The Pompeii Disaster

by Dan Gutman

  Luke said nothing. There was nothing to say. He took a deep breath and gripped his sword tightly. The gate was pulled open. Any thought of making a run for it was gone. There was no place to run.

  A huge cheer rang out when Luke stepped into the arena. The gate was lowered behind him with a heavy clang. He was alone out there.

  “Our next gladiator,” announced the guy with the megaphone, “battling for his first time in Pompeii . . . is the slave . . . Oceanus!”

  Luke turned around 360 degrees as the citizens applauded and stamped their feet for him. The arena itself was a large oval, smaller than a football field, but larger than a basketball court. On the walls of the arena were paintings of gladiators in combat. The ground was sandy dirt. Luke could see patches of blood and smell the rotting flesh of previous competitors.

  This wasn’t all that different from a ballgame at Fenway Park in Boston, it occurred to Luke. It wasn’t that different from any modern sporting event, really. But instead of watching two teams compete to score the most runs, goals, or points, the crowd would watch two men try to kill each other. And instead of winning money or trophies, the victor was allowed to live—if he was lucky.

  “He’s just a boy!” shouted a voice from the crowd.

  Oh, good, Luke said to himself, maybe they’ll change their minds and let me go.

  “Kill the boy!” shouted another voice.

  “Are you going to fight like a man?” somebody else hollered.

  Luke looked up at the crowd. It was like a circus. The Roman Empire wasn’t at war, so these fake gladiator wars were staged to amuse the population. People had brought their children with them. Kids were chanting, taunting, eating, and laughing. They had seen blood. Now they wanted to see more. It was disgusting.

  These people are sick, Luke muttered to himself. Sweat was pouring off him. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  At the other end of the arena was another archway with an iron gate in front of it, where his opponent was about to emerge. The applause had to die down before the gate would be lifted, to build anticipation.

  “Our next gladiator,” the guy with the megaphone finally announced, “all the way from Rome, is the criminal Vulcan, who committed the crime of criticizing Emperor Titus!”

  “Boooooo!” the crowd shouted as the gate went up. “Boooooo!”

  “I get it,” Luke muttered to himself. “It’s just like professional wrestling. We each play a character. He’s the heel and I’m the babyface.”

  The gladiator named Vulcan came out. He was a big, ugly, bald guy, maybe 250 pounds. He had an arrogant scowl on his face, big muscles on his arms and legs, and scars from previous battles on his stomach. Luke cringed.

  That guy looks like he takes steroids, he thought.

  In the stands, money was changing hands. People were making bets on which gladiator would live and which would die.

  Vulcan lumbered out to the center of the arena. Luke’s instinct was to run away, but he decided the only way to beat the big guy would be to use his wits. He walked out to meet Vulcan in the middle and put out his hand to shake. The big guy ignored it.

  “This is all fake, right?” Luke asked Vulcan when they were face-to-face. “We don’t really go at it, do we?”

  “Grrrr,” replied Vulcan. He shoved Luke with his shield, pushing the boy backward.

  “Maybe you and I can work out a little deal,” Luke suggested. “I’ll hit you a few times. You hit me a few times. One of us falls down . . .”

  “Grrrr . . .”

  Vulcan shoved him again, harder this time. Luke stumbled and fell backward. He was sitting in the dirt.

  Okay, this is real, he said to himself. Vulcan looked angry. It wasn’t clear if he even spoke a language.

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the bloodthirsty crowd chanted as one.

  Luke stood up.

  “And what if I refuse?” he shouted, throwing down his sword.

  “Boooooo!” the crowd shouted.

  “The boy is too timid to fight!” somebody yelled. “He is a coward!”

  “Why are you reluctant to die?” yelled somebody else. “The gods will honor you.”

  “Die with honor, Oceanus!”

  “Coward! Coward! Coward!”

  “Sacrifice the boy to the gods!”

  The iron gate at the far end of the arena opened again. Another man came out dressed as Mars, the Roman god of war. He was carrying a long iron stick. It was the length of a sword, but it wasn’t sharp. The tip was glowing bright red-orange, as it had just been taken out of a fire.

