A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii (14 page)

Hours earlier…

LUCIUS Satrius Rufus woke, over-hot, and with a pounding head. Wiping his sweaty face on the pillow—uncaring, because it could get no dirtier—he wondered if it
had
been the heat that had roused him, as it had every day for the previous he-didn’t-know-how-long. A strong tremor beneath him, shaking the bed, rattling the chains of the oil lamp, told him otherwise.
That
was what had woken him. He lay back, feeling two more movements before the world returned to normal. Rufus shut his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. It was a pointless exercise—his mind had turned over his many problems. Rolling his tongue around a mouth that felt as foul as it tasted, he sat up. The bedclothes he’d been sprawled on were stained with sweat; the air in the small, dark chamber, fuggy.

It’s hot enough to be midday, or thereabouts
, he thought.
I didn’t drink enough to sleep that long, did I?
Outside, the world was quiet, and he calmed. If it were midday, the street noise would be audible. Palming his eyes and willing away the thick feeling in his brain, he stood.

A twinge from his bladder made him glance at the pot beside his bed. It was nearly full, the product of his efforts overnight. He hesitated. Mustius, his servant, would grumble if it were overflowing. He sighed. Better to hold on, and go outside. That might make Mustius happy. Happier, he thought. Mustius was never really happy. Nor was
he
ever, if it came to it.

When he’d been in the legions, thought Rufus ruefully, all he had ever dreamed of was getting out. These days, he mostly did the reverse, wishing to be transported somehow back in time, to a younger, fitter, debt-free version of himself, when his hair was red rather than gray. As a soldier, the only important things had been doing his duty and occasionally risking his life for the Empire. Now he had notables such as Gaius Cuspius Pansa and Lucius Caecilius Jucundus breathing down his neck the whole time. Pansa wasn’t the worst, he had to admit. Pansa loved gladiators, and he had some respect for a man who’d served in the army; he knew too that Rufus was good for his rent money, even if it was a month or two late. That ugly bastard Jucundus, though, he was a different matter …

Shoving his main debtor from his mind, Rufus pulled back the fabric partition of his chamber, letting in the bright sunlight that bathed the other room. Morning hadn’t passed. Tinges of red yet colored the patches of sky that were visible through the small, barred windows, but dawn had come and gone. Ordinary noise carried in from the street—a creaking cart going by, and two old men debating whether the tremors were of real concern: one maintained they were—had the northwest quarter of the town not been damaged earlier?—while the other rubbished the notion.

Despite the powerful earth movements, Mustius was still asleep: lying on the couch in his customary position, mouth open, snoring. As ever, his maimed arm rested on his chest, with his good one lying protectively over it. Rufus’ mouth turned down. It was sad to see a good soldier brought so low.

Some said Rufus was a fool to have a free man rather than a slave as a servant, but Mustius had saved Rufus’ life when he’d taken that wound to his arm five years before. Discharged from the legion early because of the injury, Mustius hadn’t been entitled to a single coin of the payment that “full-timers” received. Until Rufus had come upon him begging in the forum upon his own return to Pompeii two winters since, he had been destitute.

If Rufus admitted it, his slave girl had been better at maintaining the apartment, but he’d had to sell her some time before, to raise money for his creditors. He had been left with Mustius, whose cooking was awful, and whose arm limited his ability to wash clothes and to clean. Mustius did his best, however, and he never asked for money, knowing Rufus had none. That was all a man could ask for. They endured life together, as they had on campaign in the old days, in Germania.

If he was to piss outside, he might as well save Mustius the bother of emptying the pot. Rufus crept back and retrieved it. With a last look at his servant, he slid back the bolt on the front door, which opened directly into his living room.

No atrium and grand
tablinum
for me
, he thought with a trace of bitterness. Every time he was summoned to see Pansa, whose massive house formed the “spine” and entire back of the block of buildings in which Rufus’ apartment was situated, he was reminded of his lowly position in life. Pansa’s atrium alone had six chambers leading off it. Six. The open space within the atrium was several times larger than Rufus’ two rooms. And as for the rest of the dwelling?

