The Gods Decide

Words by Joyce Bingham

Art by Kaci Ellison

Tongue between her teeth, Statia added the final touches to the fresco, satisfied that the evidence of the last earthquake was now hidden beneath her delicate brushstrokes. Light was fading fast and the gods had decided that the fresco was complete. She put down her loaded paintbrush. 

“Let me see, Statia.” Her father pushed her aside. She swallowed a moan of pain from his last beating as she steadied the oyster shell containing the few remaining drops of purple. He tutted and, with his nose almost touching the wall, scrutinised her work.

“Adequate,” he muttered. “Clean up.” As Statia moved towards the floor brush, he struck her arm. “No, no, no. Get the boy to do it.”

Statia nodded. “Gaius, start brushing. I will help when I have tidied up the paint pots and brushes.” 

As she placed pot after pot into the wooden case, she looked back at her work. She’d filled cracks, polished the mortar with marble chips and refreshed the old frescoes. The mistress would be delighted. The style was modern (just like in Rome), the figures lifelike, and she had included the mistress’s features into the face of the muse.

Her father shooed her outside where she made a fuss of their mule. With his seven-year-old strength, Gaius helped her to load the wooden box onto one side of the basket-weave pannier. Into the other side she placed compasses, squares, sketches, and plumb lines along with the brushes and the precious box of ground paint ingredients. Statia returned to the atrium to check if everything was loaded. The overseer was speaking to her father, and she held back, listening.

“You have painted these frescos as well as you promised, Alleius. Here is the agreed sum.” Statia heard a purse jingling with coins.

“I have given your name to the baker, Verus. He has work for you.”

Statia moved, surefooted, to the mule before her father arrived outside. She placed his fingers on its mane and in his other hand, she placed his staff.

She clucked and pulled on the short reins until the mule started its reluctant clopping. Gaius took her hand and together the three moved through the cobbled streets towards their apartment.

* * *

“Husband, how was today?” Lunia led Alleius to a seat and placed a wet cloth over the redness of his eyes. There were rivulets of tears on his cheeks. 

“My patron was delighted with my work. So much so she gave me the agreed sum in person.” 

Statia raised one eyebrow at his lies. Not one mention of her hard work. She continued cleaning her brushes and stacking the pots of paint. Her father seethed with resentment as her skill grew while his diminished. Leaning her head against the cool wall she breathed deeply to stop herself erupting. Fatigue and anger trembled under her eyelids. Wiping her tears away with a paint cloth she smeared color across her nose.

“I’m sorry, my love, that we had to come here.” Alleius said to Lunia. His thin fingers, each joint swollen, showed every scar from his years of preparation of walls and the grinding of pigments. 

Statia wanted to shout; We needed to come here because a painter must go to where the wealthy want their frescoes painted. Instead, she gave a watery smile, showing an impassive face to her family, but anger made her hands shake.

“Where is my grandson?” Lunia asked, “Did you leave him behind?”

“I am here.” Gaius appeared from beneath the table, his brown tunic dusty and paint streaked. He brandished a wooden sword.

“Careful! You are not a gladiator yet.” Lunia grabbed him and hugged him tight.

“When can I start gladiator training, Grandma? I’m nearly eight.”

“Some people are born to be gladiators, and some people like grandpa and your mother are born to be painters. And you, my darling Gaius, are born to be a painter too.”

“You mean I can paint as well as clean up?” Gaius’s eyes gleamed.

Lunia laughed. 

Statia laid out food, and they huddled together, whispering, falling silent when the neighbour’s footsteps came close to their shared wall.

“I put this food on our account at the bar. We owe two sesterces now. I thought he would refuse, he muttered so much under his breath. Alleius, you must pay our bill, or we may never eat again.”

“I will, my dear,” he kissed her, and put his arm around her thin shoulders. “We are to visit Verus, the baker, tomorrow to discuss what frescoes he wants. It is a good recommendation.”

“Husband, this is good news. You know the laundry that cleans expensive robes next door to the bakery? Verus has taken it over. He is building a reception area between the two shops,” Lunia said as she slipped another morsel of bread onto Alleius’s plate from her own.

“The laundry! That’s a money-making venture. So that’s how they can afford all this expenditure.” He signalled to Statia to pour more wine.

“Who are they hoping to impress?” Lunia shook her head.