  “Those who lack the enthusiasm to fight must be persuaded!” shouted Mars. The crowd cheered.

  “Burn him!” somebody shouted as Mars advanced toward Luke with the red-hot poker.

  “Okay, okay!” Luke said, picking up his sword. “I’ll fight.”

  The crowd cheered. This is what they had come to see. Mars retreated, and went back to where he came from.

  Luke and Vulcan circled each other slowly in the middle of the arena, sizing each other up, swords at the ready, looking for an opening. Luke tried to remember all those martial arts movies he had seen.

  “Oceanus! Oceanus! Oceanus!”

  Vulcan charged forward like a boar and took a wild swing with his sword, but Luke dodged sideways and scampered out of the way. Luke lunged with his sword, but Vulcan blocked it with his shield.

  “Vulcan! Vulcan! Vulcan!”

  Luke didn’t have any real fighting experience, but he could see that Vulcan was slow and clumsy. Luke could run around him, using his speed to confuse and torment the big man. He remembered reading how Muhammad Ali did exactly that to win the heavyweight championship as a young man.

  Vulcan flailed at Luke again, and only the boy’s lightning-fast reaction time prevented a serious injury as the sword whistled inches from his ear. Luke launched a counterattack, slashing back, and his sword clanged against Vulcan’s sword as it was pushed out of the way.

  They went back and forth like that with a flurry of overhand blows. The crowd was on its feet and cheering, but Luke barely heard it. He was in the moment. He had forgotten all about Mount Vesuvius erupting. Right now, the only thing that mattered was protecting his vital organs.

  The sword was starting to feel heavy. Luke had to swing it with two hands like a baseball bat, sometimes hitting Vulcan’s shield and sometimes hitting his armor. He knew that if he didn’t do some damage fast, he was going to lose. Every time a blow landed, there was the sound of a trumpet blast from the musicians who had been entertaining the crowd.

  But even as he tired, Luke was gaining confidence. It didn’t seem possible for him to stand toe-to-toe with a man the size of Vulcan. But in a life-or-death situation, we call up a hidden reserve of untapped strength. There are stories of women who have picked up a car when their baby was trapped underneath it. It’s like having temporary superpowers.

  “Oceanus! Oceanus! Oceanus!”

  It actually looked like Luke was winning as he traded blows with the bigger man. He stood firm as he planted his leg and lunged at Vulcan the way he had seen it done in countless movies. But that’s when he made a crucial mistake. He got a little too close, and Vulcan’s sword nicked him on the arm. Luke looked down and saw blood.

  “Owww!” he shouted.

  Vulcan pounced. He charged toward Luke, ramming his shield against the side of the boy’s head and denting his helmet. Luke’s ears were ringing. Caught off balance, his knees buckled and he stumbled, landing on his back. When he hit the ground, he lost the grip on his shield. Vulcan thundered forward, standing over Luke, his sword poised to plunge into the boy’s exposed throat. It was a desperate situation.

  The crowd roared in approval. They were on their feet now.

  “Vulcan! Vulcan! Vulcan!”

  For a gladiator who was about to be killed, the proper etiquette was to beg for mercy by dropping his sword and raising one finger. The victor could then choose to back off or—more commonly—kill h
is opponent and put him out of his misery.

  But Luke didn’t know anything about gladiator etiquette. He just knew he had no shield and Vulcan was about to slice him open.

  The crowd was going crazy, screaming, waving handkerchiefs, and making thumbs-up or thumbs-down signs to indicate what Vulcan should do to Luke.

  “Iugula!” shouted half the crowd. “Kill him!”

  “Mitte!” shouted the other half. “Let him go!”

  “Grrrr . . .”

  By all rights, reader, this is where the story of the Flashback Four must come to an end. The timer counted down: 59 minutes. Less than an hour left. But that didn’t matter. Luke was about to be killed. The rest of the team was in captivity and sure to be wiped out along with the rest of Pompeii.

  But you’ve probably noticed there are quite a few pages left in this book. So let’s continue.

  Luke was on the ground, on his back, with Vulcan looming over him and poised to plunge his sword into the boy’s carotid artery. Luke had only one option, and it was the oldest trick in the book. Fortunately, the book hadn’t been written yet.