Stop it
, he told himself.
You are the son of a former slave. You did well to end your career in the legions as a
tesserarius
. Pansa is a nobleman and a member of one of Pompeii’s most powerful families. Having a problem with him is like fighting the existence of the sun in the sky. He’s all right—and better than Jucundus anyway.

As he emerged onto the street, one of his neighbors, a supercilious perfume maker, appeared at his own door. “Did you feel the tremors?” he asked, waiving his usual snobbery. “Aye,” muttered Rufus. “They’ve stopped. Gods willing, they’ll stay that way.”
At least until the day’s games are over
, he prayed.

The perfume maker nodded, but still seemed worried. He was distracted by the pot under Rufus’ arm then, however, and gave a disapproving sniff.

Rufus shot him a resentful look. “Not all of us can afford a place with an inside lavatory. I’m entitled to throw this wherever I choose.” Feeling the man’s eyes on his back, however, he abandoned his plan of pouring out the pot’s contents a few steps from his door. One of the gossiping graybeards—a resident of the apartment two doors away, and a regular culprit in the emptying of night soil outside—gave him a knowing wink, which Rufus returned.

His step soon lightened. He was up and about now; he might as well make for the forum bathhouse, which lay across the street. After tipping the urine into a sewer, he could avail himself of the bath’s facilities. Yet as Rufus neared the side street’s intersection with the larger thoroughfare upon which the building’s front lay, he began to feel self-conscious, even a little worried. Given his recent run of luck, Jucundus would be taking an early morning stroll as he heaved into sight, hair standing on end, pot of piss under his arm, still in the drink-spattered tunic he’d worn to the tavern the night before.

To Rufus’ relief, there was no sign of Jucundus among the passersby, a collection of slaves running errands, travelers heading for the Herculaneum Gate and tradesmen walking to work. Shopkeepers whose premises had shed roof tiles thanks to the tremors were sweeping up the broken pieces of baked clay. A family led by a grim-faced father passed by in a mule cart, the children protesting that they did not want to leave, and the wife telling them to watch their tongues.

Fools panic easily
, thought Rufus.
Things aren’t going to get any worse. They
can’t
, not with the fight that’s on today.

No one gave him a second glance as he crossed toward the bathhouse. By pure chance, a wagon loaded with bricks happened to pass in front of him as a pair of heavy-set men came into sight. He recognized one of them because of his bandy-legged gait. The pair was also walking from the east, where Jucundus’ house lay. They were two of Jucundus’ thugs, for sure. His heart beat out an unhappy rhythm as he sneaked alongside the far side of the wagon, slowing his pace to that of the ox drawing it.

After twenty paces, he chanced a look over his shoulder. The two men had strolled by, oblivious to his presence.
Were they on other duties, or were they looking for him?
he wondered nervously. The answer came almost at once. Reaching the corner of Pansa’s building, the thugs turned down the side street, toward Rufus’ door and the sleeping Mustius. Feeling guilty, he resisted the urge to sprint back and confront them. His reasoning was sound. Pugnax, his one gladiator, was fighting in the amphitheater later on. How would it look if he came to collect his winnings with a black eye, a bloodied nose, and perhaps even a broken arm? The high and mighty of Pompeii had to see him as someone worthy of backing, the next time Pugnax fought. If he stayed away, only Mustius would get roughed up. Rufus hoped he would understand. He would make it up to Mustius—give him some of his winnings, maybe.

Cutting down the next alley to the right, Rufus strode to the bath’s main entrance, which lay on a street parallel to the one on which he lived. The smell of frying sausages reached his nose from one of the shops alongside the bath’s doorway, making his belly rumble. A surreptitious check in the purse on his belt revealed a handful of copper and bronze coins. Vespasian’s unsmiling face regarded him from one of three silver
denarii
that also lay within. Trying to ignore his hunger, Rufus tied the drawstring tight and patted the worn leather bag. His father would have food when he visited later. He had enough cash to get into the baths, but why waste money on that if he didn’t have to?
Fortuna, be kind to me this morning
, he prayed.

