A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii

by Stephanie Dray

  “I know you better than I did a few hours ago,” he said, blood sliding down his arm. “You’re too stubborn and too brave to leave me, even if you should. Even to save yourself. So I am removing the choice from you.”

  “You ass.” She wrenched away, lunging back toward the water trough where she’d left the unwound length of toga. She tore at the filthy purple border. “If we get you bandaged tight enough—”

  “Don’t make me fend you off with a blade.” Marcus still held the dagger, and he hated to think of pointing it at a woman, but he feared it might be necessary.

  “I am not leaving you to die,” Diana roared, flinging the toga down with a blistering curse and diving into the stall with the horse. “A rein, a length of leather, something to tie your arm off with—”

  Marcus considered making another slash just to hurry himself along—the first wouldn’t be deep enough to finish the job at all quickly—but there was a loud and very sudden creak. His eyes flashed up to see the other side of the stable doors wrenched wide, and suddenly they were not alone.

  Two men stood in the straw, shaking themselves loose of cloaks and padding, swearing in loud, shaking voices. Marcus had always prided himself on being able to evaluate any Roman’s status by his bearing, his face, the quality of his clothes, all before a word was spoken—a useful trick from his days of arguing legal cases—but he could determine nothing about these men. Not the color of their skins, not the fabric of their tunics, not the accents in their incoherent words. One was big and the other was bigger; they had blood on their arms and blood on their shins; they had rough voices and white around their eyes. They might have been porters or fullers; legionaries or farmers; citizens or slaves—there were no such defined differences between men anymore, not now. In Pompeii there were only the dead, the dying, and the desperate.

  And there could be no doubt into which category these men fell. It came off them like the smell of a rotting corpse.

  They saw him and they froze. Marcus moved first, lifting his bleeding hand very slowly. “I mean no harm.” He was careful not to look in Diana’s direction. She stood in the stall on the far side of the big stallion, blocked from the doorway by its tall neck, but in another instant—“There is nothing for you here,” Marcus said with all the authority he had ever mustered giving a speech at the Rostra, but the men were already looking past him. One let out a rough cheer at the sight of the stallion.

  “A horse! Gods be damned, some luck—”

  “For one of us,” the other scowled, and raked Marcus with his eyes. “You got any coin on you?”

  “You are welcome to it.” Using only his bloody hand, he loosened his belt and let the pouch drop. He still had his dagger in the other hand, concealed at his side. You have not used a blade against another soul since your tribune days twenty years ago, he reminded himself, and even then it was only in drills. But he still didn’t drop the dagger. Every instinct he had was shrieking at him, shouting danger—he dared not look at the stall, the nervously snorting stallion. Diana had surely dropped down behind the stall’s wall; perhaps she could slide out into the back of the stables unseen—

  His knee gave a shriek of agony as the bigger of the two men crossed the stable to topple him with a casual shove. Marcus managed to fall on his side, hiding his dagger in the straw beneath him, as the giant picked up his pouch and went rifling through it.

  “Ten denarii,” he snorted. “You talk like a senator; don’t you have any more than this?”

  “Let it be,” the other man interjected, stalking for the horse. “There’ll be time to get money later. You see how many there are on the coastal road? Every rich man in Pompeii is off with his cash-box and his wife’s jewels under one arm. Kill this one if you want, and let’s get moving. We’ll take turns on the horse—”

  “I get first turn.” The big man dropped a knee on Marcus’ chest, unsheathing a blunt knife in a matter-of-fact yank.

  “Don’t kill me,” Marcus blurted out, and his heart hammered in his chest. “There’s no need. You have my coin, and I’m already dying—” holding up his bleeding arm. “Don’t kill me.”

  The man considered for a moment. “Everyone’s dying today,” he shrugged. “And I hate patrician pricks. Always wanted to cut a purple throat like yours.”