  “Behind you!” he shouted at Vulcan, pointing over the big man’s head. “Watch out!”

  The element of surprise. It’s a marvelous weapon.

  When Vulcan turned around to see what was behind him, Luke jumped to his feet and swung his sword as hard as he could. Vulcan saw a blur of movement from the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t react in time. Luke’s sword caught the big man flush on the side of his helmet. Vulcan was knocked sideways, staggered, and went sprawling facedown in the dirt. His helmet went flying. Vulcan was still. It looked like he was unconscious.

  The crowd went crazy. They had never seen such an audacious move before.

  “Oceanus! Oceanus! Oceanus!”

  Luke bent over and put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He turned to look at Vulcan, who was not moving.

  “Is Vulcan dead?” shouted the announcer through his megaphone. “Or is he a faker? Let us find out for sure.”

  The guy dressed as Mars came out again with his red-hot poker. He touched it to Vulcan’s back. The big man twitched and screamed in pain.

  “Vulcan is not yet dead!” shouted the announcer. That riled up the crowd even more.

  “Finish him off, Oceanus!”

  “Iugula! Iugula! Iugula!” chanted the crowd.

  Luke looked at Vulcan on the ground. Then he shook his head and flipped his sword up in the air the way baseball players flip their bats.

  “Boooooo!”

  “Why is Oceanus reluctant to kill?” somebody shouted.

  “Boooooo!”

  “You people are sick,” Luke yelled, but nobody could hear him over the noise.

  He staggered back to the gate, where Fred the Red was waiting.

  “You fought bravely,” he told Luke. “You put on a good show and pleased the citizens. More than that, you pleased the gods.”

  Fred the Red placed a laurel crown of victory on Luke’s head and handed him a palm branch.

  “That’s it?” asked Luke. “For winning I get a piece of a tree? Am I at least free to go now?”

  “Free to go?” Fred the Red said with a laugh. “If you continue to fight bravely for three years, and then, if the gods have mercy, you may be freed. May.”

  CHAPTER 14

  MEANWHILE, BACK IN BOSTON . . .

  MISS Z AND MRS. VADER HAD NO IDEA WHAT WAS happening in Pompeii. They had been going about their morning, making phone calls, answering emails, drinking coffee, and doing all those other routine things that grown-ups do.

  Miss Z spent some time on the phone with a real estate developer who had expressed interest in her idea, which now had a name—the Museum of Historic Photography, or MOHP. Washington, DC, seemed to be the perfect location for the museum, a block from the National Air and Space Museum.

  “Yes, I’ll have photos of historic events that have never been seen before,” she said excitedly into the phone. “You’re going to be amazed.”

  With the photo of the Titanic up on her wall, Miss Z had renewed enthusiasm for her museum. In an hour, the Flashback Four would be delivering another photo for the collection—Mount Vesuvius blowing its top in the year 79. Miss Z could barely contain her excitement. She was already brainstorming about other historic photos she could get—Washington crossing the Delaware. America’s Founding Fathers signing the Declaration of Independence. Leonardo da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa. The possibilities were endless. She could send the Flashback Four back to prehistoric times to take the first and only photograph of a living dinosaur!

  Mrs. Vader glanced at her watch. It was 11:20 in Pompeii time. The kids had left for Pompeii at exactly 10:15. They had two hours to scope out the town, find a location, and take the photo of the mountain exploding at noon. At 12:15, it would be time to bring them back home. Plenty of time.

  “Do you think we should send a text to Isabel to see how the kids are doing?” Mrs. Vader asked her boss.

  “I don’t want to pester them too much,” Miss Z replied. “You know the way children are. Leave them be. Isabel is a big girl. She’ll get in touch if they need us.”

  Mrs. Vader let some time go by, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the Flashback Four. It seemed like it had been quite a while since Isabel had reported in. Mrs. Vader checked the computer. The last communication from Isabel had been EVERYTHING GOING SMOOTHLY. LOOKING FOR PERFECT PHOTO LOCATION.

  She resolved to stop worrying. She checked to see if the mail had arrived, and paid a few bills. When those tasks were completed, there was nothing else that needed to be done.

