Pompeii: City on Fire (4 page)

Isabella rolled her eyes, not amused. "Seriously, Quintus, who is going to come—

"It was a good price, sister. Bargains come with drawbacks. Nothing we can't fix."

Behind them, Remus cursed suddenly, and the expletive was followed by the sound of smashing pottery. Cato whirled, in time to see the line of amphorae balanced on their pointed ends going down like wheat falling beneath a scythe.

"Remus!" He dove for the jars, but Remus was already there, down on one knee with his hands thrust forward to catch the next one. He righted it before it could take down another, then sat back on his heels. Six terracotta jars lay cracked on the floor, their blood-red contents leaking or surging from cracks of varying widths.

Cato grabbed two with slow leaks and balanced them against the wall before they could contribute to the mess. The rest were already empty.

"Master, I—" Remus's voice caught. Was the man near to tears?

"An accident, Remus!" He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "I suppose you were just getting started on our pot-breaking, eh?"

"But the wine, master—"

"Saturninus's wine wasn't very good, anyway, and we both know it. No doubt why he went out of business." He stepped across the widening puddle. "Perhaps it will do more good washing away the grime of the floor!"

Octavia and Isabella had backed away to the doorway, and Cato didn't need to look at the two women in his life to know what they were thinking.

He and Remus set to work cleaning up the spilled wine and cracked pottery with the women looking on. "Saturninus didn't go out of business because of the quality of his wine, master."

"He must have been a poor businessman, then, for he was certainly bankrupt."

Remus knelt to sop up the wine with a rag. "Yes. But driven there. Driven to bankruptcy by the crook who owns half the city and controls the other. Gnaeus Nigidius Maius."

"The
duovir.
" He had heard the politician's name muttered a few times by disgruntled citizens but knew nothing more of the elected official.

"Don't let the position fool you. The city is united in its hatred for him. He would sell his mother for a vote, and when Saturninus refused to give him a take of the shop's profits, Maius destroyed him. That's why you were able to buy everything the man owned for a
sestertius
on every
aureus.
"

Cato straightened, two shards of pottery in his hands. "Maius forced him out of business?"

"Indeed. The man's a—"

Remus's sentence hung unfinished as the doorway darkened, and Cato looked up, still expecting his delivery. His mother and sister turned, and seemed dwarfed by the bulk of the man who filled the frame.

"Please, finish." The large man dipped his head toward Remus. "You have me so curious."

Cato looked from the stylish visitor to the cowering Remus, and instinct told him that this was the man himself.

Gnaeus Nigidius Maius. Enemy of the people.

CHAPTER 3

The journey from Napoli to the foot of the beautiful mountain had taken half the day, and Ariella was footsore and thirsty by the time Drusus called a halt to the forced march. She waited for instructions, hoping they would be allowed to rest.

The mountain—Vesuvius, they called it—had loomed to the south of the troupe when they left Napoli, looming larger until they traveled the narrow channel of land between the mountain to the east and the sea to the west. Now it was behind them, with the sun beginning to fall toward its pointed peak.

Drusus declared that they were only an hour out from Pompeii. "But we will camp here and enter the city tomorrow." A cheer went up from the troupe, as though tomorrow's arrival would be a triumphant procession of honored soldiers returning from victory, rather than a column of ragtag gladiators hauled in to entertain the masses with their blood.

Drusus directed the slaves that accompanied them to begin setting up camp alongside the road. To the troupe, he called out sharp instructions. "Take some water, men." He pointed to an open area beside the road, bordered on one side by a grove of trees. "We begin practice shortly."

The collective groan was more subdued than the cheer had been, for good reason. Drusus was a harsh master, and reluctance to train only resulted in more of it.

One of the other gladiators, Celadus, nudged Ariella. "You'd better get some water, Ari. You're not looking well." Celadus was a bear of a Roman with his front teeth missing, but usually kind.

Another fighter chuckled without mercy. "These young boys are more likely to fall
between
cities than in the amphitheatre. I don't know why Drusus keeps buying them."

