"Lucius? Mother and Isabella?"

"We were all in the theater when it happened. I lost track of them, but the walls held and everyone got out. I am certain they escaped. I came to check on you."

She put her forehead to his hand, as she had the last time he visited.

"You are still-healthy-Portia?" He lacked the words to speak of womanly things, but his mother and sister would press him for details.

She nodded. "The baby moves within me now, Quintus." Her voice took on awe. "It is the only thing that keeps me from going mad down here."

The guard must have regained his courage in the lack of aftershocks, for Cato heard him lumbering down the steps.

"You there, you're not supposed to be here!" He brandished a short sword, though he looked slow enough for Cato to take it from him.

Cato held up a hand and nodded. "I am leaving." He squeezed his sister's fingers and whispered to her. "It will not be long, I promise you."

And then he pushed past the guard, up the steps, and back into the vacant Forum area, still sun-drenched and warm as though nothing had shaken it.

Portia was safe, but what of those at home? He broke into a run once more, taking narrow alleys and side streets to avoid the crowds.

His house still stood in the center of the block, though a few terracotta tiles from the roof had slid to the street and shattered. He stepped over the shards and through the doorway, calling out to his family before he crossed the threshold.

His mother's face appeared at the far end of the courtyard. "Quintus! Where have you been?"

At her shout, Isabella rushed out of the back corridor.

The three met in the midst of the courtyard shrubbery. "I have been to check on Portia."

His mother gripped his hands, wordless.

"She is well." He closed his eyes. "As well as she could be."

"The baby?"

Cato smiled on his mother and Isabella. "She tells me that the baby's kicking keeps her company in that foul place."

Octavia put delicate fingers to her mouth and turned away as though ashamed of her emotion.

"She asked for Lucius, of course."

Isabella nodded. "I sent him to his home to check on his belongings and servants. He is unhurt."

Cato surveyed the interior of the house. "And the Catonii? Did we fare so well?"

Octavia was once again the brisk household manager. "A few broken pots. A crack in the south wall of the triclinium. Nothing more."

Cato's eyes strayed to the servant's corridor that led to the kitchen. "No one hurt?"

Octavia didn't answer. He brought his attention back to her, and was surprised to see annoyance there.

Her brow furrowed. "Perhaps there are slaves you'd like to check on personally?"

He inhaled and looked away. Despite her disapproval, he intended to do just that.

He found Ariella bent over a large basin, washing pottery. At his entrance, she jumped to her feet, circled the basin, and rushed to him, her eyes wide. "Were you hurt?"

Her swift approach and obvious concern left him a bit breathless. He shook his head, wrapped his hands around her arms and pulled her close. "You?"

"I was outdoors, at the fountain. I am well."

They remained there a moment, and he allowed himself the indulgence, but soon released her and stepped away. She is a Jewess. And she is a slave.

"There is no Jew nor Greek. No slave nor free. One in Christ Jesus." Paul's words, spoken by Jeremiah, but still too hard to accept. Still . . .

How much longer could he keep Ariella physically close but distanced from his heart?

His mother was right to be concerned.

CHAPTER 35.

Maius returned from the theater, still fuming. The townspeople had reacted as though the world were coming to an end, when in truth the earthquake had been minor. Maius would not care, except for the stolen opportunity for a reb.u.t.tal to Cato's speech, and the way in which the earthquake had seemed to fortify the would-be duovir's message.

He strolled through his house, inspecting walls and sculptures for damage, and found only a few minor pieces broken in the front halls, and no structural harm. The city had withstood far worse years ago.

When he reached the sunlit gardens, Nigidia looked to him from her place on a bench. He had expected frightened tears, but she only smiled, a sad smile he could not understand, that did not reach to her lovely blue eyes. She seemed to be pulling away from him of late.

"I am glad you are unhurt," she said simply.

He left her there in the gardens, unwilling to draw her out this afternoon. His thoughts were all for Portius Cato.

The man refused to quit, refused to die, refused to be silenced. This was unacceptable. But I cannot kill him now, with the city watching.

He crossed to the cages which held his birds, needing to be greeted by those who never questioned his authority. But the birds were strangely silent. The red warbler, always vocal when Maius approached, hopped in circles behind its wooden bars, but did not sing. The silent garden, though bright and green, had an eerie feeling about it, as though even the flowers and birds feared the shaking of the earth.

"What is wrong, my pretty?" Maius reached a finger through the slats. The warbler responded with a sharp peck to his finger.

"Aahh!" He yanked his hand backward. The stupid bird had drawn blood. He put the finger to his mouth and turned from the birds, his unease building.

Perhaps some time in the baths would relax his tense muscles. Maius was not forced to attend the public baths, as his home on the outskirts of town had been built to receive public water, and supply its own luxurious and private accommodations.

He summoned a female slave and ordered the baths prepared.

"Master. She bowed at the waist, her unbound hair hanging about her head. "There is no water."

He growled and pushed past her. "What foolishness is this?"

She hurried along behind him. "The water comes only in a trickle since the quake."

Indeed, when he reached the baths, the basin that normally bubbled with fresh water was stagnant. Some piping must have been damaged. Maius cursed the earth, but then thought better of his anger. It was a time for appeasing, not for cursing, and he should have gone to the G.o.ds first.

His spirit disturbed, he sought comfort and rea.s.surance in his special room, the triclinium used only for the feasts that honored Bacchus. Bordered by a narrow colonnaded porch on its western end, the room received only the late-day sun, and still lay in dim shadow this afternoon. Maius reclined on one of the long couches, waited for the slave to attend with food and wine, and surveyed the delightful frescoes he had commissioned for the room.

