“We must stop by Thera,” Kaia announced as the ship slipped its moors in the port of Brundisium. “Why?” General Cassius asked. This was their first chance to really talk since leaving Rome. They had traveled the Via Brusdisii by horse, switching at every stage to new horses, escorted by a troop of Praetorian Guard. The smoothly set stones that made up the way were flanked by a deeply rutted dirt track on which the horses ran. The road, an example of spectacular engineering, was designed for marching troops and carts, not speedy horses. The road passed thirty miles to the east of Pompeii, and they had ridden at night, the way lit by the red glow on the top of Vesuvius. They’d encountered columns of dazed refugees, and what they heard confirmed what Falco and Kaia had seen: Pompeii had been completely destroyed. The tales of horror were so bad that Falco had forced himself to stop listening. The only solace he had was that he knew his children had died quickly; at least that was the sense he had had in the arena.
