Page 20 of Vesuvius

For the first time, Loren wished he was mad. He wished his nightmares were the product of a snapped mind, the way his parents wrote them off. He didn’t want Felix to be the catalyst of the end. He didn’t want the burden of uncovering the helmet’s secrets.

Except, he realised with a twist, he’d asked for exactly that. Only hours ago, he had longed for an opportunity to prove himself. This was it, and he wouldn’t miss his chance.

‘No. I want your word that once you leave Pompeii,’ Loren said, ‘you won’t ever return.’

A long, claustrophobic silence passed before Felix finally spat, ‘Fine by me.’

Four days. Loren only had to survive four terrible days. But when he turned from the trunk to find Felix’s back to him, his eyes caught on a stitched arm and bandaged calves, and how slanted afternoon light cast copper hair in red and gold, fire on a hillside, and Loren thought—

Easier said than done.

Chapter V

FELIX

Four days. Felix didn’t have four days to sit still. Staying still screamed danger. Staying still meant a quick end to an already short life. Whatever protection Loren thought he could offer was nonsense. Felix trusted no one but himself to evade capture and escape Pompeii alive.

Naturally, the first thing he did when Loren left, muttering about returning to the temple to start his search, was break his promise and pick the lock.

The helmet greeted him from the crushing dark of the trunk. Shiny silver gleamed with the possibility of wine, bread, a horse, even, if Felix wanted. Oh, Felix wanted. Recognition tugged anew when he lifted the helmet out, that uncanny magnetic pull. Like the helmet wanted him in kind.

Loren was a fool for believing Felix would stay. Warnings about superstitious Pompeiians and whips aside, he’d only needed Loren to lower his guard long enough to offer an opening. The rest Felix could handle on his own. Helmet tucked in the laundry bag slung over his shoulder, he unpicked the locked door and stepped out.

And nearly tripped over the dark-eyed brothel boy. Elias sat on the tiny landing, blocking the stairs. He gazed up through his lashes, saccharine and venomous.

‘Fox was only a nickname,’ said Elias. ‘But you’re crafty when cornered, aren’t you?’

‘I bite, too.’

‘Another word for whore islupa.Wolf. Shall we trade teeth?’ Elias grinned. ‘Loren said he’s keeping you out of trouble, but I think youarethe trouble. That’s something he can’t resist. Usually to the detriment of everyone around him.’

‘So move. Trust me, I’m not trying to stick around.’

Elias rose, if only to use the rest of his body as a barrier. ‘Tell you what. Come drink with me first. Play a game.’

Felix sized him up. Elias was pretty, he’d give him that, but debauched. Short, with a head of loose brown curls, round cheeks, and charcoal-smudged eyes, he resembled a devious cherub. ‘You don’t interest me.’

‘Wasn’t offering, but I bet I can figure out what does interest you. Give me an hour of your time, and after, I won’t stop you from leaving.’ Elias turned to head downstairs, then shot a glance backwards. ‘Leave the helmet. When this explodes in your face, I’d rather not witness it.’

‘How—’

‘I told you, Loren can’t resist trouble. The same day the helmet goes missing, he decides to hide a stranger in his room?’ Elias arched a brow. ‘Or we could skip the drink and I’ll fetch the guards now. Gods know I need the reward money. Up to you.’

He flounced away, curls bouncing.

Felix knew Elias would do it. Prostitutes loved city guards as much as thieves did, but Elias seemed the sort to compromise his anti-authoritarian principles over a slight.

Felix left the brothel frustrated and empty-handed, tying his headscarf as they walked. Alleys grew grim around them. Every city had a seedy underbelly, and Elias was leading Felix to the pit of Pompeii’s. A few more turns, and an unseemly building loomed ahead, stinkingof liquor. Disguised as a bar, only an engraving of dice in the door’s keystone indicated it offered more than drink. The rattle of tin cups and tossed stones echoed to the street.

Elias beckoned Felix inside.

For such an early hour, the place was packed. The bar advertised wine but doled out beer, the vice of the truly plebeian, and men drank deep from sour jars. Along the wall hung faded theatre masks, their exaggerated faces – comedy and sorrow – pulling strange shadows in the half-light. A frazzled barmaid wove between tables, topping off cups. No one gave Felix or his bloodied clothes a second glance.

At the counter, Elias batted his eyes for two beers, then herded Felix to the corner. Felix was no stranger to places like this, but usually in towns where the threat of execution wasn’t so heavy. He slid as far back as the sticky bench allowed, eyeing the crowd. One group caught Felix’s attention, men dressed in neat tunics, heads bent in hushed conversation. These men looked too expensive for such a foul place, but rich folks loved pretending to be poor – and intruding where they didn’t belong.

They reminded Felix of the statesman. Repressing a shiver, he tried to shut out the memory, but the statesman’s breathy murmur brushed through his mind –Once you remember what was taken from you . . .

Did everyone in Pompeii know something about Felix that he didn’t?

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