Page 134 of Vesuvius

‘Don’t grow sentimental on me now, Mamma.’

She glanced at her lap. ‘You haven’t called me that since you were young.’

‘Father told me it wasn’t proper to use diminutives once I outgrew boyhood.’

‘Well, I suppose he’s right.’ His mother looked at Loren straight on and, for a moment, he saw her as she’d been before Lucius Lassius stomped the laughter from them both. Their same brown eyes, same pinch of their identical mouth. ‘I’ll leave you to rest.’

She smoothed the rumpled bedding that was all that proved she’d been there at all, but at the door, she lingered. ‘Your friend. How long does he expect to stay?’

Loren tensed. ‘Is his presence a problem?’

As far as he knew, Felix was a model guest. Sparse, non-intrusive, practised at staying out of sight. When Felix wasn’t trailing Loren around the estate, he spent hours in the orchard on his own. Or he tucked himself away here, while Loren curled at the window seat. Sometimes Felix brought a scroll stolen from Lassius’s collection, asked Loren to read it aloud. Mostly they sat in silence.

‘He spends an awful lot of time with you,’ said his mother.

‘He’s my friend.’

‘Careful with your tone, Lorenus.’ She regarded him coolly. ‘I’m considering your best interests, and you know better than to dwell ona fantasy. Whoever this boy is, put him from your mind. This is your life. This is your family. Resentment will do you no favours, believe me.’

Sharp footsteps retreated down the hall.

Grapes undergo an interesting change when turned to wine, a point where rot morphs into fermentation and, later, a prized drink. Loren felt the rot within him, chest packed with sickly-sweet pulp. He felt bubbling fermentation, stretching his patience and splitting his seams. But he was a spoiled batch. When merchants would crack him open in years to come, they’d find a jug gone off. Pour him into the latrine.

Wasteful.

Lucius Lassius strode in without warning after lunch, bread and figs Loren had listlessly picked over. In his haste to scramble off his bed, he nearly snapped his other ankle. But his father didn’t spare a glance, crossing instead to gaze out at the vineyard. His favourite hobby, staring at what he owned.

‘Still in bed?’ Lassius said, clipped as ever. ‘All this land to call your own, and you waste away in here. In our last conversation before you ran off, you called my home a cage, but have you considered you imprison yourself?’

‘My leg hurts,’ Loren said.

Lassius tutted. ‘As does my back, but there is work to be done. More still with the destruction of our northern vineyards to sort out.’

Silence. That was all Loren could muster. His father, with his status and investments, had known about Pompeii’s ruination even before Felix dragged Loren home. Had Lassius spared a thought for his son living in Vesuvius’s shadow? Had he grieved, organised a search party, considered a body-less funeral?

Lassius faced him, arms clasped behind his back. ‘We have much to discuss. I need an estimate on your recovery. Gaius Lucretius wants this over with as soon as possible.’

‘Sorry,’ Loren said slowly. ‘Who?’

‘Did your mother not tell you? The engagement.’

The world tilted sideways. He gripped the headboard to stay upright. ‘Engagement?’

‘Surely this isn’t a surprise.’ Lassius met Loren’s horror with a measured stare. ‘You will be seventeen soon, long past the age I was when I married your mother. The contract is drawn. Gaius Lucretius’s daughter is suitable.’

It was too much. Fury swelled. He tried to hold it back, but he blurted, ‘Suitable? A girl I’ve never met and would have no interest in, besides? Then what? Have a baby, name him Lucius Lassius and carry on the family tradition of misery?’

‘Finding a match for you was difficult enough. Do not sink our family name lower.’

Loren breathed heavily. His father’s eyes tracked his every move, searching for an opening to strike. When Loren finally spoke, he gritted his teeth to keep his voice steady. ‘I’m sorry to be an inconvenience. I thought many men would be eager to marry a daughter into your family.’

‘They should. If you stayed here rather than gallivanting off, they would. The physician suspects you’ll walk with a limp the remainder of your life. As it is, you struggle to keep up mentally, not to mention your fits. The next time someone outsmarts you, how will you run away with a mangled leg?’

Under Loren’s splint, his ankle throbbed. ‘Felix keeps pace with me. Wherever we go.’

‘Where will you turn when he tires of you?’

Humiliation crept up Loren’s spine. ‘Contrary to what you and Mother think, I’m not entirely unlovable.’

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