Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (8 page)

A scream
from the church had him leaping to his feet, tearing off his letter and folding
it as he ran. Pounding on the doors had his heart leap into his throat, shouts
of “Let us in!” and “Send her out!” growing in intensity.

And
Abrihet looked terrified.

As did
David.

Father
Solomon handed the letter to David. “Take this to the Bishop. Tell him it is
urgent we get help otherwise I fear the worst.”

David
nodded, his hands shaking as he took the folded piece of paper.

“Go out
through the back. If there are people there, tell them where we are, then when
they are busy coming in here, you can slip away.”

“But
Father, you’ll be killed!”

Father
Solomon shook his head, a gentle smile on his face as he took the boy’s face in
his hands. “Have faith that God will protect us.” He said a silent prayer, only
his lips moving, then let go of the boy. “Now go!”

David
sprinted for the rear of the church then into the rectory. Father Solomon heard
the door open then slam close, no altercation taking place, those gathered
mostly Muslim therefore unfamiliar with the layout of the church. If David were
able to escape unseen, he just might be able to get them help.

By
tomorrow.

More
pounding on the door and more shouting had Abrihet springing from the pew and
into his arms, her entire body trembling.

“We have
your father!” shouted a voice, everything suddenly becoming quiet. “If you want
him to live, you’ll come out now!”

Why
do they want her?

It made
no sense. Birhan he could understand. He was the murderer. But why would they
want the daughter? She had done nothing. She was innocent in all this. Why
would they want her?

Then it
occurred to him, and it made him physically sick, his stomach churning and his
mouth filling with bile as he fought the urge to vomit. He looked down at the
poor girl and realized she had no idea the danger that now faced her.

She
looked up at him, her eyes filled with innocence. “I must go,” she whispered,
her bottom lip quivering. “They’ll kill him.”

Father
Solomon shook his head. “No, they will kill him anyway. We must get you out of
here before it’s too late.”

A man
screamed in agony and Abrihet made a run for the door, almost slipping from
Father Solomon’s hands. Another scream of agony and he wrapped his arms around
her, holding her tight, trying to cover her ears with his chest and forearm,
but he knew it was no use. The distinctive thud preceding each scream was
something he had heard before, when he was a child, and it threatened to tear
him from this place and thrust him back to a childhood he had blacked out, a
day he should never forget, but had forced himself to.

The day
his own father had been hacked to death by Muslim extremists, in the center of
the village, for the egregious sin of converting to Christianity.

And
right now, on the other side of the doors of this hallowed place, he knew the
same thing was happening. A man, a guilty man, a man who had committed the
ultimate sin, was being murdered in revenge, rather than justice, and he knew
what the next phase of the revenge would be.

The same
as it had been for his mother and sister.

And he
made a decision that he would die before he would let what happened to them
happen to this poor girl now trembling in his arms as she listened to her
father being hacked to pieces mere feet away.

“You
must remain quiet,” he whispered in her ear as he led her to the rear of the
church. He placed his ear to the rear door that led from his rectory and heard
nothing. Opening it a crack he gasped as a hand reached in and grabbed him by
his robes, pulling him outside as a group of men surged into the church,
Abrihet screaming as they grabbed her. He struggled against those holding him,
but they pushed him inside, holding his head, forcing him to watch as the poor
girl was stripped naked then bent over the very desk he had just written the
letter requesting help on.

And as
the first man took her, she screamed in pain, in agony and in fear, her
innocence torn apart by a tradition too vile to acknowledge, too unfathomable
by civilized standards to understand, and too common to deny.

He tried
to tear himself lose, to throw himself at those assaulting the poor girl, to
stop the vicious attack as it began, but the grips on his arms were viselike,
and as the first man finished, a look on his face not of self-satisfaction that
he had just delivered justice to a guilty party, but one of sexual
gratification and lust, Father Solomon prayed for the strength to help this
poor innocent.

He glared
at the first man, his name Abdal Jabbar, a man he had thought of as decent
until this very moment, a man who had shown his true colors by the
unforgiveable act he had just committed. And there would be no forgiveness for
this sin, no room for him to forget. He felt hatred fill his heart, swelling
his chest with a rage he had never felt, as the second man took the tiny Abrihet,
another on the opposite side of the desk, pulling her arms, urging the man on.

And with
a strength he didn’t know he possessed, as if Samson himself were now sharing
his body, Father Solomon broke away and charged toward the table, and just as
his eyes met those of Abrihet, her face having gone slack, her body entering
shock, her once bright eyes now dim, he felt something hit him across the back
of the head and he collapsed to the floor, blacking out to the sounds of the
desk creaking with each thrust, and innocent Abrihet whimpering with each violation
of her broken body, now no more than a piece of meat for the carnal pleasures
of the gathered men, their excuse of punishment for the entire family a
pathetic justification for their sexual urges.

And as a
third man stepped over him to take his turn, Father Solomon pictured his own
mother, so many years ago, forced to endure her repeated punishment dozens and
dozens of times, while her son watched, too young to understand what was truly
happening, too young to understand why his mother’s eyes slowly died in front
of him, the will to live drained with each penetration, as the same evil was
unleashed upon her daughter, whose hand she held the entire time, next to her.

Oh
God, please help her!

Approaching Pompeii, Bay of Naples, Roman Empire
August 24
^th
, 79 AD

Costa gripped the rail of the cutter, the smaller vessel far swifter
than the mighty vessels of the fleet that he could see lining the horizon
behind them, strangely lit by the late afternoon sun as he struggled to see in
the dark of the thick gray cloud overhead, any sign of the sun blotted out. A
curious light powder, dark gray in color, fell all around them, reminding him
of the ash left over from a hearty fire.

