A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii

by Stephanie Dray

  I would have the better of you, Father. Or if not precisely the better of him, better than I am offered now. My father raised me in his shadow. So much so that Mother chided him many times for treating me like the son he never had. Father hears and even seeks my opinions on everyday things, yet I was not asked for one on the man I will marry. And everything my father has built will pass over me to that man. Sabinus will someday possess the grapes ripening outside and the murals being made splendid again on the villa walls as certainly has he will possess me. The unfairness of that causes my eyes to prick.

  “I leave for Rome in three days,” the stallion’s new mistress says. “May I collect him then?”

  “Can I persuade you, gracious Lady, to wait one day more? We are in chaos here as my daughter marries on the very day you name.”

  “Congratulations.” Her eyes rest on me, faintly pitying. But perhaps I only see pity because I feel it for myself. I wish the lady and I were friends, as close perhaps as I am to my friend Julilla, for then I could ask her advice. Not how to be a model Roman wife—I get enough lectures on that from Julilla and Mother—but on how to avoid being Sabinus’ wife, good, bad, or indifferent. “I won’t interrupt your wedding, Lucia Aemilia Lepida. I’ll come for the horse the day after.”

  “Excellent.” Father offers another of his winning smiles. “Lady, will you come in and take some refreshment?”

  “Thank you, but I have messages to send to Rome.” She gives the stallion’s neck a final rub as the grooms lead him back toward his stall. “I should tell the Reds faction director he has his next champion.”

  “Well then, if you will excuse me, I have tradesmen and petitioners waiting, and artists who need pushing if we would not hold a wedding shrouded by drop cloths.” He bows, then shifts his glance to me. “Aemilia, you might check on your mother, but before you do, I believe you have business in the stables.” He gives me a knowing smile. As he turns away, Lady Diana looks at me curiously.

  “What business do you have here? Do you ride?”

  By way of answer, I draw my small crescent moon pendant—the virgin’s symbol—from my pouch and hold it up. The wood is rubbed smooth as stone from all the hours I have fingered it without even being aware I did so. How Mother scolded me for that fidget. “I do not ride, Lady. I hide.”

  She understands at once. “You don’t wish to burn it before your wedding.”

  Perhaps because she is a stranger, and strangely unlike any woman I have ever met, I have the courage to confess the truth. “I do not wish to be a bride so I will not do as a bride should do.”

  She tugs a silver chain out from the red drape of her gown, and I see a crescent moon like mine but made from silver and worn just as smooth. So she fidgets, too. “I didn’t wish to trade this for a red veil, either.”

  “I would be well content if the only thing red I wear upon my head is my hair. How did you avoid being wed?”

  “I knew how to manage my father. He's far too absent-minded to plan dinner, much less my future—and I took full advantage.” She smiles. “The law gives our lives to our fathers to manage, but not all fathers take the trouble. My father stays wrapped in his own affairs, so I am free to breed horses and manage myself.”

  “I know how to distinguish grapes with nearly the same skill as my own father,” I say proudly. “But I will never be a wine merchant, and the vineyard that stands outside this villa will one day belong to Gnaeus Helvius Sabinus, not to me. I fear, Lady, that I have not your knack for managing fathers.”

  “Gnaeus Helvius Sabinus might prove easier to manage than your father. He may be glad of a wife who knows her grapes.”

  Here is a thought. If I must have Sabinus, perhaps I can hold sway with him. For a moment my hopes rise. But they quickly sink again. If Sabinus looked at me as Faustus does, perhaps. I believe I could get Faustus to do anything for me. But I see no hungry lion in Sabinus. I turn my eyes to the little wooden moon in my hand and stroke it lovingly.

  “So you intend to hide it here in the stables?” she says.

  “Yes, though I will miss it sorely.”

  She unloops the chain from her neck and drops her little silver moon into my hand. “Silver doesn’t burn. Keep this one.”

  I look into her eyes, my own dimmed with tears. “Thank you Lady. And perhaps you could keep this for me?” I hold out my little wooden charm. “I know it would be safer with you than hidden in a stall.”

