City on Fire

by Tracy L. Higley

  She nodded quickly, as though willing herself to believe Cato’s words.

  He wanted to search for the man he had seen in the Forum yesterday, but it was difficult to watch. Though the crowd seemed to enjoy the reinforcement of governmental authority, Cato could see only his uncle’s kind face among the flames. They did not resist. They did not cry out. They perished with a dignity befitting nobility. No emperor would have died so well.

  Cato’s heart troubled him. They were justly accused of their crimes, true, but had a great evil been done here tonight? The flames consumed their bodies, like his grapes burning. Fire purged and purified. Did it do so in his vineyard? Did it do so here today? He had always cherished a curiosity about his uncle’s secret religion, meeting behind closed doors and partaking of mysterious rituals. But he had chosen to pursue a more standard version of religion, seeking favor of the gods on behalf of his family.

  There were more executions, and if the crimes of thievery and murder were ordinary, the execution methods were not. Men were bound to rotting corpses and dragged around the ring. Women tied naked to rampaging bulls.

  Cato had to look away. What was happening to him? He had never been bothered by the arena before. The faces that had become known to him, his uncle Servius and the disguised Ari, were ruining his enjoyment. And beneath that realization, he felt . . . tarnished somehow. There was something so . . . so enslaved—about all of it—the people’s obsessions with death and sex. It reminded him of the madman in the Forum.

  Soon enough, prisoners lay mangled in the sand, flames had burned out, and a flood of slaves poured from the corridors to clear away the debris. The crowd began to hum with anticipation of what would come next.

  It would be the hunt. He would not see Ariella for some time. Hopefully not in the sand at all. To see her fall today as well would be too much to bear.

  The hunt began with the release of a dozen tigers, imported from the dark lands below Egypt. They slunk out of opposite iron grills below the seating level, heads low and backs arched as they circled each other. The crowd shouted as one, and the noise confused the animals and set them running across the sand. Those in charge of this first act would let them play it out until each tiger fed on another. Then the hunters would charge.

  Cato watched the tigers, mentally cataloguing strength and tenacity, betting himself which one would be the victor in each altercation. Focused on the animals, he did not see Maius approach until his mother elbowed him and cocked her head.

  Accompanying Maius was one Cato never would have expected.

  Portia.

  13

  His sister’s face was drawn, her lips tight.

  Cato stood and moved into the aisle. “Portia.” He indicated his own seat.

  “You shall not have the pleasure tonight, Cato.” Maius put an arm around Portia’s waist. “Your sister is my guest for the evening, I’m afraid.”

  Cato flicked a glance at Portia. She shook her head so slightly he nearly missed it. “Then you are more fortunate than you deserve, Maius. And where is my sister’s husband?”

  Portia cleared her throat. “He is ill at home.”

  Maius smiled. “Nothing serious, she assures me. But his illness is my good fortune, I suppose.”

  Cato’s vision went dark for a moment and his gut clenched. “Let us hope the situation reverses itself soon.”

  A city council member approached from a lower tier and begged a moment of Maius’s time. The duovir nodded to Cato and Portia. “If you will pardon me, I shall return shortly.” He pulled the council member down a few steps to continue their conversation.

  Cato grabbed his sister’s arm. “What is going on? Why are you with him?”

  Octavia joined them, waiting for Portia’s answer.

  She inhaled and glanced at Maius. “He—he has been pursuing me.”

  “You have said nothing!”

  “I thought I could rid myself of him. I did not want you to get involved in a personal clash with him.”

  Cato nodded. Portia had other, more public plans for him. “And Lucius’s illness?”

  “It is as Maius says. Not serious. But Maius made it clear that there would be consequences if I did not accompany him tonight. I dared not refuse.” She put a hand on Cato’s arm. “Please do not tell Lucius. I fear for him.”

  Maius moved upward again. “Come, dear. The hunters will be out soon. Let us return to our seats.” He held out a hand.

  His lustful expression nearly brought Cato down on him.

