Pompeii: City on Fire (7 page)

"Over here, Ari," Celadus called. "The fight's over here."

"Sorry." She refocused.

But her eyes strayed to the leaner man again. There was something about him that she liked. His wavy hair was styled in the Roman fashion, and his clothes spoke of wealth but were not ostentatious. He carried himself with confidence, like a man who has tried himself on and found it to be a good fit. Strong jawline. Ready smile.

He had a woman with him, a stunning beauty. She wore a pale blue robe the color of sky, gathered at the shoulders and secured with gold pins. Ariella studied her through a twinge of jealousy. From the way she put her hand to the man's back, she was likely his wife.

"Ahh!" Celadus's wooden sword clapped down on her shoulder.

"Keep your eyes where they belong, boy!" Celadus said. "There'll be bigger crowds than this on the sand, and animals besides. You must learn not to be distracted."

She rubbed her shoulder and grimaced at Celadus. "Fine." She circled so that she could watch the man and the beautiful woman over Celadus's shoulder as they sparred. Drusus would not leave Celadus paired with her for long. The bigger man needed opponents who would challenge him. She had better learn to fight well or she wouldn't fight long enough to survive.

But the interaction behind Celadus still distracted her. The big man had left with his friends, and another, smaller group had approached, but these seemed to frighten the Roman somehow, and before long he turned and left, nearly running from the enclosure.

She felt a sharp poke in her side and shot a look at Celadus.

"You are worthless tonight." He waved his sword. "And lucky I fight with wood."

Drusus called a break, and Celadus huffed away in disgust toward the lanista, no doubt complaining about having to look after an idiot who could not fight.

Ariella crossed to the covered walk and collapsed onto a bench. Since arriving in Pompeii yesterday she had recovered much of her energy, but the training was vigorous. She swiped at her damp brow with her forearm and leaned her back against the stone wall.

A slave approached with a bucket of water and a metal dipper. She glanced at him from under lowered lids, then lifted her head for a better look. He was strong, but a bit grizzled, with deep lines about the eyes. And there was something about him . . .

Jewish.

She waited for him to look at her. He bent to his knees and offered her a dipperful of water, lifting it above his head for her to hold as she drank. She took the lukewarm water in her mouth and swallowed. Then said softly,
"Shalom."

His head jerked upward and he peered into her eyes. "A fellow traveler." He smiled slightly.

She nodded. "Still longing for home."

Word had come from Rome that Emperor Vespasian had died, and his son Titus succeeded him. Titus, who had led the rampage across Judea. It was best to speak carefully, though she would spit upon the man if he stood before her today.

The slave pulled a rag from his belt and dipped it into the water, then stayed on his knees to wash her lower legs, grimy from the mud of the practice field. It was an odd feeling, but she allowed it for the chance to speak to him.

"How long since you have seen Jerusalem?" His question was a whisper.

"Nine years." He would grasp the significance.

He sighed heavily. "Did you see the Temple—after?"

"I saw it burn before my eyes." Her voice caught and the slave paused in his work but did not look up.

"Your family?" he asked.

"All lost but a younger brother. But I know not where he is, nor if he still lives."

The slave resumed, nodding. "I share your grief. We long for the Messiah's return."

Ariella snorted. "I have long ceased waiting for a prophet's dream."

He did not speak at first, but then said quietly, "Perhaps He has already come, and we did not know Him."

Ariella shrugged. "I have more faith in those who fight here and now."

He finished and stood, looking down on her face for the first time. His expression shifted. Did he know her secret? "Surely you have not been with the troupe these nine years?"

She shook her head. "Less than four weeks."

His lips twitched into a small smile. "Take care." He inclined his head toward the city. "The arena can be a cruel place for a—for anyone."

And then he was gone, moving on to offer water to the next thirsty trainee, and Ariella was left with a deep sorrow for home and family, one that hollowed out the inside of her heart.

The break ended, and Ariella returned to the field, this time left to herself, to train against the
palus,
a wooden post driven deep into the ground.

