A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii (16 page)

“D’you owe him money, master?” Pugnax’s stare was appraising.

Rufus tried to conceal his surprise, not that Pugnax was aware of his debts—he mentioned them often enough as a reason for Pugnax to win—but because he’d never named names. A sigh escaped him. It was logical to guess that Jucundus—one of the town’s most prominent moneylenders—might be one of his creditors. “Yes. A lot. If you lose, well—” He stopped himself. If that happened, Pugnax wouldn’t be around to care. “Never mind.”

“I’ll win, master. The priest at the temple of Mars said so. You’ll have some money at least to give that leech Jucundus.” Pugnax leaned in close. “You know the fuller’s workshop around the corner?”

“Yes,” replied Rufus, confused. “Why?”

“Meet me there in a few moments, when the mayhem has died down.” Pugnax winked, and with that, he was gone.

Intrigued, Rufus watched as Pugnax sauntered to the far side of the street. Jucundus’ men paid him no heed; he looked like any other pedestrian. Whistling tunelessly, Pugnax made a show of reading the election notices that had been painted on the wall right on the corner. Many enjoined citizens to vote for a certain Julius Polybius—but the responding graffiti advised in no uncertain terms that Polybius was corrupt, a degenerate, or both. Now and again, as anyone might, he glanced at the wagon and what lay behind it.

What in Hades is he planning?
Rufus wondered. Intuition told him that it was something to do with the wine, and that it wouldn’t be good. It was playing with fire to do anything that would piss off a man as powerful as Jucundus, but in that instant, Rufus didn’t care. His rage at Jucundus, impotent for so long, bubbled at the back of his throat, and so he observed in silence, and waited to see what Pugnax would do.

At length, Pugnax moved on from the notices to the coppersmith’s. There he began to peruse the wares on display, picking up a bracelet here, and a pot there. He studied the wagon again.

Rufus felt a pang of worry. What if they noticed him? The sound of children’s voices, high-pitched with excitement, drew his attention away from Pugnax. A schoolmaster, complete with a dozen pupils in tow, came into view. A bearded, stern-looking man with a writing slate in one hand and a switch in the other, he was scolding his charges for talking, for not listening to what he was saying, for not walking fast enough.

Pugnax made his move at the same time as the boys crowded past the wagon, blocking the path of a woman carrying a basket of freshly woven wool. With bated breath, Rufus watched Pugnax disappear from sight behind the vehicle. The woman was complaining to the tutor about his students’ behavior. While apologizing, he tried to grab the ear of the boy nearest him. His target ducked back out of the way, stepped backward off the pavement and collided with one of the donkeys that was tethered to the wagon. In reply, it kicked him. The boy screamed, and all eyes turned in his direction.

Rufus longed to go outside for a better view, but he dared not, in case someone remembered later that he’d been there, had anything to do with whatever Pugnax was at. He poured some more wine, and took a swallow. “What food have you got?” he asked the buxom blonde, who was quite attractive. Rufus forgot his rumbling stomach for several heartbeats. If—when—Pugnax won, he could always come back here for a screw.

“Bread. Cheese. Olives. Fried fish. If you’re really hungry, I can cook you up some stew.” The slave’s gaze slid to the commotion outside.

Rufus decided against eating. Whatever food his father had would cost him nothing. “Hmmm. Let me think on it.”

“Shout when you’ve decided,” said the slave girl, mopping her brow, and wandering to the edge of the pavement.

A moment or two passed. Then, despite the plethora of noises from the street, Rufus’ ears picked out the sound of liquid spilling to the ground. Lots of it. There were no fountains nearby to overflow, and in his gut he knew it wasn’t a chamber pot being emptied from above.

“Jupiter’s hairy ass crack—who’s done that?” roared a voice—it had to be one of the deliverymen.

“What?” cried his companion.

“Are you blind, you fool? Look!” screeched the first man. “Someone’s cut a fucking great hole in the leather!”

