A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii

A DAY OF FIRE

A Novel of Pompeii

by

Stephanie Dray

Ben Kane

E. Knight

Sophie Perinot

Kate Quinn

Vicky Alvear Shecter

With an introduction by

Michelle Moran

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE: The Son

PART TWO: The Heiress

PART THREE: The Soldier

PART FOUR: The Senator

PART FIVE: The Mother

PART SIX: The Whore

EPILOGUE

NOTES FROM THE AUTHORS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

COPYRIGHT

INTRODUCTION

Michelle Moran

I doubt anyone has ever visited Pompeii and not been transformed. To visit this site where two thousand inhabitants lost their lives during the volcanic eruption of Mount Vesuvius is to step back in time to a city which was almost perfectly preserved by the falling volcanic ash. You can walk the streets of this ancient Roman city today and imagine the horror of burning pumice raining from the sky. Thousands of people had been left behind, but even as they tried to flee, lethal gas and burning ash killed them slowly, filling their lungs, hardening their internal organs. As the ash-fall continued, their bodies stiffened, and all across the city of Pompeii, human statues were created, frozen in time. In 1863, archaeologists discovered a method of preserving these bodies with haunting results. There is the woman in the Villa of Mysteries who clawed her way over the falling rocks, only to finally die at the top. The heavily pregnant woman adorned in gold jewelry discovered with her loved ones, huddled together in their house. And the doomed families in the Garden of Fugitives, where mothers were found clutching their children and a single man tried to rise from the ash in a futile effort to shield the rest.

In
A Day of Fire
, six of the most talented authors I’ve read have resurrected these lives and many others, along with a once-thriving city where fighting, sex, and gambling was the norm. It is a novel written in six parts, each by a different author, and each comprising a complete tale unto itself. Yet because the plots are woven together, a fascinating story emerges in the end of a city where spirituality and profanity, squalor and immense profit, existed side by side in the gladiatorial arenas, temples, brothels, and inns.

It is easy to elevate the Romans. After all, they left behind impressive contributions to literature, philosophy, architecture, and science. But Pompeii, in its unbelievably preserved state, tells the real story. In these ruins we find not only the great and lofty accomplishments of Roman civilization, but the remnants of a society so steeped in sexploitation that there is no way for any responsible historical author to turn away from it, and these authors certainly have not done so.

Like
all historical novels, readers should know that minor changes to the historical record were made.
For the sake of accessibility, the authors have adopted English words and conventions over the Latin. For example, while the Romans did not use weeks to measure time, the authors do. Moreover, since timelines for the eruption of Mount Vesuvius vary slightly from expert to expert, the authors have adopted the one set out by scholar Mary Beard in
Pompeii: The Living City
with several minor modifications and one major one: namely that they decided to adopt more recent scholarship suggesting that the eruption took place in the autumn of 79 rather than the long-assumed August.

A Day of Fire
is one of the most entertaining reads I’ve come across in historical fiction. In the hands of these wonderfully diverse authors, we glimpse what life must have been like during those last, fatal hours in Pompeii, and it’s not just horrifying, it’s fascinating.

PART ONE

THE SON

Vicky Alvear Shecter

“The depth of darkness to which you can descend and still live is an exact measure of the height to which you can aspire to reach.”

—Pliny the Elder

Pompeii

In the first year of the rule of Emperor Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus

I discreetly tightened my loincloth as I approached Pompeii’s Sarno Gate. The mere sight of the chipped arch funneling us into the city—the knowledge that I was that much closer to
her
—made my body respond in a most embarrassing way. I did not need my tented tunic announcing to the world my business in Pompeii. Thank Priapus for the pressure of the cloth.

The line into the city inched along like a bloated leech. I shook my head to clear the image from my mind. My uncle’s insistence on regular bleedings drove me to distraction. “Balancing your humors will help clear the spots on your face,” he’d said. “And it will help you grow. Some boys don’t finish growing until they are in their twenties,” he added with undisguised hope.

I resisted scratching the spot on my back where the last of the little suckers had been removed after the physician bled me, and I suppressed a shudder at the memory of that glistening, slimy body swollen with my own blood. So far, my uncle’s “plan” to help me grow bigger had failed miserably. The former general, the great naturalist, the admiral of Emperor Titus’ navy, was a big, ox-like man. As was my father, everyone always told me, though I never knew him. It was almost as if my uncle took it as a personal affront that I did not take after him or my father but am built like my mother—his own tiny sister, Plinia—instead. As if I were pleased by this cruel trick of the gods.

Reeking rivermen and sweat-stained traders from Salernum pressed in all around me. I would have to scrub well at Julius’ house before going to see my girl.

