Shit, thought Rufus. The crowd won’t like that. But before his worries could coalesce, Pugnax raised his sword and shield high and did a twirl. He had none of the grace of a dancer, indeed, he looked ridiculous. It seemed he was aware of it, because even as Murranus chased after him, Pugnax spun around again.
Laughter broke out to Rufus’ left, and then to his right. Men pointed. Some shouted encouragement at Pugnax. Others poured abuse on Murranus, whose supporters were doing the same to Pugnax. But the shouts of “Coward!” and “Fight him!” were drowned out by the roars of amusement.
Rufus grinned. “He’s trying to tire out Murranus,” he whispered to his father.
“He’d best not flit about for long, or the crowd will turn again.”
It was as if Pugnax had heard Satrius’ words. Lowering his arms, he faced Murranus, who spat something derisory. The noise in the arena drowned out what he said; Pugnax’s reply was also inaudible, but it sent Murranus running forward at him. The two traded blows for a time. Sunlight flashed off their blades and their helmets. The sand, which had been so well raked, was thrown and dragged up by their bare feet. Their shields banged off each other with dull thwacks. Murranus knew well the advantage of his shield. He was able to deflect Pugnax’s every blow. The tactic wouldn’t win Murranus the battle, Rufus decided. He wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. All Pugnax had to do was not to take a wound, and not to run away too much. Sooner or later, Murranus would weaken enough for Pugnax to injure the bastard again. When that happened, it’d all be over.
Yet Murranus was no fool. Grunting with pain, he raised his shield high. Before Pugnax could react, he brought its rim down on the top edge of Pugnax’s, whose arm was driven down by the weight. At once Murranus thrust his blade at Pugnax’s unguarded breastbone. Gasps rose from the crowd, and Rufus felt sick.
In utter desperation, Pugnax twisted sideways. Instead of running him through, Murranus’ sword sliced a long cut across his chest. Pugnax reeled back in agony, blood pouring down his belly. Murranus was after him like a lion on an injured antelope. Somehow Pugnax held up his shield, resisted Murranus’ first strike and then his second. Shuffling his feet, he backed away as fast as he could.
The audience bayed their bloodlust. Men rose to their feet, and were shouting at Murranus to finish the job, to kill Pugnax. They’re so damn fickle, thought Rufus furiously. Don’t listen to them, Pugnax. Stay strong. Murranus has spent his energy in that attack.
Sure enough, Murranus wasn’t able to pursue Pugnax for long. He halted after only a few steps, and placed his shield on the ground, so that he could rest his left arm and shoulder. His chest heaved in and out. Boos and catcalls rained down on him, but they were also being thrown at Pugnax, who was taking the opportunity to rest too.
Rufus found that he was biting a thumbnail to the quick. Pluto only knew how the contest would go from here, but it didn’t look good for Pugnax. His wound wasn’t deep, but it was long. Runnels of blood coated his whole front, and had turned his off-white undergarment crimson. The strap that helped to hold the padding in place on his right arm had been partly severed, allowing the layered linen and leather to sag down and expose his biceps. If he didn’t finish the murmillo with his next attempt, he might never win.
That was, Rufus thought grimly, if Pugnax even had the strength to fight on.
Beneath him, Rufus felt his seat shift. For a heartbeat, he didn’t appreciate what was happening, but then he saw the cloth awning overhead shaking. His heart pounded. “Stay where you are!” he hissed at his father, whose complexion had gone even grayer.
Wails of terror rose as those around realized what was going on. “Vulcan is angry with us!” cried a man. “The fighters aren’t good enough!” shouted another.
Pandemonium reigned in the moments that followed. The dominant sounds were those of roof tiles falling from buildings, people yelling and crying, or calling on the gods to spare them. The ground shook. Incredibly, the entire structure of the amphitheater trembled, like a terrified child about to receive a beating. A number of the statues that stood on the lip of the enclosure—including the one of Pansa—swayed and fell into the arena, landing with heavy thuds on the sand. An awning tore in two with a loud ripping noise, closely followed by another. A terrible screech of stone off stone, came from within the tunnel. There was a loud crash, as something immense struck the ground. Several men who had been about to enter the passage retreated, screaming that part of the roof had fallen in.
