Chapter 2

CHAPTER 12 AUGUST 23, AD 79 THE AFTERNOON BEFORE MAIN STREET, POMPEII Marcus walked along the dusty main street of Pompeii, carrying a smelly sack stuffed with his master's dirty laundry. It was early afternoon, and the street was packed with people — shoppers sifting through bins of pomegranates and melons, weary slaves collecting water from the fountains, beggars holding out their grimy hands. A snake charmer dozed while his cobra peeked out of its basket, tasting the air with its flicking tongue.

"Salve," Marcus said, a friendly Latin hello for the deadly reptile. If only he had a basket to hide in right now. There were no good days for Marcus lately, but this day was sure to be more miserable than usual. It was broiling hot and his ragged tunic was soaked in sweat. Even worse, his master, Festus Julius, was expecting important guests from Rome this evening, friends of the emperor. This meant even more backbreaking work than usual for Marcus and the other slaves. For days they'd been scrubbing the villa so that the mosaic floors shined like diamonds, so that every silver bowl and goblet gleamed. The guests would arrive by chariot — men in flowing white togas, women in silk robes and with painted red lips, jewels flashing from every finger. Tonight there would be a great feast of roasted flamingo and wild boar, honey-baked mice stuffed with raisins and dates, and lobsters as big as cats. The guests would lounge on silken couches and gorge themselves until they threw up… and then, their stomachs empty, they would eat more.

Tomorrow, Festus would take them all to the gladiator fight at Pompeii's amphitheater. From front-row seats, they would cheer as the warriors tried to stab one another to death with swords, spears, and daggers. People were coming from all over to see the spectacle, which featured Pompeii's champion fighter. He was a giant of a man, who had lost an eye in one of his early battles. The injury had earned him the fighting name of Cyclops, after the one-eyed monster from the old Greek tales. Like almost all gladiators, Cyclops was a slave who was forced to fight. But he was one of the lucky few — still alive after many battles. Just thinking about these brutal tournaments horrified Marcus. Suddenly his whole body was shaking. But wait, it wasn't Marcus who was trembling. It was the earth beneath his feet! Marcus dropped his sack and braced himself against a stone fountain. A huge marble statue of the warrior Achilles looked down on him. Marcus wished he felt as brave as Achilles!

But these tremors spooked him. For weeks they'd been shaking the city, putting cracks in the walls of Festus's villa, sending his spoiled dogs into fits of howling. Usually the quakes were quick, ending in just a few seconds. Most people seemed to barely notice them. But this quake was more powerful than most. The ground shuddered and shook, harder and harder. Up and down the street, the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood and crumbling stone pounded Marcus's ears. Crash! Crack! Bang! Vendors cursed as their baskets of fruit and vegetables toppled. A bamboo birdcage fell and burst open, scattering a flock of tiny white birds into the dusty air. Barrels rolled wildly through the streets, gushing wine as red as blood. Marcus held tight to the fountain as the water inside it sloshed, splashing over the rim and soaking his tunic.

And then he heard it, a creaking just over his head. Marcus looked up just as the massive marble statue of Achilles came crashing down on top of him.