Pompeii. Part 33

She turned and left them swiftly. Cato did not favor the idea of staying any longer than necessary in this evil place, but it was clear that Portia needed strength for the fearsome journey ahead. He pulled her along, and Ariella hastened to support her on the other side. They followed Nigidia's disappearing figure through the night-dark house.

The villa had suffered. Cato heard the shudders and creaks that signaled the stress of rock and ash on the roof. It might hold longer than the poorer houses in the city, but not forever. Nor for long. He had grown so accustomed to expecting rocks to fall from the sky that it seemed little had changed indoors, as he waited for the roof to collapse.

They trailed Nigidia to the back rooms of the house, undecorated and deserted. Maius's slaves and staff had fled. Nigidia lit a torch from a smoldering cookfire, mounted it, then hastened around the kitchen, gathering small loaves of fine bread, cups, and jugs of wine.

She tossed her finds onto a table. "Eat. I have no need of anything. I will pack more food for our pa.s.sage."

A sudden hunger swept Cato. He could not remember when he had last eaten. Cold porridge in the atrium, a lifetime ago? Ariella tore a small piece from one of the loaves and held it to Portia's lips. Cato inhaled sharply, touched by the tender act.

Portia was unwell, she was weak, and she seemed unable to focus on her present situation. The night was dark and dangerous. He chewed his lip. How could they bring her safely across the city?

But Ariella's ministrations seemed to help. Portia took a cup in her own hands and drained it, chewed some bread and asked for more. Some color already had returned to her face. Nigidia handed pouches to each of them, filled with more bread, some cheeses, and dried fruit. To Cato she held out a wineskin. "It will not last us long, but we cannot carry much more."

"Thank you, Nigidia." The girl had grown much since he had first encountered her.

A glance at Ariella and Portia. "Are we ready?" It seemed impossible that Maius had not yet sought them out. They should be away from here.

Ariella strapped the pouch over her head, picked up her sword once more, and nodded. Cato turned from the sight. She had done nothing but fight since they had met, and even now the battle was not over.

They sped along the colonnaded walkway that bordered the atrium, through the side entrance, and out onto the covered peristyle.

It was a shock once again. The ash and rock alongside the empty porch now piled higher than the heads of the women, higher than his own head. It drifted down to the terrace level, a gravelly ramp. They scrambled upward, sinking knee-deep or worse and fighting to reach the upper level and move forward.

It had to be midnight. No moon, no stars brightened their way. Only the fantastic orange glow on the underside of the dense cloud. He looked backward at the mountain, still churning out fragments of itself with that great whooshing sound that had dogged them all through the day's living nightmare.

The women moved on ahead of him, and he pushed forward to lead. Portia was walking in her own strength now, thank G.o.d. They headed once more toward the town. From the hilly rise of Maius's estate, what should have been a lovely view of the town below, with torches carried through streets and candlelight streaming from windows, appeared a dead and frightening thing. In the hours since they had left, few roofs could have survived. Between the acc.u.mulation in the streets and the crushing load on houses, the city's residents would be underground, praying for deliverance. Or dead already.

The difficulty of crossing the landscape wearied his legs within minutes. The long hours of climbing through it had taken their toll. There were fewer orange streaks hurtling death from the sky now. They could be thankful for that. He looked backward at the mountain once more. Had something changed to save them from the fiery fallout?

And in that moment, something did change. He could not at first identify it.

The women also stopped, and Ariella was at his side in a moment. "What is that sound?"

But it was not a sound. It was the lack of sound that had arrested their attention. The familiar surge of ash and rock had ceased, as though the mountain had suddenly run out of breath, as though a mighty hand had shut off the gushing upward fountain.

They watched, open-mouthed, as the entire trunk-like gray column supporting the ma.s.sive cloud-branches collapsed upon itself with a shuddering groan and the sky above the mountain rained down.

Where would it flow-all that poisonous, torrential weight? The decapitated summit of the mountain bubbled orange and black.

