Cover

  Title Page

  Code Page

  Hystorian File

  Ashes to Ashes

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

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  Hystorian File #0079040014

  In the early years of the Roman Empire, Pompeii was a thriving town in what is now known as Italy. Unfortunately for its people, the town was built at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, an active volcano.

  They didn’t know. They thought it was simply a mountain. In 79 AD, they learned just how wrong they were.

  MARCUS TOOK a moment to stare up at Mount Vesuvius, which loomed over the city of Pompeii. The mountain was as much a part of the bustling city as its buildings and the ground on which it was built.

  Marcus wiped his brow. It was a warm, late-summer morning. His parents had sent him out early on an errand to the Temple of Apollo — bringing vegetables and a bottle of wine as alms, along with an offer to help in the rebuilding. (It was Marcus’s help they were offering, of course.) The temple had been decimated in an earthquake seventeen years ago, before Marcus was even born. The repairs still weren’t finished. In Marcus’s opinion, it looked like they’d barely started.

  Marcus’s parents were devout followers of Apollo, the god of healing, foresight, and protection from evil. There were some who even said the priests of Apollo could predict misfortune before it happened, a claim that his father took seriously. Marcus wasn’t sure he believed in all that, but he did like the stories of the great god riding through the sky on a chariot, favoring the kind and shooting down evildoers with golden arrows.

  A loud baritone voice sounded behind him, breaking the peace of the morning. “You’re up early, Marcus. If you don’t get enough sleep, you’re never going to grow any taller, you know.”

  Speaking of evildoers. Marcus let out a loud, tragic sigh, worthy of the city amphitheater. “Just my luck you’d be up at this hour, Julius.”

  Marcus turned to face the other boy. Julius and Marcus were the same age — they’d been born only a week apart, in fact. But Julius was already seven fingers taller, at least. Broader, too. And handsomer and better born. The list went on, and Julius was often all too happy to recite it.

  “It’s too early in the day to be grumpy, friend,” Julius said as he approached. He tousled Marcus’s dark, curly hair in a patronizing way.

  “I was in a perfectly good mood, until I ran into this loudmouth I know.”

  Julius feigned searching around. “I don’t see anyone matching that description here. Lucky us; he must have left. Where are you headed, Little Warrior?”

  Little Warrior was Julius’s nickname for Marcus, due to the fact that he was named after Mars, the god of war.

  “The Temple of Apollo,” Marcus said, pointing to the parcel slung over his shoulder.

  Julius quirked an eyebrow. “On the day after the Vulcanalia?” he said.

  The Vulcanalia was a yearly festival held to appease the god of fire and volcanoes. It had gained popularity since much of Rome had burned down fifteen years ago. In some parts of the Empire, they threw live fish and rodents into a blazing fire, so the animals would be consumed instead of people. In Rome, Marcus heard they used whole cows. Apparently, they had cows to waste in Rome.

  Marcus just shrugged at the question. “Different day, different gods to please.”

  “How about I go with you?” Julius suggested. “The city isn’t always safe in the early morning.”

  Marcus bristled. “I’ve made the walk plenty of times and never been bothered.”

  “Must be your imposing stature,” Julius said casually. “Do me the favor. I’m restless this morning.”

  Marcus sighed again, but not quite as loudly this time. “If you must.”

  The walk to the temple was quiet, except for Julius’s friendly chatter. They traveled westward along the Decumanus Maximus toward the forum, the city’s main square. Along the way, they passed several large private homes, smaller public fountains, and a few shops. This included the local wineshop, Vesuvinum, which combined the words Vesuvius and vinum, or “wine.” The owner, a man named Tullius, thought it was the cleverest pun in all the Empire.

  When they finally made it to the forum, they headed straight toward the temple. Though it was early, guards were posted throughout the square, and several noble-looking men wandered the area in red-brown tunics, thinking important thoughts, no doubt.

  “What are you doing up this early, anyway?” Marcus asked as the temple came into view. It was less a temple these days and more a ruin. Worship of Apollo was held in the forum, within view of what columns still stood.

  “As I said, I’m restless this morning,” Julius said. “I’m not sure why.”

  “So you’re taking it out on me.”

  “Naturally,” Julius said, reaching to muss up Marcus’s hair again. Marcus swatted his hand away.

  The two boys arrived at the temple to find it strangely well occupied for the hour. Marcus had expected to just leave the parcel in an offering box, but two priests of Apollo stood within the ruins, talking together.

  As they approached, Marcus heard the one he recognized, a man named Quintus, speak in a loud whisper.

  “I’m telling you, a catastrophe is coming. All the portents reveal that the city is in danger. We must get the writings out now. Not midday, not tomorrow. We have run out of time arguing.”

  “It is not the job of the Hystorians to predict where a disaster will occur, Quintus,” said the other priest. “We must remain here and record our observations for future generations.”

  “I’ve seen the destruction of the city,” Quintus said urgently. “It was just like a Remnant. The same wrongness. Lucius, I saw the scroll turn to ash.”

