The Gate of Fire (93 page)

A cluster of bodies appeared at the side of the road, scattered like fallen logs at the entrance to an estate. All that remained were lumps on the ground, covered with ash, and a burned and twisted hand reaching for the sky. It seemed that they had sought shelter in the arch of the gateway to the villa, though against the firestorm that had swept over them, it had been no protection at all. The Duchess had seen hundreds of these pitiful scenes. Farther from the mountain, there had been whole villages of the dead, only lightly touched by fire. From what she could see, there had been some poison in the air that followed the burning. It seeped into cellars and basements, killing those who had taken shelter there. Nothing was spared, not the birds in the trees or the snakes in the brush beside the road.

The search party clopped into a crossroads town. The buildings were gutted, ripped by fire and buried in drifts of ash. The roof of one building—a public stable by the look—had been smashed in. Anastasia had seen that before too, though it was becoming more common the farther south they went. Great burning stones had been flung from the mountain and had fallen far afield. Two days before she had read a dispatch from the commander of the Imperial fleet base at Misenum. It had been the first report to reach Rome.

In an unsteady hand, on parchment that still reeked of sulfur, the tribune had written:

...the cloud was rising from a mountain—at such a distance and in the darkness we couldn't tell which, but afterward learned that it was Vesuvius. I can best describe its shape by likening it to a pine tree. It rose into the sky on a very long "trunk" from which spread some "branches." I imagine it had been raised by a sudden blast, which then weakened, leaving the cloud unsupported so that its own weight caused it to spread sideways. Some of the cloud was glowing like an ember in a fire, in other parts there was only darkness.

The legate (Tacinus Marcus Liva) ordered a boat made ready to investigate. I heard that a cousin of his lived on the slope of the mountain and he feared for her safety. He launched the
quadriremes
and embarked himself, a source of aid for more people than just Rectina (the cousin), for that delightful shore was a populous one. He hurried to a place from which others were fleeing, and held his course directly into danger. Was he afraid? It seems not, as he kept up a continuous observation of the various movements and shapes of that evil cloud, dictating what he saw.

Ash was falling onto the ships now, darker and denser the closer they went. Now it was bits of pumice, and rocks that were blackened and burned and shattered by the fire. Now the sea is shoal; debris from the mountain blocks the shore. He paused for a moment wondering whether to turn back as the helmsman urged him. "Fortune helps the brave," he said, "Head for Stabiae. There is a squadron there, under the command of Pomponianus."

At Stabiae, on the other side of the bay formed by the gradually curving shore, Pomponianus had loaded up his ships even before the danger arrived, though the burning cloud was visible and indeed extremely close, once it intensified. He had planned to put out as soon as the contrary wind let up. That very wind carried the legate right in, and he embraced the frightened man and gave him comfort and courage. Meanwhile, broad sheets of flame were lighting up many parts of Vesuvius; their light and brightness were the more vivid for the darkness of the night. To alleviate people's fears the legate claimed that the flames came from the deserted homes of farmers who had left in a panic with the hearth fires still alight.

The streets (of Stabiae) rose so high with the mixture of ash and stones that if they had spent anymore time there escape would have been impossible. The buildings were being rocked by a series of strong tremors, and appeared to have come loose from their foundations and to be sliding this way and that. Outside, however, there was danger from the rocks that were coming down, light and fire consumed as these bits of pumice were. Weighing the relative dangers they chose the outdoors; in the legate's case it was a rational decision; others just chose the alternative that frightened them the least.

They tied pillows on top of their heads as protection against the shower of rock. It was daylight now elsewhere in the world, but there the darkness was darker and thicker than any night. But they had torches and other lights. They decided to go down to the shore, to see from close up if anything was possible by sea. But it remained as rough and uncooperative as before. Resting in the shade of a sail the legate drank once or twice from the cold water he had asked for. Then came a smell of sulfur, announcing the flames, and the flames themselves, sending others into flight but reviving him. Supported by two small slaves he stood up, and immediately collapsed. As I understand it, his breathing was obstructed by the dust-laden air, and his innards, which were never strong and often blocked or upset, simply shut down. When daylight came again two days after he died, his body was found untouched, unharmed, in the clothing that he had had on. He looked more asleep than dead.

