“How many?” He should not be seen peering out at the citizens, but could see only the orchestra circle and the scaenae frons, the false front behind it.
“A good number. The controversy is bringing them out, as we hoped.”
Cato resumed his walking through the musty stone corridor. In the days since Ariella had revealed Maius’s hidden proclivities, Cato had kept the knowledge to himself, determined to disclose the information to the town only when Valerius had arrived to confirm the truth and accuse him of murder. The Roman senator was already on his way, invited to a short holiday in the home of former quaestor Portius Cato, to discuss a matter of mutual interest.
But today . . . today was about rhetoric and passion. The opportunity to address the citizens of Pompeii, followed by an address from his opponent, was the chance to confront Maius with other truths, equally damning.
“But will they listen? Will they hear me?”
Taurus pushed away from the wall and caught Cato’s arm. His small eyes bored into Cato. “Everyone in this town knows what Maius is, Cato. They know he owns them, either because their pay flows from his coffers or because their money flows into his for protection or blackmail. You do not need to convince them of this. But change depends on your ability to stir them up to action. They must be willing to rise up, to band together, to put an end to the man.”
“I am making speeches in the Forum almost daily, Taurus. My supporters are spreading the word that Maius fears my integrity and has made my family his target. I have made the rounds to guild leaders and entertained town leaders in my home. What will one more speech accomplish?”
Taurus looked out again at the growing crowd. “Never underestimate the power of the collective, Cato. Lesser men than you have been propelled into the very realm of the divine on a wave of public support. One that began with nothing more than a throng such as this, whipped into a frenzy over what could be.”
The growing buzz of the crowd erupted in a cheer. Some entertainment had been brought to loosen them up, to bring them to their seats. Cato braced a hand against the wall. Somewhere out there, Maius waited for his chance to speak, but as the incumbent he would be given the last word.
Cato’s newfound faith, his time under the teaching of the rabbi-slave Jeremiah, had begun to open his eyes to the spiritual war taking place unseen in Pompeii. Jeremiah had spoken over him like a prophet, charging him with fighting evil, showing him where true power resided. His faith in the Messiah did not save him from the fight—it gave him the strength to win the war. And in this war of evil, Nigidius Maius was a chief participant.
It was time.
Taurus gave him a nudge, and he strode onto the stage with a forced confidence. A smattering of applause filtered down from the seats. The eyes of thousands were on him. That protective surge he had experienced when he first took the platform in the Forum swept him again, an emotion that thickened his throat and blurred the sea of white togas into the white marble of the theater. How could all of that gleaming white hide so much corruption? He bent his head to the orchestra floor, cleared his thoughts, then raised both his head and his voice.
“Citizens of Pompeii! It is time for change!”
In preparing for this speech, one truth had hounded Cato. There was only one way to defeat a tyrant, a man who ruled by intimidation. Someone had to stand up. Someone had to show him as weak. If this could be accomplished, then it remained only to rally the people together and convince them that together they were strong enough to rid themselves of their oppressor. Once he would have run when faced with a stronger opponent. No longer. The Spirit of the Living God was his ally.
And so he spoke to them, from his heart and from his passion, and as his voice warmed to the truth, it rose above the people and seemed to carry above the theater wall to the very sky. He spoke of justice and of integrity with a raised fist, and was rewarded with courageous applause and cheers from the people.
He turned on Maius, where he sat in his customary raised box, and unleashed his righteous fury. “Pompeii has long suffered under the greed and malice of one man, and I tell you the truth, citizens, that man is a coward! Gnaeus Nigidius Maius, you have burned my vineyard, you have falsely imprisoned my sister, you have even tried to have me killed.” He spread an arm to the people. “I ask you, citizens, are these not the actions of a man who works in fear? A man who knows that if someone takes his position, he will be forced to answer for his many crimes?
“I say it is time to make him answer for them. It is time for a change.” He paused, drawing out the moment, and the theater was held suspended in the hush. “It is time, my friends, to shake the very foundations of Pompeii!”
At these words, as though God Himself concurred, there came a thunderous crack from earth and sky at once, like the snap of a giant whip over the back of a monstrous, unruly horse.
In the beat of silence that followed, the face of every spectator seemed anchored to his own.
And then a heaving began, a bucking of the massive horse—only it was the earth itself that sought to throw them each from their place.
An earthquake!
Cato held his ground, his stance wide on the stage floor. The people were not so fearless. The mass of them rose as one, shrieking and turning on each other in their panic to leave the theater.
Cato scanned the crowd, frantic to find his mother and sister, who were to sit with Lucius. Why had he not sought them out before he began?
It was impossible now. He turned to where Taurus had been waiting in the parados. The man was gone. In the seats, the people tripped and shoved and streamed up to the outer staircases and down to the lower exits.
The swaying of the ground ceased a few moments later, but the townspeople knew better than to remain inside the theater’s stone ring. Cato looked over his shoulder, eyeing the unstable scaenae frons that soared two stories at his back.
With the quake over, he needed to find his family.
What about Portia?
