Pompeii. Part 18

Albus laughed. "Once Yeshua has set you free, you are free indeed. There is nothing left but to follow Him."

Freedom. The word clashed with their prison errand-and with the bondage of his own heart.

Cato had been given a large basket to carry, and he kept his face half-hidden. They approached a darkened doorway and Cato followed the younger man past a guard and down a flight of shadowy steps that grew damper as they descended. Somewhere at the bottom a torch flickered uneasily, and an oily smoke filtered up to his a.s.sault his nose.

Portia is down here.

Anger and powerlessness swept over him, as strong as he had felt earlier when Ariella faced her opponent.

Another guard sat at the bottom of the steps, and he jumped to his feet, rubbing his eyes, at their approach. Cato's escort whispered to him, as though they were acquainted. The guard stepped to Cato and rifled through the contents of the basket, clean tunics, and loaves of bread. Cato kept his head down, but the guard's attention was on his cargo. He nodded once, jerked a thumb over his shoulder and regained his seat.

His new friend led him deeper into the underground chamber. "We are allowed to bring supplies to the prisoners several times each week. A charitable pursuit looked on with favor by the city's officials, thankfully." And not the least of their charities, Cato knew.

They pa.s.sed several tiny chambers, with only a narrow door to mark each one, and a squat little window that looked upon the inside of the prison. The cells smelled even worse than the street.

The young man stopped before the fourth door. "She is here." He took the basket from Cato and indicated that he should step to the tiny window.

Cato peered through the square opening, but could see nothing in the darkness beyond. "Portia?"

There came a shuffling, slow and deliberate. Then a pale face at the hole, eyes sunken and hair hanging in stringy clumps. "Quintus? Is that you?"

Oh, Portia.

Cato's heart fell to his feet. He beat back the tears that threatened to spill, and reached cold fingers through the square. She studied his hand as though it were a novelty, then clutched at it with a desperation that broke his heart. "Portia, you are ill!" She fared even worse than he had feared.

She swallowed and leaned her forehead against his hand. "I have been ill, yes. But-but it is not the confinement." She lifted her head, and he saw her own tears streak through the dirt that clung to her pale skin. "Quintus," she whispered, "I am with child!"

Cato cursed inwardly. No. Not now. "We will get you out, Portia."

She shook her head. "I have heard things. Maius does not push for a trial yet. He uses me to blackmail you. He will tell you that you must give up the election." She tightened her hold on his hand. "Do not do it, Quintus. Not even for me. He must be stopped."

Cato's companion was at his side, pushing clean clothing through the opening, and Portia accepted it with a grateful smile. He gave her bread and a jug of something, and she disappeared from the opening to store her treasures.

When she returned, her spirits seemed lifted, but it shattered Cato again to think that such small comforts could cheer her. "I will stop him, Portia. I promise you. But I will not leave you here."

"How is Lucius?"

"Like a ship with no rudder. He mourns your absence every moment."

She bit her trembling lip at this, but then succ.u.mbed to more tears. "You will give him my love?"

Cato nodded.

"But do not tell him of my condition, Quintus. Promise me this. I want to tell him myself. And I fear what he might do if he knew. And Maius-I am afraid that Maius would claim that the child-" She seemed unable to speak the words.

Cato reached through the opening to cradle her cheek. "I will not make this promise, dear sister, because I cannot be certain what tomorrow will bring. But if I can keep your secret, I will."

She leaned into his hand, apparently content with his answer.

"We must go," Cato's guide said at his shoulder. Cato turned to find the basket empty. The man had already distributed its contents to other prisoners. Were any of them innocent, as Portia?

Portia brought his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers and he leaned his forehead against the small opening, as close to her as he was able. "I will be back, Portia. Courage!"

And then they were out, back up the steps into the black night, crossing the city in silence once more. s.n.a.t.c.hes of drunken laughter and the shrill calls of brothel women echoed through the streets. The respectable citizens were behind their doors and it was the time for other pursuits. Cato followed his companion back to Europa's house, his mind and body numb, his eyes trained on the dark sidewalk and its cat's eye stones.

Portia and Ariella. Two women with secrets. Two women in trouble.

The frustration of helplessness surged in his chest, hot and bitter. He marched on, noticed a patch of tiny yellow flowers that bloomed in a crack between sidewalk and house, a surprising bit of beauty in the grubby street. Cato ground his foot into the flowers until they were crushed into the crack. The puny show of power did nothing.

