Pompeii: City on Fire (34 page)

CHAPTER 42

The dawn did not reach into the cells deep under the countryside estate of Nigidius Maius. Ariella stirred with the vague awareness that the night had passed, and stretched her limbs, grown stiff with the chill of the brown muck in which she spent the hours.

She stood and walked off the numbness, willing her body and her spirit to be ready for what should come next.

But it was hours before she saw or heard another. Had Valerius forgotten her, underground and out of sight? More likely he was sleeping off the excesses of last night. Best not to think about her brother, and what Valerius's celebrations may have included.

Micah. The momentary joy of finding him washed over her once again. Damaged, yes. But alive. And once they were away from the stench that was Clovius Valerius, she would love Micah back to health. They would be a family. She swiped at the unbidden tears with her palm. Later. She could give way to emotion when they were safe.

For today, for this moment, she would be Scorpion Fish once again.

They came at last, two of Valerius's slaves, with the news that her master prepared already to leave Pompeii, to return to Rome via the ship that had brought him. The two brutes seemed to enjoy dragging her upward to the daylight, though she would have come willingly, her singular focus driving her to face the vile man.

When to kill him? And how? She indulged a moment of imagination, of her trident in her hand once more, of Valerius on the ground, three prongs driven through his empty chest.

The wagon sat ready outside Maius's villa, and a muscular horse had been harnessed to a two-wheeled gilded cart. Slaves loaded Valerius's belongings into the wagon, his prime slave shouting direction and insults. The two that had brought her from the cell yanked her forward and lashed her wrists with a lead-rope that trailed from the wagon. The late-summer sun beat without pity on her face, and the day was still, silently watching her shame.

Micah appeared moments later to be tied to the rope beside her. She drank in the sight of his tanned face, even his wide, white eyes, and lifted her roped hands to touch his cheek. She sent him encouragement with her eyes, but dared not speak. He nodded, the only indication that hope also lived in him. Perhaps Valerius meant to humiliate them with the forced march through the town, but they were together, and that was a blessing.

Blessing.
Had the Creator brought them together? Or was it chance, and the evil hand of Valerius? Could she accept their reunion as His gift? Would He also bless her hand as she raised it against the evil? Unknowable.

The voices of Maius and Valerius emerged from the villa behind them. She did not turn, but fixed her eyes on the winding gravel path that led downward from the estate, into the town. Their route to the sea would not pass through much of Pompeii, and she was unlikely to see many she knew.

Unlikely to see Cato.

She inhaled against the tightness of her chest and blinked away the sting of the sun.

She let them have their laughter and their fond good-byes.
Yes, say good-bye, Maius.
Her limbs trembled with fury and tension and she coached herself.
Remember your training.
She had only to secure a weapon somehow and find opportunity. There would be no difficulty in the task itself.

But she must also be wise. She desired more than vengeance, more than his death. She fought for freedom, as she always had. But now it would be freedom for them both. She could not risk capture or death in the pursuit of freedom, for that would be to once more abandon Micah.

A cool shadow fell against her face. She lifted her chin, eyes still trained forward.

"Rather worse for your night in the mud, I see." Valerius's voice mocked, but in a low and familiar whisper at her ear. "No matter. We shall make you pretty once we are at sea."

She turned her face to his, focused on his grinning mouth, yellowed teeth, those blood-red lips. "You shall find me dead before your vile hands touch me again."

He slapped her. His delicate fingers stung her cheek and she tasted blood inside her mouth. She swung her face back to his and let her hatred pour from her eyes. His nostrils flared and he shoved her backward into Micah, who kept her upright with his roped hands.

"You have grown uglier during your holiday."

He mounted the gilded cart with a wave to Maius, and the entourage jolted forward. Ariella and Micah struggled to keep pace with the wagon. Its wheels churned dust into her lungs and her eyes burned.