“Verus is trying to be elected a magistrate, of course. There are election slogans all over, Verus for Aedile. Give him your vote!”

“That explains why he wants more frescoes,” Statia said, “and at least he is giving us the work.”

“To the baker, Aulus Rustius Verus, may he pay well.” Alleius spat on the floor.

* * *

“And here in reception we want welcoming frescoes, with subtle hints at our products and services.” Clodia Veri waved her hand at the bare walls of the reconstructed room. To their right they could hear the calls of the men working in the bakery, to their left the thumping of wet cloth and the running water of the laundry.

“How about a fresco of a platter of food, to reflect your generous hospitality, with wine and fruit and perhaps a painting of your famous cheese bread?”

Clodia Veri clapped her hands. “That would be perfect. And …”

“An image of you and your husband, studious and reliable?”

“That would be most pleasing.”

Statia looked on in admiration at her father. When he was in the right mood, he could enchant any woman with his soft words and ability to conjure up his clients’ dreams.

“You can start as soon as possible?”

“Yes, I can start the preparatory work for the walls now.”

She flicked her fingers and a man in a yellow tunic stained with grease and dusted with flour appeared at her side.

“I will leave you to … coordinate.” She gave Statia a smile as she turned to the private quarters behind the reception room, her green linen gown a bright colour amongst the hues of grey plaster and terracotta building materials.

“The wall has already been prepared with three layers of mortar, and three layers of slaked lime and crushed marble. You and your two assistants …” the overseer paused and looked Statia and Gaius up and down, “… will have to smooth the wall.”

“Come Statia, I will begin, there is no time to lose.”

* * *

Statia painted the border of the fresco; the deep red infused the mortar well. As she applied the second coat, the wall trembled. Through her sandals, she felt the floor move, and almost lost her balance. She yelped and put down the paintbrush.

Behind her she could hear tip tappy footsteps.

“Where is your father today?”

Statia turned and smiled at Clodia Veri.

“I’m painting the borders in preparation for his arrival. The master painter will approve these and I will begin transferring his sketch for him.” Statia swayed against the wall as a tremor rippled through. A few flakes of plaster fell on Clodia Veri’s pristine robe.

“Is there going to be an earthquake?” Statia asked.

“This is normal for this area, this shaking. It happens occasionally; we had an earthquake eighteen years ago. Just hope that doesn’t happen again. Your father may not get paid if the mortar cracks.” Clodia Veri smiled. “I note your father doesn’t do much painting. Are you the famous fresco painter from Puteoli?” 

“My father instructs me.” Statia watched as a slave woman brushed away the dust off Clodia Veri’s shoulders.

“I believe it is your own artistic skill which made Alleius so much money recently.”

Clodia Veri’s eyes stared deep into Statia’s own.

 “I … I am the assistant.”

“I will not tell Verus, but you must assert yourself. I can see your anger bubbling up. It will only destroy you. Talk your father into a partnership, that is what I have done with Verus.” As she spoke, a thunderclap resounded through the building.

The ground shook, clay pots of paint rattled and danced inside the wooden box. Statia startled, pulled Gaius to her. 

“Mama, stop it.” He wriggled away to complete the mixing of more red pigment.

“It is of no matter; the mountain is simply proclaiming the Festival of Vulcan. Continue.”

“I have a completed sketch of you and your husband. Perhaps you would like to see?” Statia unrolled her sketch and displayed it to Clodia Veri who leaned over, her bejewelled fingers holding her gown away from the parchment.

“I am pleased to see you have given me the stylus, and I think I need to be holding a wax tablet too. My husband looks studious with the scroll. You can keep that in.”

“Of course, I will inform my father of your approval.”

From the open door to the street, Statia heard her father curse the mule as he tethered it in the space underneath the sweeping steps to the building. The noise from the mountain was frightening the animal. It was Gaius and Statia the mule obeyed, but her father insisted he must be its master. As he barged in, a swirl of ash flakes settled around the door. He held a few pots in his swollen fingers, staring blankly, his eyes unfocused. His left eye was as white as a hen’s egg; the brown of the iris of his right was fading too. 

“Madam, how are you? This building is looking more beautiful every day, but it will never be as beautiful as its mistress.”

Statia shook her head and returned to her work; the fresco must be complete before this section of plaster dried, and the temperature was rising. 

