Page 8 of Vesuvius

‘Perhaps,’ said Sera and Shani together.

‘Perhaps?’ said Camilia.

The four exchanged a glance, and Loren ached at the way he sat apart.

For the second time that morning, the Priest pointed at Loren. ‘Child, fetch water. Return quickly. Time is wasting.’

Loren scrambled up. ‘What are we doing?’

‘Don’t speak unless spoken to,’ Sera added, waving him off. ‘Gods, youths are so mouthy these days.’

Loren didn’t fetch water. At least, not right away.

Frustration followed him from the temple to the market street. Even hopping across the series of knee-high stones to the other side of the road did nothing to improve his temper, even though it was an activity that had once charmed him as a new arrival to the bustling city, four years prior.

Part of growing older, he’d found, was that everything lost its shine. For a dreamer, that realisation didn’t bode well.

Only Nonna calling his name from further up the street jolted him from his sour mood, though Loren mostly credited that to the sweet roll she slipped him. Honey melted on his tongue, chasing away bitter anxiety.

‘My sweet Loren,’ Nonna said when he kissed her brown, dough-soft cheek. ‘What have I told you about wearing a scowl so deep? Those lines follow you to your deathbed.’

Grandmother to the city in all but blood, Nonna kept her collection of strays well-fed. She gave so much away, Loren didn’t understand how she kept her bakery afloat. But he ran errands for her, so he reckoned that made them even.

He swiped another roll for his pocket. ‘Are you all right after the quake?’

She flapped a dismissive hand and returned to scoring lines on dough. ‘I only pray it rattled sense into the council. Taxes here, taxes there, and more to come, I fear, though it is never the council who pays the price.’

‘They voted down the proposal to raise rates last week. Umbrius said—’

Nonna scoffed. ‘Umbrius is a man of many words and little substance. Gods only know why you wish to join him. Chew with your mouth closed, sparrow, and go. Nonna’s turn to be busy.’

Easy as that, his storm clouds returned. Loren knew her words carried no heat, but her jab at his political ambitions stung worse than usual. Why should the council welcome Loren when he wasn’t privy to his own temple’s plans? Even when he knew more about the thief than anyone?Errand boy.

For good measure, he crammed a third roll in his mouth, fleeing before her scolding could catch him. Hoisting the water jug on his hip, he set off up the Via Stabiana in search of a functioning spout.

Red and yellow awnings hung vibrant in the sun. Merchants displayed their wares: plates and spoons, sandals and boots, silks and linens. Mountains of autumn pomegranates teetered, piles of fresh sardines sweated. Fragrant spiced nuts simmered in a wine-filled vat, and the seller hawked out prices that changed by the moment. A donkey-drawn cart trundled past, wheels creaking in cobblestone grooves.

Even the quake hadn’t managed to do more than shake the surface. At her core, the city was built to carry on.

Familiar sounds and smells enveloped Loren, but he couldn’t relax into them. Not when the catalyst for his city’s destruction lay unconscious by his own hand.

He passed two fountains, but a quake that summer had knocked one dry, and the other had a line around the block. Sighing, he pressed on until the hum of the merchant district quieted and the hush made him itch. At the far end of the Via Stabiana, by the city’s northernmost gate, he could have been the only soul awake. A water tower gurgled away in the shade of the city wall. Cool water thundered into the clay jug, splattering Loren’s temple robes, but he paid the mess no mind. His gaze had snared on the open gate and the countryside beyond.

Pompeii was everything. Pompeii held all Loren’s desires his parents spent his childhood stomping out. Pompeii was opportunity. Freedom. Ambition.

So why did Loren feel so trapped?

Corking the jug, Loren propped it against the spout, then – just to prove he could – strode through the gate and into the long shadow of Vesuvius.

The mountain dominated the horizon, sharp and steep as the fang of some wild animal, but it wasn’t half so vicious. It stood watch over the city, an old sentry. The road snaked towards it through low hills. Herculaneum, Pompeii’s sister town, lay beyond. Further northwest was their capital, Rome. But breathing didn’t come easier out here.

Anyone else – anyone smarter, more selfish – would have left Pompeii after the first dream of its destruction. After Loren woke, gasping for breath, with the truth buzzing in his head: that the city was doomed. Cleaner to cut one’s losses, escape before it became clear no one would ever take his visions seriously.

His parents had words for him: delusional. Stubborn. Filled with hubris, the same pride that dogged Odysseus and Icarus and all other heroes of misfortune.

Loren called it hope. He had to believe fate could be changed. He had to believe that the bloodied boy who stumbled into the temple – the living counterpart of the nightmarish ghost who caused the destruction – was Loren’s answer to stopping Pompeii’s calamity.

‘There are closer fountains in town,’ said a girl’s voice from behind with a dismissive sniff. ‘I passed four.’

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