She became aware, gradually, of someone watching her, and was startled to find it was the nobleman from earlier. He had returned alone and stood apart, his face creased with an emotion she could not read. Sadness? Anger?

She paused in her drill when she noticed him, and he acknowledged her attention with a small nod.

She looked away, her thoughts jumbled. If her life had not become what it was, she would have felt herself his equal. Before the siege that took their futures and their lives, her family had been wealthy and prominent. She was accustomed to interacting with men such as this from a young age. The pull of attraction would not have seemed misplaced, except for his Roman patronage.

But here, in Pompeii, she was not the daughter of a wealthy Jew. She was not even a woman. While in her eyes he was an attractive man, she was only a slave boy to him. The thought discomfited her.

"You are young for the arena." He studied her, as if reading her thoughts in part.

She lowered her rudis but said nothing.

"How old are you?" His face had lost the pensive look and he seemed now to be only seeking distraction.

"Sixteen," she answered, as though her years had ceased to advance when Jerusalem fell.

"So do the crowds come to see you fight, or to see you die?"

"Why did
you
come?"

He laughed. "Quick boy. Not to see you, of course. Two stray dogs in a street fight would be more entertaining."

She attacked the palus again. "Do not let the lanista hear that." Another strike. "He expects me to earn my keep."

"I would think the fighter Paris makes him more money than he needs."

She huffed and turned on him.
Always Paris.
"Is that why you keep coming? To see Paris?"

He narrowed his eyes. "
Keep
coming?"

Ariella turned away, chiding herself. "I saw you here earlier. Watching."

"And you thought I was watching you?"

She struck the wooden pole once more. "I thought you were one of the many who enjoy bloodshed, and revere those with more muscle than mind."

He laughed again. "An undersized gladiator with an oversized mouth! It is a pity your lanista cannot make money on the strength of your wit rather than your arm."

"But it is as you said. You have come to see Paris."

"You are jealous?"

Ariella dropped her sword, remembered her stab of jealousy at the woman in sky blue that had been with him, and laughed at the irony. "Paris is a stupid brute."

"Ah, but that is the best kind of brute, don't you think?"

She refused to humor him. "He is over there." She pointed to where Paris trained in the shadow of the covered walkway. "Enjoy your conversation."

He looked at her strangely. "Something tells me it will be dull in comparison."

Ariella shrugged. "You have been warned."

He moved away, and she watched him go, then flushed when he turned back and took a few steps toward her. "I am Portius Cato."

She nodded. Why give his name?

"And you are—?"

"Ari."

"Ari." He nodded, inhaled, and looked to Paris. "Ari, if you need anything while in Pompeii, send a message to the house of the Catonii. I will do what I can."

And then he turned again and strode toward Paris, leaving Ariella to stare after him, more confused than before he had spoken.

She pointedly ignored the interaction between Paris and the nobleman for the next few minutes, and did not look at him when he strolled from the barracks. But she soon found a way to draw near to Paris and make a casual comment about his admirer. "Perhaps he means to sponsor the games." She kept her voice light. "He seemed quite interested in you."

He grunted. "He is a rich man who follows the games. That is all. He made no mention of sponsoring me." He scratched his neck and grinned. "But do not worry. I will not be with the troupe much longer."

Ariella looked sideways at the handsome fool.

"I have a good feeling about this town. If I can keep winning here, there'll be extra purses for me. I need to win the crowd. And then I'll buy my freedom."

Ariella had heard talk of this possibility, but none of the other fighters seemed to believe it likely.
Of course, Paris would believe he could.

"Maybe I will win the crowd as well."

"Ha!" Paris slapped her shoulder, knocking her forward. "You won't last that long, my boy. The best you can do is learn to die well and bring honor to the lanista and the
editores
who sponsor the games."

She bristled. "All I have to do is evade the sword and entertain well. Perhaps I can do that with the animals."

He grew serious, and his eyes would pierce her through. "This is no place for weaklings. Drusus shames the troupe by putting you out there. And I don't intend to let you steal any of my crowd by gaining sympathy for the underdog." He gripped her shoulder, as if in camaraderie, but his fingers shot pain into her muscles. "Ari, my boy, I doubt you'll even see the arena. You'll be finished off in training one of these days."

