Heatwave of Portus

The sun dropped low over Portus, turning the endless tide of ships into a molten ribbon of amber. The heat clung to the air like a thick blanket; even the stone steps of the dock seemed to radiate a faint, lingering fire. A low, constant rumble rose from the harbor – the distant groan of cargo cranes, the creak of ropes, the occasional bark of a gull that fell, feather‑slick and motionless, onto the salty sand.

Marcus stood with his back against a weathered pilaster, the edge of his soldier’s cloak damp with sweat. He watched the horizon, where a plume of ash‑gray smoke curled up from the far shore, swallowing the last light. Beside him, Aelia balanced a small wooden box on her knees, its lid half‑open, revealing rolled parchments tied with frayed twine.

“Tell me again why you think these are more than just tax receipts,” Marcus asked, his voice low enough not to carry to the laborers hauling barrels nearby. “You said the margins don’t add up.”

Aelia’s hands were steady despite the tremor in the sky. She brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her face, the wind pulling at the hem of her simple tunic. “It isn’t the numbers,” she said, pulling one document free and flattening it on the cracked stone. “Look at the ink. It’s the same seal the augurs use when they declare a “sacred fire” – a signal to burn, not a signal to protect.”

She pointed to a faint emblem, a stylized flame flanked by a pair of wheat stalks. “Carus wants the grain silos at Ostia ignited. If the stores burn, the price of grain will sky‑rocket. He’ll sell the reserves he’s hoarded to the Senate, then claim he saved the people.”

Marcus leaned in, the scent of brine and acrid smoke filling his nostrils. The sound of a distant crane’s metal clank was swallowed by a sudden, sharp flapping—another gull, its wings sputtering, spiraling down and collapsing onto the pier. A few more followed, their bodies fluttering like torn paper before they hit the ground.

“The birds are… falling,” Marcus muttered, eyes flicking to the dead gulls. “There’s something wrong with the air.”

Aelia’s brow tightened. “The ash from Vesuvius is already drifting over the Bay. The sulfur taste on my tongue isn’t just heat; it’s poison. It makes the birds choke. The same ash will choke the grain if it’s set alight. Carus knows the ash will spread faster than any fire he can light. He’s counting on panic.”

She spread the next sheet, a map of the harbor etched in charcoal. Silhouettes of the grain silos were marked with red Xs. A thin line of black arrows traced a route from the interior of the city to a hidden vent on the shoreline, labeled “ventilatio clandestina.”

“The vent will feed the ash straight into the silos, turning them into furnaces,” Aelia explained, voice steadier now, as if the words themselves could hold back the gloom. “He’s not just stealing grain. He’s planning an economic takeover—turning famine into profit, and the Senate will be too scared to object.”

Marcus felt the weight of the revelation settle in his chest, heavy as the iron chains used to bind cargo. “If this goes through, the whole city could starve. The Senate will crumble under the pressure. We need proof, and we need to get it to Livia before the Senate votes on Carus’s amendment.”

Aelia nodded, her eyes shining with a fierce light that cut through the dimming sky. “I’ve already copied the key passages. Here.” She placed a small, smooth stone tablet into Marcus’s hand. On its surface, a single line of ink glowed a faint amber, the same hue as the setting sun. “Take this to her. Let her read it before the ash settles too deep.”

The dock’s lanterns flickered on, their wicks sputtering as a gust carried a thin veil of ash over the wooden planks. The air grew thicker, the smell of burnt metal mixing with sea spray. Above them, a flock of gulls, now silent, hung in the sky like dark, dead clouds.

Marcus pressed the stone tablet against his palm, feeling its coolness against his skin. He looked at Aelia, seeing both the fear of a mother-to‑be and the resolve of a woman who had already survived too much.

“We’ll stop him,” he said, voice firm despite the trembling in his throat. “We’ll save the grain, the people… and the child that will be yours.”

Aelia’s lips trembled, then curved into a thin smile. “Then let’s move before the sky itself turns to fire.”

Together they turned, stepping away from the dock as the first faint crack of distant thunder rolled over the harbor, a warning that the world was already beginning to burn.

The night had already begun to swallow Portus, but the haze from the volcano made it feel like twilight had been forced into midnight. A thin curtain of ash drifted down in slow, gray ribbons, settling on the wooden planks with a soft, almost reverent hush. The lanterns along the quay sputtered, their flames fighting a losing battle against the sulfur‑tainted wind.

Marcus pulled the stone tablet tighter in his palm, the amber script still glowing faintly against the darkness. He could hear the faint lapping of the water against the pier, the distant clatter of crates being hoisted, and the low, mournful creak of the dock’s old beams. Somewhere a crane groaned, as if the entire harbor sighed under the weight of an unseen doom.

Aelia stood a little farther from the edge, the small wooden box now closed and set aside. Her eyes, wide in the lantern light, reflected more than the flickering flame; they held a trembling secret that seemed to pulse with each breath she drew.

