Pompeii: City on Fire (12 page)

"What shall we do?" Remus stood behind him, ready to help.

The orange and black flames and the thick smoke obscured Cato's view of the entire vineyard. He ran the length of the rows, assessing the damage, desperation and grief building.

Of the eighty rows, nearly half burned. But the fires had begun at the head of the vineyard, and had not yet spread the length of each row. Vines still clung to their trellises at the ends of rows, with the peaceful mountain looking on.

"Bring water!"

Remus looked confused. He knew there was no way they could douse the widespread flames.

"We will make a break in the rows!"

Remus nodded at that and grabbed the two-handled cart they used for bringing water from the nearest fountain. He disappeared through the gate.

Cato's nostrils burned with the heat and stench, but he snatched up a hoe used for aerating the soil and plunged between two burning rows. He ran to the last vine that burned and hacked at the disintegrating trellis, breaking its connection with the one beside. The heat was near to melting his face, but anger spurred him on, and he used the long tool to pull the burning vines away from those that still lived.

Breathless and sweating, he finished with one plant and turned to the row behind him to repeat the attack. He felt the fire singe the hair on his arms, but tore the two plants apart, then ran through the gap to attend to the next row.

Remus appeared, trundling his cart full of water pots down the first row. Isabella was with him. "There!" Cato directed with a shout and raised hand. "Soak the ground in the gap. Soak the live plants."

Remus obeyed at once, with Isabella assisting.

"It is not safe for you here, sister. Go home!" He spent only a moment seeing that Isabella, of course, ignored him. He turned back to his task. Remus would follow with the water as long as it held.

Sometime later, after Remus had disappeared to retrieve more water and returned to soak more plants, Cato reached the last burning row, hacked a break between the vines, helped Remus and Isabella pour the last of the water, and then collapsed to the grass to watch vines at the head of the rows burn themselves out. The fiery orange turned to red embers, glowing like rows of evil eyes staring at him.

My vineyard.

His eyes burned with more than the smoke and heat. He swiped at his cheeks, streaking black soot from his hands across his face.

Isabella lay against him, crying. "I am so sorry, Quintus. So sorry."

His own grief burrowed deep into his heart. The lifeblood seemed to drain out of him, into the field. It had been his dream to make a success of the wine-making business here. Now what would become of his dream?

"There are still many vines left." Remus sat with his hands stretched out behind him, as though he might fall over with fatigue. "You still have more than half the crop, I believe."

Cato inhaled and nodded. "We will make the best of it, then. As we always do."

Isabella clutched his hand and he returned the pressure.

"Come." He pulled his sister to standing, and Remus followed. "Let us get clean. Mother will be anxious to hear news."

They trudged back through the city, and Cato was heedless of any stares that might have greeted his appearance. His mind was full of the ruined vines, the ruined dreams.

He took himself to the Forum Baths, and let the soot and sweat soak from his body in the
tepidarium.
A slave assisted by scraping his skin with a strigil, until all traces of the afternoon's disaster had been removed. Despite the heat, Cato felt numb.

At home, he found his midday meal laid out in the courtyard, and he ate in silence, alone.

Octavia appeared, and came to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders. He sighed, and patted her hand with his own.

"The games are to begin soon." Her voice was low, sympathetic. Like the mother of a boy who'd lost his favorite pet. "Will you go?"

He nodded, swallowed the last of his wine, and wiped his mouth. "I will go."

In truth, he had lost his excitement for the games altogether, and not only because of the fire. A fear of seeing Ariella at the edge of a sword lay like a stone in his belly.

THEY WENT TOGETHER, OCTAVIA, Isabella, and Cato. For all her protestations about the games, Octavia chose not to miss them, either. Cato held his tongue. He was not in the mood for teasing today. They joined the steady stream of townspeople heading east. The arena had been built to contain the whole city, and it would seem that today it would. Only slaves remained in the city's homes, protecting their valuables.

