Vesuvius, burning

Their father’s workshop reeked of old paint and stale beer. Helier was enveloped in it, choked by it, even though he had yet to cross the threshold. And, as much as he wanted to hate the smell, it still brought an unsteady comfort as it crawled up his nose to sting his tongue. It was the smell of his childhood, the stink that would cling to their father’s clothes whenever he came to visit him and his mother. He swallowed. Helier took a moment to smooth down his tunic and kick the dust from his sandals before he ratta-tap-tapped on the wooden door. His fist had barely dropped back to his side when the door flew open, and a pair of skinny arms found their way around his shoulders.

It had been a few years since Helier had seen Althea, and he had almost forgotten just how quickly children could grow. She had gained at least three inches and she had shed most of her puppy fat, though her face still clung to a subtle roundness about her cheeks. Her chestnut hair was pulled back with intricate braids – the peak of the current style – the same fashion he had seen many of the women sporting when he had arrived at the city gates. A sign she was no longer the girl who had clung to his arm and begged him to stay when he had left to pursue a career in the spice trade. Even her clothes were finer, her dress a gossamer sky blue, a green shawl draped across her shoulders. This, before him, was the beginnings of a woman, one who had thrown herself headfirst into the fashions of the city

And, despite these changes, the woman before him was still his little sister.

“I missed you,” she hushed, squeezing him tighter as she buried her face into the linen of his tunic. Helier laughed and hugged her back, his muscled arms almost swallowing her. She giggled, and then tipped her head back to rest her chin on his chest. Her lips were pulled back into a gap toothed smile. Althea wrinkled her nose. “You stink, Heli.”

“You try walking across the city in this heat.” He gestured to the alleyway behind him, cobbles drenched in afternoon sunshine. “Not all of us waste our coin on rose oils.”

“It’s not a waste.”

“I beg to differ.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled away, though her smile never faded. “Well, maybe that’s why you’ve not found a wife yet.” Althea swallowed, and then licked her lips. “Thank you for coming. Mama doesn’t want to go anywhere near them, and it’s just…” she trailed off.

“Too much?” Helier offered, and she nodded, already turning back through the doorway.

The air within the workshop was mercifully cool as he followed her inside. In all the years their father had hid away in this room, it had scarcely changed. It was a brickwork box, walls coated in a layer of pale, flaking green. In the middle of the room sat a heavy wooden table, covered in half washed pallets, dirty rags and little pieces of coloured, chipped marble. Althea had already packaged up most of their father’s paints and brushes; an old leather bag spattered with white, black and red paint peered out from beneath the table. A bare wooden staircase clawed its way up into the rafters, draped in cobwebs that had been disturbed but not fully brushed away.

“How is your mama?” Helier shrugged the travelling bag from his back and dropped it just within the hallway, exactly as he had when he was a boy.

“Coping.” She hesitated, and finally her grin slipped. “She doesn’t want to see you, though.” Helier hadn’t expected her to. Althea’s mother had all but wiped her hands clean of him the moment he had left Pompeii for Ostia. He couldn’t blame the woman; after all, she had been forced to raise a child that wasn’t hers by a man who – while all of them loved – none of them liked.

Helier was quick to change the subject. “Your message said you needed to show me one of them?”

“I put them upstairs.” Althea hugged her shawl tight around her. “While I was selling the last of the good ones.”

“Didn’t know he made good ones,” he jabbed back, though both of them knew it wasn’t true.

Their father wouldn’t have been able to afford half of the things they had – the studio, their villa, both of them well-educated with a lifetime of opportunity ahead of them – if he had been bad at his craft.

Helier let Althea lead the way, his sister taking the stairs two at a time, the old wood creaking under her feet. He swept a hand through his own mousy hair, sweat clinging to his fingers. He cringed. He’d let it get too long – his beard too – and compared to Althea in his well-worn beige tunic and ragged sandals, he must have looked like a beggar.

“Are you coming?” Althea called down. Helier shook himself from his stupor and hurried after her.

The studio’s loft was barely a room, so full of half-finished projects that there was scarcely enough room for the pair to stand shoulder to shoulder. It was dark, the weak light of the floor below puddling only a few paces from the last step. Up here the smell of their father was overbearing, and Helier found himself shuffling around his sister, fumbling blindly. He dragged his hands across the walls, knocking against paintings and statues, until cool brick shifted to rough wood. Helier grunted, worming his grip around the old latch he knew was there, and with a heave of effort he forced the shutters open.

Helier had spent the first half of his life in Rome, and while he appreciated the sights and sounds of the city, it could never compare to the peace of that distant mountain. Vesuvius loomed like a storm on the horizon, its grass covered hills curling like the coils of some great serpent. The sky behind it was a rich cerulean, the sun high and bright. Closer, the tiled roofs of the surrounding villas gathered, clumps of moss and climbing vines adorned with little white flowers swaying in the breeze. He had loved this view as a child. He loved it even more as a man. Helier took a deep breath, relishing the taste of the clean air before he turned his attention back to his sister.

Althea was already knee deep in the stacked parchment and canvases their father had left to collect dust. Helier craned his neck, watching as she shoved piece after piece to one side, and then stooped. Without a word she heaved out a half-carved sculpture, the malformed head of a horse appearing beneath her armpit before it was unceremoniously shoved into his stomach. Helier grunted, barely able to get a steady grip before his sister let go and returned to her sorting. It was a well-made piece, even unfinished. Their father had perfectly captured the shape of the mouth, each individual tooth carved from the soft wood in enough detail that, as he ran his fingers across them, he was almost afraid it would bite down.

“This isn’t his usual work,” Helier noted, placing the statue on the floor behind him.

Althea had already heaved up another piece, raising it up over her head with both hands. This one was a length of canvas, still attached to its easel.

