Pompeii: City on Fire (14 page)

Most of the town's many brothels were occupied by slave women owned by Maius, and the profits funneled back to him on a regular basis, thanks to the insatiable lust that enslaved the idle and rich Pompeiians.

Maius jutted his chin toward Primus. "Speak."

"There is a noblewoman that is purported to move among the women, urging them to find a different life."

"How would they do such a thing?"

Primus shrugged. "Save their money. Purchase their freedom, perhaps. I do not know."

Maius waved a hand at the absurdity. Primus was right, it was nothing to be concerned about. "Who is this generous noblewoman?"

"Her name is Octavia. Of the Catonii."

Maius felt his lips part. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, striking Primus. The Greek skittered backward.

"Cato, again!" The cursed boy was everywhere he turned. He turned on Primus. "Get out." The slave only stared. "Get out!"

Primus obeyed, but Maius was not content to remain where he was, even alone. He paced the garden, then strode from it, and took to his veranda that overlooked the city.

Torches still burned across Pompeii, mirroring the starry night. Maius gripped the curved stone wall and stared across the city, as though his vision could travel down street and alley, through the doorway of the House of Portius Cato, and straight into the man's heart like a knife.

Cato was a danger. He could see that now. For all Maius's posturing, he would admit, to himself alone, a latent fear that the ex-politician from Rome could damage him. More than damage. If Maius lost his position as duovir, he could be prosecuted for any charges that the
ordo
chose to bring against him. Most of which involved execution if he were found guilty. And he was not so naïve to think that once out of office, he would have enough friends to keep him safe. He slapped his hands against the stone wall and pushed away to pace the veranda.

No, he must move against Cato, and he must do it strongly, show him who controlled this city and its resources. It was not about wine anymore.

What would it take to frighten the young man back to Rome? Clearly, the burning of his vines had not intimidated him. But he must have a weakness. He conjured up Cato's image in his mind, held it there like a magician with a spell, seeing Cato's fiery indignation at the plight of his sister.

Yes . . . his sister. There was weakness there. Like his mother, apparently, Cato suffered from a disadvantage ill-suited to political life: compassion. And that weakness could be exploited. Maius's heart quickened with a beat of anticipation.

If nothing else, Maius was an expert in finding ways to bend others to his will, and the plan came easily now that he had seen Cato's frailty. It would have to be about the sister. How easy it would be to spread rumors that Portia was being unfaithful to her husband. Poor woman, desperate to bear a child and convinced her barrenness was the fault of her girlish husband, she had turned to a man whose very essence was virility. Flattered by her attention and never one to turn away an admirer, Maius had succumbed to her charms.

Maius stroked his full lips. Yes. It was good.

Maius could have the city council press for Portia's divorce. Her husband had the right to divorce her for infertility already. Adultery would be another strike against her, and Maius could wield the mighty weapon of influence. She would be disgraced, stripped of her property, and unable to remarry. It was the perfect threat to use against Cato. And perhaps also against Portia. Who knew what she would be willing to do, to avoid such charges?

His belly was full of the night's sumptuous food, but tonight he also gorged on revenge.

Vesuvius could feel the mighty shift, deep within the earth beneath her. The massive, broken plates of continents that rubbed shoulders, snagged, and tried to break loose. They floated on a fiery sea of melted rock, carrying oceans and continents, ever so slowly. Sometimes these plates merely passed each other without incident. Sometimes they drifted apart. But at other times—at other times they were not so well-behaved.

It was then that they pushed against each other, each plate insisting on its own passage, the pressure building and building and building until finally—with a force to shake the nations—one plate would dive under the other. Rock liquefied, fissures widened, and a channel burrowed up, upward to the surface where it could find release.

She had found this release many times in ages past, and under the heavy vegetation, her slopes bore the scars of countless lava flows. But did the people who sheltered in her shadow, who farmed her fertile soil, did they remember her power?

No, they saw her as beneficent, always. As though she could not destroy if she so chose. As though she did not hold sway over their very lives.

Foolish. They had been foolish. And they would soon know their folly.

CHAPTER 15

When Ariella left the sand that afternoon, followed by the dwarf whose life she had nearly been required to take, her veins were on fire and her senses more acute than they had ever been.

She strode under the stone arch that led out of the arena, then down the vaulted corridor behind the seating to the holding room where ten other pairs of fighters waited for their turn at glory.

She couldn't help a raised fist when she entered the room. There were shouts of acclamation, if half-amused. The dwarf had gone elsewhere, to wherever they were kept.

Celadus slapped her back and knocked her off balance, then laughed. She laughed with him.

"Knew you could do it, boy. Never a doubt."

She chose not to argue, instead basking in the moment. She was invincible, unbeatable. The chants of the crowd rose again on the other side of the stone wall, recalling her own moments before them, all white and gold, gasping and cheering at each move she made, their thunderous applause when she had the dwarf on the ground.

