A Prayer in the Caldarium

by Brian Ross

Entering the caldarium, Gaius braced himself. The baths’ steam could ease the pain of old wounds, but nothing could fade the scenes plastered on the stucco walls. There was Dionysus with his nymphs and maenads, indulging in every vice—fornication, drunkenness, gluttony—their stone revelry a permanent offense. Be in the world, not of it, he reminded himself, forcing his gaze down. But he could only avert his eyes from the pagan stone. The sinister dealings of the other patrons, echoing off the gray marble benches, were a corruption he could not shut out.

He closed his eyes and tried to pray, mouthing the Greek words he’d learned from a one-eyed freedman in Jerusalem: Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

He kept his gaze averted from the ceiling. To the others here—men for whom the old gods were as real as the marble beneath them—his prayer would be absurd, if not offensive. He sought the calm the baths promised. But that’s when he saw it again.

In Joppa, a Christian slave—an old man—had been caught teaching his sect’s doctrines. His grain merchant master had him publicly flogged. Gaius, posted nearby to keep order, had watched, wondering why anyone would risk violence for the sake of a wretch. The old man endured thirty lashes without a sound. But when it was over, the blood still sheeting his back, he’d whispered something. Gaius stepped closer. “Master, forgive him. He knows not...” The slave’s eyes had found his then. There was no hatred in them. Not for his master, not for the man with the whip, perhaps not even for Gaius, their enabler. Gaius had walked away thinking the man a fool. But he’d never forgotten him.

“Gaius Iohannes Baptista Montanus.”

The voice wrested him from the memory. He opened his eyes. Lucius stood before him, wearing the same tense, severe expression he’d carried since Judaea. The aedile had aged well; it seemed the Emperor’s favor—an early honesta missio—was not the only blessing he enjoyed. The god of this world smiled on him, too.

“Lucius.” Gaius kept his voice neutral. They had never been friends, and since his conversion, that was the trend with all his old acquaintances. He was a survivor now, like the old slave—a state an aedile could never comprehend.

“I have to say, Gaius Iohannes Baptista,” Lucius began, the names overly precise on his tongue, “I have never encountered such a name.”

“I became a Christian. In Judaea, after your discharge.”

Lucius was momentarily speechless. Gaius resumed: “Are you thinking of converting?”

“I think the gods have done just fine by me,” he said, his smile thin. “I hope your new… persuasions… will not make you disinclined toward my proposal. We must speak in private.” Lucius’s eyes flicked around the caldarium. Two other bathers occupied the far end, engrossed. Still, he jerked his head toward the tepidarium. Gaius followed, every old instinct alert. Whatever Lucius wanted would make the stucco debaucheries seem innocent.

The tepidarium was less crowded, only a single elderly senator dozing on a bench. They moved past him to an alcove where a bronze statue of Mercury stood guard—god of commerce, and thieves. Fitting, Gaius thought.

“I confess I know little of this Christian...cult,” Lucius began, his voice a low murmur against the damp walls. “But I do know that having the steel for a fight is something that never leaves a man.”

Gaius said nothing. Involuntarily, he was already imagining the press of a crowd and the narrow window of a killing strike.

“Our beloved Duovir,” Lucius continued, and the title dripped with contempt, “has become an all too familiar kind of problem. His taxation is ruinous. His monopolies strangle honest trade. He takes bribes from grain merchants while children starve in the Stabiae quarter. He throws feasts for himself while the aqueduct crumbles.”

“Many magistrates are corrupt,” Gaius observed, his tone flat.

“This one is particularly so. And particularly entrenched. He has bought the decurions, cowed the other aediles, and enriched himself beyond the dreams of Croesus.”

“All the aediles save one, I see.”

A muscle twitched in Lucius’s jaw. “There are more than you think. We remember when Pompeii was governed by men who would have been at home on campaign. Now? They are lovers of rich food trying to outdo last night’s banquet, who spend a fortune on ‘Falernian’ that’s little more than Campanian swill.” His gesture took in the baths around them. “Even a place like this, meant for health, becomes a venue for laziness and perversion. Yet, by custom, we are all forced to conduct business here.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch. “We have decided the situation cannot continue.”

“Decided,” Gaius repeated.

“The Duovir will attend the festival of Jupiter Optimus Maximus in five days. He will sacrifice a bull at the temple. It will be public, crowded, chaotic. The perfect moment for...an intervention.”

“You’re speaking of assassination.”

“I’m speaking of surgery.” Lucius leaned in, the smell of oil and ambition on his skin. “We need a man who understands how to strike in a confined space and disappear into a crowd. A man who led a century through the warrens of Jerusalem.”

“If you knew anything of Christ, you would never ask this of me.”

Lucius scoffed. “You’re a Christian now. What do you care for Jupiter?”

“My God commands: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Vengeance belongs to Him, not to us.”

Lucius stared as if Gaius had spoken in tongues. “This sect has rotted your brain. You’ve gone mad.”

“Find another way. Petition the decurions. Appeal to Rome.”

