Devil's Sea

CHAPTER NINE

The blast of war trumpets echoed down the stone tunnel to the ears of the waiting gladiators, indicating that the next contest was about to begin. Falco lay on a bench, the fancy armor he’d worn during the pompa, or procession into the arena, to one side, his battered fighting gear on the other. A slave carefully oiled his body, paying particular attention to the numerous scars, kneading them to loosen the knotted muscle beneath the skin. It was the last day of the games. He was underneath the arena floor, the place dimly lit by smoky torches. The bellow of animals deliberately starved so they would perform — if eating poorly armed or even unarmed people were performing — adding to the din of the crowd above. The entire place stank of fear and death.

Tomorrow. It was all he could think of. He would travel to Pompeii. And he would see Phaedra and Fabron. His son would almost be a man now and his daughter approaching womanhood. He had last seen them when they were barely able to walk.

Falco heard the shuffling of feet and turned his head slightly to watch those going by, heading for the arena: a quartet of criminals, their eyes dull from the drugged wine they’d been given. He could tell from the inexperienced way they held their swords that none of them had any combat training. Execution in the form of entertainment. They had been condemned to the sword by the state court and sold to the Ianista under the provision that they enter the arena within one hundred days.

Falco lay his head back down on the scented pillow and relaxed his muscles, allowing the slave to do his job. Falco had never known his parents or even his country of origin. He’d been a slave from birth, his large size, apparent even as a baby, saving him from being exposed, placed on a hillside and allowed to die. His earliest memories were of working in the fields in Sicily at four. At seven, he was sold to the lanista of the emperor’s gladiatorial school outside Rome. The first three years were spent doing menial work around the stables. Then he was chosen to train for the arena. Every day of the year. From before dawn until after dusk. When the issue at stake was one’s own life, such training was taken seriously. His muscles grew as he matured, but more importantly, because attuned to instinctual moves with the various weapons he handled until they were an extension of his body.

He’d been pressed into the army during the civil war of ’69 and spent eight years serving in the X Legion, most of that time under the command of General Lucius Cassius. It was in Palestine that he had come to the general’s notice. He had been part of a cohort chosen to accompany the general on an inspection tour of the relay forts that allowed messengers to move speedily about the territory, exchanging horses at each small post.

Encamped at a post near the Sea of Galilee, the centurion in command had failed to properly encamp, feeling that the small enclosure of the pose was sufficient for the general and himself, deploying his troops around the wall. It was standard procedure for any element of a legion to erect a barricade around any camp and for sufficient sentries to be posted. But the Jewish rebels had been smashed, only a few hands left, and the campaign was winding down.

Falco had noted the lack of preparations, but he was only a soldier, so he’d pulled his cloak over his body and immediately fallen asleep, always amazed how cold it could get at night after the boiling temperatures of the desert day.

He’d awakened to the screams of men dying. Grabbing his sword, he leapt into the fray, not even knowing who he was fighting, simply swinging at anyone he didn’t recognize as a legionnaire. All was chaos, the camp thoroughly infiltrated, many men having been slain in their sleep.

In the starlight, Falco made out a group of men, Jewish rebels, no doubt, in a tight formation, cutting their way toward the small post. And on the low wall, General Cassius sword in hand, yelling orders, trying to rally the soldiers.

Falco made his way toward Cassius, where five rebels were also headed. He reached them just before they got to the general. He killed two before they even knew he was upon them. Two others came at him, the one in the center continuing toward the general.

Trained for the arena, Falco’s skill and speed were no match for the rebels. He feinted at the one on the right, and when that man jumped back from the blade, he slashed left, severing the other man’s sword arm from his body, blood spurting from the stump as the man screamed and went to his knees, staring in disbelief at his arm lying on the ground. Falco went at the other man with a flurry of jabs and slashes, penetrating his defenses on the fifth strike, the edge of his gladius splitting the man’s head like an overripe melon.

Then he turned to the general, whose withered sword arm forced him to fight with his left hand. He was doing a credible job, off the wall now, giving ground slowly to his attacker, until he tripped over a rock and fell on his back. Cassius blocked the first blow aimed at his face. There was no second blow. Falco took the rebel leader from behind without warning, severing his head from his body in one vicious swipe of his blade.

