A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii (13 page)

Faustus jerks as if I slapped him, but he recovers quickly. “She is nothing, Lady, nothing.” He is so glib. I wish that I could slap him but that would draw unwanted attention. “She was merely a bit of fun. All men take slave girls.” It is the same thing I told myself alone in the dark last night—the same thing that nearly convinced me to pardon him. How differently I feel now. I am so angry I cannot speak, and he seems to interpret my silence as encouragement. For rather than retreating he lowers his voice and says, “You are different. I wanted to marry you. I still do.”

“But you know you cannot, and you always knew as much,” I spit the words at him. “So it was safe for you to say so—whether or not it was true. Perhaps you are merely smart enough to realize that the same words cannot be used on the daughter of a good family as are used on her property.”

“No! I swear it. Please, Amelia, I may have acted badly and forfeited your affection, but can we not be friends?”

“No. You have lost my friendship and, more important to you. I suspect, my future patronage. My husband Sabinus will want me painted.” Speaking the words Sabinus and husband together feels remarkably satisfying at this moment. “I am beautiful and worth immortalizing—you said it yourself. Sabinus will spare no expense and you can be
sure
that is a commission you will never get.” Gods, the look on his face is more gratifying than if I had slapped him.

My eye travels past Faustus to where my betrothed stands. His eyes are on me. Without another word I brush past the artist, hoping that my cheeks are not too red from castigating him, and proceed toward Sabinus. He watches me come—those gold-flecked eyes unreadable. When I am close he turns away, back toward the city we left.

“Surely you cannot see Pompeii from here?” I say, seeking to draw his attention.

“No, but I know where it lies by its relation to Vesuvius.” He points. “It should be just there.”

“What are you thinking?” I truly wish to know, how strange.

He turns to me. “That I would make you happy if I could.”

The words are not soft, not words of love. Nor are they regretful. They are plain, and matter-of-fact. Their lack of artifice is refreshing after Faustus’ smooth phrases. I notice he holds something in his hand, worries it. Can it be my little doll? Yes, it is, though I do not know how he came by it. I look away from it so as not to embarrass him and for the blink of an eye I wonder if, perhaps, Sabinus might make a good husband after all. Wonder if he might, in and of himself, bring me happiness. The blink of an eye is all that I have.

I am thrown to the ground, as I was by the tremor on the night of the fire. Thrown to a ground that is shaking wildly. And Sabinus is there with me, also knocked from his feet. He crawls toward me, and pulls me into his arms. Terrified, I clutch the front of his tunic. And still the ground shakes, as if Atlas were walking nearby, staggering under the weight of the sky. I watch with fascination and horror as fellow travelers on the nearby road fall from their mounts; as the line of umbrella pines undulates as if pushed and then released by an unseen hand; as my little doll and a scattering of rocks near us scuttle across the earth like large beetles.

“It has begun,” Sabinus says into my hair—though I have the sense he speaks to himself and not to me.

The shaking seems to last forever. When the stillness comes, it feels even more still. I know that makes no sense but it is so. Scrambling up, Sabinus pulls me to my feet. He does not notice that I bring my doll with me. His eyes fly to the horizon.

“What are you looking for?”

“Smoke.”

I tuck the doll into my pouch and glance across to where the wagons stand. Mother rocks with her arms about herself, wailing. Sabinus’ grandmother has a hand on Mother’s shoulder. One of the mules is down, and making a horrible noise. Slaves are howling. But from this distance, all the activity feels like a play acted for us in Pompeii’s small theater. Father strides toward us.

“You were right, Sabinus! Right!” he exclaims. “Are you all right?”

I nod my head dumbly, aware that my hand remains in Sabinus’.

“Yes,” he says, looking at Father for the first time.

If Sabinus is all right, why is his voice anguished?

“But they are not.” He points back toward Vesuvius, toward Pompeii. Serpents of black smoke curl into the blue sky. “Just like after Nero’s quake, the city burns.”

Father puts a hand on Sabinus’ shoulder, “And thanks to you, my friend, we are not there to see it or to suffer from it. Come man, you have saved us. Surely that is an achievement worth a smile. A smile and a wedding. Even with so many fellow travelers, we must be in Nuceria long before dark. You can still be married tonight.”

This no longer seems like a fearful pronouncement.

As if finally aware that he holds it, Sabinus lets go of my hand. He looks from Father to me. I let his eyes hold mine without being uncomfortable. It is he who looks away, back to the west. He swallows visibly. “Another day. I must go back.”

“What?” Father’s voice brims with disbelief.

“Lepidus, I must go back. It is not enough to be right. I thought it would be, thought that this morning when I came to your villa to beg you to flee. I believed that getting you, my good friend, and your family out of Pluto’s grasp was all that mattered.” I shudder at the mention of Pluto’s name, and Sabinus looks at me again. “And it
does
matter. It matters the most. Please believe that. But I have another duty—”

“To whom?”

“To Pompeii itself. To the people there who, I fear, will be failed by men like Pansa.”

“They elected Pansa, not you.” Father shakes his head and throws up his hands.

“But I can still serve them.”

Father stares at Sabinus and then he nods.

This time it is my turn to throw up my hands. For if Father understands, I do not.

