Pompeii: City on Fire (27 page)

Octavia's eyes were on Ariella then, peering into her secrets. But Ariella dropped her gaze.

"Mother?" Isabella's voice at the door brought Octavia to her feet immediately. She hurried to the door, blocking the girl's entrance.

"This is no place for you, daughter."

"I was looking for Ariella. I was hoping she would brush my hair. It always shines after she is finished."

Octavia turned to her and nodded once. "You may go." She took the rag from Ariella's hand. "I will see to the girl."

Ariella followed Isabella through the atrium.

Octavia's work with the brothel women often brought the girls to the house, and the lady had explained to Ariella that she was always careful about their interaction with the family. She did not desire their influence to taint Isabella. And Quintus—well, her Quintus needed to find himself a suitable wife, and did not need the distraction of the wrong type of woman.

Octavia's words stung, but Ariella could not deny their truth.

In Isabella's small bedchamber she took the bone comb from the girl's bedside table and sat her down at the large bronze mirror. Isabella loosened her hair from its gold ribbons and let it fall.

Like a waterfall of black silk.
The image took Ariella back to the hills that surrounded Jerusalem, to the Mount of Olives, where once, during the rainy season, she had seen water cascading in a sheet from rocks above. The memory brought other images with it—smoke rising from the Temple beside the Mount of Olives. She pulled the comb through Isabella's hair and forced away the memory.

Isabella's eyes were focused on Ariella's reflection in the bronze. "Your hair will be wavy when it grows, will it not?"

She smiled. "Yes. I could never train it to behave the way yours does." Isabella shook her head, and Ariella laughed. "Hold still."

"Your hair will be beautiful, Ariella, I know it. I wish that mine were not so boring." She sighed and Ariella hid another smile.

"Was it very terrible when you had to cut it?" She started to turn her head, but Ariella directed her toward the mirror. "I would not want to join the gladiators if it meant cutting my hair. Tell me, Ariella, why did you become a gladiator?"

Ariella ran the comb through the length of her mistress's hair several times before answering, and when she did, it was with only half the truth. "My last master in Rome was not as kind as your—as your mother. Valerius was very rich and had a great many important visitors. Even your Nigidius Maius here in Pompeii had been in his house several times. But he treated me badly, and when I fought back, he decided he could fetch a good price for me as a fighter, so he sold me to the troupe."
End your questions there.

But Isabella was too bright. She turned on Ariella and grasped her arm with all the curiosity of a younger sister. "But he knew you were a woman, of course. How did you end up disguised as a boy?"

And so the lies must multiply.
"I—I did not stay long with that troupe. It did not work out. But to appear stronger I cut my hair and dressed as a man. When the lanista sold a group of us together, he did not mention my gender, and neither did I. Eventually, I was sold to another troupe where no one knew. It was easier to be a man among all those men."

Isabella giggled. "But living among all those men. The things you must have seen . . ." The girl blushed scarlet.

Ariella tried to smile, but the truth was not amusing, even now. "It was a dark time, Isabella. Do not think anything else."

The girl nodded, serious again. But Ariella could see the notion still intrigued her. In this room of soft colors and even softer fabrics, Isabella could have no idea of the barracks life.

Later, when Ariella worked alone in the kitchen, chopping parsnips, the conversation came back to her, this time with the truth of those days with Valerius. Now that she found herself once again a household slave, could she not run again?

But even the thought of it wearied her. To whom would she run? Would it not be better to remain here, in a house of kindness, where she would be safe and healthy, even if she were not free? There were worse things, as Octavia's work with the women of the brothels had made clear.

And here, in this house, at least she would be near
him.

She evened out the sections of parsnips with her fingertips, sliced through them quickly, and indulged in a few moments of rare honesty with herself.

Yes, she would rather grow old as a slave in this house, watch him take a wife and build a family, stand by as the house filled with the laughter of children that were not her own, than escape into a world that had only been cruel. He was pompous and arrogant and juvenile, and
Roman
—and still she did not want to be anywhere but in his house.

