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Prologue to Roman Ice

This prequel replaces the original, more lengthy version. Here, Agrippa gets straight into action. The box of scrolls features more clearly, and the horror of Mount Vesuvius' wrath is more keenly felt.

Prologue

Herculaneum, Campania

Roman Empire

79 CE

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Martinus Petronius poured over the contract in his mining company’s office. He’d arrived just after sunrise to work distraction-free as the client's demands had got ridiculous. The late summer day warmed as the sun slanted across his table.

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A tremor rattled the building, cascading dust from the wooden ceiling. He brushed it off the papyrus while concentrating on a difficult phrase. A knock interrupted him. 

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"What?" He spat with the friendliness of a viper. 

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A centurion from Rome stepped in. "Where is Agrippa Cicero?”

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Martinus looked around the cluttered room—scrolls lay on every flat surface. “Not here.” He snorted and returned to his work.

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The man strode forward and plunged a dagger into the contract.

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"Hey!" Martinus looked up.

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"Gaius Suetonius Paulinus requires Cicero in Rome. Tell me his location. Now!” 

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“Last I saw him was at his villa this morning. He told me he was going sailing." He gave the centurion directions to the villa and refocused on the contract.

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Another knock.

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Martinus threw up his hands. “By the gods. What now?"

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A junior employee with a sheepish grin said, “Delivery for you, Sir.”

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Martinus clapped his hands together. "It's here."

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He ran past the staffer to a cart parked out front. Its driver waited by a donkey and, upon seeing Martinus, walked to the cart and pulled back a canvas.

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 “It’s beautiful!" Martinus ran a hand over its bronze surface. The stout cube measured just shy of two feet a side. Its once-polished surface had a greenish patina and black streaks.

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The driver lifted the heavy lid and exposed a handful of scrolls. Heavy bronze covered ebony wood three fingers thick. The papyri had a toasted smell and a more brittle texture but had survived.

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"As you requested, I tested it in a blacksmith’s fire for one cycle of the water clock.”

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 "Excellent." Martinus reached into his tunic and paid the man. He hefted it, estimating it weighed thirty Roman pounds, and returned to his office.

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The earth shook again.

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"Third time today,” said the employee, his voice pitching two octaves higher than normal. “It’s just like the terrae motus that destroyed the city fifteen years ago.”

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“You weren’t even born. Get back to work," said Martinus, then decided the kid was scared and added in a lighter tone. "It's just Neptune and Vulcan having fun at our expense.”

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Agrippa burst through the door. "They're at the house!”

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Martinus sighed. It seemed the world conspired against his getting the contract done before noon. He put the papyrus aside. "I know. I told them where you live."

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"It's about this letter,” said Agrippa, reaching into his tunic. “Suetonius wants me in Rome, but I'm done. I thought this ended with Nero."

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Martinus extended a hand for the letter and read it:

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I require you in Rome. It has been restored to its pre-Nero calm. Besides, the civil war killed everyone who remembers you were his closest friend.

Emperor Vespasian has repaired most of the damage caused by the war and is constructing new buildings. I think the Flavian Amphitheater would fascinate you. They say it will seat 50,000.

I need you to train the men of Europa in your special line of work. The emperor is eager to increase the lead and gold supply. Britannia’s frontier is weak at the Caledonian border. 

I renovated your old villa; it awaits you and Sabina. My centurion guard will protect you.

Yours in friendship,

Gaius Suetonius Paulinus

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"This doesn't sound bad,” he said, laying it on the table. “Besides, I thought you liked the exploration. You've been restless since Nero died.”

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They’d met a quarter-century ago when Agrippa was on a teenage adventure with Nero, and fate landed them in Martinus’ workshop. Agrippa fell in love with his daughter, Sabina, and stayed, joining Martinus’ mining operation. Nero became a source of lucrative contracts, and their venture grew prosperous. But it required Agrippa to travel far across the empire for a decade.

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"I did. I do. But these bastards don't want me to explore. They want me to produce quotas. I'm done with that," he said, noticing the strongbox.

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A month ago, he suggested to Martinus that they protect their most valuable research in case of fire. Agrippa discovered deep tunnels under Vesuvius and Etna and similar tunnels in Gaul during his explorations. Their walls had flow marks, as if carved by water.

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But he’d found no evidence of moisture, especially near Etna, where the tunnels grew hot and choked with noxious air. After reading Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura and its descriptions of fire and winds beneath the earth, he proposed a wild idea:

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“What if molten rock formed the tunnels?”

