A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii

by Stephanie Dray

  Before now, I never had any cause to complain, unlike my friend Aemelia, who constantly laments of her place in this world and the lack of choice she has in it. My friend is a headstrong girl, questioning everything, becoming upset when her wishes are not considered. The necessity for such rebellion never occurred to me. My father and husband are good, caring men. I’ve trusted in them to make decisions—after all, that is their right, and my duty is to obey.

  And yet … maybe better decisions could have been made. I close my eyes against the guilt—they stayed to find me, and then they stayed in concern for my state.

  I am not satisfied with the choices that have been made, and yet there is nothing I can do to change it, nor can I voice my unhappiness.

  But the part of me that will not let gloom reign speaks its own measured wisdom. If I hadn’t come to Pompeii, it would have been much longer before I saw young Quintus again. This precious child who I often thought of as my own. I will protect him until I draw my last breath. A child in place of the one I lost. He curls in my lap, a thumb in his mouth, his other hand wrapped in my own. I encouraged him to sit with the other children, but he prefers to be here with me as he listens to Father regale the children with tales of lives past, easing their fears.

  My stomach constricts, and I stiffen enough this time that Titus whispers, “What is it?” His palm presses to my hardened belly. “Is it the baby?”

  Slowly, a crossness begins to grow inside me. I have to let go of it. I cannot let it consume me. But, I am …

  Even forming the words is hard. I am angry.

  “Shh …” I refuse to let this child come now. Not if I can stop its descent into this world of destruction. I stare down at my stola and palla, both covered in soot. The silky green stola fringed with gold and cinched with a matching girdle. The palla that marks me as a respectfully married matron, as diaphanous as I dare. I donned them for my friend Aemilia’s wedding. And I had my hair curled up prettily, but not so prettily as to outshine the bride.

  Aemilia. What has happened to her? Where was she now?

  Did she get out of Pompeii in time? Surely she and her family could have escaped. They had horses aplenty, and her father even told her they’d leave right after the wedding anyway. Their household was prepared to depart before the chaos began. Aemilia complained, but how lucky it was that her father had the forethought. I was certain they must have retreated when I was still struggling through the rubble-choked streets, grateful for Sabinus’ help in seeing me home.

  In recounting his story to the children, my father raises his hands in the air as he tosses imagined dinner plates to the ground, and then says loudly in his impression of Augustus, “Would you feed me to your lampreys as you would your slave? For I have now broken many dishes and your slave only one.”

  A million times we’d heard this story and yet our fascination did not yet wane. The story was passed down through the generations, and generations to come would tell stories of my own paterfamilias. Born of a freedman, Father was bred to be a politician. Praetor. His hopes for a higher position was only the beginning, as I knew he’d been grooming my brother Julius for greatness.

  But our family’s climb, our scramble to the top, seems exhausting to think about now. I yawn, tired from both the stress of the day and the dimness of the room.

  “Lilla, speak to me, love,” Titus murmurs. “I fear for you and the child.”

  “There is nothing for you to fear,” I lie.

  “But ...” He doesn’t say anything, but I know he worries about our unborn child, has since the moment the baby quickened within my womb. He relives the moments his firstborn son died.

  “Fear not,” I whisper, because I cannot say aloud what I am beginning to believe. Saying those words aloud will make it real, and right now I still desperately want to believe in my father and husband. I do not want to doubt them, though a part of me is starting to believe that we are in danger, despite all they say.

  I cough, and feel the baby kick, but not as strongly as before. Perhaps he will tire and cease his demand to make entrance.

  “Are you hungry?” Titus asks.

  I shake my head. “No, I want nothing but wine.”

  Titus holds my cup to my lips. “Drink.” Then he hands me a fig. “Eat.”

  Why must he demand it of me when I’ve said I do not want it? My annoyance is unwarranted. He wants only to help and yet I find myself growing agitated. Perhaps, if I rest, I will feel better. Perhaps I won’t feel the urge to yell my frustration.