He refused to even look at the vineyard as they passed it on their left, approaching the arena. The dark stone of the circular structure rose out of the field at the end of the city like a walled city. Huge arches allowed access into the lower level from various points around the arena, and outside stairs led to the tiered seating. The press of the crowd threatened to separate him from the women, and he threaded his arms through each of theirs. The contact comforted him somehow.

Thousands of tickets had been on sale for days, with others thrown to the poor by Maius's men. Those not fortunate enough to secure a ticket had lined up before the various entrances hours ago, hoping to find standing room. They had brought their food with them, and were being entertained by dancers, musicians, and acrobats who hoped for one or two tossed copper coins.

Cato and the women emerged into the seating to the beat of drums and were shown to their seats by the
locarii
hired to usher. They were among the last ticket holders to arrive, for minutes later the soldiers guarding the entrances stepped aside and the crowds held at bay flooded into the arena, in a rush for the standing room in the top tier, where sailors manned the rigging for the arena's awning.

Isabella covered her ears to block the frenzied screams of the peasantry, as women were knocked aside and children trampled in the passageways that led upward.

Hawkers selling programs for betting, chilled drinks, and cushions for the hard marble forced their way through jammed aisles.

Cato took it all in, from the teeming crowd shouting odds and placing bets, to the background noise of howling wolves and trumpeting elephants from the cages beneath the arena.

The national institution of the games employed millions of people across the Empire, from animal trappers and breeders, to gladiators and trainers, and the entire supply chain that kept the men and beasts flowing into the arena. And in a sense, the games occupied them all, a narcotic that soothed and distracted a people whose slaves and plebeians did the work of the Empire, leaving them free to pursue nothing but leisure. And it kept them out of the affairs of government.

From outside the arena, the sound of drumbeats brought on a mighty cheer from the spectators. The procession approached. Cato forgot his vineyard and craned his neck toward the arched entrance, the Gate of Life. Slaves in golden armor led the procession, blowing on long trumpets, and a chariot came behind, carrying Maius and pulled by black- and white-striped tiger horses.

A group of supporters in white togas surrounded Maius's chariot, holding up placards declaring his candidacy for duovir, as if anyone did not know who sponsored the games and why.

Cato sneered at the display, but soon forgot even Maius at the sight of the floats—a long series of wheeled platforms with young men and girls posing to reenact stories of the gods.

The crowd settled and quieted as Maius reached his place of honor and stood to speak. His voice was as big as his body and it carried across the stone ring of tiered seats to every hushed spectator.

"It is my pleasure to present these many hours of entertainment for my fine citizens today." Maius's voice carried across the seating that rose around him. "Remember that is Gnaeus Nigidius Maius who cares enough about the people to bring the hunt, as well as the gladiators!"

The crowd erupted in cheers for the diversions to come. There were some other political and civil announcements, and then the entertainment began with lesser attractions, namely a few public executions of some criminals.

Cato had been anticipating this day for a week, and he fought to forget the vineyard for now, but the thoughts intruded and he ignored the condemned as they were brought out to the wood set for their fires. Someone shouted their offenses, impiety and treason, but Cato cared little for any of it.

It was only when he heard the word
Christian
added to their list of crimes that he straightened and peered into the sand below. Beside him, he felt his mother's tension.

The accused were not the crime-hardened string of scruffy men he had expected. Instead, a man and woman emerged from the corridors below the arena, hand in hand. Several more, including a few women, followed. Octavia clutched his hand.

In Rome, it had been fifteen years since charges of arson were brought against Christians, in Emperor Nero's rampage across Rome. The intervening years had brought spotty accusations, intermittent executions. But the sect grew and thrived in secret. And his uncle Servius, his mother's brother, was one of them.

Octavia turned wide eyes on him. "They are executing them?"

"Perhaps it is only here in the south, Mother. Perhaps they are not yet as tolerant as those in Rome. Your brother is wise. He will not bring danger upon himself."

She nodded quickly, as though willing herself to believe Cato's words.