  “What’s safe? I may get kicked in the head by my new horse. Your bridegroom might run off with a tavern maid. Maybe the gods will spare you marriage after all. They did me.” She closes her callused fingers around my charm. “But I’ll keep it for you. Though Diana herself knows I haven’t needed a virgin’s symbol for years.”

  My jaw drops. She laughs and gives a kiss to each of my cheeks. “Until we meet again.”

  I mean to meet Faustus after dark while the household slumbers. Such an encounter is perilous. Being found with Faustus alone would mean both our ruins. So I must be as careful as possible. I dare not creep out until my nurse is insensible. But she cannot seem to settle into a deep sleep. She moans and groans, tosses and turns, and keeps calling out my name, putting my nerves on edge—so much so that I light a lamp, as if I were a child. At some point, I hear footsteps outside my door, and swear I hear a low voice say my name, once, twice, three times. I know it is Faustus, and the silence that follows tells me he has gone to his rest and there will be no precious time alone. No kisses. No hands exploring the curves of my body through my tunic. I drift to sleep weeping in frustration.

  And I have a horrible dream. A dream of being kissed—by Sabinus! Just over Sabinus’ shoulder I can see Faustus, his face contorted in revulsion and anger.

  I wake shaking and reaching for Lady Diana’s moon at my throat because I cannot draw breath. That is when I recognize it is not I, but the room, that shakes. My lamp lies on the floor broken. A rivulet of burning oil runs across the mosaic tiles like a river of fire, causing a good deal of smoke. Frantically I spring from my bed snatching a cover to smother the flames. I hear a ping as the betrothal ring I’d tucked beneath my pillow falls to the floor and rolls. I pay no mind, eager to address the fire, but another tremor sends me sprawling. Again I cannot breathe and clutch my throat. My nurse sits up, her eyes wild, and screams. An instant later a figure dashes into my room—a male figure. He beats at the flames with the coverlet I dropped as I fell, and stamps them too. Faustus! Not gone to bed. Waiting in the peristyle beyond, hoping against hope that I might still come to him.

  Another man runs into the room. This one with a lamp in hand. It is my father. Here is a catastrophe greater than fire. What will he think to see Faustus here? I must explain, and quickly. But Father holds up his lamp before I can marshal my words, and his face registers surprise. “Sabinus?”

  I am struck dumb.

  “It is not what you think,” my betrothed says quickly. “I was sitting in the garden, looking at the stars when I heard screaming.”

  “The stars, eh?” The corners of father’s eyes crinkle merrily. “Yes, that will do. Fortunate thing we have a wedding in three days.”

  My father’s intimation and the affable way in which he makes it summons heat to my cheeks. I must look away from his amused face, although I know I have done nothing wrong.

  Sabinus glances in my direction, registering my mortification. To his credit, he looks equally aghast. And in that moment the warmth I feel shifts from embarrassment to gratitude.

  “Lepidus, I am in earnest.” Sabinus appeals to my nurse. “You were here with your mistress, you can vouchsafe she was alone.”

  My poor old slave, doubtless addled to be awakened in such a manner and still terrified, looks between the two men. “I was here. And all the gods help us there was a fire.”

  “Fire,” Sabinus echoes the word. “A river of it no less.” Running a hand through his hair, he seems to have forgotten the rest of us. “No, it cannot be.” He looks utterly, utterly mis
erable.

  I find my voice. “It is just a broken lamp.” I feel an urge to comfort him, perhaps because he defended my honor. “I left it burning when I fell asleep. I am sorry. It was careless of me.”

  My nurse squats down and begins to gather the broken shards. For an instant, Sabinus stoops beside her, then rising he says, “Why will no one listen?” His voice is distraught. “Why will no one see? Well, not no one, but no one in a position to do anything useful.”

  “Sabinus, my friend”—Father lays a hand on my betrothed’s shoulder—“next time we drink, I mean to send you home a few cups short of what we had tonight. You are not a funny drunk.”

