Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (7 page)

BOOK: Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9)
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Today
would be the day he died.

And he
was prepared for that.

His
heart ached with the pain his wife and children would feel, but the family
honor would remain intact, and for dying trying to save the Emperor’s treasure,
he was certain his family would be taken care of.

Even if
they couldn’t evacuate the treasure in time, if he remained behind to protect
it from looters, his emperor would still have his gold.

But if
what he saw outside the last time he looked was any indication, the chances of
looters or himself surviving were slim to none. The ash was now approaching
chest height in places and the roof was starting to show signs of weakness, the
columns cracking. His guard, two dozen of Rome’s finest, had been initially
deployed to try and keep a path clear to the beachfront, but he had redeployed
half of them to the roof to shovel off the rapidly accumulating ash. Their
shifts were short and arduous, the air thick, and they were fighting a losing
battle. Only moments before he had ordered them to concentrate only on the
structure immediately above where he now stood, prepared to sacrifice the rest
of the house so the treasure could be evacuated should help arrive.

He shook
his head then ran up the stairs, locking the door behind him, the key around
his neck having never left his side since the door was first installed. Only Plinius
and the Emperor himself had copies. As he entered the grand hall he found half
a dozen of his guard lying on the floor, being tended to by one of his female
slaves. They struggled to rise but he waved them off.

“Rest,”
he said. “I fear we will all need whatever energy we can muster before day’s
end.”

The head
of his guard, Silus, walked in from the patio, pushing aside the coverings. His
face was blackened with the falling ash, his arms and legs covered in a mix of
the dark matter and sweat, his hair, normally a brilliant blonde now a dusty
gray. He took a goblet of water from one of the slaves, swished it in his mouth
then spat in a proffered bowl. He then poured the rest of the water over his
head, passing the goblet back and wiping his face with the palm of his hand. Silus
looked around the room then his eyebrows raised in recognition as he spotted
his liege.

“My
Lord, I have good news!”

Valerius’
heart leapt, praying silently it was the only news he could think of that might
be good. “You have word of the Prefect?”

Silus nodded.
“Perhaps. A scout has spotted the Prefect’s cutter making for the shore and the
fleet has left port. Other civilian craft are also coming to rescue who they
can. The shores are filled with boats taking away the civilians.”

Valerius
felt a surge of pride in his fellow Romans, and with Plinius near, there was
renewed hope. “This is indeed good news. Keep the path to the shore clear, and keep
men on the roof. We can’t risk having this hall collapse.” He lowered his
voice. “Now that we know the fleet will be here soon, pull the guards off the
gates and have them begin to move the treasure below to the main level. We
won’t get much moved, but we will at least get some. The bottleneck is the
stairs.”

Silus snapped
to attention. “Yes, sire!” He strode away to execute his orders as Avita and
the children entered the room, followed by several servants.

“The
carts are ready, darling. Are you sure you won’t come with us?”

Valerius
shook his head. “You know my place is here.” He turned to his servant Labeo. “I
place my family in your hands. Get them as far south as you can. Stop at
nothing, stop for no one. Show no quarter to those who would interfere. When
you find safety, send word to the Emperor, his people will find me or Plinius.”
He pulled a purse filled with gold and silver coins from his belt, handing it
to Labeo. “This should smooth your way.”

Labeo
bowed, taking the purse. “You honor me, sire.”

Valerius
turned to his children and held his arms out. The three youngsters immediately
leapt forward, hugging their father tightly. He ruffled the hair on each of
their heads, returning the hugs, paying particular attention to his seven year
old daughter, the youngest of the trio. “Now you listen to your mother and
Labeo, and do me and your Emperor proud, understood?”

“Yes, Father,”
came the reply in unison. He felt his chest tighten as he wondered if he’d ever
hear their tiny voices again. He looked at his wife, his eyes glistening, hers
ready to erupt with further tears as he could tell she knew what he was
feeling.

“My
wife,” he whispered, taking her in his arms and hugging her tightly. They said
nothing, neither trusting what might happen in front of the children and their
staff should they dare speak. After what Valerius knew wasn’t enough time to
say goodbye, he let go and forced a smile on his face, his eyes never leaving
those of his cherished companion. “Go now, swiftly, and I will see you after we
have evacuated with the fleet.”

His wife
nodded and followed Labeo out the front door and to the carriages. The horses
were already covered in ash, and Valerius noted that each had a hat tied around
its head with silk veils to try and reduce the amount of ash they might be
exposed to.

Clever.

He waved
as the carts departed, one with his family, the other with the supplies they
would need. As they disappeared into the ash he returned inside and unlocked
the cellar door for the waiting soldiers. Within minutes a small pile of gold
began to form in the center of the hall and as he turned to join his men in the
human chain they had formed, he heard a tremendous roar and the entire house
shook. Dust exploded from the hallway that led to the bedrooms and he knew the
south wing of their home had just collapsed under the weight of the ash.

You
better get here soon, Plinius!

 

 

 

 

Omhajer, Eritrea
Present Day, Six weeks before the crash

 

Father Solomon jerked up in his humble bed positioned near the only
window in the room, allowing for a usually slight but sometimes welcome stiff
breeze to naturally cool him, air conditioning a luxury almost unheard of in
rural Eritrea. He wiped his eyes free of sleep and listened for what had awoken
him.