  No, Marcus thought as the knife drew closer and horror expanded in his chest. Oh, no. Not because the thought of death didn’t still croon sweet dark appeal, but because he knew what would happen if the thug’s knife continued toward his throat. Don’t—

  The stallion screamed and came bursting out of its stall, sending both men spinning around. Diana was only halfway onto its back, ash-red skirts and ash-pale hair flying, but her teeth were bared as she whipped a stray length of rein across the horse’s neck. It charged forward, knocking one of the men on his back into the straw, and the way before her opened as wide as a first-place finish in the Circus Maximus. She had only to kick the horse straight ahead, Marcus thought—straight out through the stable doors and she’d be gone to safety, or as much safety as this world still held.

  But she didn’t kick the horse ahead, and he knew she wouldn’t. She brought it whirling around in another yank of rein, sending it straight at the man who half-knelt over Marcus.

  The man scrambled, shielding his head. The stallion half-reared under the low roof, mane flying, and Diana leaned perilously low to slash at the huge man with the length of rein that was her only weapon. “Bastard,” she screamed, laying on those hunched shoulders like a whip, and the man made a grab for her arm, but missed. The horse was still whirling, all motion and flying hooves in the confined space, and Diana aimed another slash—but the man on the far side had risen, risen with a shout and re-entered the fray, and now she had men crouched and closing in on both sides.

  “Ride clear!” Marcus shouted from the straw, but she didn’t have so much as a glance for him. She was still whirling the horse, reins doubled in her fist, trying to herd the two men away from him as she laid about her with her makeshift whip, but one of the men risked a slash across the face and got close enough to make a grab. He had her by the ankle and then she was being dragged off the horse, shrieking curses.

  “A horse and a girl,” the man grinned, slapping Diana flat into the straw and holding her there by the throat. She writhed, clawing at his wrist, but he was as huge and ash-covered as one of Vulcan’s giants, and she was such a little thing when you saw past the swagger and the mouth full of curses and the cool courage. So small, Marcus thought, dragging himself upright. His leg was utterly useless, nothing but a dead limb screaming pain, but he hardly felt it. He just saw a girl in the straw—and the same girl at fifteen, up against an alley wall gritting her teeth and spitting curses the way she was now, even as her skirts were being hauled up.

  “You can have first turn on the horse if I get first turn on the girl,” the bigger man was saying, turning away from Marcus toward Diana. Neither of them noticed Marcus as he struggled to his feet, and why would they? Just a useless purple-throat senator: a soft-handed, gray-haired desk-man who was swaying on his feet. Marcus didn’t stop, just limped up behind the ash-covered giant and stabbed: one short blow of the dagger sliding up beneath the ribs. The man gave a curiously girlish gasp, half-turning, and Marcus twisted the blade deeper, deeper, teeth gritting so hard he feared they’d shatter, blood thundering in his own ears. The man was turning, trying to clutch at him—Marcus lifted his free hand, shoving the man’s head back, and saw the blood slide down his own arm from his opened wrist. He felt suddenly giddy, and wondered if now was the moment he was going to collapse and die. Not yet, he thought grimly, not yet—and he dug his thumb into the ash giant’s eye socket and heard the scream, felt the eye burst wetly even as he dug the dagger in deeper under those ribs—

  They went down in a tangle, and Marcus’ leg sent out a shriek of agony so much deeper than all the pain before it that his vision went white. Not yet, he insisted somewhere inside the agony, and felt a war
m rush of blood across him and another girlish-sounding gurgle. The dagger tumbled free as the giant fell into the straw at Marcus’ side.

  Under the breastbone, straight and fast to the heart, he thought incongruously. That’s the way to do it.

  Then a pair of hands descended on his neck, and his breath crushed off inside his throat. “Bastard,” a voice snarled, and Marcus opened swimming eyes to see the second man, shoulders blocking out the torchlight, tears cutting absurdly through the ash on his face. “You bastard, that was my brother—”

  Oh, Marcus thought almost politely. I’m sorry. Well, not really—your brother was a raping, looting thug and so are you—

  Then the hands tightened about his throat, and his head filled with sparks. He opened his mouth but could not even gasp. His hand thrashed after the dagger in the straw, but he couldn’t find it and his head was exploding, everything was red-rimmed and fading—but he smiled. He still managed a smile. Not too bright, are you? he wanted to ask of the man now throttling him. You turned your back on her.

