A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii

by Stephanie Dray

  Diana swayed on her feet again. “Ride for a while,” Marcus ordered in his best from-the-Rostra voice. “The horse is too tired to need to be coaxed along anymore.” Besides, the fall of rock seemed to be diminishing, the way underfoot less rough.

  Diana untied the blindfold from the horse’s eyes, hesitating. “But you can’t walk—”

  “No. In fact, I doubt this knee is ever going to be the same again.” It crunched every time he flexed it. No doubt he would be the senator with the limp as well as the crooked shoulder—at the moment, he did not care in the slightest if he was laughed at. “But you’re a little thing, Diana. The horse can carry us both for a while.”

  She accepted Marcus’ extended hand, scrambling up over the horse’s withers and settling herself in front of him. He linked an arm about her waist, moving her filthy hair off her neck as it flapped in his face. “You know something,” he said, kicking the horse into motion, “I’m taking your advice. I’m going to marry again.”

  “Mmm.” She was already drowsing against his shoulder. She smelled absolutely vile, ash and blood and horse, and Marcus doubted he was any better. Rank barbarians, the pair of them.

  “I’ll call on your father when we return to Rome,” he went on. “And the augurs. Find an auspicious date for a wedding …”

  She gave a sleepy shake of her head. “I’m not going to marry you, Marcus. What a terrible idea.”

  “Why?” He rather thought he could get used to the notion.

  “What would we ever have to talk about? You think aqueducts are interesting, and you don’t even follow the Reds.”

  “Aqueducts are interesting,” he said mildly. “But it’s true: I hate chariot racing.”

  “See? You think I’m a crashing bore, and you are a crashing bore. It’s a bad fit,” she yawned, and snuggled into his shoulder. “Marry some little heiress who will worship the ground you walk on and give you a dozen babies.”

  “Very well.” On the whole, that was probably a better idea. Paulinus needed a mother, and gods knew, Diana couldn’t mother anything that wasn’t hoofed.

  “Why did you offer, anyway?” Diana’s sooty lashes didn’t rise; she sounded three-quarters asleep. “Surely you don’t love me.”

  “No.” He liked her and honored her more than any woman he knew, though, and that was a far rarer thing than love. “Men have dishonored you. They have mocked you even as they desired you—you’re quite right about that—and you deserve nothing but honors. I thought it appropriate to offer you mine, in all sincerity.”

  “Oh, don’t be so noble.” She gave another bone-cracking yawn. “Have me to dine whenever I come to the city for festival races. You can bore me silly about aqueducts and I’ll bore you silly hashing out every lap of the race, and after dinner we’ll blow out the lamps and there won’t be any more talking. And that, Marcus Norbanus, won’t be quite so boring.”

  Marcus laughed softly and pressed his lips against the sooty line of her shoulder. “Until I find a wife who meets your approval,” he said, “you have a standing invitation.”

  She was fast asleep, rocking bonelessly with the motion of the horse. The red streak of sunset was gone; night had fallen all over again—but Marcus lifted his face and saw stars instead of ash. A long night ahead—Herculaneum lay not far away; he supposed they could take refuge there, but after long thought he decided to steer toward Neapolis, however many more hours of nightfall trudging that took. Why not? They had the horse, carrying them on and on with steady strength. He wanted to get as far from the blackness behind them as possible.

  He could not resist one final glance back into the shadows. He looked for Pompeii, and he saw … nothing. Nothing at all. There was no town anymore, just an expanse of darkness broken here and there by fires. And over it all the squatting shape of Vesuvius, red lightning forking within the monstrous growling column of ash.

  It’s over, he thought. The worst must be over. Those still alive inside those city walls surely had a chance now.

  Those dead …

  He had one ragged scrap of toga left—the rest of that noble purple-edged garment had been sacrificed to pad the horse’s rump, and he did not grudge it. But he drew that final purple-bordered scrap over his battered head in a sign of mourning, and said a prayer for those left behind. The abandoned children; the skinny whore; the woman who might even now be giving birth. The ones we could not save, he thought, and felt the same stab of grief that Diana had. May the gods look after them. May the gods save them all.

