City on Fire

by Tracy L. Higley

  And now . . . Valerius.

  The name brought with it visions of smoky rooms and poppy-laced wine and long hours of revelry that lifted the participant to a higher plane, infused him with the life of the gods themselves, and left him unable to remember most of the acts he had committed while in the thrall of wine and drug.

  Valerius, high priest of the Roman Dionysian cult, who was outspoken in his desire to see all his initiates proclaim their appetites publicly. He believed such assertions would lift the official sanctions and alleviate society’s disapproval of their practices. All this Maius could suppress, if it weren’t for that cursed slave boy’s blood on his hands.

  What possible reason could Portius Cato have in bringing Valerius to Pompeii? Whatever it was, it did not bode well for Maius. The town was much more conservative than the mother city, much less tolerant of behavior considered aberrant in their prudish opinions.

  The feast was only a few days away. He had promised the gods that the reenactment would take place at the first new moon after the Feast of Vulcan, though Nigidia still knew nothing of it. Valerius would no doubt want to join the celebration. Did he dare invite him?

  His mind had wandered far from Primus’s reports, but the slave’s monotonous voice called him back to the terrace when he heard his enemy’s name. “What about Cato?”

  Primus sighed, seeming perturbed at his master’s lack of attention. “I was saying that it is strange Cato would seek association with a man such as Valerius when he also has become so involved with the Christian sect.”

  Maius straightened at once and swung his legs over the side of the chaise. “Cato has become one of the Christians?”

  Primus shrugged. “He has been taking some kind of training in their rites. This is all I know.”

  Maius grinned and clapped Primus on the shoulder. “Why did you not tell me this sooner?”

  The Greek slave sighed again and said nothing.

  Maius rubbed at his chin, stubbly with late-day growth. And what a day it had been. Cato’s damaging speech, the earthquake, then news of Valerius’s visit. And now this latest bit of gossip about Cato associating with the Christians.

  The entire day had bucked and heaved like the earth itself. But in the end, when the dust settled . . .

  It was Maius who was left standing.

  36

  The days evaporated like morning dew on the stones of the Pompeii streets. Vulcanalia, the festival dedicated to Vulcan, god of fire, crept closer and then at last arrived.

  The day began early for most of the city, with work starting by the light of the candle. The traditional propitiation of the god by the beneficial use of fire was only the start of the festivities that would last throughout the late-summer day. With any good fortune, Vulcan would be appeased, and the summer heat that dried out crops and granaries would not result in devastating fires this year. Vulcan also gave his name to the mountains that occasionally rained down fire, though no one in Pompeii had ever seen such a thing.

  It was on this feast day that Cato expected Valerius’s ship to arrive from Rome with his retinue. Cato had several slaves positioned at the city gates to run a message to him when the senator was sighted, and the rest of the household busied themselves with preparing for the feast later in the day.

  For Cato, the day was one of conflicted emotion. His newfound and unquenchable thirst for the teachings of Jeremiah left him cold over the thought of honoring Vulcan in his home. And Valerius’s impending visit had driven Ariella deep into the house—and into herself—where he was unable to draw her out.

  He spent the morning in the wine shop, hoping for distraction and finding it in the surly comments of Remus, who was still convinced that both the vines and the business would fail. Cato remembered his early dedication to both as though it were distant past now, so focused was he on the coming election and Portia’s fate.

  The wine shop had taken on a cheerier appearance since those early days, due to Remus’s efforts to clean up and whitewash the walls. The amphorae that lined the shelves were empty, awaiting the start of the harvest in a few short days. Cato counted the amphorae, reciting the sizes and number to Remus, who scratched out marks on a wax tablet.

  “Master, he comes!” The slave, Italicus, stood outlined in the doorway, his breath labored.

  Cato rubbed at his forehead. “Valerius? So soon?”

  “He is at the Marina Gate.”

  Cato grabbed his toga, thrown over the counter, and glanced at Remus. “I will leave you to it, then, man.”