  Portia turned her stricken face to Cato, her eyes pleading for his inaction, then reached out to clasp Maius’s hand and descended the steps.

  Octavia seethed, and Cato could feel the heat. “That man.” She spoke through clenched teeth and her voice was like the growl of a mother bear protecting its cub.

  Cato pulled her back to their own seats and said nothing. His own heart burned with fury and his mind raced. Portia must be extricated from the sticky fingers of Nigidius Maius before the situation grew worse.

  He barely noted the hunters on horseback when they were released to take down the remaining tigers. The first hunt was followed by charging elephants and a mob of wild cats with white fur that Cato had never seen. An extensive trade in exotic animals brought from the frontier provinces had sprung up through the Empire for just this purpose, and Maius had spared no expense. The bestiarii who fought the animals were as trained as any gladiator, and the crowd laughed and hissed around Cato with great amusement. The arena filled with the stink of blood and entrails, and perfumed fountains shot colored water into the air, cooling the spectators and saturating the air.

  A musical interlude came after the hunt, with one musician playing the cornu, its conical bronze circle wrapped round his head, and another a water organ, with an attendant to pump the air. The crowd paid little attention, using the time to stretch their legs or exit the arena to relieve themselves. Cato did not move.

  Octavia gave him some bread she had brought, then she and Isabella left him to his thoughts.

  He tore into the salty bread as though he had not eaten in weeks.

  A dog race, with monkeys as jockeys, was followed by a fight between big cranes and African pygmies. Men fought pythons with bare hands, and equestrians flew at each other with sharpened lances. Through the long afternoon the frenzy of the crowd built.

  But as the sun dropped beneath the upper lip of the arena, and the sailors were sent aloft to retract the awning, a gust of enthusiasm blew in with the cool breeze. The braziers of incense were removed and the patricians put away their scented sachets. But on the heels of the cool relief came a hot anticipation. The gladiators were announced.

  The crowd exploded. Feet stomped the stone tiers. Shouts and applause drowned out the announcer’s words. Cato strained to hear above the screaming crowd, to learn who would fight first. But the declaration was lost in the chaos.

  A lone figure stalked from the far arch, down through the center of the sand. A moment later laughter greeted the gladiator’s entrance as the crowd took in the diminutive size of the fighter. Cato searched his memory. Had any other fighter been as small as Ariella? No, this must be her.

  The gladiator fought as a Retiarius, with a net and trident. The Retiarius typically fought a Murmillo, one who sported a fish-crested iron helmet, an oblong shield, and a short sword. But Ariella also wore a helmet. Cato waited, breath held, for her opponent.

  When he emerged, it was to another howl of laughter—and delighted applause—from the crowd. Ariella’s opponent was even smaller than she—Maius’s promised dwarf.

  They circled each other in the sand, and even from this distance Cato could sense a fierce anger in the dwarf’s stance. The laughter of the crowd no doubt had coupled with his fear and the injustice of his plight, and it would spew out with violence. He may have been shorter than Ariella, but he was thick and powerful. And he was a man.

  This was madness. Cato raked his fingers through his hair. How could he ha
ve allowed this? He should have done something to prevent it. His heart beat with guilt as much as fear, and he did not stop to analyze why he cared what happened to this slave girl. He stood, wavered, then sat again. What could he do now? Run into the arena? It was too late. He had failed to put a stop to something evil once again.

  Octavia watched him with narrowed eyes. “What is it?”

  Cato shook his head. His throat was dry and tight and he had no words. He fixed his eyes on the fight once more and prayed that the gods would spare her.

  This was the light entertainment, the precursor to the serious bloodshed, and the crowd lapped it up. But there was no promise it would not turn deadly. Would the lanista allow his youngest trainee to be killed so early in his career?

  Ariella and the dwarf circled for only a few moments, and then the pitched battle began. Any hope that this was not Ariella fled as he watched her move. The dwarf could only strike when close because of the shortness of his sword. She poked at him from a distance with her longer trident, then ran at him and swept her net of knotted rope toward his lower legs. He jumped it lightly and landed on flat feet, then took advantage of her proximity to slash at her net arm. She backed away and the dance began again.