The theater was nearly empty already, and no doubt Isabella and his mother were safe. But Portia, in her underground prison? A wave of nausea overtook him, and he leaped from the orchestra to the pit of seats and shoved through the remaining stragglers to the exit.
The city was still in turmoil, like a pot boiling over. People dashed through the streets, some fleeing to their own houses to assess the damage, and others, fearful of a second quake, sought open spaces. Cato hesitated outside the theater, thinking of his mother and younger sister—as well as others he cared about—still in his home.
After Portia.
He pushed through the crowds that flowed against him. Few headed for the Forum and the magisterial buildings, as all the homes and fields outside the city lay opposite and only the sea awaited on the other side of the Forum. People ran with hands outstretched, as though the earth still rocked and they sought balance. Arms and hands poked at him and knocked him to and fro as he crossed the city. He cared little for the damage, but was aware enough to see that this quake had not toppled much of the city, as the one seventeen years ago had.
The guard placed inside Portia’s prison stood at its entrance, no doubt unwilling to be trapped underground, but leaving the prisoners to their own fate.
Cato pushed past him, ignoring his shout. The steps held, and there appeared to be no cave-in.
“Portia?” He called her name before he had even reached the cell floor. “Portia, answer me!”
He skidded to her cell, its tiny square opening the only window. A tiny whimper responded. He pressed his face to the hole. “Sister, are you hurt?”
It was too dark to see within. He heard a scraping, as if she dragged herself across the floor, and then her hand was at the opening, the fingers white and thin as a specter. He wrapped his own warm fingers around her icy ones and kissed them.
“What has happened?” Her voice was raspy, as though her lungs had taken on the thick prison air.
“An earthquake. You are unhurt?”
Cato cringed at the word, knowing it to be far from truth.
“Lucius? Mother and Isabella?”
“We were all in the theater when it happened. I lost track of them, but the walls held and everyone got out. I am certain they escaped. I came to check on you.”
She put her forehead to his hand, as she had the last time he visited.
“You are still . . . healthy, Portia?” He lacked the words to speak of womanly things, but his mother and sister would press him for details.
She nodded. “The baby moves within me now, Quintus.” Her voice took on awe. “It is the only thing that keeps me from going mad down here.”
The guard must have regained his courage in the lack of aftershocks, for Cato heard him lumbering down the steps.
“You there, you’re not supposed to be here!” He brandished a short sword, though he looked slow enough for Cato to take it from him.
Cato held up a hand and nodded. “I am leaving.” He squeezed his sister’s fingers and whispered to her, “It will not be long, I promise you.”
And then he pushed past the guard, up the steps, and back into the vacant Forum area, still sun-drenched and warm as though nothing had shaken it.
Portia was safe, but what of those at home? He broke into a run once more, taking narrow alleys and side streets to avoid the crowds.
His house still stood in the center of the block, though a few terra-cotta tiles from the roof had slid to the street and shattered. He stepped over the shards and through the doorway, calling out to his family before he crossed the threshold.
His mother’s face appeared at the far end of the courtyard. “Quintus! Where have you been?”
At her shout, Isabella rushed out of the back corridor.
The three met in the midst of the courtyard shrubbery. “I have been to check on Portia.”
His mother gripped his hands, wordless.
“She is well.” He closed his eyes. “As well as she could be.”
“The baby?”
Cato smiled on his mother and Isabella. “She tells me that the baby’s kicking keeps her company in that foul place.”
Octavia put delicate fingers to her mouth and turned away as though ashamed of her emotion.
“She asked for Lucius, of course.”
Isabella nodded. “I sent him to his home to check on his belongings and servants. He is unhurt.”
Cato surveyed the interior of the house. “And the Catonii? Did we fare so well?”
Octavia was once again the brisk household manager. “A few broken pots. A crack in the south wall of the triclinium. Nothing more.”
Cato’s eyes strayed to the servants’ corridor that led to the kitchen. “No one hurt?”
Octavia didn’t answer. He brought his attention back to her, and was surprised to see annoyance there.
Her brow furrowed. “Perhaps there are slaves you’d like to check on personally?”
He inhaled and looked away. Despite her disapproval, he intended to do just that.
He found Ariella bent over a large basin, washing pottery. At his entrance, she jumped to her feet, circled the basin, and rushed to him, her eyes wide. “Were you hurt?”
Her swift approach and obvious concern left him a bit breathless. He shook his head, wrapped his hands around her arms, and pulled her close. “You?”
“I was outdoors, at the fountain. I am well.”
They remained there for a moment, and he allowed himself the indulgence, but soon released her and stepped away. She was a Jewess. And she was a slave.
“There is no Jew nor Greek. No slave nor free. We are one in Christ Jesus.” Paul’s words, spoken by Jeremiah, but still too hard to accept. Still . . .
How much longer could he keep Ariella physically close but distanced from his heart?
His mother was right to be concerned.
35
Maius returned from the theater, still fuming. The townspeople had reacted as though the world were coming to an end, when in truth the earthquake had been minor. Maius would not care, except for the stolen opportunity for a rebuttal to Cato’s speech, and the way in which the earthquake had seemed to fortify the would-be duovir’s message.