  Remus shrugged as though Cato were a madman bent on destruction and he could do nothing to stop it. “Blessings of Vulcan on you, then, I suppose.”

  Back at the house, Octavia had received the news and emerged to meet him in the atrium, wearing her finest white robes and with her hair piled elaborately atop her head. Cato raised his eyebrows at the effort, but she narrowed her eyes and he would not comment.

  She eyed the door. “We have had replies from all the invited guests. Everyone has accepted. We shall have a full house.”

  “And all is ready?”

  “Quintus, do you think it will work? Will he reveal Maius to the town? Make them see what kind of man has jailed your sister?”

  Cato scratched the back of his neck, damp already. “I do not know.”

  And what kind of man would Valerius be? Was the reputation of the Bacchanalians perhaps exaggerated?

  A cart rolled to a stop in the street, and the time for answers had come. Cato squared off to receive the man he had convinced to make the two-day voyage from Rome, and Octavia stepped to his side and stood tall and erect.

  Three slaves lumbered in first, burdened with trunks. And then Valerius appeared in the doorway, slightly built and surprisingly short. He was young enough to stand alone, yet leaned on the arm of a younger man, dressed as a slave. He seemed at first to be infirm, but as the senator moved into the atrium, it became clear that his grasp on the slave was one of affection, not need. The slave did not appear to share the sentiment.

  Valerius’s eyes swept the atrium. He smiled at the dancing faun at the edge of the impluvium, passed over Octavia without much attention, and stopped instead at Cato, whom he looked up and down. He pursed his lips, then smirked. “I had heard you were fine-looking, but you are even better than that.”

  Cato heard his mother exhale and he put a hand to her back. “We hope to surpass all your expectations, Clovius Valerius. Welcome to Pompeii, and to my home.” He turned to Octavia. “My mother, Octavia of the Catonii.”

  Valerius sauntered forward, unaided, and grasped Cato’s arm in a weak greeting. He had girlish features and unnaturally red lips, and Cato forced himself to return the grip rather than shrink back.

  “Such a long trip we have had.” Valerius used the corner of his toga to dab at his throat. “Where can I rest?”

  Cato motioned to a nearby slave who hurried forward. “Italicus will take you to a room.”

  Valerius sighed and surveyed the interior of the house. “It is a crime to be away from my villa on a feast day and caged out here in the country. You are planning a celebration this evening, I assume?”

  Cato bowed. “Pompeii’s leading citizens will be here to greet and celebrate with you.”

  Valerius waved a delicate hand. “I care nothing about the company of rich men.” He stepped closer to Cato and lowered his voice, as if it would keep Octavia from overhearing. She looked away and Valerius wrapped his fingers around Cato’s forearm. “There are better ways to celebrate than the pompous discourse of fools. You will have women? Boys, perhaps?” His grin became lecherous. “A little opium mixed with the wine, to honor the god?”

  Cato fought to hold his ground. He could feel the man’s breath on his cheek. “I hope to make it an enjoyable evening for you.”

  His noncommittal reply did not seem to please the senator. Valerius stepped back and a furrow formed between his eyebrows. “You have brought me here to seek something from me, Portius
Cato. Understand that I reward those who favor me.” His expression cleared and he clapped his hands together twice. “I know how you can please me. I hear you have a gladiator here!”

  Cato’s stomach turned over. “How—”

  Valerius waved a hand again. “I have ears everywhere. Tell me, is it true? Have you bought a boy from the gladiator school?”

  Octavia joined the conversation again. “Why should that interest you?”

  “Ah, dear lady, it interests me very much.” He turned on Cato. “I want to see a fight.”

  “There are no games scheduled—”

  “Not in the arena, silly man. Here. In your home. Tonight.”

  Cato felt his mouth drop open.

  “Don’t look at me as though I am mad. Bring one of your slaves in and pit the two against each other for me. Come, don’t tell me it’s too much trouble after I’ve come all this way?”