Pounding
on the door and the desperate cries of a woman had him leaping from his bed,
his middle-aged bones protesting, but still spry enough to effect a fast
arrival at the door to the small church at the edge of Omhajer. When he had
been assigned the outpost by the Vatican he had of course been thankful on the
outside, but inside he had been terrified, horrified, disgusted—you name the
negative emotion, he had experienced it, and it had shamed him. He knew it was
his duty to go where God needed him, and nowhere did God need him more than in
Africa, of that he had no doubt. But he had spent his life escaping Africa, and
to be sent back after so many years was what he had least expected.

He
hadn’t wanted to go—he had been hoping for a North American or European
posting. But to be thrust back into the middle of Africa, only a few days
journey from where he had been born, was like going backward, losing decades of
his life. It felt like a punishment that he didn’t deserve, but as he toiled
with the emotions, he realized his selfishness was the very proof that he did
deserve this assignment, and the only way out, was to embrace God’s penance,
and excel in his work.

And he
felt he had. In time he realized the Vatican’s wisdom in putting a local in
charge of the small church. It meant he wouldn’t attract as much attention from
the Muslims, and to their credit, they had left him alone so far. His small
church was thriving, the decrepit state it had been in nothing like the renewed
condition it now stood. Volunteers from the congregation had undertook repairs
when word had come of a new priest arriving after so many years of there being
none. The poor faithful had been forced to conduct their own services, and
without an actual priest, baptisms, marriages and confessions had either been
ignored, or were undertaken with great inconvenience through travel to another
town.

Father
Solomon had been embraced by a weary community, and it didn’t take long for him
to fall in love with his flock, and realize the infinite wisdom that was God.
Returning him home had been the wisest decision not only for him, but for the
parish he now ran, and helping these people allowed him to finally begin the
process of healing himself.

But as
the pounding and cries continued to urge him toward the doors, he wondered what
calamity might be befalling the small community tonight? He removed the bar
holding the doors shut, then pushed them open to find Abrihet, one of his most
faithful, crying hysterically.

“Oh
Father, you must help me!” she cried, falling into his arms as her strength
gave out. He helped her inside, placing her on one of the pews, then closed the
doors, noting many of the nearby houses already taking notice of the commotion,
their front doors occupied with curious onlookers.

Placing
the bar back across the door, he returned to Abrihet who stared at him
wide-eyed, flushed, her eyes red from tears. He sat beside her and took both
her hands in his.

“What is
it, my child?”

“M-my
father,” she stammered, her chin dropping into her chest as her shoulders
heaved. “My father, he—”

She
stopped, stuck on the words, her gasping breaths coming faster now.

“Shhh,”
he soothed, knowing already what might be wrong, the mere mention of her father
enough. He had heard the stories of his wicked temper, a temper he had
apparently taken out on his wife on numerous occasions, and his fellow
villagers from time to time. “What has your father done this time?” He asked
the question as gently as he could, knowing Abrihet loved her father deeply and
was known to fly to his defense whenever someone spoke poorly of him behind his
back.

Her
own temper will be her undoing.

“He
killed Uncle Hamid!”

It was
Father Solomon’s turn to be shocked, his mouth falling open. “Are you sure?”

She
nodded emphatically. “He was covered in blood, and he told me he did it.”

“But
why?” Father Solomon pulled at his thinning hair. “They were best friends.
Since they were children!”

“He
found gold!”

Father
Solomon’s eyebrows climbed his forehead as the words sank in. “Gold?”

Abrihet
nodded, her tears starting to subside as she finally was able to articulate her
feelings to someone. “Bars, about this big,” she said, illustrating with her
hands what she had apparently seen. “Lots of them.”

“Where
did he find them?”

“In some
old boat.”

Knocking
at the door interrupted them. It was gentle but insistent, and Father Solomon
approached the door cautiously, knowing full-well that Hamid was Muslim, and Birhan
was Christian. The marriage between Birhan and Hamid’s sister had been
controversial at the time, but allowed merely because the dowry in question was
so low, the Muslims satisfied that none of their men would have taken it, and
among the Christians, they could care less, many simply happy that Birhan had
found a mate.

But now?
With a Christian murdering a Muslim?

We
could have a bloodbath on our hands!

“Who is
it?”

“It’s
me, Father, David!”

Father
Solomon breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized the voice of his altar boy,
David. He removed the bar and opened the door slightly, letting the young man
inside, then before closing it up again, taking a look.

A small
crowd had gathered.

“What
has happened?” asked David, his voice a whisper. “There is talk in the village
that Birhan killed someone?”

Father
Solomon barred the door once more, nodding. “It appears he killed Hamid.”

David’s
hands clasped at the cross around his neck. “It can’t be!”

“I’m
afraid so. Apparently it was over some gold that Birhan found.”

“Gold?”
David’s eyes widened with a look Father Solomon recognized too well.

“A lot
of it apparently.” He motioned to Abrihet. “Watch her for a minute, I need to
go to my office.”

David
nodded and sat beside the still sniffling young woman, a woman who was almost
ten years older than the boy now expected to provide comfort, but there was no
choice. He rushed to his rectory and sat at the desk, grabbing a pen and pad of
paper, quickly writing out the situation and requesting instructions from the
Vatican. If there was a significant stash of gold nearby, it could cause the
entire village to disrupt into violence that could spread across the entire
area. He needed the local authorities—which meant all the way from the capital
as there were none that could be trusted here—to be dispatched with the full
understanding that the Vatican knew what was happening. If the Eritrean
authorities were to arrive with no external oversight, all of their lives might
be forfeit.

BOOK: Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9)
2.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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