Pompeii: City on Fire (18 page)

Neither did she speak, and they sat that way for some minutes, as though strangers. And yet Cato was fiercely aware of her closeness, as though he had measured every breath of air between them. When she reached for her cup, her arm brushed his own, and set it on fire.

Not good, Quintus. Not good at all.

He played the fool. But it could not be helped. The flickering warmth of the brazier fires and the heavy air scented with honey seemed to root him to the cushions despite his misgiving.

Lucius stood at last, and approached him. His face had lost some of its weariness. "They will help." He held out a hand to lift Cato from the cushions. "In the morning they will find her and see that she is well."

Cato grasped his brother-in-law's hand and hefted himself to standing.

Lucius inhaled deeply. "It is all we can do for now."

Cato nodded. "That is good. For now it is good. Tomorrow we can begin to find a way to free her." He glanced down at Ariella, still on the couch, then turned to Lucius. "Go ahead home without me, Lucius. I have—some business—to attend."

Lucius took in Ariella. Clearly Cato had betrayed his interest, and he could only imagine what Lucius was thinking about his sudden attention toward the young man. Or perhaps her identity was as obvious to Lucius as it was now to him. But Lucius only nodded, eyes narrowed.

"We will speak tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

Cato sank to the cushions once more, but when Lucius was well away from the house, he whispered to Ariella. "You should return to the barracks. Let me walk you there. The streets are not always safe."

She half-smiled. "For a gladiator?"

He laughed quietly. "For certain gladiators."

He had expected her to refuse, in the stubbornness he had already sensed in her, but she did not. Instead, with a kiss to the forehead of her old friend, she stood and bowed toward Europa, then followed him from the chamber.

They walked in silence through the darkened courtyard, past the Persian slave who stood with bulky arms crossed against his bare chest. Cato slowed inside the doorway before the street, and ran his fingers over a mosaic design embedded in the wall.

"What is it?" Ariella tilted her head to examine the colored stones.

"A fish. It is the sign of the fish."

"Perhaps they have made their fortune on the sea."

But Cato had seen this symbol before. In Rome. Inside the home of his uncle Servius. A chill shuddered through him.

It would seem that at every turn he aligned himself with those who could do his political career more harm than good. First the rumors of Portia, then this strange and haunted gladiator beside him, and now a sect of people who took care of prisoners, fed the poor, and banished evil and madness from the souls of man, and yet were highly disfavored by Rome.

He led Ariella into the night, now black as silk, and walked at her side toward the theater and the barracks. Their arms brushed together and he did not move away. She spoke first. "Your sister—she is in prison?"

"Yes. Unjustly."

"She was the woman with you in the training yard that—that day?"

Cato smiled into the darkness. "The day we met? Yes."

She was silent then. He told himself she was relieved to hear Portia was not his wife, nor his mistress.

"Do you have family? In Judea?"

She tensed. "You killed most of them."

"I—?"

"You Romans. My parents, my sister. All killed when Titus took Jerusalem. Only my brother Micah escaped, but I do not know if he still lives." Her voice fluttered over the last few words.

"I am so sorry, Ari." Did she see only murdering tyrants when she looked at him?

The few minutes' walk with her was too short. All too soon they reached the edge of the quadriporticus, where she should be able to sneak back into her cell without notice. He looked across the shadowy field to the series of darkened doorways under the colonnade. "You are left alone in your cell, now?"

Behind him, her voice grew wary. "How did you know that I was given a private cell?"

He shrugged. "I thought it would be best—"

But she pushed past him. "I do not need your help—"

He pulled her to face him before she disappeared under the stone arch. "I watched you fight."

Her expression was still haughty, but after a moment she exhaled and grinned. "Not bad?"'

He laughed. "I was sick the entire time."

Her smile faded, replaced by a vulnerability he had not seen before. He longed to touch her, to feel that fascinating hair, to see if her lips were as soft as they appeared. His mouth went dry with the thought, and his heart thudded against his chest.

You are such a fool, Quintus Portius Cato.