“We have. Rome doesn’t care. The decurions are his creatures.” Lucius’s voice hardened into a blade. “Your sect may have its philosophers, but you were a soldier. Is there no place in it for a warrior?”

Gaius met his gaze, the old instinct for tactical assessment overriding outrage. “Consider it this way. We are also commanded never to take our own life. This mission would amount to nothing less. The temple will be guarded. The Duovir travels with six bodyguards, all veterans. You strike there, you’ll be cut down before you reach the doors. And even if you succeeded—if you killed him and escaped—what then? His allies will demand blood. They’ll tear the city apart looking for conspirators. Every merchant who’s ever complained about a tax will be suspect. Is that the Pompeii you want to save?”

“Better than the Pompeii we have.” But Lucius's certainty had cracked, just slightly.

“I was a soldier. I’m not anymore.”

“No. You’re something worse. A coward hiding behind a foreign god.”

A deep weariness settled in Gaius’s bones. “Then you’ve wasted your time.”

Lucius’s face flushed. “We’ll do this without you. And when the Duovir is dead and Pompeii is free, don’t come begging for a place at the table. Don’t pretend you were ever on the side of justice.”

“I won’t.” Gaius turned to leave, then paused. “Lucius. The plan is suicide. It will get you killed, and you will change nothing.”

“Not your concern. You’ve made your choice.” Lucius’s voice was stone. “Get out of my sight.”

Gaius walked away, his sandals slapping wetly against the heated tiles. Behind him, he could feel Lucius’s glare burning into his back. He emerged onto the street, and the afternoon light struck him like a blow, bleaching the color from the world. He squinted against the sudden assault of sun and sound.

He’d done the right thing. He was certain. The old Gaius—the one who lived by the sword—was dead. Then why did his hands feel the ghost-weight of a gladius? Why could he still map the kill with a soldier’s cold eye: the approach between the columns, the thrust from behind the sacrifice, the melt into the panicked crowd?

He pushed the vision away and began the walk home.

Three days passed. He tended his small garden, prayed, and tried to bury Lucius’s words. He told himself the matter was closed.

He was wrong.

The news came just after dawn from his neighbor, Claudia, a freedwoman who sold garum in the market. She stood at his door, her face pale beneath the street’s grime.

“Gaius,” she said, breathless. “Have you heard?”

He set down the pruning shears. “Heard what?”

“The temple. Yesterday, at the festival. There was an attempt—” She glanced over her shoulder as if the words themselves were dangerous. “On the Duovir’s life.”

His stomach dropped. “Is he dead?”

“Wounded. A blade to the shoulder, they say. But his guards killed three of the attackers before they could finish it. Two more were captured.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “One of the dead was Lucius the aedile.”

Gaius felt the world tilt. Lucius. The fool had actually done it. “And the others?”

“I don’t know their names. Merchants and minor magistrates, I heard. The Duovir is offering a reward for information.” She hesitated. “Your name has been mentioned.”

The blood drained from his face. “What?”

“In the forum this morning. One of the captured men was screaming that you were the mastermind. That you planned the whole thing.”

“That’s madness. I refused them. I walked away.”

“I believe you,” Claudia said. “But others are saying Lucius spoke your name before he died. They’re saying your refusal was a ruse, that you meant to betray them all along.” Her grip tightened on his arm. “Your reputation makes it believable, Gaius. Everyone knows you were a centurion. Everyone knows you could have planned this.”

He pulled away, pacing to the edge of his small courtyard. The morning sun felt suddenly oppressive. “This is insane. Why name me?”

“Because they need someone to blame,” Claudia said. “The survivors want to shift suspicion. The Duovir wants a name people will believe.”

“And I’m a Christian,” he finished. “Someone people already distrust.”

“I saw soldiers asking about you near the baths. You need to leave.”

He thought of running. He could be out the Herculaneum Gate before noon, on the road to Neapolis, and from there—where? Somewhere Rome’s reach didn’t extend, if such a place existed.

But running meant admitting guilt. Worse, it meant abandoning the few Christians in Pompeii who looked to him for guidance—the small house church that met in secret, the handful of believers who would be hunted next if he fled.

“There’s something else,” Claudia said. She looked almost apologetic. “They’re saying there was a prophecy.”

“What prophecy?”

“In the Duovir’s villa. Haven’t you seen the painting? The one in his atrium?”

Gaius had seen it once, years ago, at some public reception. A massive work covering an entire wall: Hector of Troy, the great defender, dragged behind Achilles’s chariot before the walls of his own city. The ultimate humiliation of a fallen warrior.

But it was the face that had struck him then. The artist had given Hector his features, even the scar above his left eyebrow from a skirmish in Galilee. The resemblance was uncanny. The Duovir had commissioned it after some forgotten slight, an argument in the forum about grain distribution. It was a piece of public mockery, painted for every guest to see.

“They’re saying even the gods knew your treachery,” Claudia whispered. “That Apollo himself inspired the artist to paint your face on the great betrayer. That you’re Hector reborn—the defender who becomes a traitor.”

“Hector wasn’t a traitor,” Gaius said quietly. “He died defending his city.”