Just like that, the tremor stopped.
Rufus studied his father’s face. “Are you all right?”
Satrius nodded slowly. He looked very old. “What should we do?”
“Stay put. The amphitheater is well built. It should withstand any further tremors,” said Rufus, hoping he was right.
“Very well. We’d risk our lives trying to get out anyway,” said Satrius, indicating the next tunnel over, which scores of men were fighting to enter.
“Aye.” Rufus eyed Pugnax. He had not won, but at least he wouldn’t die. Understandably, neither gladiator had restarted the contest. Now it would be called off, leaving Pugnax to fight another day. Rufus had no idea how he would persuade Jucundus not to ask the court for Pugnax to be sold, but it was better that he had a live fighter to worry about rather than a dead one.
He hadn’t reckoned on Pansa.
The trumpets began to blare. They went on for long enough to the panicked audience to stop screaming, and to pause in their headlong flight.
“Citizens of Pompeii!” yelled Pansa as the notes died away. His very figure—tall, golden, confident—demanded attention. “There’s no need to leave! The earth has stopped moving. We are safe here. I ask you to take your seats again, for the contest has not ended! Afterward, there are more fights on the agenda, with gladiators of far greater skill. Before that, in the interval, there will be wine and bread for all. For all! Provided at my expense, naturally.”
Pansa was taking a real gamble, thought Rufus. Most times that the earth shook, there were a number of tremors before things returned to normal. Yet, as his heart beat out ten and then twenty beats, the ground and the amphitheater did not move again.
With nervous laughs, the audience began to sit down. “It’s rude to turn down free wine,” cried a graybeard off to Rufus’ left. “And bread!” added his companion, a man with a bad squint. More jokes were cracked, about how the statues wanted to join in the fight, about who’d been first to get up and run, about someone who’d wet himself.
On Pansa’s orders, the reed pipes sounded once more. With jangling nerves, Rufus studied Pugnax. The bleeding appeared to have stopped, but he was moving with painful slowness. Happily, Murranus didn’t seem in much better shape, carrying his shield at least a hand span lower than was wise. They closed in and began to spar, each trying to find a weakness in the other. Neither managed to land a decent blow, and the crowd began to rumble unhappily.
Rufus glanced at Pansa. Let him end the contest, he prayed. They’re both injured, and there could be further tremors.
But Pansa wanted blood. “Get on with it, you yellow-livered cowards, or I’ll have you both taken out and crucified!” he shouted. “The gods must be pacified!”
Murranus moved first, somehow finding the energy to charge at Pugnax. Rufus’ heart raced as Murranus tried the classic one-two legionary tactic, punching with his shield and following that with a sword thrust. But Pugnax anticipated the move, jinking to the left so that Murranus’ lunges met only air. Unable to use his sica because of his body position, Pugnax brought his small shield down on Murranus’ helmet with a loud metallic clang. Murranus’ knees buckled, and the audience roared with approval.
The move must have caused Pugnax considerable pain, because he staggered a little as he moved away, and fresh blood ran from the open-lipped wound on his chest. Rufus clenched his fists. Then, to his surprise, Pugnax closed with Murranus again. The murmillo was moving slowly, as if he had drunk too much wine. Within a
few heartbeats, he’d taken a thrust to the top of his left arm, forcing him to drop his shield on the sand. With a grunt of triumph, Pugnax advanced, sica slicing the air. Murranus retreated from his shield, and Rufus exulted. There would be only one outcome now.
Soon, he would collect his winnings. Jucundus would be appeased. Once the surgeon had stitched Pugnax up, he’d just need time to heal. Within six weeks or so, he’d be ready to fight again. With Pugnax a winner once more, Rufus thought, his creditors would become more amenable.
Another tremor struck, more powerful than the first. Five statues tumbled into the arena this time, and a large section of awning fell into the crowd. The timbers that held the cloth aloft were as thick as a man’s arm, and several people were injured, or worse, when the timbers landed. It was too much for most. Screams of fear rose from everywhere—An old man: “Flee! We must flee!” From a child: “Mother! Where are you?” A terrified looking merchant moaned, “Forgive me, Pluto. I should not have taken your name in vain.”
