Ashes, Ashes

by Alissa Rodriguez

Every time I asked about my father, the response was the same. 

“He is no one, Piccolina - my little one. No one worth knowing.” 

My mother never strayed from that answer, and the same coldness shone in her eyes whenever she spoke of the father that I never knew. I didn’t think there would ever be a time when she’d respond differently. Until one day, she did.

On that day, I did not expect to come upon the truth I had been seeking for ages. My morning began the way it always did. I awoke when the sun was low in the sky and the air was already heavy with heat and moisture.  

By the time I left our cramped, one room home, the streets were already humming with life. Every morning was like this. While workers like myself prepared for a long and tedious day of labor, the rest of Pompeii was still sleeping.

As I made my way through the city, my gaze naturally fell on Mount Vesuvius in the distance. She had always been as beautiful as she was terrifying, her presence a constant reminder of the power she held. 

I took a moment to stare at the mountain in awe before continuing my walk. I was a washer, and while cleaning the clothes and linens was not very invigorating, I was grateful that it allowed me and my mother to continue our modest life.

Over the years, my hard work allowed me to serve increasingly wealthy guests: the politicians and aristocrats who wanted an escape from the Roman heat, seeking a vacation by the coast. They resided in the most breathtaking villas, ones that I couldn’t even believe existed upon the first time seeing them.  

By the time I reached my first villa, beads of sweat formed at my temples and my hair began curling at the ends. The air instantly felt cooler once I stepped inside. The place radiated extravagance from floor to ceiling: the fountains, the bright, airy rooms, the colorful details and decor.

I didn’t admire it for long and turned the corner to find the bags full of items that were ready to be washed. Hauling them over my shoulders, I left the villa and walked towards the nearest fullery, the place where all of the other washers gathered to carry out their daily tasks. We all worked the stains and scents of the fabric out in water basins, and then hung them to dry before moving onto the next villa.  

It was an exhausting job. Each day, when I returned home, my skin was cracked and bleeding; my muscles were sore, and my back ached. I didn’t return empty handed though. My hard work gave us meals each day, and sometimes I was even able to scrounge up some herbal remedies for my mother. On those days, she sighed in relief, and life came back into her eyes just a bit more. That made everything worth it. 

By the afternoon, the summer heat was taking its toll, but I had one more residence to tend to: the Barone villa, home to one of the most respected aristocratic families in the country. It was my first day at this assignment, which I only happened to fall upon after the usual washer had to stop as she prepared to give birth.

When I entered the villa, it was quiet except for the soft shuffling of servants scrambling to make preparations for the guests who were soon to arrive. With the absence of the Barones, I found myself walking slower and savoring the cool air. I stopped to admire the intricate designs on the floors and ceilings as I ran my fingers over one of the marble pillars.

I found a few bags stuffed with items for me to tend to and tried to ignore the way my muscles cried when I lifted them up. On my way out, I walked slowly, partially due to my exhaustion but also because I was looking for something: the artwork.

Every villa was a masterpiece, but my favorite part was always the paintings. I loved the rich, vibrant colors and the gentle paint strokes that could create anything the mind desired. My eyes trailed the wall, admiring the beauty of each painting for the first time, wondering who each of the subjects were, what they were like. Then, I stopped abruptly, dropping the bags I carried.

There was a portrait of a woman. I took in all of her features: her tan skin, her warm brown eyes, the long black waves of her hair, her narrow nose. She was young, and not quite beautiful, but striking. It was the same face I saw every time I looked at my reflection in a water basin. She looked just like me. We could be sisters, twins, we looked so alike. As a young servant girl passed me, I stopped her. 

“Excuse me, who is that?” I asked. 

The girl’s eyes widened as she glanced between me and the painting. “I don’t know her name. She is a Barone who passed away many years ago.”

Before I could respond, the girl darted down the hallway. I looked at the painting one more time before leaving. All afternoon, the picture of that woman remained ingrained in my mind, bringing a mix of intrigue and discontent. My mother recognized these emotions the moment I walked through the door. 

“What’s wrong, Aemelia?” she asked, her brow furrowing.  

She barely was able to stand up, and I eased her back down into the chair she was sitting on. My mother wasn’t always this way, but illness had crept upon her, wreaking havoc on her bones and joints for years until she became too immobile to work, walk, and now barely even stand. 

She wrapped a hand loosely around mine, her blue eyes searching my face. There was no hiding secrets from my mother, so I told her. As I explained how the painting looked nearly identical to myself, her face lost its color and dread shone in her eyes.

“You said the Barone villa?” her voice wavered. It was obvious that my revelation meant something to her. It made my stomach twist seeing her in such a state. 

“Mother, what do you know?” 

