And then he turned again and strode toward Paris, leaving Ariella to stare after him, more confused than before he had spoken.

She pointedly ignored the interaction between Paris and the n.o.bleman for the next few minutes, and did not look at him when he strolled from the barracks. But she soon found a way to draw near to Paris and make a casual comment about his admirer. "Perhaps he means to sponsor the games." She kept her voice light. "He seemed quite interested in you."

He grunted. "He is a rich man who follows the games. That is all. He made no mention of sponsoring me." He scratched his neck and grinned. "But do not worry. I will not be with the troupe much longer."

Ariella looked sideways at the handsome fool.

"I have a good feeling about this town. If I can keep winning here, there'll be extra purses for me. I need to win the crowd. And then I'll buy my freedom."

Ariella had heard talk of this possibility, but none of the other fighters seemed to believe it likely. Of course, Paris would believe he could.

"Maybe I will win the crowd as well."

"Ha!" Paris slapped her shoulder, knocking her forward. "You won't last that long, my boy. The best you can do is learn to die well and bring honor to the lanista and the editores who sponsor the games."

She bristled. "All I have to do is evade the sword and entertain well. Perhaps I can do that with the animals."

He grew serious, and his eyes would pierce her through. "This is no place for weaklings. Drusus shames the troupe by putting you out there. And I don't intend to let you steal any of my crowd by gaining sympathy for the underdog." He gripped her shoulder, as if in camaraderie, but his fingers shot pain into her muscles. "Ari, my boy, I doubt you'll even see the arena. You'll be finished off in training one of these days."

It was more than a prediction.

It was a threat.

CHAPTER 7.

Gnaeus Nigidius Maius did not care to get his hands dirty. For that, he had others. Both the slaves that followed him northward through the city's Forum this morning, and those that answered his summons for work best accomplished without attention.

The Forum lay before him today as a mute reminder of all he had not yet accomplished in this city. Its broad central court of white paving stones, bordered on three sides by civil offices, markets, and warehouses, still bore the marks of the earthquake seventeen years ago that had ravaged their town. Thanks to Maius, much rebuilding had been accomplished, but there was still much to be done. At the far end of the Forum the Temple of Jupiter, with its still-broken right arch, attested to the new ideology-one that favored improving the centers of leisure, like the baths and theaters, over the temples dedicated to the worship of the emperor. Beyond the Forum, mothering the city, lay Mount Vesuvius.

Ah, well. We must give the people what they want. He headed for the northeast corner of the Forum, where the town's main market, the Macellum, would already be churning with shoppers, and where the slaves who hurried to keep pace with him would pick out his purchases for the day.

In truth, he trusted his household slaves to choose the fish and cuts of meat for him, and even the luxury purchases he demanded. No, today he had another goal for his visit to the Macellum.

"The people do not care so much about the Temple," Gracchus was saying at his right. Maius had forgotten the man was there. "But they are unhappy that the Macellum is still void of decoration. It is an ugly place to shop, some say-"

Maius held up a hand to stop the putrid flow from the man's mouth. How did he ever tolerate Gracchus's incessant rasping in his ear? If not for the tidbits of factual gossip his advisor had a talent for unearthing, Maius would have found a charge worthy of execution for the man long ago.

They pa.s.sed the Eumachia and Temple of Vespasian, crossing between marble columns to walk in the shaded portico that ran the length of the Forum on both sides. The Macellum lay just beyond the grand arch, one of a pair that flanked the Temple of Jupiter at this end of the Forum. Maius halted his progress at the Forum Gate of the market and surveyed the inside. Gracchus was right.

"Why have the sculptors not completed the dome of the tholos?" He spoke more to himself than to Gracchus. "The G.o.ds know I've funneled enough money to the project." The round structure in the center of the market enclosure, with its ring of columns supporting a domed roof, was both practical and decorative. The official weights and measures were kept there, around a central fountain that boasted live fish. But the dome still bore the ragged chisel marks of its creation, not yet smoothed into twining vines and blooming flowers. Maius fumed over the delay. The people must feel contented with their city. It was the only way to keep them contented with its government.

Gracchus started into a sputtering response, but Maius crossed the threshold without hearing it. It was time to begin his rounds.

