Pompeii: City on Fire (40 page)

Deep in his chest, the words rumbled.

I have given you everything.

He had called upon them in the triclinium, beseeched them to grant him favor as his enemy laughed in his face and blasphemed their names. But the gods had been silent.

Still silent.

He had taken her. Portius Cato had taken Nigidia, his one comfort, his most precious treasure. She had gone willingly, he had seen it in her eyes, though he wanted to believe that some enchantment of Cato's had drawn her away.

He sensed a lightening in the sky to the east. How could the sun still rise on such a day as this?

To the north, the mountain had not yet finished its boiling and churning.

The wind shifted. He smelled, rather than felt, the change. The sulfurous odor that had drifted over the city all night grew pungent. His lungs tightened and rebelled, doubling him over with a slashing cough that seared the throat.

Behind him, he heard the sound of another coughing.

Not alone. Not alone!

He turned, his feet still planted forward in the rocks.

Below, under the roof, Primus stood, clutching his chest. His most faithful slave, advisor.

Friend.

He reached out a hand of welcome. But the man's eyes were dark with hatred.

"Curse you, Nigidius Maius! You bring nothing but death."

And then he fell, face-down along the length of the bare steps, and was still.

Maius turned back to the mountain. He lifted his eyes to the orange fires at the summit. And barely blinked when an explosion rocked the house. Stone cracked. Somewhere columns split. The veranda held, and he watched the mountain.

A mighty vicious flow streamed from Vesuvius, up, up over its lip, boiling over with melted rocks and earthy flames, then surging down the hillside, a flood of fire and poison.

Maius raised his chin, then raised his fist in its face.

He roared above the surge. "Come and get me, then!" He yelled at all the gods to whom he had ever sworn allegiance, all the gods he had offered sacrifices and even those he had not avowed.

Yes, even Cato's God, the Jewish God and his God-man Messiah. He roared at him as well, for sometime in the early watches of the morning, the fear that this One God was more powerful than any other had overtaken him. And so he spewed his fury, shook his fist at Israel's God.

The flow of boiling rock raced down the mountain, faster, faster, a wave crashing from a stormy sea. He watched it come, faced it, alone and defiant, angry and fearful.

And in the end, as the scorching flow swallowed his vineyard, his gardens, his veranda, Nigidius Maius spit in the face of God.

CHAPTER 51

The morning approached, impossibly.

The eastern horizon lightened from obsidian black to the color of filthy wash water. The travelers had slogged through the city's destruction all night, and Ariella would have sworn that the streets had doubled in length, so slow was their progress.

They took frequent breaks for the sake of Portia, but always Quintus urged them forward before they were ready.

Sometime in the middle of the night, another earthquake rattled loose stone and broken walls. They waited it out in the center of a wide street, away from the danger of falling masonry. Apparently Ariella had not gone numb to fear, for the quake still left her palms slick and heart pounding.

The deserted streets wore an eerie, haunted look about them. More than once Ariella had caught a flash of someone, something, moving about the streets as though on their way to the market or the arena. But each time she looked again, there was nothing. Did apparitions of the dead already roam the town?

Whenever they did encounter townspeople, peeking out from near-buried doorways at those who voyaged across the stone sea, Quintus begged them to join their group.

"There is no protection here." He pointed to the mountain. "She is not finished. Come with us to a high place, a wide place of safety."

Some refused to leave the valuable property they could not carry. Others scoffed at the danger. Most heartbreaking were the obedient slaves left behind, charged with guarding their masters' households.

They were not far from Quintus's house now, but their loved ones would have fled south.

Quintus took a side street, a slight detour. No explanation was necessary. Seneca and Europa's house lay this way.

Their door was open, but the entrance was submerged. Did it mean they were well away? She joined Quintus in stabbing at the pile of rocky ash, forcing it down into the open vestibule until it slid away suddenly, allowing passage. He propelled his body through the chute and she followed. Nigidia and Portia dropped through after them.

