Pompeii: City on Fire (24 page)

"I will see you next month, then." Otho bowed.

Maius smiled and dipped his head. "Until next month."

In the moments that followed Otho's departure, Maius's thoughts went from dark to black. He crossed to the low wall that bordered his garden and faced the city, each of its lights representing to him another traitor to his leadership.

To eliminate, rather than defeat, one's opponent was also weakness. But there were times when it became necessary. This had become one of those times.

Portius Cato must die.

CHAPTER 29

The morning after Cato's sponsored games dawned fair, and the threatened rain of the previous day was forgotten. Cato rose early and again left the tending of his vines to Remus. He made his way to the Forum, his mind full of today's goal.

Thus far he had made his candidacy known, and performed a bit of theatrics for the populace. But it would take far more than such attention to win the election.

The magistrates' offices at the southern end of the Forum housed the treasury and were the main location for justice since the basilica's unrepaired damage from the earthquake over a decade ago. And the offices' position at the bottom of the Forum, where the road from Marina Gate led across the Forum to the Market Street, made it the busiest section of town.

Not coincidentally, it was outside these offices where a
suggestum
had been erected, a large platform for public speeches.

Not yet.

He crossed the Forum and entered the Temple of Apollo. His rituals were overdue. Though he had maintained the rites faithfully at home, a sacrifice here was called for. He went through the motives of paying the priest, money that would be passed to the slaughterers, and stayed for the blood sacrifice and the flute player's melody—loud notes to drown out any sounds of ill omens. The priest kept his head his covered, also to guard against ill omens, and Cato said the prayers intended to make the gods favorable toward him. He had given to them. Now they must give to him.

But the ritual felt hollow and pointless. Was this all the gods offered—a trading of favors? Did not Jeremiah's God's offer of a
relationship
far outweigh such practices?

He returned to the Forum, and as the morning sun lifted over the top of the Eumachia Building on his right, Cato ascended to the suggestum, and surveyed the Forum below.

Already the city churned with the early shoppers, with horse-drawn carts criss-crossing to make deliveries. Philosophers spouted ideas to small groups of intellectuals and beggars and prostitutes made their appeals to the rest.

Cato inhaled and set his shoulders, lifted his eyes to the mountain beyond the Forum, lit by the morning sun and watching over the city as always. From this height, above the chaos of the Forum's paving stones, there was a strange kinship with the mountain, a parental sort of feeling for Pompeii, as though the mountain were Mother and he were Father, called to protect. He shook his head at the notion.

This business with Portia has made me sentimental.

He had stood thus on platforms in Rome. Had stated his case, made his position clear. There had been powerful men there as well, men he had tried to unseat.

Tried—and failed.

The experience had shamed him, made him fearful. He saw that now. He had come to Pompeii to hide, to avoid ridicule and forget his failure. But the failure had followed him, because the failure was not the political defeat but a more personal fear.

It was time for the fear to be put away. Time to become the man he truly was, and to remove the mask of indifference.

A merchant of the Fruitsellers Guild ambled to the base of the platform from the direction of the Marina Gate, followed by a slave pushing an aging cart of oranges and lemons, its blackened wood rotting in places. The merchant shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at Cato. "Time for a speech?"

Well past time.
Cato nodded, and the merchant raised a fist in support and directed his slave to circle the cart and become the start of an audience for Cato.

And so it began. In the manner of the Greek philosophers, adopted and expanded by Roman politicians, Cato lifted his voice to the hurrying crowds and began to recite the crimes of his opponent, the promised benefits of his own leadership, and the dire need for change in the government of Pompeii.

Some continued on, more interested in their own affairs than the politics of the city. But many more slowed, then stopped and gathered around the fruitseller and his cart, curious to hear the first public speech by the candidate who had everyone talking.

Cato's voice took on strength as he warmed to his subject, reminding the people of Nigidius Maius's stranglehold on the economics of Pompeii, of his criminal tactics for maintaining power. Gone were the generalizations of change and new leadership. Cato had committed himself now, accusing Maius by name of everything from blackmail to treason.