Of course, just as I was almost through the arch, some old farmer got the wheel of his onion cart stuck in a rut, forcing the rest of us to stop. I should have known. Pompeii was such a busy port town; there were always delays. Like my lover, the city teased me continually. And as always when there were delays, I wondered if I should’ve come in through the Herculaneum Gate or even the Marine Gate. But I reminded myself that I was less likely to run into people who might recognize me on this end of town. I needed to stay anonymous. Even to her.

When I finally emerged into the dirty, bustling inner streets, I began counting as I always did. Just three hundred and thirty one steps until I got to touch Prima again.

At step seventy-five, the crowd in front of me parted and I almost slammed into a pile of bricks stacked up in front of a large house. Only at the last moment did I avoid a collision, staggering onto the road and barely missing a man walking a donkey so laden with jugs, it looked swaddled in a clinking, clay blanket. A couple of barefoot urchins laughed at my inelegant arm waving as I fought for balance. Did those little street rats put the bricks there on purpose to steal from me?

I wouldn’t put it past them. Pompeii was a city of grabbers and opportunists, which was part of its charm. Unless what someone grabbed was yours. I swatted at my coin purse beneath my tunic belt and grunted with relief to find it still securely attached. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of workmen trundle to the pile of bricks and reach for them with mud-caked hands.

It wasn’t the kids after all. Still, on principle, I scowled fiercely at the ragged creatures, which only made them giggle more. The little boy’s stick arms clutched his belly as he laughed.

In truth, I often felt not much older than that dirt-smeared boy. I’d had my manhood ceremony during the Liber Festival just that spring and had been certain everything would be different as soon as I donned the
toga virilis
. Certain that I would finally
become
the man the law said I was. But nothing had changed. Every loud, wheezing breath my uncle took in my presence seemed to vibrate with disappointment. A disappointment reinforced in public when he did not formally adopt me at the ceremony as my mother and I thought he would.

At step two-hundred-and-forty-five, I stopped at Julius’ house, the House of Polybius, the current
praetor
of Pompeii. There was something magical about passing through his home’s brightly-painted blue door. When it closed behind me, all the chaos of the street melted into memory.

A steward led me into a sun-drenched atrium surrounded by walls frescoed in vivid reds, yellows, and blacks. One day, I would have a lovely home like this, I told myself, maybe even on this block in this very city.

“Caecilius!” shouted Julius when he saw me. “What a surprise!”

I snorted.
Surprise
indeed. He’d likely been pacing all afternoon waiting for my arrival. “I’d like to get cleaned up before we set off,” I said.

He punched me on the arm and muttered, “You’re the only fool I know who washes
before
seeing a whore.”

“Shut it, you
cacator
,” I hissed. He knew I hated it when he called Prima a whore. But at least he was smart enough to keep his voice down, lest word of my entanglement somehow reached my uncle. On principle, I threw an elbow, but he was too quick for me, managing to avoid it with graceful athleticism that left me looking like a goose tripping over my own flat, webbed feet.

“Julius, be nice!” a young, female voice called. Julilla, his sister, emerged from the columned shadows. Her large pregnant belly emerged into view first. With her small hands supporting it from below, she gave the impression she was presenting me with a giant
trigon
ball wrapped in fine aqua linen.

She kissed me on each cheek as I breathed in her lovely scent of lotus oil.

“You look magnificent,” I murmured, as heat flooded my cheeks. Julilla’s green eyes and dark glossy hair always made me think of the sleek black cat that held court in the Temple of Isis. Amazingly, even in her advanced pregnancy, she still moved like water dancing in the sun. Her husband was a very lucky man. Would I ever be so lucky?

“Are you well?” I continued, remembering that she and her husband lived in Rome now. They must have come to Pompeii so she could have the baby in her childhood home. It made sense. The calming scents and sounds of the ocean were never far.

“Yes, yes!” she said. “Though I am more than ready to meet my son.” She said the latter with the kind of emphasis that indicated she believed that if she said it enough times, it would be true. She turned to her brother. “I suppose you two are setting out for the forum?”

Julius’ eyes flicked toward mine then he smiled down at Julilla. “Yes, to catch some lectures,” he said, vaguely. “Then a
symposium
where we will drink and argue all night and then start all over again in the morning.”

She laughed prettily. “By the gods, I’m glad Titus is too busy climbing the
cursus honorum
to engage in such trifles. Have fun, boys,” she said turning and ambling toward the inner courtyard.

“Get going,” Julius said, giving me a playful shove toward a shaded corner of the atrium where a servant had set up a small cleaning station for me. Fragrant mint leaves floated on the surface of a bronze water bowl surrounded by several small vials of fragrant oils. Pompeii’s strangely hot autumn and increasing tremors had resulted in a water shortage in the city, but clearly not in Julius’ home, thanks to his father’s wealth. As I well knew from my uncle, power came with privileges. I dipped my hands into the water and began to scrub, “Hurry up!” Julius called. “I want to get out of here already.”

Jupiter’s balls, I did too, friend.