At first, I expected her to refuse to tell me, just like she always did when I asked her a question that she didn’t want to answer. However, to my surprise, she sighed and finally told me the truth. 

“I was eighteen and beautiful, and Rinaldo Barone realized that the instant we met,” she told me, her eyes glazing over as they swarmed with memories. “He didn’t care that I was of a lower class than him or that he was already wed and with a child. I loved him and thought he loved me. Until I became pregnant with you. While my parents were devastated at the disgrace I would bring to the family, I felt only joy because that meant Rinaldo would take care of us.”

“What happened?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. 

“He was furious. He said it was all a mistake and that he would never see me again. He never even wanted to meet you.” Tears trickled down her face. “He refused to even send us money or food, threatening me with violence if I ever sought him out again. So I never did.”

The weight of her words was so heavy I felt a numbness, as if my body and mind were incapable of processing them. Rinaldo Barone. My father. He abandoned his lover and unborn child without a second thought. While we struggled each day, he lived a life of privilege. My mother was right; he was no one worth knowing. 

“So that woman in the picture…”

“She is his grandmother, Vittoria Barone. I know, because I passed that picture every time I went to visit your father,” my mother said. Then she offered me a sad smile. “Now you know who you get your looks from.” 

That smile made my heart ache the rest of the night. As I laid in bed, I felt the pain and sadness that the past sixteen years had brought me and my mother. Then, that pain turned to anger. Rinaldo Barone, the selfish coward who got away with everything.

For the next week, every day I entered the Barone villa, I felt a sense of disgust for the place. Each day, my eyes lingered on the portrait of Vittoria, wondering how two people could look so similar but live such different lives.

On a particularly scorching afternoon, I found myself staring at the painting for longer than I should, when suddenly someone delicately cleared their throat behind me.

“Excuse me?” said a girl no more than a year or two older than me. She was dressed in beautiful clothing, decorated in gold and jewels. I stood frozen, speechless. 

“What’s caused you to take such an interest in this particular picture of my great-grandmother?” she asked. Her great-grandmother. This wasn’t just anyone. This was Rinaldo Barone’s daughter, the child my mother spoke of. My half sister. I instantly saw the resemblance in us, except for her hazel eyes and wild curls. 

“I apologize," I stammered, quickly picking up my bags.

Her hand gripped my forearm, keeping me from leaving. “Wait.” She stared at me, face lighting up with curiosity. Just like the servant girl last week, her eyes darted back and forth between me and the picture. “You look like her.”

“Yes,” I responded, unsure of what else to say. 

“Why?”

How easy would it be to let the truth fall from my mouth, but I couldn’t. “I don’t know. It’s just a coincidence, I suppose.”

The girl looked at me with skepticism and shook her head vigorously. Then, somewhat forcefully, pulled me into the closest room. “What’s your name?” 

“Aemelia Esposito,” I said quietly. 

“I’m Isabella Barone.” She looked at me with prying eyes. “Aemelia, I don’t believe you. That is no coincidence. Tell me what you know.”  

I was silent for a long time until she scowled. “Tell me why you look exactly like a Barone, or you can stay here until my father returns and tell him.”

That threat was enough to make me rethink my choices. If Rinaldo were to discover that his illegitimate daughter was working in his vacation home, I couldn’t imagine the consequences, starting with me losing my work. Isabella continued staring, exuding such stubbornness that finally I found the words spilling out of my mouth before I could stop them, repeating my mother’s story.

Isabella said nothing at first; then, she smirked. “I always wondered about the woman he mentions when he’s had too much to drink, the mistress he left behind. That is your mother. What he didn’t tell me was that he left her with something. Or rather, someone,” she nodded at me. 

I offered her a small smile in return because something about her presence was comforting. 

The connection was almost instant as Isabella reached for my hand, “Do you know what that makes us?”

***

Nearly two months had passed since I had last stepped foot in the Barone residence. Now, as I approached the entrance of their villa, excitement coursed through my veins. Today, I was not a washer. Today, I was going to meet my father.

I never thought I would be in this position; it all happened so quickly. As soon as Isabella knew the truth about me, we bonded immediately. While Rinaldo and his wife spent the remainder of their stay enjoying the splendors of the city, Isabella and I spent time learning everything about each other. She wanted to know every detail of my life, and with that, she became more upset.

“I’m sorry," she had told me over and over again. “But Father is different now. He will make everything right. He’ll treat my sister, his own daughter, the way you always should have been. You and your mother can have everything you need.” And so formed her idea to arrange a meeting for him to make amends.

It took many conversations for Isabella to convince me to agree, but she was as persistent as she was stubborn. By the time she had to leave to return to Rome, we agreed that, at the end of the summer, when the Barones returned for their last vacation of the season, I would meet my father.

