by Casey Lane
For a long time, I was satisfied. It was wonderful to finally find a lover who could keep up with me—in mind and body. Whose tastes so perfectly matched mine, and who needed as little sleep as I did. It seemed fitting I should fall in love in Pompeii. After all, Venus was the reputed protectress of the city.
Apparently, she was asleep at her post the day Vesuvius woke up.
It will come as no surprise to the reader that Sabine did not marry for love. How could she, when she had not yet met me? Very few people wed for emotional reasons in those days, anyway. No, Sabine’s marriage was pure politics, like the unions of most other women of her class. Divorce was all but out of the question, it was employed so infrequently.
Besides, it would be Sabine’s reputation that took the hit, not Egnatius’s. With no family to go back to, and few male prospects who’d bind themselves to a “disgraced” woman, Sabine would have no means of support. And, as enterprising as she was in other matters, I did not envision her wandering the streets like a beggar. Or, as a less sophisticated kind of vendor, plying her trade to keep herself fed.
Yes, I could have married her myself, and would have. But it would have meant ending my association with Egnatius, something that would’ve benefitted neither Sabine’s ambitions, nor mine. And, as we were both immortal, I assumed we had plenty of time to come up with an alternative solution. He would die, eventually. And, if he had trouble dying, I had no reservations about helping him.
Let his esteem grow, his wealth and power build. They will make fine cushions for Sabine and me to lie upon when the time is right.
Sabine had a fair hand in plumping those cushions herself. Egnatius easily won election after election, no doubt due to the part she played in his campaigns. Even when he lost, he was never out of power for long. Her beauty and charm effortlessly put people at ease, winning converts to her cause, or laying waste to an opponent’s. Though how much of this was due to her natural charisma and how much to her magic, one could only guess. Her powers were useful for other things as well. Ensuring one did not bear children from an oafish husband, for instance.
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll divorce you for barrenness?” I asked. Her appearance put her a bit past the ideal childbearing years (gods only knew her true age, as I’ve said), but it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility. I was surprised the subject of divorce hadn’t come up between them sooner.
She laughed. “I am far too valuable to my husband’s career for him to do that. He may want proof of his virility, but he wants a consistent political position more. Besides, if he desires a son so badly, he can adopt one.” She was right, of course. To carry on their name, wealthy Romans would often adopt sons if the fates awarded them none of their own.
“And do you use that same magic on our union to ensure there is no bounty there, either?” I asked.
“Well, it would be unwise if there was. What if they took after you? How would I explain a pale-faced, yellow-haired girl or boy to Egnatius? He and I are both so dark . . . a lighter offspring would raise suspicion. Besides,” her voice deepened, “I’m sure he’s had a child—or a whole gaggle by now—with his whores over the years.”
As the proconsul’s wife, Sabine had enough responsibilities without the added chore of raising children. There were parties and banquets, and guests to flatter, charm, and entertain at each. When she was fulfilling these obligations, I could not monopolize her for long, which rankled me. How we passed our entire first night together, speaking for hours sans interruption, is beyond me. Perhaps the gods arranged it. Doubtful, but perhaps.
At least I was a frequent guest at these gatherings, being all but chained to Egnatius’s side by politics. But I didn’t mind the tether, if it allowed me to be close to Sabine. Pompeii became my home as much as Rome, if only because Sabine was there, and my heart's fascination with her.
Often, the banquets held by Egnatius and Sabine were too large to accommodate the nine dinner guests Romans typically hosted. Instead of one large, square table, as was the custom, numerous smaller ones were spread throughout the house. I thoroughly enjoyed this, as it allowed me to admire the gifts I’d brought Sabine over the years, retrieved from my numerous travels and campaigns.
There were textiles and glassware, amber, and pottery from the north. Gold, silver, and wine from Hispania. I gave her marble from Greece, ivory from Africa, papyrus from Aegyptus. She seemed mildly pleased with the dyes, perfumes, and incense I brought from our other eastern provinces. And, of course, I supplied her with slaves from just about everywhere.
