A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii (12 page)

Lepidus came out to greet them, his eyes full of curiosity. But, to his credit, he held his tongue until Sabinus’ grandmother had alighted and been shown inside. “A bit early for a social call.”

“Surely you felt that last tremor.”

“Yes, as I did the ones before it.”

Sabinus raised his eyebrows.

“All right, it was different. More sustained. What of it?”

“The wall of my bedroom cracked open, Lepidus. I lost a column in my atrium.”

“Take my daughter home to a different bedroom this evening and have the damage seen to while we are all in Nuceria.” As he finished speaking, Aemilia herself padded out, barefoot, hair undone.

“Father, there is a large fissure in the pavement of the veranda and Mother’s statue of Livia has gone over. I fear the Empress has lost some fingers.” Then, as if noticing him for the first time, “Sabinus?”

“It is worse in the city. Buildings on fire, roofs fallen in.” Sabinus was exaggerating of course, though not lying, he told himself—the stable roof had definitely fallen. “It is time to go, Lepidus.” Sabinus had promised himself he would not be wounded by Aemilia’s look of relief, but it hurt nonetheless.

“I will dress and pack,” she said. Sabinus was glad for her abrupt retreat when, a moment later, Faustus appeared.

“Boy,” Lepidus said, “have you forgotten there is no work here today?”

“
Dominus
, the inn where I lodged shook something horrible and a bit of the roof fell onto my bed—”

Bless the boy
, Sabinus thought.
I hate the very sight of him but his testimony helps me.

“—The innkeeper turned all of us on the second floor out, and I have not sufficient money to pay for a place on the first. I thought perhaps …”

“You may return to my servant’s quarters.”

Sabinus barely waited for the youth to disappear. “You see, Lepidus. This earthquake did significant damage, but nothing compared to what the next will do. I’ve read the accounts of Nero’s quake. You know that I have. Every one of them. Then as now, smaller tremors provided warning—warning unheeded—growing closer and stronger.”

“Surely we can wait until tomorrow.”

“Things are crowded at the Herculaneum Gate already.” Another half-truth. “By tomorrow the roads will be overrun and travel will be more unpleasant than if we go now. My grandmother is frail; I do not wish her to endure more hardship than necessary.”

“Your grandmother is as hale as I am, Sabinus. But the fact you are willing to lie about that …” Lepidus shook his head. “If your concern is such that it begins to make you less fastidious about truth then I know you to be, it is an unkindness to make you suffer longer. We will go.”

“Now?”

“As soon as furnishings can be packed.”

Furnishings
. Sabinus plowed on. “I remember the first time you told me the story of your escape from the great fire in Rome, Lepidus. You told me that, knowing that nothing you owned was as important as the life of your wife and your unborn child, you could not be bothered to clear your household. This is another moment for such action. Whatever you have here—leave it.”

“For looters?”

“For looters, for the ground to swallow up, or, if I am proved a nervous fool, for you to come back to. In the latter case, you can have a good laugh at my expense.” Clasping his friend’s arm, Sabinus looked directly into his eyes. “You are a man blessed, Lepidus. Not by your great wealth, but by the finest of wives and the most exceptional of daughters. Take them from this place before death comes to claim them.”

Lepidus pulled him into an embrace. Stopping a slave passing beneath the portico, he said, “Spread the word, we leave as quickly as mules can be put in traces and horses saddled.”

A
EMILIA

I gaze at myself in the mirror with unutterable satisfaction, waving away the slave who comes forward to do my hair. “Pack,” I tell her. No parting with a spear for nuptial good luck, no elaborate coiffure, no wedding! In the corner the slave joins my nurse in pulling things from my cupboard as I swiftly plait my hair into a single, simple braid. For a second time, Sabinus enters my bedchamber. He stops for a moment, staring down at the portion of my floor where three nights ago he beat out the flames from my lamp. A strange look crosses his face.

“It is time to go, Aemilia.”

“I am not ready and my packing has just begun.”

“Come.” He says it with a tone of command and holds out a hand.

I can hear my father as he sat with me last night, reminding me that I owe Sabinus obedience. But not yet. “I have told you I am not ready.”

In two strides he reaches me. In a single swift and unexpected motion he picks me up. I struggle slightly, more surprised than anything by his presumption. And in reaction to my struggling, Sabinus throws me unceremoniously over his shoulder. “You were born in fire, Aemilia, but by all the gods I will not let you die in it.” The words come out half spoken, half growled. The last thing I see as he carries me off is the shocked faces of the serving women with their hands full of my clothing. “Leave it,” Sabinus instructs them. “Get outside.”

“Put me down,” I demand.

“No. Not until I put you in a wagon.” And tromping outside, he does just that—heedless of the stares of those we pass and even of the shocked expression on my mother’s face as he deposits me next to her.

Mother takes my hands with fear in her eyes. I am not afraid, just angry—furious to be handled so. Sabinus looks at me as he helps his grandmother into the wagon. I avert my eyes. All around, members of the household swarm into other conveyances. “Here they are,” Father says, arriving with Mother’s favorite slave carrying Mother’s jewel box.

My nurse!
Springing from the wagon, I nearly knock over a servant with the strong box from the
tablinum
.

“Aemilia!” There is warning in Father’s voice.

“I am not leaving without my nurse.” This is not a moment’s pique. She is
family
.

He nods. “Hurry.”

I find her sitting in the atrium. A sole still figure as those other few slaves still in the house run about so as not to be left behind.

Looking up at me she pleads, “You said I did not have to go to Nuceria.”

“It is different now. Everyone is going. Sabinus says we are in danger.”

