A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii

by Stephanie Dray

  He shakes his head. Titus has never gone against my father’s decisions before, and I wonder how angry Father will be when he finds out.

  Titus sets me down gently on one of the soft couches and Quintus rushes over, curling himself inside my embrace. Sudden emotion catches me, and I bury my face in his soft hair, having missed him so much when I was in Rome, and he obviously missed me, too.

  Titus leans closer to me, pressing a kiss to my temple. “The stairs are not blocked to the second story. I shall see if there is a way to climb down from there or see if anyone outside can help us.”

  I lean into the plush pillows, hugging my belly and my little brother tight. Anyone left outside will be saving themselves, not giving their time to us, I think. “I do not want you to get hurt. You risk too much. We’ll be safe here. Why don’t we play a game of dice?”

  Titus kneels beside me, his hand covering mine. I stare at our fingers as he entwines them. Love tightens in my chest. I squeeze Titus’ hand back, rubbing my thumb over his. “I must at least look, Lilla.”

  I can see the desperation in his eyes. Titus fixes things. Titus solves problems and this is just another obstacle for him to unravel. Perhaps to keep his sanity, he must look for a way out. I lean forward and press my lips hungrily to his, wanting, needing that closeness, the reassurance of his affection, of his very humanness. We do not normally kiss where others can see us. It is vulgar. Un-Roman. But with the world raining down on us, I do not care, and Titus does not either. He kisses me back.

  “I will be safe. I want to keep you safe,” he says.

  I nod, unable to say, go, because I do not truly want him to leave.

  Titus stands and looks at the painted ceiling and the panel around the door. Lounging on another couch is my mother; her breathing is rapid, and our slave fans her. My father speaks in low tones to Julius, and our elder male slave—while my fourteen-year-old sister, Little Bird, gathers the children on another couch and sings them a song.

  “Charis, I need a drink of wine,” I say to the slave girl, hoping the wine will calm me. I finger the ankh charm at my ankle, asking for the blessing of Isis and praying she ebb the pains of false labor. That she keep true labor at bay until this chaos subsides.

  The ankh was a gift from a young woman, who jingled from the charms around her ankle at the Isis temple, where I’d gone to make an offering in honor of Aemilia’s wedding a few days before. And to pray for a son.

  The woman heard my prayer and gave me the ankh charm. She said her name was Capella, and she took it from her own anklet to make a gift of it for me. It seemed somehow wrong to take a gift from her, given that she was quite plainly no respectable woman. I could guess at her profession, given the large breasts that spilled from her too-short tunica and her overwhelming perfume. But she was, beyond all that, beautiful: golden-haired, with blue eyes that still haunt me. They were eyes that seemed to see beyond seeing, more like a priestess than a prostitute. I suppose that was the beauty of the Isis temple. Those from all walks of life could come together to worship, and in that blue-eyed woman, I found a sort of kindred spirit. She lay her hand on my belly and said that I should not worry because my son and I would be together for all eternity. And then we prayed to the Great Mother, our hands clasped, neither of us anything or anyone but daughters of Isis.

  Charis hands me the cup of watered wine. I sip slowly, afraid I may retch. But the wine does its job and moments later I feel calmer, any residual pain in my back and abdomen slightly abating.

  “I am going out now to look for help,” Titus says, startling me from my memories.

  Father whips his head in my husband’s direction. “No, stay inside. Wait out the storm.”

  Titus gives my father a hard stare. “Better to take our chances than be buried.”

  Buried? Surely it isn’t as bad as that. I hold my breath, and everyone within stiffens, waiting for the explosion that comes when anyone is foolish enough to challenge Father. But there is only silence. Perhaps Father hopes that Titus will find a way for us to get out, too.

  At last, Father gives a curt nod. Titus’ jaw loosens. A tumult of emotion sweeps through his eyes for less than a second and then he swoops in once more to kiss me. To give me hope.

  “I will be right back.”