Falco reached down and picked up the head, eyes still blinking as the blood drained out of it. Falco held it over his head, screaming loudly. The other attacking rebels, seeing their dead leader, scattered, disappearing into the dark.

Cassius slowly got to his feet and called for the centurion. When the officer arrived, Cassius had him remove his armor and strip naked. Then the general banished him to the desert on the spot for failing to camp properly. Falco knew that was a death sentence for the centurion. Either the desert would get him or the rebels; either death would be slow and cruel. Then Cassius turned to Falco and offered him a commission as the cohort’s centurion.

“On one condition, General,” Falco replied.

“A condition?” Cassius slapped dust from his cloak. “I would say you were impertinent and not very grateful if it were not for the fact that you saved my life. What condition?”

“You buy my wife and children when we return to Rome and free them, General.”

Cassius had stuck out his hand. “My word as a Roman, Centurion.”

But it was not to be. While he was away, his wife Drusilla died of the plague, hurriedly buried in a mass grave. And Epione had swooped in, buying the children, sending him a copy of the bill of sale and a promise to take care of them if he returned to the arena. If he did not… the threat was obvious.

Offered a discharged from the army when the campaign was over, he did as she demanded and went back to the arena, the only life he knew, to ply the only skill he knew.

‘Water,” Falco ordered, and another slave brought him a goblet. He went up on one elbow and drank deeply. His head throbbed; too much wine at the banquet opening the games the night before. He usually never drank before a contest, but his match today was an exhibition of skill with wooden swords, not a fight to the death. It was taking more and more wine for him to be able to spend time with Epione, to drown the rage in his heart at the woman who used him and was master to his children with the power of life and death over them.

“Gladiator.”

Falco lifted his head in surprise both at the choice of words and the tone. Gaius Marcus stood in front of the table, dressed in his fine tunic.

“Yes?”

“Prepare yourself for battle,” Marcus said.

Falco frowned. “I do not enter until this afternoon.”

“You enter when I tell you to. And that is now.”

Falco swung his feet to the ground and stood, oil glistening on his naked skin. “What is happening?”

“Your opponents await you in the arena,” Marcus’ eyes shifted, not meeting Falco’s harsh gaze.

“And they are?”

“You will enforce the emperor’s laws against the criminals who have been sentenced to the sword. You will carry steel in your hand, not wood.”

Falco felt the bottom of this stomach fall. Not all the thought of having to fight but at the realization that someone was pulling strings. He had only fought like that in his early days, fighting both criminals and animals, honing his deadly trade. It had been years since the last time he had done so. This was an insult of the highest magnitude and he knew it didn’t come from Marcus.

Falco stepped closer to his owner. “Marcus. Tell me.”

“A distinguished senator has returned to Rome. He has made a special request.” Marcus said the words flatly.

“For me?”

“For you.”

“Who is the senator?”

“Domidicus. He arrived late last night.”

Epione’s husband. He was supposed to be in the Province of Gaul for another three months, but he had returned while his wife was still in Falco’s arms. Marcus met Falco’s eyes, and they both knew why Domidicus was back and why he had made these arrangements.

“I cannot refuse Domidicus’s request,” Marcus continued. “He is the nephew of the emperor, and the emperor concurs.”

Falco struggled to understand. Why make him fight the criminals? Even four against one, Falco felt confident he would be the only one left standing. There was more to this than Marcus was telling him.

“You should have kept that”—Marcus gestured at Falco’s groin—“under control.”

“I should have refused her?” Falco was angry now. “You were the one who first sent me to her.”

“Get your gear on,” Marcus ordered. He turned and walked out before Falco could say anything further.

The Emperor Titus had a headache. He’d spent the morning in his audience chamber, listening to the petty squabbling of those who came to him for decisions. And now he had to sit here in the heat, sweltering even in the shade, and watch criminals die in pathetic and usually brief encounters.

Then there was Domidicus and his demand that a certain gladiator be put to death for cuckolding him. Titus knew if he did that in all such instances, there would be no gladiators left. Still, he had allowed Domidicus to bribe the lanista and arrange a match according to his own desires. After all, the senator was a very powerful man and his nephew. And the gladiator was Falco, Cassius’s friend. Killing two birds with one battle in the arena.