Cato turned from the mountain and set his eyes toward the south, toward the impossible trek before them. It would take all night to cross the city.

"Come." He struck out ahead. "There is not much time."

Her gushing fury had spent itself.

The unceasing upward surge could not last forever, and when at last Vesuvius had expelled all the anger within her, the tower of death collapsed.

Oh, but there was still so much destruction to come.

The hours of spewed ash and rock now tumbled downward, a molten river, mixed with water, and became an avalanche of fiery mud, surging downward at speeds no human could outrun.

All day, as she had spread her lethal cloud across the sky, they had thought themselves safe in Herculaneum. They had watched the winds blow her poisonous ash toward Pompeii, and believed that they were spared. She was a curiosity to them, nothing more.

And in less than four minutes, they were all dead.

They had seen it coming, her surging river of melted rock. Some had fled toward the beach, as if the water could save them.

Rich and poor, slave and freedman, they fell in the death throes of the noxious air.

The burning river incinerated them where they fell.

When the glowing cloud of death subsided, all of Herculaneum lay in its grave, buried under forty cubits of burning mud.

But Vesuvius was not finished.

CHAPTER 50.

How long had he stood in this room, his feet weighted to the floor, as though an anchor were fixed to his ankles and dropped through the mosaic tiles?

He gave up struggling, gave up screaming, as the night wore on. There was no one to hear him, no one to help him.

He was alone.

When at last his legs were freed, he fell upon the triclinium floor, exhausted.

The torch had burned itself out. The food had grown stale. He could not see his beautiful frescoes any longer, could not drink in the truth of them. He dragged his bulk to the couch, climbed upon it, and collapsed.

Did he sleep?

The night was unnatural, the darkness odd and perplexing. Unreadable.

He felt strength had returned to his legs, and pulled himself to standing. He stumbled from the triclinium, calling for Nigidia. It was useless to search for her but he did it anyway. Through the halls and rooms, the hidden recesses of the villa and the buried gardens.

He slowed at the back garden. How long had his birds lived as the ash piled around them in a smothering silence?

The steps to his veranda were partially covered by a roof. The first few lay bare, but the rest had become a steep incline, covered with rubble. He climbed, and the porous little rocks cut his hands and knees.

He reached the veranda, though it was now foreign to him. The level of the terrace had risen more than his own height and the half-wall where he had stood and gazed on the lovely mountain for so many evenings lay somewhere far beneath. He stood as on a cliff, overlooking the valley that had made him a wealthy man.

Not a vine remained. The stony landscape led all the way to the foot of the mountain, an unbroken plain of death.

Maius planted his feet in the stones, balanced himself on the edge of his blighted world, and once more raised his eyes to the mountain and to the G.o.ds that reigned above her.

Deep in his chest, the words rumbled.

I have given you everything.

He had called upon them in the triclinium, beseeched them to grant him favor as his enemy laughed in his face and blasphemed their names. But the G.o.ds had been silent.

Still silent.

He had taken her. Portius Cato had taken Nigidia, his one comfort, his most precious treasure. She had gone willingly, he had seen it in her eyes, though he wanted to believe that some enchantment of Cato's had drawn her away.

He sensed a lightening in the sky to the east. How could the sun still rise on such a day as this?

To the north, the mountain had not yet finished its boiling and churning.

The wind shifted. He smelled, rather than felt, the change. The sulfurous odor that had drifted over the city all night grew pungent. His lungs tightened and rebelled, doubling him over with a slashing cough that seared the throat.

Behind him, he heard the sound of another coughing.

Not alone. Not alone!

He turned, his feet still planted forward in the rocks.

Below, under the roof, Primus stood, clutching his chest. His most faithful slave, advisor.

Friend.

He reached out a hand of welcome. But the man's eyes were dark with hatred.

"Curse you, Nigidius Maius! You bring nothing but death."

And then he fell, face-down along the length of the bare steps, and was still.

Maius turned back to the mountain. He lifted his eyes to the orange fires at the summit. And barely blinked when an explosion rocked the house. Stone cracked. Somewhere columns split. The veranda held, and he watched the mountain.

