A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii (31 page)

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.

“No! No!” I cry out, forgetting my
gravitas
. Forgetting everything but grief.

But there is no grand touch of our gods. There is no miracle. There is no return of breath to my beloved son’s body. He is gone from us. I press my face to his small chest, my tears running freely from my eyes, and I pray. I pray that I am in a nightmare.

“No, Gaius! No!” Decima pries Albinus from my arms, dragging his limp body against her breast. “Wake up, Albinus, wake, my boy!”

She presses her lips to his face, her hand flattened to his heart as tears stream down her face. I feel myself falling backward, my backside hitting the hard marble, and I barely move my arm to catch myself from going down completely.

“Albinus?” Lilla’s soft croak is barely heard, and then her muffled cries, as Titus gathers her in his arms.

Our other children stand in a row behind us, staring at Albinus and Decima with looks on their faces that freeze me. They look resigned, as if they expected this all along. For my own children, losing their other brother some years before, perhaps they understand that death comes to those who are young. From their expressions, I fear they believe death comes to them first.

But it shouldn’t. Not like this. Not holed up in a room and trying desperately to breathe.

I swallow hard, my face wet and hot.

The door flies open and Julius rushes inside. “I made it!” he calls out, holding up a small jug in his triumphant hands, but his face falls when he sees his mother clutching the still and gray body of his brother.

I watch the muscles in his jaw flex, but he says nothing. Julius sets down the jug beside the door and shuts it. He entices his younger siblings—all but Quintus, who finds comfort with Lilla—to come with him to the adjoining room, boasting about something he’s found outside. But even while he keeps their attention from their grieving mother and me, he casts furtive glances back my way, and when our eyes lock, I can see the tears gathering.

I press a kiss to my wife’s temple and stand.

I have failed my boy. I have failed them all.

JULILLA

I clutch to Quintus, holding him to my chest, his little arms wrapping around my swollen belly. Our mother lays Albinus upon the couch he’d occupied most of the time we’d been in this room. She takes off her soot-streaked
palla
and lays it over his silent body, bringing it just up to his neck, but her hands shake and she drops it, unable to cover his face.

I don’t blame her. I wasn’t able to cover my baby’s face either. Instead, Titus had to step in and see to our stillborn child. Pry him from my arms.

Thinking about it brings tears to my eyes. I run my fingers through Quintus’ tangles, hoping I am offering even half the comfort to him that he is to me.

“Is Albinus dead?” Quintus asks me.

“Yes,” I say, my voice cracking as my gaze flicks to my brother once more.

“What will we do?”

My breath catches. My chest tightens and I force the sobs away. I cannot cry now. I have to be strong for Quintus. No one expects me to be, but I know I must. I must be strong for everyone, because I’ve seen Father beginning to break. And he is the strongest of us all.

“When will he wake up?” Quintus asks.

“Shh …” How can you explain the finality of death to one so young? That we may all be doomed to Albinus’ fate?