Ariella scooped the parsnips and tossed them into a bowl with a force that bounced some onto the table. She swiped at a foolish tear with the back of her hand and cleaned up the parsnips, and when she looked up from the bowl, he was in the doorway, watching her.

Her knife clattered to the table. "Do not do that!"

He smiled, that amused half-smile he so often wore. "Walk about my own house?"

"Watch me in silence. It unnerves me."

Again the smile. She wiped her hands on her tunic. "Was there something you wanted?"

He was silent for too long, his amusement fading a bit as he studied her. What serious thoughts ran through him at her question? "I am going back to the Christians again tonight. Do you want to join me?"

"Did you need my protection?" She couldn't resist.

He rewarded her with a full grin. "Perhaps."

She straightened the utensils on the table. "I will come."

ALONG THE WAY TO Europa's house, Cato was at first silent, then cleared his throat as though nervous to begin. "Isabella told me of your time before the gladiators. Was it Clovius Valerius who—owned you?"

Ariella cursed her transparency with the girl. "He is a wretched man."

"It is strange to me, to think that we were both in Rome at the same time and yet I did not know you. I wish—I wish I could have saved you from that unpleasantness."

Ariella's heart tripped a few beats, but she kept her eyes on her feet as they walked.

"Isabella says that Maius visited in Rome while you were there?"

The stones blurred under her feet.
Do not ask me to remember.
"Yes. They have debauchery in common, those two."

Cato slowed. "Greed I have seen in our duovir, and a certain ruthlessness. But never have I heard him accused of debauchery."

Ariella heard the eagerness in Cato's voice. Stemming, no doubt, from the possibility of finding something to ruin his opponent. Could she help him without betraying her own past? "Nigidius Maius joined Valerius for a celebration"—
Careful, Ariella
—"of the Dionysian mystery rites." She kept her eyes averted.

Cato halted beside her in the street, but Ariella kept walking, hoping he would resume.

"Maius is a Bacchanalian?"

The words were uttered quietly, but Ariella heard the astonishment. She stopped but did not turn. "Yes. Valerius is high priest of the cult. Maius is an initiate."

Cato caught up with her and clutched her arm. "I know very little about them. Tell me what you know."

But Ariella was done with speaking of it. She pulled from his grasp. "What would I know? I am a Jewish girl, not one of you Romans."

He walked alongside her. "Maius has kept his secret well here in Pompeii. Is Valerius also so secretive?"

"Rome is perhaps more tolerant of such things. Valerius believes that although the rites themselves are kept a mystery, the initiates should publically revel in their own involvement. He often leads the processions himself."

"He must disapprove of his friend Maius's timidity?"

Ariella remembered that last night and shuddered. "I do not believe they are friends any longer. Maius incensed Valerius by killing his favorite slave."

Cato whistled through his teeth. "What vengeance did Valerius take?"

"I—I do not know. I was—sold—shortly after."

Cato was quiet at last. No doubt he pondered how to best use her revelations.

They met no one intent on their harm along the way, and when Cyrus, the Persian slave, met them at the door, he seemed delighted to see Cato. Had her new master been here without her since their last visit? The slave left them in the atrium.

She listened for any sound of the group. "Will they all be here again this night?"

Cato nodded. "It is the first day of the week. This is their customary meeting day."

Ariella bit her lip and looked away. Cato had become so familiar with these people who worshipped Hashem, when she . . .

She was still so far from the Creator.

But when Jeremiah hobbled out of the triclinium, assisted by Flora, Ariella's heart once again softened.

"Quintus, Ariella." The old man extended his free hand. "It is good to have you here."

Cato greeted her old friend with a kiss, which astonished Ariella even more than the familiar praenomen with which Jeremiah had hailed him.

"We missed you yesterday, Quintus."

Cato glanced at her, then gripped Jeremiah's arm and led him toward the triclinium. "I am sorry, friend, that I could not make our usual time. Business to attend."

Ariella followed, marveling. Cato had become a student of Jeremiah's?

