Pompeii: City on Fire (11 page)

Ari's eyes went wide as his back hit the stone.

And suddenly, Cato knew.

CHAPTER 11

Ariella slammed against the stone wall but its impact was lost on her. Her attention was on Portius Cato, on the way that he yanked his hands away from her chest as though he had been burned. The way the whites of his eyes seemed to grow larger, his lips parted in stunned silence.

They stood there a moment, like two carved marble pieces, and then Cato exhaled and dropped his shoulders.

"You
are
a woman."

"And you are a meddling nuisance!" She turned to slide away from him, but he shifted and blocked her way. She should shove him aside, but stood her ground and looked into his green-flecked eyes instead. "Will you take me prisoner, then?"

"I—I only want to know—" Cato licked his lips and shook his head.

"Ask it. Ask your questions." Ariella wished to be away, but she also wished to stay beside him. Her emotions tumbled like a mountain rockslide. Anger at being followed, at being found out, and yet a sweet sense of relief that this man who had occupied too many of her thoughts since she first met him knew that she was not a boy. The stone wall behind her seemed to radiate its sun-warmed heat into her body. She pulled away from it.

Cato began again. "They do not—the gladiator troupe—please tell me they do not keep you for their whore?"

His eyes accused and she felt the injustice of it. She wanted to see him laugh again, the way he had when they first spoke in the barracks field. "You know nothing of it."

"So, tell me."

The simple words, spoken with compassion, nearly undid her. She swallowed against the emotion.
He is a Roman
. . . But his eyes, his smile, they were not Roman. They were only human and trained on her in a way no one had looked at her in years. She felt a flush begin at her neck and travel to her face.

A sudden awareness of her unwashed condition, her hacked-off hair, her peasant clothes, backed her against the wall again, though it only put another handsbreadth between them. His perfectly-draped toga was brilliant white, his dark hair oiled and combed, his jaw clean-shaven. Everything about him spoke wealth and refinement.

He mistook her movement for fear. "I will not hurt you, Ari." He touched her arm, but then pulled away again, clearly unsure.

She believed him.

"Do they know?"

Ariella shook her head, then looked away, down the alley, to avoid those eyes.

It was not enough. She needed to get away. She shoved him aside and began to run down the alley.

He followed. She could hear the slap of his sandals, but he did not call out. She reached the end of the alley, to the intersection with the main street, and fell into the crowd. It would not do to run here, to draw attention to herself. Especially with a Roman nobleman chasing her. She weaved through townspeople, wanting only to be lost in the crowd.

But he was behind her in a moment, speaking into her ear as she moved.

"You are escaping?"

She said nothing, only bit down on her lip to steel her heart.

"What is your name? Tell me that at least."

Ariella would not slow. How could she be rid of him?

She reached the Forum and looked both ways.
The biggest crowds.
The only way to lose him.

But then he was in front of her, blocking her way again, then pulling her into a doorway. She was vaguely aware they had entered a temple, but the building was quiet and dim.

Cato seemed to have relinquished his notion of not touching her, for he had both her arms now, and nudged her against the inner wall of the temple. "Stop running from me. I only want to know more about you."

"Why?" She shot the word at his face, too close to hers, too perfect. Her neck grew damp, reminding her again of her shameful hair.

"Tell me your name."

"Ariella." In that moment she hated herself for the weakness.

"Ariella." He said it softly, and she nearly wept. "How did you join the gladiators, Ari?"

She closed her eyes, unable to stop her words now, like warm water flowing over her. "I needed to get away from my—situation. It seemed a good idea at the time."

"What situation?"

She turned her attention on him again, with a bit of the old fire. "An arrogant Roman who thought he could control me." The implication should be clear.

But he did not release her. "And now you are running away?"

"You've seen me train. I will not last a month in the arena."

"You will not last a month on your own."

She bristled. "I can find work—"

"There are very few who would take on an unknown foreign woman, possibly an escaped slave." His eyes narrowed. "Though your Latin is too developed for the slave class."