Away from one despicable man, on the heels of another, they trotted downward, through the Street of Tombs and past the towering north wall of the city that separated Maius and his estate from the common man. Valerius kept to the inner east wall of the city, choosing the most direct route to the harbor. The noon-day town seemed peaceful, and she remembered the strange pagan holiday.

They passed through the Marina Gate, leaving the town once again.
Good-bye, Pompeii.
One foot caught against the other, and she nearly went down. The rope bit against her wrists, bringing tears.

Boats clogged the harbor, more than Ariella would have expected. They bobbed in the sapphire blue water, their white masts a reflection of the white sand. She inhaled the sharp tang of salt and fish, letting it purge the road dust from her chest.

Valerius's cart was met at the beach by more slaves, perhaps his ship's captain and oarsmen. She heard the words
ill wind
pass between them.

So that was the reason for the excess of ships. The current did not favor setting sail. How would this affect her plan? Would they return to Maius's villa? When would her opportunity arrive?

They would wait, Valerius announced peevishly, though not long. He desired to reach Ostia Antica, the port of Rome, before nightfall.

Ariella and Micah were left where they stood, though the other slaves ranged themselves in the sand, shadowed by the wagon. Valerius paced the waterfront, as though his petulance would drive away the winds.

She surveyed the beach. Was this her chance? It seemed unlikely that she could free them both, find a weapon, deliver the blow, and escape unhindered. Did she need a weapon? She had been trained to kill without it.

Into her musings came a throaty growl, like a mighty beast trapped beneath the sand. Micah's eyes met her own. "The wind?"

But it was not the wind.

On the beach, slave and sailor alike stood in silence, every head inclined to the sound.

And then came the tremors.

The sand shifted beneath their feet, but this was a deeper shifting, she could sense. She had felt it weeks ago, when Cato had been giving his speech in the theater.

One of Valerius's slaves stood beside her. She turned on him. "Untie us. You must free us."

He glanced at her face, her bound wrists.

"Have mercy, man. Where would we go?"

He threw a furtive look toward Valerius's back. Their master stood at the shoreline, his stance wide and his arms extended, as though he balanced on a racing chariot. With a burst of decision, the slave released the loop of rope from the wagon's back and freed Ariella. She did not wait for him to free Micah. She could do it herself.

The underground snarl became a roar and the tremor turned to heaving. The sea swelled and those at its edge fled backward.

Were they not safe here on the beach? No columns or statues to crush them, no roofs to collapse on their heads. They needed only to ride it out. Micah wrapped his arm around her shoulder and she pressed into his strength.

Ariella lifted her eyes to the mountain. How did it fare under the earth's treachery?

With the question and its answer above, her courage failed.

Micah followed her gaze, and they watched as a gray-black cloud, darker than any storm cloud, churned and swirled above the mountain's summit.

And then, then—impossible yet undeniable—with the force of a cork blown off the top of the world . . . the peak of the mountain exploded.

The noise was a thousand dragons breathing fire, a million bonfires roaring, the screaming shriek of the end of the world.

Every person on the beach fell away from its force, knocked to their backs to watch the inky gray column shoot upward from the mountain like a massive tree trunk sprouted before their eyes. The malevolent tree spread outward in branches of fury.

Lying in the sand, Ariella could not tear her eyes away. Her muscles had turned to water and her mouth hung slack. Shock numbed her mind. She was a rag doll thrown at the feet of a goddess and she lay nearly senseless as the wicked storm raged in the sky above the mountain.

Vesuvius's spewing went on and on. The tree grew, like a mighty umbrella pine, impossibly high, until the spreading branches must have scraped against the floor of heaven itself.

On the beach, astonishment had turned to terror. Slaves, sailors, and townspeople scrambled to their feet, dashed left and right, bawled instructions and questions and fear.

Micah and Ariella linked arms and stood against the side of the wagon. Was this their chance? In the chaos, they could run. Was she willing to forfeit her vengeance and simply have freedom?

But where did one run while the world came to its end?

Valerius was yelling, directing his slaves on the docked ship to send the dinghy to the shore so that he could board and sail away from the disaster. Even Ariella could see the angry waves chasing each other to the sand, each one outpacing the one before.