On the narrow street outside his house, I slicked my short wet hair forward, wishing I had Julius’ shining curls, but Uncle always insisted I sport a short military haircut. After all,
it was good enough for him!
Unfortunately, the close-cropped hair only seemed to draw attention to my skinny neck.

“So, my unclaimed friend,” Julius said suddenly as we maneuvered down the street, “when shall we reconvene to align our stories?” he asked.

I gritted my teeth. Julius knew I hated being called “unclaimed.” He
knew
that the fact that my uncle had not formally adopted me at my ceremony was like an open wound. Yet he continued teasing me about it—ever since I’d shamefully admitted to him my hurt and dismay at my uncle’s lack of public affirmation.

“Oh, stop looking like a toothless old woman sucking on a lemon,” Julius said, elbowing me. “You must learn to laugh and joke about the things that sting. It takes away their power!”

“So you say,” I muttered.

He sighed. “You are much too serious, Gaius Caecilius.”

After confirming when we would gather again, Julius turned on the street leading to the fancier, more expensive brothels on the Vesuvian end of town. “Have fun with your little
lupa,
” he called loudly to the amusement of passers-by.

My face flamed. “You too, you
asinus,”
I shot back, but he hadn’t heard me. My voice didn’t carry like his.

When
my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the low-ceilinged
caupona
, I caught sight of my Prima pouring wine from a chipped clay jug. My heart pounded in my ears. She looked up at me with her black eyes and grinned. Something in the center of my chest melted like a piece of honeycomb left out in the sun. Her owner emerged out of the shadows with his hand out. Without so much as a word, I placed a pile of coins into it. He knew the arrangement. I got Prima for the whole night in one of the inn’s rooms—not one of the curtained cubicles on the street she had to use with other customers—and I paid handsomely for it.

Prima grinned wider and jerked her head toward our usual upstairs room. I raced up the dark wooden stairway while she spoke with the old
asinus
who owned her.

Once inside the small room, I said a quick prayer to Venus at the tiny altar to the gods built into a small niche. And I paced. Back and forth, back and forth. Still, she did not come. I strained to hear her light steps on the wooden stairs.

Did she do this to me on purpose? She claimed she didn’t, that she had to ensure all the tavern and inn customers were taken care of and that somebody else—usually her chesty blonde sister—covered for her before she could join me, but I wasn’t so sure.

Finally,
finally,
I heard Prima’s soft step on the stairs and jumped up. She’d barely sidled inside before I had her up against the door, my nose buried in her neck, breathing in her smoky-sweet scent. Gods, I loved the feel of her skinny little body writhing against mine. She was so tiny she even made me feel big.

“
Eheu!
” she laughed, putting her hands on my chest. “Let me at least take a breath and say hello.”

Already panting, I let her push me away, smiling back at her.

“You have been away from me for too long,” she pouted. “I thought you had found someone else, and I’ve been walking around broken-hearted!”

“Never,” I said, reaching for her again. Even through my blinding hunger for her I registered her words and a thrill of pleasure surged through me. Did she … did she feel about me the way I felt about her?

She skirted past me, smiling that adorable, slightly gap-toothed smile that always sent shivers down my back and up again through the center of my belly.

“I am glad to hear this,” she said. “I missed my young bull! You’ve kept me waiting for you much too long.”

She missed me.
Gods,
she had missed me! “I missed you, too,” I said, trying to keep my voice level while, at the same time, guiding her down on her bed.

“Oh no you don’t,” she laughed, wriggling away. “I’m in charge here.” She pushed me down onto the thin, rush-filled mattress. My elbows slammed down hard on to the frame, but I didn’t care.

“I have an idea,” she said with a glint in her eye. “Let’s get the first one out of the way quickly so that we can relax and enjoy ourselves, yes?”

She knelt between my legs and pushed my tunic over my hips. I flopped back onto the bed with a strangled groan.

“WHAT are you doing?” I croaked, waking to find her shuffling through our clothing on the floor.

“Nothing,” Prima said, startled. She placed the small oil lamp—in the shape of an engorged Priapus—on the warped wooden chest and straightened. I relished the sight of her, the flickering light dancing over the angles of her lithe, naked body. She could be a sea nymph—all dark sleekness and wild beauty—emerging from Pompeii’s surf to slide into my arms.

“I am … I’m hungry,” she said. “I was checking to see if you brought me anything to eat.”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “You are always hungry.”

She put a hand on her hip and gave me a crooked smile. “That is because you keep me so busy, I forget to eat.”

“What hour of the night is it? Can you go downstairs and bring food up for us?”

She nodded. “
Dominus
doesn’t like that, though,” she said. “You know if he sees me he will try to foist me on another customer.”

“I paid for the whole night and he knows it!” I stood up and went to my coin purse, which I’d hidden in my shoes. “And I will pay for the food. Bring us up some wine and sausages and whatever else you want,” I said, giving her a handful of coins.