A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii (9 page)

“—and worse still you think I am out of my wits for obsessing over the increasing tremors.”

Father looks sheepish.

“Please, Lepidus, I am begging you. Take your wife, your daughter, your servants and slaves and leave Pompeii. Do it tomorrow. If you will not do it because you believe me, then do it because you care for me and want to give me peace.” Sabinus takes the lamp from father’s hand, and holds it close to his own face. “Look at me, Lepidus.” With his face heavily shadowed, the poor man looks like a specter. “Look at the circles beneath my eyes. I can no longer sleep.”

Father’s eyes reflect genuine concern. And something more—love. Yes, that is it, for I have seen the same in his eyes when he looks at me. He truly loves his friend. “Sabinus, you are not well. It is the stress. The lost election, the coming wedding, this constant shaking of the earth, all combine to prey upon you. You will stay here tonight as my guest. You will have a bath, I will mix a draught for you and then, as if you were Aemilia awakened from childish sleep by a nightmare, I will sit beside you until you slumber.”

Sabinus’ shoulders fall.

My father sighs. “And as soon as the wedding is over, I swear to you we will all of us go to Nuceria to pay a visit to my brother and his family. The next day if you like.”

Sabinus nods. “Just four days,” he whispers. “Surely the gods will grant us so long.”

As Sabinus lets Father lead him from my room, I realize the whisper—Sabinus’ lowered voice—is the same that said my name. Sabinus not Faustus was in the
peristyle
outside my door. Why?

IN the morning, I cannot find my betrothal ring. Ordering my nurse to search every corner of my chamber and then search it again, I go to looking for Sabinus to ask him why he was outside my door.

The slaves seem surprised that I seek him, and their shocked looks make me uncomfortable. If I have made my distaste for Sabinus obvious, then I have embarrassed him. Whatever I think of him as a prospective husband, he does not deserve that. Nor do my parents deserve the gossip that might arise from my exhibition of such a lack of breeding. Thank heavens I thought to hide my ringless left hand as I made my inquiries. Making up my mind to be kinder to Father, I stop in the kitchen for figs before going to his
tablinum
as I do every few days to check his accounts and spare his eyes the strain. He has circles under those weak eyes where he sits at his desk, surrounded by dozens of untidy tablets and scrolls.

“Herculaneum figs!” he says, accepting my offering with a smile. “Perhaps our Pompeii figs are more renowned, but I still say these are sweeter.” He seems equally pleased when I ask about Sabinus. “He and I were awake for many hours after we left you, but that did not stop him from departing early to inspect the latest sections of lead pipes laid in that water project that is his concern. Nor have I been neglectful of my duties. I made the rounds this morning, telling all the workmen that what cannot be completed by the waning of the light will have to wait until after your wedding. The scaffolding must come down. The slaves must have a day to scrub and decorate the villa, just as your mother tells me she must have a day to scrub and decorate you.” He pops a fig into his mouth then licks his fingers.

“Will the workmen go?” The distress in my voice is obvious.

Father looks at me oddly.

“I mean … if they are returning to complete the work, it makes no sense to send them away.” I pray I have covered my unthinking comment, that Father will not be left wondering why I should care if a collection of craftsmen depart.

“Ah, my Aemilia, always so shrewd! You are right to be concerned about releasing them.” An approving nod as another fig disappears. “Gods know, I had a hard time securing the best of them to begin with. I have given them money to drink to your health and told them not to get so drunk that they cannot resume their work two days after your nuptials.”

“We both know which instruction they will most likely follow, and which they will ignore,” I say.

Father laughs. “Are you recovered from your scare last evening?” His face takes on a look of pride. “But then you did not seem scared, even with your nurse wailing and Sabinus despairing. Poor man …”

But, whatever pity I felt for Sabinus last evening and whatever resolutions I formed this morning not to disdain him publicly, I am uninterested in him at this moment. Faustus will be leaving as night falls. When he returns, I will no longer live here.