  She fought with a fearlessness that surprised Cato, even though he had seen it earlier, in the street and the Forum. She was a warrior, through and through, and envy stabbed him, oddly.

  But even warriors could be defeated by brute strength, and the dwarf was well-muscled and skilled. The fight favored one, then the other. The people screamed and pounded the seats. Maius must be already pleased with his investment, so enraptured was the crowd with this first battle.

  But then at last the dwarf made a critical error, getting in too close.

  Ariella jumped and twisted, the dwarf’s feet tangled in her net, and he went down. Ariella was on him in an instant, one knee in the sand, and a short dagger appeared at his throat.

  The people shrieked with delight. The match had been lengthy and nearly even, the best kind. Ariella looked to where she had been instructed to look, to the place of honor where Nigidius Maius sat. She waited for him to indicate death or mercy. Cato’s blood surged. He cared not whether the dwarf lived or died tonight. But Ariella had won! It sickened him to think that if the fight had gone the other way, it would have been Maius who could have ended Ariella’s life.

  But the crowd was pleased with the little man, and Maius read them well. He signaled Ariella to release the dwarf. She grabbed her opponent’s hand and helped him to his feet, and the two ran for the arch at the end of the arena.

  Cato sat back, his relief palpable.

  Isabella nudged him. “That was only the first fight, brother.” She laughed. “You’re not going to reach the end of the night if you take each one so seriously.”

  But he reached the end of the night with ease, because he cared little about all the fights that followed. Even Paris failed to gain his interest. His mind was taken with his sister Portia, with Ariella, with Nigidius Maius, and with his burned vineyard. Darkness fell and the games continued. Dozens of smoking torches were lit and flamed around the oval of the uppermost tier, casting flickering shadowed stripes across the masses and burning incense in hues of red, yellow, blue, and green. Catapults flung dates and nuts and cakes into the crowd, and free wine was passed.

  The games concluded with a chariot of beautiful nude girls circling the arena, chanting songs. Cato averted his eyes for his mother’s sake, difficult as it was to ignore.

  He did not expect to see Maius again, but it seemed as though the man was drawn to him somehow, for as the final display ended, he was there again, Portia at his side.

  “I have come to return your sister, Cato.” He allowed Portia to pass him on the steps, and she came to huddle close to their mother. “I hope the next time I shall have her even longer.”

  Cato stepped into the aisle to meet him once more. To Octavia he said, “I will join you three outside.” His mother’s face registered concern, but he nodded. “Outside.” The women filed out and up to the highest tier to access the outer stairway, and Cato turned back to Maius.

  “It is enough, Maius. My sister is a married woman.”

  “Come, Cato.” Maius laughed and spread his hands. “We are both Romans, not pious Jews or peasant Arabs. There is freedom among Romans, you know this. I can do as I please, without fear of reprobation.”

  As much as the energy had drained from him after the vineyard fire, it stoked again as he faced Maius.

  Cato stepped closer, his fists clenched at his sides and his jaw tight. “You shall not have her, Maius.”

  Maius’s eyes flickered, the casual light replaced with something darker. “I do what I like in this town, Portius Cato. It is past time that you learned that.”

  “Not with me. Not with my family.”

  The older man’s full lips pursed. “No? It would seem that I already have done what I wanted today. An unfortunate fire, I’m told.”

  Cato had suspected as much. He stepped down to stand next to Maius on the narrow stone tier, chest to chest, heedless of the small crowd that had tarried to hear the two exchange words.

  The day’s events crowded Cato’s thoughts, like bright frescoes in a story tableau. Christians standing firm in the face of flames. Ariella, unafraid against great odds. And Maius, sending slaves to burn his vineyard.