The vestibule was a pocket of empty space between the street and the buried atrium, but a hall led left and right, a covered perimeter of the piles of rock.

"Seneca? Europa?" The rocks muffled Quintus's voice as though underground. He led them through the halls, still calling.

"We are here." At the feeble answer, Ariella's heart fell. Quintus stopped in the hall and closed his eyes. Her mouth went dry. The journey had grown so difficult, how could they make it?

Europa appeared at the end of the hall, outside the triclinium where Ariella had first encountered these special people, the night she brought the injured Jeremiah to their door. She hurried to meet them, arms outstretched. "I am so glad you are safe."

Ariella fell into her familiar embrace. "For now. But we cannot stay any longer. You must come."

Quintus stalked ahead, through the entrance to the room. Europa led the three women behind him.

She stood in the doorway, taking in the group before her. The triclinium's beautiful frescoes were as bright and colorful as always, the brazier fires flickering against the reds and yellows, illuminating the spread of food on the tables. Like that first night.

And her friends. Europa and Seneca. Flora, reclined on a couch, with Jeremiah beside her. Only these four remained. Nigidia crossed behind her and knelt to Flora.

"You should have left the city!" Quintus's voice sounded angry.
He is only worried.

Europa smiled sadly and patted his arm. "We have traveled as far as possible."

Ariella pushed forward, a fearsome dread weighting her limbs. "No. We are going to the south wall. We will help you."

Seneca came to his wife and circled her shoulders with his arm. He spoke softly. "Flora and Jeremiah nearly did not make the trek from the prison to our home. They are—unable—" His voice caught and his eyes filled with tears.

Ariella looked from Seneca to Europa, then down at the two on the couch. They were not reclining, were they? They had collapsed there in exhaustion.

She shook her head slowly. "No. You cannot stay."

Quintus grabbed Seneca's arm. "We can get them out. Together."

Seneca pulled them into the hall, out of hearing range of the young girl and old man. His eyes held sadness, but also a strange peace.

"The Lord is with us. He will not forsake us."

Quintus breathed heavily. "The mountain—"

"May take our lives, yes. But not our souls."

Ariella tightened her lips, stifling a cry. They could not be left behind. She would not allow it.

Europa embraced her, whispered into her ear. "We are not afraid, dear one. This day we shall see the face of our Messiah and enter into His glory. Do not fear for us."

She clutched at the woman, drowning in memories of her last sight of her mother. "I cannot lose you."

Europa drew away and put her hands to Ariella's cheeks. "We shall see each other again. When there will be no more war."

Her breath came in short gasps now, and tears dripped from her chin. Quintus grasped her hand and led her into the triclinium, where Flora and Jeremiah rested.

The old slave opened his eyes to them, and Ariella bent to kneel at his side. "Jeremiah—"

He patted her hand. "This hip will lead me home after all, my girl." His smile was undimmed by pain or fear. "I only regret that these two remain." He pointed to Europa and Seneca.

Europa clucked her tongue. "We would not leave either of you."

Beside her, Flora sniffed, trying not to cry. Europa went to her and held her, rocking her as she must have done when the girl was a newborn, exposed by the river, left to die alone.

They do not die alone, any of them.

The words were true, yet they shattered her heart.

Quintus was moving behind her. He gripped her shoulder. "Come, Ariella. It is time."

Jeremiah grasped her hand. "My girl, the Holy One—"

She leaned to kiss his cheek, to whisper in his ear. "I have made my peace with Him, Jeremiah. Through the Messiah, as you taught me."

Jeremiah's smile was like the sun shining through dark clouds and his eyes filled with tears.
"Baruch Hashem."
Blessed be the Name.

She smiled in return. "And Quintus joins us too."

He squeezed her hand and took Quintus's with the other. "My two warriors. He has great plans for you." A tear pooled in his eye and escaped. "And I can face the end with joy, knowing that the Creator calls you out to do His work after I am gone."