Hours later, the glow had not worn off, and she joined her fellow gladiators in the dark courtyard as the lanista brought jugs of wine to be passed among them. They had lost only a few of their near-hundred men. It had been a good night. The purple wine slid down her throat cool, then hot, and no wine had ever tasted better.

There were more shouts, more laughter, and back-slapping from those who had not seen her in the holding room. Strange, to feel herself a favorite. She straightened and nodded, warmed from the commendation and from the wine. Spectators, ardent fans who lived for the games, milled through the training yard, wanting to get closer to their heroes. They were mostly women, and Ariella watched, fascinated, as they clustered around their favorites. Celadus, with his big smile and missing front teeth, seemed to draw the nurturing types, while Paris and his friend Floronius, haughty and proud, had the young ones fawning over them. Ariella drew some attention as well, but fled from the strangeness.

They fell onto their mats eventually, and most of the men snored within moments. Ariella propped her hands behind her head and stared at the roof of the cell, reliving the fight once again.

I can do this.
She had seen that running away would be fruitless. But why could she not stay, train hard, and win real battles? Not battles against dwarves, but real matches with some of the men here. She could survive. She had seen that tonight. Especially if she could win the favor of the crowd.

I must make a name for myself.
Something to make her known among the townspeople . . . An idea came to her, bringing a small smile in its irony.

Scorpion Fish.
Venomous, hidden, and masters of disguise and deception, the bright fish could blend in with its surroundings, unnoticed by its prey. She had already worn the fish-crested helmet of a Murmillo.

Yes, it was perfect.

She fell asleep at last, confident in her plan.

The next day, it took only a small amount of persuasion to get the lanista to let her paint more signs for the next fights, ten days hence. She did have artistic ability, and her first advertisements had done their job well. But she did not expect the metal collar he locked around her neck before allowing her to leave.

"Not taking any chances," Drusus said.

She touched the bronze at her throat. There would be no escaping now, with the clear indications of her status bolted to her body. No matter. She had found another route to freedom.

Once out in the city, paint in hand, it was a simple matter to work her own publicity into the task.

See Paris, the favorite of Rome, together with Scorpion Fish, slayer of dwarves, and twenty other pairs of fighters . . .

Never mind that she hadn't killed the dwarf, which in truth she was very glad about. It was enough to identify her, and if she knew this town, they would seize on her nickname and make it an object of fascinated conversation.

She continued through the city, painting her placards outside bakeries and brothels, taverns and
thermopolium,
where hot foods waited in bowls set in the marble counters, for those who preferred not to cook their own.

When she returned to the barracks, the old slave, Jeremiah, met her in the training yard. "You have been given new quarters." He took her paint supplies and indicated that she should follow. "I am to take you."

Confused, she followed Jeremiah into the shaded portico that bordered the field, past the cells she had shared with the others. "Why?"

He did not answer until they had ducked under a doorway, into a small room with a mat, some rough bedding, and two pots. It smelled of urine and waste, but it was hers alone. "Perhaps
Hashem
has heard my prayers, to keep you safe from those who would harm you." He patted her back, a touch soft enough to comfort.

Ariella turned to study him, watched his faint smile and then the downcast eyes. How had he accomplished this? She surveyed the tiny chamber. To have her own cell, a private place to dress and bathe—the blessing of it brought tears. She swiped at them and patted Jeremiah's arm. "Thank you, Jeremiah."

He shook his head. "Thank Hashem, dear child. He is the giver of all good things."

She smiled sadly. Her childhood faith had long ago been trampled by Roman boots, replaced by nothing but cold anger. "You thank him for me, Jeremiah. He has not heard from me in many years."

Jeremiah came to touch her face, like a rabbi's blessing. "Do not let them conquer your spirit, child. The evil one toils to keep these people oppressed, obsessed with violence and lust. Do not let him pull you into the gutter."

In the morning, when she was able to prepare for the day alone, in her private cell, she nearly did give thanks to the Creator, so grateful was she for the respite.

But the break was short-lived, for she was expected on the training field by sun up. Remembering her renewed plan yesterday, she determined to train hard today, to better prepare for the next fighter she would face.

Today's partner, however, could not have been more daunting. When Drusus called out the pairs and she found herself faced with Paris, her heart pounded in a rhythm that matched the fighters who beat against the wooden palus.

She expected amusement, mockery, from Paris as he circled her and strapped leather around his hands, his perfect body gleaming with oil. Instead he appeared angry.

"What did I tell you about stealing my glory, runt?"

Ariella swallowed and readjusted the sword in her hand.

"Did you think I would not find out that you've been running around the city, painting your name next to mine?"

What a fool she was! He had warned her already that an attempt to draw attention to her status as the smallest fighter would not be welcomed. She licked her lips. "There is room on the walls of Pompeii for two fighters, Paris."

"Not when you are one of them." He slashed at her with his wooden sword, and she jumped back.

The fight was quick and dirty. Paris had her on the ground in seconds. Ariella sensed the other fighters break off their training to watch. Paris grabbed her by the leather vest and yanked her upward, off-balance and held upright only by his hand wrapped around her buckles.