The thought of standing in the same room as Rinaldo made me ill. However, the part of me that held onto the anger towards my father wanted retribution for all of his wrongdoings. I would do it for my mother’s sake. And perhaps a small part of me wanted to meet the man who left us behind.

Isabella was waiting for me under the large archway at the entrance of the villa.  

“Come, come!” she said eagerly. She led me down the hallway, past Vittoria’s portrait and had me sit. “Father is just in the other room. I will speak with him first and bring you in when it’s time.” Then she disappeared into the neighboring room. 

The villa’s design made it easy to hear everything, every last word. 

Rinaldo’s voice was low and full of rage. “How dare you bring a bastard child here?” I caught other words and phrases. Pathetic. Worthless whore. Never will be my daughter. Glass shattered. Isabella let out a wince in pain. 

She reappeared no more than a few minutes later with tears streaming down her face and red marks on her cheeks from what was clearly a physical result of Rinaldo’s fury. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I thought he would have listened to me.”

“It’s alright,” I answered, but was already turning to sprint out of the villa, not wanting to catch even a glimpse of Rinaldo. It would be a face I’d never know. I never wanted to step foot in that place again, never wanted to look at that haunting picture of Vittoria.

I ran through the streets until my lungs were gasping for air and finally slowed down to a walk. My heart raced and tears stung in my eyes as the rest of the city carried on with their daily tasks. Life continued while devastation consumed me. 

Then everything stopped. A jolt under my feet almost brought me to the ground, followed by a series of deep trembles in the earth. A sickening rumble sounded from Mount Vesuvius. I forced myself to stand back upright just in time to see an explosion of gray smoke and liquid fire emerging from her. It was a burst of energy, and then dark clouds slowly seeped into the sky.

The streets erupted in screams. It made my stomach sink, and as I watched the darkness continuing to emerge from Vesuvius, I knew hell was being unleashed upon all of Pompeii. Small specks of gray fell from the sky. I brushed one off of my arm and it crumbled in my fingers. Ashes.

Above all the chaos, someone shouted my name. I turned around to find Isabella catching up to me, panting and sweating. “I followed you,” she says in between breaths. “Aemelia, I’m sorry.” Then she shoved two heavy bags into my hands. I didn’t need to open them to know what they contained. 

“Take this. You can start anew somewhere else,” she said, nodding towards the ominous sky. “Father will never know, I promise.” Isabella hugged me tightly and before I could even respond, my sister was disappearing into the crowd. There was no time to chase her. I had to return home. 

My mother’s face sagged with relief when I entered the doorway. 

“Thank goodness you’re back.”

I looked at the ever-growing dark mass spreading through the sky and scrambled to gather a few belongings as I spoke. “Vesuvius erupted. We have to leave now.”

“I know it did,” she said solemnly. “Aemelia, only you are going to leave.” 

“No, look,” I said, showing her the bags stuffed with gold and jewels that Isabella gifted us. “We can go right now; we’ll begin a life somewhere else.”

My mother shook her head. “Aemelia, think for a moment. You know I can’t. We have no way of leaving, and I’m too weak to travel.”

The truth behind my mother’s words hit me like a bolder. The whole day had been a rush of adrenaline, but it clouded my logic. It would be a miracle for us to both get to safety. Even if I left by myself as my mother had insisted, my chances of escaping Pompeii in time were impossible with no horse or mode of transportation. 

My mother was not leaving. But neither was I.  

My hands shook, and the bags that Isabella had given me fell to the floor. I sat down next to my mother, staring into the eyes I’d trusted my whole life.

“I’m staying too.” 

“No, Aemelia! Leave now while you have a chance,” my mother answered desperately. 

“It’s as hopeless for me as it is for you. You’re the one who said we have no way to leave, even if I leave alone.” 

My mother’s face deflated. “You must go now,” she said, but her voice was defeated.

“No. Family is everything, and I’m not leaving mine.” 

She didn’t argue as I helped her settle into her bed and then laid down next to her. Although it was only the afternoon, the sky looked as if dusk was approaching. The ground was still sporadically shaking, and outside, I could hear the crash of rock as buildings began to deteriorate. The heavy scent of smoke filled my nostrils. Soon it would be hard to breathe.

I curled into my mother, her heart rapidly beating against my back. Mine was doing the same, but as time passed, it slowed down. My hands stopped shaking; my breaths became long and restful. This was our only choice, and with that came acceptance. Although Isabella and my father were long gone, I was glad to not be with them. I would rather only spend sixteen years on this earth with the simple life my mother built than an eternity with a father like Rinaldo.

“I love you, Piccolina,” my mother whispers to me. 

“I love you too,” I whisper back. 

We don’t speak another word. We just wait. Soon we will be buried beneath the ashes, with our arms entangled and hands clasped together, locked for eternity.