Chapter 5 The Tremors

The earthquakes came three times in the next two days. The first was a sharp, brief shock that cracked the garrison's eastern wall and sent a shower of loose stones cascading down the temple ridge. The second, eight hours later, was longer and deeper—a rolling tremor that made the ground rise and fall like the surface of a sea, toppling a stack of amphorae in the quartermaster's store and shattering a window in Flavius's house on the north side of town. The third was the worst. It came at midnight, and it lasted long enough for Corvinus to count his heartbeats—forty, fifty, sixty—before it stopped. The barracks shook so violently that the roof tiles cracked and the wooden supports groaned like men in pain. In the square, the fountain cracked along its base, and water began to seep from the wound. By dawn, the town was in a state of controlled panic. The citizens of Petra gathered in small clusters in the streets, speaking in low voices, glancing up at the mountain. The farmers from the surrounding slopes had come down in the night, bringing their families and whatever they could carry. The road north was already clogged with carts and pack animals, a slow procession of people who had decided that the mountain's intention was no longer a matter for speculation. Corvinus stood on the barracks roof and watched the road fill. Beside him, Maro counted heads with the practiced eye of a man who had managed retreats before. "Three hundred, maybe four hundred people on the road already," Maro said. "They're heading for the coast. Smart of them. The coast has ships, and ships go where the mountain can't follow." "What about the rest?" "Most of them are staying. They have farms, animals, homes they can't carry. They think the mountain will calm down—it always has before." Maro paused. "And some of them are staying because Flavius told them to. He's been going through the town since dawn, promising people that the garrison will protect them. He's even posted soldiers at the north gate to turn back anyone who tries to leave." "Since when does the governor's son have authority over civilian movement?" "Since his father decided that an evacuation would look like an admission that Petra was finished. An admission that Petra was finished would mean an admission that his appointment was a failure. An admission that his appointment was a failure would mean the end of his career." Maro shrugged. "So the citizens of Petra will stay and be protected, and if they die, it will be the mountain's fault, not the governor's." Corvinus descended from the roof and went to the quartermaster's office. Cassius was there, as always, but his usual calm had cracked. The thin man was pacing behind his desk, pushing his spectacles up his nose with hands that trembled slightly. "Grain stores are damaged," Cassius said before Corvinus could speak. "The third shock collapsed part of the eastern warehouse. We've lost perhaps a third of our remaining grain. The oil stores are intact, but two of the amphorae cracked and we're losing oil to evaporation. Salted meat is fine—it's in the stone vault beneath the store." He stopped pacing and looked at Corvinus with something close to desperation. "If this continues, we have food for fifteen days. Maybe twenty if we ration hard." "Fifteen days." "For the garrison alone. If we're feeding civilians—and Flavius says we must feed anyone who seeks shelter in the garrison—then we have food for five days. Perhaps six." Corvinus sat down and wrote a list. It was a simple list, the kind of list he had been trained to make as a junior officer—what we have, what we need, what we can get, and how. "Grain from the surrounding farms," he said. "The farmers are leaving. Their granaries are full, and they can't carry it all. We send men to purchase—no, to commandeer what we need, with receipts that can be honored when the crisis passes. Salted fish from the coast. The fishing villages on the eastern shore will have stores. We send a party with silver to buy. Oil—we burn wood instead. Water—" He paused. "The water is the problem." "The springs are contaminated. The sulfurous gas is mixing with the groundwater. You can taste it, smell it. The town well is still clear, but if the earthquakes continue—" Cassius shook his head. "We can collect rainwater. We can boil the spring water and let the sulfurous compounds evaporate. But if the eruption comes and the ash blocks the sky for days—" "Then we need the passage." Cassius stared at him blankly. "What passage?" "Under the temple. The old network of tunnels. The priestess told me about them. They go deep into the mountain—deep enough to reach the water table below the contaminated zone. If we can access them, we have water, shelter, and a way to evacuate the town from beneath the governor's control." Cassius stared at him. "You're talking about the passage that no one in Petra has seen in living memory. The passage that may or may not exist. The passage that the priestess has apparently kept secret from everyone, including the garrison." "It exists. I've seen the door." "Have you walked the passage?" "No. But the priestess has." "Then the priestess is the key." Cassius removed his spectacles and polished them with the hem of his tunic—a nervous habit, Corvinus had learned, that signaled a man trying to bring order to chaos. "And the priestess answers to no