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He recorded observations during their ensuing projects and often argued the theory with Martinus. Agrippa had been summarizing their research on a series of scrolls, and Martinus commissioned the strongbox to safeguard them.

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He went to a basket loaded with the scrolls, worked the lid off the box, and arranged the scrolls inside. As he replaced the heavy lid, a voice yelled from the other room.

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“Out of my way!” The centurion barged through. "Cicero! Why are you avoiding us?"

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"I'm not. How can I be of service?"

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"Suetonius requires your presence in Rome."

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“Yes. I know. I have his letter."

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The ground shook again, more violently this time. Agrippa braced himself on a table. More dust rained down.

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The centurion ignored the quake. “You’ve had it for weeks. We leave today. Your wife is packing you things.”

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"But—“

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"Your partner can do without you for a time."

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Agrippa knew better than to argue with Rome. When it beckoned, you answered—hesitation led to a shorter lifespan.

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“Go,” said Martinus. “I’ll look after Sabina until you come back for her.”

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They embraced, and Agrippa followed the centurion to his villa.

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###

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Just after midday, Martinus jolted upright as the building convulsed. A vase shattered, and the air filled with a sulfurous stench. He stood. The ground heaved beneath him. People screamed and dogs barked as a tremendous roar rattled everything. He stumbled to the window, eyes widening at the darkened sky.

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"By the gods!" he gasped, clutching his chest. Vesuvius vomited fire and rock into a monstrous column of black and orange.

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An explosion tore the mountaintop, ejecting fireballs that annihilated swaths of buildings. Heat drove him back. In moments, a sonic wave pounded the city. Martinus’ ears rang from the deafening noise.

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No history had described this, but he knew what was happening. Their theories proposed it. He ran to evacuate his family.

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Ash and pumice rained down—ankle-deep in places, making it difficult to run. Smoke from hundreds of fires filled the air as stricken people crammed the healing houses.

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Martinus got to their villa. Sabina had gathered his grandsons in the grand room. “Where’s Agrippa?”

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“He left hours ago with the centurion.”

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Martinus herded them to the harbor, where they queued for getaway boats. He turned back toward the city.

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“Where are you going?” Sabina grabbed his arm.

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“To get the strongbox,” he said.

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“Leave it!”

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“I can’t. It’s our life’s work. I’ll be back before the boats arrive.”

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Sabina turned to her eldest. “Marcus, go with your grandfather.”

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Martinus grabbed a board and handed one to Marcus. “Here, protect yourself.”

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They ran toward the mining office for the precious box of scrolls. Bodies struck by volcanic debris lay in the open streets. A volcanic bomb incinerated a man running the other way. Martinus covered his nose against the burnt flesh. The heat wave forced them into a building. 

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“Grandfather, there’s no time!” Marcus shouted over the cacophony, shielding himself with the splintered board.

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“We make time.” Martinus plunged back into the chaos, eyes burning from the acrid smoke.

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They reached the mining office, and Martinus searched for a scrap of papyrus.

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“We have to go, Grandfather.” Marcus pleaded as rocks smashed the roof tiles. One blasted through, still smoking.

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“No, this contains all of our research.” Martinus scribbled on the papyrus. He placed the note in the strongbox a minute later, closed the lid, and carried it outside.

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A sickly orange light cast everything in ruin. They choked on the caustic air. Marcus shielded his grandfather’s head as they moved toward the docks, though the thickening ash made it impossible to see.

Vesuvius roared. They turned.

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The towering ash column collapsed, folding into itself and birthing a black, boiling cloud. The sky bled red as the pyroclastic surge thundered down, vaporizing everything in its path.

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Martinus staggered. The air scorched his throat and lungs. He tried to speak—I—but no words came. Every breath was agony. His arms blistered, skin bubbling in the searing heat.

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“Grandfather! In here.” Marcus wrenched open a door, shoving him inside and slamming it shut.

The building shook.

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Martinus’ vision blurred. The pain! His stomach twisted, nausea overpowering. He clutched the box, the only thing that mattered.

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The door exploded, ripping Marcus into the inferno. For a fraction of a second, he was there—eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream—before the fire took him.

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Martinus collapsed on the strongbox, wailing, but the death wave swallowed all sound as the maelstrom obliterated the walls.

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Then—nothing.

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