At first, I thought Sabine would be jealous of my ability to venture abroad, to move freely throughout the world in a way she could not. But she did move about a good deal with Egnatius in the course of his duties, though not as widely as I did. If anything, she seemed bored and apathetic toward these affairs.
I flattered myself to think my gifts revived her from time to time, and kept her occupied when Egnatius traveled alone. My friendship and professional association with Egnatius was the perfect excuse for such munificence. And the gifts I gave him were even more extravagant, so that Sabine’s looked trifling in comparison. If the gifts had been equal in value, it might have aroused suspicion.
“You are so good to remember my darling wife, Titus,” he said to me after I gifted him a pair of tigers from Libya. “Truly, you are second to none in generosity and thoughtfulness.” He leaned toward my ear. “Just between you and me, I’m fearful for her safety while I am gone. It eases my heart greatly to know you are so often here to protect her.”
All at once, I closed my eyes, placed a hand on my chest, and bowed slightly. “My privilege, your grace.” Inwardly, I smiled. This is almost too easy.
Almost twenty years passed in this manner. I’m sure that seems like a long time to you mortals, but to creatures like Sabine and me, it was a mere flash of lightning. I was a bit concerned that Sabine’s beauty did not fade during that time. Though I enjoyed it very much—and in numerous ways—I worried that others might suspect it was not entirely natural. I myself had elected not to “stop the clock,” as it were, on my own appearance. Not even after Sabine informed me we had such power. Not yet. I didn’t want mortals knowing what I was—what we were—until I was ready.
Besides, I enjoyed the veneration that came with looking older. A seasoned general commands more respect than a youthful solider. And Sabine and I seemed more like a pair, now. Like we belonged together. So, if we ever do meet, dear reader, I will seem to you a solidly built man of forty-something. Not that we should ever meet, I think. It may very well mean you are my evening’s prey.
“And you are sure Egnatius has no idea what you really are?” I pressed Sabine one day. We were in bed, as usual; I ran my finger down her smooth, flawless cheek. Her husband was a fool, to be sure, but even fools had eyes.
“Do you think I’d have gotten this far in life if I let him find out?” Sabine busied her own fingers on parts of me that responded enthusiastically to their touch. “What sort of unskilled keeper of secrets do you take me for?” I could do nothing but give a satisfied grunt in reply. “No, Titus.” Her fingers continued their gratifying journey. “Rest assured, Egnatius does not know. He will never know, nor will anyone but you.” The rest of the afternoon passed in moaning.
Even as the decades flew by, I still remember little moments like that. In fact, I recall one banquet in particular. Egnatius, as usual, had too much to drink. He’d stumbled off the left-hand couch we lay on, slaves briskly clearing the table in the center. It was three to a couch in those days; the lower-ranking guests on the central and right-hand couches quickly followed Egnatius as he went to watch some nubile acrobats I’d gotten to perform for him.
They slithered and tumbled from table to table and guest to guest, Egnatius entranced by their skintight clothing and firm bodies. That left Sabine and me as the only two people left at the table. We feigned drowsiness and bid Egnatius enjoy my gift, which he was all too glad to do.
Slaves washed our hands. The segund mensa—the final course—was done, and the center table wheeled away. In its place, a second table appeared, laden with all manner of sweets. There was fruit—peaches, grapes, dates, figs—honey cakes, walnuts, pine nuts, and chestnuts. We were done with the lighter, honey-sweetened spirits. Now was the time for stronger wine, served out of an enormous silver bowl into our cups. We drank deeply as I stared into Sabine’s eyes, drinking deeply of the wine found there as well.
“So, what do you think Emperor Vespian is doing with that lake he drained in Nero’s palace?” I asked. “I hear he has something exciting planned. Should be amusing to see what it is.”