“Don’t forget, painter, we pay for your renowned artistic skill and not your assistant’s.” Clodia Veri glided towards the private chambers, rocking as the wave of a tremor passed through.

“Of course, Madam.”

Alleuis hissed at Statia, “What have you been saying?” He pinched her arm.

Statia squirmed then continued painting, “Nothing, Father. She is the one asking questions. She has approved the sketch of her and her husband and has suggested a minor improvement, which I can handle.”

He glared at her, then thrust past her to put his face close to her work.

“Make haste before she comes back. Prepare the wall for an outline of the food fresco too. These must be finished tomorrow; I’ve received another commission in the next town. We’ll leave soon.” Behind Alleuis another thunderclap sounded, and a paint pot fell and smashed on the floor. Statia slapped on the red paint border as she seethed under her father’s gaze.

* * *

Statia stood back and observed the fresco of the baker and his wife. It was one of the finest she had done. A glow of satisfaction spread over her weary shoulders. Yesterday her father had frowned and her heart skipped a beat as he sighed, “You will never be as good as me.” With this fresco she hoped the Verus family would recognise her as the artist. She startled as Clodia Veri spoke behind her.

“Ah, that is completed. I am pleased. I hope you—your father makes as good a job of the food fresco. We are going to Puteoli for a few days. She will supervise you.” An older house slave sidled up, a glint in her dark eyes. She wore a clean brown tunic and a leather slave collar, the brand of the house Verus on her upper arm. 

“Everyone! Attention!” Verus called, rattling his staff against a metal plaque as a tremor shook the walls, dislodging dust from the ceiling.

Into the reception room came the laundry master, the baker, and the overseer.

“You will continue to work. These earth tremors are normal and not something to be concerned about. You freemen, remember, no work … no payment.” He looked around him. “Any issue, she will help.” He gestured to the slave woman.

He nodded and with Clodia Veri, their gaggle of children and assorted slaves, he strode out of the building. More ash entered the open door and it made a few of the men cough as it coated the floor. Statia scowled when a large flake stuck to her brush.

“You heard Verus,” the laundry master shouted behind him, “back to work.”

“It’s the festival of Vulcan tomorrow. We need to get as many loaves out as we can,” the baker screamed to his team as he left the reception room.

Statia was relieved she could freely paint this part of the wet intonaco she had added earlier, as it would soon dry out in this heat. She must work faster. Her heart sank that she may not be recognised as the artist if the family left. With a deep breath, she sniffed away some tears as she outlined the food, a silver platter, and a cup of wine with succulent fruit. To the left she added in the new dish of the Verus bakery: a thin bread baked with cheese on top.

A clattering against the cobbles outside drew the baker out. He grunted when he saw it was not his delivery wagon. Statia almost dropped her brush when her father rushed in, his shoulders dusty and his hair covered in ash.

“I have hired a mule and cart, at great expense. Your mother and me are leaving for the next town. We will prepare lodgings. You and Gaius will follow us with our mule when you have completed the work here.” He staggered as a tremor rippled through.

As Alleius packed up the paint supplies, he cracked and smashed a few. Statia winced. Leaving only what Statia required, he motioned her to come close. 

“Don’t forget the payment for my work before you leave.”

“My work Father, my work.” Statia managed to stutter out.

“What did you say girl? I care for you, protect you and this insolence is how you repay me. Get back to work, or you and Gaius will have no roof over your head.” Alleius made to slap her, but Statia dodged him and began collecting more of the pots she no longer needed. At the cart, she passed up the box of paints to Lunia. The ash was falling like snow on mountain passes. 

“See you in Herculaneum,” Lunia called. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

When the cart had rounded the corner, the ground trembled, and the mountain shot out a further thunderbolt. Ash was covering every surface, growing thicker with every passing minute. The heat pushed down; she could feel it pressing into her skin as every flake landed. Below her their tethered mule kicked at the wooden rail; it was foaming at the mouth.

“Gaius, give the mule some water and try to calm it down. I have a few hours still to work before the plaster dries out, then we can leave and follow Grandpa.” 

“Yes, Mama.”

A deafening booming noise filled the air, hurting her ears. Statia saw the mountain had a cloud above it, dark and spreading upwards like a tree. She pulled Gaius to her and drew him back into the reception room. Men streamed out from the laundry and a few from the bakery pushed towards the front door.

