Taurus inclined his head and watched Cato, as though he were a specimen to be studied. "You are young to be so disillusioned with higher purpose." His voice quieted. "Only two years as aedile, then two as quaestor. You had a long career ahead of you in Rome."

And you know too much about me. He searched for a clever response, but had nothing. "I served the Empire as best I could. And now I wish for other things."

But Taurus would not be put off. "There is no one else in Pompeii qualified to run for duovir who has not already sold himself to Maius. There is only you."

A twinge of the old ambition, the old pa.s.sion to right wrongs and destroy corruption, burrowed through his heart and threatened to surface. He beat it back with the hammer of the past. "I am honored by your request, citizens. Truly, I am. And I support your efforts to remove Maius from office so that he can face the prosecution he deserves for his many crimes. But you will have to find someone else."

Taurus would speak again, but Cato bowed and took Portia's arm. "My sister is no doubt grieved to be missing the third act." He pulled Portia along. "Please excuse us."

"Do not think you can avoid him, Cato," Taurus called after him. "Maius will destroy you as surely as he did Saturninus."

Cato strode from the quadriporticus, dragging Portia with him. But it was not his pace which caused her objections.

"Cato, how can you dismiss their request? You could do so much good here-"

Cato released her arm and escaped through the entrance to the gra.s.sy area outside the wall, with Portia on his heels. "Almost I could believe this was your doing, Portia." He headed for the steps to the theater.

Her silence condemned her.

How could you do it, Portia?

He reached the top of the stairs, emerged onto the highest tier of the theater, and stopped to take in the thousands of people who laughed at the farce before them.

They are only a quarter of the city. So many more, with Maius's greed oppressing them all in some fashion. He stared at the man in his special cubicle, elevated above the people. In that moment Maius turned his eyes upward toward Cato as well, and though Maius could not identify him from this distance, nor did he know of the request just made, there still seemed to be a coldness emanating from the man, directed toward Cato. He thought again of the two gladiators, the way the younger fought with everything in him, even though outmatched.

You will not oppress me, Gnaeus Nigidius Maius. But I will find some other way to avoid your malice.

Not an election. Definitely not an election.

Vesuvius watched.

She watched as they insisted, these stupid people, upon living their lives as though calamity could never befall them. Like spoiled children, they needed to be taught a lesson, and she would gladly offer it to them.

The fire in her belly was known only to her, even now. She would keep her secret yet a little while. Let them run about down there, caught up in their own trifling pursuits, heedless, senseless.

Yes, she would play her story out as she saw fit and not be rushed by the flames that licked at her insides, nor the folly that attacked her sense of justice.

For she had been wronged, that much was certain.

And she would make it right.

CHAPTER 6.

Pompeii did not have the expansive sprawl of Rome, nor was it weighted with the abundant amounts of marble, but Ariella would not have traded the one day spent here for a hundred in Rome. The town felt safe, as though she were tucked away, beneath the beneficent gaze of the mountain Vesuvius, from Valerius and his searching eyes.

The troupe had spent their second day in the town much as their first, training in the barracks that also had become their new home. The rectangular building housed dozens of cells off the roofed pa.s.sage that ran around the open courtyard, with a kitchen, armory, even a prison. This evening, when the afternoon's heat fell behind the theater along with the sun, Drusus, their lanista, called them back from their cells to work out in the cooling air.

Ariella glanced at the back of the theater's two-story facade. What kind of play was being performed there? Valerius had dragged her to several in Rome, each one more embarra.s.singly vulgar than the next, further proving that Roman society had traded morals for thrills.

She faced off against her usual partner, Celadus, again, and not many minutes into their sparring, a crescendo of laughter from the theater beyond peaked with a thunder of applause. Ariella pulled back from Celadus and panted.

"By the end of the week they will be yelling for us." Celadus grinned, gap-toothed.

Ariella shrugged. "Yelling for our blood."

He raised his sword. "For honor. For glory. They live it through us. You will see."

A steady stream of people began to flow into the large enclosure from the far end, nearest the theater. They strolled along the columned porticoes, talking and laughing. Some of them made their way to the end where the fighters practiced, and formed a line along the muddy area to watch the training.

Though it wasn't a true performance such as they would offer in a few days, Ariella's nerves fluttered at the gaze of so many people, far closer than they would be in the arena. She tried not to take note of those that watched, but one man caught her attention, and she glanced toward him more than once. He had seemed interested at first, but another, larger, man had drawn him away. Even from the distance of twenty gradi, she could see that animosity between the men lay beneath their civility.

"Over here, Ari," Celadus called. "The fight's over here."

"Sorry." She refocused.

But her eyes strayed to the leaner man again. There was something about him that she liked. His wavy hair was styled in the Roman fashion, and his clothes spoke of wealth but were not ostentatious. He carried himself with confidence, like a man who has tried himself on and found it to be a good fit. Strong jawline. Ready smile.

He had a woman with him, a stunning beauty. She wore a pale blue robe the color of sky, gathered at the shoulders and secured with gold pins. Ariella studied her through a twinge of jealousy. From the way she put her hand to the man's back, she was likely his wife.

"Ahh!" Celadus's wooden sword clapped down on her shoulder.

"Keep your eyes where they belong, boy!" Celadus said. "There'll be bigger crowds than this on the sand, and animals besides. You must learn not to be distracted."

She rubbed her shoulder and grimaced at Celadus. "Fine." She circled so that she could watch the man and the beautiful woman over Celadus's shoulder as they sparred. Drusus would not leave Celadus paired with her for long. The bigger man needed opponents who would challenge him. She had better learn to fight well or she wouldn't fight long enough to survive.