one. She doesn't recognize the governor's authority. She doesn't recognize the garrison's. She serves the mountain, and the mountain's interests are not ours." "Perhaps not. But the mountain's interests and ours may converge, if the mountain is about to destroy everything above the surface." Corvinus left the quartermaster's office and went to find Maro. The veteran was in the training ground, but he was not training. He was standing at the edge of the practice area, looking east toward the temple ridge, and his expression was one that Corvinus had seen before—in the faces of men who had survived battles they should not have survived and who knew, with the certainty of experience, that another battle was coming. "The men are talking," Maro said without turning. "Flavius has been through the barracks again. He's offering triple rations to anyone who signs onto his command roster. He says that when the mountain erupts, he'll lead the survivors to safety through the mountain passes east, away from the ash line. He says the governor has arranged transport from Catania." "And what do the men think?" "They think Flavius is full of shit. But they also think he might be right. The mountain is building. The tremors are getting stronger. And nobody—not Vorenus, not the governor, not the priestess—nobody is offering them a plan that makes sense." He turned to Corvinus. "You need to give them one." "I'm a disgraced tribune with no authority and no resources." "You're a soldier. That counts for something. These men don't care about rank or decorations—they've seen too many officers with both who were useless. They care about whether you can keep them alive. Show them you can, and they'll follow you." "Follow me where? Into the mountain?" "Into whatever comes next. The mountain doesn't care about politics, Tribune. It doesn't care about Flavius or his father or the governor's career. It cares about rock and fire and pressure, and when it's ready to move, it will move regardless of what anyone wants. The question is whether we move with it or under it." That afternoon, Corvinus went to the gladiators' quarters. Lysander was there, sharpening his sword with the same meticulous attention he had shown before, but there was a new tension in his movements—a quickness that suggested he was preparing for something more than a scheduled fight. "Flavius has been here," Lysander said. "He wants me on his side. He says he'll grant my freedom if I fight for him when the time comes." "And will you?" Lysander looked up, and there was a cold clarity in his eyes that Corvinus had not seen before. "I will fight for whoever offers me the chance to fight for something that matters. Freedom is a word Flavius uses, but freedom is not something he gives. It is something I take." He tested the blade against his thumb, and a thin line of blood appeared. "What do you need, Tribune?" "I need someone who can move through the town without being watched. Someone who can carry messages between the garrison and the temple. Someone who is not afraid of Flavius." "I can do that. But first, tell me what you're planning." Corvinus told him. He told him about the passage, the water supply, the fifteen days of grain. He told him about Flavius's faction and the governor's plan to evacuate with the temple's treasures. He told him about Livia and the mountain's signs. Lysander listened without interruption, and when Corvinus finished, the young gladiator nodded once. "I'll carry your messages. But I want something in return." "Name it." "When the time comes—when the mountain speaks and the town must choose between Flavius's way and yours—I want you to promise me that no one in this garrison will be left behind. Not the convicts, not the sick, not the men Flavius calls useless. Every man walks out of Petra alive, or none of us do." Corvinus looked at him. This was not the request of a gladiator or a former soldier. This was the request of a man who had seen what happened when the powerful decided who was worth saving and who was not. "You have my word," Corvinus said. Lysander sheathed his sword. "Then we have a compact, Tribune. Now go to the priestess. She's been waiting for you." That night, Corvinus climbed to the temple ridge for the third time. The path was more difficult now—the earthquakes had shifted the stone steps, and loose gravel made the ascent treacherous. The mountain's pulse was constant, a deep thrumming that he could feel in his chest and in the bones of his skull. The air was thick with sulfur, and the sky above the crater glowed with a faint, persistent orange that did not dim as the stars came out. Livia was inside the temple, standing before the sealed door with a lamp in her hand. She looked up as he entered, and her expression was grave. "The mountain has changed," she said. "The tremors are no longer random. They follow a pattern—the same pattern the carvings describe. Deep tremors, shallow tremors, deep again. The pattern is the mountain preparing to speak." "How long?" "Days. Perhaps a week. Perhaps less." She moved to the sealed door and placed her hand against the stone. "I've opened the way down. Part of it. The first chamber is accessible—it's warm, dry, and large enough to shelter a hundred people. Below that, the tunnels narrow. I've gone as far as I dare alone." "Show me." She led him through the door and down into the mountain. ---