Valerius was a fool.

But it would seem the town was full of fools, for a screaming horde of them poured from the town's gate, seeking refuge by escaping into the Bay of Napoli.

She and Micah were caught between the sea and the masses, and chaos erupted on the beach as those without boats begged and bribed to be rescued.

She held tight to Micah in the press of people. "We must run." Her voice was lost in the roar of the earth and the continued belching of the mountain. She pulled Micah's head to her own. "We must run!"

He turned wide eyes on her, but she could see that he was ready. At the water's edge, Valerius still shouted to be put out. They would leave him to his folly.

She waited a few moments, with measured glances at the other slaves, none of whom seemed interested in anything but their own safety, then grabbed Micah's hand and nodded.

But impossibly, Valerius was beside them, his long fingers wrapped around her upper arm, dragging her backward toward the sea. "We must sail now!" His voice was pitched toward hysteria. She tried to shake off his death grip.

"The sea is raging just as the mountain, Valerius. You will not reach two
stadia!
"

He seemed not to hear her, still pulling toward the water.

This was her moment, then. At last, there was to be both vengeance and freedom. In the crush of the mob, many of whom were now fixed on Valerius's ship as their salvation, no one would care when he went down.

She planted her feet as best she could, dug her heels into the grainy sand, halted their progress. He turned to her, his eyes pleading as though she were his daughter and not his slave. "There is still time!"

It took only a quick twist of her arm to release his grasp, a puncturing kick to his mid-section to double him over, and a forearm blow to his neck to send him to her feet where he belonged. She moved, swift and sinuous, and the action warmed her limbs and flushed her with confidence.

Her sandal dug into his neck, poised for the death stroke. She had trained well. She could kill a man in a dozen different ways, even without weapons. Which would cause the most pain? Which method would kill him surely, yet let him linger in agony?

This is not My will, child.

The words were audible, even over the screams and shouts of those on the beach and the bellowing roar of the mountain. She looked for Micah, found his eyes, but could not tell if his fear came from the voice or the imminent murder of Valerius.

I gave My life to redeem yours. And vengeance belongs to Me.

She inhaled sharply, then coughed, the air noxious in her lungs.
Yeshua?

Valerius's face had paled beneath her foot. His pinched, unnatural lips hung open. She was his Scorpion Fish, leaping out of the fishpond to stand over its master, full of venom.

But the poison drained from her. It ran down into the sand and left her with nothing but impossible compassion for the vacant shell of a man beneath her. He would meet his death today, she felt certain.

But it would not be at her hand.

She shoved against him with her foot, signaled Micah, and ran. They pushed against the flow of people, two small fish traveling upstream against a powerful current of fear, and were lost in the mob. Above them, the spreading gray cloud blocked out the sun like a heavy curtain, turning noon to dusk in an instant.

It proved nearly hopeless to shove through the bottleneck of the Marina Gate, and Ariella squeezed Micah's hand until her fingers were numb. She would not lose him again.

But then at last they were through, bursting into the open air, fighting through the panic that flowed toward the city gate.

And from high above them, like a toxic, dirty snow, ash began to fall.

CHAPTER 43

Cato watched from the street, mesmerized, as the gray cloud above the mountain bubbled and foamed. But nothing prepared him for the explosion.

The top of the mountain blew off with such force it knocked people to the street. Cato kept his footing, but raised stunned eyes to Vesuvius, seeing it bellow out gas and rock, its peak shattered into fragments that shot to the heavens.

Merciful God, protect us.

Townspeople got to their feet, the earthquake forgotten, and faced the mountain, like children cowering before a wrathful parent. The roar of the rock raining upward drowned out their cries.

He ran back into Seneca's home and found the entire household assembled in the atrium, slave and family alike. They turned panicked eyes to him, as if he held an answer to the blast that had rocked the city.

"The mountain—" He labored to speak, as though he had run a distance to give the news. "The mountain has blown."