  He knew he would always wonder, on the nights when sleep failed to come and his thoughts turned bleak. Those nights were not behind him—he had seen enough nightmares this past short day to feed a thousand years of nights as black as this one.

  But this night would come to an end, and he intended they would see dawn in a bathhouse. A proper Roman bathhouse for two Romans who smelled like savages.

  “First dawn,” he said aloud, “then a bath.” And settled Diana’s head against his shoulder more firmly as he kicked the horse toward Neapolis.

  PART FIVE

  THE MOTHER

  E. Knight

  "Gross darkness came rolling over the land like a torrent … like a room when it is shut up and the lamp put out.”

  —Pliny the Younger

  JULILLA

  MY birth pangs have started.

  Slow, and not regular, but started all the same. The babe has yet to drop, but I suspect by tomorrow morning I’ll have a son.

  How can it be that, after how long I have dreamed of becoming a mother, of meeting the little child inside my womb, I now want him to stay put?

  I reach into the pouch at my side and pull out the vial I grabbed from our kitchen: a tincture to ease the pains. But it’s not the right one. I stare at the blue vial in my hand—the one that had looked clear in the dim light of the kitchen. Blue is not for pain. Blue is for something else. Blue is what our slaves used to kill the rats. I thrust the vial back into the pouch, disappointed that I have nothing to ease the pain, and no use for poison.

  I lean against a smooth, marble column in the east portico gazing into our once-grand, two-story-high peristyle. The red clay tiles of the roof covering the walkway around the inner courtyard have ash slipping through their grooves, white dust sprinkling down. Where fig, cherry, and pear trees bloomed and tangy lemon trees used to scent the air. A short, five-foot ladder leans against the fig tree—figs are my favorite fruit, and in Pompeii they were the very best. One of our slaves put up the ladder just this morning in hopes of filling a basket of them for me. It’s hard to breathe here. My lungs are tight, fighting against the air I try to draw in. What was once a place of tranquility is now blanketed in darkness and ash. The sky above is a reflection of a war with the gods. Is it possible that the end of the world is upon us?

  I was in my litter on my way to my friend Aemilia’s house when Vesuvius burst angrily into the sky. And, I too, was ready to burst, the cramps of my swollen belly coming on in my fright. Seeing the mountain as it spewed its fury higher into the heavens than I could fathom, I was stunned. Afraid for my life, I was lucky to have run into the two strangers and Aemilia’s betrothed, Sabinus, who saw me safely home.

  Now a cough seizes my lungs, and I hug tight to the babe in my womb.

  I’m still wearing all the jewelry I put on this morning in the hope of a joyous day: gold bangles, matching necklace, and earrings. Touching the golden chains draped between my breasts, I morbidly think that I have dressed up for my death. But I shove that thought aside. We will not die. The Pompeians are a strong people. They’ll rebuild and so will I.

  A cough seizes my lungs, and I hug tight to the babe in my womb. A tiny hand clamps around mine and I stare down at my three-year-old brother, Quintus. Mother always had a weakened constitution but birthing my young brother—her seventh child—put her into a fever she was lucky to survive. Another of my brothers died not long after, leaving mother ill, not only physically, but with grief. To help he
r, I swept in, all but raising Quintus as my own before leaving for Rome with my husband.

  I submitted to my father’s and husband’s desires for me to return to Pompeii for the salty air—so healthful for a woman with child—but also because I was desperate to hold Quintus again. Quintus now stares up at me, his eyes somber and filled with fear. He clutches to me for comfort. I am glad to give it to him.

  “I’ll keep you safe.” I ruffle a hand through his hair, and he tries to smile, but his chin wobbles instead. “Here, play with the turtle.”

  I hand him my pet and Quintus sinks to the ground, placing the reptile in the ash-covered marble and poking at the cavern where its head has disappeared.

  A kick pushes against my belly, as if to say my unborn child, too, wants protection. I press my hand to the swell, feeling a tiny foot jab against my palm. A wave of tight pain pushes at the base of my spine, and another hard kick.