Sabine shrugged. “One monument rises, another falls. Much like empires. But they all go the same way, eventually.”
“Oh, come now. You can’t mean that.” I dangled a bunch of grapes in front of her, which she accepted reluctantly. “Not entirely. And certainly not about Rome. Your own star keeps rising, after all. And your husband’s.” Egnatius was slapping his thigh in laughter—too loudly—at something one of the other guests said.
You know perfectly well he owes much of his continual reelection to you, I murmured in her mind. I pushed a fig into my mouth and gazed out over the dining rooms. Now, Egnatius was making a feeble attempt to join the acrobats. I’m surprised he’s still merely proconsul. With your help, he could be emperor one day.
How do you know it isn’t because I’ve withheld my assistance that he is not? she said coyly, taking a healthy sip of wine.
What’s wrong? Don’t you want to be empress, and rule over all you see? I leaned closer. Our lips were almost touching. I could see the rosy droplets of wine on Sabine’s, and how I longed to drink.
Perhaps it is reluctance to be empress under a particular type of emperor, she replied. There was a loud thump, and Sabine leaned back, away from me. We glanced up to see Egnatius on the floor, tripping over his unwound toga. He was chasing after one of the female acrobats while the other drunken guests laughed and clapped their hands. He rose again and grabbed at the woman, who effortlessly dodged him. He tripped a second time—harder, but unhurt, making a sound like dough hitting a baker’s marble slab. Sabine closed her eyes, nostrils flaring.
I pitied Sabine. Her mind was as keen as my own, if not keener. How frightfully dull this life must be for her. Chained to a buffoon of a husband who could never match her nimble wit, or her beauty.
Perhaps, if the right type came along, you’d be more amenable to being under him? I glanced at her waist and smiled. The wine I’d drunk had made me bold, but not as idiotic as Egnatius. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was a man who couldn’t hold his liquor. Still, I knew better than to play anything other than the loyal soldier at his side. I only protected what was his; I never claimed it as my own, including his wife.
Perhaps, she said in a bored tone, stretching out languidly on the couch.
Perhaps? I echoed. I lay on my back next to her. It was that time of the banquet when such positions were excused. When guests were exhausted by the evening’s refreshments and entertainments, and rules of decorum were relaxed. Of course, these were positions we’d assumed many times before. It was almost as if we’d just finished making love.
Yes, Titus, she confirmed, placing her hands in her lap. Perhaps.
I closed my eyes and sighed. I drifted in and out of sleep to the sounds of Egnatius’s guffaws and the shouting of other guests. Sabine was teasing me, I was certain. Why shouldn’t she and I reign over the world? I wondered to myself. The Roman Empire was already the largest in existence at that time. Was Rome itself not called Roma Aeterna, the Eternal City? They say all roads led there. It seemed a place made for two eternals like us to rule. Our ascension was inevitable.
True, Sabine wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea of ruling by exposing our true natures. But she didn’t seem against stepping into the higher echelons either, if she could arrange it. She might pontificate on the sanctity of life all she wanted, but I knew she enjoyed everything Rome helped her acquire. She’d enjoy it even more with me.
And I could convince Sabine to rule as the deities we were meant to be. I was certain of it. Though she didn’t think mortals would understand a god if faced with one, they would understand us. We would make them understand. It would be the same with the High Council, if we ever crossed paths. Far from being a threat to them, I was endeavoring to raise our kind to greater heights. Surely they would see that. And, if they didn’t, I’d simply find a way to conquer them like I did everything else. Then, Sabine would be honored and worshipped in whatever way she wished. Then, she would finally be happy.
It was only a matter of time.
Chapter Five
It is hot ash—not snowflakes—cascading over us. We do not know it now, but when Vesuvius erupts, she shoots up a column of lava that hardens in the air. The column turns to ash and pumice, which the wind blows for miles onto the unsuspecting inhabitants of Pompeii.
