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Prologue

Neapolis, Italy

August 24, AD 129

To Marcus, Marcellus, Claudia, and Livia, my beloved grandchildren. Greetings from your old grandmother, whom you have been pestering for years to “tell a story about your childhood.” And so I have told you stories of my youth in Pompeii, a city that is no more. As my years continue to roll past, I have decided to write my story for you, as you do not know the full tale of the catastrophe that destroyed my childhood home. My story starts as I was spinning wool in a small room in the home of Julia Livius who owned me. For I was a slave in her house…

Chapter 1

Pompeii, Italy

August 24, 79 AD

11:05 AM

 “Arcilla!  Ar-ci-llllaaa!!” 

My mistress’s voice pierced the wall like one of the arrows the god Cupid carries. Except Cupid’s arrows carry love, and little love is lost between the woman who owned me and myself.  I was actually surprised that she had called me by my name.

My name, Arcilla, comes from the word that means “clay,” for my hair is as red as pottery clay and my skin is as pale as white clay. My owner preferred calling me Ancilla. Ancilla means servant, handmaiden…slave. And she loved to remind me that I am her slave.

The woman had the most powerful voice. I once heard the master say that the Roman army should use her voice as a weapon. But he said it softly (so that only I heard it). I think even Marcellus Livius, wealthy Roman merchant, was a little afraid of his wife, Julia Livius.

“Arcilla! Where is that lazy slave?” 

This time the mistress’s voice came from the triclinium, the dining room next to the garden. I sat spinning wool in a small room, a cubiculum, off the garden. I was pretending not to hear her. Pretending not to hear her was a small rebellion that I allowed myself.

This time I put down my spindle and headed in the direction of that terrible voice. If she was coming to find me herself instead of sending one of the other slaves, it was something serious.

Or I was in serious trouble. Again.

It was one thing to delay a minute in responding to the woman who owned me. It was quite another to incur her anger. I definitely didn’t wish to incur her anger.

“Yes, mistress.” 

I hurried outside the cubiculum so that she found me coming to her command, indeed rushing to obey her.

“Where is my husband?” Julia Livius said, looking wildly into the room behind me, as if Marcellus Livius would be found spinning wool. 

I stared at her in astonishment. My mistress was always bossy, often irritable, and sometimes cruel. But I had never before seen her nervous.

Julia Livius grabbed my arm. I flinched, expecting a blow across my ear. The blow didn’t fall. 

“Tell me, child. Where is he?”

“I—I believe the master went to the baths,” I stammered.

How could his wife not know this? The master went to the Forum Baths every day. All Roman men of importance and wealth did. My master went earlier than other men—after spending the morning doing his business in his office at the front of the house. I privately thought he left early to get away from his wife.

“The baths? Of course. Come with me, child.” 

Still clutching my arm in her strong grip, Julia Livius pulled me along behind her. I looked rather desperately at Sulla, the old cook who came out of the storage room at the sound of the mistress’ voice. Sulla was holding a string of white onions in her hands.

The old slave looked at me with sympathy. She was my best friend in the Livius household. Because of her years (and because she was the best cook in Pompeii and thus a most valuable slave), now and then she interceded on my behalf. I was often in trouble, and she could sometimes soften the punishment.

This time, she did not even try to speak to the mistress. It was clear that whatever I had done, I was in real trouble. I could not think of any transgression.

The home of Marcellus Livius in Pompeii was large and elegant. It was a long march from the spinning room at the back of the house through the peristyle garden to the entrance hall at the front of the house.

The mistress kept a powerful grip on my arm the whole distance. And, forgetting to glide gracefully as befitted the wife of a wealthy man, she strode through the house quite as briskly as one of us servant women. We had no time for grace and beauty.

I glanced over at my mistress. Julia Livius was beautiful, I supposed. People were always telling her that she was. She enjoyed believing them. She wore a chiton, a gown that fell gracefully from her shoulders to her delicate sandals. I had clasped the six silver brooches that fastened the silk cloth over her smooth shoulders this morning and had crisscrossed the belt under her breasts.

This morning she had once again taunted me that she had a secret treasure. It was much nicer than any gifts her husband had given her, such as these beautiful brooches. This treasure was hidden away somewhere, safe from thieving eyes.

She often talked of the treasure, but no one in the household had ever seen it. She said that I would never see it. She liked to hint that I was a thief (which I am not), but it gives her pleasure to suggest that I am.

I had lightly nicked her skin with a brooch pin this morning. She slapped me soundly. I had trouble seeing her beauty when my eyes were so often filled with unshed tears from her slaps.

Yet, in my heart of hearts, I admitted that I had nicked her purposely.

My mistress marched me to the vestibulum, the entrance hall with the front door that opened directly to the street. The vestibulum was a small pretty room with lovely mosaics on the floor in the form of sea creatures. There was a ferocious-looking octopus with its arms looped around a lobster. My favorite was a comical-looking codfish in the corner. 

I thought they were the prettiest mosaics on any floor in the entire city. I had watched my best friend Marcus lay the mosaics on that floor.

In the vestibulum, my mistress let go of my arm. I did not rub it, although it hurt. I made a point of never letting her see when she hurt me.

“Go to the baths,” she said, nervously. “Bring back my husband with you.”

“Yes, mistress.” I looked at her with curiosity, because she rarely let me leave the house alone. She preferred sending one of the other slaves. I think she was afraid I’d run away.

A man rose from a chair in the tablinum, the master’s office, crossed the atrium in a few strides, and entered the entrance hall.

I shivered. This was Narma, a priest in the temple of Isis. While the Egyptian goddess Isis was considered compassionate and maternal, there was something scary about this priest.

“Why has the girl not left? Send her,” he rumbled. He looked at me from under his shaved head with his dark, piercing eyes.

“Yes, Narma,” my mistress answered, humbly. She turned to me. “Go now.”

“What shall I tell the master?” I asked. It was very unusual for his wife to send for him from the baths. Since many Roman men spent every afternoon in the public baths, they did not expect their wives to summon them.

The priest frowned, no doubt at my boldness in asking that question. But something had so upset my mistress that she did not seem to notice my impudence.

“I—I don’t know. Tell him…” she pulled herself together. “Tell my lord that his wife requests his—his counsel. Something of great importance has happened.”

Completely forgetting herself, my mistress leaned close, grabbed my hand, and said in a hoarse whisper, “The entrails of the dove that Priest Narma sacrificed at my request showed that horrible things are going to happen to this house and family. Horrible disaster.”

She dropped her voice even more, “Catastrophe. Tragedy. Death.”

A cold finger touched my spine as I stared into her frightened eyes.

“I shall go quickly, mistress,” I said softly.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Good girl. Do hurry.”

I pulled open the wooden doors and stepped from the vestibulum onto the hot stones of the sidewalk. As I tugged to close the heavy doors, I caught a glimpse of the priest’s haughty face.

There was a look of triumph about him.