She could not release him. It took the gentle pressure of Quintus, untangling her warm fingers from his twisted ones, pulling her backward, away from Jeremiah, from Flora and her parents. She staggered and he caught her weight.

They paused in the doorway. Europa embraced a sobbing Nigidia, wrapped an arm around Portia, kissed them each, then patted Ariella's cheek one final time. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "We are well here, my girl. Go in peace."

And then they were off, retracing their steps through the corridor, as the husband and wife waved farewell. Already, a hole had been ripped through her heart. She followed Quintus, numb with grief.

They climbed back to the street, pulling Portia from the opening last. Her face had grown pale again.

Quintus studied her. "How do you fare, sister?"

She nodded. "I will not hold you back." No doubt she thought of those inside the house.

They moved on, reaching his house within minutes and repeating the process of digging through to get inside. This time, Portia and Nigidia waited in the street. Quintus found a torch still burning, and grabbed it to light the way.

As expected, they found no one at home, even after shouting through every room.

Quintus turned to her in the kitchen, the first time they had been alone since they had stood here once before. She pulled her torn tunic around her, embarrassed.

She looked at his eyes. From this moment, nothing would be the same. There was nothing left to do but leave the city. What kind of life would meet them in the world beyond Pompeii?

Quintus seemed to also feel the hinge of fate. He put a palm to her cheek, ran his thumb over her lips. "Are you ready?"

She nodded. "It is time."

Up on the raised street once again they trudged south, high enough now that they walked on the same level as any of the remaining slanted roofs. From this unnatural vantage point Ariella could survey the entire city, all the way to Maius's estate if she chose to look that way.

Another explosion rocked them from their feet.

They scrambled to stand, turned toward the mountain, and watched amazed as it gushed, the outpouring aimed for Pompeii.

Closer, closer. The surge flowed downward with a speed no one could outrun. They stood transfixed, huddled together, and watched it come.

It swelled down the hillside, then poured toward them, a fiery deluge.

It swallowed the northern fields.

It submerged the northern estates.

Nigidia gave a sharp cry and her legs gave way. Quintus kept her upright. Ariella pulled the girl's head into her shoulder, whispered empty words of comfort into her ear. But she kept an eye on the surging tide of death. For their grief would end in moments, when they joined Maius under the whelming fire.

CHAPTER 52

The northern wall of Pompeii halted the surge.

Cato watched it swell to the city wall, the height of five men, then settle. Barred entrance to the city, a failed siege.

But the proximity of the flow was telling. The mountain could surge again, and with the northern valley already filled with molten rock, the next one would race over its predecessor and sweep the town.

He turned to the women he had pledged himself to protect. No need for words.

They stumbled after him, a ragged, grief-struck group with little hope, but still the will to survive.

They were not the only ones to have seen the end coming. Survivors pocked the streets, eyes wide, their hope to remain hidden in safety erased.

"Come with us. Follow us." Cato spoke to each one they passed, each bewildered and dazed face that turned their way.

He heard his name spoken by one man to his wife, heard the word
Christian,
and smiled to himself. Such a short time ago he would have feared the association.

And yet, as it happened, it was this very connection that proved most effective. The Christians of Pompeii had made themselves known, it turned out. In their quiet way they had loved well and spoken freedom, and it was this that convinced people to join Cato and the women on the march out of the city.

More and more emerged from rock piles and hidden recesses. Cato urged each one, not willing that any should perish in what was to come.

The lengthening line of survivors twisted through the streets, a river of life flowing through the city of death, with Cato at its head. He had desired to win the election, to lead the people. Was this not a greater victory?

The Stabian Gate lay half-buried, but still open enough for the train of people to pass under its arch, out of the city and toward the plains.

Where was the rest of his family? He looked everywhere at once, along the city wall in either direction, out over the field of stone. Beside him, Ariella scanned the pale horizon, her hand to her eyes.

There was nothing to do but keep walking, away from the mountain. Toward safety. The rock and ash still lay heavy here.