“He was taking commissions, anything but painting.”

Helier frowned. “He wasn’t painting?”

“He had to stop. Said he kept seeing things, and that whenever he picked up a brush the daemons seized his fingers. Made him paint awful truths, things that had yet to come…” Althea trailed off and sighed, wiggling the easel. Her arms were shaking, and Helier took it from her before she could have a chance to drop it. She glanced back and forced a weak smile. “I know you weren’t here, but he wasn’t well, at the end.”

I know. Helier choked the words. It wouldn’t do her good to hear it. He had only been on shore leave three times since he had found a ship to take him. The first two, he had returned to dozens of letters, their father ranting and raving about a great fire, brimstone and ash, and both times Helier had written to Althea to confirm there was nothing amiss in the city. The third time, he had arrived to the news of their father’s passing, and he had set off at once for home. Helier turned the easel around, hoping that whatever unfinished piece their father had left would distract him from the memory.

It was a portrait of him.

At least, that was Helier’s initial thought. He had spent enough time with his own reflection that he knew his face. Square chin, high cheekbones, tawny skin and long, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. But the longer he stared, the deeper he scowled. There were little differences; this man had crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. There was a tiny, curved scar, just below his left ear. Helier’s gaze trailed down to the pale green robes cast around the stranger’s shoulders, and his heart stopped. Peeking out from the fabric was a faded tattoo. A thin blue line, shaky, as though completed by an unsteady hand.

Helier swallowed. “Did father say who this was?”

“It was supposed to be you,” Althea replied, and his blood ran cold. The one answer he hadn’t wanted. His sister didn’t even seem to notice the fear that rippled through every fibre of his being. She was practically on her knees, struggling to wiggle out a smaller canvas. “I think he just forgot a lot of details, and was trying to make up for the time. It’s what he thought you would look like, I think.” His sister gave a little satisfied huff as finally she yanked what she was looking for from the stack. She turned around and reached out, motioning for him to help her. Helier stamped the fear down and set the easel to one side, grasping her forearm and heaving her up. Althea frowned as she finally caught sight of his face. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he replied. He gestured to the canvas. “Is this it?”

She nodded, and offered it up to him. “I’ve got no idea why he was painting this, I was hoping you might know. Maybe he said something in his letters, or if it’s from a story or something?”

If the portrait had stirred up the fear in his chest, then this painting brought a crashing wave of dread. The landscape was coloured only in black and red; charcoal drenched the fabric, drawing out the familiar slopes of Vesuvius. The sky was bathed in scarlet, the strokes frantic, coiling and thrashing, caught in a single moment.

Fire.

Fire rained down from the mountain top. Helier turned, trying to hide just how white his knuckles were as he held the painting up to the window. The same view. Exactly the same view. Even the moss and climbing vines across the roofs were identical. Helier shook his head. He must have painted this with the window as a reference. It had to be some sick joke, or perhaps a recollection of a nightmare.

Vesuvius, burning.

“Go to your mama,” he finally commanded, voice gruff. “Pack your bags, enough for a month or so.”

“Heli?”

“You’re both coming back to Ostia with me, just for a few weeks while I sort this out.” He took a shaky breath, and then forced a smile. “If the magistrates see this one there’s going to be questions in regard to father’s state of mind when he passed, and I’d rather you both be away from the fallout.”

“But-“

“I’m the man of the house now, Thea,” he said firmly, and when she frowned, he sighed. “Go, get your mama. Do whatever you need to convince her.”

Slowly, Althea nodded, though he could see from the look on her face she was confused at his outburst. But she allowed him to usher her back to the staircase, and did not protest as he saw her out of the studio. His heart was pounding in his chest hard and fast enough he was terrified she would hear it. That she would see through the tight smile, or feel how he trembled as he hugged her goodbye. He waited until she was out of sight fully before he closed the door and squeezed his eyes shut. Helier sighed, pressing his forehead against the old, rough wood as he tried to gather himself.

It had to be a dream – a nightmare. Their father had always been strange, but Helier had just blamed it on the stress of his profession, and the alcohol he chose to numb it.

The daemons seized his fingers. Made him paint awful truths, things that had yet to come.

Helier tugged down the neck of his tunic, staring blankly at the little blue line drawn shakily across his breastbone. A tattoo he had received as part of a bet with his fellow sailors, one started but not finished; their Captain had come and broken up their drunken hijinks before they could get any further. Tattoos were a mark of barbarity, and he would not have his men partaking in such activities. Not on his ship. And when in the morning Helier had awoken with a clearer mind, he had been so embarrassed he had sworn to never tell anyone about it. He was still embarrassed, enough that the secret remained stuck to his tongue even now. But it was more than that.

Their father had died months ago.

He was dead long, long before that drunken, misguided night. It had to be a coincidence. There was no way he could have known about it. Helier willed himself to move, to return to the room above and confront the portrait. To prove it to be wrong. But his legs refused to listen to him. He placed both palms against the door, trying to force down the panic clawing at his throat. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t return to that cluttered loft. Couldn’t face the truth of it. And so he grabbed his bag and threw it over his back, plunging out into the street. He had to keep himself occupied, and suddenly the thought that Althea’s mama didn’t want to see him no longer mattered. He’d go and help them pack, and then they would leave for Ostia – that day – before the sun set. Bringing them to his home would probably do them some good, get them away, give them time to breathe. The portrait didn’t matter, and if he said it enough, he might start to believe it. The unease had coiled like a viper in his stomach, a little beast that he dared not disturb for fear of what it would do to him. How had their father known? Even if it was a coincidence. Even if it couldn’t have been real.

A great fire, brimstone and ash.

It was better to be safe than sorry.