He wanted to search for the man he had seen in the Forum yesterday, but it was difficult to watch. Though the crowd seemed to enjoy the reinforcement of governmental authority, Cato could see only his uncle's kind face among the flames. They did not resist. They did not cry out. They perished with a dignity befitting nobility. No emperor would have died so well.

Cato's heart troubled him. They were justly accused of their crimes, true, but had a great evil been done here tonight? The flames consumed their bodies, like his grapes burning. Fire purged and purified. Did it do so in his vineyard? Did it do so here today? He had always cherished a curiosity about his uncle's secret religion, meeting behind closed doors and partaking of mysterious rituals. But he had chosen to pursue a more standard version of religion, seeking favor of the gods on behalf of his family.

There were more executions, and if the crimes of thievery and murder were ordinary, the execution methods were not. Men were bound to rotting corpses and dragged around the ring. Women tied naked to rampaging bulls.

Cato had to look away.
What is happening to me?
He had never been bothered by the arena. The faces that had become known to him, his uncle Servius and the disguised Ari, were ruining his enjoyment. And beneath that realization, he felt . . . tarnished somehow. There was something so—
so enslaved
—about all of it—the people's obsessions with death and sex—it reminded him of the madman in the Forum.

Soon enough, prisoners lay mangled in the sand, flames burned out, and a flood of slaves poured from the corridors to clear away the debris. The crowd began to hum with anticipation of what would come next.

It would be the hunt. He would not see Ariella for some time. Hopefully not in the sand at all. To see her fall today as well would be too much to bear.

The hunt began with the release of a dozen tigers, imported from the dark lands below Egypt, no doubt. They slunk out of opposite iron grills below the seating level, heads low and backs arched as they circled each other. The crowd shouted as one, and the noise confused the animals and set them running across the sand. Those in charge of this first act would let them play it out until each tiger fed on another. Then the hunters would charge.

Cato watched the tigers, mentally cataloguing strength and tenacity, betting himself which one would be the victor in each altercation. Focused on the animals, he did not see Maius approach until his mother elbowed him and cocked her head.

Accompanying Maius was one Cato never would have expected.

Portia.

CHAPTER 13

His sister's face was drawn, her lips tight.

Cato stood and moved into the aisle. "Portia." He indicated his own seat.

"You shall not have the pleasure tonight, Cato." Maius put an arm around Portia's waist. "Your sister is my guest for the evening, I'm afraid."

Cato flicked a glance at Portia. She shook her head so slightly he nearly missed it. "Then you are more fortunate than you deserve, Maius. And where is my sister's husband?"

Portia cleared her throat. "He is ill at home."

Maius smiled. "Nothing serious, she assures me. But his illness is my good fortune, I suppose."

Cato's vision went dark for a moment and his gut clenched. "Let us hope the situation reverses itself soon."

A city council member approached from a lower tier and begged a moment of Maius's time. The duovir nodded to Cato and Portia. "If you will pardon me, I shall return shortly." He pulled the council member down a few steps to continue their conversation.

Cato grabbed his sister's arm. "What is going on? Why are you with him?"

Octavia joined them, waiting for Portia's answer.

She inhaled and glanced at Maius. "He—he has been pursuing me."

"You have said nothing!"

"I thought I could rid myself of him. I did not want you to get involved in a personal clash with him."

Cato nodded. Portia had other, more public, plans for him. "And Lucius's illness?"

"It is as Maius says. Not serious. But Maius made it clear that there would consequences if I did not accompany him tonight. I dared not refuse." She put a hand on Cato's arm. "Please, do not tell Lucius. I fear for him."

Maius moved upward again. "Come, dear. The hunters will be out soon. Let us return to our seats." He held out a hand and his lustful expression nearly brought Cato down on him.

Portia turned her stricken face to Cato, her eyes pleading for his inaction, then reached out to clasp Maius's hand and descended the steps.

Octavia seethed, and Cato could feel the heat. "That man." She spoke through clenched teeth and her voice was like the growl of a mother bear protecting its cub.