So Anastasia had found things on the broad plain north of the mountain as well. The citizens and their slaves had fled the eruption and the earthquakes in droves, but the stifling air had overwhelmed them. The dark sky had settled over Rome as well, plunging the capital into constant night. There had been panic and fire—it had taken an hour or so before the skyline of the city had been lit by burning tenements. Galen had taken serious and immediate steps, however, summoning the Second Augustan Legion into the city to assist the
vigiles
and
aediles
in fighting the fires and maintaining order.

The Duchess had hurried home from Palatine, her heart sick with dread. When word had come that it was Vesuvius that had erupted and that all the lands around that southern mountain were devastated, she had commandeered a troop of cavalry and set off.

She knew, in her heart, that all of the men and women she had sent south were dead. Her only hope, in all this ruin, was that the Prince had died as well. Her heart became numb at the thought and she pushed bleak visions away.

They rode on, out of the village and into a zone of complete destruction at the base of the mountain itself. Vesuvius rose up, its once-smooth sides ripped by long crevices and chasms. The summit, which had tapered to a smooth cone, was now jagged and canted at an angle. A good third of the mountaintop had simply vanished. Anastasia reined her mare to the side of the road. The way was blocked by a drift of large black boulders. The ground still steamed and smoked and the layer of ash was at least a foot deep on the surface of the highway. In the ditches on either side, it was far deeper. She looked up, her exhausted eyes following the line of the summit.

Foul black smoke still belched from the mountain, pluming into the sky. They were now so close that it seemed like late twilight, though far above the murk, the sun rode high in the sky. The Duchess wondered how long the pall would last—days? Months? Galen had already issued a series of edicts placing all grain production in the Western Empire under direct Imperial control. Thousands of acres of agricultural land in Latium had already been destroyed and the price of bread would skyrocket as soon as the grain factors recovered from the shock of the event.

The centurion in command of the detachment of
equites
rode up, his narrow face pale with ash and dust.

"My lady, it would be dangerous to proceed farther. Do you feel the heat in the ground and the thickness of the air? Dangerous vapors have been released from the underworld—we may well find ourselves in Charon's boat if we continue."

Anastasia would have laughed at the allusion on another day, but here, under the black slope of the volcano, it seemed all too appropriate. She nodded wearily and turned her horse around. They had seen nothing but corpses once they had entered the gray land. It seemed passing unlikely that they would find anyone alive. The toll of riding lay heavy on her as well. She had not been on a horse for a lengthy period in years. The pain would be with her for weeks.

They rode back north, following the highway. A wind rose, coming cold out of the east, driving grit and ash into their faces. Anastasia bundled up tighter, feeling chilled to the bone. The horses hung their heads low, fighting through the gray haze.

It was a long way back to Rome.

Rufio had served the Emperor of the East for his entire adult life; first as a soldier in the personal army of the Emperor's father, the
Exarch
of Africa, then, after Constantinople had been taken and usurper Phocas hacked to bits at the command of the new Emperor Heraclius, in the revitalized Imperial Army. His service during the disaster of the war against the Avars had led him into the service of the Emperor. During all that time, he had murdered men and women, stolen, lied, deceived, faked a kidnapping, misrepresented the use of public funds, forged letters, insulted holy men and priests, and consumed food left on the altars of the gods as sacrifice. Once Heraclius had turned to him, during the driving rain that accompanied their retreat from the dismal field of Adrianople, and called him the only man the Emperor truly trusted.

It had been a moment of weakness, but Rufio, in his stoic way, had let it pass.

Now the scarred, silent African had been the captain of the Faithful Guard for three years and seen all that the Empire had lost, regained. He had seen the golden-haired youth become a man and triumph over impossible odds.