“He said that before, and you did not believe him.”

I do not entirely believe him now.

“My bones are old, too old to be jolted in a wagon. Leaving Pompeii will kill me. Let me stay. Let me wait for you to come home.”

Looking down, I see tears in her eyes. I have no desire to distress my nurse and no real reason to impose my will on her even if that is my right. As a lifelong resident of Pompeii she knows to get out into the open during serious tremors. If an earthquake comes, I cannot be certain it will injure her, but from the way that she said leaving Pompeii would kill her, I feel certain it will.

I stoop and embrace her. “Stay then.”

She embraces me back. “I will be here when you return to help you down from the wagon just as I helped your mother, with you in her arms, fifteen years ago.”

Tears blur my eyes as I walk back through the
peristyle.
Nearing my bedroom I hear a voice I recognize and did not think to hear again inside these walls.
Faustus, my darling love, you have come for me!
I approach the door to my chamber, heart thudding in my throat. All my anger at Faustus drained from me last night, and now the love returns full force to fill the void, fed by the fact he seeks me as everyone else rushes to secure a seat in one of the wagons.

“I love you.” The voice is low and stops me at the threshold. He must see me. My eyes search for him. Dear gods, what they find! He is on my bed—
my
bed—with one of my slaves, pushing her tunic up impatiently. It is so high that I can see the curly dark hair of her most private place. I flatten myself against the door frame, unable to move or look away.

“No,” the girl arrests his hand. “We mustn’t. I am supposed to be in the wagon with
Domina
by now.”

“We will be quick, I promise.” He kisses her ear.

She gives a little giggle, then a sigh and releases his hand. “If we are caught, I will be beaten.”

“How can you worry about such a thing at a time like this? I tell you the city is in ruins. I was lucky to get out. Who knows when the shaking will begin again or if we will escape with our lives when it does?” He runs his hand along her cheek and she bites his thumb. “If I must die,” his tone is as urgent and ardent as any he ever used with me, “let it be in your arms.”

He ought to want to die in my arms.

In a swift movement he raises his own tunic and for an instant I see it. Then he is inside my slave. She arches her back and her hands curl in the covers at her side—
my
covers. “Say it,” she demands.

“I love you,” he replies.

The words crush my heart and free my feet. I run through the vestibule and out to the wagon, tears streaming down my cheeks. Sabinus, beside the wagon, reaches out to hand me in.

He must think I cry at leaving my nurse and my home. “You will see her again,” he says gently, “and this place.”

But I do not know that I care to see it again. And I swear I will never set foot in my chamber again. It has been despoiled by the acts of a man I loved and who swore he loved me. The moment I am settled, Father nods to the driver and we begin to move, leaving behind a few carts that are still being loaded. As Sabinus brings his horse alongside where I sit, there is a great deal of pain in his expression. Why, I can’t help wondering, should
he
be unhappy when he is getting what he wants?

WE ought to have been in Nuceria already. We should have arrived at my uncle’s by late morning. Looking up, I judge that the sun has nearly climbed to its apex. Mother frets because we brought nothing to shade ourselves from it. “We will be as brown as
plebs
,” she complains.

I have other things to trouble my mind.

“I will say this, Sabinus,” Father draws his horse alongside that of his friend, attracting my attention, “you are most definitely not the only citizen of Pompeii who felt unsafe in the city this morning.”

That is why we are still on the road, crawling. Mother is not the only one frustrated. The mules themselves complain—hawing, snorting, tossing their heads as if to ask why they cannot go faster. But the road is clogged with people and worse still with their things. Poorly packed household goods litter the way, and must be moved from the path or skirted.

Looking at the flat fields to our left, Father declares, “We must have a break. Let us pull off the road and take some refreshment.”

Sabinus nods.

I clamber down, eager to stretch my legs. Despite the haste of our departure, it appears the kitchen slaves had the presence of mind to pack some food. As they begin to lay it out I am startled—the items are delicacies and must, therefore, have been intended for my wedding. But of course, the cooks would have been up since before dawn preparing for the evening’s feast. This association with my nuptials makes me look for Sabinus. He has walked off some distance to a little rise and is staring back in the direction from which we came. I have halved the distance between us when a most unexpected figure steps into my path.

Faustus—dusty from the road and with a brow glazed by sweat, but still looking like Apollo with his fair hair tousled, doubtless from his exertions in my bed. How can he be so very wicked inside and so very handsome? He must have been quick indeed with the slave girl if he managed to catch a wagon, because I was not long with my nurse.

I turn my face from him.

“Lady,” he says awkwardly. “I fear I have fallen out of your favor and have only myself to blame. Driven by my great love for you, I was too hasty in the cellar. But I am repentant.”

It is the apology I longed for last evening. The apology I would have accepted with joy in my heart. But now it is meaningless—just more smooth words from a man who, it appears, will say whatever is most likely to get him what he wants at any given moment.

“Publius Crustius Faustus,” I use his full name intentionally to put distance between us, unnerved at the same time by the realization that I need distance. “This is not the appropriate time or place for us to sort what passed between us.”

He offers me a crooked smile. “You were not always so fastidious about what was appropriate and what was not.”

The playful tone used to charm me, but it no longer has that power. I remember the explicit words in my father’s cellar and the slave girl on my bed. How many women has he had while protesting his love for me—I shudder to imagine. I force myself to look him full in the face so that I will not seem cowed by him. “Is that the smile you used to seduce a slave girl in my father’s cellar?” His eyes widen. But he has not heard the worst I have to say. “Which one is she?” My voice rises. “The same one whose legs you parted on my bed this morning?”