City on Fire

by Tracy L. Higley

  His lips twitched into a smile. “You do not like to answer any question directly, do you?”

  “No more than you like to leave your questions unanswered.”

  “Ari, this is foolishness. An escaped slave woman has only one place to go, and I do not wish to see you in the brothel.” Cato’s own face flushed. “I mean that I do not want you to be forced into that life. No one should be.”

  She saw something different in him in that moment. Since their first conversation, he had seemed a rushing river, all swift speech and sharp retorts, charming as he was. But she saw something else in his eyes now. A deep loathing for evil and for injustice, a desire to right all wrongs, as much a part of him as all the witty sarcasm.

  It was too much for her, this quiet conversation with a good man. A priest moved about the back of the temple, and Ariella used Cato’s momentary distraction to pull away from his hold and rush back into the colonnade of the Forum.

  But she had only fled one problem to face another. She emerged from the temple and found herself facing Drusus, the lanista.

  Her sudden emergence drew his attention, and one look at her brought recognition. She would never have fooled him by simply changing her clothing.

  He looked her up and down, taking in her clothes, and scowled. Then stepped toward her. “What is this? I send you to paint signs for the games, and . . .” He trailed off, as though unable to form the words around his discovery.

  She felt Cato at her back, solid and strong.

  Drusus’s eyes moved above her head and his brow furrowed.

  “Drusus, is it?”

  Ariella watched as the lanista straightened a bit to be known by a man such as the one behind her.

  “What can I do for you, my lord?”

  “You can accept my apologies for . . . detaining your young warrior here.”

  Drusus looked back and forth between Cato and her, and she felt a sweat break out on her forehead as a light of understanding came into Drusus’s eyes.

  “Ah, I see.” He jabbed a finger at the temple. “All kinds of ways to worship the gods, of course. Who am I to say what is right?” He grinned at Ariella. “Besides, he makes a better woman than he does a man, eh?” To Cato, he added, “But I suppose you already know that.”

  His implication sickened her and cast an unfair light on Cato, but she could not defend him.

  “Yes, well, I appreciate your willingness to share him.”

  Drusus bowed. “We are here to serve, my lord.” He winked. “In any way that we can.”

  Drusus spoke out of a hope of being reimbursed for his trouble, and Cato did not disappoint him. She could not see how much money the nobleman slipped to the older man. Did not want to see.

  “So get to your painting, then, boy.” Drusus jabbed at her side. “After you retrieve your own clothing.”

  Ariella nodded.

  Drusus continued across the Forum, soon engaged in conversation with someone, but continuing his glances in their direction.

  “I am sorry.” She could not look up at him.

  “Listen, Ari. You should make it known that you are a woman. I saw a few female gladiators in Rome, and they were much revered and valued. Your life would no doubt be spared, if only to bring the crowds out to see you again.”

  She shook her head, unable to even consider going back. And yet the lanista watched her still and she could not run now. Her mind felt sluggish. “I must paint the signs.”

  “Where is your paint?” Cato spoke to her as though she were a child, and so she felt.

  “I have none. I used the money for the fabric.”

  “Come.” He led her down the colonnade, away from Drusus’s watching eyes, his gentle hand on her elbow, guiding her. In the Macellum, she followed as he purchased supplies for her, then led her again out the back of the market, into the street. They retraced their steps to the brothel.

  He held the paint and brush and steered her toward the door. “Find your clothing. Put it on.”

  She obeyed, because it was the only way.

  Her tunic and belt still lay on the floor where she had dropped them, and she grieved for the hope that had been part of her in that moment before she left this house.

  She changed quickly, refusing to look at the paintings on the walls that detailed the services offered within, but her movements drew a prostitute to where she stood inside the doorway. The woman looked over the young gladiator, amused, then beckoned to the interior of the house. Ariella shook her head and stalked from the building, courage finding its way back into her heart.

  She found Cato still outside and yanked the paint and brush from his hands.

  He laughed. “I cannot decide which is the real Ariella. The quiet woman being led, or the foolhardy fighter ready to oppose the world.”

  She turned to leave. “I would not have survived this long without being who I am.” She felt him watching her as she left him. Would she see him again? She slowed and faced him one last time. “Thank you. For everything. I am in your debt.”

  He bowed his head. “I will look forward to being repaid.”

  Of course.

  She chose the outer wall of the Eumachia, where the prominent fullers and their many customers would pass, for her first advertisement.

  Thirty pairs of gladiators provided by Gnaeus Nigidius Maius, quinquennial duovir, together with their substitutes will fight at Pompeii

  Her hands brushed the strokes without thought, and her mind grasped for answers to her new crisis.

  Meanwhile her heart retreated, following the Roman who today had saved her life.

  12

  Cato had no heart for the speeches or the parade, and wandered home before the politicians had finished. His encounter with the madman had troubled him, though he could not say why. Only that there was something not right here in Pompeii. He could feel it. And the run-in with Ari, now Ariella, had disturbed him further. What interest should he have in a slave? He had plenty of his own.

  By the next morning he had convinced himself that it was the curiosity of a female gladiator that intrigued him.

