A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii (30 page)

“I tried to climb up the rubble by the atrium. I got halfway before—”

Titus clamps onto Julius’ arm. “We’ll think of something else,” he says.

I pull my son and son-in-law to the side of the room, away from prying ears. “Tell me.”

“A man tried to help us, but flying debris caught his shoulder, knocking him down.”

“Dear gods,” I murmur, sending a prayer for the man.

“People are taking things and running, Father,” Julius says, his voice hard and angry. “Those with ill intent are stealing.”

“And fire,” Titus adds. “The front part of the house is ablaze. The stones are hot to the touch.”

Julius turns over his palms, showing angry red blisters already developing from where he must have grasped hold to attempt climbing out. “The women and children will never survive the fall.”

Titus stands tall. “But you can make the jump. Go, Polybius. You have authority in this city as
praetor
; you can get help. I’ll watch over our family. We’ll be sheltered here for the time being.”

I shake my head. “There is no one left to save us. Those who are strong enough have left. I will not leave my family.” I will not run like a coward. I am Roman. I will stay and protect what is mine.

My son, who has been attempting with much success to remain strong, visibly cracks, his shoulders slumping, eyes glistening in the lantern light. I press a hand to his shoulder and squeeze, a silent show of my affection. “I am proud of you for attempting the climb and for your bravery.”

Julius gains some control of his emotions, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “We shall attempt again when the fires have tamed. In the morning, Vesuvius will cease its attack. One of us will make the jump and go in search of a taller ladder.”

If there is anything left of the city, of us.

But his words are so strong, so certain, I almost believe it myself. I have raised this boy well. He is Roman, too.

My son-in-law is more somber. He does not believe there will be a tomorrow; I can see it etched in his face. The young man has seen battle. Has witnessed death. They say a warrior knows when his end is near. Senses it.

I have never been a warrior, but I wanted to be. Perhaps that is why I chose Titus for my daughter. He brought respectability to our family, but in him I also fulfilled a dream of mine.

Titus touches the leather pouch at his waist, as if reassuring himself of its existence. Coin? A precious jewel?

The air is tighter now, feeling hot, and the smell of the city burning around us is strong. “It's a good plan. Let us rest for a while.”

They nod.

Titus sits beside his panting wife, while Julius takes a spot beside his mother.

I am left to sit beside my young ones. All of the children stare up at me between fits of coughing, eyes filled with fear. “Come and let me tell you a story of Rome.”

My sickly younger son Albinus leans his head against the back wall, his eyes closed as he seeks to breathe. I run my hand through his sweaty hair.

“Albinus, you’re a brave boy. Do you want to choose the story?”

His eyes open, the whites red, his stare looking somewhat glazed. “Tell me of your grandfather who served Emperor Augustus.”

My children love the stories of our family. We are descended of imperial slaves who served our illustrious past emperor then rose in the ranks as free men. My children are proud of this, as am I.

“Come gather here. I will tell you of the emperor who saved the life of a slave.”

J
ULILLA

My
husband reclines behind me on the couch, his arms wrapped around me. I sink into Titus’ warmth, hoping to pull some of his strength, but fearing I am too weak.

He whispers encouraging words in my ear. “We will survive this, Lilla.”

His chants are meant to inspire me, to make me feel safe, and yet I feel that he says them only to enforce his need for calm upon himself. I heard the men’s whispers. Fire at the front of the house. The city gone to despair, and thieves ransacking. Resentment is trying to find its way into my mind. Even if they found a ladder in the morning, how would I traverse it? And what if the world is doomed to be filled with fire forevermore?

I recall the vial in my pouch. No, not that.

The pain of childbirth has returned. It shouldn’t feel this way. The pain of it fills me and it takes most of my willpower to keep it hidden—and the rest to keep from shouting my anger at the gods for choosing this moment to rain destruction down on us mere mortals.

Before now, I never had any cause to complain, unlike my friend Aemelia, who constantly laments of her place in this world and the lack of choice she has in it. My friend is a headstrong girl, questioning everything, becoming upset when her wishes are not considered. The necessity for such rebellion never occurred to me. My father and husband are good, caring men. I’ve trusted in them to make decisions—after all, that is their right, and my duty is to obey.

And yet … maybe better decisions could have been made. I close my eyes against the guilt—they stayed to find me, and then they stayed in concern for my state.

I am not satisfied with the choices that have been made, and yet there is nothing I can do to change it, nor can I voice my unhappiness.

But the part of me that will not let gloom reign speaks its own measured wisdom. If I hadn’t come to Pompeii, it would have been much longer before I saw young Quintus again. This precious child who I often thought of as my own. I will protect him until I draw my last breath. A child in place of the one I lost. He curls in my lap, a thumb in his mouth, his other hand wrapped in my own. I encouraged him to sit with the other children, but he prefers to be here with me as he listens to Father regale the children with tales of lives past, easing their fears.

My stomach constricts, and I stiffen enough this time that Titus whispers, “What is it?” His palm presses to my hardened belly. “Is it the baby?”

Slowly, a crossness begins to grow inside me. I have to let go of it. I cannot let it consume me. But, I am …

Even forming the words is hard. I am angry.

“Shh …” I refuse to let this child come now. Not if I can stop its descent into this world of destruction. I stare down at my
stola
and
palla
, both covered in soot. The silky green
stola
fringed with gold and cinched with a matching girdle. The
palla
that marks me as a respectfully married matron, as diaphanous as I dare. I donned them for my friend Aemilia’s wedding. And I had my hair curled up prettily, but not so prettily as to outshine the bride.

