Buried Cities, vol 1, Pompeii | Page 5

or in the country houses. Some were running, running
anywhere to get away. Out of one courtyard dashed a chariot. The
driver was lashing his horses. He pushed them ahead through the crowd.
He knocked people over, but he did not stop to see what harm he had
done. Curses flew after him. He drove on down the road.
Ariston remembered when he himself had been dragged up here two
years ago from the pirate ship.
"This leads to the sea," he thought. "I will go there. Perhaps I shall

meet my master, Tetreius. He will come by ship. Surely I shall find him.
The gods will send him to me. O blessed gods!"
But what a sea! It roared and tossed and boiled. While Ariston looked,
a ship was picked up and crushed and swallowed. The sea poured up
the steep shore for hundreds of feet. Then it rushed back and left its
strange fish gasping on the dry land. Great rocks fell from the sky, and
steam rose up as they splashed into the water. The sun was growing
fainter. The black cloud was coming on. Soon it would be dark. And
then what? Ariston lay down where the last huge wave had cooled the
ground. "It is all over, Caius," he murmured. "I shall never see Athens
again."
For a while there were no more earthquakes. The sea grew a little less
wild. Then the half-fainting Ariston heard shouts. He lifted his head. A
small boat had come ashore. The rowers had leaped out. They were
dragging it up out of reach of the waves.
"How strange!" thought Ariston. "They are not running away. They
must be brave. We are all cowards."
"Wait for me here!" cried a lordly voice to the rowers.
When he heard that voice Ariston struggled to his feet and called.
"Marcus Tetreius! Master!"
He saw the man turn and run toward him. Then the boy toppled over
and lay face down in the ashes.
When he came to himself he felt a great shower of water in his face.
The burden was gone from his back. He was lying in a row boat, and
the boat was falling to the bottom of the sea. Then it was flung up to
the skies. Tetreius was shouting orders. The rowers were streaming
with sweat and sea water.
In some way or other they all got up on the waiting ship. It always
seemed to Ariston as though a wave had thrown him there. Or had
Poseidon carried him? At any rate, the great oars of the galley were
flying. He could hear every rower groan as he pulled at his oar. The
sails, too, were spread. The master himself stood at the helm. His face
was one great frown. The boat was flung up and down like a ball. Then
fell darkness blacker than night.
"Who can steer without sun or stars?" thought the boy.
Then he remembered the look on his master's face as he stood at the
tiller. Such a look Ariston had painted on Herakles' face as he strangled

the lion.
"He will get us out," thought the slave.
For an hour the swift ship fought with the waves. The oarsmen were
rowing for their lives. The master's arm was strong, and his heart was
not for a minute afraid. The wind was helping. At last they reached
calm waters.
"Thanks be to the gods!" cried Tetreius. "We are out of that boiling
pot."
At his words fire shot out of the mountain. It glowed red in the dusty
air. It flung great red arms across the sky after the ship. Every man and
spar and oar on the vessel seemed burning in its light. Then the fire
died, and thick darkness swallowed everything. Ariston's heart seemed
smothered in his breast. He heard the slaves on the rowers' benches
scream with fear. Then he heard their leader crying to them. He heard a
whip whiz through the air and strike on bare shoulders. Then there was
a crash as though the mountain had clapped its hands. A thicker shower
of ashes filled the air. But the rowers were at their oars again. The ship
was flying.
So for two hours or more Tetreius and his men fought for safety. Then
they came out into fresher air and calmer water. Tetreius left the rudder.
"Let the men rest and thank the gods," he said to his overseer. "We
have come up out of the grave."
When Ariston heard that, he remembered the Death he had left painted
on his master's wall. By that time the picture was surely buried under
stones and ashes. The boy covered his face with his ragged chiton and
wept. He hardly knew what he was crying for--the slavery, the