Pompeii: City on Fire (20 page)

The room had gone silent at their arrival, and Cato found a slice of space against the wall and leaned one shoulder against it, his body touching those on either side. He scanned faces for a short-haired woman, but she was not present. A girl about Isabella's age caught his eye, familiar for some reason, but she looked away, as if wanting to remain unseen. Cato studied her for several moments. Where had he seen her before?

"Portius Cato joins us for news of his sister." Seneca nodded in his direction.

Smiles lit the faces of a few, and reports were given that Portia somehow thrived in the cells, and that good food and clean water had been brought for her daily.

Cato bowed his head, emotion tightening his throat. "You are good people. Thank you."

Seneca spoke from beside his wife. "Cato, I believe I speak for the group when I say that you are supported here in your bid for election."

Cato lifted his head, surprised. Christians were often accused of being enemies of Rome, of seeking to subvert all that was good about the Empire. "I will have your votes?"

"Our votes and whatever else we can give." There were murmurs of agreement around the room, and Cato noticed the old man, Ariella's friend, on a mat near Seneca. He bent to the prone man, who appeared to be speaking to him, then straightened. "Will you stay for our meeting, Cato? We would be glad to have you."

Cato did not miss the looks of surprise that traveled the room. "I would be honored."

And this was truth. He
was
honored to be invited. They were a mystery sect, and their rites were closed to outsiders. He was fascinated and curious, but even more than that, his heart was being drawn to these people. Discreet inquiries around town had uncovered more than concern for those possessed by evil, trapped in prison, or hungry. It seemed they also cared for orphans or widows, shared their wealth with the poor, performed healings, and welcomed prostitutes into their midst.

This last particularly interested him, given his mother's activities. Octavia had her own reasons for helping, but she could never seem to make a permanent change. Yet Cato saw clear evidence that women once enslaved to the brothel now joined the sect, somehow free. And above all this humanitarian effort, or perhaps behind it, was something even more. It was the look he had seen on the faces of those who had perished in the games of the arena. Their willingness to die for what they believed made him ache for something so powerful, so important, something to live for.

Despite his insistence on standing like so many others, Cato was placed on a seat near the old Jeremiah. "How do you fare?" he asked, thinking to carry a message to Ariella.

Jeremiah smiled and patted his hip with a wrinkled hand. "Better. I am healing. Have you seen her?"

So the old man also knows her secret.
The realization bothered him. The knowledge did not belong to him alone. "She is well, also. But determined to fight those who outmatch her."

Jeremiah chuckled. "In size only. She has the heart of a mighty warrior."

That she does.

"I sense you also have been called to fight a battle." Jeremiah's hand reached up to grasp Cato's with surprising strength. "And that is why you are here."

"I did not think I would be permitted to stay. I have heard you are a secretive people."

Jeremiah studied him, head cocked. "It does no good to force answers on those who do not yet ask questions."

Perceptive man. Cato's questions had begun in Rome, in the home of his uncle, and had carried him here, to this house. A young man at the other side of the room began to speak, and Cato turned his attention there.

Strange religion, this was, with no temple, no incense, no sacrifices. They had come from the wealth of Europa's and Seneca's home to the cramped poverty of this one, but did not seem to notice. In fact, the house seemed like a pool of still water in the midst of the city.

Cato listened first with curiosity, interested to learn more about this strange sect that had captured his uncle's allegiance. But as the evening wore on, and the words of the speaker took on fuller meaning, he began to see that this new religion that had begun as a splinter of Judaism was not a Jewish religion any longer, and that the invitation it extended was for all people. Something about the way the man described their prophet, the Messiah, appealed to more than his mind but also his heart. There was a sense of belonging in this community that he had never before encountered.

Too soon the meeting ended, concluding with a song sung by the group, a deep and haunting melody that left Cato with a profound sense of emptiness, and yet was wonderful to hear.