  POLYBIUS

  I study my daughter Lilla. My oldest. My favorite, in truth. Pain etches her face. Lilla’s eyes are closed and her head leans back against the pillows. One bejeweled hand splays on her swollen middle, and the other circles protectively around her brother Quintus—a child Lilla has always thought of as her own.

  Images of what Lilla’s own children will look like haunt me now, as I fear I will never see them in this life. I’d been certain, when the mountain began its torment of us, that we’d be safe here. But now … now I am unconvinced. Even a small bit of doubt shook my surety hours before.

  The great mountain has taken my power, my pride.

  For the more I recall the seemingly endless black clouds in the sky, the angry smoke rushing from Vesuvius, the more I wonder if this city will be destroyed. Even still, I cannot leave unless I chance the lives of my wife and our precious children, the life of my dutiful daughter and her unborn child. Yet, to stay, I risk them all the same.

  I have to stomp on the dread that is building inside me. How can I let fear take hold in my mind? A Roman has no place for it. This is my city—what is left of it. We survived the great earthquake years before. Rebuilt. We will rebuild again. And yet, I know true fear today. I’ve never seen anything like this. But, this too, shall pass.

  And I must set the example. I cannot simply turn my back on the city I helped to build. My father, who passed the month before, would not be proud to see me run from the post he worked so hard for me to possess. He was a slave once, and I am the son of a freedman. Now a wealthy praetor. Our family name has risen from the depths of obscurity and I will not turn my back on such an honor. I will show men like Pansa, that a freedman’s son does not flee, either, but serves Pompeii just as bravely.

  I cannot dishonor my ancestors with fear now. We’ll overcome this. We are strong. And inside my house are eleven people who count on me for protection. But outside, the entire city relies on me, too, and I shall not let down my guard even when the fires of Vulcan are falling on our heads.

  My son Quintus’ gray eyes catch mine and he stares at me with a depth of soul unimaginable in a child his age. Can he see the fear in my eyes? Does he question whether or not I made the right decision?

  If I have to save the city one child at a time, I will. Gods help me. They will remember me then. This city will re-elect me as praetor, and in years to come I could be a provincial governor.

  I straighten my spine.

  All around me, I am surrounded by those close to me: the ones I resigned to this uncertain fate. As the paterfamilias, I am supposed to make these decisions. To do what is right for my family—and they are to obey.

  When they wanted to charge into the chaos to try and find Lilla, only I remained calm and steadfast. I sent out our strongest slaves after her and even though they disappeared, she came back to me, to us.

  I was right then. I am right now. Within a day or two, all will be well. Even still … “I’ll be back.” I rush out, ignoring the calls of my wife to return. I must reach our lararium, where the gods of the household stand. I gaze up at the Lares, the Snake, and the Genius of my ancestors. “Protect our family from this great destruction.” I swipe a hand through my hair. “A white lamb will be sacrificed in your honor every year, if you will but aid us in this. Tell me, what do you require?”

  The rumble of thunder outside is my only answer. We have angered the gods somehow. “Send me a sign,” I beg. “Whatever it is you require of us, we will give it!” But the only answer I have is the call of my wife.

  “Gaius, please. Come inside now.”

  A surge of emotion wells in my chest. The gods have not answered me yet. “Two lambs!” Still nothing. Isn’t
it enough that we already gave them one of our own children, and my daughter, her firstborn?

  “Gaius!” My wife Decima’s voice is filled with fear.

  I nod, finding it difficult to form words, and I whisper. “I will come with you.”

  I send up another prayer to the gods for Titus. But I have my doubts he will find a safe way. The two vestibules collapsed nearly on top of us as we ran when the ceiling shifted, dusting us with plaster, before shattering. The only openings to the front of the house are unstable. The openings upstairs all lead to the peristyle and kitchen courtyard, none to the outside. We were lucky to escape death. We will not be so lucky again. Especially if we are taking so many risks.