  My child …

  Our first was whisked into eternal life before he took a breath, when he was not more than six months in my womb. His passing made this child all the more special. Father recalled us from Rome where Titus and I made our home so I could give birth in Pompeii. I spent the summer relaxing and breathing in the salted air from the Bay of Naples. Lounging in steam baths and indulging in copious amounts of warm baked bread and olives.

  “Do not come yet, darling. Wait,” I whisper to my belly. I do not want to give birth when the world is in chaos. In a few days’ time, everything will be set right and then he can make his grand entrance. Father promises that all will be well. That we’ll be protected here in our home.

  But hot tears sting my eyes, burning them more than the smoky air. I feel guilty. My family refused to leave, out of fear for me not returning this morning, and once I did … it was too late to go. No one has told me that it is because of my condition that we stay behind while the rest of the city flees in panic. But I think that must be at least part of the reason.

  I let out a racking cough and a soft whimper as the jarring movement makes the pain in my lower back even worse.

  “Lilla, we must get you inside. Why have you not come?”

  My husband, Titus, calls out from across the portico as he rushes to me from the back room, his leather shoes silenced in the carpet of ash that covers our marble floors. Father is worried that the flat roof of the front part of the house will not be able to withstand the weight of the debris falling on us, but the rooms in the back have slanted roofs to keep us safe.

  Titus carries my sick brother, Albinus, into the back while the slaves prepare the two rooms for our comfort. Albinus turned twelve the week before and his illness gives him constant pain. He’s had much discomfort in his tiny body since birth. The doctor said something about the fusion of his spine. He’s walked with a limp his whole life, and been afflicted with illness off and on over the past twelve years—his constitution much like Mother’s.

  In answer to Titus, I say, “I wanted to free my turtle.” I point to the ground near my feet where my pet turtle stands unmoving and Quintus still pokes at him. Tucked deep in his shell, he isn’t willing to witness the destruction Vesuvius rains down on us.

  Another cough makes my lungs seize and I gasp for breath, stumbling back into my husband’s arms. Little Quintus lets out a yelp and grabs hold of my husband’s leg. Titus smoothes a hand over my brother’s head, having taken to him already. Love makes my chest swell as I gaze at my husband.

  Ours was a match like no other. A political marriage, and yet we fell in love the moment we met. Titus—so tall, strong, proud, smart—and yet he allowed me to see the sweetness in him.

  “Let’s get to the back of the house,” he says. “The walls are strongest there.”

  I nod, allowing him to take me back because I can no longer stand, not when I have a child wishing to push his way into a world that is unraveling. And another child, I think, looking to Quintus, counting on me to keep him safe. As we walk, I cradle my heavy stomach, praying to Bona Dea and Isis to hold the unborn babe deep inside for several days longer. At least until the mountain stops roaring. And surely it will stop soon, won’t it?

  “Maybe it would be safer for us to try and leave,” I whisper, my voice raspy from breathing in the ash and poisoned air. “We could try.”

  Titus stares into my eyes, regret showing deep, and sadness creases the corners of his lips. He shakes his head. “No, Lilla, we cannot. Perhaps we could have earlier, but now the roads are rough and treacherous. We cannot traverse them with your condition.” He places a protective hand on the center of my rounded belly. I was right. “Your father’s house withstood the earthquake seventeen years ago. It will withstand this.”

  Still I say, “I do not wish to give birth here. My babe will not be able to breathe.” I hold my sleeve to my lips, coughing once more.

  Titus lifts me into his arms, strong enough to carry me and our unborn babe. Since the day he learned I was pregnant, he coddled me, perhaps as terrified as I was that we’d lose another baby. “You will not have to worry over that, love. As soon as the storm subsides, the air will clear. Besides, you are still weeks away from bringing our son into the world. You needn’t worry.”

  I nod, trusting in his judgment, feeling his strength seep into me. My husband is a senior tribune and aspiring consul, climbing his way up the cursus honorum in Rome; he is a natural protector. He would not steer me wrong.