"How long will you allow yourselves to be bullied into voting against your conscience, citizens? How long will you allow your livelihood to be threatened by the greed of this one man? It is time to stand!"

As he had in the arena yesterday, Cato received a shout of agreement from the men and even some women who had gathered. Upturned faces reflected confidence, passion for change.

"We will take back Pompeii, friends! I promise that fairness will become the new standard for government in this town. And we will flourish here at the base of Vesuvius, enjoying her many blessings!"

He stepped down soon after, and was mobbed by supporters. Back slaps and gripped arms, eager faces and offers of campaign help.

The nagging condemnation that had plagued Cato since he had fled Rome began to dissolve in the support of the people, and the confidence that he was at last where he needed to be.

Cato broke free of the crowds later in the morning. His new purchase should be waiting for him at home by now, but he took the slow route back to the house, stopping to talk with several businessmen along the way.

Yes, he had crossed a line today, committed himself to a course of action.

But he was far from sure that everyone would approve.

CHAPTER 30

Ariella woke to sunlight streaming onto the cushions from high windows in Europa's house, found Jeremiah dozing on a mat beside her, and jumped from her bed, forgetting her injuries.

Several breathless moments later, she probed her ribs with her fingers and decided that, although painful, the pain was bearable. The cuts on her upper arm were still dressed with Europa's rags. The bruises, well . . . there was nothing to be done there.

She slipped past Jeremiah, not wanting to disturb his rest, and made her way to the garden, where several servants tended the flowering bushes, stripping dead blossoms and clipping stray branches.

Flora was there as well and looked up at her approach.

"Will you give your mother my thanks? I must get back." How much did the girl know of her plight? She nodded in seeming understanding, and Ariella fled the house and headed through the morning shopping crowd, toward the theater and the gladiator barracks behind it.

The sidewalks were crowded already, and more than once she came up fast behind a strolling citizen and had to pull back, circle around and dodge through gaps in the crowd to keep moving. Drusus and the others would have missed her by now. What would be her punishment for having been gone all night?

But when she crossed under the entrance to the barracks training field and saw Drusus under the portico at the field's edge, he held out his hands in a gesture of welcome and even relief.

She approached warily, disbelieving that he had been concerned.

"There you are at last." His voice carried across the field, and drew the attention of those who lounged or trained.

"I am sorry, Drusus. I was—"

He waved away her apology. "I care not where you spent the night. Or with whom." He winked as if they were drinking comrades. "But you have turned out to have more value than I ever dreamed, and I feared I would have to return the gold if you did not show."

"The gold?"

"Oh, yes." Drusus's yellow-toothed smile was one of leering amusement. "He has paid quite a sum for you. At first I said my new little gladiator had turned out to be a better entertainer than I had imagined. But in the end"—he spread his palms wide, as if to indicate his own helplessness in the face of a tempting offer—"I had to agree that gold in the hand is always worth more than the uncertain gold of the future."

Ariella shook her head several times, for a strange, warning sort of buzzing had begun between her ears. "What are you talking about, Drusus?"

He grinned. "Oh, do not act surprised, my young lad. You must have known that this would be the outcome of all the attention your benefactor has displayed. It was not enough to pay for your private lodging, to sponsor the games, to watch you fight." Drusus shook his head, his greasy hair swinging. "Ho, when he jumped into the arena to save you, I saw a hundred more games sponsored by noblemen anxious to prove their manhood. But it would seem that he must have you closer than that. In his house, where his access to you will be unrestricted." Drusus again held out innocent hands. "And who am I to prevent ardor, in whatever form it takes?"

Ariella's head throbbed now, with a sharp pain that felt like a dagger behind the eyes. "Portius Cato?" She felt her hands clench at her sides. "Are you saying that he has paid for me?"

"Oh, he has paid well, my boy. Quite well."

She staggered backward, saw the blue sky ripple above her. Drusus reached out a hand to steady her. "Come now, there are worse things than being the slave of a rich man." He laughed. "You will not likely die at the end of a sword, for one."