They would try to slip him into a cell tomorrow, they told him. After the games had ended. Cato gripped hands in gratitude once more, and returned to his home, full of the teachings of the Way, of this Jesus they claimed had been a god-turned-flesh, not in the fantastical stories of the Roman pantheon, but in a true and real way, walking here among men only fifty years ago. And with some who knew him still able to testify to his death, to his burial. To his resurrection.

But it was too much to puzzle through tonight, and Cato found his bed and fell asleep thinking more of tomorrow's performance than yesterday's prophets.

The morning dawned with a red sky in the east, an ill omen for a sea town. Cato dressed hurriedly, kissed his mother and Isabella, and headed for the arena. The muscles between his shoulders had already grown tight before he crossed half the city, like an icy hand gripped his neck. Today's event weighted him. It was critical that he impress the citizens with the chance for something new. All the while, Ariella's anger nipped at his conscience, making his head spin.

A quick stop in his vineyard found Remus supervising his field slaves in the pruning, trying to make the most of the vines he had left. Cato stopped out of guilt and duty rather than desire, then left the vineyard to cross to the arena's massive circular wall. He was a man of a single passion, and he had already set aside his grapes to pursue a different harvest, sweet wine for a city too accustomed to bitter.

He passed the outer steps that led to tiered seating and crossed under the massive tan and black stone arch where the fighters and principals entered. Once inside, wide corridors led in either direction, circling the arena under a series of arches. The amphitheater at Pompeii was the oldest in the Empire, built over one hundred fifty years ago, and it held a timeworn charm. Though Vespasian's colossal Flavian Amphitheater was nearly completed in Rome, with massive underground tunnels and even a water flow that could flood the arena, Cato found this smaller arena a better forum for winning a town.

He passed the corridors with only a glance, for ahead in the yellowish sand he could see that the fighters had already arrived. Dozens of pairs spread out over the elliptical sand, surrounded by all that marble seating, blinding white without the thousands of spectators. Tapestries were draped over the sides of the seating, down toward the sand. Slaves hung garlands of woven leaves along the ledge.

He stood under the arched stone, half shadow and half sunlit, and watched the fighters as they warmed their muscles in preparation for the event. Across the sand, Drusus paced and screamed instructions, but the clash of their swords drowned his words.

It was like a dance, these pairs of men, thrusting and parrying in rhythm, and for a moment all their movements seemed to synchronize, as though the dance had been choreographed. It was beautiful to watch.

But then the spell broke, and the fighters drew apart. Cato inhaled, hardening his determination, and crossed the sand to Drusus to work out the final details of when he would speak to the crowd. He forced himself to ignore Ariella, though he was well aware of her place in the sand. And did she watch him as he walked?

Indeed, when he had finished with Drusus and turned back toward the end of the arena, Ariella stalked over to him, her lips tight and her cheeks a mottled red.

"What are you going to do?"

Cato looked sideways, knowing they drew attention. "It is for your own good—"

"Do not dare to speak to me of my good!" Her nostrils flared and her voice was a low growl. "I have been taking care of myself for many years before you came along, Portius Cato. I know what is best for me, and I do not want your help!" The last few words were spat on him, and Cato rubbed at his clenched jaw.

He had nothing to say, and so pushed past her and tried to walk away. She trotted backward alongside him, then blocked his exit. "So that is it? The great Cato will do what he wants?" She shoved a fist at his chest. "Then do not speak to me of doing it for my good. We both know this is about your own glory, about making a name for yourself, and using me to do it. But know this, Cato. By tomorrow I will be nothing more than the plaything of this troupe, and I will lay the blame at your feet."

He searched her eyes for any sign of weakness. "What are you talking about?"

"I told you days ago. If you reveal me this day, before I have won the crowd's loyalty, you will have your surprise, and then they shall forget me. But the rest of the fighters—" she waved her sword around the arena where the matched pairs loitered or sparred—"they will not forget. And what do you think will happen to one small woman housed with a hundred men?"

Cato swallowed, his stomach rebelling. He had not thought of that. Perhaps he had not thought. "I promised the people something they'd never seen . . ."