“It will take more than a little fire to scare me.” I tilt my chin up. “I am fire’s daughter, isn’t that what you always tell me?”

“Fire’s and mine.” He holds out a hand to me and when I give him my right—being careful to keep my left behind me—he squeezes it. “I am proud of you. No man has a daughter like mine. As I love you, I tell you that no woman will have a husband like yours.”

I turn my face away.

“I know,” again he squeezes, “I know you cannot understand my choice right now. But you must trust that seven-and-thirty knows more of life than fifteen does. Must trust that, as I have always made certain that your mother and you have the best of everything, I have chosen as I have to secure a future for you that will see you well treated all the days of your life.”

I think of Lady Diana with her confident swagger. I can feel her silver charm lying cool against my breast as I take a deep breath and turn to meet my father’s eyes. “Father, I trust you, but can you not also trust me? Sabinus is a fine man, but I have a better one already. I have you. Can I not remain unmarried?”
This is not the time to bring up an alternate groom.
“Who will check your figures if I go?”

Father’s eyes are warm. He brings my hand up and presses it to his lips. “So that is what this is about. It is natural for a girl to be apprehensive about leaving her home. The crying and struggling a bride must do by tradition when her husband takes her away have roots in feelings that are, in the best cases, noble and true. Know this, Aemilia: you will always, always have me. Sabinus’ house is not far inside the Herculaneum Gate. You will be here nearly every day, or Mother and I will be with you.” He gives me a teasing smile. “Unless you and Sabinus do not intend to invite us to dine.”

“But—”

“No more, Aemilia.” Father shakes his head. “I am too tired.” Releasing my hand, he stands. “I am going to walk among my vines. Will you come?”

Ordinarily, it is an activity I love—strolling with my father in the brilliant autumn sun—but I shake my head no. Watching him go, I think,
Oh, Lady Diana, I certainly do not have your knack for managing fathers
. I feel a tear tracking down my cheek and wipe it away fiercely. No doubt I will cry when I see Faustus, but I would not spoil the beauty he praises by going in search of him with a red nose and puffy eyes.

He is sitting on the black and white tiles of the
triclinium
floor, carefully laying out his brushes on the cloth in which he will roll them. I am about to speak but he shakes his head to warn me. Two slaves are taking down the last of the scaffolding.

“You do not work today?” The thought that he is leaving earlier than he must stings.

“I am at a good stopping point, Lady.” He says the last word rather more loudly than the rest, to make certain the slaves hear it. “And I would not start a figure I cannot finish properly. Half-restored is worse than not restored at all.”

More slaves arrive and begin loading their arms with the dismantled scaffolding. “Where do you store those?” he asks.

“We have been instructed to put them in one of the outbuildings.”

“Make sure they do not get damp,” Faustus admonishes. “I do not wish my delicate work made more difficult by being forced to stand on warped boards.”

As the last of the ladened slaves disappears, Faustus rises and, tucking his roll of brushes beneath one arm, makes the complaint: “I thought to see you last evening.”

“I wanted to come.”

“A slave girl told me Gnaeus Helvius Sabinus was found in your room last night.”

“What slave girl?”

“Oh, I don’t know her name.” He gestures dismissively, but colors.

“Sabinus was a guest here last evening and came to help my father put out a fire in my chamber.” It is not the precise truth, but that would be too complicated to explain. Besides I am vexed at his accusation and at the idea that gossip about me makes the rounds of the slaves’ quarters.

He moves close and puts a hand on my waist—making me uncomfortable, for anyone walking in might see. “I was insanely jealous when I heard the rumor.” His eyes burn and the hand tightens. “Come, come with me for a moment. I know a place.”

“I cannot be seen walking through the villa with—”

“With what? A lowly painter? Is that how you think of me?”

“No! Without a chaperone and in the company of any man so wholly unrelated to me. I must think of my reputation.”