And there was still the issue of the Delphic priestess. So far, there had been no sign as she had indicated there would be. He had her seated in the back corner of the imperial box. If there were no sign by dusk, he would have her killed in the arena. It alleviated his headache somewhat to envision various ways he would have the woman dispatched.

Titus turned to Thyestes. “Where is Cassius?”

“In the Praetorian box.”

“Summon him.”

Titus looked over at Domidicus and Epione, who were below him and to the left. It would be interesting to see their reaction when her gladiator died.

“Emperor.” Cassius was in front of him wearing a plain white toga.

“Cassius.” Titus nodded a greeting. “There is a woman there.” Titus waved his imperial staff toward the priestess. “Go to her and listen to her story. I think you will find it interesting.”

“Yes, Emperor.”

Behind the emperor, Kaia was struggling to keep from being sick. The black emotion of the arena was overwhelming. She understood now why the oracle had kept her isolated for so many years. It was difficult to block out the array of feelings that bombarded her from the outside. She could feel the crowd’s blood lust, the fear of those in the arena itself, even the hunger of the animals. Under it all, though, there was something else. A presence, as if under the Earth itself. She pulled her focus on that by the appearance of a man.

“I am Lucius Cassius,” the man said.

Kaia could see the wounds, the leathery skin, and the look in his eyes. He was a killer, but not the one. “I am Kaia, priestess of the Oracle at Delphi.”

“The emperor has sent me to hear what you have to say.”

Vesuvius had never been a quiet mountain. In 5960 B.C. and 3580 B.C. it had erupted with a force to rival the largest known in Europe. In 62 A.D., an earthquake, centered on the volcano, had rocked the entire area, causing great damage.

But the land was fertile with the volcanic soil, and the sea was close, making the area prime real estate, so cities grew under the smoldering brow of the mountain. The largest of these was Pompeii to the southeast, and not far from it the port town of Herculaneum, to the west, on the Bay of Naples. Twenty thousand people made Pompeii their home, while five thousand lived in Herculaneum.

On the slope of the volcano, facing the southern sun, was the smaller town of Oplontis, which catered to the rich villas that dotted the slope, with excellent views of the countryside in all directions. At one of these villas, Porta Vintus, lived Epione’s brother, the distinguished Flavius Lucella, although what exactly he was distinguished for other than inheriting the villa and great wealth from his father, no one was quite sure. There were twelve family members living at his estate, including his wife, six children and various cousins. There were also over two hundred slaves, including Phaedra and Fabron, Falco’s daughter and son.

Lucella had at first protested when Epione had pressed the two small children on him. Not that he was adverse to slaves, but they were too young to work. But as the years had gone by, he had changed his mind. They both worked hard, never complained as slaves were wont to do, and were both growing into quite handsome creatures. In fact Lucella was planning, the next time his fat wife was out of town on one of her insufferable trips to Rome where she spent uncounted amounts of his money, of having first one, then the other, summoned to his quarters. It would be an enjoyable experience, a dip in both waters, hot and cold, so to speak, and the thought of both of them virgins, and siblings, truly excited him.

At the moment that Falco was putting his armor on Lucella was behind his main house in the shade of an olive tree, seeking relief from the terrible heat that had plagued the summer so far. The two slaves were on his mind because one was on either side of him, waving their fans in unison, back and forth, moving the humid air over his corpulent body.

“Faster,” Lucella ordered.

He felt his stomach rumble. Damn that new cook, he thought, before he realized it was not his stomach that was rumbling. He looked up. Thousands of feet above, the ever-present clod hat tipped Vesuvius seemed darker than usual. “The Earth mother stretches,” He muttered. He tried to remember the various gods his wife paid homage to. Which one was responsible for the underground again?

“Phaedra.”

“Yes, master.”

“Who is the god of the underworld?”

‘That would be the goddess Proserpine, my lord.”

“You are very bright.” Lucella smiled at her. She was thirteen and just coming into her womanhood. Her brother, a year younger, had already reached puberty, and he would be a large man, much like his father. Lucella had determined that Fabron would have to be sold before he became large enough to be a threat. He thought that game his sister played with the gladiator most dangerous, but that was her way. While his only interest was money, hers was power. He knew she hated men, particularly her husband, but she loved power more than she hated the male species. So she played all the men who crossed paths with her.