“Wine!” shouted another man. “There’s wine pouring out all over the street, citizens. Grab a jug, a beaker, a pot, anything! Free wine!”

Rufus had to look at the floor so no one would see his broad smile. Pugnax was responsible. No doubt he’d done it low down, too, so the entire contents of the bag would be lost.

“Free wine! Free wine!”

A crowd descended with the speed of seagulls on a piece of rotting meat. The opportunists had containers of every kind. One man had a chamber pot; Rufus even spied an attractive patrician woman with white-blonde hair, who, when she saw him eyeing her up, gave him a most unexpected wink. The mob jostled and pushed to get a place near the streams of ruby red wine. Those with nothing to collect the liquid cupped their hands and drank as much as they could before others shoved them out of the way. Helpless before the mob, Jucundus’ men stood by and glowered. Rufus could hear them arguing about who the culprit might have been, and what would happen to them as a result.

This was why he loved Pompeians
, thought Rufus. They were so resilient. Show them some free wine, and they forgot all of their worries, even the unexplained earth tremors. Biting the inside of his cheek to hold in his mirth, he sauntered outside. Mounting the raised doorstep of a house, he scanned the street beyond the wagon. There was no sign of Pugnax, which explained the deliverymen’s confusion. It had been utter genius to act when he had, Rufus thought. It was a shame that Jucundus would never know that it had been his man who was responsible, although to be truthful, he didn’t need the trouble that would surely follow such a revelation.
Better to enjoy it in secret
, he concluded, ambling around the corner in search of the fuller’s.

Pugnax wasn’t there, but he arrived from the opposite direction before Rufus had much chance to examine the various wool tunics on sale within. Red-faced and sweating, he snorted with delight when Rufus greeted him. That set Rufus off. They both dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. The slave who was attending the shop’s front counter looked on uncomprehendingly.

Rufus regained control first. “Gods, but I haven’t enjoyed a joke as much in an age,” he said, wiping away tears of amusement. “My thanks, Pugnax. I needed that.”

Pugnax gave him the same wink as he had before. “My pleasure, master. It was worth the risk, eh?”

“Damn it, yes!” Glancing at the sun, Rufus grew serious. “It’s time to visit my father. I want to see him before going to the arena.”

“Shall I accompany you?”

“Today’s your day,” said Rufus with a smile. “What’s best for Pugnax the Neronian?”

“I’ll walk with you, master.”

Rufus inclined his head in grave acknowledgement, as he might at Saturnalia, when slaves became the masters for one night. “As you wish.”

“THANK all the gods for the awning, and Pansa, who paid for it,” said Satrius, using a square of linen to pat the moisture from his forehead and the bags under his cheeks. He pointed upward, at the massive strips of cloth that were suspended on long poles over much of the arena. “It would be worse than Hades in here if it weren’t for those.”

“Aye,” replied Rufus, studying the mottled color of his father’s complexion sidelong, and trying not to worry. On a good day, Satrius looked like an older version of himself. In these good seats that Rufus had managed to secure, he resembled a freshly expired corpse. It was no surprise. The best seating was low down in the amphitheater, near the arena. Even with the awnings, it was warmer than the
caldarium
in any of the city’s baths.
Was that why the place was half empty?
he wondered. Or was it because more people than he’d realized had left town, scared by the shaking of the earth? Either way, Rufus hoped the decreased attendance wouldn’t sway Pansa toward calling the games off.

“Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for you to come out.”

“Rubbish, my boy. I want to see this contest. This is going to be your day, and Pugnax’s. I’d never forgive myself if I missed it. Besides, the fight will take place soon. We can leave the moment it’s over.”

Rufus half smiled, but wished that he’d held off visiting his father until later. He should have anticipated that Satrius would insist on attending. It would have been better to check on Mustius, but Rufus had been put off doing that by the heavy who still lingered close to his door. He offered up a prayer to Aesculapius, the god of medicine.
Watch over my father, I ask you, Great One. Do not take him from me yet, please.