Ariella lifted her chin. "Not all slaves began their lives as such."

"Nor all noblemen."

She sighed, felt herself lean into him a bit. "I cannot go back."

"The lanista will scour the town for you."

"He will be looking for a young boy."

Cato cocked his head to the side. "Are you truly sixteen, as you told me in the barracks?"

Visions of the Temple of Jerusalem in flames appeared behind her eyes. "I once was."

His lips twitched into a smile. "You do not like to answer any question directly, do you?"

"No more than you like to leave your questions unanswered."

"Ari, this is foolishness. An escaped slave woman has only one place to go, and I do not wish to see you in the brothel." Cato's own face flushed then. How curious that he seemed embarrassed by the comment. "I mean that I do not want you to be forced into that life. No one should be."

She saw something different in him in that moment. Since their first conversation, he had seemed a rushing river, all swift speech and sharp retorts, charming as he was. But she saw something else in his eyes now. A deep loathing for evil and for injustice, a desire to right all wrongs, as much a part of him as all the witty sarcasm.

It was too much for her, this quiet conversation with a good man. A priest moved about the back of the temple, and Ariella used Cato's momentary distraction to pull away from his hold and rush back into the colonnade of the Forum.

But she had only fled one problem to face another. She emerged from the temple and found herself facing Drusus, the lanista.

Her sudden emergence drew his attention, and one look at her brought recognition. She would never have fooled him by simply changing her clothing.

He looked her up and down, taking in her clothes, and scowled. Then stepped toward her. "What is this? I send you to paint signs for the games, and—" He trailed off, as though unable to form the words around his discovery.

She felt Cato at her back, solid and strong.

Drusus's eyes moved above her head, and his brow furrowed.

"Drusus, is it?"

Ariella watched as the lanista straightened a bit to be known by a man such as the one behind her.

"What can I do for you, my lord?"

"You can accept my apologies for—detaining—your young warrior here."

Drusus looked back and forth between Cato and her, and she felt a sweat break out on her forehead as a light of understanding came into Drusus's eyes.

"Ah, I see." He jabbed a finger at the temple. "All kinds of ways to worship the gods, of course. Who am I to say what is right?" He grinned at Ariella. "Besides, he makes a better woman than he does a man, eh?" To Cato, he added, "But I suppose you already know that."

His implication sickened her and cast an unfair light on Cato, but she could not defend him.

"Yes, well, I appreciate your willingness to share him."

Drusus bowed. "We are here to serve, my lord." He winked. "In any way that we can."

Drusus spoke out of a hope of being reimbursed for his trouble, and Cato did not disappoint him. She could not see how much money the nobleman slipped to the older man. Did not want to see.

"So get to your painting, then, boy." Drusus jabbed at her side. "
After
you retrieve your own clothing."

Ariella nodded.

Drusus continued across the Forum, soon engaged in conversation with someone, but continuing his glances in their direction.

"I am sorry." She could not look up at him.

"Listen, Ari. You should make it known that you are a woman. I saw a few female gladiators in Rome, and they were much revered and valued. Your life would no doubt be spared, if only to bring the crowds out to see you again."

She shook her head, unable to even consider going back. And yet—the lanista watched her still and she could not run now. Her mind felt sluggish. "I must paint the signs."

"Where is your paint?" Cato spoke to her as though she were a child, and so she felt.

"I have none. I used the money for the fabric."

"Come." He led her down the colonnade, away from Drusus's watching eyes, his gentle hand on her elbow, guiding her. In the Macellum, she followed as he purchased supplies for her, then led her again out the back of the market, into the street. They retraced their steps to the brothel.

He held the paint and brush, and steered her toward the door. "Find your clothing. Put it on."

She obeyed, because it was the only way.

Her tunic and belt still lay on the floor where she had dropped them, and she grieved a moment for the hope that had been part of her in that moment before she left this house.