Ignoring Pansa’s cries that they should remain where they were, the poorest spectators, who were in the upper parts of the amphitheater, fled to the exits and the stairs that led down to street level. Seeing what was happening, those lower down reacted in the same way. Some ran upward, some down, toward the tunnels that weren’t blocked. A few even jumped down into the arena and demanded to be let out through the passageway used by the gladiators.
When Rufus urged his father to remain where he was, he seemed content to obey. They weren’t in huge danger of dying by staying put. Their position was only just over a man’s height above the sand. Even if the building collapsed, they didn’t have far to fall. There was greater risk, for his father especially, in wading into the midst of a terrified mob. People had been trampled to death during the panic of the earth shocks of the previous month. No, thought Rufus, we will wait and see what happens.
Pugnax and Murranus had stopped fighting again: they both looked exhausted. This time, no one ordered them to continue. Pansa wasn’t all talk, Rufus saw. His box was empty, but that was because he was among the crowd, trying to persuade them to stay. His voice was being drowned out by the general panic, however. The fight was over. Rufus mouthed a foul curse. If Pugnax hadn’t actually won, he wouldn’t get paid the victor’s purse of two hundred denarii. All that he’d be due was the measly fee for Pugnax fighting. Rufus could already hear Pansa’s agent saying that the whole amount wasn’t payable because the contest had been inconclusive. He’d argue the point of course, but if Pansa had made up his mind, he would have to agree to it.
Rufus’ spirits sank to a new low at the thought of Jucundus’ response to his revised circumstances. There would be no sympathy, no mercy. He would be evicted as soon as the court could hear Jucundus’ case against him. The moment that Pugnax had healed up, he would be sold to raise money for his creditors. Rufus raised his eyes to the sky. He wanted to scream at the gods, but didn’t quite dare, given what was happening. He held in his rage, instead asking silently, Why did you have to make the earth move now, Vulcan? Could you not have waited for even one hour?
You have ruined me.
Satrius’ grip on his arm drew him a little from his misery. “What is it, father?”
Satrius placed his hand on the stone seating between them. “Feel it. Another tremor.”
Rufus didn’t need to obey. He could feel the vibration in his buttocks, far stronger than the two previous movements. His stomach did a neat flip, but he managed a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to us.”
A wave of hot air such as Rufus had never felt, even in the caldarium, hit him in the face. It was so strong that he was rocked backward and almost fell. He threw out an arm and just managed to prevent his father knocking his head on the stone of the seat behind. Clouds of sand lashed everyone in the audience. In the arena, the blast sent Pugnax and Murranus sprawling to the ground.
BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!
BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!
The double sound was louder than anything Rufus had ever heard. It ripped the air apart, drowned out everything else, even the speech of those right beside him. It felt as if they were all inside a giant drum that had just been struck an almighty blow by a god. Rufus’ guts turned to liquid, sweat ran down his face in rivulets. Open-mouthed, more scared than he had been in his life, he turned to his father. Satrius looked equally petrified.
RUMBLE.
The noise was like that made during a horrendous thunderstorm, but thousands of times louder. The fact that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky made it infinitely more terrifying.
Rufus’ money worries vanished. “What was that?”
Satrius’ eyes were dark pools of fear. “I don’t know. Perhaps the world is ending.”
The rumbling died away, and was replaced by shouting and screaming. The struggle to leave the amphitheater became even fiercer. At the top, a man who was pulling at those with their backs to him was given a shove backward. The man tripped and fell, tumbling down the staircase in an untidy tangle of limbs. At the last, his head struck the stone with a sickening crack. He twitched once and lay still.
Rufus paid him no heed. His gaze was locked on a toga-clad man above, someone he recognized, who had stopped trying to push his way to the exit. Instead he was pointing to the northwest, his face twisted with pure fear. “Vesuvius! Gods above, look at Vesuvius!” he yelled over and over.
“Don’t move! I’m going to take a look.” Leaving his goggle-eyed father behind, Rufus sprinted up the steps. By the time he’d neared the press of people, their desire to flee had been subsumed by the need to witness whatever was happening to the mountain. Everyone’s gaze was locked on Vesuvius.