  Valerius turned to the slave to lead him to his chamber, as though the matter were decided. Cato watched him cross the courtyard and flounce down the colonnade.

  “Vile man.” Octavia’s voice was low. She used the same words to describe Nigidius Maius on their first meeting, and, indeed, the two men were much alike in attitude, if not appearance. “What will you do, Quintus?”

  Cato turned away in silence. There was another to whom he needed to speak.

  “Never. You cannot ask me to do this.”

  At Ariella’s vehement response, Cato rubbed at his throbbing temples. “I would not, if I did not believe it necessary.”

  Her eyes were wide, accusing. “Necessary to humiliate me?”

  He held out his palms. “Ari, the man demands entertainment, and I fear he will not help me expose Maius if I don’t please him. He would have me bring in the worst sort of debauchery, but you could wear your helmet and he would never recognize you.”

  He stepped toward her, but she moved away until her back was against the wall, her hands flat against the stone at her sides. “Nothing has changed, then. You still force me to fight, for the sake of your own popularity!” Her voice pitched higher. “Why did you not leave me in the barracks where you found me?”

  “It is not the same! It is one fight, not even a real fight—only an exhibition. You will be masked and there will be no danger.” He crossed the room to stand before her. “And I do not ask you for my own sake, but for my sister’s.”

  “Yes, your sister.” She nearly spat the mocking words in his face. “Everything is for your sister. You bring my enemy to the door, then force me to perform for him. All for Portia.”

  “Yes, for Portia!”

  “For yourself, Portius Cato! You would win this election at any cost because if you fail you cannot still consider yourself a man.”

  Cato unconsciously formed a fist and pounded the wall beside her head. Ariella winced and turned from him.

  “What? Do you think I would strike you?”

  She leveled dark eyes at him. “You have already proven you will do anything to get your way.”

  Cato whirled from her. She was unreasonable. She would wear a mask, and with the fight staged to make her the winner . . . there was no reason for her to refuse. And she clearly had forgotten that she was a slave to be commanded, not entreated. “Be ready after the first course is served. I will have Italicus fetch equipment from the barracks for both you and Ruso, and you can work out the staging with him.”

  She said nothing, and he left her to think through her irrational obstinacy.

  Hours later the triclinium had been laid with enough delicacies of food and comforts of appointment to render it the slave quarters’ antithesis. As Cato surveyed the work of his slaves, he felt the first twinge of uncertainty over his request of Ariella.

  But the sun had set, and guests were arriving. Cato greeted each at the doorway of the triclinium and seated them around the U-shaped table arrangement according to their status, as was customary. They wasted no time in setting to the wine and breads and speaking in low tones of money and property and politics.

  Valerius appeared some time later with several of his slaves, including the young man for whom he appeared to have a special fondness. The senator took the middle couch.

  Cato welcomed them all and summoned the slaves to bring the first course of oysters and wild poultry. Hired musicians began to play stringed lyres in the corner, and the wine was kept flowing. His younger sister’s face appeared at the room’s entrance and he shooed her away, to Isabella’s great annoyance.

  Cato had planned this dinner party for days, but now found himself unable to concentrate. He reclined next to Valerius, but the man’s grating, high-pitched laugh and vulgar conversation forced his thoughts elsewhere. Ariella would appear soon. She feared interaction with Valerius. Why? Should he have asked?

  He tried to taste the oysters with their spicy garum sauce. Had it gone rancid? No one else seemed bothered. But even the smell sickened him.

  He was beginning to think he had made a mistake when a figure darkened the doorway. Ruso, the slave Cato had assigned as Ariella’s opponent. He wore the simple armor of a Gaul and stood silent, his eyes on Cato.

  “Ah, here we are!” Valerius sat up at once. “Something to save us from the tedium of this party.” He patted his fingertips together. “Is this the fighter you have purchased for yourself, Cato? He looks a bit weak in the chest, if you ask me.”

  “This is Ruso.” Cato half rose on his couch, his stomach churning. “He will fight my gladiator, Scorpion Fish.”