Ariella was not a woman he could ever marry, clearly. And without doubt she would never consent to be his mistress, even if he asked.

What then was left for them? Only a gentle squeeze of her fingers and a quick farewell. "Be safe, Ari the fighter." His words were a whisper in the darkness.

She said nothing, only watched him as he backed away.

When he finally turned toward home, it seemed to him that she watched him still, warming his back with her dark eyes.

CHAPTER 21

Ariella watched Cato walk toward the street, away from her. What could she say to bring him back?
Nothing, silly girl.
The night had been fearful, then baffling, then as near to wonderful as she had come in many years.

Before he reached the street, before he could look back and find her watching, she slipped under the stone arch into the barracks, then stepped aside and leaned back against the wall. She was not ready to trade the beauty of the night for her ugly cell.

Moonlight played over the dark green grass and striped the portico around the field with bands of white and black. She could smell the damp grass, and it recalled to her mind the way that Cato smelled, of grapes and fertile soil. Her shoulders dropped and she leaned her head against the stone. The night was hushed, with no sound but the trill of unfamiliar night birds, wrapping her in their sleepy song and loosening the tightness she strove to retain around her heart.

When Cato had first appeared in the doorway of Europa's triclinium, Ariella's heart had leaped with the ridiculous thought that he had come for her. After that initial foolishness, she had struggled to find sense in the coincidence. But when Cato called her name, and Jeremiah realized who stood in the door, the old man squeezed her hand until she looked into his pained eyes.

"This meeting is of Hashem." His smile competed with her scowl. "He watches over you, dear girl, and He has something for you in this man. I know not what. But you must be ready."

She had listened to the words spoken in Hebrew, words for her, Jeremiah had said. She had felt the hand of the Creator on her, as she had not felt in many years, since she had turned her back on Him and His holy city, and fled from both.

And now, alone in the grassy training field, Ariella still had only questions.

That Cato had some interest in her was clear. He had paid Drusus for her private cell! She had thought it was Jeremiah who had somehow arranged the luxury, but saw now that only money crossing his palm would have induced Drusus to agree.

Her breath shallowed as she thought of Cato beside her on the cushions, his skin brushing against her own. Of his eyes on her in the street only moments ago. He was a man with the beauty and money to have any woman he wanted. What was she to make of a Roman nobleman who looked at her thus?

True, in Jerusalem she was not a slave. But that was many years ago, and she had fallen a great distance. Cato was as sophisticated and smooth as the fine wine he smelled of, and though it flowed over her, warming her, he could want nothing honorable. She should not be surprised. From the moment they had first spoken she had seen that he wore the role of jester, of the carefree rich who sought only to amuse themselves. She was the latest amusing thing to capture his interest, a woman disguised as a man pretending to be a fighter. An oddity, nothing more.

She pulled away from the wall. Jeremiah's injuries would be cared for, and she must forget the rest of the night's events. Forget the Romans who quoted from the Torah and spoke of her God as though He was their own and showed her love despite her status. Forget the single fascinating Roman who drew her to himself like no one ever had.

She must train, and train well. Only ten days until the next fight, and she had much to prove.

And so she returned to the field, returned to her leather and sweat, to her wooden rudis and the palus and to sparring with men twice her size and of even greater strength. She laced up her heart even as she wrapped the leather around her hands, and swore that she would think of nothing but the arena.

And for several days, she found success. She fought with the fierceness of a trapped and hunted animal. The taunts grew fainter, and the occasional word of praise from Drusus reached her ears and strengthened her arm. She
could
achieve her goal of making a name for herself in the arena, then reveal her gender to win the crowd's acclaim.

Perhaps it was the lull of temporary success, perhaps it was only fatigue, that lowered her defenses and made her foolish. She had always taken great care to dress and bathe in the dark hours of the late night and early morning, when a stray glance into her cell would reveal little to the passerby. But one evening while the light still found its way between columns and stone and gate, she stripped the sweaty armor from her body and sought relief from a rag dipped in a bucketful of cool water.

