Pompeii: City on Fire (9 page)

Cato shrugged. "Choice. Integrity. Change."

Lucius's eyebrows rose. "Sounds more like a political party than a dinner party."

Cato rolled his shoulders, tension sparking down his spine. "Only a social gathering, brother, I assure you." He turned away, but not before he saw Lucius's head bent to Portia's, and the two share a secret smile between them.

He tossed off the chill at Lucius's words, and instead focused on the love between the two of them, but even that left him cold. He was keenly aware that the house was spacious enough for a large family, and that he was just as childless as his sister.
At least she has someone to love.
"Call a slave, Mother. I want to start writing the invitations."

Despite his mother's objections, he had messages sent through the city before the day was out, inviting the nobility to a party to be held in his home, three nights hence. There would be no overlap with the scheduled arena games, but with his party the following night, would his guests still be in a celebratory mood?

But the next morning, slaves began appearing at the front door, responses in hand or mouth. Cato had underestimated his opponent.

"My master regrets that he is unable to attend." The latest messenger seemed to recite from a theater script given to each of the slaves before they arrived in his courtyard.

"That is all?" Cato scowled. "No reason given?"

A flicker of something in the slave's eye. Amusement? Did the slave think Cato a fool? The look disappeared, and the man bowed low and backed out.

In the end, only two of his sixteen invitations were accepted. Hardly the stuff of a successful dinner party. He stood fuming in the courtyard as the last slave slunk away, and Portia and Octavia joined him.

"I
am
a fool." He slapped a nearby marble column. It answered with a puff of stone dust that settled to the ground. "I was trying to buy them all, but they've already sold themselves." He brushed the powder from his hands. "I am no better than Maius. No, I am worse. I have even failed to be sordid."

Portia patted his back. "You will find another way." Her voice was soft.

"Is this about the wine alone, Quintus?" His mother's tone accused, though he knew her heart.

"Of course not! The man believes he can control the money, the business, the people of this town. He should not be allow—" Cato sighed. He had fallen into their trap once more.

"Why can you not see it, Quintus?" Portia plucked at his tunic. "You have been here less than a week, and already you have made an enemy of an evil man. Already your purpose has become to undo him. Can you not see that you are destined for government?"

In truth, he did see it. And that was why his sister, beautiful and sweet as she was, was making him nauseated. Cato rubbed at his forehead, a bit sweaty and out of breath.

It was going to take more than the grapes to distract him.

CHAPTER 9

Get in there, Ari. You stink."

The lanista's words stung her femininity, but were more treacherous to her safety.

She had avoided it thus far.

In the field, on the journey she'd joined from Rome to Napoli, and then farther south to Pompeii, it had been challenging to dress alone, bathe alone, be alone. But she found ways.

The gladiator barracks in the center of the city was a different matter.

For four days she had drilled and trained and sweated, but had not bathed. She sensed the odor that clung to her, yet could find no options.

Drusus's stubby fingers jabbed into her back, and pushed her into the dank confines of the barracks surrounding their training field. "I should send you to the Forum Baths, but this'll have to do."

Ariella turned to him, faint hope surging at the thought of being sent out of the barracks, to the public baths, but common sense took over and sealed her lips.

And which baths would you enter? The men's or the women's?

A half-dozen men clustered around the fountain built in the outermost room of the barracks, where fresh water from the city's aqueduct flowed from the stone mouth of a goddess into a shallow basin. A luxury built in the days when the quadriporticus had been the city's main recreation palaestra, not placed here for the gladiators. But from the looks of the men, they were taking full advantage. Paris plunged his head under the gush of water, then flipped it backward, laughing and sending a stream in an arc over his head, his rippled chest gleaming with water. His comrades jested with each other in voices that bounced from the stone walls.

But it was not the water nor the gladiators' amusement that flooded Ariella with fear. It was the fact that they were naked, each one of them.

And she was expected to join them.