She changed quickly, refusing to look at the paintings on the walls that detailed the services offered within, but her movements drew a prostitute to where she stood inside the doorway. The woman looked over the young gladiator, amused, then beckoned to the interior of the house. Ariella shook her head and stalked from the building, courage finding its way back into her heart.

She found Cato still outside, and yanked the paint and brush from his hands.

He laughed. "I cannot decide which is the real Ariella. The quiet woman being led, or the foolhardy fighter ready to oppose the world."

She turned to leave. "I would not have survived this long without being who I am." She felt him watching her as she left him. Would she see him again? She slowed and faced him a last time. "Thank you. For everything. I am in your debt."'

He bowed his head. "I will look forward to being repaid."

Of course.

She chose the outer wall of the Eumachia, where the prominent fullers and their many customers would pass, for her first advertisement.

Thirty pairs of gladiators provided by Gnaeus Nigidius Maius, quinquennial duovir, together with their substitutes will fight at Pompeii . . .

Her hands brushed the strokes without thought, and her mind grasped for answers to her new crisis.

Meanwhile her heart retreated, following the Roman who today had saved her life.

CHAPTER 12

Cato had no heart for the speeches or the parade, and wandered home before the politicians had finished. His encounter with the madman had troubled him, though he could not say why. Only that there was something not right here in Pompeii. He could feel it. And the run-in with Ari, now Ariella, had disturbed him further. What interest should he have in a slave? He had plenty of his own.

By the next morning he had convinced himself that it was the curiosity of a female gladiator that intrigued him.

The games that Maius had so generously sponsored for the amusement of the city were scheduled for tonight. Would Ariella be there, in the arena? What would happen when she took to the ring? Would she be hurt?

Cato lounged in his gardens, trying to amuse himself with Cicero's writings, and urging the sun to track across the sky at a faster pace. By mid-morning he grew restless and even Octavia noticed.

"You are like a little boy, pacing as you wait." She patted his cheek. "Find something to keep you busy."

He shrugged her off. "I am only anxious to see what sort of display can purchase the silence of an entire town."

Octavia frowned. "Nigidius Maius has not stopped boasting all week."

Isabella entered the garden in time to hear her mother's comment. "The slaves are saying that he has even brought dwarves."

Octavia clucked at her daughter. "Isabella, I do not like you gossiping among the slaves. It is most inappropriate."

Isabella grinned and shrugged.

"What do they know of the gladiators?" Cato asked.

Octavia gave an exasperated sigh, and lifted her hands. "You two are exactly alike. I shall leave you to your gossip."

But before Cato could question Isabella further, a shout from the street startled all three.

Remus burst through the doorway, into the atrium, skidding to a stop before the dancing faun. "The vines!" His breath came in short gasps. "The vines are burning!"

Cato pushed past his sister and mother and crossed the mosaic floor to grab Remus by the shoulders. "My vines? How?"

The servant shook his head. "You must come!"

Cato nodded and the two ran from the house. He was aware that Isabella followed, amidst his mother's protestations, but he soon outpaced her.

It took too long to cross the city, to the outskirts where his vineyard lay next to the arena. As he rounded the corner of the last street of houses and ran through the grassy area alongside the new palaestra, he could see the black smoke rising from behind his fence.

How could this have happened?
He had sent Remus to do a little pruning, after showing him carefully how to trim and crop the vines. The man should not have been using any kind of flame.

As though he read Cato's mind, Remus huffed as they ran. "I finished with the vines an hour ago. A friend found me to tell me about the fire."

They reached the gate, and Cato fumbled at the latch, then tumbled into the enclosure.

He could see no farther than the several rows in front of him, so consumed with flames and smoke were they. He started forward, as though to rescue them, then backed away from the furious heat. The blackened posts Remus had criticized were a ready fuel, enough to overwhelm the green vines and moist soil. The still-green grapes sizzled and burst like fruit cooked for a sweet meal.