The ground shook, and Lucella reached out and grabbed the side of the couch he was on. He stared hard at Vesuvius, as if by sight alone, he could see the inside of the mountain. He waited. A minute. All was still.

“Ah.” Lucella put his head back on the pillow. “Faster,” he ordered.

Falco entered the arena to the accompaniment of a blare of trumpets. He saw the criminals who had just passed but now there were six, not four. And the two additions, even though they were armed as the others and as poorly dressed, Falco could immediately tell by their stance and demeanor that they were trained gladiators.

He turned toward the imperial box, raising his sword in the obligatory salute. “We who are about to die, salute you!” his voice echoed across the stones and the murmur of the crowd. The six did not give the salute, as they were not entitled, although he imagined the two impostors had been forced to resist their urge to raise their swords.

He saw the emperor, and below, Epione and Domidicus. He saw the surprise on her face, the satisfaction on her husband’s. He was about to turn back to the ring when he felt as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning, searing through his very being. At the very back of the imperial box was Cassius, huddled next to a strange woman. It was her eyes that had transfixed him, straight to his soul. He had not experienced such a thing since seeing Drusilla the first time, but this was different; this wasn’t man and woman but a kindred soul, one that saw into the darkness.

He had no more time to ponder this as the trumpet signaling the beginning of battle sounded.

Kaia had felt a sense of confidence in the old man the emperor had sent to talk to her. He had listened carefully to her story of the Shadow and the threat it posed. He had questioned her only once, when she told him that she had promised the emperor there would be a sign of the Shadow’s power this very day.

“In what form?” he had asked.

“Out of the Earth.”

He had simply nodded and asked her to continue, but when the trumpets blew, signaling another bout of butchery, she had fallen silent, her heart missing a beat. A man had walked into the sunlight and raised his sword to the emperor.

She knew it immediately. This was the man she had seen in dreams and the man the oracle had told her to look for. The killer. With the heart of darkness.

And she saw what he had seen: the same mountain she had seen in a vision. Now she knew what was to come, what form the sign was to take.

With great difficulty, Falco forced his attention back to the arena. The six men were spreading out. The two gladiators, neither of whom Falco had ever seen before, fanned to each wing, leaving the four criminals in the middle. One of the gladiators was tall, with a shaved head. The other was short and powerful, with muscle layered on muscle. While they were the real threat, Falco knew he could not ignore the four armed criminals, because while he was engaged with one of the gladiators, one of them could slip the blade into his back as easily as the best trained man. Falco always let opponents come to him. He had found the reactions were harder to anticipate than actions.

The Delphic priestess was the most intriguing woman Cassius had ever met. He found that reaction strange, considering he’d been talking to her for only ten minutes. But there was something about her, an aura, which had drawn him, as had her story of a Shadow and a gate to another place. Her abrupt shift of attention from him to the arena had been shocking as a splash of cold water in the face. He turned and followed her gaze and was surprised to see Falco facing six criminals. This was not on the program for the day’s events.

Cassius’s eyes narrowed. The two criminals on the flanks were anything but. He could tell by the way they held their weapons, the movement of their feet, that they were trained killers.

“Something is wrong,” Cassius told Kaia.

She turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“He is being set up. The two men on the end are not what they appear to be.”

Her gaze shifted back to the arena. “No, they aren’t,” she said after a second. She closed her eyes. “He is to die. It is what the emperor wants, but most particularly what that man there” — she pointed at Senator Domidicus — “wants.”

“How do you know that?”

“It is my gift.”

The two gladiators were moving forward, a pair of pincers, circling to drive him forward against the four, who held fast, uncertain what they should do. Falco decided it was time to change tactics. Shield held tight against his off side, he charged the four silently, knowing silence was more disconcerting than screaming. They brought their swords up awkwardly, then, as he had hoped, they scattered.

Falco ran one down, spitting him on the point of his sword and pulling it out in one quick jab; then he went after a second criminal who was running for the wall. The man threw his sword down and jumped, his hands scrambling for a hold, but the entire rim of the wall surrounding the arena was topped with two-foot-wide rollers to prevent this very thing. His hands spun off the roller, and he slid back into the arena. Falco cut through the man’s hamstring, sending him screaming to the sand. Falco turned, breathing hard, feeling the sweat run under his armor.