The Macellum's three sides were lined with a series of tabernae, single-roomed shops with barrel-vaulted ceilings. Maius nodded to the servant whom he kept to staff his wine shop on the right side of the market, p.r.i.c.ked with annoyance at the memory of Portius Cato at the theater. When he first heard of Cato's arrival in Pompeii, he had thought to crush the younger man for his ignorance in setting up a competing business. But after last night's unpleasant encounter, and Cato's preening arrogance, the desire had grown to take Cato down.

Maius sighed over the ever-present pressure of public life, then put it aside and turned to the left side of the square, reserved mainly for butchers, with marble counters provided to keep the meat cool and special troughs for drainage. He crossed to the first of them, hung with hunks of blood-red meat, their own marbling of yellow-white fat mimicking the counters.

Men of any status could be controlled, Maius had long ago learned. Each required a different tactic, but he had mastered them all. For the pleasure-seeking vacationers from the city, Maius was the beneficent host, and few of them cared to concern themselves with local politics. His money had purchased much of the town and its surrounding fields, and most of the lower cla.s.ses were in his employ. For the wealthy townspeople, whose chief pursuit was leisure and distraction, he had informants well-placed in many households, and the secrets he kept were as good as chains around the n.o.bility. And for those who could be neither bought nor blackmailed, there was always the effective, if conventional, threat of violence.

Each of these merchants contributed to Maius's coffers, and in return he protected them from any of that violence that might somehow find them. Over the years his wealth grew, and his influence with it. He had been one of two duoviri for sixteen years, and his elected position a.s.sured that he could not be prosecuted for any crime of which he might be accused. Not that anyone would have the audacity to accuse him. And the wealth and power left him free to pursue his other . . . interests. Interests more secretive than lucrative.

This particular merchant, the largest butcher in Pompeii, held an interest beyond monetary for Maius. He was brother to one of the two aediles, the other leading politicians who held the city's purse strings. And Maius had learned that like a bloated water skin, pressure applied here at the butcher's counter could result in movement elsewhere in the city. Namely, in the basilica, where financial decisions were made.

The butcher saw him approach and was all wide-mouthed smile and extended hands. Maius ignored the proffered hunk of crusty bread, disinterested in the salted meat that would follow. The calls of merchants and the buzz of shoppers filled the Macellum, and Maius leaned in close to deliver a few words of what he called encouragement. The butcher's face turned sallow and he sc.r.a.ped at the blood trapped under his fingernails.

"Father!" The word sang out over the noise of the market, but Maius would have known it in any pitch. He turned from the butcher, his message conveyed, and spread his arms to his precious Nigidia.

The girl pranced across the Macellum, reminding him of one of the horses that performed in the arena games he sponsored. Her dark hair threatened to escape its gold combs and tumble to the fine silk of her stola and her unusual blue eyes sparkled. "Nigidia, my pet."

She kissed his cheek, then pouted. "You said there would be a delivery from Rome today." Her voice elevated yet another few pitches and her sulky frown was meant to manipulate.

He traced the line of her aquiline nose, so like his own. Except for the strangely-blue eyes, she was his daughter, from looks to tactics. He stroked her arm. "I shall have the heads of those who caused any delay, my dear."

She grunted, and Maius understood her impatience. He had an insatiable hunger for luxuries himself. This is why I must remain in power. It was for his family, all that he did. The wealth he acc.u.mulated and the way in which he accomplished it. All for them.

The nagging pinch of guilt that occasionally plagued him had no power today, thankfully. Nigidia's presence calmed and pleased him as it always could.

The girl threaded her arm through his own and led him away from the butcher's shop. "Camilla says that I do not deserve any more silk from Rome."

Maius patted her hand on his arm. "Your tutor forgets that young girls must be beautiful if they are to make good matches." They strolled toward the fabrics, Nigidia leading the way, and Gracchus following. Maius pictured his daughter's stern tutor, pointing her disapproving finger at the lovely Nigidia. Another woman, Cato's sister Portia, strayed across his thoughts. He had seen her again last night and she lingered in his memory like an unplucked cl.u.s.ter of grapes, like an untasted jar of wine, like a- "Do not speak of marriage to me, Father. I cannot bear to think of being separated from you."

Maius breathed away thoughts of Portia and focused on his daughter. "Who speaks of separation, my pet? A good marriage expands our family, it does not sever it."