  Marcus stopped in his tracks. Destruction of the city? What was Quintus talking about?

  The other priest shook his head disapprovingly. “That isn’t how Remnants —” He cut himself off, having finally caught sight of the two boys. “We will speak of this later, Quintus. And don’t try to get near the writings in the meantime. I’m assigning guards to protect them. Please attend to this,” he said, motioning to the boys with a little gesture.

  Quintus turned and frowned. “There may not be a later,” he said ominously. But the other priest had already turned away, and strode past Marcus and Julius into the forum.

  “What’s happening?” Marcus asked. “Is something going to happen to the city? Are there invaders?”

  “I don’t know exactly what, but . . .” Quintus drifted off with a sigh. “What have you brought us today, Marcus?”

  “An offering,” Marcus said, pulling the satchel from around his shoulder and passing it to the priest. “Food and wine. The finest we could afford.”

  “Your family is very generous,” the old priest said with a pained expression.

  “Is something happening, Pontifex?” Marcus asked again, using the priest’s formal title. “My father regards your powers of augury highly. If you tell us to leave here, he will listen.”

  “I have no powers, boy, just a keen eye, and the warnings of Aristotle.”

  “The Greek?” Julius asked.

  “Never mind that,” said Quintus. “Marcus, you say your parents would heed me if I told them to get out of the city?”

  “Definitely, Pontifex,” Marcus said. He paused a moment. “Probably.”

  “Then I need you to run an errand for me. A terrible one, I’m afraid, but you boys are all I have right now.”

  Marcus felt a chill run through him. What was the old priest asking him to do?

  From his robes, Quintus pulled out a scroll of papyrus, rolled tightly and tied with a red coil of string. “I couldn’t trust Lucius to see reason before it was too late. Marcus, you and your friend must take this and leave Pompeii. Gather your families, if you can, but you must leave the city as soon as possible. I would go with you, but Lucius will be suspicious if I disappear now. He’d discover the guards are protecting a decoy, and come after us.”

  “W-where am I supposed to take this?” Marcus asked. The old priest was asking him to accept a lot on faith. This was all happening very fast. “Naples? Rome?”

  “No, Karanos’s thugs have eyes all over the major cities,” Quintus said. “Seek out a man named Pliny. He should be able to get the writings somewhere safe. Pliny is in Misenum now, across the bay. I suggest you head southwest to Stabiae and hire a boat to take you the rest of the way.”

  Quintus stepped forward and tucked the scroll as best he could into Marcus’s ragged tunic. Then he handed him a small purse. Marcus gasped. It was heavy with coin. The old priest turned to Julius.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Julius, Pontifex,” Julius said, sounding more timid than Marcus had ever heard him.

  “Stay with your friend and protect him, whatever happens.”

  Julius cast Marcus a glance he couldn’t read. “I will,” he said, looking back at the priest.

  “Quintus,” Marcus said. “Will you be —”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t time, Marcus,” the old priest interrupted. “You must go now. Run home. Tell your families they must leave immediately. If they don’t listen . . .” Quintus paused. “Just make sure they don’t keep you too long.”

  The priest turned both boys around and pushed firmly on their backs. Marcus and Julius took off at a run, loping down the stairs and scrambling through the forum.

  The sun had risen and more people were now milling around. Shopkeepers set up their stalls for the daily market, and slaves cleaned the stones of the remaining ash from the previous day’s festival. The guards posted around eyed the running boys curiously, but none made a move to stop them.

  When they were about halfway through the forum, Marcus spotted the second priest, Lucius, speaking with some guards. The priest turned and watched the two boys sprinting across the courtyard.

  Marcus just kept running.

  Marcus burst through the door of his home, panting loudly. His father yelped, nearly dropping the urn of water he was holding.

  “Marcus!” his father shouted, setting the urn down on a table. “Slow down! You scared your mother.”

  Marcus’s mother gave her husband an amused look before turning to Marcus. “Was there someone at the temple to accept the food?” she asked.

  “Quintus . . . was there . . .” Marcus said, out of breath. “. . . said . . . He said we have to leave the city. . . . Now.”

  “Leave?” his mother asked. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Something bad,” Marcus said. “He didn’t know for sure, but he said we should travel to Stabiae, then find a boat to take us to Misenum. Us and Julius’s family. There, we have to find a man named Pliny.”

  “A boat?” Marcus’s father said skeptically. “Marcus, this doesn’t make sense. We can’t afford a boat for all of us to cross the bay. What exactly did Quintus say?”

  Marcus strode forward and dropped the heavy coin purse onto the table in front of his father. “He said we have to do it now, Pater. He told me if you won’t come with me . . . that I have to go alone.” Marcus looked his father in the eye, an act that usually made him very uncomfortable. “Please. I told him you trusted his word.”

  Marcus’s mother placed a hand to her chest, resting the other on her husband’s shoulder.

  “Of course I trust Quintus,” he said. He turned to his wife, searching for support.