Nothing could have prepared Rufus for what he saw. An enormous brown column protruded from Vesuvius’ peak, pushing so high into the sky that it seemed bound for the stars. The muddy colored pillar was soaring upward with incredible speed, and broadening as it rose. Around him, men were screaming that a giant, such as the one that lived under Mount Etna, had broken free of his chains. Rufus had no idea whether that was true, but when the column began to flatten out into a cloud-like shape, it occurred to him that the hot wind in his face was coming straight from the mountain. Whatever was in the column—and no one needed to tell him that it would be bad—would be heading their way.
Fast.
It was time to leave Pompeii.
He pounded down the steps toward his father. There had been occasions—all battles—during Rufus’ time in the army when he had felt an urgent need to flee. He never had, because his duty had been to stand with his men and fight, and if necessary, to die. Today, yet again, he could not do as he wished. Although every instinct was telling him to run to the nearest gate and head south, he had his father to look out for. He couldn’t leave Mustius any more than he could Pugnax. Servant or slave, injured or no, they were loyal. The sky above darkened a fraction, and Rufus felt an overwhelming urge to piss. He shoved the feeling away ruthlessly. I might be a drunk, and have a gambling problem, but I look after my own, he thought. I always have, and always will.
Whatever the price.
“I have to rest.”
The constant rumbling thunder meant that Rufus only heard because Satrius’ mouth was close to his left ear. He had been half-carrying his father. Without answering, he guided them to the nearest open doorway, that of a house, walking with care so that he didn’t trip on the irregular layer of rocks and pebbles that coated the ground. Some time had passed since the three—Rufus, Satrius, and Pugnax—had left the amphitheater and already the paving stones underfoot were growing hard to discern. The rain of stones hadn’t stopped; if anything, it was growing heavier. There were constant cries from those on the street as they were hit.
Rufus felt a stinging blow on his right elbow and spat an oath of his own. He had lost count of the number of times rocks had connected with his flesh. He could take the pain, and so could Pugnax, who was trudging along behind them, but his
father, who was also being struck, was a different matter. With every step, he seemed to grow weaker. Taking even more of Satrius’ weight, Rufus covered the last few paces at speed and pulled them in through the doorway.
Too late, he saw the shape of the crouching dog on the mosaic beneath his feet, and read the words, “CAVE CANEM.” There was a ferocious growl. Out of the corner of his eye, Rufus saw a large, black shape lunging forward. Instinctively, he tried to put himself between the guard dog and his father, but his reaction was far too slow.
TCCCHHHINKKK!
Relief bathed Rufus. The chain that tethered the beast had dragged it to a halt a few paces short of their position. With bared teeth, it lunged at them repeatedly, to no avail.
“Friendly thing, isn’t it?” said his father. “Maybe it doesn’t like our hats.”
“I’m not surprised,” replied Rufus, grinning. All three had tied seat cushions from the amphitheater on their heads as protection from the lethal rain of stones. They were also coated in ash from head to toe. “We look like circus fools, eh?”
“Better these cushions than to suffer a staved-in skull,” his father observed.
No one argued. They had seen more than one person lying on the street, killed as neatly as they might have been by a slinger’s lead bullet on the battlefield.
Rufus gave silent thanks to Aesculapius. His father might be too weak to walk unaided, but he still had a sense of humor. There was hope for him yet.
“Let’s hope its chain is well secured to the wall.” Pugnax raised his sword, which was stained with Murranus’ blood. “I could always use this on the brute.”
“Leave it be. It will calm down eventually, and the owners could be within,” said Rufus. “Besides, we won’t be here for long. Just keep an eye on it.”
After helping his father to sit with his back against the wall, Rufus peered out onto the street. Fresh fear clawed at him. In the few moments that they’d been inside, it had grown even darker. It couldn’t be more than an hour past midday, but it felt as if night were drawing near. There was no sign of the barrage of stones ceasing. They clattered down on the roof tiles of the houses, raising an awful racket. Sprays of water rose from a fountain opposite as it filled little by little with rocks.
A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii Page 14
