Page 18 of Chasing Caine
And then she chose Pompeii over me.
All the same, watching Samantha discover the Park made me fall for her even harder. I got to witness another of her faces: the giddy little girl, breathless, hand covering her mouth in excitement. I’d spent a great deal of time among the ruins over the years, so I could focus on her while Mario guided us.
He gestured over a short metal gate into one of the houses. It was little more than a rectangular space surrounded by crumbling walls which varied from four to eight feet high, depending on how much survived. Gravel, moss, and weeds covered what was once a floor.
To the uninitiated, most houses in Pompeii were nothing more than that. Many tourists restricted their visits to those with the best frescoes and mosaics, but Mario knew every square inch. “The large stone in the floor, with the heavy ring in it was used—”
Samantha leaned over the gate, snapping a photo with her phone. “To store ice underneath to keep things cold.”
I held the chuckle at bay as best I could. It had been four hours so far, and this scene had replayed itself at least a dozen times. Possibly two dozen. Mario would begin explaining, and Samantha would complete the lesson for him. While she’d never been there, it was clear she’d read a great deal about the ancient city.
“Why am I here?” Mario's hands flew up in my direction as she continued to speak about which mountains the snow could be collected from, the terracotta tiles in the cellar below the stone, and how important cold wine was to the elite of the city.
She stopped taking photos and smiled politely at him. “Because you’re a great guide?”
“Sì, you are.” I took her hand as we began walking again, Mario on her opposite side. “But you should take some lessons from Samantha on what’s interesting here.”
She squeezed my hand lightly and frowned. “When do we get to the real highlight?”
I smirked at her, knowing what she meant, but teasing anyway. “We’ve already seen the Villa of Mysteries, is that it?”
“No, cugino,” said Mario. “She means the Lupanar.”
Samantha laughed, rolling her eyes. “The brothel?”
“That’s what most people want to see.” He winked at her and I let go of her hand to smack the side of his head.
“Marone, I told you to stop winking at her.”
She shook her head. “You two are way too alike. How did that happen when you lived so far apart?”
We rounded a corner onto Via di Nola, once a main artery of the city, heading to the building she wanted to see most. The roadway was only six feet across, made of gray basaltic lava stones. The sidewalk rose on either side, with large stones edging it and a surface of finely crushed gravel. At the cross street before the Casa di Marte, three wide blocks jutted up from the road, like an ancient crosswalk.
I took her hand again and lifted it to my lips. Being there with Samantha, my Roman Art Girl—among all the history I’d spent a lifetime studying and she’d spent a lifetime wanting to visit—was like a dream.
Her eyes continued to scan the ruins as I spoke.
“My parents moved us to Roma when I was five. My mother’s family is from Napoli, so we were here often. Mario and I were born a few months apart, so we spent a lot of time together on those visits.”
Mario nudged her. “He wanted to be with the cool cousin.”
“Back to Michigan for undergraduate, and then when I was in Roma for my master’s, I visited frequently.”
Mario nodded, his gaze dropping to the stones at his feet, silent. Four long years which saw many changes for me. A great deal for the best, others not. I stayed with him each time I was in Napoli, sometimes for school, some as an escape from what my life became. Mario had always been there for me, had always been one of my closest friends. He’d seen me through the worst of everything.
“When I was studying for my doctorate in Delaware, I was back here many times for research. All told, we’ve lived together for—what would you say, Mario?”
“Too long.”
Samantha nudged Mario and my heart warmed to see her becoming more comfortable with him. Granted, Samantha even looking at him was an improvement over how awkward they’d seemed together in the kitchen this morning.
“Two or three years? Perhaps more?” I suggested.
His eyes rose from the stones at our feet, and he pointed to the entry on our left. “We have arrived. Casa di Marte.”
The front was indistinguishable from the buildings on either side of it. They were not free-standing and independent, but more a continuous rambling structure, broken only at the cross-streets and alleyways. The walls facing the road were seven to eight feet high, small gray stones wedged together and reinforced at the entries with thin red brick.
The Casa di Marte had three entrances. One on an alley to its left, one through fallen walls on its right, and a space which opened onto the street. The last was excavated decades ago, the standard short gate blocking tourists from entering.