  I lean my head back against Titus’ strong chest, letting the air out warily, and sucking in another shaky breath. My limbs are heavy.

  He strokes my forehead, kisses my temple, and I let the anger rush away. The pain in my belly subsides and I think Isis has answered my prayers. My belief in Isis was perhaps the only disagreement between Titus and myself that I set down my foot upon. He believes Isis worship is un-Roman. He was a sworn tribune to the emperor, both our families having ties to Augustus and yet, I worshipped the goddess of Cleopatra.

  But I didn’t care. I told Titus he was being old-fashioned and that I would obey him in all things but this, reminding him that Cleopatra’s daughter had been respected by Augustus.

  Perhaps Isis will keep this baby buried deep within my womb where he can pass on securely to the afterworld when we are all dead within the rubble of my father’s home. A tomb. Oh, how can I let such a horrid thought even cross my mind? We are not yet close to death!

  “We will not be buried here,” Titus says, as if he can hear my thoughts. “We will escape. I will get you back to Rome unharmed.”

  I realize I must have voiced my thoughts aloud.

  Rome may be under the gods’ darkness, too, for all we know. I shake my head. “We must accept Fate.”

  Gently my husband slides from behind me and stands, towering over me. His brow is creased with determination, his lips in a firm line. I imagine him giving this same look to legionaries before battle. “No, Lilla, we will not die here.”

  Facing my father, Titus once more says, “I will go and search again for a way to get out, in case I missed something the first time.”

  “I’m coming with you,” my brother Julius insists.

  “How many times must you go?” I ask, immediately contrite for voicing my fears. “And what if you don’t come back?”

  “Lilla,” my mother says in a tight whisper.

  My father’s gaze is uncertain but he says nothing.

  Titus takes my chin in his fingers and presses a kiss to my lips. “I will not fail you or my unborn son.”

  I want to believe him. Need to believe him. So I nod.

  He gives Quintus a little tap on the nose, causing a sob to choke me. Titus will make a good father.

  My own father sits beside me, his hand tugging my free one, not occupied by Quintus, into his hold. “Lilla …” But his voice trails off for a moment, and the man I’ve known as a strong Roman for all of my life looks ready to break. Tears fill his eyes. “I am sorry, daughter. I’ve failed you. I’ve failed everyone.”

  “Father …”

  He shakes his head. “I cannot even seek your forgiveness.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, for you have done nothing wrong.” I flick my eyes to Quintus who looks even more fearful. “Go and play with Little Bird,” I coo. The children have been running back and forth in a game of tag between this room and the one connected to it, the door banging against the wall as they shove through it.

  The boy runs off with a nod, eager to play. I am reminded of his innocence, of all their innocence. Of their hope in the world and the outcome of this disaster. While we all fear for our safety, they have no other concern than a moment’s pleasure.

  Because Mother was always ill and I was the oldest, I rarely had time to find that artless joy. I have always borne my duty with straight shoulders and absolute obedience.

  “No, Lilla, I have done something wrong. I bade you come to Pompeii when you w
ished to stay in Rome where you were comfortable.”

  Just as he pushed me to Rome in the first place by marrying me to Titus, pushed me to leave all that was familiar, and I obeyed, because that is what daughters do. Luckily, in Rome, I attained happiness in serving my new husband. Titus' place was in Rome: the way for him to advance his career. And being at odds with the two men in my life to whom I am beholden is a complicated and uncomfortable thing. One must submit to her paterfamilias. And yet, if a husband were to object? That was the situation I’d been in months before when Titus insisted we move to Rome permanently.

  I find myself wanting to protect my father and needing his strength to come back. If he should break, then what is left for the rest of us? “No, Father. What you wished for me was to breathe the fresh air of the bay and the mountains. To relax away from the city. To be pampered and kept healthy before the babe was due to arrive. To be near my family.”

  He nods, but his face is still drawn, stricken. “I gave you no choice.”

  I do not know how to respond, for he speaks the truth.