The two gladiators had accepted that their original plan wasn’t going to work. They were shoulder to shoulder now, edging in. The remaining two criminals were hanging back.

“You did not give the salute,” Falco said to the gladiators as they approached.

“We don’t plan on dying,” the tall one said.

They were opposite-handed, another advantage they held, the tall one holding the sword in his left, the short one in this right. Falco blinked. For a second, their images had wavered. Then it happened again.

You’ve been drugged.

It wasn’t as if the words were spoken but the thought sent to him. And he knew from who. The woman in the back of the imperial box with Cassius.

Falco blinked once more, trying to clear his vision, but he knew she was right. The glass of water the slave had given him just before Marcus had ordered him to the ring. He could see the smiles on the faces of the two gladiators as they saw him take an uncertain step backward. They knew, too. He had heard of all types of different drugs; ones that slowed a fighter’s reactions, ones that dulled pain, but this one seemed to be specific to his eyes, causing his vision to waver and dance.

The two were coming closer now.

Close your eyes. I will see for you.

Falco yelled and swung his sword back and forth like a madman. The two gladiators retreated slightly, letting him waste energy on ghosts. Time was on their side as his vision grew worse.

Trust me.

Falco felt the emotion, more that he heard words inside his head. He had trusted no one in his life other than Drusilla. He closed his eyes. He saw the arena inside his head as if from above. He could see the two closing on him, edging in, swords at the ready.

They both charged. Falco saw it, and he also could sense it as he had always been able, the two views complementing each other. He turned, shield out, and took the tall one’s blade on the shield, while he caught the short one’s blade with his own steel, sliding along until they locked guards. He shoved, pushing both men back, and they disengaged, retreating to ponder the strange fact that they were fighting a man who had his eyes closed, the easy kill they had anticipated turning out to be not so easy.

In Pompeii everyone could see the tall cloud that rose out of the top of Vesuvius. It was higher than anyone could recall, reaching into the heavens. The tremors in the Earth had also been felt. But what were they to do? Leave everything they had and run away every time the Earth moved and smoke came out of the volcano? They all knew they were living on borrowed time, but the hope was the note would not be called in during their lifetime.

At Porta Vintus, Flavius Lucella was finally asleep, decadent dreams floating inside his head. Phaedra and Fabron waited nearby for his summons, seated together underneath an olive tree. They knew their life was not difficult, especially when compared with the slaves who worked the fields. But they had seen what Lucella did to the other household slaves when they reached a certain level of physical development. Both had seen his eyes going over their bodies as they fanned, and they knew the time was getting close.

“I will not allow him to take me.” Phaedra had been saying that every day for months now.

“Father will come for us,” was Fabron’s stock reply.

“He cannot come,” Phaedra replies, picking up a twig and snapping it. “He is bound to the arena as tightly as we are bound here.”

Fabron looked at the fat man sleeping on the hammock. “If he does not come and Lucella tries to force either of us, I will kill him.”

“Then we will be killed.”

Fabron shrugged. “I would prefer death.”

“Why don’t we escape?” Phaedra asked.

Fabron smiled at his sister. “And go where?”

“Anywhere.”

“The Romans put to death anyone who helps a slave escape. All around us is the sea. We would need to get on a ship. And north are the mountains. I have talked to men who have seen them. They say you cannot get across them unescorted.”

“It is not fair!” Phaedra threw a stick down.

“It is the life we have been given,” Fabron said.

“Why?” She pointed at Lucella. “Why does he have the power and money he has, and we are slaves? He didn’t choose that, as we didn’t choose this. He didn’t work for this wealth or freedom.”

“I don’t —” Fabron began, but he halted as the Earth trembled. They looked up the slope and were the first to see the initial eruption. Directly above them, a thousand feet higher, a hole was blasted outward in the side of the mountain with a loud sound like the crack of thunder. They started, staring as the jet of black smoke raced out laterally from the side of the mountain, going over their heads and extending outward for several kilometers.

“What is it?” Phaedra asked as her brother wrapped an arm around her frail shoulders.