Floronius cupped his hand in the standing water in the basin and flung water at Ariella as she approached. "Ah, look men. It would seem Ari has put his shyness behind him." He was an ugly one, with an even meaner spirit than Paris.

Ariella inhaled, and the odor of sweaty men and the pungent oils they used before scraping themselves filled her nostrils and left her queasy.

They turned their attention to her, and she felt her face flush with the heat of a thousand oil lamps.

Paris guffawed. "By the looks of his face, I'd say he's still a bit bashful. Come, Ari, we promise not to ridicule your puny body. Don't we, men?" He threw the question out to the others, and of course received loud laughter in response. He stepped to her and reached for the straps of her leather vest. "Here, I'll even help you."

Ariella shoved aside the intimate gesture, sickened. "I will do it myself."

"Ho, ho!" Paris backed away, palms held outward. "He does have a spine, men. And now we shall see what else he has!"

Ariella felt as though she could not breathe, and turned to the wall to brace herself against it with one hand. She bent to pry apart the laces of her sandals with the other.

They were not all Roman, the gladiators. In fact, most were not. But they reminded her of those that had sacked her beloved Jerusalem nine years earlier. A lust for entertainment that did not know boundaries and would not be denied. Ironic, since it was this city's same lust that might be the death of some of them.

They lost interest in her for a moment, so slow was she in removing her sandals. She unbuckled the leather cuff at her waist, with its pocket for her
pugio,
the short sword, and was soon down to only her tunic. Their amusement must have run its course, for they turned back to her.

"You take longer to undress than a maiden on her wedding night!" Floronius pushed his way through the others and shoved three sharp fingers into the flesh of her shoulder. She swatted at him, and he returned with a blow to the side of the head, knocking her to the ground.

They circled her, and she lay there, a mortal at the foot of the gods, vulnerable and helpless in the face of their wrath.

This was it, then. There was no more escape. She could rise and run, refuse to bathe. But she knew what would happen. One of them, probably Paris, would chase her down, haul her back, and force her to undress for the amusement of them all.

Her stomach churned once again. She put a hand to her belly to quell the upheaval and stood on shaky legs. Her breath came short and shallow and a metallic taste filled her mouth. She cursed her weakness, felt her breathing become rapid and shallow, and then she was retching. On the floor, on her own feet. Over and over while the men roared with laughter.

Another pair of feet appeared beside her own. A warm hand on the small of her back, a rag pushed into her hands. She wiped at her mouth and lifted her head.

The old slave who had attended her a few nights earlier, her countryman, watched with compassionate eyes.

"You should lie down." His voice rose to carry to the others. "Come."

He led her from the fountain room until the laughter and horseplay of the men was only a distant rumble, and took her to one of the small cells that had become her home since arriving. A bare mat lay in the corner, and she lowered herself to it, grateful to have escaped for the moment.

But there will be other moments.

"Thank you," she whispered to the old man. "You are very kind."

"Hmmm." He nodded, then retrieved a bucket of water from the corner and began, for the second time, to wash Ariella's legs.

She reached for the rag. "You do not need—"

"Hush, child." He pushed her hand away. "It has been many years since I took care of my own. And you remind me of her."

Ariella leaned back on the mat, and only then was struck by the import of his words. She pushed up on her elbows.
"Her?"

He smiled at her whisper, but did not look up. "You are not such a good actor, my dear. It is only that your audience are fools."

Ariella closed her eyes, willing her stomach to settle.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Ari." His voice was warm, reassuring. "I will keep your secret."

"What is your name?"

"Jeremiah. Jeremiah ben Joseph."

"Thank you, Jeremiah ben Joseph. You have my gratitude."

He finished washing her and stood. "It will take more than my silence to keep you safe. This cannot go on."

She nodded. "I know. I will find a way."

He stared at her another moment. "I shall pray for your safety." He nodded and left the cell.

She lay back on the mat and threw her arm over her face. Jeremiah was right. It could not go on.

