Pompeii. Part 10

Cato sat back, his relief palpable. Isabella nudged him. "That was only the first fight, brother." She laughed. "You're not going to reach the end of the night if you take each one so seriously."

But he reached the end of the night with ease, because he cared little about all the fights that followed. Even Paris failed to gain his interest. His mind was taken with his sister Portia, with Ariella, with Nigidius Maius, and with his burned vineyard. Darkness fell and the games continued. Dozens of smoking torches were lit and flamed around the oval of the uppermost tier, casting flickering shadowed stripes across the ma.s.ses, and burning in incense hues of red and yellow, blue and green. Catapults flung dates and nuts and cakes into the crowd, and free wine was pa.s.sed.

The games concluded with a chariot of beautiful nude girls circling the arena, chanting songs. Cato averted his eyes for his mother's sake, difficult as it was to ignore.

He did not expect to see Maius again, but it seemed as though the man was drawn to him somehow, for as the final display ended, he was there again, Portia at his side.

"I have come to return your sister, Cato." He allowed Portia to pa.s.s him on the steps, and she came to huddle close to their mother. "I hope the next time I shall have her even longer."

Cato stepped into the aisle to meet him once more. To Octavia he said, "I will join you three outside." His mother's face registered concern, but he nodded. "Outside." The women filed out and up to the highest tier to access the outer stairway, and Cato turned back to Maius.

"It is enough, Maius. My sister is a married woman."

"Come, Cato." Maius laughed and spread his hands. "We are both Romans, not pious Jews or peasant Arabs. There is freedom among Romans, you know this. I can do as I please, without fear of reprobation."

As much as the energy had drained from him after the vineyard fire, it stoked again as he faced Maius.

Cato stepped closer, his fists clenched at his side and his jaw tight. "You shall not have her, Maius."

Maius's eyes flickered, the casual light replaced with something darker. "I do what I like in this town, Portius Cato. It is past time that you learned that."

"Not with me. Not with my family."

The older man's full lips pursed. "No? It would seem that I already have done what I wanted today. An unfortunate fire, I'm told."

Cato had suspected as much. He stepped down to stand next to Maius on the narrow stone tier, chest to chest, heedless of the small crowd that had tarried to hear the two exchange words.

The day's events crowded Cato's thoughts, like bright frescoes in a story tableau. Christians standing firm in the face of flames. Ariella, unafraid against great odds. And Maius, sending slaves to burn his vineyard.

He saw in that moment that Maius would always have the upper hand, regardless of Cato's efforts, because he was willing to cheat to get it. And something broke in him, then. The fear that had pushed him out of Rome fell away. A reignited desire for justice flared in its place. He brought his face close to the other man's, his chest expanding.

"Listen to me, Nigidius Maius. Your days of using this town to satisfy your own greed are over. And that includes my sister."

Maius did not back away, and the dark fire in his own eyes deepened. "You are entering an arena yourself, Cato. And your record of success is not good." He leaned in. "I had thought to take you down simply because you are far too arrogant. Now I shall destroy you, and your family, because it will please me very much."

He turned and descended the steps, and Cato let him go. There was no need to have the last word tonight. For Cato would have the last word in the end.

Of that he was determined.

CHAPTER 14.

Maius left the arena escorted by slaves, and was helped into his gold-leafed chariot by two others. The arena on the southeast outskirts of town was as far from his northwest villa as it could be, and he had no desire to make the journey on foot.

Pedestrians kept to the sidewalks as they made their way home in the torch-lit darkness, and his two-wheeled chariot, pulled by a handsome matched pair of black horses, sped through the noisy streets with Maius lifting one hand in greeting to his grateful townspeople, and holding his toga at his waist with the other. This left nothing with which to grip the side of the chariot, and a b.u.mp against stepping-stones sent him reeling. He cursed the slave who held the reins and righted himself.