  Sabinus draws himself up, squaring his shoulders. “Lepidus, I am not drunk and there is nothing humorous in this situation. You think I would defile your daughter—”

  Father holds up a hand. “Pish! Enough. I believe you—”

  “—and worse still you think I am out of my wits for obsessing over the increasing tremors.”

  Father looks sheepish.

  “Please, Lepidus, I am begging you. Take your wife, your daughter, your servants and slaves and leave Pompeii. Do it tomorrow. If you will not do it because you believe me, then do it because you care for me and want to give me peace.” Sabinus takes the lamp from father’s hand, and holds it close to his own face. “Look at me, Lepidus.” With his face heavily shadowed, the poor man looks like a specter. “Look at the circles beneath my eyes. I can no longer sleep.”

  Father’s eyes reflect genuine concern. And something more—love. Yes, that is it, for I have seen the same in his eyes when he looks at me. He truly loves his friend. “Sabinus, you are not well. It is the stress. The lost election, the coming wedding, this constant shaking of the earth, all combine to prey upon you. You will stay here tonight as my guest. You will have a bath, I will mix a draught for you and then, as if you were Aemilia awakened from childish sleep by a nightmare, I will sit beside you until you slumber.”

  Sabinus’ shoulders fall.

  My father sighs. “And as soon as the wedding is over, I swear to you we will all of us go to Nuceria to pay a visit to my brother and his family. The next day if you like.”

  Sabinus nods. “Just four days,” he whispers. “Surely the gods will grant us so long.”

  As Sabinus lets Father lead him from my room, I realize the whisper—Sabinus’ lowered voice—is the same that said my name. Sabinus not Faustus was in the peristyle outside my door. Why?

  IN the morning, I cannot find my betrothal ring. Ordering my nurse to search every corner of my chamber and then search it again, I go to looking for Sabinus to ask him why he was outside my door.

  The slaves seem surprised that I seek him, and their shocked looks make me uncomfortable. If I have made my distaste for Sabinus obvious, then I have embarrassed him. Whatever I think of him as a prospective husband, he does not deserve that. Nor do my parents deserve the gossip that might arise from my exhibition of such a lack of breeding. Thank heavens I thought to hide my ringless left hand as I made my inquiries. Making up my mind to be kinder to Father, I stop in the kitchen for figs before going to his tablinum as I do every few days to check his accounts and spare his eyes the strain. He has circles under those weak eyes where he sits at his desk, surrounded by dozens of untidy tablets and scrolls.

  “Herculaneum figs!” he says, accepting my offering with a smile. “Perhaps our Pompeii figs are more renowned, but I still say these are sweeter.” He seems equally pleased when I ask about Sabinus. “He and I were awake for many hours after we left you, but that did not stop him from departing early to inspect the latest sections of lead pipes laid in that water project that is his concern. Nor have I been neglectful of my duties. I made the rounds this morning, telling all the workmen that what cannot be completed by the waning of the light will have to wait until after your wedding. The scaffolding must come down. The slaves must have a day to scrub and decorate the villa, just as your mother tells me she must have a day to scrub and decorate you.” He pops a fig into his mouth then licks his fingers.

  “Will the workmen go?” The distress in my voice is obvious.

  Father looks at me oddly.

  “I mean … if they are returning to complete the work, it makes no sense to send them away.” I pray I have covered my unthinking comment, that Father will not be left wondering why I should care if a collection of craftsmen depart.

  “Ah, my Aemilia, always so shrewd! You are right to be concerned about releasing them.” An approving nod as another fig disappears. “Gods know, I had a hard time securing the best of them to begin with. I have given them money to drink to your health and told them not to get so drunk that they cannot resume their work two days after your nuptials.”

  “We both know which instruction they will most likely follow, and which they will ignore,” I say.

  Father laughs. “Are you recovered from your scare last evening?” His face takes on a look of pride. “But then you did not seem scared, even with your nurse wailing and Sabinus despairing. Poor man …”

  But, whatever pity I felt for Sabinus last evening and whatever resolutions I formed this morning not to disdain him publicly, I am uninterested in him at this moment. Faustus will be leaving as night falls. When he returns, I will no longer live here.