It made the guards captain sick to see his master become a delusional cripple, isolating himself from everything that he held dear, letting the Empire that he loved so well slip away into the hands of the great landowners and magnates and priesthoods. Now, he felt uneasy and unfaithful. By Imperial edict, it was treason punishable by dismemberment to stand as he now did. In his own mind, he had already betrayed a man he considered a worthy commander. Now he considered the aspect of real treason and found it palatable.

"He is a stranger, unrecognizable." The Empress' voice was soft and low, barely audible. Her face was in shadow, barely illuminated by a single candle that stood on a long tapering holder by the door to the sleeping chamber. Martina had come by a hidden way, heavily veiled and shrouded in a thick cloak and long gown. The clothes were none of her own. One of the Faithful had purchased them in the city some days before. Rufio had held himself apart from the murk of intrigue and conspiracy that occupied the idle time of the city fathers, but he had not ignored its lessons.

"My lady," he said, his rough voice lowered as well. "In this poor light, he looks more like the man you remember than under the sun. He is not well. His body has rebelled against him."

Martina turned, her glorious brown eyes shining with tears, just visible between two bands of the veil. Rufio could see that the young woman longed to touch her husband's hand, but dared not. Of late, to keep Heraclius in some kind of effective state, Rufio had been adding one or two drops of poppy juice to the heavy wine that the Emperor would consent to drink before sleeping. Even that was difficult, for the Emperor's fears extended to anything liquid. The African knew that this was a dangerous business, but he could see no alternative. If he did not, then the Emperor's sleep would be wracked by terrible dreams.

If the Emperor did not sleep at night, he was in a hallucinatory daze during the day. Too much needed to be done for that to be allowed. Now, with Heraclius in a drugged stupor, Rufio had brought the Empress to look upon him. It was the first time that she had seen her husband in months.

"Is he dying?" For all her youth and bookish nature, the Empress was of a practical mind.

Rufio nodded, his gnarled hands clenching behind his back.

"How long?"

"Perhaps a year... he will not allow a priest of Asklepius to attend him. Sviod—one of the Faithful—has seen this kind of thing before. Those so afflicted will linger and slowly decay into death. Madness already comes and goes."

Martina turned away, her hand rising to her lips. Rufio stood, waiting, until she could speak again. "They say that this thing is my fault." The Empress' voice was very faint, barely a whisper. "My handmaids hear them; in the market, in the baths, at the Hippodrome. They are merciless and cruel. Did you know, there are plays in the low houses of the Racing District that... that depict what the common people think transpired in our courtship? It is rude work, no Ion of Chios surely, but I know it is what the fine ladies and gentlemen of the nobility are thinking when they titter behind their fans and handkerchiefs."

Rufio said nothing. He had heard all the same spiteful gossip and outright condemnation of the marriage of a niece and uncle. He knew them both, and had seen for three years that they loved one another deeply. What mattered to him, today, was that he needed an ally.

"My lady, there is a thing I would do, but I need your help."

Martina had heard nothing. She stared off into the darkness, her arms crossed over her chest. "They say that the gods have turned their backs on us, because of our marriage. We are cursed, our blood corrupt. My children have all died, save little Heracleonas. He is so small and weak—will he live? Is it true?"

"Empress!" Rufio turned the woman, his big hands enveloping her thin shoulders.
Why not compound two treacheries by laying hands on the body of the Empress, too?
He almost laughed, but stifled it with a cough. "You must listen to me." He bent down, catching her eye.

"Sviod, the blond youth, he says that among his people this affliction is not unknown. He says that if certain medicinal leaves and berries can be acquired, the Emperor may be cured."

Martina stared at him with such a blank expression that Rufio feared she had retreated into her own madness.

"Empress?"

"Oh. Yes, Rufio... what did you say?"

The guard captain, quelling an impatience that pressed him to shake her until she came to her senses, repeated what he had said before. The Empress was openly puzzled.