Aemilia. What has happened to her? Where was she now?

Did she get out of Pompeii in time? Surely she and her family could have escaped. They had horses aplenty, and her father even told her they’d leave right after the wedding anyway. Their household was prepared to depart before the chaos began. Aemilia complained, but how lucky it was that her father had the forethought. I was certain they must have retreated when I was still struggling through the rubble-choked streets, grateful for Sabinus’ help in seeing me home.

In recounting his story to the children, my father raises his hands in the air as he tosses imagined dinner plates to the ground, and then says loudly in his impression of Augustus, “Would you feed me to your lampreys as you would your slave? For I have now broken many dishes and your slave only one.”

A million times we’d heard this story and yet our fascination did not yet wane. The story was passed down through the generations, and generations to come would tell stories of my own
paterfamilias
. Born of a freedman, Father was bred to be a politician.
Praetor
. His hopes for a higher position was only the beginning, as I knew he’d been grooming my brother Julius for greatness.

But our family’s climb, our scramble to the top, seems exhausting to think about now. I yawn, tired from both the stress of the day and the dimness of the room.

“Lilla, speak to me, love,” Titus murmurs. “I fear for you and the child.”

“There is nothing for you to fear,” I lie.

“But ...” He doesn’t say anything, but I know he worries about our unborn child, has since the moment the baby quickened within my womb. He relives the moments his firstborn son died.

“Fear not,” I whisper, because I cannot say aloud what I am beginning to believe. Saying those words aloud will make it real, and right now I still desperately want to believe in my father and husband. I do not want to doubt them, though a part of me is starting to believe that we are in danger, despite all they say.

I cough, and feel the baby kick, but not as strongly as before. Perhaps he will tire and cease his demand to make entrance.

“Are you hungry?” Titus asks.

I shake my head. “No, I want nothing but wine.”

Titus holds my cup to my lips. “Drink.” Then he hands me a fig. “Eat.”

Why must he demand it of me when I’ve said I do not want it? My annoyance is unwarranted. He wants only to help and yet I find myself growing agitated. Perhaps, if I rest, I will feel better. Perhaps I won’t feel the urge to yell my frustration.

I lean my head back against Titus’ strong chest, letting the air out warily, and sucking in another shaky breath. My limbs are heavy.

He strokes my forehead, kisses my temple, and I let the anger rush away. The pain in my belly subsides and I think Isis has answered my prayers. My belief in Isis was perhaps the only disagreement between Titus and myself that I set down my foot upon. He believes Isis worship is un-Roman. He was a sworn tribune to the emperor, both our families having ties to Augustus and yet, I worshipped the goddess of Cleopatra.

But I didn’t care. I told Titus he was being old-fashioned and that I would obey him in all things but this, reminding him that Cleopatra’s daughter had been respected by Augustus.

Perhaps Isis will keep this baby buried deep within my womb where he can pass on securely to the afterworld when we are all dead within the rubble of my father’s home. A tomb. Oh, how can I let such a horrid thought even cross my mind? We are not yet close to death!

“We will not be buried here,” Titus says, as if he can hear my thoughts. “We will escape. I will get you back to Rome unharmed.”

I realize I must have voiced my thoughts aloud.

Rome may be under the gods’ darkness, too, for all we know. I shake my head. “We must accept Fate.”

Gently my husband slides from behind me and stands, towering over me. His brow is creased with determination, his lips in a firm line. I imagine him giving this same look to legionaries before battle. “No, Lilla, we will not die here.”

Facing my father, Titus once more says, “I will go and search again for a way to get out, in case I missed something the first time.”

“I’m coming with you,” my brother Julius insists.

“How many times must you go?” I ask, immediately contrite for voicing my fears. “And what if you don’t come back?”

“
Lilla
,” my mother says in a tight whisper.

My father’s gaze is uncertain but he says nothing.

Titus takes my chin in his fingers and presses a kiss to my lips. “I will not fail you or my unborn son.”

I want to believe him. Need to believe him. So I nod.

He gives Quintus a little tap on the nose, causing a sob to choke me. Titus will make a good father.

My own father sits beside me, his hand tugging my free one, not occupied by Quintus, into his hold. “Lilla …” But his voice trails off for a moment, and the man I’ve known as a strong Roman for all of my life looks ready to break. Tears fill his eyes. “I am sorry, daughter. I’ve failed you. I’ve failed everyone.”

“Father …”

He shakes his head. “I cannot even seek your forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, for you have done nothing wrong.” I flick my eyes to Quintus who looks even more fearful. “Go and play with Little Bird,” I coo. The children have been running back and forth in a game of tag between this room and the one connected to it, the door banging against the wall as they shove through it.

The boy runs off with a nod, eager to play. I am reminded of his innocence, of all their innocence. Of their hope in the world and the outcome of this disaster. While we all fear for our safety, they have no other concern than a moment’s pleasure.

Because Mother was always ill and I was the oldest, I rarely had time to find that artless joy. I have always borne my duty with straight shoulders and absolute obedience.

“No, Lilla, I
have
done something wrong. I bade you come to Pompeii when you wished to stay in Rome where you were comfortable.”

Just as he pushed me to Rome in the first place by marrying me to Titus, pushed me to leave all that was familiar, and I obeyed, because that is what daughters do. Luckily, in Rome, I attained happiness in serving my new husband. Titus' place was in Rome: the way for him to advance his career. And being at odds with the two men in my life to whom I am beholden is a complicated and uncomfortable thing. One must submit to her
paterfamilias
. And yet, if a husband were to object? That was the situation I’d been in months before when Titus insisted we move to Rome permanently.