A piteous cry was instantly followed by a roar from the crowd, and their attention was drawn back to the circle of sand. As part of the day’s entertainment, Pansa had paid for a score of African antelope, five lions, and one rhinoceros—the famed “Ethiopian bull”—to be hunted down in the arena. Rufus had been busy when the antelope were herded into the open to meet the
venatores
, the men who would end the antelopes’ lives. He had seen them from a slit window in the network of tunnels that ran beneath the seating, but his priority had been to get Pugnax a good spot in one of the alcoves by the doors that opened onto the sands. In the time it had taken him to do that, greasing the palm of a guard with his last
denarii
, most of the antelope had been slain. The few survivors hadn’t lasted much longer. Desultory applause had met their demise, but a real cheer of enthusiasm had risen when the first lion had been released.

When all the cats had been killed, three
venatores
lay dead in the golden circle. Their blood soaked into the sand, turning areas of it crimson. Several of the hunters had been badly injured. Loops of gut hung from one’s belly, while jagged stumps of bone jutted from another’s arm. One man had been bitten on the shoulder and had claw marks down both legs, but the worst of all was the
venator
who’d had a lion rip off half of his face. These unfortunates thrashed about, calling for their mothers, for help, for an end to their suffering. But instead of being allowed to leave, or having a surgeon sent in to tend them, the rhinoceros was goaded into the arena.

“No one deserves to die like that,” pronounced his father through pursed lips as the massive beast gored the first man it found, before tossing him into the air and trampling him as he fell. “Not even criminals. Kill them quickly and be done.”

“Aye.” Before his time in the legions, Rufus would have watched dispassionately. Now he looked away in distaste. There had been so many casualties because the
venatores
were not professional beast hunters, but convicted prisoners.
Even Pansa’s purse wasn’t bottomless
, thought Rufus.

He scanned the dignitaries’ boxes, but Pansa hadn’t arrived yet. With a little luck, he would have taken his seat by the time Pugnax came out. If Pansa saw Pugnax win, he’d be more likely to agree to him fighting in another of his contests. And if the ground kept shaking as it had this morning, that would surely be held soon. On the back of a victory, the payment would far exceed today’s meager hundred
denarii
.

Be patient
, Rufus told himself.
Put together with my winnings from the betmaker, I’ll have over two hundred
denarii
. That will appease Jucundus. I won’t gamble a single coin of what’s left, by everything I hold sacred. What’s left will keep me and Mustius in food and fuel until the next purse comes in.

For all his good intentions, Rufus knew how tempting it would be to place a bet on some of the fights that came later in the day. He was a good judge of the local fighters. He could double his two hundred
denarii
, perhaps even triple or quadruple it. What would Jucundus say if he produced such an amount?
Don’t even think about it. You’ll lose every last
denarius, said a little voice in his head, one Rufus knew all too well. It was his moral side, and he was used to tramping over it in his hobnailed sandals. With an effort, he stopped himself short of doing so again. He would seek out Jucundus the instant that he’d collected his winnings. Once the money had been handed over, the temptation would be gone, because he’d have virtually nothing to spend.

“How did a maggot lowlife like you get a good seat like this, eh?”

Rufus would have fallen as he was yanked backward but for the hand gripping the back of his tunic. Twisting his head to try and see his assailant, he managed to scramble his legs off his bench and onto the flooring behind. His heart sank as he recognized the bandy-legged man he’d spotted earlier. “I have friends in high places,” he began.

“Shut it,” growled Bandy Legs, twisting his fist further into Rufus’ tunic. “I’m not interested.”

“What is the meaning of this outrage?’ demanded Satrius, his face purpling. “Release my son at once!”

“This sewer rat is
your
offspring? I should have guessed. There is some resemblance, I suppose, although
you
look ready to cross the Styx.”

“How dare you?” Rising, Satrius tottered forward, but Rufus waved him back.