Curses and Smoke (4 page)

T
he next time I visit Cornelia
, Lucia thought as a rivulet of sweat snaked down her back,
I absolutely
must
leave earlier in the day
. Like clay in baking ovens, the paving stones in Pompeii’s streets absorbed the sun’s heat and threw it back in people’s faces. But while the weather normally cooled off in September, it still felt like high summer — almost as if the ground itself was generating heat.
Just one more thing to add to my list of strange happenings in Pompeii
.

“Would you like a drink,
Domina
?” asked the barefoot little slave boy scampering after her and her attendant, holding a skin filled with watered wine.

“I am not thirsty yet, Castor,” she said.

“Well, when you do get thirsty, I will be right here!”

She smiled at the child, who grinned up at her with pride. How old was he — five? Six? The wineskin was almost the size of his head. The poor little slave was the only child in the household. She’d had Tages to play with when she was that young, but Castor had no one. If any of her mother’s babies had survived, she was sure Castor would be running through the woods with them, just as she used to with Tag.

Occasionally, she watched Tag from the balcony as he made his rounds of the gladiators, fascinated by the changes time had wrought. The funny, mischievous little boy she remembered had disappeared, though sometimes she caught glimpses of him when he laughed at some joke a gladiator threw his way. Still, for the most part he seemed to be always scowling. Which — remembering the whip marks on his back — she supposed made sense. She hoped she would run into him in their hideout again sometime soon.

At Cornelia’s villa, Lucia left her slaves outside the kitchens to rest and headed toward the private baths. Her friend had done well for herself in marriage: Her husband was only ten years older and was sweetly devoted to her. Lucia would not be fighting her father’s plan for marriage so tirelessly if he could find someone like Antyllus for her.

When Lucia entered the baths, she saw Cornelia already seated in the water. “What, you couldn’t wait for me?” she teased.

“No, I couldn’t,” Cornelia answered, her arms waving underwater like pale fins. A young female bath slave scurried over to help Lucia with her clothes. “I trusted you’d understand.”

Lucia took a deep breath of the warm, moist, scented air. Another young female slave rushed to her side, carrying a tray with an array of tiny, glinting blue, clear, and green glass flasks. “Saffron oil today,
Domina
?” the girl asked. “Or perhaps essence of rose?”

Lucia pointed to her favorite — yellow citron oil gleaming in a clear vial. While the slave oiled her body in preparation for scraping with the strigil, she watched Cornelia in the bath. Gods, pregnancy suited her! She looked so happy, even with her belly poking through the water like an island emerging from the sea.

“Stop staring at my monstrous belly,” Cornelia complained with fake petulance.

“It’s not monstrous, it’s beautiful!”

“Then why are you doing everything in your power to avoid getting into my condition?” Cornelia laughed. “You are sixteen, not six.”

“If you met my betrothed, you would understand.”

Cornelia rolled her eyes. When Lucia had been properly scraped, she descended into the water. “Oh, it is not as cool as it looks,” she mumbled.

“I know. I’d much prefer it if we could move into the frigidarium, but Antyllus wants me to avoid extreme temperatures, even though the midwife says it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“And you don’t dare disobey your lord and master,” Lucia said with a sly grin.

Cornelia splashed her. “That’s right, I don’t. Because he makes me swoon.”

Lucia laughed. “
Swoon?
That’s a new one.”

Her friend sighed. “Just you wait. One day, you will fall in love —”

“Or lust.”

“— and you will see. It’s not that I have to do what he tells me, it’s that I
want
to.”

“Oh, Venus protect me,” Lucia muttered.

Cornelia snorted. “She’s the last one to ask. You’d best turn to Diana if you’re determined to stay a virgin your whole life.”

“I don’t want to be a virgin my whole life. I just don’t want to marry a man who needs a cane to get around! Or whose nose-hairs are bushier than his eyebrows!”

Cornelia laughed. “Oh, do stop about the poor man’s nose-hairs. He can’t help it!”

