Pompeii. Part 22

"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 wors.h.i.+pped Hashem, when she . . .

She was still so far from the Creator.

But when Jeremiah hobbled out of the triclinium, a.s.sisted 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 friends.h.i.+p. 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 s.e.x 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 pa.s.sage from Isaiah-one that predicted the Messiah, and so clearly described the suffering of the one Jeremiah claimed came from G.o.d 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 chastis.e.m.e.nt 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.ds. 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."

She shook her head, unable to speak through the dread.

Cato stepped close and gripped her fingers at her side. "I am sorry, Ari. But Portia grows weaker by the day, and I must do all I can to get her out of his clutches."

Ariella had never met Portia. But Octavia and Isabella had already tunneled deep into her heart, as though they were her own family, and she could not ask Cato to give up a chance to save his sister. She shuffled forward, nodding.

For he was right. She was only a slave. She should be grateful for his offer to stay hidden from Valerius. And if that failed . . .

She had run from Valerius once, but that was before she had learned what it meant to fight.

The next time, she would kill him.

Vesuvius didn't owe them a warning. She owed them nothing, for she had done nothing but give, give, give these many years.

And yet she could not help the stirrings within her, and the rumblings they produced.

Tremors. Felt at first by no one but the deer on her slopes, perhaps. Bits of steam and rock, spit out upon her craggy summit. Poisonous gases escaped from vents, killing unsuspecting birds and rabbits.

It was coming. Oh, yes, it was coming.

The plates that had merely jostled now rammed their bony shoulders, each one driving against the other, neither giving way, both determined to be the victor.

The fantastic pressure under the plates built to unequaled heights as they battled upward in their conflict.

It could not last, this tremendous, magnificent pressure.

No, she didn't owe them a warning. But one would come, nonetheless.

CHAPTER 34.

Cato measured the length of the parados, the off-stage corridor of the theater, with heavy steps, then turned and strode to the other end.

"Stop pacing, Cato. You are making me nervous." Taurus leaned one shoulder against the stone wall near the stage entrance, watching the crowd fill the seats. With his patrician nose and condescending brow, he was the picture of easy calm. Cato's most vocal backer felt none of his own anxiety.

"How many?" He should not be seen peering out at the citizens, but could see only the orchestra circle and the scaenae frons, the false front behind it.

"A good number. The controversy is bringing them out, as we hoped."

Cato resumed his walking through the musty stone corridor. In the days since Ariella had revealed Maius's hidden proclivities, Cato had kept the knowledge to himself, determined to disclose the information to the town only when Valerius had arrived to confirm the truth and accuse him of murder. The Roman senator was already on his way, invited to a short holiday in the home of former quaestor Portius Cato, to discuss a matter of mutual interest.

But today . . . today was about rhetoric and pa.s.sion. The opportunity to address the citizens of Pompeii, followed by an address from his opponent, was the chance to confront Maius with other truths, equally d.a.m.ning.

"But will they listen? Will they hear me?"

Taurus pushed away from the wall and caught Cato's arm. His small eyes bore into Cato. "Everyone in this town knows what Maius is, Cato. They know he owns them, either because their pay flows from his coffers or because their money flows into his for protection or blackmail. You do not need to convince them of this. But change depends on your ability to stir them up to action. They must be willing to rise up, to band together, to put an end to the man."

"I am making speeches in the Forum almost daily, Taurus. My supporters are spreading the word that Maius fears my integrity and has made my family his target. I have made the rounds to guild leaders and entertained town leaders in my home. What will one more speech accomplish?"

Taurus looked out again at the growing crowd. "Never underestimate the power of the collective, Cato. Lesser men than you have been propelled into the very realm of the divine on a wave of public support. One that began with nothing more than a throng such as this, whipped into a frenzy over what could be."

The growing buzz of the crowd erupted in a cheer. Some entertainment had been brought, to loosen them up, to bring them to their seats. Cato braced a hand against the wall. Somewhere out there, Maius waited for his chance to speak, but as the inc.u.mbent he would be given the last word.

Cato's newfound faith, his time under the teaching of the rabbi-slave Jeremiah, had begun to open his eyes to the spiritual war taking place unseen in Pompeii. Jeremiah had spoken over him like a prophet, charging him with fighting evil, showing him where true power resided. His faith in the Messiah did not save him from the fight, it gave him the strength to win the war. And in this war of evil, Nigidius Maius was a chief partic.i.p.ant.

It was time.

