Pompeii. Part 1

POMPEII.

T. L. Higley.

To Mike and Pam Dittman.

and Pat and Nadine Pileggi.

. . . who first taught me that girls could be warriors, too.

You have always encouraged me to find my adventure and pursue it with pa.s.sion.

For this I am grateful.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Pompeii has long held fascination for me-a lost city, frozen in time and then thawed, exactly as it was on the day the mountain spewed its fire and swallowed it whole.

Unearthing any story is, at times, a bit like digging in hardened ash, uncertain what one will find. I am grateful for the help and encouragement of all who worked alongside me to bring this project to light.

Thank you to the B&H team, who are tireless in their efforts to produce quality fiction: Karen Ball, editor/genius; Julie Gwinn, marketing magician, and all the rest who are such wonderful support and who create canvases for the creativity of their authors.

Thank you to my agent, Steve Laube. You've been a cheerleader for my writing since we began, and your support and guidance are so appreciated.

A special thanks to Mitch Triestman (otherwise known as Uncle Mitch!) for your valuable help in understanding the Jewish mind-set of the first century, and the present. Your excellent book, To the Jew First, gave great insight into Ariella's character.

A huge thank you to my daughter Rachel for being my travel partner on this book's research trip. We will have stories to tell of Venice, Rome, and Naples forever, won't we?! It was such fun spending that time with you, I would do it all again in a heartbeat!

As always, the rest of my precious family has sacrificed and supported, encouraged and endured through the writing of yet another book. Ron, Rachel, Sarah, Jake, and Noah-I could do none of this without all of you, and all you do for me. I love you very much.

". . . a peak of h.e.l.l, rising out of paradise."

-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, on Vesuvius.

WORD LIST.

aedile-city official, mainly responsible for public buildings and festivals.

aureus-gold coin valued at 25 silver denarii.

calidarium-hot room of the bath complex, with a hot plunge bath Capitolium-temple of the G.o.ds, with great arches on either side.

duovir-one of two joint city magistrates, mainly responsible for administration of justice eumachia-building in Pompeii named for priestess of Venus, used by the fullers editores-politician sponsoring public games, to curry public favor.

frigidarium-cold room of the bath complex, with a cold plunge bath gradi-unit of distance equal to approximately 2.5 feet Hashem-literally, "the name," the Jewish word used for G.o.d.

impluvium-sunken part of an atrium to catch the rainwater coming through the open roof insulae-tenement-type apartment buildings in ancient Roman cities Junius-the month of June.

lanista-trainer of gladiators lupanaria-brothel, named for the "lupe" = the she-wolf, whose call the women mimicked macellum-main market of the city.

murmillo-gladiator with high crested and broad rimmed helmet that resembled a fish ordo/ordo decurionum-city council palaestra-the city's main field for athletic training and fitness palus-poles buried in the ground used for gladiator training pater familias-literally "father of the family," head of the household praenomen-first name, given by parents, to a Roman child pugio-short sword quadriporticus-four-sided courtyard surrounded by columned walkways quaestor-city official, mainly responsible for financial matters retiarius/retiarii-gladiator who used a casting net and trident as weapons.

rudis-wooden training sword, also used as a token given to a freed gladiator scaenae frons-two-story facade behind the stage secutor-gladiator who fought heavily armed, including a helmet sestertius/sestertii-bra.s.s coin stola-woman's garment, comparable to the man's toga.

suggestum-platform where orators could make their appeals.

tabernae-single room shop in market, with wide doorway and barrel vaulted ceiling tablinum-room on one side of the atrium, used as an office.

tepidarium-warm room of the bath complex thermopolium-ancient Rome's "fast food restaurant"-masonry counters with sunken jars holding food triclinium-main dining area of a home.

Vulca.n.a.lia-festival dedicated to Vulcan, G.o.d of fire.

From her lofty place above the sparkling crescent Bay of Napoli, Vesuvius looked down upon the surrounding towns and felt the pressure build beneath her gra.s.sy slopes.

It was true, the hot springs which bubbled up from deep within brought pleasure-seekers from the north to bathe in secluded groves, and she boasted lemon trees and long waving gra.s.ses where wildlife grazed her foothills. True, her purple, cloud-kissed peak shone always in the sunlight.

But under it all, where the eyes of no patrician nor plebeian saw, underneath she churned with an angry force waiting to be unleashed.

She was their mother, yes. But she could destroy them all.

And she had been quiet these many years, had she not? Too many years for counting, even. She had been controlled, subdued, silent as generation after generation lived and farmed and reveled in her long shadows.

But not for long. No, not for long.

Though the people who lived beneath her believed that they controlled their own destiny, she knew otherwise.