They had arrived at the central tholos, and stared down into the pool, churning with black scales and watery eyes.

"My lord," Gracchus rasped behind him.

"What is it?" Maius had a laughable vision of throttling his advisor until his eyes bulged like the fish in the pool.

"There are some here to see you."

Nigidia released his arm and melted away, attuned as always to the needs of his position. Maius swiveled to meet a few of his loyal men on the ordo council, their eyes downcast as though the news were bad.

"Not here." He stalked to a corner of the Macellum, where an unused tabernae lay dusty and dim. Away from the noise of the market, he turned on them. "You have interrupted my shopping."

"Forgive us, Maius." One of the men held up his palms. "But there is talk."

"Who is talking?"

The lackey shifted and swallowed. "His name is being carried through the back rooms of power as we speak."

Maius knew the name before he spoke it out.

"Portius Cato."

The G.o.ds curse that presumptuous young whelp. Cato had not yet settled into his new home and already he had people talking.

The councilman continued. "Did you know that he was quaestor in Rome, before-"

Maius growled. "I make it my business to know such things."

"He has been approached. By Taurus and his league."

Yes, of course. They would waste no time once they saw the possibility. For all his supposed knowledge of the city's goings-on, he should have seen this coming.

First ignorant, then arrogant. The young Cato had sp.a.w.ned Maius's instant dislike. But this was something altogether different. Politics left no room for personal grudges.

Politics was war.

CHAPTER 8.

Cato opened the wood-post gate that allowed entry into his new vineyard and swung it wide to allow the servant Remus to follow.

Since last night's theater performance his thoughts had not strayed far from Gnaeus Nigidius Maius and his unspoken threats. The vines and soil had better distract him this morning.

"Huh!" Remus grunted, taking in the plot of land before them.

"It's grown a bit wild, I suppose." Cato put a hand to his eyes to block the bright morning sun and surveyed the trellised rows that trailed away from him, toward Vesuvius in the distance, outlined in lovely purple against a pale blue sky. The vineyard was oriented in the same direction as the Forum on the other side of the city, and Cato amused himself that this was his Forum, the place where his fortune would be made. Vesuvius looked down on his vineyard like a mother, and Cato would be the midwife, helping her give birth to the grapes. He laughed at his mind's strange imagery. I live with too many women.

"You'll need the hands of the G.o.ds to reach down and make this mess right." Remus scratched at his ear. "Hands of the G.o.ds."

"Ah, but look with a more kindly eye, my friend." Cato crossed the gra.s.s to the nearest row of vines. He reached between glossy leaves, cradled a cl.u.s.ter of small, green fruit in his hand, and tilted it to reveal the slight purpling at the base of each, and thankfully, no mildew. "We have everything we need here, Remus. Warm sunlight. Well-drained soil, black with fertility." He leaned his head back and sniffed, his heart as much as his nose filling with the scents of fruit and earth and salt. "Do you feel that breeze off the sea? Perfect."

"The posts are rotting and the vines are untrained."

Cato laughed at Remus's pessimism and held up the cl.u.s.ter. "But the grapes, Remus. It is the grapes that matter most."

Remus walked to the row beside him and pulled at a chunk of the black locust post that held the vine. It fell off in his hand. "Next year's harvest?" He held up the rotted wood.

"Next year's harvest will put Maius and his wine to shame!" Cato pulled a grape from the cl.u.s.ter in his hand, popped it into his mouth, and bit down too hard. The unripe fruit shot tartness into his cheek. The vines grew well, though wild. The jolt of taste took him back for a moment to Rome, to his uncle's fields outside the city, where he had first plunged his hands into the soil to test its moisture level, first learned to prune and train and love the woody stalks into vines that would later reward both his nose and his palate. His uncle Servius was a good man, if a bit strange with his religious beliefs, and he had been an excellent tutor. But Cato was ready to create his own symphony of fruit, as Servius used to say. His would be an earthier floral, with a longer finish, b.u.t.tery in the mouth.

"You'll have to convince the n.o.bility." Remus wrinkled his nose. "They've got a bad taste in their mouths from Saturninus's wine and his reputation."