But the interaction behind Celadus still distracted her. The big man had left with his friends, and another, smaller group had approached, but these seemed to frighten the Roman somehow, and before long he turned and left, nearly running from the enclosure.

She felt a sharp poke in her side and shot a look at Celadus.

"You are worthless tonight." He waved his sword. "And lucky I fight with wood."

Drusus called a break, and Celadus huffed away in disgust toward the lanista, no doubt complaining about having to look after an idiot who could not fight.

Ariella crossed to the covered walk and collapsed onto a bench. Since arriving in Pompeii yesterday she had recovered much of her energy, but the training was vigorous. She swiped at her damp brow with her forearm and leaned her back against the stone wall.

A slave approached with a bucket of water and a metal dipper. She glanced at him from under lowered lids, then lifted her head for a better look. He was strong, but a bit grizzled, with deep lines about the eyes. And there was something about him . . .

Jewish.

She waited for him to look at her. He bent to his knees and offered her a dipperful of water, lifting it above his head for her to hold as she drank. She took the lukewarm water in her mouth and swallowed. Then said softly, "Shalom."

His head jerked upward and he peered into her eyes. "A fellow traveler." He smiled slightly.

She nodded. "Still longing for home."

Word had come from Rome that Emperor Vespasian had died, and his son t.i.tus succeeded him. t.i.tus, who had led the rampage across Judea. It was best to speak carefully, though she would spit upon the man if he stood before her today.

The slave pulled a rag from his belt and dipped it into the water, then stayed on his knees to wash her lower legs, grimy from the mud of the practice field. It was an odd feeling, but she allowed it for the chance to speak to him.

"How long since you have seen Jerusalem?" His question was a whisper.

"Nine years." He would grasp the significance.

He sighed heavily. "Did you see the Temple-after?"

"I saw it burn before my eyes." Her voice caught and the slave paused in his work but did not look up.

"Your family?" he asked.

"All lost but a younger brother. But I know not where he is, nor if he still lives."

The slave resumed, nodding. "I share your grief. We long for the Messiah's return."

Ariella snorted. "I have long ceased waiting for a prophet's dream."

He did not speak at first, but then said quietly, "Perhaps He has already come, and we did not know Him."

Ariella shrugged. "I have more faith in those who fight here and now."

He finished and stood, looking down on her face for the first time. His expression shifted. Did he know her secret? "Surely you have not been with the troupe these nine years?"

She shook her head. "Less than four weeks."

His lips twitched into a small smile. "Take care." He inclined his head toward the city. "The arena can be a cruel place for a-for anyone."

And then he was gone, moving on to offer water to the next thirsty trainee, and Ariella was left with a deep sorrow for home and family, one that hollowed out the inside of her heart.

The break ended, and Ariella returned to the field, this time left to herself, to train against the palus, a wooden post driven deep into the ground.

She became aware, gradually, of someone watching her, and was startled to find it was the n.o.bleman from earlier. He had returned alone and stood apart, his face creased with an emotion she could not read. Sadness? Anger?

She paused in her drill when she noticed him, and he acknowledged her attention with a small nod.

She looked away, her thoughts jumbled. If her life had not become what it was, she would have felt herself his equal. Before the siege that took their futures and their lives, her family had been wealthy and prominent. She was accustomed to interacting with men such as this from a young age. The pull of attraction would not have seemed misplaced, except for his Roman patronage.

But here, in Pompeii, she was not the daughter of a wealthy Jew. She was not even a woman. While in her eyes he was an attractive man, she was only a slave boy to him. The thought discomfited her.

"You are young for the arena." He studied her, as if reading her thoughts in part.

She lowered her rudis but said nothing.

"How old are you?" His face had lost the pensive look and he seemed now to be only seeking distraction.

"Sixteen," she answered, as though her years had ceased to advance when Jerusalem fell.

"So do the crowds come to see you fight, or to see you die?"

"Why did you come?"

He laughed. "Quick boy. Not to see you, of course. Two stray dogs in a street fight would be more entertaining."

She attacked the palus again. "Do not let the lanista hear that." Another strike. "He expects me to earn my keep."

"I would think the fighter Paris makes him more money than he needs."

She huffed and turned on him. Always Paris. "Is that why you keep coming? To see Paris?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Keep coming?"

Ariella turned away, chiding herself. "I saw you here earlier. Watching."

"And you thought I was watching you?"

She struck the wooden pole once more. "I thought you were one of the many who enjoy bloodshed, and revere those with more muscle than mind."

He laughed again. "An undersized gladiator with an oversized mouth! It is a pity your lanista cannot make money on the strength of your wit rather than your arm."

"But it is as you said. You have come to see Paris."

"You are jealous?"

Ariella dropped her sword, remembered her stab of jealousy at the woman in sky blue that had been with him, and laughed at the irony. "Paris is a stupid brute."

"Ah, but that is the best kind of brute, don't you think?"

She refused to humor him. "He is over there." She pointed to where Paris trained in the shadow of the covered walkway. "Enjoy your conversation."

He looked at her strangely. "Something tells me it will be dull in comparison."

Ariella shrugged. "You have been warned."

He moved away, and she watched him go, then flushed when he turned back and took a few steps toward her. "I am Portius Cato."

She nodded. Why give his name?

"And you are-?"

"Ari."

"Ari." He nodded, inhaled, and looked to Paris. "Ari, if you need anything while in Pompeii, send a message to the house of the Catonii. I will do what I can."