A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii (19 page)

You have ruined me.

Satrius’ grip on his arm drew him a little from his misery. “What is it, father?”

Satrius placed his hand on the stone seating between them. “Feel it. Another tremor.”

Rufus didn’t need to obey. He could feel the vibration in his buttocks, far stronger than the two previous movements. His stomach did a neat flip, but he managed a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to us.”

A wave of hot air such as Rufus had never felt, even in the
caldarium
, hit him in the face. It was so strong that he was rocked backward and almost fell. He threw out an arm and just managed to prevent his father knocking his head on the stone of the seat behind. Clouds of sand lashed everyone in the audience. In the arena, the blast sent Pugnax and Murranus sprawling to the ground.

BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!

BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!

The double sound was louder than anything Rufus had ever heard. It ripped the air apart, drowned out everything else, even the speech of those right beside him. It felt as if they were all inside a giant drum that had just been struck an almighty blow by a god. Rufus’ guts turned to liquid, sweat ran down his face in rivulets. Open-mouthed, more scared than he had been in his life, he turned to his father. Satrius looked equally petrified.

RUMBLE.

The noise was like that made during a horrendous thunderstorm, but thousands of times louder. The fact that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky made it infinitely more terrifying.

Rufus’ money worries vanished. “
What
was that?”

Satrius’ eyes were dark pools of fear. “I don’t know. Perhaps the world is ending.”

The rumbling died away, and was replaced by shouting and screaming. The struggle to leave the amphitheater became even fiercer. At the top, a man who was pulling at those with their backs to him was given a shove backward. The man tripped and fell, tumbling down the staircase in an untidy tangle of limbs. At the last, his head struck the stone with a sickening crack. He twitched once and lay still.

Rufus paid him no heed. His gaze was locked on a toga-clad man above, someone he recognized, who had stopped trying to push his way to the exit. Instead he was pointing to the northwest, his face twisted with pure fear. “Vesuvius! Gods above, look at Vesuvius!” he yelled over and over.

“Don’t move! I’m going to take a look.” Leaving his goggle-eyed father behind, Rufus sprinted up the steps. By the time he’d neared the press of people, their desire to flee had been subsumed by the need to witness whatever was happening to the mountain. Everyone’s gaze was locked on Vesuvius.

Nothing could have prepared Rufus for what he saw. An enormous brown column protruded from Vesuvius’ peak, pushing so high into the sky that it seemed bound for the stars. The muddy colored pillar was soaring upward with incredible speed, and broadening as it rose. Around him, men were screaming that a giant, such as the one that lived under Mount Etna, had broken free of his chains. Rufus had no idea whether that was true, but when the column began to flatten out into a cloud-like shape, it occurred to him that the hot wind in his face was coming straight from the mountain. Whatever was in the column—and no one needed to tell him that it would be bad—would be heading their way.

Fast.

It was time to leave Pompeii.

He pounded down the steps toward his father. There had been occasions—all battles—during Rufus’ time in the army when he had felt an urgent need to flee. He never had, because his duty had been to stand with his men and fight, and if necessary, to die. Today, yet again, he could not do as he wished. Although every instinct was telling him to run to the nearest gate and head south, he had his father to look out for. He couldn’t leave Mustius any more than he could Pugnax. Servant or slave, injured or no, they were loyal. The sky above darkened a fraction, and Rufus felt an overwhelming urge to piss. He shoved the feeling away ruthlessly.
I might be a drunk, and have a gambling problem, but I look after my own,
he thought.
I always have, and always will.

Whatever the price.

“I have to rest.”

The constant rumbling thunder meant that Rufus only heard because Satrius’ mouth was close to his left ear. He had been half-carrying his father. Without answering, he guided them to the nearest open doorway, that of a house, walking with care so that he didn’t trip on the irregular layer of rocks and pebbles that coated the ground. Some time had passed since the three—Rufus, Satrius, and Pugnax—had left the amphitheater and already the paving stones underfoot were growing hard to discern. The rain of stones hadn’t stopped; if anything, it was growing heavier. There were constant cries from those on the street as they were hit.