His prayer was answered. There was no one that he recognized in the already busy exercise area, and the crop-haired slave he wanted to see was on duty at the entrance to the men’s baths.

The slave nodded as Rufus approached his desk. “Vulcan was busy with his hammer this morning, eh? Let’s hope he’s done for now.”

“Gods keep him quiet until this evening anyway,” replied Rufus with heart.

“Got any decent tips for the fights today?”

“Pugnax is sure to win.”

The slave’s eyebrows lowered. “Ha! You say that because he’s
your
gladiator. The fool lost the last two contests you told me to back him in. That cost me twenty
denarii
—each time!”

What I could do with your forty
denarii, thought Rufus wearily. His first choice would be to place it on Pugnax, of course, but then there was the chariot driver that Mustius had been talking about. Apparently, almost no one knew that his sponsor had just bought him a new team of horses from Hispania. In consequence, the odds on him for the race two days hence at Nuceria were still five to one. I’d make two hundred
denarii
, Rufus decided. Added to the money he’d make later, he could have had a sum that would have shut up Jucundus for a couple of weeks.

“So what’s changed?” demanded the slave.

How Rufus wished that he were still in the army. A slave would not dare to address an officer in that manner.
An almost-broke civilian with a drink and gambling problem was a different matter, however
, he thought bitterly.

He pulled a smile that was more a grimace. “His form’s changed, believe me. Most of the bet makers won’t have it”—he pretended not to hear the slave’s muttered “I can see why”—“but he’s sure to win this afternoon. You can find ten to one odds on him, maybe even thirteen.”

The slave’s tongue flickered across his lips. “Thirteen to one, you say?”

“My servant got that yesterday, near the amphitheater. He put a tidy sum on for me,” Rufus lied. Would that I’d had more than eight
denarii
to place, he thought.

“Maybe I’ll do as you say.” The slave nodded, as if to convince himself. “You’re wanting a bath, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else? Massage? A woman?”

“A bath will be all.”

“Two
asses
.”

Rufus smiled. “After the tip I’ve just given you, you can’t expect me to pay, surely?”

“I should have known this was coming.” The slave jerked a thumb at the doorway to the baths. “Get inside, before my manager sees you.”

“My thanks.” At that moment, Rufus would have loved to have emptied his pot over the slave’s head. It would have got him nowhere, however. Breathing deeply to control his anger, he walked off. A soak in the cold pool of the
frigidarium
would put the world to rights—he hoped. It was hard not to feel bitter, however. By now, his life should have been easy, content. After the army, he’d had his cash payment for completing his service, and his house had already been purchased. Why then had he started gambling? Why had he frittered away almost everything that he owned?

The truth of it was that Rufus had been bored. Half a lifetime spent in military service had ensured his few interests were hunting, drinking wine, gambling, and consorting with whores. Maybe he should have found himself a wife, as his father had recommended. His doubt didn’t last for more than a few heartbeats. Every married man that he knew spent his time complaining about his wife’s constant nagging, about how she wouldn’t lie with him as often as he wished, about her never-ending demands for more “household goods.” Having children might be ultimately rewarding, but the price one had to pay for them was too high. It was better that he remained a bachelor.

After he bathed, he would call on his father Satrius, a retired imperial secretary. A different worry reared its head. His father had been ailing for some time. The heat wave wasn’t helping his condition, which the surgeon maintained had to do with poor circulation, or a weak heart, or both. The medications prescribed by the surgeon were expensive and didn’t seem to do much, but, Rufus thought, at least his father’s pension meant that they could be bought. There was little that he could do other than to visit regularly and to make offerings to Aesculapius for his father’s recovery as often as he could afford it.