This was her story, after all.

PROLOGUE.

Jerusalem August 9, AD 70.

Ariella shoved through the clogged street, defying the mob of frantic citizens. Men, women, and children crowded the alleys, senseless in their panic to flee the city. They carried all they could, packed into pouches slung across their chests and clutched in sweaty hands. Soldiers ran with them, as though they had all joined a macabre stadium footrace, with partic.i.p.ants who clubbed and slashed at each other to get ahead. Beside her, one of the district's tax collectors tripped and fumbled a latched wooden box. It cracked against the cobbled street and spilled its meager h.o.a.rd of gold. The tax collector was dead before he hit the ground, and the Roman soldier pulled his sword from the man's gut only to scramble for the coins.

Ariella turned her head from the gore but felt little pity for the tax man, cheated of life by the Romans for whom he had betrayed his people. Still, concern flickered in her chest at the sudden violence in the street.

Something has happened.

The city had been under siege for months. Three days ago her mother announced that the sacrifices in the Temple had ceased. But today, today was something new. Perhaps three days of sins not atoned for had brought the wrath of the Holy One down on them all.

Unlike those who ran the streets with her, Ariella's destination was neither Temple nor countryside. She returned to her home-if the dim tenement could be called such-from another useless excursion to secure food.

At sixteen and as eldest child, it fell on her to search the famished city for a sc.r.a.p of dried beef to feed her brother, perhaps a thimbleful of milk for the baby, crumbs for her father whose eyes had gone gla.s.sy and whose skin was now the color of the clay pots he once turned on the wheel.

But there was no food to be found. t.i.tus, the emperor's son, had arrived in the spring with his army of eighty thousand and his siege wall served well its double function-the people were trapped and they were starving.

Not even such a wall could prevent news from seeping through its cracks, however. From Caesarea, word escaped of twenty thousand Jews slaughtered in a day. Fifty thousand killed in Alexandria. Ten thousand met the sword in Gamla. Such numbers were incomprehensible.

Here in Jerusalem, the bodies thrown outside the city were too numerous to count, piled high in rotting mounds, as though the city itself were defiled and would forever be unclean.

Yet we are not all dead. Ariella's hands curled into tense fists as she rounded the last corner. She would cling to life as long as she had strength and, like her untiring mother, she would hold tight to that elusive thread for each member of her family.

She pushed against the rough wood of the door and slipped out of the rush of the street. The home's tomb-like interior had the peculiar smell of starvation. In the corner, her baby sister whimpered as if in response to Ariella's entrance. Micah met her at the door, his sunken eyes fixed on her and his lips slightly open, as though antic.i.p.ating the food she might have brought. Or perhaps he simply lacked the strength to close his jaw. She shook her head and Micah turned away, hiding his disappointment as all boys of eleven do when they are threatened by tears.

Her father did not speak from his mat on the floor. Ariella scooped the listless baby Hannah into her arms and gave her a finger to suck. Small consolation.

"Where is Mother?" She scanned the room, then looked to Micah. A low groan from her father set her heart pounding. "Where is she, Micah? Where has Mother gone?"

Micah sniffed and glanced at the door. "To the Temple. She has gone to the Temple."

Ariella growled and pushed Hannah into her brother's arms. "She is going to get herself killed, and then where will we be?"

She bent to her father's side. The man had been strong once. Ariella could barely remember. She touched the cool skin of his arm. "I will bring her back, Father. I promise." Her father's eyes sought her own, searching for rea.s.surance. The hunger seemed to have stolen his voice. How long until it took his mind?

She turned on Micah, grabbed his shoulder. "Do not let anyone inside. The streets-" She looked to the door. "The streets are full of madness."

He nodded, still cradling Hannah.

She kissed the baby. "Take care of them, Micah." And then she left to retrieve her mother, whose political fervor often outpaced her common sense.

The midsummer sun had dropped in the sky, an orange disc hazy and indistinct behind rising smoke. The city burns. She smelled it, sensed it, felt it somehow on her skin as she joined the flow toward the Temple-a heat of destruction that threatened to consume them all.

Her family enjoyed the privilege of living in the shadow of the Temple Mount. A privilege that today only put them closer to folly. She twisted through the crazed mob, darted around wagons and pushcarts laden with family treasures, swatted at those who shoved against her. Already, only halfway there, her heart struck against her chest and her breathing shallowed, the weakness of slow starvation.

She reached the steps to the south of the Temple platform and was swept upward with the ma.s.ses. Why were so many running to the Temple? Why had her mother?