The evening had gone as planned, and he attempted to savor the event, in spite of the bitter aftertaste of his encounter with the haughty Portius Cato. The crowd had been enthralled with the hunt, with the music, with the gladiators. All in all, a complete success.

Added to the fiery blow he had dealt Cato's wine-making business, and the delightful hours spent with Portia at his side, he should have been gloating over the day's triumphs.

By the time the chariot reached his villa, he had thrust away all discontent, and entered the ma.s.sive doorway flanked by lofty columns determined to enjoy the rest of his evening. The beauty of his villa always soothed him. While urban houses were forced to look only inward, his villa opened to expansive views of the countryside and sea. Large windows were placed strategically, and walls were replaced with colonnades to open the s.p.a.ce. The house sprawled outward in all directions, and boasted over sixty rooms. But more than soothing, his villa housed his secret pursuit, the mystery rites that only a select few shared, in ceremonies held late into the night, when inhibitions were chased away by the urging, pulsing voices of the G.o.ds.

Inside the peristyle, slaves unburdened Maius of his weighty wool toga, leaving him in only a short tunic better suited to relaxation, and led him deeper into the villa, to the courtyard where he often enjoyed outdoor dining amidst the flowers and fountains.

The garden was quiet this evening, save for the gentle trickle of the fountain in the center, a whimsical representation of the wine G.o.d Bacchus riding a bloated wineskin, with the water pouring like wine from the skin's mouth. Maius lowered himself to a couch and lifted his legs with a heavy sigh, grateful that Nigidia, as well as his extensive staff of slaves, were all occupied elsewhere. The scent of night flowers weighted the air and the red silks that covered his couch seemed to embrace him.

The silence pleased him because he wanted to recollect his evening with the luscious Portia. Slaves brought honeyed dormice and snails in silence, placing the food on a low table beside his couch. Maius ate, musing over his plan to make the woman his mistress.

That she was married meant nothing. A small inconvenience that could be dealt with. His own marriage had been for property only, and even while his wife lived he had been expected to make use of his own slave women, and of the brothels. Why should a mistress be any different?

He summoned a slave to play a lyre for him. The man was still young, though his undernourished body, rotted teeth and multiple scars from beatings and branding spoke of a life too long lived. As he played, the bright-colored birds Maius kept at the edge of the atrium joined the melody. Maius continued to eat, then clapped his hands for more food.

There was still the tickle of discontent beneath it all, however. Foolish that he could allow one insignificant character such as Cato to disturb him. He dismissed the musician with instructions to fetch his chief slave, in charge of his business dealings. The man was a Greek scholar, purchased in Athens and brought to Pompeii with a mind for numbers and a.n.a.lysis.

Primus entered soon after.

"I have need to hear that all is well in my enterprises."

The Greek, only a few years older than Maius, nodded once and then sat cross-legged on the floor of the atrium, near the couch where Maius still reclined. "Then I shall tell you all is well."

"The wine business, specifically?"

Primus shrugged. "What do you have to fear, in any of your undertakings?"

Indeed. "And there have been no rumblings from the people? Talk of another candidate, that sort of thing?"

Primus shook his head, but was too pensive for Maius's liking. "What is it?"

"There is only some business with the brothels." He shrugged. "Nothing serious."

Most of the town's many brothels were occupied by slave women owned by Maius, and the profits funneled back to him on a regular basis, thanks to the insatiable l.u.s.t that enslaved the idle and rich Pompeiians.

Maius jutted his chin toward Primus. "Speak."

"There is a n.o.blewoman that is purported to move among the women, urging them to find a different life."

"How would they do such a thing?"

Primus shrugged. "Save their money. Purchase their freedom, perhaps. I do not know."

Maius waved a hand at the absurdity. Primus was right, it was nothing to be concerned about. "Who is this generous n.o.blewoman?"

"Her name is Octavia. Of the Catonii."

Maius felt his lips part. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, striking Primus. The Greek skittered backward.

"Cato, again!" The cursed boy was everywhere he turned. He turned on Primus. "Get out." The slave only stared. "Get out!"