  Marcus’s father never ordered his wife around, like some of the other men of the city did their wives. He let her come to her own conclusions, and included her in any big decisions for the family. Marcus’s mother was more skeptical of the supposed oracles of the Apollonian temples. But she liked Quintus a good deal; Marcus knew that much.

  “Where’s Julius?” she said. “We’ll leave right away.”

  “I’m here,” Julius said. The tall boy entered the doorway alone, with an anxious look on his face.

  “Where are your parents?” Marcus asked.

  “They . . . wouldn’t come,” Julius said quietly. “And forbade me from going, as well. We should hurry.”

  “Julius —” Marcus started.

  “It’s okay. I promised the priest I’d watch your back. You’re too puny to put up much of a fight if you run into trouble on the road. Let’s just go, before my parents send someone after me.”

  Marcus’s father crossed the room and looked out the doorway. “I don’t see anyone outside. We should leave now.”

  Getting out of the city took longer than Marcus would have liked. The morning bustle had hit its stride, and the streets were crowded with shoppers and stalls, and occasionally the odd chariot cutting its way through it all. They headed out the Stabian Gate, which was closest to their home and allowed them to steer clear of the Temple of Apollo. Marcus hadn’t liked the look on Lucius’s face as he’d watched the boys run through the forum. Quintus had given them a head start on whatever was about to happen by staying behind, and Marcus didn’t want to waste it by calling any attention to themselves.

  The guards at the gate seemed a bit lax in their duties, but it was the day after the Vulcanalia. Many had been up keeping order well into the night. Their group made it past the gate without comment. Just a nod from the more attentive guard.

  They moved with haste along the road, but could only go so fast without a horse. Marcus felt nervous carrying so many denarii coins in his tunic, never mind the important scroll that Quintus had trusted him with. Occasionally, they passed other travelers. Merchants with their carts, mostly, heading toward Pompeii. By and large, however, it was a quiet, pleasant walk.

  With the sun shining overhead, and seabirds honking gaily in the distance, Marcus began to feel a little foolish. They’d been traveling for just under an hour, with no sign of any danger. What kind of cataclysm was supposed to strike on a day like this? A steady breeze blew down from the northwest. Soft, white clouds moved unhurriedly across the sky. If there was ever a day that seemed favored by the gods, this was it. He wondered what his parents were thinking now about their abrupt departure. Or Julius, who’d directly disobeyed his own.

  “Someone’s coming from behind,” Julius said with an edge of nervousness.

  Marcus turned to see a mounted figure approaching from the road leading back to Pompeii. Their party moved to the side to give the rider a wide berth.

  Marcus tried not to keep looking suspiciously behind him, but his anxiety got the better of him. As he turned to get a better look, his stomach clenched with dread.

  Lucius galloped toward them, quickly closing the distance. In his right arm he held a spatha, a sword favored for use on horseback.

  “Run!” Marcus shouted. But by the time everyone had seen the rider and weapon, Lucius was upon them. He circled around the group easily, cutting off their progress, and pointed his spatha at Marcus.

  “Give me the scroll, boy,” Lucius said. “You don’t understand what you’re holding. Those writings are important for the future of the Empire — and the world.”

  Marcus had a sudden urge to do exactly as the priest said. The long, sharp sword was a big part of it.

  Julius stepped in front of Marcus, squaring off with the priest. “Quintus told us to get the scroll out of the city. We’re honoring the request of a priest of Apollo.”

  “I am also a priest of Apollo, and I’m telling you to return the scroll to me.”

  “What kind of priest is trained in mounted combat?” Julius countered.

  “Again, you don’t understand. Quintus and I are members of a special order of . . . priests who have been tasked with protecting that scroll, among other things. Today, however, Quintus has become misguided. He thinks —”

  There was a sound like thunder that boomed from behind Marcus. Lucius turned his gaze from the boys and back toward the city. At first the priest looked curious. It was like he wasn’t quite sure what he should be looking for. Then his eyes widened.

  Marcus turned. A strange cloud was blooming up from the skyline, like a tall, black pine tree sprouting out from the earth. No, not from the earth. Marcus realized what he was seeing with a sick wave of shock. The cloud was rising from Mount Vesuvius. The mountain was on fire.

  “What is that?” Marcus’s mother shouted. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s coming from the mountain,” his father said.

  “Vesuvius has erupted.” Lucius spoke the words with a look of shock. “The earthquakes . . . the library turning to ash. Quintus was right.”

  “That isn’t possible,” Marcus’s father said. “Vesuvius isn’t a volcano.”

  The plume rising rapidly into the sky said differently. Parts of it were white, almost as white as any normal cloud one saw on a day like this. Other parts, however, were darker than storm clouds — a dirty charcoal color that terrified Marcus.

  He whipped around. “We have to get to Stabiae. We can take a boat from there to Misenum. Will you help us?”

  Lucius nodded, watching the mountain with a slightly crazed expression. “Yes. Yes, of course. I just hope it’s not too late. That I haven’t doomed us all.”

 

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