Citizens shriek as the fiery debris rains down. Dogs howl. Oxen make low, pleading moans. Horses scream. People start running in all directions, colliding with one another. Pompeii may be a modern city, but there are still no street lamps at this time. Near-pitch blackness only adds to the confusion and terror. With the sky as dark as night, only fires started by large pieces of falling ash provide light.
I am hit from behind, and nearly tumble headlong into one of the fires. My magic stops me mid-fall, the flames a hair’s breadth from my face. I scramble to regain my balance, and run like hell with the others.
There are more deep shouts from men, and higher-pitched cries of women. Infants let out wordless, unintelligible wails. The rumbling from Vesuvius becomes more severe. We can feel it in the ground, now, working its way up and down the streets. Slates crash down from rooftops. One slices a man’s throat open. I have not time to watch him bleed to death on the stone pavement.
Men are working on a building I recognize—a row of food stands that hasn’t yet recovered from the earthquake damage in 62. The scaffolding around them collapses; those not crushed run for their lives. One by one, more buildings falls under the weight of the rocks and ash, taking great swaths of human life with them.
I can see more people, now, rushing out of their apartments. They have children in their arms, or sacks whose contents jut out at odd angles. Others emerge with carved boxes, rugs, and other items they consider precious. Some grope along the walls crumbling in the darkness, gasping for breath as hot ash fills their hair and mouths. Others pull togas or shawls over their heads as they flee. I am healing more quickly than those around me, but not quickly enough. Hot ash descends on parts of my skin that are already burned, increasing my agony. I wince, growl, squeeze my eyes shut. Gnash my teeth. Though my cries of pain would be swallowed by the cacophony around me, I fight them out of a soldier’s habit.
The clumsy—or unlucky—are quickly buried under falling ash and rocks. The foul stench of sulfur stings the nostrils, the tongue, the throat. It makes my eyes water. Others cough and choke on the poisonous gas. Their hands clutch their throats; they sink to their knees, never to rise again. Later, Christians will equate this smell with their hellish brimstone. Had they been witness to Pompeii at that moment, I’m sure it would’ve confirmed their suspicions of divine wrath.
People try to flee the streets on horses or in wagons. But the roads are blocked by crowds, corpses, and fallen buildings. Cats, dogs, and goats s
catter, white-eyed, in every direction. Shopkeepers shove valuables into their pockets and purses, gems and coins and goblets spilling from them. Foolish ones try to stay, thinking they can prevent looters. And, as in every disaster, there are already looters. But they are not able to run as quickly as those unladen with booty, and many are swallowed by cascades of ash.
The groaning sounds of oxen in their death throes reverberate in my bones. Horses scream in terror as they fall from overturned carriages and carts. People kill anyone who gets in their way, mowing each other down in blind panic. I see an infant’s head crushed by a gladiator’s heavy boot. Strangled cries—presumably the mother’s—soon follow.
The screaming is not intermittent, but constant now. Vesuvius: that great, open wound on the face of the world, keeps vomiting fire onto us. The smell of burning meat is everywhere. Like many others, I realize the voluminous folds of my toga are weighing me down. I join the men of my class in tearing the cursed garment off, leaving nothing but my tunic. I scramble through the streets, buffeted this way and that by contrary rivers of humanity. Like them, I have no destination in mind. Only a vague, self-preserving notion to get as far away from Vesuvius as possible.
When I wished for rain, I should’ve been more specific, I think bitterly. I should have asked that it be made of water.
June first, AD 79, Pompeii. It was the Festival of Carna, also called Cardea. Marked as a public holiday; courts and other public offices were closed, though most mundane shops were still open. The goddess Carna was believed to rule the heart. She had the power to turn away strixes, demon owls of ill omen said to drink human blood. The Greek writer Boios even told of a man who became a strix “that cries by night, without food or drink . . . a harbinger of war and strife.” Not that I believed such things.