As they
neared the shore the powder thickened, making it harder to breathe. He glanced
over at the Prefect and he seemed to be labored in his breathing. Costa had
overheard once of Plinius’ problem breathing after heavy exertion, and grew
concerned. Plinius glanced at him and pointed at a barrel of water. Costa
nodded and quickly filled a cup, bringing it to the man. He downed the fluid then
shoved Costa to the deck as he himself ducked.

Rocks
the size of fists began to rain down on them, but as they hit they exploded
into smaller stones and dust, the embers left behind smoldering then
extinguishing themselves in wisps of smoke.

“Watch
for fires!” ordered Plinius as he continued to ride the prow of the boat, his
eyes peering at the shore.

“My
Lord! It’s too dangerous to land here!” yelled the Legate captaining the boat.

“We have
no choice!” replied Plinius, turning his head back toward his underling.
“Fortune favors the brave!” he yelled. “Make for the shore, there!” He pointed
slightly to starboard and Costa felt his heart leap as he recognized the shore
mere paces from his master’s home, the once brilliantly white abode now
shrouded in a blanket of darkness. As he peered into the storm of what tasted
like ash he thought he saw movement on the roof, and after a few moments he was
able to make out the forms of soldiers desperately trying to sweep away the
accumulating debris. Costa looked at the deck of the boat and noticed it too
had already amassed enough that their footprints were now obvious.

As the
boat neared the shore he gripped the rail, watching the house for any sign of
his master, praying he had had the sense to abandon it long ago, but knowing in
his heart that he never would. He spotted several soldiers with brooms and a
path that had been kept clear from the house to the shore when he heard Plinius
gasp audibly. Costa’s eyes darted back to the house and his jaw dropped as the
entire south wing collapsed.

The
cutter sliced into the sandy beach and came to a halt, the sails dropped almost
immediately, Plinius jumping over the side, Costa far more clumsily following.
The chaos seen from the bay poorly foreshadowed the reality on the ground. The
ash was deep, small porous rocks covered the landscape, many giving an
unearthly glow as if Hades itself were trying to push through to this realm.
The air reeked of rotten eggs, the ground was piled almost waist high in ash,
some areas appearing even deeper. The water was a thick sludge that clung to
his bare legs. Though the sun was completely hidden above them, the temperature
was higher than normal, almost uncomfortable to bear and he quickly found his
body dripping in sweat as he followed Plinius to the main hall of the home, the
Prefect using the path kept clear by the soldiers, all of whom looked
exhausted.

This
is hell on Earth!

He stumbled
through layers of silk and cloth hanging across a doorway and into the large
dining area of the home that opened out onto the veranda overlooking the bay.
Dozens of torches had been lit to provide light, none coming from outside, and
all of the windows and doors had been covered to prevent ash from entering.
Despite their efforts, a thin layer still covered the floor, at the center of
which was more gold than Costa had ever seen before.

His jaw
dropped and he immediately began to picture what just one of those bars could
do for his family.

Or
two.

It would
change their lives. They could buy their freedom, perhaps open a shop in Rome
itself. The dreams were almost overwhelming and he found he had tunnel vision,
his eyes seeing nothing but the gold, his ears closed to the sounds around him.
It took a tug of his tunic to snap him from the fantasy, a slave offering him
water. He drank gratefully, several cupsful, then looked to his master,
Valerius, who was embracing Plinius.

“Thank
the gods you have arrived!” cried Valerius. “I had feared you wouldn’t come.”

Plinius
smiled, still holding the younger Valerius by the arms. “Never doubt that I
would be foolish enough to do that which brave men would fear,” he replied with
a wink. He turned to the growing pile of gold. “I see you have begun.”

“As soon
as your ships were spotted, I gave the order. It may only save minutes, but
minutes may be all we have.”

Plinius
nodded. “I noticed men on the roof?”

“To keep
the ash off. If it gets too heavy this entire room will collapse and we along
with the Emperor’s gold will be trapped here.”

“A wise
precaution. And your family?”

“I’ve
sent them ahead. Hopefully they will find refuge south of the city.”

Plinius
squeezed his second’s shoulder. “I’ve given my nephew and sister similar orders
should the need arise. I’m certain the gods will watch over both our families.”
He stepped back and looked at the exhausted guard as they handed bars of gold
to each other, the human chain slowly transferring the treasure from the
chambers below. “This will take some time,” observed Plinius. “As more ships
arrive we will begin the transfer in earnest. For now, I suggest we relax. Have
some food and drink, some good conversation. It will calm the nerves. I have
ten good men with me.” Plinius turned to one of his men. “Have your men relieve
those on the roof and the path. Switch every fifteen minutes. Let me know as
soon as the first ship arrives.”

The man
slapped his fist against his chest and disappeared outside, past the cloths
trying to preserve some semblance of calm inside. Valerius turned to Costa.
“Have food and drink brought, enough for everyone including the servants, then
wash yourself up. Also, prepare an area for our soldiers to sleep. They can
barely walk and need their rest.”

Costa
bowed and rushed toward the kitchen, thankfully in the still standing north
wing of the house, his eyes having to tear themselves away from the pile of
gold in the center of the room. He couldn’t believe how obsessed he was with
it, and it wasn’t until he had left the room that he realized the grip it held
on him even now. Having never seen that much wealth in one place before, he
felt almost overwhelmed with how much just a tiny portion of what his master
possessed could change his life for the better, and began to feel a tightness
in his chest as a rage of jealousy overtook him.