Fabron didn’t have a chance to reply, as a wave of searing gas came down the slope, burning everything in its path. He saw the trees above them bursting into flames, pulled Phaedra to his chest, and turned his back to the coming wave.

The two gladiators were closing again, this time more carefully. Falco hefted his shield and sword in preparation when a shaft of pain blanked out the vision being sent to him and even his own sense of the arena. He fell to his knees, crying out in anguish, dropping his shield and sword.

He had not been certain Phaedra and Fabron were alive, but now he was certain they had just died.

Kaia jumped to her feet. “Emperor!” she called out.

Titus turned, irritated. “Priestess, you —”

“It comes, Emperor,” Kaia pointed to the south. “Stop the fight.”

Titus raised a hand, which surprised even him. Trumpets sounded, and the two gladiators froze, just scant feet from finishing off Falco.

Silence fell over the stadium. Titus stared at his hand as if it wasn’t his. He felt as if he had been a puppet for that brief moment, the strings pulled by someone else. But he didn’t signal the action to begin.

The first explosion on the side of Vesuvius was minor compared to what happened next. It gave enough warning to the people of Pompeii for most of them to get out of their houses and into the streets. Then the top of the volcano blew. The sound washed across the town first.

Just behind it, a wall of black, containing superheated gases and choking ash, raced over the countryside. Thousands died as the wall swept over the town, killing every living thing it touched, either by heat or suffocation, depending if they were indoors or out.

“Kill me.” Falco could no longer see the gladiators, but he knew they were close by. “Kill me,” he begged.

The stadium had been unnaturally silent for almost a minute. Now there was a murmur as the crowd wondered why the emperor had signaled all to stop. And he had yet to indicate what should happen to Falco, on his knees, head bowed in the arena.

In the imperial box, Kaia had made her way past all the flunkies surrounding the emperor. She stood in front of him.

“I see nothing,” Titus said. “I hear nothing. What is this thing you say has happened?” He was angry now, himself unsure why he had stopped everything.

Kaia reached up and touched her neck. “You may strike here with your sharpest blade if I am wrong. It has already happened.” She pointed to the arena. “He knows.”

The emperor signaled for Falco to be brought forward. Two soldiers ran out and grabbed his arms, dragging him to his feet and across the sand. He hung limply in their arms. The crowd noticed and began signaling, thumbs up or down, what they desired. The majority were in the down position, the years of entertainment Falco had provided forgotten in the desire to see more blood.

“Gladiator, why did you stop fighting?” Titus demanded.

Falco’s head came up, his eyes filled with tears. “Pompeii is gone. Vesuvius has erupted. They are all dead. All dead.

The murmuring in the crowd grew louder, as those who heard spread the word around the stands.

“How do you know this?” Titus was on his feet.

“My children were there. I felt them die.”

Titus laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it. “I am growing tired of seers and those who see what has happened far away. He raised his hand, and his thumb was extended downward.

At that moment, a deep rumble cause the entire arena to quake. Titus had to grab the arm of his chair for a second to steady himself. On the north side of the stands, people were pointing. Looking in that direction, they could all see the plume of smoke on the far horizon.

Titus turned for the tunnel that led out of the imperial box. “Bring her,” he jabbed a finger at Kaia.

“We need him also,” Kaia was pointing toward the arena, where one of the soldiers had drawn his sword in preparation for killing Falco. “Immediately,” Titus ordered Thyestes.

Falco had washed his eyes with water, and he could see, but his vision was still blurry. It was good enough, though, for him to note that he was in the reception hall of the emperor’s Imperial Palace. The strange woman was in front of the emperor’s throne, and the escort shoved Falco to the front to join them. As he went forward, he noted Cassius, Epione, and Senator Domidicus along with other notables off to the side, among the various statues of the Caesars. In the arena, Thyestes had stopped the soldier just as the steel was ready to slice across his neck. Falco had felt the coldness of the blade, and he even had a scratch where the razor-sharp edge had rested. He’d wanted the relief of nothingness, of not feeling pain, but it was not yet to be.

“We have received no messenger from Pompeii yet,” Titus said.

“You will receive none, Emperor,” the woman said. “The city is destroyed. Everyone is dead.”

“How do you know?” Titus demanded.

“I could feel them die,” the woman said, which made Falco blink several times to try to get a better view of her.