  I had no choice, but as a dutiful daughter, a dutiful wife, I did what was expected. When he warned I’d be risking yet another of my children, my guilt forced me to beg my husband. And once I convinced Titus that my father’s request was the best course, we packed and were on our way.

  I only disobeyed my father once as a child. I’d wanted to play with a young girl I saw in the streets near a brothel. At the time, I had not known she was a slave—or that her future would be in prostitution. I’d sneaked away from our house and when my father found me, I received a sound lashing. What would have happened if I disobeyed as a grown woman? And besides that, where would I have gone? Who would have taken in a woman who went against her paterfamilias and her husband? No one of honor and respect.

  My father’s gaze is serious, grim. “If only there had been a sign from the gods, then I would have listened to your wish to remain in Rome.”

  “What?” I breathe out, shocked by his sudden change. A man once so filled with pride and certainty looks as though he regrets all the choices he ever made.

  “I fear for you, Lilla. I fear for us all.” His voice cracks and at that I sit up taller and hug him around his shoulders.

  “Hush, Father. What are you saying? Are you giving up hope? You are the one we look to for strength. Do not abandon your strength now.”

  Father looks at me, nods, and swipes at his weepy eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Yes. You are right. I must remain strong.” He clears his throat and then stands up, going to sit beside my mother who has curled up in a ball around Quintus, who must have sneaked away from Little Bird, and is now fast asleep in my mother’s arms.

  I push myself up from the couch, my feet unsteady, legs still partially numb. The pains in my belly have eased somewhat. When I feel strong enough to walk, I shuffle toward the door, intent on peeking outside to see where Titus and Julius went. The door is hard to open. I shove hard against the wood with my shoulder. When I open the door, I am dismayed to see that many layers of soot and rock have filled the portico and peristyle. I’m surprised I was able to push against it.

  We are being buried alive.

  The horror of that realization guts me and I find it hard to breathe.

  I want to call out to Titus, but the air sucks away my breath and I cannot form the words. My lungs seize, and I cough and cough, drawing in breath, but the air must be poisonous. My lungs burn. I grip the side of the door’s opening, praying for my breath to return.

  Echoes of the city sound muted in the openness. There is an occasional shout of pain, of fear, but not nearly as many as before. Fading like we are, beneath the rubble. The silence between cries is deafening. Terrifying. So when they do come, they reach inside my soul and grip me tight. We are not alone in our suffering. And yet … we are.

  POLYBIUS

  “FATHER,” croaks my twelve-year-old boy. Though he’s named for me, we call him Albinus, because he was born so pale and nearly without life. In the lamplight, I can see his skin has turned miserably gray. His lips are discolored, taking on a purple hue. He tugs at my sleeve weakly.

  “My son.” I scoop him up from the floor where he sits huddled with his siblings and sit with him on an empty couch. I want to comfort him, but what peace can I give him? I am becoming acutely aware that I have doomed them all. So I say nothing.

  Pressing my hand to his head I feel his skin is growing cold despite the heat of this place. Albinus coughs, unable to catch his breath. His body curls in on itself as his lungs struggle to draw air. I fear his weakened state has been made all the more vulnerable.

  I sit him up further, patting roughly on his bony back. “Wine!” I call out to our slaves. Charis taps Nikon, who looks as pale as my boy and lies against the wall. Charis looks at me fearfully, and for a moment I wonder if she will rebel as the other slaves did. But then she goes to get the wine.

  “Albinus, breathe slow, my boy. Try to calm yourself.”

  But he clutches at his chest as he coughs even harder. The poor boy has not been well since he was born, so I pat him harder on the back, and urge him in whispers to breathe slow and deep, just as I have on many past occasions when his breath has been taken from him.

  “This air …” I murmur, not willing to finish my sentence, for the air would indeed kill him. We need water to help with his breathing. Our physician told us to dampen a rag and hold it over his mouth as he breathed. The moist air seemed to help him get his breath back. I need the fearful slave to get the water. “Charis, go and get water from the impluvium.”

