Pompeii. Part 9

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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 a.s.sisting.

"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 gra.s.s 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 a.s.sisted by sc.r.a.ping 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sageways 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 inst.i.tution 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 G.o.ds.

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 antic.i.p.ating 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 n.o.bility. 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 G.o.ds 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 s.e.x-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 antic.i.p.ation 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 c.o.c.ked 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 a.s.sures 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 l.u.s.tful 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.

Cato pulled her back to their own seats and said nothing. His own heart burned with fury, and his mind raced. Portia must be extricated from the sticky fingers of Nigidius Maius before the situation grew worse.

He barely noted the hunters on horseback when they were released to take down the remaining tigers. The first hunt was followed by charging elephants and a mob of wild cats with white fur that Cato had never seen. An extensive trade in exotic animals brought from the frontier provinces had sprung up through the Empire for just this purpose, and Maius had spared no expense. The bestiarii who fought the animals were as trained as any gladiator, and the crowd laughed and hissed around Cato with great amus.e.m.e.nt. The arena filled with the stink of blood and entrails, and perfumed fountains shot colored water into the air, cooling the spectators and saturating the air.

A musical interlude came after the hunt, with one musician playing the cornu, its conical bronze circle wrapped round his head, and another on a water organ, with an attendant to pump the air. The crowd paid little attention, using the time to stretch their legs or exit the arena to relieve themselves. Cato did not move. Octavia gave him some bread she had brought, then she and Isabella left him to his thoughts. He tore into the salty bread as though he had not eaten in weeks.

A dog race, with monkeys as jockeys was followed by a fight between big cranes and African pygmies. Men fought pythons with bare hands, and equestrians flew at each other with sharpened lances. Through the long afternoon the frenzy of the crowd built.

But as the sun dropped beneath the upper lip of the arena, and the sailors were sent aloft to retract the awning, a gust of enthusiasm blew in with the cool breeze. The braziers of incense were removed and the patricians put away their scented sachets. But on the heels of the cool relief came a hot antic.i.p.ation. The gladiators were announced.

The crowd exploded. Feet stomped the stone tiers. Shouts and applause drowned out the announcer's words. Cato strained to hear above the screaming crowd, to learn who would fight first. But the declaration was lost in the chaos.

A lone figure stalked from the far arch, down through the center of the sand. A moment later, laughter greeted the gladiator's entrance as the crowd took in the diminutive size of the fighter. Cato searched his memory. Had any other fighters been as small as Ariella? No, this must be her.

The gladiator fought as a Retiarius, with a net and trident. The Retiarius typically fought a Murmillo, one who sported a fish-crested iron helmet, an oblong shield, and a short sword. But Ariella also wore a helmet. Cato waited, breath held, for her opponent.

When he emerged, it was to another howl of laughter-and delighted applause-from the crowd. Ariella's opponent was even smaller than she: Maius's promised dwarf.

They circled each other in the sand, and even from this distance Cato could sense a fierce anger in the dwarf's stance. The laughter of the crowd no doubt had coupled with his fear and the injustice of his plight, and it would spew out with violence. He may have been shorter than Ariella, but he was thick and powerful. And he was a man.

This is madness. Cato raked his fingers through his hair. How could he have allowed this? He should have done something to prevent it. His heart beat with guilt as much as fear, and he did not stop to a.n.a.lyze why he cared what happened to this slave girl. He stood, wavered, then sat again. What could he do now? Run into the arena? It was too late. He had failed to put a stop to something evil once again.

Octavia watched him with narrowed eyes. "What is it?"

Cato shook his head. His throat was dry and tight and he had no words. He fixed his eyes on the fight once more and prayed that the G.o.ds would spare her.

This was the light entertainment, the precursor to the serious bloodshed, and the crowd lapped it up. But there was no promise it would not turn deadly. Would the lanista allow his youngest trainee to be killed so early in his career?

Ariella and the dwarf circled for only a few moments, and then the pitched battle began. Any hope that this was not Ariella fled as he watched her move. The dwarf could only strike when close, because of the shortness of his sword. She poked at him from a distance with her longer trident, then ran at him and swept her net of knotted rope toward his lower legs. He jumped it lightly and landed on flat feet, then took advantage of her proximity to slash at her net arm. She backed away and the dance began again.

She fought with a fearlessness that surprised Cato, even though he had seen it earlier, in the street and the Forum. She was a warrior, through and through, and envy stabbed him, oddly.

But even warriors could be defeated by brute strength, and the dwarf was well-muscled and skilled. The fight favored one, then the other. The people screamed and pounded the seats. Maius must be already pleased with his investment, so enraptured was the crowd with this first battle.

But then at last the dwarf made a critical error, getting in too close. Ariella jumped and twisted, the dwarf's feet tangled in her net, and he went down. Ariella was on him in an instant, one knee in the sand, and a short dagger appeared at his throat.

The people shrieked with delight. The match had been lengthy and nearly even, the best kind. Ariella looked to where she had been instructed to look, to the place of honor where Nigidius Maius sat. She waited for him to indicate death or mercy. Cato's blood surged. He cared not whether the dwarf lived or died tonight. But Ariella had won! It sickened him to think that if the fight had gone the other way, it would have been Maius who could have ended Ariella's life.

But the crowd was pleased with the little man, and Maius read them well. He signaled Ariella to release the dwarf. She grabbed her opponent's hand and helped him to his feet, and the two ran for the arch at the end of the arena.