The slave woman called to the men, shooing them back to their work. “Mistress said you must not leave. She had me prepare a feast for you of pig and chicken. I will serve it now.” A few men snuck along the wall and, with wide eyes, they slipped out of the door. Others, their stomachs empty, waited.

The food was served on Verus’s elaborate marble table. The slave woman flicked away flakes of ash as she placed a stack of wooden bowls for them to use. Gaius had never seen so much food and he gobbled the chicken, grease dripping from his chin. Outside small pieces of stone, light and sharp, were falling with the ash.

Statia’s skin itched with the heat and the air seemed strange; something was catching in her throat. The brush made indents against her fingers, red stains now below ochre and purple. She worked in a frenzy, anxious to finish. The expensive blue pigment, made up in an oyster shell, was laid out ready to use. The tip of the brush soaked up the colour, and she outlined and emphasised, making sure the blue was clearly visible. Verus expected her to display his wealth. 

If her father’s fingers were not so sore, and he was not so blind, they could’ve stayed in Puteoli and her experience as his assistant there would have been an opening for her own work. They would not be stuck here in Pompeii with its rich villas and mean masters. She completed the last of the expensive pigment and stood back to admire the fresco. Again, the gods had determined the fresco was complete, as the light was gone. The storm outside had taken the daylight, stones tinkling onto the roof above. The oil lamps the slave woman provided did little in the gloom. Statia put down her brush.

“Gaius, clear up, I have finished.” He smiled and began brushing, even as ash swirled around his ankles.

The thundering of the stones on the roof became louder. The constant drumming brought out more of the men who sidled out into the street. Statia went to look out of the front door. The sky was thunderous and lightning strikes lit up the street.

She gasped; the stones were now so deep they’d reached the front step of the shop. The mule was up to its shoulder. It gave a scream of fear as occasional larger stones hit it along its back. There was nothing she could do for it. She watched a couple of men, white with ash, staggering up to their thighs, pushing their way along the street deep with debris. The stones would cover her and Gaius if they ventured out carrying the precious paints. She must find them a secure place until all of this stopped. 

Inside the reception room Statia grabbed the slave woman. “We need somewhere safe inside the house,” she shouted.

“Mistress said I must watch you and protect this house from your thieving.” The slave shouted back. 

“Look outside you fool! We are trapped here.”

The slave screamed when she saw the debris and fell to her knees, holding her hands up to the shrine by the door. 

“The gods have forsaken us again. The earthquake is upon us.” She howled to the darkened sky.

Statia pulled her up. “Where in this house is safe?” she cried.

“There is a strongroom. The master had it constructed to stop thieves. It has a stone roof. But I can’t let you in there. You will steal.”

“Where is it? We need to be safe. Join us.” A corner section of the new roof caved in over the fresco of the baker and his wife, and a stream of stones plummeted down, a cloud of ash rising over the remains of the feast.

“Come.” Coughing, the slave opened a door and pushed Gaius and Statia through. Cramped with wooden boxes, they huddled together. One feeble oil lamp burned; its flame flickered and span before their eyes as ash and a foul-smelling wind pushed through tiny cracks. The slave woman howled and cried in a language Statia did not understand. Above them, the cascade of stones was deafening against the roof. A roaring began. It shook the walls of the room and their very bones. The three held each other, Gaius in the middle.

“I love you, my darling Gaius.” Statia kissed his forehead as the gods decided they were complete and above them the roof gave way.

About the author

Joyce Bingham is a Scottish writer whose work has appeared in publications such as Flash Frog, WestWord, Molotov Cocktail, Raw Lit, and Sci-fi Shorts. She lives in Manchester, U.K. When she’s not writing, she puts her green fingers to use as a plant whisperer and Venus fly trap wrangler.

About the artist

Kaci Ellison, a mother of two children from rural Western Kentucky, lives in a log home on ten acres of forest. The homestead is also home to bunnies, chickens, a cat, and a dog. An art major from Murray State University, she works as a home designer for Champion Homes. Her hobbies include gardening, illustrating, hunting, fishing, running, and watching her children play sports. Kaci is enchanted by nature. She loves bird watching. Sunrises and sunsets remind her everyday is a new beginning. Kaci is passionate believer in God. She believes everyday kindness is the lifeblood of our own happiness.