“And you say this is caused by a Shadow outside the borders of the empire?” Titus asked.

“Yes, Emperor,” she replied. “And it will get worse. This was only the beginning.”

And you, Falco?” the emperor asked. “What did you feel?”

“My children die,” Falco said. He did not address the emperor properly and could care less.

The emperor looked past him. “Epione. Were his children in Pompeii?”

Epione stepped forward, for once looking small. “Yes, Emperor. At my brother’s estate, Porta Vintus, on the slopes of the mountain itself.”

The emperor waved a hand. “Everyone out except these three.”

There was the shuffling of feet on tile, then the large doors swung shut. Titus sat down and placed his elbow on his knee, his chin on his fist as he regarded Kaia.

“How can this Shadow do this?”

“I do not know.”

Titus frowned. “What can I do about it?”

“You can aid me. I will travel to the Shadow.”

“You can defeat it?” Titus asked.

“Yes. It is my destiny.”

Falco heard her confident words, but he could sense the uncertainty inside her.

“How?” Titus asked.

“That is not clear yet. The gods will show me when it is time.”

“The gods.” Titus tapped his staff on the arm of this throne for several moments. “What do you need from me?”

She turned and pointed at Falco. “Him. And soldiers to help me on my journey to the Shadow.”

Titus stood once more. He looked down at the woman. “Let me discuss with my advisor.”

They were escorted out of the room.

“Who are you?” Falco asked the woman once they were in the antechamber.

“My name is Kaia.”

“You helped me in the arena.”

“I helped you help yourself,” she said. “You have the same power I do.”

“And what is that power?” Falco asked.

“To see into the hearts and minds of others. And to hear the voices of the gods.”

“There are no gods.”

“Not as worshipped here in Rome, there aren’t,” she agreed. “But you have heard their voices, haven’t you?”

“If there are gods,” Falco argued, instead of answering, “why do we suffer so?”

Kaia didn’t respond right away. When she did, her voice was very low, so that only he could hear. “You wish to die. We all will die, gladiator. Your time is not now. To die like an animal led to slaughter in the arena is no fitting death of a soldier.”

“Death is death,” Falco said. “You cheated me of mine.

“Then I owe you your death,” Kaia said. “Trust me, I will repay you.”

Titus grabbed a goblet and downed the wine in one long swallow. Then he faced Thyestes as his senior advisor came in.

“An imperial galley landed at Ostia, and a messenger just arrived from there,” Thyestes said. “They report seeing smoke and flame on Vesuvius.”

“So it’s true?”

“I would say so, Emperor.”

“Recommendations on how to deal with this problem?”

“Every problem is an opportunity if looked at correctly,” Thyestes said.

“Speak clearly,” Titus snapped, tired of the Greek’s way with words.

“She wants Falco. Let her have him. This will placate Domidicus. She wants troops. Give her the XXV Legion.”

Titus smiled. The XXV was a legion formed by the rebel Vitellius, who had briefly held the emperorship before Vespasian established the Flavian line. Vespasian had sent the legion to the Regnum Dacae, at the very northeast part of the empire, to face the barbarians out of Asia and to keep it as far away from Rome as possible. Despite Vitellius’s assassination, the XXV Legion was a potential source of trouble.

“And,” Thyestes continued, “give command of the legion to one of your best officers: Lucius Cassius.”

“Very good,” Titus acknowledged. Killing three birds with one stone: the XXV, Cassius, and Falco. “Order them to come in.”

He took another drink of wine as Falco, Cassius, and Kaia were brought in and lined up in front of his throne.

“General Lucius Cassius, your emperor has need of your services.”

Cassius nodded. “Whatever my emperor commands is my duty.”

Titus shifted his gaze to Falco. “Gladiator, you are ordered returned to the army at your former rank of Centurion. You will accompany General Cassius.”

There was no response from Falco, but Titus didn’t care as he turned back to Cassius.

“General, you are hereby directed to use imperial transport to travel to Regnum Dacae and take command of the XXV Legion. You will lead the legion northeast, into Regnum Bospous in search of this Shadow. You will then destroy the Shadow.”

“And then, Emperor?” Cassius asked.

“You are to depart immediately via imperial dispatch to Brundisium. I will give you orders to be opened once you complete your journey.”