“Not in the Duovir’s version of the story.” She squeezed his hand. “Please, Gaius. Go.”

But even as she spoke, he heard the sound of hobnailed sandals on stone. Military boots. A sharp command from the street.

“Too late.”

Claudia’s eyes widened. “The back wall...you can still...”

“No.” He moved toward the front of the house, his old training taking over. If he was going to run, he needed to see what he was running from. How many men. What formation. Whether they’d blocked the side streets.

He reached the doorway just as six legionaries rounded the corner. They saw him immediately.

“Gaius Montanus!” the signifer barked. “By order of the Duovir, you are to come with us for questioning regarding conspiracy and attempted murder!”

Behind them, more soldiers appeared. A full contubernium—eight men. They weren’t taking chances.

Gaius calculated distances and escape routes. The Via Stabiana was thirty paces south. If he ran now, cut through the fuller’s shop, he could reach the side streets before they formed up properly. He knew this city. He’d patrolled these streets for years.

The lead soldier’s hand moved to the hilt of his gladius.

And Gaius ran.

He burst through the fuller’s workshop, scattering apprentices and overturning a vat of urine used for cleaning wool. The owner shouted curses, but Gaius was already through the back entrance, into the narrow alley that ran behind the shops. Behind him, he heard the crash of soldiers giving chase, their armor clanking against the close walls.

“Left at the corner, then right into the maze of tenements near the amphitheater.” His lungs screamed that his days in Judaea were long past, but his legs remembered the rhythm. Run, assess, turn. Don’t let them establish sight lines. Use corners and crowds.

He emerged onto a broader street and ducked into a tavern. The patrons barely looked up from their morning wine. Gaius crouched behind the counter, next to amphorae of cheap vinum, forcing his breathing to quiet. The barkeeper, a gap-toothed Campanian, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Boots thundered past outside. The soldiers were fanning out.

“How much trouble are you in?” the barkeeper asked.

“More than I deserve.”

The man grunted. “That’s what they all say.” He jerked his head toward a storage room. “There’s a window. Leads to the alley behind the brothel.”

Gaius didn’t question the mercy. He slipped through the room, squeezed through a window barely wide enough for his shoulders, and dropped into the alley. The reek of waste and cheap perfume hit him like a wall.

The amphitheater loomed to his left, and beyond it, the city walls. But the gates would be watched. They’d have sent runners. He needed a hole to vanish into.

The old warehouse near the docks. Abandoned for years, ever since the earthquake that cracked its foundation. For a hundred patrols, it had always been empty.

He made his way there through the backstreets, avoiding the main thoroughfares. Twice more he heard soldiers, and twice more he melted into the shadows. The body remembered even when the mind doubted.

Half-collapsed roof above, broken amphorae and rotting rope below: it was exactly as he remembered. He found a corner with partial cover and sank down against the wall.

‍ ‍ Turn the other cheek. The words echoed, hollow. He hadn’t turned the other cheek. He’d run. He’d fought, in his own way. Was that any different?

The old slave’s face swam before him. Master, forgive him. He knows not...

“But I do know,” Gaius thought.

He tried to pray, but the words wouldn’t come. Only the distant sounds of the city—vendors calling their wares, carts rumbling on stone, the everyday noise of Pompeii going about its business while he hid in its ruins.

The ground trembled.

It was subtle at first, a faint vibration through the stone. Campania was prone to earthquakes. But this felt… different. A deep, visceral hum.

The trembling grew. Dust sifted down from the damaged roof. An amphora rolled across the floor and shattered.

Gaius stood, instinctively moving toward the doorway. Outside, shouts of alarm. People were noticing. The tremor continued, stronger now, and somewhere in the distance, a building groaned as if in pain.

The silence afterward was heavier than before. Gaius waited, but the shaking didn’t return. Just another tremor. Campania’s restless earth.

He was about to retreat when he heard it—a low, rolling roar, like continuous thunder. He stepped fully outside and looked east, toward the mountain.

Vesuvius.

A column of darkness was rising from its peak, shot through with veins of fire. A massive pillar of ash and smoke, ascending and spreading outward like an enormous, blasphemous tree against the sky.

For a moment, he could only stare. The mountain had been quiet his entire life. A landmark, a vineyard-covered slope. Now it was splitting open, vomiting forth the underworld.

The roar deepened. The ground shook again, harder. In the streets, people screamed, pointed, ran. Some toward the harbor. Some toward the gates. Some simply ran, panic erasing all reason.

A strange calm settled over Gaius. No one was looking for him anymore. The soldiers who’d chased him were probably abandoning their posts. The Duovir’s wounded pride, the conspiracy, the scapegoating—all of it was rendered meaningless.

The gates would be chaos, but in chaos there was opportunity. He could slip out, join the crowds fleeing north, and survive.

He took a step toward the harbor, then stopped.

Through the growing haze of ash—falling now like a gentle, gray snow—he saw a figure in the street. A man, richly dressed, stumbling. One arm hung useless at his side, bound in a sling.

The shoulder wound.

The Duovir.