A mighty vicious flow streamed from Vesuvius, up, up over its lip, boiling over with melted rocks and earthy flames, then surging down the hillside, a flood of fire and poison.

Maius raised his chin, then raised his fist in its face.

He roared above the surge. "Come and get me, then!" He yelled at all the G.o.ds to whom he had ever sworn allegiance, all the G.o.ds he had offered sacrifices and even those he had not avowed.

Yes, even Cato's G.o.d, the Jewish G.o.d and his G.o.d-man Messiah. He roared at him as well, for sometime in the early watches of the morning, the fear that this One G.o.d was more powerful than any other had overtaken him. And so he spewed his fury, shook his fist at Israel's G.o.d.

The flow of boiling rock raced down the mountain, faster, faster, a wave crashing from a stormy sea. He watched it come, faced it, alone and defiant, angry and fearful.

And in the end, as the scorching flow swallowed his vineyard, his gardens, his veranda, Nigidius Maius spit in the face of G.o.d.

CHAPTER 51.

The morning approached, impossibly.

The eastern horizon lightened from obsidian black to the color of filthy wash water. The travelers had slogged through the city's destruction all night, and Ariella would have sworn that the streets had doubled in length, so slow was their progress.

They took frequent breaks for the sake of Portia, but always Quintus urged them forward before they were ready.

Sometime in the middle of the night, another earthquake rattled loose stone and broken walls. They waited it out in the center of a wide street, away from the danger of falling masonry. Apparently Ariella had not gone numb to fear, for the quake still left her palms slick and heart pounding.

The deserted streets wore an eerie, haunted look about them. More than once Ariella had caught a flash of someone, something, moving about the streets as though on their way to the market or the arena. But each time she looked again, there was nothing. Did apparitions of the dead already roam the town?

Whenever they did encounter townspeople, peeking out from near-buried doorways at those who voyaged across the stone sea, Quintus begged them to join their group.

"There is no protection here." He pointed to the mountain. "She is not finished. Come with us to a high place, a wide place of safety."

Some refused to leave the valuable property they could not carry. Others scoffed at the danger. Most heartbreaking were the obedient slaves left behind, charged with guarding their masters' households.

They were not far from Quintus's house now, but their loved ones would have fled south.

Quintus took a side street, a slight detour. No explanation was necessary. Seneca and Europa's house lay this way.

Their door was open, but the entrance was submerged. Did it mean they were well away? She joined Quintus in stabbing at the pile of rocky ash, forcing it down into the open vestibule until it slid away suddenly, allowing pa.s.sage. He propelled his body through the chute and she followed. Nigidia and Portia dropped through after them.

The vestibule was a pocket of empty s.p.a.ce between the street and the buried atrium, but a hall led left and right, a covered perimeter of the piles of rock.

"Seneca? Europa?" The rocks m.u.f.fled Quintus's voice as though underground. He led them through the halls, still calling.

"We are here." At the feeble answer, Ariella's heart fell. Quintus stopped in the hall and closed his eyes. Her mouth went dry. The journey had grown so difficult, how could they make it?

Europa appeared at the end of the hall, outside the triclinium where Ariella had first encountered these special people, the night she brought the injured Jeremiah to their door. She hurried to meet them, arms outstretched. "I am so glad you are safe."

Ariella fell into her familiar embrace. "For now. But we cannot stay any longer. You must come."

Quintus stalked ahead, through the entrance to the room. Europa led the three women behind him.

She stood in the doorway, taking in the group before her. The triclinium's beautiful frescoes were as bright and colorful as always, the brazier fires flickering against the reds and yellows, illuminating the spread of food on the tables. Like that first night.

And her friends. Europa and Seneca. Flora, reclined on a couch, with Jeremiah beside her. Only these four remained. Nigidia crossed behind her and knelt to Flora.

"You should have left the city!" Quintus's voice sounded angry. He is only worried.

Europa smiled sadly and patted his arm. "We have traveled as far as possible."