Rufus felt a stinging blow on his right elbow and spat an oath of his own. He had lost count of the number of times rocks had connected with his flesh. He could take the pain, and so could Pugnax, who was trudging along behind them, but his father, who was also being struck, was a different matter. With every step, he seemed to grow weaker. Taking even more of Satrius’ weight, Rufus covered the last few paces at speed and pulled them in through the doorway.

Too late, he saw the shape of the crouching dog on the mosaic beneath his feet, and read the words, “
Cave Canem
.” There was a ferocious growl. Out of the corner of his eye, Rufus saw a large, black shape lunging forward. Instinctively, he tried to put himself between the guard dog and his father, but his reaction was far too slow.

TCCCHHHINKKK!

Relief bathed Rufus. The chain that tethered the beast had dragged it to a halt a few paces short of their position. With bared teeth, it lunged at them repeatedly, to no avail.

“Friendly thing, isn’t it?” said his father. “Maybe it doesn’t like our hats.”

“I’m not surprised,” replied Rufus, grinning. All three had tied seat cushions from the amphitheater on their heads as protection from the lethal rain of stones. They were also coated in ash from head to toe. “We look like circus fools, eh?”

“Better these cushions than to suffer a staved-in skull,” his father observed.

No one argued. They had seen more than one person lying on the street, killed as neatly as they might have been by a slinger’s lead bullet on the battlefield.

Rufus gave silent thanks to Aesculapius. His father might be too weak to walk unaided, but he still had a sense of humor. There was hope for him yet.

“Let’s hope its chain is well secured to the wall.” Pugnax raised his sword, which was stained with Murranus’ blood. “I could always use this on the brute.”

“Leave it be. It will calm down eventually, and the owners could be within,” said Rufus. “Besides, we won’t be here for long. Just keep an eye on it.”

After helping his father to sit with his back against the wall, Rufus peered out onto the street. Fresh fear clawed at him. In the few moments that they’d been inside, it had grown even darker. It couldn’t be more than an hour past midday, but it felt as if night were drawing near. There was no sign of the barrage of stones ceasing. They clattered down on the roof tiles of the houses, raising an awful racket. Sprays of water rose from a fountain opposite as it filled little by little with rocks.

The throngs of people passing the doorway were all heading the opposite way to Rufus and his companions. South. Everyone who wasn’t desperate, criminal, or insane was going south. Away from Vesuvius. For the twentieth time, he cursed his apartment’s position in the city, that they had covered barely ten blocks. Yet again, he considered abandoning Mustius to his fate. Like as not, he had fled already.

You’re risking your life, and that of your father and slave, on a wild goose chase
, he thought.
Maybe so
, his moral side bit back,
but what if Mustius is unconscious, thanks to the beating that should have been yours?

That possibility drove the doubt from his mind. Yet it was clear that with his father in tow, it would take too long to reach Mustius. While Vesuvius was this angry, the city was no place to be. He beckoned to Pugnax, who padded over, cat-soft on his feet. Satrius, whose eyes were closed, didn’t even notice. “How’s your wound?” Rufus whispered, studying Pugnax’s chest. There didn’t appear to be any fresh bleeding.

Pugnax grimaced. “I’ll live. Why do you ask, master?”

“My father’s not fit to make it to my apartment, never mind all the way back to the Nucerian Gate. Even the Marine Gate would be too far for him. But if he rests here with you while I fetch Mustius, he should be able to manage it when we return. I want you to look after him.”

“You pulled me out of the arena when you didn’t have to, master,” said Pugnax, his eyes warm. “I’ll guard him with my life.”

Although Pugnax was his slave and had to obey him, Rufus felt a rush of gratitude. “My thanks. If the owners of the house appear, tell them who I am and beg their pardon for taking shelter. Say that I’ll be back soon.” He glanced at his father, who appeared to have fallen asleep. “Explain things to him if he wakes up.”