When she had run from Valerius and fallen in with this troupe it had seemed an answer to her prayers, if she had prayed any. Safe passage away from Rome through the fields of Italy, to a sunny, seaside vacation town. But now she had arrived, the troupe had served its purpose, and it was time to make a change.

She could live here in Pompeii. Find work as a servant girl in some rich patrician's house. Like the man who had spoken to her in the training yard. The idea pleased her. If she could escape the barracks and transform herself back into a woman, perhaps she would not be recognized. Drusus would assume she had fled the city. He would not think to search through the female servants of Pompeii for his lost gladiator-in-training.

She sat up on her mat, hope coursing through her for the first time since she had escaped Rome. A shuffle at the cell doorway forced her attention upward.

"You had better not be sick." Drusus scowled at her in the dim light. "Not right before the games."

She shook her head and pushed herself to standing. "I am well."

He grunted. "We'll have a crowd tomorrow, for certain. The duovir Nigidius Maius is sponsoring a grand show."

Ariella blanched. Maius? Was he not the politician who had killed Valerius's slave the night she fled? She forced her heart to slow. He would not recognize her. She had been a slave girl in Rome—a far cry from her present state.

Drusus was still muttering. "Going to send Jeremiah to paint advertisements in the Forum now, before the parade and speeches start."

Ariella took an eager step forward. "I'll do it." Too eager.

Drusus's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

She tried to level out her voice. "It's been too long since I held a brush."

"You're a painter, then?" He smirked and pointed to her small hands. "Could've guessed. You've got that look about you." He tilted his head as though considering the risks. "Fine. Paint us the best signs this city's ever seen. Something to talk about, eh?"

She nodded. "I have no paint, though. No brushes."

"Come."

Minutes later, Ariella was headed for the Forum, three
sestertii
jingling in a pouch at her waist. Money to buy supplies, but a better plan was already forming in her mind.

The city was a maze of houses and shops, but she kept to the widest streets, knowing one would lead her to the Forum. Clearly, the privately owned shops had become competition for the official market. Doorways that once led to grand private homes now served as shop fronts, with the families living above and behind their source of income. She kept an eye on each as she passed, willing to stop if she found what she sought, but intending to reach the Forum first.

The three sestertii would not pay for paint and brushes. Rather, they would supply her with clothing. Something befitting a Jewish woman, for she also needed to have a head covering, to hide her shorn hair. She would find a place to hide, change her clothes, and then head out into the city to seek work.

She reached the Forum at last, and drew up to survey the long stretch of white paving stones, bordered on both sides by columned porticoes, ornamented with rich gold statues and white marble. The layout was orderly and pleasing, a well-built grid, busy and thriving.

A good place to disappear.

The left side of the Forum was undergoing construction it would seem. She had heard about the earthquake that had toppled Pompeii's finest structures years earlier.

At the far end of the Forum lay the
Capitolium,
temple of the gods, with great arches on either side. And beyond and above the temple, the lovely mountain loomed over them. She could climb that mountain today, if it meant achieving freedom.

Ariella hurried along the right side of the Forum, in the shade of the portico. The richness of the public square surprised her. So far from Rome, and yet excess seemed as commonplace here as in the mother city. Along with all the greed, hatred, and evil of the Empire's capital.

The first building she passed must have been the Fuller's Guild, for the urine pots at the doorway gave off an unmistakable odor. They'd been placed there for the convenience of citizens and the necessity of the fullers, who used the urine in their wool processing. The building was grand, with a broad entrance of marble flanked by niches containing idolatrous statues of gods and emperors. The fullers were an influential guild in any city.

She passed another temple, and yet another, her sandals slapping the limestone paving now. The colonnade grew clogged with shoppers and she pushed through, willing to shove away any who blocked her. Such a foul race, these Romans. More than once she flushed at the lewd paintings of male anatomy on the paving stones pointing the way to the nearest brothel. The vulgarity of the city angered her. How could the Creator allow these barbarous people to have conquered His holy city?