  “It will take more than a little fire to scare me.” I tilt my chin up. “I am fire’s daughter, isn’t that what you always tell me?”

  “Fire’s and mine.” He holds out a hand to me and when I give him my right—being careful to keep my left behind me—he squeezes it. “I am proud of you. No man has a daughter like mine. As I love you, I tell you that no woman will have a husband like yours.”

  I turn my face away.

  “I know,” again he squeezes, “I know you cannot understand my choice right now. But you must trust that seven-and-thirty knows more of life than fifteen does. Must trust that, as I have always made certain that your mother and you have the best of everything, I have chosen as I have to secure a future for you that will see you well treated all the days of your life.”

  I think of Lady Diana with her confident swagger. I can feel her silver charm lying cool against my breast as I take a deep breath and turn to meet my father’s eyes. “Father, I trust you, but can you not also trust me? Sabinus is a fine man, but I have a better one already. I have you. Can I not remain unmarried?” This is not the time to bring up an alternate groom. “Who will check your figures if I go?”

  Father’s eyes are warm. He brings my hand up and presses it to his lips. “So that is what this is about. It is natural for a girl to be apprehensive about leaving her home. The crying and struggling a bride must do by tradition when her husband takes her away have roots in feelings that are, in the best cases, noble and true. Know this, Aemilia: you will always, always have me. Sabinus’ house is not far inside the Herculaneum Gate. You will be here nearly every day, or Mother and I will be with you.” He gives me a teasing smile. “Unless you and Sabinus do not intend to invite us to dine.”

  “But—”

  “No more, Aemilia.” Father shakes his head. “I am too tired.” Releasing my hand, he stands. “I am going to walk among my vines. Will you come?”

  Ordinarily, it is an activity I love—strolling with my father in the brilliant autumn sun—but I shake my head no. Watching him go, I think, Oh, Lady Diana, I certainly do not have your knack for managing fathers. I feel a tear tracking down my cheek and wipe it away fiercely. No doubt I will cry when I see Faustus, but I would not spoil the beauty he praises by going in search of him with a red nose and puffy eyes.

  He is sitting on the black and white tiles of the triclinium floor, carefully laying out his brushes on the cloth in which he will roll them. I am about to speak but he shakes his head to warn me. Two slaves are taking down the last of the scaffolding.

  “You do not work today?” The thought that he is leaving earlier than he must stings.

  “I am at a good stopping point, Lady.”
He says the last word rather more loudly than the rest, to make certain the slaves hear it. “And I would not start a figure I cannot finish properly. Half-restored is worse than not restored at all.”

  More slaves arrive and begin loading their arms with the dismantled scaffolding. “Where do you store those?” he asks.

  “We have been instructed to put them in one of the outbuildings.”

  “Make sure they do not get damp,” Faustus admonishes. “I do not wish my delicate work made more difficult by being forced to stand on warped boards.”

  As the last of the ladened slaves disappears, Faustus rises and, tucking his roll of brushes beneath one arm, makes the complaint: “I thought to see you last evening.”

  “I wanted to come.”

  “A slave girl told me Gnaeus Helvius Sabinus was found in your room last night.”

  “What slave girl?”

  “Oh, I don’t know her name.” He gestures dismissively, but colors.

  “Sabinus was a guest here last evening and came to help my father put out a fire in my chamber.” It is not the precise truth, but that would be too complicated to explain. Besides I am vexed at his accusation and at the idea that gossip about me makes the rounds of the slaves’ quarters.

  He moves close and puts a hand on my waist—making me uncomfortable, for anyone walking in might see. “I was insanely jealous when I heard the rumor.” His eyes burn and the hand tightens. “Come, come with me for a moment. I know a place.”

  “I cannot be seen walking through the villa with—”

  “With what? A lowly painter? Is that how you think of me?”

  “No! Without a chaperone and in the company of any man so wholly unrelated to me. I must think of my reputation.”

  “More than you think of me.” He scowls. “I was desperate to see you last night. I could not sleep. Will you meet me? It is our last chance.”

  “Where?”

  “Your father’s little cellar.”