How could he make a difference in this city, when he could not even save two women? He was a kitten fighting a bull, and would soon be stomped on like the flowers.

Back at the house of Seneca and Europa he changed his clothes quickly, thanked the couple for their help, and headed back out into the city. Already, his fury had hardened into a new goal.

The moon still hid behind the night's clouds, making it difficult to judge the time. But Cato decided he did not care if he roused the lanista from his bed. He had business with the man that he intended to conclude tonight.

Perhaps he could not help Portia immediately. But there was another woman who needed him.

And he had not lied when he promised she would never again stand in the arena.

CHAPTER 28.

Maius was displeased with the day.

He paced his lower gardens, which were angled to catch the rays of the setting sun, but took no notice of the spectacular display of purple cloud and pink light in the west. It had been frustrating enough to hear of Portius Cato's sponsorship of the games, but today's events far surpa.s.sed Maius's dour expectations in the damage done to his own position.

The younger man had been a candidate only a few days, and already he had won the hearts of the fickle public-at least when it came to showmanship.

A cushioned chaise sat near the central fountain, and Maius forced himself to recline, for pacing showed a certain amount of weakness, of fretfulness, and he had no need for such things.

But his thoughts flowed back and forth, first a.s.suring him that Cato was a novelty whose charm would soon wear thin, then warning him that the man was a danger to the life he had shaped here in Pompeii.

Maius focused on the trickle of fountain water and scent of evening flowers, wanting his gardens to soothe him as they usually did. A flutter at the edge of the enclosure brought welcome distraction. His daughter's penchant for bright fabrics made her seem like one of his exotic birds.

"Nigidia, come and sit with your father."

The girl slid to his side and perched on the edge of his cushion, extending her bottom lip. "You are so glum, Father. The games always make you giddy for hours." She laughed and ran two fingers over his brow. "I believe you have new lines here since this morning."

Maius caught her fingers and kissed them. "You know me too well, my pet. I am afraid Father is not so pleased with the games today."

Nigidia's blue eyes danced. "I found today's games especially amusing. When that Cato fellow jumped over the wall and ran into the sand-"

She did not finish, perhaps because the black fury that swelled through Maius was evident on his face. He leaned forward. "That man is your father's enemy, Nigidia. Do not speak of him in my presence, nor praise him to anyone!"

She patted his arm, as though his anger were nothing to her. "I have never known you to have an enemy of any consequence, Father. Doesn't everyone soon learn that Nigidius Maius rules Pompeii with a fair hand?"

He tried to smile at his loyal daughter. "Of course you are right, Nigidia." He nudged her away from the chaise. "Run along now, and leave your father to his thoughts. You have cheered me greatly."

She pecked his cheek with a quick kiss, but before she ran off he almost believed he saw . . .

No, he was being foolish. His Nigidia would never look at him with a hint of anger, or, worse, disgust.

Still restless, he pulled himself from the cushions and crossed the terrace to his bird cages. The servants were faithful in leaving sc.r.a.ps of meat and vegetables in a dish placed nearby, for Maius to push through the bars into their eager beaks, and he chose a red-plumed warbler whose ruffled feathers reminded him of Nigidia, to offer a bit of veal.

"That's right," he whispered to the bird who greeted him with a chirp and hopped to receive his offering. "It is Maius who feeds you, Maius who watches over you."

All of Pompeii needed to be reminded at whose hand they flourished. But how could they be reminded when they were so distracted by the juvenile antics of a young wine-maker?

The gardens grew dark and servants came to light torches, but still Maius wandered, ripping leaves from plants and shredding them, kicking at dirt that had escaped its borders. The visitor he had been expecting arrived at last, ushered in by a slave to stand at the edge of the garden, under a smoky torch planted in the garden's soft soil.

Maius tossed away the flower he had been ripping apart. "Otho. I began to think you had more important business to attend."

Otho, a local fuller, was a frail man, with cheekbones that seemed almost to protrude from his skin. His sallow eyes traveled to the stone walkway. "Forgive me, Maius. There was an emergency-"

Maius held up a hand. "Spare me the inconsequential tedium. You have given Primus your payment, I a.s.sume?"

The man's expression flickered, and something akin to defiance seemed to cross his features. "Yes, of course."

"Is something wrong, Otho? The month's payment seems unfair, perhaps?" Maius baited him, both waiting and fearing his response.

Otho straightened bony shoulders and lifted his pointed chin. Again, there was that look in his eyes. "Unfair? Payments made to you simply to keep my business going?" The sarcasm was faint, but clear.