  He saw in that moment that Maius would always have the upper hand, regardless of Cato’s efforts, because he was willing to cheat to get it. And something broke in him then. The fear that had pushed him out of Rome fell away. A reignited desire for justice flared in its place. He brought his face close to the other man’s, his chest expanding.

  “Listen to me, Nigidius Maius. Your days of using this town to satisfy your own greed are over. And that includes my sister.”

  Maius did not back away, and the dark fire in his own eyes deepened. “You are entering an arena yourself, Cato. And your record of success is not good.” He leaned in. “I had thought to take you down simply because you are far too arrogant. Now I shall destroy you, and your family, because it will please me very much.”

  He turned and descended the steps, and Cato let him go. There was no need to have the last word tonight. For Cato would have the last word in the end.

  Of that he was determined.

  14

  Maius left the arena escorted by slaves and was helped into his gold-leafed chariot by two others. The arena on the southeast outskirts of town was as far from his northwest villa as it could be, and he had no desire to make the journey on foot.

  Pedestrians kept to the sidewalks as they made their way home in the torch-lit darkness, and his two-wheeled chariot, pulled by a handsome matched pair of black horses, sped through the noisy streets with Maius lifting one hand in greeting to his grateful townspeople and holding his toga at his waist with the other. This left nothing with which to grip the side of the chariot, and a bump against stepping-stones sent him reeling. He cursed the slave who held the reins and righted himself.

  The evening had gone as planned, and he attempted to savor the event, in spite of the bitter aftertaste of his encounter with the haughty Portius Cato. The crowd had been enthralled with the hunt, with the music, with the gladiators. All in all, a complete success.

  Added to the fiery blow he had dealt Cato’s wine-making business, and the delightful hours spent with Portia at his side, he should have been gloating over the day’s triumphs.

  By the time the chariot reached his villa, he had thrust away all discontent and entered the massive doorway flanked by lofty columns determined to enjoy the rest of his evening. The beauty of his villa always soothed him. While urban houses were forced to look only inward, his villa opened to expansive views of the countryside and sea. Large windows were placed strategically, and walls were replaced with colonnades to open the space. The house sprawled outward in all directions and boasted over sixty rooms. But more than soothing, his villa housed his secret
pursuit, the mystery rites that only a select few shared, in ceremonies held late into the night, when inhibitions were chased away by the urging, pulsing voices of the gods.

  Inside the peristyle, slaves unburdened Maius of his weighty wool toga, leaving him in only a short tunic better suited to relaxation, and led him deeper into the villa, to the courtyard where he often enjoyed outdoor dining amidst the flowers and fountains.

  The garden was quiet this evening, save for the gentle trickle of the fountain in the center, a whimsical representation of the wine god Bacchus riding a bloated wineskin, with the water pouring like wine from the skin’s mouth. Maius lowered himself to a couch and lifted his legs with a heavy sigh, grateful that Nigidia and his extensive staff of slaves were all occupied elsewhere. The scent of night flowers weighted the air and the red silks that covered his couch seemed to embrace him.

  The silence pleased him because he wanted to recollect his evening with the luscious Portia. Slaves brought honeyed dormice and snails in silence, placing the food on a low table beside his couch. Maius ate, musing over his plan to make the woman his mistress.

  That she was married meant nothing. A small inconvenience that could be dealt with. His own marriage had been for property only, and even while his wife lived he had been expected to make use of his own slave women and of the brothels. Why should a mistress be any different?

  He summoned a slave to play a lyre for him. The man was still young, though his undernourished body, rotted teeth, and multiple scars from beatings and branding spoke of a life too long lived. As he played, the bright-colored birds Maius kept at the edge of the atrium joined the melody. Maius continued to eat, then clapped his hands for more food.

  There was still the tickle of discontent beneath it all, however. Foolish that he could allow one insignificant character such as Cato to disturb him. He dismissed the musician with instructions to fetch his chief slave, in charge of his business dealings. The man was a Greek scholar, purchased in Athens and brought to Pompeii with a mind for numbers and analysis.