“Yes, master.” Pugnax’s gaze was steady. “May the gods bring you back swiftly.”

“Aye.” Rufus took a moment to adjust the cushion on his head. Then, before his resolve weakened, he slipped out of the door.

It was apparent within a few paces that he’d have to use the backstreets and alleyways. Every larger way was clogged with people, mules, donkeys, and carts. It was human nature to try to carry away everything one owned, Rufus supposed, but there were times when common sense took precedence over items of furniture or livestock. Again and again, he saw owners berating slaves as they carried chairs, tables, and even cupboards from houses to the street, where they were loaded onto wagons. He felt a stab of gratitude that he’d been a soldier. Even before his debts had necessitated the sale of any valuables he had owned, he’d had precious few objects worth more than a few
denarii
. If he got out of here in one piece with his father, Mustius, and Pugnax, he’d be well content.

The gloom that hung over the streets was even worse in the tiny alleys. If he were not to lose his way forever—Rufus’ bowels loosened at that thought—he needed light. He cast his eyes around the nearest doorways. Someone else’s ill-fortune proved to be his good. An old man lay half in, half out of the entrance to a shop. The crimson stain in the center of his tunic proved he’d been the victim of crime, not Vesuvius. A small clay lamp, the type that everyone used at night, sat on the counter close by the body. Rufus supposed that the man had set it down as he was about to leave, or as he was assaulted and his premises robbed. Hoping that he’d died fast, Rufus took the lamp and plunged into an alley that would take him northward.

His sandaled feet were soon covered in piss, shit, and worse. Even when there was a drain nearby, many of the town’s poorer inhabitants found it easier to empty their chamber pots, and the waste from their kitchens, close to home. Trying not to breathe the foul odors, Rufus gave thanks that he did not have to fear the rain of stones from Vesuvius. The spaces between the two- and three-story buildings were so narrow that all but a few rocks were prevented from coming to earth. For this reason, it wasn’t surprising that others had taken shelter in the alleyways. Finding a street urchin cowering in one, he urged the boy to make for one of the southern gates. The boy, wide-eyed with fear, scuttled away from him into a space so tight that Rufus couldn’t follow. With a weary shrug, he left him to it.

His first major obstacle was the main street that led from the Vesuvian Gate to the Stabian. It was packed tighter than he’d ever seen it, a mass of wailing, terrified humanity. There were family groups, fathers carrying children, mothers with crying infants in their arms. Behind them, with the slaves, came the ailing grandparents or aged relations. Carts drawn by mules or oxen—once, one of each—were piled high with material possessions, or those too weak to walk. Straw mattresses gave those unfortunates more protection than those who were standing. Cries filled the air from one street to another as the relentless volleys of stones continued from above. In a new development, Rufus noted that many of the rocks were burning hot. A quick, dangerous glance upward revealed mesmerizing dots of red and orange pouring in from a sky that was as black as pitch.

Acid stung the back of his throat, and he wondered again if he should continue.
Damn you, Mustius saved your life
, he thought. Gritting his teeth, Rufus elbowed his way across the Stabian Road. When his path was blocked, he crawled under a cart. Reaching the other side, he aimed for another alleyway. From there, his luck appeared to be in once more. Crisscrossing the larger streets, he traced a path to the forum without hindrance. Normally, he would have cut across the open space to reach his apartment faster, but that wouldn’t be wise today. All the same, part of Rufus had to see Vesuvius, had to see how dire things really were.

The instant he succeeded, he realized it had been a bad idea.

Through the blackness, he could see orange-red patches of burning fire—on the slopes of the mountain, he realized. His face warmed as a hot wind, coming from Vesuvius, hit his face. Hard. Something—he had no idea what—was blowing toward the town, with deadly speed.

Running carried the risk of breaking his neck. Rufus broke into a trot.