she was unhurt, but then rubbed at an angry red welt on her arm.

  They were both scraped and burned, but he was grateful it was no worse. He nodded his sympathy and they moved forward. It seemed a miracle that they had not been struck down by anything larger. Perhaps it is a miracle.

  If Jeremiah's God, his God, were indeed intervening, it had better be only the beginning. The approach to Maius's house was the final approach to evil. The villa lay in the shadow of the mountain, a fitting place for the culmination of the fight that had begun the moment Nigidius Maius had stepped into his wine shop.

  It was about more than the election now. About more than even his sister's freedom. Perhaps it always had been.

  The pull of God was strong on his heart tonight. All that Jeremiah had spoken over him seemed words from a prophet. It was for him to rise up against evil, to wield the sword of God against it. Trusting in God, not himself. Willing to fail, praying to succeed. Had he been chosen? Could he believe the old man's words?