And then she heard it. A sound that was part shrieking anger, part mournful lament, a screaming funeral dirge for the city and its people. She reached the top of the steps, pushed through the Huldah Gate, dashed under the colonnade into the Court of the Gentiles, and drew up short. The crowd pressed against her back, flowed around her and surged onward, but Ariella could not move.

The Temple is on fire.

The next moments blurred. She felt herself running, running toward the Temple as if she alone could avert this monstrous evil. Joining others who must have shared her delusion. She saw Roman legionaries club women and children, voices raised in a war cry. The yells of zealot rebels and the shrieks of those impaled by swords returned like an echo. The dead began to acc.u.mulate. Soldiers climbed heaps of bodies to chase those who fled. She tasted ashes and blood in the air, breathed the stench of burning flesh, and still some pushed forward.

She fought the smoke and blood, climbed the steps and entered the Court of Women. All around her, peaceful citizens were butchered where they stood. Ahead, a current of blood ran down the curved steps before the bra.s.s Nicanor Gate. The bodies of those who had been murdered at the top slipped to the bottom.

Ariella swayed on her feet at the carnage. That her mother was one of these dead she had no doubt. Elana's outspoken defiance of Rome had earned her a reputation among her people, one that matched the meaning of her given name, torch.

She could go no farther. The entire Temple structure flamed now, from the Court of Israel to the Holy of Holies, its beauty and riches and sanct.i.ty defiled, raped by the Romans who even now risked their own flesh to steal its treasures.

A groan at her feet drew her attention, and she saw as if from a great distance that indeed her mother lay there, a b.l.o.o.d.y slash against her chest and a vicious purpling around her eyes. She lifted a hand, claw-like, to Ariella, who bent to kneel beside her and clasp her fingers.

Ariella had no words. What use to say good-bye, when they would all be in the same place soon?

Strange, she was very cold. With the flames so near and so fierce, still her fingers felt numb as she wrapped them around her mother's hand.

Elana whispered only "Never forget . . ." before she was gone, and Ariella nodded because it was the expected thing to do. She studied her mother's face, the eyes open and unseeing, and felt nothing. Was that right? Should she feel something?

After awhile she thought perhaps she should go home. She tried to stand, slipped in some blood that had pooled on the marble beneath her, and tried again.

The noise seemed far off now, though she could see the faces of citizens, mouths gaping as though they screamed in agony, and soldiers, feral lips drawn back over their teeth. But the sounds had somehow receded.

She weaved through the upright who still lived, stepped over the p.r.o.ne who had already pa.s.sed, and drifted back to her house. Behind her, the Temple Mount was enveloped in flames, boiling over from its base, though there seemed to be even more blood than flames.

The stupor that had fallen over her at the Temple seemed to slough away as she traveled the streets. From open doorways she heard an occasional wail, but largely it was quiet. Too quiet. As though a river of violence had washed down the street while she'd been gone and swept away all that lived.

Her own street was not so peaceful. From end to end it burned.

She searched the crowd for her father, Micah, the baby. Grabbed hollow-eyed friends and wailing neighbors. One old woman shook her head and pointed a withered hand to the end of the burning street. "Only Micah," she coughed. "Only he escaped."

Micah. She called his name, but the word choked in her throat. Where would he have fled?

They had whispered together, one unseasonably warm night a few months ago on their roof, of running away from Jerusalem. Child's talk, but now . . . Would he have tried to leave the city, to make it two hours south to family in Bethlehem?

Minutes later, she stumbled toward the Lower City. The Dung Gate would lead her south, to the valley of Hinnom and onward to Bethlehem. If she could escape.

Too many joined her. They would never be allowed to pa.s.s. She climbed crumbling steps to the rim of the city wall. Would she see a thread of refugees weaving out of Jerusalem, beyond the gates?

There was a procession of Jews, yes. But not on foot, fleeing to safety. On crosses, writhing in death throes. An endless line of them, crucified in absurd positions for the Romans' entertainment, until they had run out of crosses, no doubt. Ariella gripped the wall. She would have retched had there been anything in her stomach.

She considered throwing herself from the wall. Was it high enough to guarantee her death? She would not want to die slowly on the ground, listening to the crucified.

The decision was made for her. From behind, a Roman soldier grabbed both her arms, laughing. She waited for the air in her face, for the spin of a freefall in her belly, that feeling she loved when her father rode the donkey cart too fast over the crest of a hill.

Instead, the soldier spun her to face him, shoved her to the stone floor, and fumbled at her tunic.

No, she was not going to die like that.

She exploded into a flailing of arms and legs, kicks and screams. She used her fingernails, used her teeth, used her knees.

From behind her head another soldier called. "That one's a fighter, eh, Marcus?"

The soldier on top of her grunted.