“Marcus,” she began, voice barely louder than the whisper of the sea, “there is… another thing I have to tell you.”

He turned, his soldier’s posture softening as he stepped closer, the stone tablet slipping slightly against his fingers. The ash clung to his cheek, leaving a bitter taste that made him cough. “What is it?”

Aelia’s hand rose, tracing a slow circle on the rough stone of the dock. She seemed to be weighing each movement, as if the very act of speaking could shatter the fragile night. “I… I am with child.” The words fell, thin and fragile, yet they struck the air like a sudden gust of wind that displaced a stray scrap of ash.

For a heartbeat, Marcus felt the world pause. The distant thunder rolled again, a low growl that seemed to echo the sudden tremor in his chest. He stared at her, at the curve of her belly hidden beneath the folds of her simple tunic, at the way her shoulders had drawn tighter, as if guarding a secret too heavy for the night.

“Child?” he whispered, half laughing, half weeping. “In a world that’s turning to ash?”

Aelia’s eyes filled with a quiet fire, a mixture of fear and fierce resolve. “Yes. A child that will need food, shelter, protection… even when the grain silos burn and the city starves.” She swallowed, the sound lost in the hiss of the wind. “I thought I could keep it hidden, but… the heat and the ash have made it obvious. My belly is swollen; my heart beats faster when I think of you, of us, of what might come after all this.”

She stepped forward, closing the distance between them until their palms brushed. The heat from his hand seeped into her skin, a brief, comforting pulse against the chill of the ash‑laden air. He pressed his hand to the small of her back, feeling the faint rise and fall of the unborn life beneath her tunic.

“I can’t promise you safety,” Marcus said, his voice rough, raw, like the rope of a ship caught in a storm. “The world is crumbling around us. Carus will set the grain ablaze, the senate will teeter, and Vesuvius will spit fire. But I can promise I will try—try for the child, for you, for the hope we still hold in these dark hours.”

Aelia’s fingers tightened around his wrist, knuckles white against his leather gauntlet. “We have always survived on small things—on secret letters, on stolen scrolls, on whispered promises beneath the market stalls. This… this is bigger. It is life itself. If we fail, it’s not just us that dies, it is a future that will never be born.”

She lowered her head, letting her breath brush his cheek, tasting faintly of brine and the sharp sting of sulfur. “Marcus, imagine a time when the ash settles, when the city is rebuilt. Imagine our child walking the streets of a Rome that has learned how fragile power truly is. I want that future. I want to see her—our daughter—hold a spoon of bread in a world that has not been reduced to ash.”

His heart hammered, a drumbeat that rose above the distant clang of metal and the soft sigh of the sea. He could feel the weight of the stone tablet in his other hand, the evidence that could topple Carus. Now another weight settled in his chest—the breath of an unborn child, a tiny life that could become a symbol of defiance against the darkness.

“Then we will make a plan,” he said, his tone firming, the soldier in him pushing through the panic. “We take the proof to Livia, we warn the senate, we try to stop the vent that feeds ash into the silos. And after that… after the city is saved, we find a place far enough from the volcano’s wrath where we can raise our child.” He squeezed her wrist, a promise sealed in that brief contact.

Aelia smiled, a thin, trembling line that blossomed into something softer. “There is a small villa on the hill above the Palatine gardens, owned by a friend of mine… a freedwoman who keeps a garden of herbs and figs. It is far from the harbor, away from the smoke. We could hide there, blend with the countryside, let the child grow among olive trees instead of ash.”

He imagined the scene: a tiny toddler chasing sparrows among rosemary, the scent of fresh earth replacing the acrid tang of volcanic dust. The image filled him with a fierce protectiveness that cut through the gloom like a blade.

“Then that is where we go,” Marcus said, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might summon the very fire they feared. “First, Livia. Then the villa. Then… we wait for the sky to clear.”

Aelia leaned her head against his chest, the soft rustle of her hair mixing with the distant roar of the sea. The ash continued to fall, coating the world in a muted veil, but within the narrow dockside alcove, a small pocket of warmth blossomed. Their breath mingled, their hopes tangled like the ropes of the ships moored nearby.

For a moment, the night seemed less oppressive. The lanterns flickered, casting wavering shadows that danced like ancient spirits on the stone walls. The horizon, though still a smear of gray, held a trace of promise—a thin line where the first stars were beginning to pierce the gloom.

Marcus pressed his forehead to the back of Aelia’s neck, feeling the steady thrum of her heart beneath the thin fabric. “We will survive,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, as the scent of sulphur lingered on his tongue. “We will protect the child. And we will keep the city from burning.”

She lifted her eyes, bright with unshed tears, and answered, “Together, Marcus. Together.”

The two stood there, a man with a soldier’s resolve and a woman bearing the future, their silhouettes framed by the waning light of a lantern, the ash swirling like ghostly snow around them. In that intimate, breath‑filled space, the world outside might be on fire, but within their clasped hands, hope clenched tight, refusing to be smothered.