  I turn to look at the woman I’ve been married to for nearly half my life. Beautiful still, her dark hair hangs in chaotic ringlets around her shoulders, having fallen from its pins. Though Decima’s eyes are framed by tiny wrinkles, their color is still the same as it was decades ago. And I find myself staring into her eyes now as I always have, looking for the light of hope she continuously brings.

  With no openings for ventilation and the courtyard filling with ashen air, how long will it take before the poisoned air leaks beneath the doorway, threatening to suffocate us all?

  “Father, let me help Titus.” My oldest son Julius stands beside me, his dark hair ruffled. He is the spitting image of me. And I’m afraid he will go out to help Titus and never come back.

  “No,” I answer, too afraid to lose him.

  The boy puffs out his chest, his lips thinning in a grimace before he breathes deep and says, “I’m a man now. Let me do something.”

  My heart breaks at his words, and I clench my jaw to keep from trembling. All my life I’ve imagined my boy following in my footsteps, perhaps even rising beyond me. I envision him as a powerful man within Rome. And now the truth is that he may never see beyond these white-paneled walls. I cannot let him go out into the deadly hail. “Your sister’s husband will be back soon.”

  “And sooner with my help,” my son insists, his green eyes fixed on mine.

  He’s seventeen now. Handsome and arrogant. Feeling the house rumble around us, the distant echo of screams of terror, I wonder if he will see his eighteenth birthday. But I grit my teeth. “All right.”

  I walk to the door of the room, my hand still on the door handle.

  “Father …” Julius encourages. I embrace him. Pulling him tight to my chest and breathing in his scent, I feel my heart clench with fear.

  “Hurry back.” I slowly open the door, letting in the stench of smoke.

  “What are you doing, husband? Do not let Julius out!” My wife struggles off her couch, her breathing labored. She wasn’t well before the mountain exploded, and the tainted air has made her weaker.

  Our boy hesitates, glancing at his mother.

  I take brisk steps forward. “Lay down, love.” I stroke her cheek and guide her back down on the cushions. “All will be well.”

  But her eyes dart behind me. “Julius!”

  I turn in time to see that our boy has rushed into the blackness.

  Leaving my wife’s side, I hurry to the open door. “At least take a lamp, boy,” I call out, but my son is already running down the portico and calling out for his brother-in-law.

  I curse under my breath. “Nikon, a lamp.”

  Our male slave thrusts one of the oil lamps into my hands and I step out of the room.

  “Father,” several of my young children call out at once, fear filling their voices.

  “Worry not, children. You are protected here.”

  My shouts for Titus and Julius do not echo but die on my lips with the sounds of debris crashing on the roof. One of the fig trees ignites, lighting up the entirety of the expanse.

  I hope to catch a glimpse of their moving shadows. The faces on the wall murals mock me. A shadow moves ahead in the corridor leading to the atrium.

  “Titus, is that you?”

  The shadow pauses, calls out, but I cannot hear him, and then he disappears when a giant fiery stone crashes where he stood.

  Jupiter, let the men of my family make it back to us alive.

  “Father.” The sound of Lilla’s weak voice beckons me and I turn back into the room to see her face filled with worry.

  Not wanting to frighten her more than she is already, I say, “Darling, child.” I shut the door, set the lantern on the ground, and kneel by Lilla’s side, wishing to take away her fear. She has made it so far with this child.

  There was much joy when it seemed the babe would be born alive and well. Growing up in Pompeii, Lilla was liked by many and was friends with most in our elite circle, but now the future was so uncertain. Why didn’t I let her stay in Rome? In Rome, where she might be out of danger. But Rome might be under siege from the gods, too. Maybe the gods are indeed destroying us all …

  “Where is my husband?” my daughter asks.

  “He is coming,” I lie.

  But the muted sound of running footsteps in the portico alerts me that my words have no need to be false. My son and my son-in-law burst through the doors.

  “We made it to the second floor, but the vestibule’s collapse left a drop that is too long for our ladder. And we are uncertain of the rubble's stability,” Titus says. He glances at his wife. “To jump would injure many in our family.”