The group filled the dining room as usual, and Ariella smiled around to those on couches and the floor. Europa's daughter, Flora, hobbled over to another wealthy girl and joined her with an embrace of close friendship. Ariella had seen the girl here before, remembered her striking blue eyes.

Cato sat alongside her, and the teaching began, this time by Jeremiah.

They listen to a slave—and a Jew—teach them. Women are welcome.
Though it felt like a synagogue, it was something very different. Indeed, from what she had seen, the way their women were treated was nothing short of revolutionary. From birth onward, females had a greater chance at life and happiness in this society. They forbid the practice of exposing unwanted infant girls to die outdoors, they condemned the termination of inconvenient pregnancies which often resulted in a woman's death. They frowned on infidelity and divorce, thereby keeping women safe from disgrace and poverty. They took care of new mothers, attended the needs of widows. After all the mistreatment of her life, this esteem for the female sex was nearly enough in itself to cave in Ariella's hard heart.

Jeremiah spoke again of the sinfulness of people's hearts, incapable of good, just as the prophets taught. He expounded on the sacrifice, the blood that makes atonement for sin.

But then his voice deepened as though he were a prophet himself, and he opened the Scriptures to her in a new way—prophecy after prophecy of the Messiah that had found fulfillment in the life of Yeshua. The worlds of Isaiah, of King David, of the prophet Jeremiah and so many others. Hundreds of prophecies, Jeremiah said.

He finished by reciting a long passage from Isaiah—one that predicted the Messiah, and so clearly described the suffering of the one Jeremiah claimed came from God to destroy sin, to break down the barriers between man and his Creator . . .

"He was wounded because of our transgressions, He was crushed because of our iniquities . . . The chastisement of our welfare was upon Him, and with His stripes we were healed . . . All we like sheep did go astray, we turned every one to His own way, and Hashem hath made to light on Him the iniquity of us all . . . He bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors."

Ariella listened as though spellbound, but could not accept. Though Jeremiah had nearly convinced her that this Yeshua was the Messiah, still the knowledge of it collided with her anger at the suffering Hashem allowed. And she felt nothing but fury.

Before the meeting had ended, Jeremiah lifted prayers to the Creator and gave a special blessing over her and over Cato.
Champion of the weak,
Jeremiah called him. Her hands trembled when he spoke the words.

Later, they walked home slowly, both lost in their own thoughts.

Cato broke the silence. "These people, Ari. They have found a way to live."

She said nothing, and kept her eyes on the stones under her feet.

"I must introduce Europa to my mother. Don't you think? The way that they love, and the teachings of this Jesus—it's like nothing I've ever seen. 'Love your enemies,' Jeremiah says. And it's all possible because the sacrifice has been paid for all. Jeremiah says that when Jesus had suffered and been raised, He sat down at the right hand of the One God. What priest has ever sat down, Ari? Finished with his work?"

She held up a hand. "Enough. They are dangerous. I want to hear nothing more."

They walked in silence again for some minutes.

"You said that Valerius wants his initiates to be more vocal about their involvement in the Dionysian rites?"

She grimaced. Had his thoughts turned so easily from one sect to another? "He believes that it is the way to become filled with the gods. True followers should not be ashamed."

"And he was angry with Maius over the death of a slave."

Ariella did not answer. She could not read his thoughts. When he spoke, the words left her chilled.

"I believe it is time to invite Valerius to our holiday town. Surely he would like to see the way in which Nigidius Maius shows his loyalty to their sect."

Ariella's blood seemed to rush to her feet and she swayed for a moment. Cato took no notice and continued down the darkened street. She swallowed with effort. Her mouth and throat had gone dry. "Please, do not do that."

He turned at the anguish in her voice, and his eyes were sympathetic. "Isabella told me that Valerius was a harsh master. I promise, Ari, you will not need to see him. You can remain in the back of the house during his visit, and I will make no mention of you. But I must do this. The people of Pompeii need to know of Maius's secret activities, and I need more than the word of a slave to present it to them. If Valerius still holds a grudge over the murder, a first-hand look at Maius's hypocrisy might cause him to back me publically, and expose Maius."