  At that, Ariella stepped to Ruso’s side, and the room applauded. Cato’s choice of entertainment had won them over, but the victory felt hollow and his mouth had gone dry.

  Ariella wore her helmet with the fish insignia. He could see only her eyes, and they were trained on him and him alone, as though even to look at Valerius would invite recognition.

  Do not look at me thus, Ariella.

  “Come.” Valerius pushed himself to standing. “It will not do to see a battle here. To the atrium!”

  The rest of the guests followed suit, as though Valerius were their host. It was just as well, for Cato had lost the use of his tongue.

  He was the last out of the triclinium and reached the atrium with his heart pounding and his palms slick with regret. It was a mistake. Her eyes told him that and more. He crossed the paving stones to where she stood opposite Ruso.

  “You do not have to do this.” He kept his voice low, for her alone. “I was wrong—”

  She jerked her trident up between them, and Cato had to pull backward to avoid injury.

  The dinner guests hooted in amusement. One of them shouted, “Careful, Cato. You’ll be the first casualty!”

  “No, he is a seasoned fighter,” another called. “Remember the arena?”

  More laughter, but Cato’s eyes were still on hers. Pleading.

  But Ariella had made up her mind. Her eyes were like two dark bits of stone shining through the slatted helmet, cold and hard as Bellona, goddess of war. Ari lowered the trident until its three prongs rested at the base of his throat.

  Again he heard the catcalls of his guests. Cato took two steps backward and was pulled to their circle, leaving the open space for the two fighters.

  Ariella faced her opponent, legs slightly bent in that familiar stance he had first seen in the training yard so many weeks ago.

  And then she rushed him, trident upraised. With the first clash of iron on iron, Cato’s hand went to his forehead, eyes covered.

  He had brought this shame on her—and now he could not bear to watch.

  37

  Balance the weight. Slightly forward. Back and forth.

  The training flowed back into Ariella’s arms and legs as though she had left the barracks only moments ago.

  Eyes on Ruso. Always watch the eyes.

  She and Ruso had not had much time to drill together. Had her rushed lesson on exhibition been enough to keep the slave from stupidity?

  Cato stood apart. His hand shie
lded his gray eyes, as though he could not watch.

  She forced her attention to the fight. Only the fight. To think of her audience was to invite danger. She would not even look on her enemy’s face.

  Ariella thrust forward to her opponent’s pullback and noted his pale face.

  Follow me, Ruso. Focus.

  She flutter-stepped back and forth, circled the young man, swung her sword arm. Her weapon clanged onto his and the sound echoed off the stone walls and pillars. The green of the courtyard’s shrubbery blurred with the white togas of her audience, their purple- and red-edged robes like strange flowers among the garden.

  At the first strike, the party guests sent up a raucous cheer, like young boys watching a street brawl.

  She would not look at Valerius. The thought of him there in the circle, his pretty face and vicious temper focused on her, made her sick. Snatches of memory fought for her attention, images and horrors from their time together.

  She drove forward, propelled by angry memories, backing Ruso toward the guests. Then parried and circled, her feet sliding and scraping the stone pavement in a familiar rhythm.

  The trident and net brought back some sense of invincibility. She welcomed the feeling. Behind her helmet, she was unknown and unknowable.

  He had promised.

  In the blur of garden and guest, somehow Cato’s face alone remained distinct. She saw his agonized look. An illogical pity flamed in her chest. Do not fear for me. I am invincible.

  They had only to give a good show, a believable display, with no harm on either side. But such a feat was more difficult than it looked.

  Ruso’s steps faltered. He tripped and fell toward Ariella’s trident. She yanked the weapon away, but not before it had pierced the leather across his chest.

  The men around her once again let out a yelp, and Ruso’s eyes widened.

  Ariella saw the panic there and backed away to give him space. But it was too late. He had lost the confidence of the display, and she could read the fear. He believed the fight had become real.