A scrape of sandal on stone was followed by a sharp intake of breath. Ariella snatched up her tunic and covered herself, then lifted her eyes to the bars.

Celadus stood before her, the whites of his eyes impossibly large. He reached out to grip the bar, as if to steady himself, and his voice was a harsh whisper. "How could I have not seen it?"

Ariella's stomach heaved. "Celadus—"

He shook his head, held up a palm, and strode away, back to the quadriporticus.

Cursing her stupidity, Ariella dressed quickly, with shaky hands, then hurried out. He stood across the field with three or four others, and Ariella slowed her frantic rush and bit her lip. Was he revealing her secret already? Dare she approach?

But though the fighters laughed over some shared humor, they did not look at her any differently when she neared.

"Celadus." She kept her voice low. "I must speak with you."

He did not look at her. "Not now.
Ari.
" He spat her distorted name as though it were distasteful.

She pinched his elbow. "Please, Celadus."

But he yanked away, and brought the laughter of the group.

"It seems it is more than the women who are your fans, eh, Celadus?" Floronius punched his arm and winked. "Even the girlish boys have their eye on you."

Celadus's face flushed, but he would not look at Ariella.

"Ari!"

Her name was shouted from across the field, and she jumped, her nerves tight.

Drusus crossed the grass. He carried her painting supplies. "Need more signs. For the next fight." He reached the men and pushed the paints and brushes into her hands. "Something that will make people stop and read, understand?"

Ariella glanced at Celadus, but his back had turned. "I understand." She backed away from the men, hoping Celadus would at least give her a look of compassion, of continued friendship. Of forgiveness. But it was as if she did not exist.

She moved into the city on wooden legs, unsure of whether her ruse had finally had come to an end, or if Celadus would keep her secret.

The evening sun had dipped behind many of the walls in the tight streets she crossed, but the crowds had not diminished. Delivery carts rattled over the rutty stone streets, their drivers shouting at animals and people alike. The offending horses and donkeys snorted and clicked an uneven rhythm across the cobbled stones and the people responded with matching shouts and rude gestures. Ariella bumped along, a piece of wood caught in the human tide, toward the Forum. The city passed in a blur of tans and reds and oranges, until she reached the white stone of the Forum, lit like gold by the setting sun.

She found a space of wall without any notices painted on it, outside the Eumachia, and began to paint. The outline of the arena took shape under her brush, and it would capture attention.

Inside the arena she painted the first words that came to her:
Celadus the Thracian makes all the girls swoon.

She smiled. He would like that. But would she get the chance to tell him?

All too soon the twilight fell, and she made her way back to the barracks. The lanista met her inside the entrance, his face grim. Her stomach dropped.

"Need to speak to you, boy."

She breathed. There was the
boy
at least. "You will like the signs." Her voice sounded feeble. Girlish.

"I hope you painted something about yourself." He turned and crossed the grass and she followed.

"Myself?" In truth, she had. Still clutching at her hopes to win her freedom, she had not passed up the opportunity to promote Scorpion Fish on the city walls.

His voice barely reached over his shoulder to her. "I've been watching you. I think you're ready for more."

Ariella's hands tightened around her brushes and paint.
Yes.

"I'm putting you against Floronius." He turned at last in the shadow of a carved column. "You will be third." She must have betrayed her excitement, because he chuckled.

"Yes, Ari. A real fight for Scorpion Fish."

She flushed, then nodded. Drusus disappeared into his own chambers, leaving Ariella in the courtyard to contemplate the rise and fall of her fortune.

Could Jeremiah be right? Was she indeed watched over by the God of her fathers?

CHAPTER 22

Cato shoved aside all thoughts of gladiators, and focused on his own fight for the position of duovir. There was much to be done, beginning with taking the temperature of the city's rich and powerful. As there was no better place for such a thing than the baths, Cato headed there early one morning. He carried his small pot-bellied jug of oils in his palm, but his mind was occupied with neither luxury nor cleanliness. His campaign did not have much time, and it might be the same for his sister.