The series of paintings told a story, one that had been enacted thousands of time by celebrants of the cult, and would be again here in this very house, at the time of the next initiation. Maius's eyes wandered over the face of the young initiate in the paintings, her expression moving from compliant to terrified, and then finally to wiser, experienced, even resigned. Nigidia should not feel the terror that the frescoed girl displayed. But if so, it would be over soon enough, and she would understand at the end.

Hours later, after he had sought the will of the G.o.ds and appeased them with incense, Maius took reports from Primus on the terrace that overlooked the mountain. He reclined in ease with a cup of warmed wine on the iron table beside him, but his mood had grown darker as the sun descended, and the mountain view that afforded such pleasure left him cold. This must be the lowest point of his political career. Never before had someone challenged his position with any chance of success.

A new visitor appeared out of the shadow, interrupting Primus's tedious accounting.

"Sulla." Maius extended a hand from his position on his chaise, but did not rise. "This is an honor." In truth, he hadn't seen the man in months and didn't care much for him.

Sulla curled a lip. Maius's posture must have contradicted his words. "What are you going to do about all of this, Maius?"

Maius folded his hands over his ample belly. "All of this?"

"Portius Cato! He turned you into a fool today."

At this, Maius did stand, and stepped to Sulla until the man could feel his hot breath. "Be careful, Sulla. I have not been beaten yet."

But the man displayed the same lack of intimidation that Otho, the fuller, had days earlier. He barely blinked. "And you should remember which way the winds are blowing."

"So what do the winds tell you today?"

"People are saying that he is bringing someone from Rome. To endorse his candidacy, perhaps?"

Maius waved a hand and again reclined. "He is too young to have powerful allies. It is no one of concern, I am sure."

"Clovius Valerius."

Maius felt himself blanch at the name and inwardly cursed the reaction. "Is that so?"

"You know him?"

"Certainly, we are acquainted. I have been in his company when in Rome."

Sulla folded his arms. "And he would set himself up against you here? Support Cato?"

Maius sipped at his wine, forcing his hand to hold steady. "Quite the opposite. I've no idea what Cato hopes to accomplish through Valerius. He and I are on quite friendly terms."

Sulla watched him through narrowed eyes.

"I thank you for your report, Sulla. Now if you will excuse me, I have business to attend." He motioned to Primus, who came forward to sit cross-legged at Maius's feet once more, books and reed in hand like an Egyptian scribe.

Sulla bowed and backed away. "As you wish." Unconvinced, Maius could see.

Only the election will convince them now.

And yet it was just this thought that worried him most. Cato's support increased daily, and his speech in the theater today had been too persuasive, too full of the rhetoric that swayed common people and convinced them to vote for the candidate whose personality pleased them most.

And now . . . Valerius.

The name brought with it visions of smoky rooms and poppy-laced wine and long hours of revelry that lifted the partic.i.p.ant to a higher plane, infused him with the life of the G.o.ds themselves, and left him unable to remember most of the acts which he had committed while in the thrall of wine and drug.

Valerius, high priest of the Roman Dionysian cult, who was outspoken in his desire to see all his initiates proclaim their appet.i.tes publically. He believed such a.s.sertions would lift the official sanctions and alleviate society's disapproval of their practices. All this Maius could suppress, if it weren't for that cursed slave boy's blood on his hands.

What possible reason could Portius Cato have in bringing Valerius to Pompeii? Whatever it was, it did not bode well for Maius. The town was much more conservative than the mother city, much less tolerant of behavior considered aberrant in their prudish opinions.

The feast was only a few days away. He had promised the G.o.ds that the reenactment would take place at the first new moon after the Feast of Vulcan, though Nigidia still knew nothing of it. Valerius would no doubt want to join the celebration. Did he dare invite him?

His mind had wandered far from Primus's reports, but the slave's monotonous voice called him back to the terrace when he heard his enemy's name. "What about Cato?"

Primus sighed, seeming perturbed at his master's lack of attention. "I was saying that it is strange Cato would seek a.s.sociation with a man such as Valerius when he also has become so involved with the Christian sect."

Maius straightened at once and swung his legs over the side of the chaise. "Cato has become one of the Christians?"

Primus shrugged. "He has been taking some kind of training in their rites. This is all I know."

Maius grinned and clapped Primus on the shoulder. "Why did you not tell me this sooner?"

The Greek slave sighed again and said nothing.

Maius rubbed at his chin, stubbly with late-day growth. And what a day it has been. Cato's damaging speech, the earthquake, then news of Valerius's visit. And now this latest bit of gossip about Cato a.s.sociating with the Christians.

The entire day had bucked and heaved like the earth itself. But in the end, when the dust settled . . .

It was Maius who was left standing.

CHAPTER 36.

The days evaporated like morning dew on the stones of the Pompeii streets. Vulca.n.a.lia, the festival dedicated to Vulcan, G.o.d of fire, crept closer and then at last arrived.

The day began early for most of the city, with work starting by the light of the candle. The traditional propitiation of the G.o.d by the beneficial use of fire was only the start of the festivities that would last throughout the late-summer day. With any good fortune, Vulcan would be appeased, and the summer heat that dried out crops and granaries would not result in devastating fires this year. Vulcan also gave his name to the mountains that occasionally rained down fire, though no one in Pompeii had ever seen such a thing.

It was on this feast day that Cato expected Valerius's ship to arrive from Rome with his retinue. Cato had several slaves positioned at the city gates to run a message to him when the senator was sighted, and the rest of the household busied themselves with preparing for the feast later in the day.