It was more than a prediction.

It was a threat.

CHAPTER 7

Gnaeus Nigidius Maius did not care to get his hands dirty. For that, he had others. Both the slaves that followed him northward through the city's Forum this morning, and those that answered his summons for work best accomplished without attention.

The Forum lay before him today as a mute reminder of all he had not yet accomplished in this city. Its broad central court of white paving stones, bordered on three sides by civil offices, markets, and warehouses, still bore the marks of the earthquake seventeen years ago that had ravaged their town. Thanks to Maius, much rebuilding had been accomplished, but there was still much to be done. At the far end of the Forum the Temple of Jupiter, with its still-broken right arch, attested to the new ideology—one that favored improving the centers of leisure, like the baths and theaters, over the temples dedicated to the worship of the emperor. Beyond the Forum, mothering the city, lay Mount Vesuvius.

Ah, well. We must give the people what they want.
He headed for the northeast corner of the Forum, where the town's main market, the
Macellum,
would already be churning with shoppers, and where the slaves who hurried to keep pace with him would pick out his purchases for the day.

In truth, he trusted his household slaves to choose the fish and cuts of meat for him, and even the luxury purchases he demanded. No, today he had another goal for his visit to the Macellum.

"The people do not care so much about the Temple," Gracchus was saying at his right. Maius had forgotten the man was there. "But they are unhappy that the Macellum is still void of decoration. It is an ugly place to shop, some say—"

Maius held up a hand to stop the putrid flow from the man's mouth. How did he ever tolerate Gracchus's incessant rasping in his ear? If not for the tidbits of factual gossip his advisor had a talent for unearthing, Maius would have found a charge worthy of execution for the man long ago.

They passed the Eumachia and Temple of Vespasian, crossing between marble columns to walk in the shaded portico that ran the length of the Forum on both sides. The Macellum lay just beyond the grand arch, one of a pair that flanked the Temple of Jupiter at this end of the Forum. Maius halted his progress at the Forum Gate of the market and surveyed the inside. Gracchus was right.

"Why have the sculptors not completed the dome of the
tholos
?" He spoke more to himself than to Gracchus. "The gods know I've funneled enough money to the project." The round structure in the center of the market enclosure, with its ring of columns supporting a domed roof, was both practical and decorative. The official weights and measures were kept there, around a central fountain that boasted live fish. But the dome still bore the ragged chisel marks of its creation, not yet smoothed into twining vines and blooming flowers. Maius fumed over the delay. The people must feel contented with their city. It was the only way to keep them contented with its government.

Gracchus started into a sputtering response, but Maius crossed the threshold without hearing it. It was time to begin his rounds.

The Macellum's three sides were lined with a series of
tabernae,
single-roomed shops with barrel-vaulted ceilings. Maius nodded to the servant whom he kept to staff his wine shop on the right side of the market, pricked with annoyance at the memory of Portius Cato at the theater. When he first heard of Cato's arrival in Pompeii, he had thought to crush the younger man for his ignorance in setting up a competing business. But after last night's unpleasant encounter, and Cato's preening arrogance, the desire had grown to take Cato down.

Maius sighed over the ever-present pressure of public life, then put it aside and turned to the left side of the square, reserved mainly for butchers, with marble counters provided to keep the meat cool and special troughs for drainage. He crossed to the first of them, hung with hunks of blood-red meat, their own marbling of yellow-white fat mimicking the counters.

Men of any status could be controlled, Maius had long ago learned. Each required a different tactic, but he had mastered them all. For the pleasure-seeking vacationers from the city, Maius was the beneficent host, and few of them cared to concern themselves with local politics. His money had purchased much of the town and its surrounding fields, and most of the lower classes were in his employ. For the wealthy townspeople, whose chief pursuit was leisure and distraction, he had informants well-placed in many households, and the secrets he kept were as good as chains around the nobility. And for those who could be neither bought nor blackmailed, there was always the effective, if conventional, threat of violence.