  Water has been short in Pompeii, thanks to our hot autumn, but surely there is enough for Albinus. Charis shakes her head, fear making her eyes widen. “Master, I cannot. The ash has turned it to mud!”

  “Go,” I growl anyway, fear for my son’s health taking away my common sense.

  Charis backs slowly to the door, her fingers reaching for the handle when the door starts to shudder. Someone is tugging on it. It opens a crack and then further until Titus and Julius burst through, their skin black, and only the whites of their eyes and teeth showing.

  “Step away from the door,” Julius commands our slave. He and Titus push inside, their eyes darting about, haunted.

  I’m afraid of what I see outside as ash falls into the room before they pull the door closed. Albinus will not get the water he desperately needs.

  Titus stares at Albinus. “What has happened?”

  “Another breathing attack.” My voice chokes, throat tight.

  Decima wakes from her slumber, unsettling Quintus, who crawls from one couch to another until he reaches Lilla’s waiting arms.

  My wife cries out at the sight of her son and rushes to my couch to hold Albinus’ head in her lap. “Albinus, love, it will be all right.”

  “We need water for him,” I say, hearing the desperation in my voice.

  “I’ll go,” Julius says, but he glances at Titus and they appear to have a silent conversation.

  With Albinus in his mother’s care, I walk toward the pair. “Say it,” I demand.

  “The wall near the impluvium has partially collapsed, and debris now fills the well where our water was. There is no water,” Titus confesses. “Ash is accumulating rapidly.”

  “It was up to my knees, Father,” Julius says.

  “I shall go then, to the cistern,” I say, not willing to risk my son’s life to the falling missiles any more than I already had. If I have to climb through the walls to reach our water supply, I will.

  “No, let me. I’ve already traversed the ruins of our house.” Julius puffs out his chest, his eyes pleading.

  His words tear at my heart and for a moment, I feel the same loss of breath that poor Albinus suffers from. As the hours progress, I am relying more on my children than I have before. Listening to their advice. How can I not let him go? How can I deny him this chance to be the honorable man he’s grown to be, when with each passing moment our situation
becomes increasingly dire?

  “Be safe, my son.” I clasp him to me, showing him more affection today than I’ve given him in all the years since he was a young boy. A Roman I raised him to be, not a coddled youth. “The gods will guard over you.”

  “Be wary,” Titus warns my eldest son. “The walls are crumbling.”

  Julius nods. “I will return soon.”

  We usher him outside amid the questioning of my other children, Lilla and Decima, who are nervous of him going again. I am, too, but I see no other way.

  We close the door against the air, which is even thicker than before, and I drop to my knees and pray to all the gods that Julius will make it back to us. That he can hold his breath between ragged, poisoned draws of air.

  I am joined in prayer by most of those left in the room—even the children, who take a break from their game of chase. Albinus remains on the couch; his coughing has subsided but his breathing whistles, and I feel every labored drawn breath like a knife wound to my heart. Nikon also does not rise from his inclined spot along the wall, his older face gone slack.

  Our prayers are loud, and for a moment we drown out the echoes of buildings crashing down around us.

  As we quiet, Lilla cries out, doubling over. She clutches her belly.

  “Daughter.” Decima leaps to her feet and grasps Lilla’s hand while her husband carries her back to the couch.

  I follow behind. “Is it the babe?” I ask. Fear makes my blood run cold. We cannot birth the baby here. Not in this. Lilla should not have to endure such pain and terror with the fires raging just beyond these walls.

  “I am well,” Lilla manages to speak between clenched teeth. “Simply a cramp.”

  But her face is contorted in pain. I realize I have not heard the whistling noise of Albinus’ breath. I whirl to see him staring with glassy eyes toward to ceiling. He is still.

  “Albinus,” I say, but his name does not pass my lips, a groan instead.

  In a leap, I am on him, knees crushing against the stone floor. I scoop him up in my arms, his lifeless body limp and heavy.