  “I tried to climb up the rubble by the atrium. I got halfway before—”

  Titus clamps onto Julius’ arm. “We’ll think of something else,” he says.

  I pull my son and son-in-law to the side of the room, away from prying ears. “Tell me.”

  “A man tried to help us, but flying debris caught his shoulder, knocking him down.”

  “Dear gods,” I murmur, sending a prayer for the man.

  “People are taking things and running, Father,” Julius says, his voice hard and angry. “Those with ill intent are stealing.”

  “And fire,” Titus adds. “The front part of the house is ablaze. The stones are hot to the touch.”

  Julius turns over his palms, showing angry red blisters already developing from where he must have grasped hold to attempt climbing out. “The women and children will never survive the fall.”

  Titus stands tall. “But you can make the jump. Go, Polybius. You have authority in this city as praetor; you can get help. I’ll watch over our family. We’ll be sheltered here for the time being.”

  I shake my head. “There is no one left to save us. Those who are strong enough have left. I will not leave my family.” I will not run like a coward. I am Roman. I will stay and protect what is mine.

  My son, who has been attempting with much success to remain strong, visibly cracks, his shoulders slumping, eyes glistening in the lantern light. I press a hand to his shoulder and squeeze, a silent show of my affection. “I am proud of you for attempting the climb and for your bravery.”

  Julius gains some control of his emotions, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “We shall attempt again when the fires have tamed. In the morning, Vesuvius will cease its attack. One of us will make the jump and go in search of a taller ladder.”

  If there is anything left of the city, of us.

  But his words are so strong, so certain, I almost believe it myself. I have raised this boy well. He is Roman, too.

  My son-in-law is more somber. He does not believe there will be a tomorrow; I can see it etched in his face. The young man has seen battle. Has witnessed death. They say a warrior knows when his end is near. Senses it.

  I have never been a warrior, but I wanted to be. Perhaps that is why I chose Titus for my daughter. He brought respectability to our family, but in him I also fulfilled a dream of mine.

  Titus touches the leather pouch at his waist, as if reassuring himself of its existence. Coin? A precious jewel?

  The air is tighter now, feeling hot, and the smell of the city burning around us is strong. “It's a good plan. Let us rest for a while.”

  They nod.

  Titus s
its beside his panting wife, while Julius takes a spot beside his mother.

  I am left to sit beside my young ones. All of the children stare up at me between fits of coughing, eyes filled with fear. “Come and let me tell you a story of Rome.”

  My sickly younger son Albinus leans his head against the back wall, his eyes closed as he seeks to breathe. I run my hand through his sweaty hair.

  “Albinus, you’re a brave boy. Do you want to choose the story?”

  His eyes open, the whites red, his stare looking somewhat glazed. “Tell me of your grandfather who served Emperor Augustus.”

  My children love the stories of our family. We are descended of imperial slaves who served our illustrious past emperor then rose in the ranks as free men. My children are proud of this, as am I.

  “Come gather here. I will tell you of the emperor who saved the life of a slave.”

  JULILLA

  MY husband reclines behind me on the couch, his arms wrapped around me. I sink into Titus’ warmth, hoping to pull some of his strength, but fearing I am too weak.

  He whispers encouraging words in my ear. “We will survive this, Lilla.”

  His chants are meant to inspire me, to make me feel safe, and yet I feel that he says them only to enforce his need for calm upon himself. I heard the men’s whispers. Fire at the front of the house. The city gone to despair, and thieves ransacking. Resentment is trying to find its way into my mind. Even if they found a ladder in the morning, how would I traverse it? And what if the world is doomed to be filled with fire forevermore?

  I recall the vial in my pouch. No, not that.

  The pain of childbirth has returned. It shouldn’t feel this way. The pain of it fills me and it takes most of my willpower to keep it hidden—and the rest to keep from shouting my anger at the gods for choosing this moment to rain destruction down on us mere mortals.