Ariella lowered her chin to hide the flash of anger in her eyes. It was difficult enough to masquerade as a young man, but to be seen as weak infuriated her. She beat back her exhaustion and shrugged. "I'll outlast you in the arena, Paris. Larger is not always better, you know."

"Hah!" Paris, the Greek favorite, was as chiseled as one of his forefathers' statues, but his grin held ugly animosity. "Perhaps not against animals. Wait until you face a real opponent."

Celadus passed a water skin to Ariella, saving her from a reply.

The afternoon sun hammered down on her head, making her grateful she had chopped her hair off at the neck weeks earlier. With no head covering, her usual mane of thick hair would have been like a heavy blanket in the
Junius
heat.

Is the month still Junius?
The thought wandered through her exhausted mind as she swigged from the water skin. She had lost track, which she found both bothersome and somewhat terrifying. As though she were leaving parts of herself along the sides of the road, including her awareness of time.

All too soon, Drusus called an end to the break and instructed the men to begin drills. Each of them went to the equipment wagon and sought out their personal training weapons. Ariella's wooden sword, the traditional
rudis,
was blackened and dented already, even though it had only been three weeks since she had disguised herself, escaped Rome and Valerius and all that made life unbearable, and fallen in with this gladiator troupe.

She secured leather straps around her left hand and turned with her rudis, waiting to be partnered for the drills. The three weeks had passed in a blur of dogged determination to survive, alternating with periods of fatigue so severe, she had to call up angry memories of both the distant and immediate past to find the strength to continue.

And today would be no different. She would fight, and she would survive. As she always had.

But for how long?

"Ari, you're with Celadus," the trainer called out.

She gave Celadus a half-smile, and he rolled his eyes in mock disgust. "Not again." He spoke so only she could hear it. Drusus had been pairing them often, though Celadus was much bigger. An apparent effort to "broaden the boy's shoulders," as he said, eyeing Ariella with dissatisfaction.

She and Celadus found an open space in the grass among the other twenty-nine pairs and squared off. "You're never going to fight anyone but the animals and the little men," Celadus called to her, in the time-honored insults of gladiator training. She was expected to return with angering words for him, to get the blood boiling, but her thoughts were fuzzy today, and even her vision seemed to blur with weariness.

She raised her arm though. Raised her wooden rudis above her head and ran at Celadus with a snarl of defiance, as much toward her own fatigue and doubts as toward Celadus and his taunts.

Their battered swords clacked together with the artificial smack of dull wood, and Celadus laughed, revealing the wide gap in his smile, and pulled back to reposition. "Like an angry little dog kicked too many times by a cruel master."

More truth to that than you realize.

They sparred for what seemed hours, but Ariella did not back down. Even when she saw the beige tents go up nearby and imagined falling into one and sleeping until autumn. Her short tunic grew damp with sweat and dingy with kicked-up dust, and the collective odor of the men hung heavy over the field. Her sword felt weighted in her hand, and the grunts and calls of the fighters muddled together.

Would that I had an arm of iron rather than flesh.
But still she did not yield.

It was not until the mountain loomed purple to the southwest, with the sun hiding behind it, that Drusus called an end to the drills. For the rest of the troupe, the declaration brought relief. For Ariella, the true challenge had just begun.

To be a woman disguised as a man, in a group of sixty-five men, presented difficulties that far outweighed those of the training—or even her single experience of combat in Napoli, when Drusus had put her in the ring with first a wild boar and then an ibex. Those fights had been only for show. She had not been expected to kill either of the beasts, only to provide a prelude of entertainment before the real fighters flooded into the arena. But the battle she would face in the remaining hours of daylight today, and even beyond, was not for show.

It was life or death.

She trudged to the blazing campfire with the others, passed the equipment wagon, and secured her sword. The five slaves that traveled with the troupe were already passing out plates of spicy meat and bread, and the men fell around the large fire and dug into the food. Ariella took her meat, then pulled away from the crowd and found a lonely spot in the scratchy grass. Her stomach heaved with physical and emotional unrest, but she forced the food down for the sake of her strength.