He strolled through his house, inspecting walls and sculptures for damage, and found only a few minor pieces broken in the front halls and no structural harm. The city had withstood far worse years ago.
When he reached the sunlit gardens, Nigidia looked to him from her place on a bench. He had expected frightened tears, but she only smiled, a sad smile he could not understand, that did not reach to her lovely blue eyes. She seemed to be pulling away from him of late.
“I am glad you are unhurt,” she said simply.
He left her there in the gardens, unwilling to draw her out this afternoon. His thoughts were all for Portius Cato.
The man refused to quit, refused to die, refused to be silenced. This was unacceptable. But he could not kill him now, with the city watching.
He crossed to the cages that held his birds, needing to be greeted by those who never questioned his authority. But the birds were strangely silent. The red warbler, always vocal when Maius approached, hopped in circles behind its wooden bars, but did not sing. The silent garden, though bright and green, had an eerie feeling about it, as though even the flowers and birds feared the shaking of the earth.
“What is wrong, my pretty?” Maius reached a finger through the slats. The warbler responded with a sharp peck to his finger.
“Aahh!” He yanked his hand backward. The stupid bird had drawn blood. He put the finger to his mouth and turned from the birds, his unease building.
Perhaps some time in the baths would relax his tense muscles. Maius was not forced to attend the public baths, as his home on the outskirts of town had been built to receive public water and supply its own luxurious and private accommodations.
He summoned a female slave and ordered the baths prepared.
“Master.” She bowed at the waist, her unbound hair hanging about her head. “There is no water.”
He growled and pushed past her. “What foolishness is this?”
She hurried along behind him. “The water comes only in a trickle since the quake.”
Indeed, when he reached the baths, the basin that normally bubbled with fresh water was stagnant. Some piping must have been damaged. Maius cursed the earth, but then thought better of his anger. It was a time for appeasing, not for cursing, and he should have gone to the gods first.
His spirit disturbed, he sought comfort and reassurance in his special room, the triclinium used only for the feasts that honored Bacchus. Bordered by a narrow colonnaded porch on its western end, the room received only the late-day sun, and still lay in dim shadow this afternoon. Maius reclined on one of the long couches, waited for the slave to attend with food and wine, and surveyed the delightful frescoes he had commissioned for the room.
The series of paintings told a story, one that had been enacted thousands of times by celebrants of the cult, and would be again here in this very house, at the time of the next initiation. Maius’s eyes wandered over the face of the young initiate in the paintings, her expression moving from compliant to terrified, and then finally to wiser, experienced, even resigned. Nigidia should not feel the terror that the frescoed girl displayed. But if so, it would be over soon enough, and she would understand at the end.
Hours later, after he had sought the will of the gods and appeased them with incense, Maius took reports from Primus on the terrace that overlooked the mountain. He reclined in ease with a cup of warmed wine on the iron table beside him, but his mood had grown darker as the sun descended, and the mountain view that afforded such pleasure left him cold. This must be the lowest point of his political career. Never before had someone challenged his position with any chance of success.
A new visitor appeared out of the shadow, interrupting Primus’s tedious accounting.
“Sulla.” Maius extended
a hand from his position on his chaise, but did not rise. “This is an honor.” In truth, he hadn’t seen the man in months and didn’t care much for him.
Sulla curled a lip. Maius’s posture must have contradicted his words. “What are you going to do about all of this, Maius?”
Maius folded his hands over his ample belly. “All of this?”
“Portius Cato! He turned you into a fool today.”
At this, Maius did stand and stepped to Sulla until the man could feel his hot breath. “Be careful, Sulla. I have not been beaten yet.”
But the man displayed the same lack of intimidation that Otho, the fuller, had days earlier. He barely blinked. “And you should remember which way the winds are blowing.”
“So what do the winds tell you today?”
“People are saying that he is bringing someone from Rome. To endorse his candidacy, perhaps?”
Maius waved a hand and again reclined. “He is too young to have powerful allies. It is no one of concern, I am sure.”
“Clovius Valerius.”
Maius felt himself blanch at the name and inwardly cursed the reaction. “Is that so?”
“You know him?”
“Certainly, we are acquainted. I have been in his company when in Rome.”
Sulla folded his arms. “And he would set himself up against you here? Support Cato?”
Maius sipped at his wine, forcing his hand to hold steady. “Quite the opposite. I’ve no idea what Cato hopes to accomplish through Valerius. He and I are on quite friendly terms.”
Sulla watched him through narrowed eyes.
“I thank you for your report, Sulla. Now if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to.” He motioned to Primus, who came forward to sit cross-legged at Maius’s feet once more, books and reed in hand like an Egyptian scribe.
Sulla bowed and backed away. “As you wish.” Unconvinced, Maius could see.
Only the election would convince them now.
And yet it was just this thought that worried him most. Cato’s support increased daily, and his speech in the theater today had been too persuasive, too full of the rhetoric that swayed common people and convinced them to vote for the candidate whose personality pleased them most.
City on Fire Page 22