  Diana was up from the straw as noiseless as a wraith, and she had the length of spare rein doubled between her hands. Two soundless steps and she’d whipped it about the man’s throat. Then she clamped her knees around his back as though settling onto a horse, and leaned back with her full weight. She hauled on his throat as hard as she must have ever hauled a four-horse team to bring them to a halt, and Marcus could see the tendons cording all the way down her slim arms.

  The killing pressure in his throat fell away. Marcus let out one enormous gasp, dragging in a lungful of air that tasted like wine, and then his hand was lunging for the dagger again. Because Diana had hauled the man up like an unruly horse, but he was three times her size and the moment he snapped back she’d go flying—

  Marcus fumbled the dagger through a fistful of straw, everything moving too fast, everything but his own impossibly clumsy fingers. He brought it round in another slash but missed; the man’s eyes bulged and he yanked and gurgled against the rein looped taut around his throat. He yanked, and Diana abruptly let one side go. His weight fell forward, hands peddling, and all Marcus had to do was hold the blade still.

  For the second time he was crushed under foul-smelling weight. It took the man a few moments to die, gasping and choking, and Marcus just lay there, breathing shallowly and enjoying it. The breathing, he clarified, even if just to himself—he liked to be clear in his thoughts. It was the breathing that was so enjoyable, not the man’s dying, or his weight, or his stench. The stench really was unbearable. Ash, sweat, and the kind of ingrained dirt which meant the man hadn’t utilized a bathhouse in many a day. Disgraceful, Marcus thought. Roman baths are available to all, even those of direst poverty. Frequent bathing is what sets a citizen of Rome apart from a rank barbarian.

  He opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t sure what; he was still trembling, and his throat was on fire, not to mention his knee—and what came out was a calm, “I think it entirely possible our assailants were not Roman citizens.”

  Diana stared at him. She was squatting on her heels in the straw, length of rein still dangling from one hand, and she tipped her head back and laughed. There was an edge of hysteria in that laugh, but there was real amusement too. “Gods’ wheels, Marcus, is that all you can say?”

  “I have never killed anyone before.” He rolled the limp form off him with some difficulty, and sat up. “What is one supposed to say?”

  “How should I know? No one tells these things to girls.” Diana staggered upright and went for the horse, which stood sidling and blowing nervously in one corner, white showing round its eyes at the smell of blood. She crooned and cuddled it for a while until the beast’s tail stopped switching, then she tied it to the wall again and came back. She settled beside Marcus, and reached out to take his wrist in her hand. The slashed wrist, which was still, he realized, dripping blood.

  “I heard what you told that thug,” she said. “When he was about to cut your throat. You said, ‘Don’t kill me.’”

  Marcus shrugged.

  She peered at him through her filthy fringe of hair like a mare peering through her forelock. “Does that mean you don’t want to die anymore?”

  It means I didn’t want you to die, Marcus thought. Because I knew you’d try to rescue me, you mad girl.

  “Don’t make me kill you,” Diana said, and he saw there were tears in her eyes. Not once during this unnatural night of horrors had she wept, and she was on the brink of it now. “Don’t make me kill you by leaving you behind. Please.”

  There were a thousand arguments he could make, but the astonishment of seeing her tears held him mute.

  “I know what people think of me in Rome, Marcus.” Her bloodied fingers slipped through his, linked tight. “I’m a joke—mad little Diana with straw in her hair and her pennant always waving for the Reds. The women think me unnatural, and the men laugh behind my back unless they’re speculating how to get me on my knees.”

  He felt a surge of shame that hurt more than his leg. “Diana—”

  “No.” She cut him off, rejecting pity again. “I don’t care. I made the life I wanted, and gods know few enough women get to do that. Few men, either, for that matter. I’m mad little Diana who breeds horses and cheers the Reds, and I’ve faced things that would have killed half the upstanding Roman citizens I know. Today is the second time I’ve watched a city tear itself to bits. I saw people get out, people on the road to what is probably safety … but I saw others. People like that pregnant girl and the man with the child on his back—”

  Marcus thought incongruously of the skinny whore who had smacked him with a jug and caused his entire predicament to begin with. Who knew if she was alive or dead?