She watched the gang of men wolf down their meal. Most of these Gentiles were indeed wolves. If they discovered that she was not a slightly built young man, but a woman—she shuddered to think of the outcome. They were a long way from Rome and its laws, and even there, women were not so protected that men did not take advantage.

But even life as an effeminate young man, among older, well-muscled men who had long been far from women, presented challenges. There were a number of them who would not be put off by her gender, even believing she was a man. She was on guard always—slept with muscles tensed, ate with only one eye on her food, and when she slipped into the woods to attend to hygiene she walked nearly backwards to be certain she was not followed.

She shrugged to herself. In her twenty-five years she had survived worse, first in Jerusalem and then in Rome. She would survive this. Perhaps her arm could not be made of iron, but her heart had long been smelted into something harder than flesh and blood.

No doubts allowed.

And what better place to hide from Valerius? Though he must be scouring the Roman countryside for her, he would never think to look in the center of a gladiator troupe.

The meal ended as quickly as it began. The fighters tossed their greasy plates at the waiting servants and began to prepare for much-needed sleep. Ariella returned her own plate to the pile and eyed the nearby verdant grove of trees. She needed to disappear there and attend to personal matters, then find a way to change her clothing without being observed in the tent she shared with five other men, and finally to settle into a night of half-sleep before marching into Pompeii. Such had been the past three weeks. Tonight was no different, she told herself.

And she refused to listen to the small voice that told her that perhaps she was not as invincible as she believed.

CHAPTER 4

Cato resisted a self-conscious glance around the grimy shop with its spilled wine leaking across the floor. As Maius crowded into the room, past Octavia and Isabella, the interior seemed to shrink upon them all, as though five were a number far too great for the four walls.

Maius had already lost interest in Remus's opinion of him, distracted perhaps by the shop's deficiencies. His attention went to the walls, the floor, the counter, then at last to Octavia—-where his gaze stopped.

Cato stepped forward to introduce himself. "Quintus Portius Cato. My mother, Octavia Catonis, and my sister."

Maius nodded toward Octavia, ignoring him. "Nigidius Maius." He reached for Octavia's hand, caught it up in his own, and kissed it lightly.

Cato glanced to his mother to assess her reaction. She was not impressed. He circled Maius to gain his attention. "What can I do for you, Maius?"

The larger man turned on him at last, and seemed to take his measure in an instant, as though sizing him up for a future fight. Maius's dark hair receded from his forehead slightly, but lay slick and oiled as though carved from black marble. His eyes were focused and sharp, and when he smiled on Cato, it was more like the wide snarl of a menacing, yet confident, beast. "I came for your sake, Portius Cato, not my own."

"Can I offer you a cup of wine?" Cato flicked a glance in Remus's direction and indicated one of the broken pots, standing on its end to retain what wine remained. Remus hurried to get cups and Cato turned back to Maius, whose attention had again drifted to Octavia.

"I look forward to making the acquaintance of your husband, dear lady." He bowed.

Cato rolled his eyes at the obvious ploy.

"My husband is dead." Octavia's words had enough blunt coldness to warn off any pursuer.

Maius smiled, a small, knowing smirk, as if he believed that Octavia played a game with him, holding back her favors to encourage ardor. Cato knew better. His father had been gone four months, and his mother still cried every night.

"Wine?" Cato took two cups from Remus and passed one to Maius.

The politician accepted with a nod. He buried his nose in the cup and took two short sniffs. His eyes flicked upward to Cato, then he swirled the cup and sipped. And promptly spat upon the floor. "Aahh!" Maius shoved the cup at Remus. "What kind of foolishness is this?"

Cato sipped from his own cup and agreed that the wine was inferior, though not deserving of Maius's reaction. A bit too earthy on the nose, perhaps, with too short a finish. He shrugged. "Saturninus was not so good with the vines, it seems. All the better for me. We will have a finer supply in the years to come."

Maius raised his eyebrows. "Then the rumors are true? This is more than a vacation for the Cato dynasty? You think to remain in Pompeii?" He did not make reference to Cato's flight from his political career in Rome, but the implication was there.