Page 87 of Vesuvius

‘The real son of Lassius doesn’t want to be found. Wouldn’t stroll onto his father’s field midday and announce himself, would he?’ With a snap of the reins, the cart creaked back down the mountain. Over his shoulder, Stravo called, ‘Rest easy. I won’t tell Adolphus more than he knows.’

Loren gave him a moment’s head start before he tripped along the path after him. ‘Wait!’

Stravo shot him a bemused look when he drew even. ‘So, the assistant can speak.’

‘How many of you are there? Workers, I mean.’

‘Slaves,’ Stravo corrected.

Discomfort clenched Loren’s belly. ‘Slaves.’

‘Twenty or thirty, counting the women in the house.’ Stravo shifted his shoulders. He was broad and strong from years in the field, skin toasted red by the sun. He might be from one of Rome’s upper provinces, Gaul, perhaps, or further north to Londinium. Either way, he didn’t belong here. None of them did.

Loren had little power when it came to his father. But this he could do.

‘Gather them. As many as will go. Leave tonight.’

‘Orders from an assistant?’

‘Tell Adolphus you were released on good authority.’ Loren levelled Stravo’s scepticism. ‘By order of Lassius’s son. And if Adolphus resists, remember he is only one man.’

Stravo hesitated. For a moment, Loren feared he would laugh him off. But he nodded, a single motion. Reins cracked. The cart rumbled on.

Loren was left in the dust, hoping he hadn’t done more harm than good.

Slowly, he trudged back to Felix, whose expression was unreadable.

‘Until you started speaking,’ Felix said, ‘I thought you were begging a ride back. You’re a bit unpredictable.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’ Felix tilted his head. ‘Though I think I’ve figured you out. If someone set a fire, I would run away. But you live by your heart. You would run towards it.’

‘Yet you followed me here.’

Felix’s mouth twitched. ‘Someone has to make sure you don’t get burned.’

Warmth spilled across Loren’s face, but he forced his mind back on track.

Even if Stravo hadn’t taken them all the way, he’d easily cut their journey by half. The air was thinner, and when Loren breathed in deep, his lungs came up short. He was made for the balmy coastal breeze, not sheer mountain wind. And the heat. Stravo may have spared them a long walk under the sun, but the mountainside boiled, assailing from all directions. Steam curled from the ground. Thick silence settled, not a birdcall to break it.

‘The stink is worse,’ Felix said, reading Loren’s wrinkled nose.

‘It’s no perfume.’

‘We could turn around. Go back. I don’t know what you expected to find, but there’s nothing here.’

The suggestion shouldn’t have been so tempting. But Loren rejected it. He had what he wanted, the peak of Vesuvius in his grasp, where his dreams had led him all along. Answers lived there, and Felix confiding his fears only made Loren more determined to demand them. He would solve the mystery of the helmet for the city.

And for Felix.

‘No.’ Loren pursed his lips. ‘But we haven’t reached the top.’

In truth, Loren had no idea what he thought to find on the crest of Vesuvius. He was certain it would reveal itself once he arrived. All the pieces would click into place, turning the right key in a lock. The answer would present itself.

Until he stared into the depressed crater of the mountain – a desolate valley of hissing steam and gravel, bulging in the middle, like something was trapped inside and trying to break free – and he realised he had no clue what he was doing.

‘My feet are on fire,’ Felix grumbled. Sweat trickled from his hairline into reddened eyes. Loren could empathise. He, too, felt like bones set to boil. ‘So, we’re here. Now what?’

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