Taurus gave him a nudge, and he strode onto the stage with a forced confidence. A smattering of applause filtered down from the seats. The eyes of thousands were on him. That protective surge he had experienced when he first took the platform in the Forum swept him again, an emotion that thickened his throat and blurred the sea of white togas into the white marble of the theater. How could all of that gleaming white hide so much corruption? He bent his head to the orchestra floor, cleared his thoughts, then raised both his head and his voice.

"Citizens of Pompeii! It is time for change!"

In preparing for this speech, one truth had hounded Cato. There was only one way to defeat a tyrant, a man who ruled by intimidation. Someone had to stand up. Someone had to show him as weak. If this could be accomplished, then it remained only to rally the people together and convince them that together they were strong enough to rid themselves of their oppressor. Once he would have run when faced with a stronger opponent. No longer. The Spirit of the Living G.o.d was his ally.

And so he spoke to them, from his heart and from his pa.s.sion, and as his voice warmed to the truth it rose above the people and seemed to carry above the theater wall to the very sky. He spoke of justice and of integrity with a raised fist, and was rewarded with courageous applause and cheers from the people.

He turned on Maius, where he sat in his customary raised box, and unleashed his righteous fury. "Pompeii has long suffered under the greed and malice of one man, and I tell you the truth, citizens, that man is a coward! Gnaeus Nigidius Maius, you have burned my vineyard, you have falsely imprisoned my sister, you have even tried to have me killed." He spread an arm to the people. "I ask you, citizens, are these not the actions of a man who works in fear? A man who knows that if someone takes his position, he will be forced to answer for his many crimes?

"I say it is time to make him answer for them. It is time for a change." He paused, drawing out the moment, and the theater was held suspended in the hush. "It is time, my friends, to shake the very foundations of Pompeii!"

At these words, as though G.o.d Himself concurred, there came a thunderous crack from earth and sky at once, like the snap of a giant whip over the back of a monstrous, unruly horse.

In the beat of silence that followed, the faces of every spectator seemed anch.o.r.ed to his own.

And then a heaving began, a bucking of the ma.s.sive horse-only it was the earth itself that sought to throw them each from their place.

An earthquake!

Cato held his ground, his stance wide on the stage floor. The people were not so fearless. The ma.s.s of them rose as one, shrieking and turning on each other in their panic to leave the theater.

Cato scanned the crowd, frantic to find his mother and sister, who were to sit with Lucius. Why had he not sought them out before he began?

It was impossible now. He turned to where Taurus had waited in the parados. The man was gone. In the seats, the people tripped and shoved and streamed up to the outer staircases and down to the lower exits.

The swaying of the ground ceased a few moments later, but the townspeople knew better than to remain inside the theater's stone ring. Cato looked over his shoulder, eyeing the unstable scaenae frons that soared three stories at his back.

With the quake over, he needed to find his family.

What about Portia?

The theater was nearly empty already, and no doubt Isabella and his mother were safe. But Portia, in her underground prison? A wave a nausea overtook him, and he leaped from the orchestra to the pit of seats and shoved through the remaining stragglers to the exit.

The city was still in turmoil, like a pot boiling over. People dashed through the streets, some fleeing to their own houses to a.s.sess the damage, and others, fearful of a second quake, sought open s.p.a.ces. Cato hesitated outside the theater, thinking of his mother and younger sister-as well as others he cared about-still in his home.

After Portia.

He pushed through the crowds that flowed against him. Few headed for the Forum and the magisterial buildings, as all the homes and fields outside the city lay opposite and only the sea awaited on the other side of the Forum. People ran with hands outstretched, as though the earth still rocked and they sought balance. Arms and hands poked at him and knocked him to and fro as he crossed the city. He cared little for the damage, but was aware enough to see that this quake had not toppled much of the city, as the one seventeen years ago had.

The guard placed inside Portia's prison stood at its entrance, no doubt unwilling to be trapped underground, but leaving the prisoners to their own fate.

Cato pushed past him, ignoring his shout. The steps held, and there appeared to be no cave-in.

"Portia?" He called her name before he had even reached the cell floor. "Portia, answer me!"

He skidded to her cell, its tiny square opening the only window. A tiny whimper responded. He pressed his face to the hole. "Sister, are you hurt?"

It was too dark to see within. He heard a sc.r.a.ping, as if she dragged herself across the floor, and then her hand was at the opening, the fingers white and thin as a specter. He wrapped his own warm fingers around her icy ones and kissed them.

"What has happened?" Her voice was raspy, as though her lungs had taken on the thick prison air.

"An earthquake. You are unhurt?"

"I am fine."

Cato cringed at the word, knowing it to be far from truth.