She drew herself up until she seemed as tall as he. "Then do what you must." She turned her back and headed for the corridors on the far side of the arena.

Cato watched her go, his heart beating with heaviness that seemed to have lost its right rhythm. The tightness in his jaw and shoulders spread to every muscle.
I have made a mistake.

He had set everything on this event today, funneling funds into it and making claims that he would impress the people. He had fooled himself into thinking he did it for Ariella's protection.

He saw now that she was right. He was exploiting her for his own purpose. The vileness of his action churned in his stomach and climbed up into his chest, then plummeted. He stood in the center of the sand, with the well-trained fighters ranging around him—

And felt as though he were being torn apart.

CHAPTER 24

Ariella watched Floronius from the under the arch at the end of the arena. The baffling nobleman Portius Cato had retreated, thankfully, so that she had nothing to distract her from her study of her opponent. She would fight today as a Retiarius, and had been practicing with the net since Drusus had told her. Floronius was a Secutor, heavily armed and relying on strength. Matches were often arranged thus, with strength and armor pitted against speed and mobility.

She had planned more than the movement of her feet and net, however. It would take every trick she could devise to win the crowd today. Drusus approached and she reached a hand out to slow him. "I will go out before Floronius, yes?"

It was the third or fourth time she had asked, and from his scowl it was once too many. "Yes, yes. Now worry about your fight, not your pride!"

She nodded and let him pass, then inhaled deeply and returned to her study of those still warming up.

She had done all she could to prepare, painting signs all over the city of Scorpion Fish, hoping they would come eager to see this new favorite. She would appear outmatched because of her size, but that was not enough to win their favor. She would need to be amusing, to capture their imagination, to make them laugh and to make them watch.

And Floronius—she had memorized every one of his standard tactics, studied his weaknesses until she knew them well. He was slow on the turn and heavy on his feet.

She braced a hand against the stone arch and felt her breath quicken. Could she kill him? He might die at the end of her trident in the heat of the battle, or she might pin him and look to the games' sponsor for his indication of death or mercy. It would be Cato in that box today. Would he want her to claim her victory, or would he want to spare her the unpleasantness of Floronius's execution?

She saw in her mind Floronius's grinning face as he stood over Jeremiah's fallen body. Heard his derisive laughter. Oh yes, she could kill him.

But there was a greater question she dared not ask herself. When she fought today, would she fight as Scorpion Fish, or revealed to the crowd as a woman? Had she convinced Cato to keep her secret, or would his infuriating need to interfere ruin her plans before she'd been given a chance?

All too soon the stands began to fill with excited townspeople, eager for the early entertainment. A few mock duels were staged to warm up the crowd, but before long the animals, kept starving and tortured under the arena floor, were released. The iron grills that barred their cells were swung open, slaves set fire to straw behind them, and terrified by flames and smoke, they ran up the ramps into the sun.

Ariella paced the corridor, only occasionally glancing out at the menagerie of exotic animals that snarled and attacked each other in the ring—bears and bulls, antelopes and jackals, hyenas and leopards—the entire arena seemed covered with skins and fur. Ethiopian bowmen in ostrich plume headdresses let arrows loose from upper tiers, and the roar of fallen beasts mingled with the screams of the crowd. And still they wanted more.

Though she was part of it now, still it sickened her. Boredom had brought them to this—a whole society that could feel nothing anymore, but death and sex. Their common criminals were sentenced to the arena simply to fill demand, and still they wanted more.

More novelty. More cruelty.

What had been a blood sport had become a blood bath. Horsemen would hunt down armed men on foot. Terrified prisoners were tortured. Pubescent girls raped.

More!

Ignoring the boiling heat and putrid stench, the crowds shrieked with pleasure. Women in the stands tore long gashes in their cheeks. Men beat their fists against the marble seating. "Kill! Kill! Kill!" Their tedious, purposeless existence found vent only here, intoxicated on blood and making use of prostitutes in passageways to satisfy their lust.