Primus obeyed, but Maius was not content to remain where he was, even alone. He paced the garden, then strode from it, and took to his veranda that overlooked the city.

Torches still burned across Pompeii, mirroring the starry night. Maius gripped the curved stone wall and stared across the city, as though his vision could travel down street and alley, through the doorway of the House of Portius Cato, and straight into the man's heart like a knife.

Cato was a danger. He could see that now. For all Maius's posturing, he would admit, to himself alone, a latent fear that the ex-politician from Rome could damage him. More than damage. If Maius lost his position as duovir, he could be prosecuted for any charges that the ordo chose to bring against him. Most of which involved execution if he were found guilty. And he was not so naive to think that once out of office, he would have enough friends to keep him safe. He slapped his hands against the stone wall and pushed away to pace the veranda.

No, he must move against Cato, and he must do it strongly, show him who controlled this city and its resources. It was not about wine anymore.

What would it take to frighten the young man back to Rome? Clearly, the burning of his vines had not intimidated him. But he must have a weakness. He conjured up Cato's image in his mind, held it there like a magician with a spell, seeing Cato's fiery indignation at the plight of his sister.

Yes . . . his sister. There was weakness there. Like his mother, apparently, Cato suffered from a disadvantage ill-suited to political life: compa.s.sion. And that weakness could be exploited. Maius's heart quickened with a beat of antic.i.p.ation.

If nothing else, Maius was an expert in finding ways to bend others to his will, and the plan came easily now that he had seen Cato's frailty. It would have to be about the sister. How easy it would be to spread rumors that Portia was being unfaithful to her husband. Poor woman, desperate to bear a child and convinced her barrenness was the fault of her girlish husband, she had turned to a man whose very essence was virility. Flattered by her attention and never one to turn away an admirer, Maius had succ.u.mbed to her charms.

Maius stroked his full lips. Yes. It was good.

Maius could have the city council press for Portia's divorce. Her husband had the right to divorce her for infertility already. Adultery would be another strike against her, and Maius could wield the mighty weapon of influence. She would be disgraced, stripped of her property, and unable to remarry. It was the perfect threat to use against Cato. And perhaps also against Portia. Who knew what she would be willing to do, to avoid such charges?

His belly was full of the night's sumptuous food, but tonight he also gorged on revenge.

Vesuvius could feel the mighty s.h.i.+ft, deep within the earth beneath her. The ma.s.sive, broken plates of continents that rubbed shoulders, snagged, and tried to break loose. They floated on a fiery sea of melted rock, carrying oceans and continents, ever so slowly. Sometimes these plates merely pa.s.sed each other without incident. Sometimes they drifted apart. But at other times-at other times they were not so well-behaved.

It was then that they pushed against each other, each plate insisting on its own pa.s.sage, the pressure building and building and building until finally-with a force to shake the nations-one plate would dive under the other. Rock liquefied, fissures widened, and a channel burrowed up, upward to the surface where it could find release.

She had found this release many times in ages past, and under the heavy vegetation, her slopes bore the scars of countless lava flows. But did the people who sheltered in her shadow, who farmed her fertile soil, did they remember her power?

No, they saw her as beneficent, always. As though she could not destroy if she so chose. As though she did not hold sway over their very lives.

Foolish. They had been foolish. And they would soon know their folly.

CHAPTER 15.

When Ariella left the sand that afternoon, followed by the dwarf whose life she had nearly been required to take, her veins were on fire and her senses more acute than they had ever been.

She strode under the stone arch that led out of the arena, then down the vaulted corridor behind the seating to the holding room where ten other pairs of fighters waited for their turn at glory.

She couldn't help a raised fist when she entered the room. There were shouts of acclamation, if half-amused. The dwarf had gone elsewhere, to wherever they were kept.

Celadus slapped her back and knocked her off balance, then laughed. She laughed with him.

"Knew you could do it, boy. Never a doubt."