  The games that Maius had so generously sponsored for the amusement of the city were scheduled for tonight. Would Ariella be there, in the arena? What would happen when she took to the ring? Would she be hurt?

  Cato lounged in his gardens, trying to amuse himself with Cicero’s writings and urging the sun to track across the sky at a faster pace. By midmorning he grew restless and even Octavia noticed.

  “You are like a little boy, pacing as you wait.” She patted his cheek. “Find something to keep you busy.”

  He shrugged her off. “I am only anxious to see what sort of display can purchase the silence of an entire town.”

  Octavia frowned. “Nigidius Maius has not stopped boasting all week.”

  Isabella entered the garden in time to hear her mother’s comment. “The slaves are saying that he has even brought dwarves.”

  Octavia clucked at her daughter. “Isabella, I do not like you gossiping among the slaves. It is most inappropriate.”

  Isabella grinned and shrugged.

  “What do they know of the gladiators?” Cato asked.

  Octavia gave an exasperated sigh and lifted her hands. “You two are exactly alike. I shall leave you to your gossip.”

  But before Cato could question Isabella further, a shout from the street startled all three.

  Remus burst through the doorway, into the atrium, skidding to a stop before the dancing faun. “The vines!” His breath came in short gasps. “The vines are burning!”

  Cato pushed past his sister and mother and crossed the mosaic floor to grab Remus by the shoulders. “My vines? How?”

  The servant shook his head. “You must come!”

  Cato nodded, and the two ran from the house. He was aware that Isabella followed, amidst his mother’s protestations, but he soon outpaced her.

  It took too long to cross the city, to the outskirts where his vineyard lay next to t
he arena. As he rounded the corner of the last street of houses and ran through the grassy area alongside the new palaestra, he could see the black smoke rising from behind his fence.

  How could this have happened? He had sent Remus to do a little pruning, after showing him how to carefully trim and crop the vines. The man should not have been using any kind of flame.

  As though he read Cato’s mind, Remus huffed as they ran. “I finished with the vines an hour ago. A friend found me to tell me about the fire.”

  They reached the gate, and Cato fumbled at the latch, then tumbled into the enclosure.

  He could see no farther than the several rows in front of him, so consumed with flames and smoke were they. He started forward, as though to rescue them, then backed away from the furious heat. The blackened posts Remus had criticized were a ready fuel, enough to overwhelm the green vines and moist soil. The still-green grapes sizzled and burst like fruit cooked for a sweet meal.

  “What shall we do?” Remus stood behind him, ready to help.

  The orange and black flames and the thick smoke obscured Cato’s view of the entire vineyard. He ran the length of the rows, assessing the damage, desperation and grief building.

  Of the eighty rows, nearly half burned. But the fires had begun at the head of the vineyard and had not yet spread the length of each row. Vines still clung to their trellises at the ends of rows, with the peaceful mountain looking on.

  “Bring water!”

  Remus looked confused. He knew there was no way they could douse the widespread flames.

  “We will make a break in the rows!”

  Remus nodded at that and grabbed the two-handled cart they used for bringing water from the nearest fountain. He disappeared through the gate.

  Cato’s nostrils burned with the heat and stench, but he snatched up a hoe used for aerating the soil and plunged between two burning rows. He ran to the last vine that burned and hacked at the disintegrating trellis, breaking its connection with the one beside. The heat was near to melting his face, but anger spurred him on, and he used the long tool to pull the burning vines away from those that still lived.

  Breathless and sweating, he finished with one plant and turned to the row behind him to repeat the attack. He felt the fire singe the hair on his arms but tore the two plants apart, then ran through the gap to attend to the next row.

  Remus appeared, trundling his cart full of water pots down the first row. Isabella was with him. “There!” Cato directed with a shout and raised hand. “Soak the ground in the gap. Soak the live plants.”

  Remus obeyed at once, with Isabella assisting.

  “It is not safe for you here, sister. Go home!” He spent only a moment seeing that Isabella, of course, ignored him. He turned back to his task. Remus would follow with the water as long as it held.

  Some time later, after Remus had disappeared to retrieve more water and returned to soak more plants, Cato reached the last burning row, hacked a break between the vines, helped Remus and Isabella pour the last of the water, and then collapsed onto the grass to watch vines at the heads of the rows burn themselves out. The fiery orange turned to red embers, glowing like rows of evil eyes staring at him.

  His vineyard.

  His eyes burned with more than the smoke and heat. He swiped at his cheeks, streaking black soot from his hands across his face.

  Isabella lay against him, crying. “I am so sorry, Quintus. So sorry.”

  His own grief burrowed deep into his heart. The lifeblood seemed to drain out of him, into the field. It had been his dream to make a success of the wine-making business here. Now what would become of his dream?

  “There are still many vines left.” Remus sat with his hands stretched out behind him, as though he might fall over with fatigue. “You still have more than half the crop, I believe.”

  Cato inhaled and nodded. “We will make the best of it, then. As we always do.”

  Isabella clutched his hand and he returned the pressure.

  “Come.” He pulled his sister to standing, and Remus followed. “Let us get clean. Mother will be anxious to hear news.”