“Yes, he can! Plus, he probably hasn’t smiled in decades. I bet if he
tried
to smile, pieces of his skin would flake off like old frescoes in an earthquake.” She shivered. “At least your husband is kind and gentle and handsome. Did I mention how noble and wonderful he is?”

“Yes, you did, but I don’t mind hearing it again. I am very fortunate,” Cornelia said, touching her thumb to her forefinger and pressing the hand between her breasts for protection against the evil eye. “May the gods keep us so.” Cornelia’s eyes widened. “Oh!” Her hand flew to her belly. “Come here and feel this!”

Lucia swam closer as Cornelia retreated to the top step of the pool. Her belly rested on her thighs like an egg in a nest. She looked so insanely hopeful and happy, so young and beautiful, Lucia found that she could not stare into her friend’s face without her throat constricting.

She dived under the water and emerged at eye level with her friend’s belly. Cornelia leaned back, murmuring something to the bath slave, and Lucia saw her friend’s stomach ripple — it actually
moved
— as the child shifted positions, like a small creature undulating under the skin of the sea. Had that been an elbow? Or a foot? It took Lucia’s breath away.

Cornelia saw her expression of wonder and grinned, rubbing her belly.

“The … the child moved! I
saw
it!” Lucia exclaimed. At what point did infants in the womb begin doing that? she wondered. Was it truly independent, or did the mother’s mood or thoughts drive the movement? Did little chicks flutter and kick inside eggs too? What
animated
life like that? Lucia wished she had her wax tablet to write down her questions.

Cornelia smiled. “Hecate is bringing us chilled wine,” she said. “And now tell me what you need — you said you had a favor to ask.”

Lucia lifted herself out of the water and sat at the edge of the pool next to her friend. “Oh, no, you don’t.” Cornelia laughed as she playfully pushed her back into the water. “I do not need to see your ridiculously tiny and beautiful body next to mine. Forget it.”

Lucia shook her head, but stayed in the water anyway. “Well, I was wondering if you could arrange a meal with Pliny.”

Cornelia’s mouth dropped open. “The admiral? Why?”

“Well, as Antyllus’s patron, it would not be so odd to have him visit, would it? And if I just ‘happened’ to be here, I could discuss my natural observations with him —”

“Oh, not this again!”

“Something strange is afoot in Pompeii,” insisted Lucia. “And I think Pliny would have an idea about what it may all mean. I have been formulating some theories that he might find interesting.”

Cornelia rubbed at the spot between her eyebrows. “Lucia, if you tried to share any of your ‘theories’ with the admiral, he would look at you as if you were a monkey that suddenly started reciting the
Iliad
!”

“Cornelia, that is not true. The upper classes educate women. I bet his sister Plinia joins him in conversation all the time. I don’t think he will find it that odd.”

Her friend scooped water with her palms and dribbled it over her belly. “I don’t think I can do it, Lucia. I really don’t.”

“It’s just that …” Lucia paused and took a breath. “I leave for Rome soon. My wedding is the day after Meditrinalia! It’s only weeks away. While you’re enjoying the tasting of the first wines, I’ll be facing the worst day of my life. I may never have another opportunity to meet the admiral.”

Cornelia’s expression sobered. “It’s definite, then. You will move to Rome. For good?”

Lucia nodded. “Yes, you knew that.”

“I … I just had not thought about it actually occurring.”

“In truth, I don’t know what upsets me more — marrying a man older than my grandfather would have been, or moving away from Pompeii. I won’t be able to see you anytime I want. I won’t be here when the baby comes….”

“Gods,” Cornelia said, her eyes growing wide. “I don’t want you to move away.”

“Well, you know
I
don’t.”

“We should be working on a plan to break this betrothal rather than planning a dinner with the admiral,” Cornelia cried.