  Pressing a kiss to my forehead, Titus stares into my eyes with emotion he dare not put into words. I want to know what he is thinking, but it frightens me.

  I shake my head. He is right. I am not due to birth this child yet. Perhaps the pains I’ve been feeling are only brought on by my fear. Many women experience false labor. I’m sure that’s all it is. “Do not worry, husband, I shall keep our child safe.” A duty that as a mother is mine to uphold, just as it is his as a father.

  A loud rumbling shakes the house before a crash sounds at the front vestibule.

  “Get to the back of the house!” Father rushes from the entry with Mother and several of my siblings in tow. Two slaves who didn’t flee rush behind them, one scooping up Quintus. The child whimpers, his lower lip quivering, but the determined set in his jaw shows he’s trying for his Roman gravitas. My brother Julius, just a year younger than me, doesn’t manage it; he looks madder than a cornered serpent.

  “May the lares and penates protect us,” Titus murmurs, wheeling around and rushing with me toward the back of the house, leaving my little turtle behind in the darkened peristyle that I once thought so beautiful.

  I grip tight to his shoulders, pressing my forehead against his chest. The skies are already falling on our heads and now part of the house.

  A surge of pain wraps its way around my abdomen, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out at the burning ache. My fingers curl into Titus’ tunic to ease the pressure. It’s false pains. Only false. I force myself to believe it.

  “In here.” Father pushes open the door to the salon where our dining couches were placed during the renovations my mother arranged for the triclinium, where we wine and dine important guests. But the renovations aren’t complete, so this little room is crowded with cushioned mattresses, pillows of silk and linen, and carved marble couches with faces of the gods etched into the legs. They were meant for our guests to lounge, eat, and drink on when they grew tired of the peace of the garden. Now they serve to give us comfort in our sanctuary.

  At least it was beautiful. Shadows from our oil lamps bounce off the white-painted ceiling and panels set off with red borders and green garlands. My eye goes to my favorite panel—Apollo and Daphne in the woods—and then up to Venus under a garlanded pediment on one of the top panels. “Goddess of love and family, please protect us,” I mutter and notice a side table set out with wine, figs, and bread.

  Titus hesitates with his hand on the door and we all gaze out into our peristyle. How long until we can open this door again? When the house rumbles and shakes anew, Ti
tus slowly closes the door, blocking us from the destruction.

  “What has happened?” Titus asks what I cannot seem to form on my tongue.

  Father looks on, stoic in his countenance, forever strong. A true Roman. “The front vestibule of the house collapsed. The same as it did in the great earthquake.”

  Our house has been under renovation since, slowly replacing the old architecture in several rooms, this one included. Father has been making our house stronger, more opulent, more fitting for the wealthy and prestigious family we’ve become. It is a shame that his vestibule has collapsed again. He’ll end up spending a fortune before the house is complete, at this rate.

  My father, the praetor, meets my gaze briefly before turning away. “We’ll be safe in here.”

  What I read in his eyes before he turned away worries me. He isn’t as confident as he would have us believe. He is not certain we’ll be safe here, or anywhere.

  When the mountain exploded, my family should have left. They should never have waited for me. They should have left me behind. Because of me, they are in danger. Guilt shreds my insides, and tears threaten to spill, but I push them back.

  I, too, am a Roman. I will let no one see my fear, for I do not fear what the gods have in store. And I do not believe that this will be the end of us. Not yet.

  My heart skips a beat and I brace for the pain that comes when my belly tightens, but it is briefer than before, enforcing my earlier reasoning that it was false pains.

  Titus’ jaw clenches tightly as it does when he strategizes military tactics. I touch his arm and he gazes at me, determined. “We must leave,” Titus whispers, hesitant as he is to contradict my father. “I was wrong. We must at least try to flee. I will go and try to find a cart. I’ll pull you to Rome myself if I have to.”

  “How, husband? With the front of the house collapsed there is no way out.” I glance at the door closed tightly to the outside. “What if the road to Rome is filled with raining rocks? Perhaps we should stay as father has determined.”