  They trudged back through the city, and Cato was heedless of any stares that might have greeted his appearance. His mind was full of the ruined vines, the ruined dreams.

  He took himself to the Forum Baths and let the soot and sweat soak from his body in the tepidarium. A slave assisted by scraping his skin with a strigil, until all traces of the afternoon’s disaster had been removed. Despite the heat, Cato felt numb.

  At home, he found his midday meal laid out in the courtyard, and he ate in silence, alone.

  Octavia appeared and came to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders. He sighed and patted her hand with his own.

  “The games are to begin soon.” Her voice was low, sympathetic. Like the mother of a boy who’d lost his favorite pet. “Will you go?”

  He nodded, swallowed the last of his wine, and wiped his mouth. “I will go.”

  In truth, he had lost his excitement for the games altogether, and not only because of the fire. A fear of seeing Ariella at the edge of a sword lay like a stone in his belly.

  They went together, Octavia, Isabella, and Cato. For all her protestations about the games, Octavia chose not to miss them either. Cato held his tongue. He was not in the mood for teasing today. They joined the steady stream of townspeople heading east. The arena had been built to contain the whole city, and it would seem that today it would. Only slaves remained in the city’s homes, protecting their valuables.

  He refused to even look at the vineyard as they passed it on their left, approaching the arena. The dark stone of the circular structure rose out of the field at the end of the street like a walled city. Huge arches allowed access into the lower level from various points around the arena, and outside stairs led to the tiered seating. The press of the crowd threatened to separate him from the women, and he threaded his arms through each of theirs. The contact comforted him somehow.

  Thousands of tickets had been on sale for days, with others thrown to the poor by Maius’s men. Those not fortunate enough to secure a ticket had lined up before the various entrances hours ago, hoping to find standing room. They had brought their food with them and were being entertained by dancers, musicians, and acrobats who hoped for one or two tossed copper coins.

  Cato and the women emerged into the seating to the beat of drums and were shown to their seats by the locarii hired to usher. They were among the last ticket holders to arrive, for minutes later the soldiers guarding the entrances stepped aside and the crowds held at bay flooded into the arena, in a rush for the standing room in the top tier, where sailors manned the rigging for the arena’s awning.

  Isabella covered her ears to block the frenzied screams of the peasantry as women were knocked aside and children trampled in the passageways that led upward.

  Hawkers selling programs for betting, chilled drinks, and cushions for the hard marble forced their way through jammed aisles.

  Cato took it all in, from the teeming crowd shouting odds and placing bets, to the background noise of howling wolves and trumpeting elephants from the cages beneath the arena.

  The national institution of the games employed millions of people across the Empire, from animal trappers and breeders, to gladiators and trainers, and the entire supply chain that kept the men and beasts flowing into the arena. And in a sense, the games occupied them all, a narcotic that soothed and distracted a people whose slaves and plebeians did the work of the Empire, leaving them free to pursue nothing but leisure. And it kept them out of the affairs of government.

  From outside the arena, the sound of drumbeats brought on a mighty cheer from the spectators. The procession approached. Cato forgot his vineyard and craned his neck toward the arched entrance, the Gate of Life. Slaves in golden armor led the procession, blowing on long trumpets, and a chariot came behind, carrying Maius and pulled by black-and white-striped tiger horses.

  A group of suppo
rters in white togas surrounded Maius’s chariot, holding up placards declaring his candidacy for duovir, as if anyone did not know who sponsored the games and why.

  Cato sneered at the display, but soon forgot even Maius at the sight of the floats—a long series of wheeled platforms with young men and girls posing to reenact stories of the gods.

  The crowd settled and quieted as Maius reached his place of honor and stood to speak. His voice was as big as his body and it carried across the stone ring of tiered seats to every hushed spectator.

  “It is my pleasure to present these many hours of entertainment for my fine citizens today. Remember that it is Gnaeus Nigidius Maius who cares enough about the people to bring the hunt, as well as the gladiators!”

  The crowd erupted in cheers for the diversions to come. There were some other political and civil announcements, and then the entertainment began with lesser attractions, namely a few public executions of some criminals.

  Cato had been anticipating this day for a week, and he fought to forget the vineyard for now, but the thoughts intruded and he ignored the condemned as they were brought out to the wood set for their fires. Someone shouted their offenses, impiety and treason, but Cato cared little for any of it.

  It was only when he heard the word Christian added to their list of crimes that he straightened and peered into the sand below. Beside him, he felt his mother’s tension.

  The accused were not a crime-hardened string of scruffy men. Instead, a man and woman emerged from the corridors below the arena, hand in hand. Several more, including a few women, followed. Octavia clutched his hand.

  In Rome, it had been fifteen years since charges of arson were brought against Christians, in Emperor Nero’s rampage across Rome. The intervening years had brought spotty accusations, intermittent executions. But the sect grew and thrived in secret. And his uncle Servius, his mother’s brother, was one of them.

  Octavia turned wide eyes on him. “They are executing them?”

  “Perhaps it is only here in the south, Mother. Perhaps they are not yet as tolerant here as those in Rome. Your brother is wise. He will not bring danger upon himself.”