City on Fire

by Tracy L. Higley

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 walked 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 was 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?

  Cato 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?

  But she must forget the mountain. Think only of the battle.

  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. Cato 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 Cato 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 Cato 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 Cato 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.”

  Cato stared down at her, uncomprehending.

  “Nigidius Maius. We were placed here on his orders. After the disaster began, 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 Cato’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.

  Cato 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. He called to Cyrus to lead them to the city gates.

  Aboveground, 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. “An
d 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, following Cyrus, she turned back to him. “You do not even know where Maius keeps his private cells.”

  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.”

  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 was 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?

  It seemed hours until they reached the path that led to the front of the house. Perhaps it had been. A weariness he had never known washed over him. He paused before the buried front garden, unequal to the task.

  Ariella drew up beside him, panting. “What is it?”

  It was growing harder to breathe, the sulfuric odor thickening the air. “I do not know if I can do this.”

  She seemed to feel it too. It was not merely the exhaustion. The house seemed enveloped in a special darkness, a settled dread that wormed its way into his soul.

  “Evil.” Her voice was low, perhaps angry.

  He looked at her eyes, tried to read her expression beneath the ash-coated mask.

  She watched him. “Can you feel it?”

  He turned back to the house. If he had needed confirmation that the battle about to be waged was more than man-against-man, this was it.

  Holy One, go before me.

  The prayer strengthened him. A piece of his soul lightened as though a candle had been lit. A tiny flicker at best, but enough to guide him onward. He lifted his sword toward the house. “Are you ready?”

  She did not answer at once, perhaps finding her own strength. But then she was climbing upward, toward the peristyle. Always the warrior.

  Inside the house, the atrium’s garden and floor mosaics had been erased. Only a sea of rocky ash greeted them. It tapered down at the edges, to the roofed colonnade surrounding the atrium. They slid down the pile to the empty walkway. It was a relief to be on firm ground. His calf muscles twitched with the strange solidity.

  Ariella hurried ahead of him. “The cells are this way.”

  They twisted through the silent house. How could she remember where to go through this labyrinth? It hurt his heart to think of her firsthand knowledge of Maius’s special cells.

  Ariella slowed as they neared a smaller peristyle porch on the west side of the house. Torchlight flickered against the columns and Cato could hear voices coming from the room that opened onto the porch.

  She turned to him, held a finger to her lips beneath the mask. “The entrance is past the triclinium here. But there is someone present.”

  A laugh echoed to them.

  Maius.

  Ariella’s eyes flickered her fear and confusion. Could the man truly laugh at such a time as this?

  A slave turned the corner suddenly. He bore an empty tray and stopped short when he saw the two. Cato moved quickly. He grabbed the man, twisted behind him, and covered the slave’s mouth with his hand. His back slammed the wall and he held the man fast. Ariella lifted her sword point to the slave’s chin.

  Cato hissed into the man’s ear, “Do not make a sound.” The slave nodded and Ariella signaled with her eyes that she was ready to hold him to it.

  He eased his hand off the man’s mouth.

  The slave took a gulping breath but said nothing.

  Ariella held him against the wall.

  Cato pivoted to face him. “Is Maius alone?”

  The slave shook his head.

  “Who?”

  “His daughter.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Another shake of the head. “He is feasting.”

  The words were offered as an explanation, but they only explained that Nigidius Maius was either a fool or a madman. Perhaps both.

  Cato pushed him toward the hall. “Go. Take anyone you wish and flee the city. He will not have need of you again.”

  The slave hesitated a moment. Cato was unsure whether it was loyalty to Maius or a desire to fight alongside Cato that held him, but then he was gone.

  Speed and good health, my friend.

  He drew Ariella close and spoke in whispers. “I will deal with Maius. You find Portia, bring her out.”

  She nodded her understanding.

  “Ready?”

  Another nod.

  He touched her face above the mask, traced a line under her eye. Then he strode ahead, to the opening of the room. He felt Ariella slip behind him, toward the entrance to the lower levels.

  Maius did not look up at once. He reclined on a couch with Nigidia beside him and a table filled with excess before them. His distraction gave Cato a fleeting moment to absorb the scenes of horror painted on the triclinium walls. He took in the story at once, the terrible mystery rites of a young girl’s initiation, the horror on her face before, and the resignation after. The sight filled him with something he could not at first name.

  Righteous anger. His chest swelled with it, and it burst from his mouth in a shout of rage. “Gnaeus Nigidius Maius! The Holy One has looked down on your acts and has passed judgment!”

  Maius’s head jerked up from the table, his mouth still stuffed with grapes and his eyes wide.

  Cato stood at the center of the room’s opening, his stance wide and his sword raised. A tremor shook through him, deeper and more profound than any earthquake.

  Surrender. He gave it all in that moment—all the responsibility he felt for his sisters, his mother, for Ariella. All the commitment to free Pompeii of Nigidius Maius, to free the world of all injustice. It was not his battle, it was the Lord’s.

  And he was full of something new, something with power and glory, a strength he had never known, a freedom from bondage. He was a sword wielded in the Name of the only Just One.

  And in that Name, he had no doubt of victory.

  Maius struggled to his feet, lifting his bulk above the c
ushion and stepping back against the triclinium wall, beneath the fresco of the lounging Bacchus. Nigidia did not move, and Cato sensed in her a fearsome dread, of the ending of both the world and her father. There had been guilt at leaving her earlier. It would not happen again.

  Cato expected Maius to cower in fear, as he was unarmed. He had been naïve.

  The man’s face filled instead with amusement. And then laughter, such as they had heard in the hall, filled the room.

  “I should have known you would come. You cannot leave a thing undone, can you, Portius Cato? Even on a day such as this.” He gestured toward the darkness outside. “When everyone with sense is indoors. Still you come, always the rescuer.”

  “The mountain will kill us all, Maius. I am taking Portia with me.”

  “Are you?” He pulled Nigidia to her feet and wrapped an arm around her. Then turned his eyes to Cato and stared him down, his bushy brows drawn together.

  Cato swallowed, trying to free a tightness in his chest. Around him, the frescoes blurred as though viewed through water, then seemed to come to life, to swirl around the room. Wispy satyrs playing their pan pipes, a nymph suckling a goat, the leering Bacchus. Evil personified.

  Had he gone mad? Did Maius see the apparitions? Nigidia’s face blanched and she ducked and swerved, still gripped by her father’s right arm.

  Maius opened his mouth but did not speak at first. When he did, the words seemed to stream from his mouth in a torrent, as the flames now poured from the mountain above them. “Come to me now, Jupiter! Heed my call and deliver me! Strike down my enemy. Accept my many sacrifices and grant me favor. Venus and Mercury, I call on your mighty power!”

  Cato raised an arm, but his strength faltered. His limbs were weighted with the force of Maius’s words.

  Fight. He must fight.

  No. You must surrender to Me.

  The words were not his—they were spoken into his heart. He gave himself to the words, to the Word, who opened his mouth and spoke for him. “‘If you say, “But we did not know,” does not He who weighs the heart perceive the truth? Does not He who guards your life know it? Will He not repay each person according to their deeds?’”