“Gnaeus Helvius Sabinus,” I say, “it is too dangerous! What if the next tremor brings a wall down on your head? Or you are trampled trying to get back into a city that everyone else rushes to leave?”

I do not mean it to be funny, but Sabinus smiles.

“To be felt this far from the city, that last tremor was enormous. It was not a warning, it was the quake. Surely then the worst is over. There will be no heroics for me, Aemilia, only the dirty job of helping to clean up: the examination of walls, the assessing of water systems and streets—all tasks fitted to a man who loves architecture, mathematics, and engineering.”

I believe Sabinus is wrong. Perhaps not about the worst being over—that is something he would know better than I—but about himself. Standing, shoulders squared, his golden-brown eyes focused and resolute, he has the bearing of a hero. Or at least of a very good man determined to fulfill the demands of his conscience. Sabinus’ determination cannot make him younger or more handsome, but it does make him more appealing. More appealing than the striking but insubstantial artist I wasted months being infatuated with. More appealing than I ever thought to find him.

SABINUS

HE took his leave of his grandmother first. As she provided him with a list of friends to check on, Sabinus’ eyes strayed west. Columns of smoke hung over where Pompeii must stand.
How much was still standing?
Mentally he added names to his grandmother’s list. He had promised Capella he would keep an eye out for her. And he would—even if he had to go the temple of Isis to find her. And he would check on Aemilia’s friend Julilla and Aemilia’s nurse. His bride was worried about both.
She was worried about me too
, he thought.
About my safety. Worried that a wall will fall on my head.
The thought made him warm inside—not a wall falling, but that Amelia cared whether or not it did.

And yet, he had seen her with Faustus just a short while before the earthquake. Seen them talking and observed the flush in her cheeks. An idea came to him. Why not? He meant to come back and claim her; meant to exasperate her into throwing up her hands again in that captivating manner. He meant to take her in his arms for purposes other than throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her out of a house or holding her safe while the world shook around them. But if he didn’t come back …

I would make you happy if I could
, he had told her. Was it a lie? He hoped not. He would prove to himself that it wasn’t.

Lepidus approached with a bundle, Aemilia at his side. “I’ve had the slaves pack some provisions,” his friend said. “If you find the city in ruins, you will be glad not to need to forage for food. Come to us at my brother’s as soon as you can.”

“I will. I swear it. And I would ask an oath from you in return.”

His friend looked at him searchingly.

“You know the terms of my will. If I do not return, I ask you to promise that all I have bequeathed to you will become Aemilia’s dowry—and that she be permitted to choose her husband herself.” It was not until he finished speaking that Sabinus had the courage to look at his intended. Her eyes were wide—nearly as wide as they had been when the earth was shaking.

“You have my oath,” Lepidus said, “pray gods it will prove unnecessary.” Sabinus clasped his friend’s arm and turned toward his horse. He had only gone a few steps when he felt a gentle touch from behind. Aemilia was there, her eyes now wet instead of wide. She said nothing, only rose on the balls of her feet and bestowed a swift, soft kiss upon his lips. Still silent, she watched him climb into his saddle. He drew the keys to the doors of his home from his pouch, the ones he would have given her this evening when she arrived there as his wife for the first time. He thanked the gods for whatever impulse had driven him to snatch them up. “These are yours,” he said, bending down and handing them to her. “A symbol of my promise.”

“Your promise to find us in Nuceria,” she said, staring at him, hard.

“Of both my promises then.”

“And this is yours.” Reaching up, she presented him with the little doll. “To let you know I will be waiting for you. And that when you come back, I will not hide her, but will gladly burn her on the morning of our wedding.”

Her pledge felt pregnant with a promise of good things to come. It gave him an urge to reconsider his course of action—a strong urge. But he knew his hesitation was pure selfishness and that if he stayed with her now, he would never feel worthy of her. Without embarrassment, he pressed her doll to his lips before tucking it into his pouch. Then he smiled.
A starry-eyed, romantic fool, indeed.
And clicking his tongue, he put his animal in motion.

“I will pray to Vulcan for your safety,” she called after him. “And watch over you myself until you are out of sight.” As he began to thread his way through the throng on the road he looked over his shoulder. She was watching, just as she had said she would be. Sabinus could have sworn he felt her eyes upon him long after her figure was lost to his backward glances.

AEMILIA

I did not choose to be born in fire. No one chooses the manner of their birth, I suppose, and women have precious little choice about anything after they draw that first breath. Fifteen years ago, the Fates decreed I be born a girl, slippery and willful, as my family fled Rome in fire and blood.

Being reborn is a different matter. As I felt my city quake from a distance today, and watched tendrils of smoke rise from her, I elected to be reborn a woman. Reborn not in the act of putting on a wedding veil, or consigning my childhood treasures to the flames, but by choice—a choice given me by the grace of a man's understanding, and by the actions I will take hereafter in response to his act of faith.

As my eyes strain to follow his shrinking figure, I pray that the gods will keep him safe. Pray that he may enter a city on fire and come back to me. For now that I understand myself and have more sway over my future than most, male or female, can even imagine, I find that I would rather have him than the power to choose any other.

PART THREE

THE SOLDIER

Ben Kane

“A black and dreadful cloud bursting out in gusts of igneous serpentine vapor.”

—Pliny the Younger