Outside the fence, a line of leather and metal clad figures caught Cato's eye. He released the grapes and turned to the narrow strip of gra.s.s that lay between the border of his vineyard and the arena, also on the outskirts of the city.

The gladiators. They marched in succession toward the arena, and for a moment Cato worried that he had missed the news of their first performance. But there were no crowds, no noise. They must have come for drills only. He watched the men, maybe a hundred of them, clomp past in full costume, from the Retiarii with their nets, to the Murmillones with fish helmets. There was the hero, Paris, larger and angrier than the rest. And that little one, what was his name? Ari. The boy seemed focused on his own sandals today, but Cato chuckled at the memory of his brash talk.

The line of men snaked into the arena's lower entrance and was lost to Cato. He mused for a moment on the irony of his vineyard of beauty and fertility so close to the arena built for gore and death.

Maius belongs more to the arena than to the vineyard. The thought had sprung unbidden but with the ring of truth. He had known many such men in Rome. Had fought against them all. Unsuccessfully.

He shook his head. Those memories were buried deep. Let them rot there.

"And so we will convince them, Remus." He turned once more to the untamed plot of land. "How about a compet.i.tion? Bring the people out for a friendly contest between wines."

Remus snorted. "With Saturninus's wine? Or do you propose to wait until next year for your contest?"

"Good point, my friend." He strolled down the first row, Remus trailing behind. "So perhaps we shall give it away."

"You are a strange man, master. With a strange way to make money."

Cato stopped and turned on his laborer. "No, it is a good idea, Remus! I will hold my first dinner party as a citizen of Pompeii. We shall invite the n.o.bility, and we'll make sport of Saturninus's bad wine. I'll send them all home with jugs of the stuff to give to their slaves and servants, demonstrating that my wine will be far superior."

Remus said nothing, only scrunched up his forehead against the sun. The idea was a good one, from the man's lack of objection.

"You see, Remus? We will show them that they have a choice. Maius does not own the town."

Remus shrugged. "It could work."

From the arena beyond, the first shouts of training and clash of swords reached them.

Cato slapped his laborer on the shoulder and hurried back through the row of vines. "Tend to the vines. I will start immediately."

It took half of a Junius hour to criss-cross through the narrow streets and reach Cato's new Pompeiian villa on the upper end of the town. Like all wealthy homes, the facade and the entrance made a statement about the status of the owner. The front door stood open as usual, with the line of sight designed to allow pa.s.sersby to glimpse the interior of the house and form an opinion. Cato paused in the doorway and tried to see the home through the eyes of his impending guests.

The mosaic greeting in front of the door, HAVE, welcome, invited guests. The entry hall's high walls were sculpted like miniature temples, and it opened to a large garden courtyard overflowing with green shrubbery and small trees, and in the atrium between the entry and the garden lay the most impressive piece in view, a bronze statue of a dancing faun poised on the lip of the impluvium, the tiled basin in blues and greens designed to catch rainwater. The faun must have been an especial commission by Saturninus, representing as it did the wild followers of Dionysus, Greek G.o.d of wine.

The peristyle garden was bordered on three sides by opulent receiving and dining rooms, with elegant furnishings, elaborate frescoes of deep reds and warm golds on the walls, and intricate floor mosaics. Before reaching the dining area at the rear, guests would cross a huge piece depicting a four-hundred-year-old battle between Alexander and Darius of Persia, a tessaraed mosaic that would make a Roman n.o.bleman envious.

All in all, the house made a statement favorable to its owner, if only he could erase the stigma of Saturninus's failure.

A figure crossed the atrium before him and must have sensed his shadow in the doorway.

"Quintus, what are you doing standing there?" It was his mother.

"Admiring the view." He smiled and winked, and thought he saw his mother blush even from this distance. Since his father had pa.s.sed, he had tried to remember to compliment his mother from time to time. The elder Portius Cato had been charming above all else.

He crossed the atrium and met his mother in the garden. "We are going to have a dinner party, Mother." He brushed at some loose stones on the atrium half-wall. "How soon can the house be made ready?"

Octavia's eyebrows shot upward. "You must be jesting, Quintus! The house is musty from disuse and in desperate need of repainting and tiling! A dinner party is out of the question!"

Cato shrugged at his mother's outrage. "So we shall tell the guests to bring their rags and tools."