“Trust me, I’ve tried everything. I even attempted to get our healer to tell Father that I was barren, but Damocles refused to do it. There’s no way around the marriage. But if I met Pliny, it would be like a dream come true — a memory I can cheer myself with when I am lonely in Rome.”

Cornelia sighed. “I will talk to Antyllus.”

Lucia grabbed her friend’s hand. “Thank you, Cornelia. You are wonderful.”

“No promises. But, you know, if we are able to arrange it, you must look … well, more polished in his presence.”

“Will you help me?”

Cornelia’s face lit up. She’d forever been trying to get Lucia to wear her hair in the more elegant and modern upswept styles, rather than in a plain braided knot at her nape and to dress in the fashionable colors and fabrics that could show off a woman’s body without seeming vulgar or obvious. “Of course!”

“But only if you can get the dinner with Pliny, yes?”

Cornelia splashed her.

*  *  *

Lucia’s leather sandals echoed through the hall as she walked to the triclinium. Who had her father invited to dine with them this time? Flames from the wall sconces flickered against the fading red-and-black frescoes on the walls of the small dining room.

“Ah, daughter, come meet our guest,” Lucius Titurius said from his dining couch. “Quintus will be staying here with us for a few months.”

The young man stood to greet her. “Ah, what a lovely vision of rustic beauty!” he said, bowing his head slightly.

Rustic? Was that an insult or a compliment?

“I am Quintus Rutilius Bucco,” the man continued, his dark eyes shining. He was slender, with thick brows over a straight nose, and his carefully curled hair smelled of expensive lotus oil. His thin lips stretched into a haughty smile. “My father owns the largest villa in Herculaneum.”

“Oh.” What was she supposed to say to
that
? She smiled. “Welcome to our home. May I ask what brings you to Pompeii?”

“The opportunity to train like the brutes your father owns,” he said pleasantly. “One must be open to all kinds of experiences, I say!”

“So you are
training
here?” she asked, wrinkling her brow.

Her father sat up and shot her a look. “We have a special arrangement for our guest. He will be staying in the main house with us and training with our gladiators as he sees fit.”

Lucia stared at her father, trying to see if he was joking. She’d never heard of such a thing. Free citizens who wanted to train with gladiators had to sell themselves to the
ludus
and agree to be treated like slaves. She puzzled over this as Quintus resumed his position on the dining couch of honor. She caught him staring at her legs before she could cover them completely as she propped herself on the lowest-status couch.

Quintus reached for his wine goblet — her father’s best silver one again. A large emerald on the man’s forefinger caught the lamplight. The golden ring that marked him as a Roman citizen of the highest rank was so wide and thick, Lucia wondered how he could even raise his hand. Well, his wealth, at least, explained the unorthodox arrangement.

Why hadn’t her father tried to betroth her to someone like him? At least he was young and healthy. Yet something told her a patrician like Quintus would probably require her father to pay
him
great sums for the privilege of marrying a man of his station. The elderly Vitulus’s interest in her, she knew, was such that he had not only waived the requirement of a dowry from her father, but had also agreed to pour money into the school afterward. Lucia swallowed her disgust at the whole arrangement.

“Your father tells me you are betrothed to Vicious Vitulus,” Quintus said to her. “Congratulations, I suppose.”

Lucia almost choked on her wine. Carefully, she put down her goblet and cleared her throat. “You suppose? Why do you call him Vicious Vitulus?”

“Oh, that is his nickname in Rome. Did you not know?”

Lucia looked at her father, who was conveniently avoiding her eyes by contemplating a fat green olive.

“Oh, do not look so alarmed, my dear,” the man said. “He is a viciously clever politician. I’m sure that is all to which it refers.”

Quintus began asking her father about their house champion — a Germanic fighter named Sigdag. Lucia tried to drink her wine, but her throat felt tight. She had to get out of this betrothal. But how? If only her mother were still alive. Her mother would fight this arrangement. She knew she would.

Her ears perked up when the men’s conversation turned to the recent rumblings in the earth.