She chose not to argue, instead basking in the moment. She was invincible, unbeatable. The chants of the crowd rose again on the other side of the stone wall, recalling her own moments before them, all white and gold, gasping and cheering at each move she made, their thunderous applause when she had the dwarf on the ground.

Hours later, the glow had not worn off, and she joined her fellow gladiators in the dark courtyard as the lanista brought jugs of wine to be pa.s.sed among them. They had lost only a few of their near-hundred men. It had been a good night. The purple wine slid down her throat cool, then hot, and no wine had ever tasted better.

There were more shouts, more laughter, and back-slapping from those who had not seen her in the holding room. Strange, to feel herself a favorite. She straightened and nodded, warmed from the commendation and from the wine. Spectators, ardent fans who lived for the games, milled through the training yard, wanting to get closer to their heroes. They were mostly women, and Ariella watched, fascinated, as they cl.u.s.tered around their favorites. Celadus, with his big smile and missing front teeth, seemed to draw the nurturing types, while Paris and his friend Floronius, haughty and proud, had the young ones fawning over them. Ariella drew some attention as well, but fled from the strangeness.

They fell onto their mats eventually, and most of the men snored within moments. Ariella propped her hands behind her head and stared at the roof of the cell, reliving the fight once again.

I can do this. She had seen that running away would be fruitless. But why could she not stay, train hard, and win real battles? Not battles against dwarves, but real matches with some of the men here. She could survive. She had seen that tonight. Especially if she could win the favor of the crowd.

I must make a name for myself. Something to make her known among the townspeople . . . An idea came to her, bringing a small smile in its irony.

Scorpion Fish. Venomous, hidden, and masters of disguise and deception, the bright fish could blend in with its surroundings, unnoticed by its prey. She had already worn the fish-crested helmet of a Murmillo.

Yes, it was perfect.

She fell asleep at last, confident in her plan.

The next day, it took only a small amount of persuasion to get the lanista to let her paint more signs for the next fights, ten days hence. She did have artistic ability, and her first advertis.e.m.e.nts had done their job well. But she did not expect the metal collar he locked around her neck before allowing her to leave.

"Not taking any chances," Drusus said.

She touched the bronze at her throat. There would be no escaping now, with the clear indications of her status bolted to her body. No matter. She had found another route to freedom.

Once out in the city, paint in hand, it was a simple matter to work her own publicity into the task.

See Paris, the favorite of Rome, together with Scorpion Fish, slayer of dwarves, and twenty other pairs of fighters . . .

Never mind that she hadn't killed the dwarf, which in truth she was very glad about. It was enough to identify her, and if she knew this town, they would seize on her nickname and make it an object of fascinated conversation.

She continued through the city, painting her placards outside bakeries and brothels, taverns and thermopolium, where hot foods waited in bowls set in the marble counters, for those who preferred not to cook their own.

When she returned to the barracks, the old slave, Jeremiah, met her in the training yard. "You have been given new quarters." He took her paint supplies and indicated that she should follow. "I am to take you."

Confused, she followed Jeremiah into the shaded portico that bordered the field, past the cells she had shared with the others. "Why?"

He did not answer until they had ducked under a doorway, into a small room with a mat, some rough bedding, and two pots. It smelled of urine and waste, but it was hers alone. "Perhaps Hashem has heard my prayers, to keep you safe from those who would harm you." He patted her back, a touch soft enough to comfort.

Ariella turned to study him, watched his faint smile and then the downcast eyes. How had he accomplished this? She surveyed the tiny chamber. To have her own cell, a private place to dress and bathe-the blessing of it brought tears. She swiped at them and patted Jeremiah's arm. "Thank you, Jeremiah."

He shook his head. "Thank Hashem, dear child. He is the giver of all good things."

She smiled sadly. Her childhood faith had long ago been trampled by Roman boots, replaced by nothing but cold anger. "You thank him for me, Jeremiah. He has not heard from me in many years."