Maius spread his hands. "You wound me. Surely you realize how much more I do for you than this? Safety for your workers, peaceful and profitable transactions."

Otho looked away, shifting his weight from one foot to another, then returned his gaze to Maius. "Perhaps these things would be free in a different Pompeii."

Maius pressed his fingertips together over his ample belly. "A different Pompeii? And where should we find such a thing?"

Otho shrugged one shoulder. "There are alternatives . . ."

"Courage, Otho. Speak your mind. Portius Cato? Is that the different Pompeii of which you are dreaming?"

Otho said nothing, but did not look away. The defiance Maius had sensed under the surface became plain.

The man seemed to find his courage then, and spoke quietly. "They are saying that he is the man to restore the health of our city."

Maius crossed the terrace quickly, surprising Otho with his advance. "Listen to me. You can listen to talk of change and dream of a new Pompeii all you wish, but your vote belongs to me, as surely as your business belongs to me, and to give away one is to give away the other." He poked a thick finger into Otho's frail chest, pushing the man backward. "Do not believe for a moment that I cannot destroy you. And I would destroy you without a thought."

Otho swallowed, and the k.n.o.bbiness of his throat was almost comical, but Maius was far from amused.

"I will see you next month, then." Otho bowed.

Maius smiled and dipped his head. "Until next month."

In the moments that followed Otho's departure, Maius's thoughts went from dark to black. He crossed to the low wall that bordered his garden and faced the city, each of its lights representing to him another traitor to his leadership.

To eliminate, rather than defeat, one's opponent was also weakness. But there were times when it became necessary. This had become one of those times.

Portius Cato must die.

CHAPTER 29.

The morning after Cato's sponsored games dawned fair, and the threatened rain of the previous day was forgotten. Cato rose early and again left the tending of his vines to Remus. He made his way to the Forum, his mind full of today's goal.

Thus far he had made his candidacy known, and performed a bit of theatrics for the populace. But it would take far more than such attention to win the election.

The magistrates' offices at the southern end of the Forum housed the treasury and were the main location for justice since the basilica's unrepaired damage from the earthquake over a decade ago. And the offices' position at the bottom of the Forum, where the road from Marina Gate led across the Forum to the Market Street, made it the busiest section of town.

Not coincidentally, it was outside these offices where a suggestum had been erected, a large platform for public speeches.

Not yet.

He crossed the Forum and entered the Temple of Apollo. His rituals were overdue. Though he had maintained the rites faithfully at home, a sacrifice here was called for. He went through the motives of paying the priest, money that would be pa.s.sed to the slaughterers, and stayed for the blood sacrifice and the flute player's melody-loud notes to drown out any sounds of ill omens. The priest kept his head his covered, also to guard against ill omens, and Cato said the prayers intended to make the G.o.ds favorable toward him. He had given to them. Now they must give to him.

But the ritual felt hollow and pointless. Was this all the G.o.ds offered-a trading of favors? Did not Jeremiah's G.o.d's offer of a relationship far outweigh such practices?

He returned to the Forum, and as the morning sun lifted over the top of the Eumachia Building on his right, Cato ascended to the suggestum, and surveyed the Forum below.

Already the city churned with the early shoppers, with horse-drawn carts criss-crossing to make deliveries. Philosophers spouted ideas to small groups of intellectuals and beggars and prost.i.tutes made their appeals to the rest.

Cato inhaled and set his shoulders, lifted his eyes to the mountain beyond the Forum, lit by the morning sun and watching over the city as always. From this height, above the chaos of the Forum's paving stones, there was a strange kinship with the mountain, a parental sort of feeling for Pompeii, as though the mountain were Mother and he were Father, called to protect. He shook his head at the notion.

This business with Portia has made me sentimental.

He had stood thus on platforms in Rome. Had stated his case, made his position clear. There had been powerful men there as well, men he had tried to unseat.

Tried-and failed.

The experience had shamed him, made him fearful. He saw that now. He had come to Pompeii to hide, to avoid ridicule and forget his failure. But the failure had followed him, because the failure was not the political defeat but a more personal fear.

It was time for the fear to be put away. Time to become the man he truly was, and to remove the mask of indifference.

A merchant of the Fruitsellers Guild ambled to the base of the platform from the direction of the Marina Gate, followed by a slave pushing an aging cart of oranges and lemons, its blackened wood rotting in places. The merchant shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at Cato. "Time for a speech?"