Pompeii: City on Fire (23 page)

Cato looked down at his toga, wrapped and draped with fashionable precision. "What? Not the right attire for a prison visit?"

Europa ushered him into the triclinium where he had been that first night. "No one in your position goes there."

"You do."

She studied him a moment. "I can see why Jeremiah speaks of you highly. I sense in your heart a strong passion for justice."

Cato lowered his head. She had seen too much. "I only want to help my sister."

"Your sister. The city. Those oppressed by evil."

Cato shrugged. Wasn't there a lighter topic?

She patted his arm and motioned for him to sit on one of the plump cushions placed on the benches around the low tables. "I believe you are still finding yourself, Portius Cato. And I believe the hand of God is on you, to use you for His purposes. We shall see."

A chill passed through Cato at her words, as though she were some sort of oracle telling his future. He said nothing.

Europa's husband, Seneca, joined him in the triclinium, and food and wine were brought to pass the time. Cato found the man fascinating, and listened to his tales of fortune on the seas with delight. Ironic that Ariella had guessed correctly, though the fish symbol near the door held another meaning. But as the night fell, their mood fell with it, and the somber journey became their focus.

Cato was given a servant's tunic, and he stripped and changed. Europa draped a heavy mantle over his shoulders, as though he were of Eastern descent, to further disguise his jawline. Another man came to the door to escort Cato through the streets and Cato was shocked to see it was Albus, the madman from the Forum, now in his right mind. They crossed sidewalks and stepped over gutters in silence, moving toward the Forum and its underground cells. The city smelled of sewage at night, and the purple-green mountain that always shed such beauty over the landscape disappeared into the inky darkness. The clouds that had grown thicker through the day blotted out the moon.

Cato could not keep quiet, however. "I saw you. That day in the Forum. With Seneca."

Albus slowed. "The day I was set free."

"What held you?"

"Not what. Who. The demons took my mind and body years ago."

"And now?"

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 assault 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 passed 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 succumbed 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. Snatches 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 surpassed 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 assuring 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 scraps 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 assume?"

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 knobbiness of his throat was almost comical, but Maius was far from amused.