Unless it is the end of my own sword.

He gave her a little shove. "You must go now. I promised him I would deliver you before noon, and you have kept me waiting."

Ariella shook her head, wordless.

"What? You don't want to go?" He leaned in, his lecherous voice a rasp in her ear. "Does he do things to you? Things you do not like?"

Ariella swallowed. Drusus's question came not from concern but from some sick curiosity.

"Do not do this, Drusus. Do not sell me to him."

He brushed his hands together. "It is already done."

"I will not go."

His eyes narrowed. "Then you shall be taken there." He glanced across the field at the clustered group of fighters, passing the dipper of water. "Two of you, over here."

Ariella turned to her colleagues, hoping for pity, an ally. But it was Paris and Floronius who responded. Perhaps they sensed that the summons had something to do with her, and were quick to grasp the chance to humiliate her.

"Our newest fighter is leaving us." Drusus pushed her toward them, and she stumbled, lost her balance and was forced to brace herself against Paris's chest. She snatched her hand back, as though she had been burned. "Ari has been purchased by Portius Cato, in the Arnio Pollo block. But it would seem that our young friend will not go willingly."

He needed say no more. The two brutes grabbed her by the arms and dragged her toward the gate before she could get her feet under her body. Her feet spun to gain ground, and she yanked at their hold on her. "I will
walk!
"

But her two nemeses would not give up the sanctioned rough handling. Neither released his grip, only their tongues as they dragged her through the city streets.

"At last." Paris's voice was gleeful. "We are rid of the runt who would steal the people's attention."

Floronius laughed. "We can be glad, at least, of the attention of one nobleman."

Ariella struggled still to get free of the tightening grasp of their iron fingers on her upper arms. Paris's grip pinched just below Europa's dressing of her wound, threatening to tear open the gash. Her ribs blazed with heat. "Please." She still scrambled to keep up with their longer pace. "Let me walk."

"Let you run, you mean." Paris chuckled. "Run away as you did last night? Not a chance."

They drew attention as they pushed through townspeople milling along the sidewalk or coming and going from various shops, and Ariella cringed at both the physical pain and the pain of humiliation. She trained her eyes on her feet and let the anger build in her like embers fanned into flame. Sweat ran down the center of her back, but the sounds and sight of the busy streets faded as she released her surroundings and gave her thoughts free reign.

That Cato had bought her like a piece of fowl hanging from a hook in the market infuriated her like nothing she could ever remember. The arrogance, the overweening conceit was like a monument built to himself, to glorify his own power.

She should have known that he was no different. These Romans did whatever they pleased, acquired whatever they desired, gorged on possessions, food, wine even as they consumed the world with their ever-marching military. And now she was one more thing that Portius Cato desired and would have.

No, he will not.

She had succumbed to the strength of such a man as this once, but she had been younger then. Weaker. Fresh from the loss of her beloved city and her family, and unable to fight for herself.

But you have become a fighter, Ariella.
She thought of Jeremiah's words.
A mighty warrior.
And though Portius Cato had seen her in the arena, he had not yet truly seen her fight.

The streets disappeared under the churn of their feet, and Ariella barely heard as Paris and Floronius asked throughout the Arnio Pollo street for the home of the Catonii. Soon enough they were at a blue-painted doorway, carved with flowers and vines in the most pompous of styles. Like the equally wealthy home of Europa and Seneca, but she would not find such kindness within these doors.

Indeed, when the door was opened by a slave, and the two men explained their delivery, she was shoved into the lofty entry hall and the door slammed behind her without a good-bye from the gladiators, whom she hoped to never see again.

The hall was a wonder in itself, with carved shelves high above her head on each side, holding the most ornate of statuary, and plaster behind painted with blues and golds that seemed to light the small entryway. Before her, the impluvium with its mosaic pool and ridiculous dancing faun spoke of a man who delighted in all physical pleasures, who took no care for anything but his own enjoyment, and wanted to be certain that all who entered knew him to be such a man.