  “I really think we should text the kids,” she told Miss Z.

  “Okay, okay,” Miss Z replied. “If you say so. Go ahead.”

  EVERYTHING STILL GOING SMOOTHLY? Mrs. Vader typed.

  She watched the screen to read the response when it came back.

  There was no response.

  “Isabel usually replies right away,” Mrs. Vader said a little nervously.

  “Be patient,” Miss Z told her. “I’m sure she’ll text back in a few seconds.”

  A few seconds passed. There was no reply.

  “They must be busy,” Miss Z said. “Give it a few minutes and then try again.”

  Mrs. Vader went to the other side of the office to replace the filter in the coffee machine. That killed a few minutes. Then she came back to the computer.

  YOU KIDS OK? she texted.

  Nothing. No response. Now both of them were getting nervous.

  “This isn’t like Isabel,” Miss Z said.

  “Maybe the TTT is broken,” Mrs. Vader guessed.

  “It’s worked like a charm up until now,” replied Miss Z. “Try again.”

  Mrs. Vader typed another text.

  ISABEL?

  As you know, reader, this entire effort was useless. They could try a million times and the result would be the same. The TTT had been snatched away from Isabel and crushed after the Flashback Four were grabbed on the street in Pompeii. But Miss Z and Mrs. Vader didn’t know that.

  “Something must have gone wrong,” Miss Z said, in the understatement of the year.

  Silently, she imagined all the things that could have happened. The kids might have lost the TTT. Maybe they dropped it in water again and it was ruined. Or the extreme heat of Pompeii had caused the battery to drain. Maybe they had been pickpocketed again. Anything could have happened.

  It did not cross Miss Z’s mind that maybe the Flashback Four had been forced into slavery and Isabel and Julia were chained to a wall in a Pompeii dungeon while Luke and David were being forced to fight for their lives as gladiators.

  Mrs. Vader checked the time again. It was eleven thirty in Pompeii. The scheduled pickup time was twelve fifteen, forty-five minutes away.

  “Maybe we should think about picking them up early,” Mrs. Vader suggested.

  Miss Z closed her eyes. It helped her think.

  If she
brought the Flashback Four home early, it would certainly remove them from a possibly dangerous situation. But that would only work if the kids were at the meeting spot at that moment. She didn’t know where they were. There was no way to find out. And it was unlikely that they were at the meeting spot, because they would have been out exploring the town.

  Furthermore, what if somebody else happened to be standing at the meeting spot? If she fired up the Board to bring the kids back, she would bring back whoever happened to be standing at that spot at that moment. She had already made that mistake once with that Thomas Maloney guy from the Titanic.

  To make things more complicated, if she activated the Board and accidentally brought back somebody else instead of the Flashback Four, she wouldn’t be able to try again. The technology of the Board was very advanced, but it only allowed her to do an upload once to a specific place and time. If she messed up for any reason, there would be no second chance. No do-overs. The kids would then be stuck in Pompeii for the rest of their lives.

  And the rest of their lives would last less than an hour, when they would be incinerated by the volcano.

  Finally, needless to say, if she messed up, Miss Z could forget about getting that photo of Mount Vesuvius blowing its top.

  She rubbed her forehead and shook her head. Why does this always happen? she wondered. She had worked so hard and spent so much money to perfect this technology. She had been so careful to get the right clothes for the kids, and to prepare them for every possibility they might encounter on their mission. It was supposed to be so easy. In and out. Take the picture and come home. Why did something always go wrong?

  “Bringing them back early is too risky,” she finally said to Mrs. Vader. “Let’s stick with the original plan. Unless we hear from them, we’ll bring them back as scheduled, at twelve fifteen.”

  CHAPTER 15

  NEXT VICTIM

  IN POMPEII, LUKE STAGGERED BACK TO THE PALEStra Grande after his unexpected victory over Vulcan. He was sweating, exhausted, and slightly wounded, with a trickle of blood dripping down his arm. But he was still on his feet, and the truth is, he was feeling somewhat exhilarated. How could he not be? The cheering from the bloodthirsty crowd was still ringing in his ears.