  “—and I wanted to save them, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” Diana looked at him steadily, and that was when her eyes overflowed. “Please, Marcus. Let me save someone today besides a horse.”

  He looked at her. She cried proudly, not screwing up her face, just letting the tears snake down through the streaks of ash, her bloody fingers tight through his. He looked at her, and inevitability rose in him like a wave.

  “Please,” begged Diana of the Cornelii. “Let me save you.”

  “My dear girl …” he sighed, and heard himself trail off.

  She waited, dashing a filthy hand across her eyes.

  He held his wrist up. “Bandage me?”

  THE horse was not at all keen on leaving the stable once it realized rocks were pelting from the sky. “Sensible animal,” Marcus said, strapping his wrist closed, and Diana had to pad the beast’s haunches and neck in every blanket she could find before Marcus clambered aboard and they left the enclosure. The road to Herculaneum stretched along the coast—normally, Marcus would have seen the glittering blue expanse of bay on one side, the craggy hills rising on the other into rich green stretches of farmland. It was still a black and ashy underworld; the road choked with hunched and stumbling refugees shuffling through the accumulation of rock. Pebbles still rained from the dark swirl overhead, and when Marcus turned his head back toward Pompeii—

  The city was not dead yet, but it was … slowing down. No lamps, no cheery windows lit against the dark. Just the restless spark of spreading fires, and mindless spasmodic movement in the streets. Gods help them, Marcus thought, and could barely make out the hulking shape of Vesuvius. When will it stop?

  The horse flinched to step out into the shifting debris of rock. “I’ll have to blind-fold him,” Diana shouted. “You be my eyes!” Marcus kept watch from the horse’s back—not one, but two bloody knives lying openly across his knees—and he saw more than one set of speculative eyes slide away. I helped kill two men today, he thought, but he had no regrets. He would threaten to kill more if necessary, to keep them off Diana who led the blindfolded horse step by step into the seething chaos of the road, crooning, stroking, praising with every nervous sidling step. Her voice as she cajoled the animal forward dropped to a honeyed bedroom w
hisper that would have had every man in Rome trailing her with his tongue out.

  I wouldn’t mind hearing that kind of whisper in my ear again, Marcus reflected. His life has become a dark and arid sort of place—the habit of despair, as Diana had put it, did not really make room for female companionship. Perhaps I should do something about that. If the gods don’t decide to kill me on this road, that is. What supreme irony that would be … He gave a passing carter a sharp glance and a warning lift of the daggers, as the man eyed the horse.

  Marcus could not afterward be certain how many hours passed—only that they did, in black and shuffling watchfulness. His lungs burned from breathing ash, his eyes stung from constantly scanning the road for creeping looters, and the only constant was Diana’s unbowed shoulders beside the horse’s head. When Marcus first saw light he caught his breath, wondering if he was imagining it.

  He was not.

  “Look.” He leaned down to touch Diana’s shoulder; she kept shuffling onward a moment but finally looked up. She swayed back and forth in exhaustion even when still: a gray ghost in the dark. Only it was no longer quite dark. The coastal road was winding its way, slowly but surely, out of the black shadow cast by the mountain. Cries went up around them as others began to see what Marcus had. “Sunset,” Marcus said, pointing at the faint rosy glow in the west. “We’ve walked out of night into sunset.”

  Her face crumpled, and for a moment he thought she was about to cry again. Instead, she just looked outraged. “We’ve walked out of night into more night?” she complained. “I’ve done night already. I’ve done night all fucking day.”

  Marcus laughed. He was starving and filthy, wheezing and light-headed, and could not remember feeling so content in a very long time. He looked at the fading red streak in the sky over the bay—the debris-choked waters were just beginning to become visible again—and he thought inconsequentially, I shall live to see another sunset. I shall live, in fact, to see my son become a man.