“More than you think of me.” He scowls. “I was desperate to see you last night. I could not sleep. Will you meet me? It is our last chance.”

“Where?”

“Your father’s little cellar.”

“It is locked.”

“There is a key in the niche beside the small oven in the kitchen. It is hidden beneath an amphora. You could get it.”

How does he know this?
He leans forward stealing a quick kiss, and my curiosity fades as my heart begins to race. “All right.”

My feet have wings. By the time I reach the stairs in the small garden, I am out of breath, as if I have run much further. Opening the door, I duck inside and light a lamp in an arched niche on the wall. Wines are my father’s passion and these are the best he holds. The space is more crowded than when I saw it last, doubtless because the wine for my wedding waits here. I notice something on the ground, a band of cloth such as one of the kitchen girls might wear around her head. Perhaps it was lost when someone was sent for wine—though it seems an odd task for a female slave. The door behind me eases open and someone slips in. I know it is Faustus even before I feel him pressing against me, feel his mouth where my neck meets my shoulder. His hand slips around and takes hold of my breast through my tunic.

I lean back against him, momentarily overwhelmed by the sensation.

He whispers in my ear, “Did you let Sabinus touch you like this last night?”

I jerk away and turn to face him. “I told you, he merely came to my rescue. Nothing else.”

“I can’t help it. I am so jealous. I long to be your husband, but he will have you. In two short days, you will be in his arms.”

“Do not speak of it.” My dream of the night before comes back to me.

Faustus pulls me into an embrace and kisses me. As our lips part he whispers, “He will have you, but let me have you first. I know a way—”

“We can’t.”

“He won’t know, your husband. No one will. There are places I can enter—”

For the second time I pull free of him. “I am not a whore, Publius Crustius Faustus!”

“But you say you love me. And I love you. I burn for you. I am in agony. If you love me, you will offer some relief.” His voice is pleading, his eyes too. “This is the last time we may meet in private before you are wed. I will not be in the house tonight. Like the rest of the workers, I will lodge in the city.” He takes a step forward. I do not retreat and he kisses my throat. When his lips move up to mine, I kiss him back. I think, or rather hope, he has forgotten his ugly suggestion, then he murmurs, “I will be gentle. I will not hurt you.”

Another man who is not listening to me!
I shove him with both hands—hard. “Get out!”

A beseeching look. It wrings my heart. I am on the verge of repenting my harsh order to go. Then he shrugs. The nonchalance of the gesture makes my anger return and stills my tongue. Another moment of silence and he is gone. I need to compose myself. Moving toward the niche to extinguish the lamp, my steps unsteady, I remember that I have a hair comb in my pouch. I will hide it while I am here. As I reach out to place it between two large
amphorae
, my fingers trembling, my eyes catch a bit of writing on the wall, low and almost hidden. It is a strange place for words to be painted. Lifting the lamp I lower it until I can read clearly:

Here I have penetrated a girl’s open buttocks; but it was vulgar of me to write these verses.

Suddenly the scrap of cloth on the ground makes sense, as does Faustus’ knowing where the key to this place was kept. My cheeks burn. What he would have done to me had I let him, Faustus did to a slave girl on this very spot! Bile rises in my throat. I feel sick. How could I have allowed myself to believe he loved me? And if he does love me, how could he bear to shame me so? I blow out the lamps as quickly as I can so that I will not have to see the words—they are his strokes, in the very paint he uses to restore my father’s frescos—content to feel my way back to the door, though I stub my toes and scrape an ankle in the dark. Better such little injuries that the greater one the horrible words inflict.

I climb the few steps to the garden and find myself face to face with Sabinus. He blanches at the sight of me. Oh gods, has he been here long enough to see Faustus emerge? If Sabinus tells my father, and they go below will they think the graffiti Faustus left refers to
me
? If they do I will be disgraced in the most horrible manner.
Would all of my Father’s love save me from a beating, from being turned out, or even worse if he believed I permitted Faustus the use of my body?