Part 31 (1/2)

They moved in a single line now, holding their weapons instead of each other. He had not spoken to her of his heart. How could he? But his eyes and his lips had said much. She would refuse to be his mistress, but he knew that. She followed him through the streets, which had grown quieter since they came this way. Cyrus came behind.

The lightning continued. Would it ever stop? Night had fallen, and with the walls of houses blocking the view of the mountain and the darkness obscuring the sky, one could almost forget the horror that overshadowed them. But those flashes of terror-each one screamed the truth.

Deliver us, Hashem.

The name of the Lord is a strong tower, the righteous run into it and are safe.

Words from childhood. Were they still so much a part of her? What kind of Jew called on the Creator only in times of distress?

Most of them.

This was truth, and the history of her people. And yet, did He not deliver, again and again?

She struggled to keep up, her breath coming in short gasps, but her mind fixed elsewhere.

Yes, Hashem was sovereign over the affairs of men, whether her rebellious spirit chose to acknowledge it or not. Refusing to bow her knee, raising her fist, these actions did nothing to put her in control, did they? She could accept His sovereignty, or she could deny it. Either way, Hashem still ruled. Extending blessing and allowing evil, and who could fathom the mind of the Creator?

True, her life had been mostly evil of late. But still, there was good. Micah had been returned to her. She had found Quintus.

Quintus. She had called him by his praenomen earlier, and he had not reacted. It had come naturally, for in her heart, she had called him such since the first time she learned his name.

Another flash illuminated the ash-clogged street. With the crowds dispersed, the light revealed a scattering of dead bodies, lying where they had been struck down. Some lay abandoned, others cradled in the arms of their loved ones. They pa.s.sed a young girl, clutching an older man to her chest. She rocked and wailed, insensible to danger. Ariella's heart wrenched. But they must move on.

The sight of such tragedy might have crushed the spirit of another, but Ariella found that the will to fight, the flaming heart of a warrior she had claimed in the arena, rose up within her with a strength she had never known. She clutched her dagger securely, her heart pounding and palms slick with the familiar antic.i.p.ation of battle.

Invincible, no. But a warrior for Hashem. Would He accept her, after all she had done to refuse Him? There was only one way to be accepted, she saw that now. The once-for-all atonement of Yeshua's sacrifice, applied to her.

They pa.s.sed an open doorway, and her right leg dislodged gravel, slipping down into the entrance. Cyrus grabbed her from behind and lifted her back to the loose upper level of stones. They marched on.

The strange smell that had drifted through the city strengthened. Sulfur. The smell of fire . . . of the underworld.

Halfway to the prison, a wrenching crash sounded to their left. They paused, listening. Another quake?

Quintus turned, his eyes dark. ”The roofs are collapsing. They cannot hold the weight.”

Ariella closed her eyes. The sound was horrific. The sound of a city dying. The streets had emptied. Where were the people? Had they escaped out of the town, or did they huddle in their homes, believing they were safe, while the gray world crashed down on their heads?

Cyrus prodded her from behind. ”We can do nothing for them.”

They reached the Forum at last. Ariella called on the fight within, readied her mind for the battle. In the darkness it was impossible to see how many guards remained at the entrance to the underground prison.

They fought their way across, still a single line, a feeble front with no rear guard. The mountain drew her irresistibly, and she paused to stare at the orange flames at its peak, a grotesque and colossal torch, lighting up the trunk of ash and rock. In the ash-covered world, the flaming mountain seemed the only thing that lived. How was it possible that after all these hours, it still disgorged itself into the sky?

Forget the mountain. Think only of the battle.

But when they reached the prison steps, they found only a slight depression in the gravel where the entrance had been. No guards blocked them. Only stone.

She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her sword-hand. ”They heeded your advice.” The guards had fled, and left the prisoners buried alive.

Beside her, Cyrus yanked a handle sticking up from the ash. A shovel. He set to work immediately.

Ariella tossed her weapon aside and used her feet to kick the gravel away from the opening as he dug. Quintus did the same.

The mountain blazed, rocks landed around them, and an urgency fell upon them all. They worked in silence, clearing the entrance bit by frustrating bit. When they had opened a narrow channel, enough to squeeze through, she and Quintus took up their weapons once more and pushed through. Cyrus remained above, in case of a cave-in.

Singing.

They heard singing as they descended. Ariella's heart swelled with the melody.

”Portia?” Quintus called into the gloom. ”Seneca?” He grabbed a torch from a wall socket, still burning even in the sealed-off tomb.

The singing ceased, a beat of silence followed, then the sound of a crowd scrambling to its feet, hurrying to cell doors.

”Cato?” Seneca's voice was strong, confident.

They moved toward the voice. A hand stretched through the small opening in the door.

”We will get you out.”

They had prepared themselves for a battle with the guards. The cell doors fell before them easily. Ariella hacked at the wooden bars with her swords and Quintus kicked at others. The prisoners, innocent and guilty alike, tumbled from cells, chattering and embracing each other and their rescuers.

Ariella fell into Europa's embrace, patted Jeremiah's aging cheek. But above their heads, she watched Quintus as he searched for his sister.

”Portia?” He clutched at various prisoners in turn. ”Portia of the Catonii? Where is she?”

It was Europa who gave the answer, her hand gentle on his arm. ”He came hours ago, when we first arrived. He took her with him.”

Quintus stared down at her, uncomprehending.

”Nigidius Maius. We were placed here on his orders. After the disaster came, he visited the prison. He seemed fearful that you would come for her, so he told the guards he was removing her to his private cells, in his villa.”

Ariella's arms trembled with fear and fury. It had taken so long to reach the prison. Could they ever hope to rescue Portia from the estate outside the town? A house that lay in the direct path of the spewing mountain? She met Quintus's eyes, tried to convey her sorrow.

His own eyes had gone cold. He gripped Seneca. ”Take your family and get out of the city. The roofs are collapsing and I believe the mountain has more death to rain upon us. There is nowhere safe.”

Seneca wrapped an arm around Flora and said nothing. Ariella could read his heart. How could Flora make such a journey? She clutched Europa's hand. ”You must find a way. Please. We will meet you south, beyond the city gate.”

Europa looked to her husband. Would they leave? She could not be sure.

Quintus was pus.h.i.+ng the freed prisoners up through the opening they had cleared. He yelled encouragement to move forward. Many of them must have found the prison a safe refuge compared to the falling sky. But it would not remain so.

Above ground, she fought her way to his side. ”Can we make it?”

”To the Stabian Gate?”

She touched his face. ”To Portia.”