A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii by Kate Quinn, Ben Kane, Stephanie Dray, Michelle Moran, E. Knight, Sophie Perinot, Vicky Alvear Shecter Read Free Book Online Page A

just to make the pain stop—would then be whipped and possibly crucified. I tried to imagine Uncle’s secretary or Mother’s hairdresser being tortured and my stomach clenched in disgust. And all for Prima, who had pretended to care for me but had only barely tolerated me for my coin. Again, shame clogged my throat. How, how could I have been so stupid?
    “I am more sorry than I can say, Uncle,” I finally managed. “I will accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate for my foolishness.”
    Uncle snorted and shook his head as if there were no punishment strong enough. I couldn’t blame him, really—I deserved his disdain. If I were exiled or disowned, I would just have to learn to handle it. Perhaps such a hardship would finally harden me into a man.
    “I believe,” Uncle said with one of his breathy, wheezing sighs. “That the memory of the slave-girl’s cruelty—which I can tell you, you will never forget—is probably punishment enough.”
    I blinked. “But …”
    “Gaius, every man has at least one Prima in his life. Usually the first. She is aptly named.”
    Swallowing hard, I cleared my throat. “You aren’t going to—I mean, I thought you would—“
    “Tell you that I had never shamed myself for an unworthy girl?”
    “Well, yes,” I said in confusion. “I cannot imagine you with a girl like Prima.”
    “Then you lack imagination. Over my long life, I have had several. The worst, however, was a girl in Germania.” He shook his head again, this time with a sad smile.
    “What happened?” I prompted.
    “It was during our campaigns there,” he began. “The legions hired a great many local weavers to make heavier tunics for us before the snows came on. Gods, Sigihild—that was her name—was a beauty. Buxom redhead with a smattering of freckles across her nose and a sway in her hips that always left me weak in the knees.”
    “What happened?”
    “I professed my undying love to her. She married a local villager. The butcher, I think.” He smirked. “But not before taking every ounce of salt and coin I possessed—which I eagerly turned over to spend time in her bed. I would have stolen for her too if it had ever occurred to me to do so. She knew what she was doing, though. She was a smart girl.”
    “And I couldn’t have been more foolish,” I said. To my horror, a sob nearly broke free my throat but I swallowed it back. Just barely.
    Uncle watched me very carefully.
    He nodded. “Good. A true Roman never lets his emotions take possession of his dignity. You are doing better than I ever did.”
    I raised my eyebrows.
    He laughed ruefully. “I sobbed like a baby when I learned of my German girl’s marriage. And in front of my men too,” he added with a shudder. He gave me a sidelong look. “Close your mouth, Gaius. A gull may try to build a nest in there if you’re not careful.”
    Snapping my teeth shut, I continued staring at him, incredulous.
    He shook his head, smiling at a memory I’d have thought unbearable for a man of his gravitas . “As a result of my less than impressive response, I was sent to the swamplands to build canals during the Chauci campaigns. I had to win back my dignity somehow. And I was twenty-three, not seventeen, so I should have known better.”
    For the life of me I could not picture my giant, strapping uncle sobbing over a girl. And in uniform no less. In front of other men! I stared dumbly out to sea for a long time.
    “So what is your plan for taking care of the situation?” Uncle asked.
    I stared blankly at him.
    “What will you do to ensure that you do not fall into this trap again?”
    Groaning, I rubbed the uninjured side of my face. What could I do? Already I’d had to fight the temptation to throw myself at Prima’s feet and beg her to forget my foolishness and bring me back to her bed. Yet I couldn’t humiliate myself like that again and hope to ever hold my head up.
    “Well,” I began, clearing my throat, “I can begin by trying