Written in Stone

She had promised she would never do it again.

But the allure was stronger than her resolve. The moment of unearthing another part of a story, of finding another puzzle piece, was intoxicating. It was addicting. The hours spent under the unforgiving Italian sun were worth every bead, every tile, every scrap of a memory that belonged to a long-forgotten past.

And when the pieces all finally fit together...that was the most gratifying feeling in the world.

“Our system has been able to accurately reconstruct what lies beneath the ash.” With a wave of his hand, Professor McConnell revealed the imagined figure of a young woman who had perished in the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD. It was understood that the extreme heat would have completely vaporized the body’s tissues within seconds.

This woman’s skull was severely fractured, a common occurrence among the bodies of Pompeii. The intensity of the heat turned their brain tissues to glass, causing the skull to rupture. Leah had believed the constant exposure to such skeletons would have numbed the horror, but the pain was fresh each time. She still struggled to understand how her colleagues could be so nonchalant.

The figure gazed down intensely from the screen, meeting Leah’s eyes. They were two dark pools, nearly identical in color to the ash that cocooned her body. Soft gold ringlets indicated that she was most likely a slave or a prostitute or both. The two were rarely mutually exclusive.

“Cassia,” she heard Professor McConnell say. “Brought as a child to Pompeii, she served the Sabinus family for many years before buying her freedom.”

Leah cringed. ‘Served’ was far too weak to describe the life this woman would have endured.

“More importantly, we have discovered that she had a friendship with several of the women working in the Lupanar. On many of the walls in the brothel you’ll find lists of services and approximate prices,” with a wave of his hand, he changed the screen to a picture of a crumbling stone pillar. “There were four women, believed to be Cassia’s companions, that would exchange services for writing instruction. According to some preserved accounts, Cassia became known as an aspiring poeta. Unfortunately, we don’t have any documentation of her work, if it exists.”

It seemed unfair for dozens of erotic frescoes to survive Pompeii while this woman’s poetry was lost to time. The only words that survived were those written in stone. Across Pompeii, modern visitors could still see the remnants of ancient graffiti. The walls spoke to the humor and humanity of the early city. It ranged from sage advice such as “Theophilus, don't perform oral sex on girls against the city wall like a dog” to simple proclamations that “We two dear men, friends forever, were here.” Throughout her years in archeology, Leah had discovered the simple truth that most people’s deepest desire was for their existence to mean something. Something worth remembering.

She quietly slipped out of the conference room as Professor McConnell was giving his last remarks. In the bathroom, she ran her hands under the cool water, sprinkling her face and neck.

She had promised that she would never do it again.

Stealing the denarii had been easy enough; the museum had collections of old, restored coins. She tied a small satchel around her waist. Finding suitable clothing was more challenging. The fabrics available were all obvious products of the industrialization and much different than anything they would have had available. She couldn’t afford to arouse any suspicion. Her olive skin would already raise questions that would be difficult to answer. Compared to the paintings she knew, she looked like a foreigner.

The bed sheets would have to work. At least for now. When she arrived, she’d purchase a proper tunic. Modern shoes, however, would be impossible to explain. Barefoot it is.

Leah had discovered early on that if you looked like a foreigner, you needed a solid backstory. Luckily, the Greek population boasted a notably greater variance in skin tone. It wasn’t uncommon for Greeks to immigrate to Italy and vice versa. She settled on the name Aurelia, a good, standard Roman name, and the surname Stephanus would indicate that her family was from Greece. Knowing both Greek and Latin would help.

It was good enough. It had to be.

Ideally, she’d arrive as the sun was rising, waking the people of Pompeii. As she slipped through the streets of the ruins, she checked the penny-sized bronze pocket watch that rested just under her breastbone. It was the first gift from The Guild. Keeping track of time was imperative, especially for this trip. Leah knew if she wanted Cassia’s work to survive, it would have to be a week or so before the eruption. Otherwise, some wiseass might deface it or worse, destroy it. As soon as it was done, she would return. There had been too many close calls. Almost being burned at the stake in Salem after teaching a young woman to read. Nearly getting trafficked on a trip to Morocco. But the greatest challenge was leaving the past. She had promised that she’d never do it again. But she couldn’t resist it.

The sun was beginning to peak from behind the hills, illuminating the steps of the Temple of Apollo. Centrally located, it was the smartest place to crossover. And a place where a woman would be expected in the morning. Quietly, she knelt behind a column and plunged her hands into the dry earth.

“All you have to do is imagine the time and place. See it clearly written. And then focus, with your whole being, on the words.” She imagined herself a week before the eruption. Visualize it.

“Leah?!” Professor McConnell’s voice cut through her concentration. As the world around her began to blur, she caught sight of the professor running towards her. “Leah what in God’s name -”

Blink.

Suddenly, the cold, lifeless ruins had become a warm, vibrant metropolis, preparing for a day of work. The street neighboring the temple was filled with market stalls. Leah gathered her 300 thread count tunic and set out to purchase a better one, as well as some sandals. Her Latin was good, if a little clunky. A kind, older gentleman sold her a cream tunic with dark blue trim and a matching headscarf to keep the sun off her head. The sandals were thin, but would be better than nothing. Ducking into an empty alley, she quickly completed the switch and tucked the sheet behind a column. She’d have to return for it on her way out. The sweet smell of bread led her back to the market for a quick bite before she began her race to find Cassia.

As a young, promising archaeologist, Leah had been an easy recruit for The Guild. Their mission was simple: to rescue history. Particularly the narratives of those who had been systematically excluded or erased from it. The mysticism of it still confused Leah, but whatever it was, it worked. She was slow to believe it until she found herself in Algeria in 1612.

Although she didn’t understand the mechanics of the system, she understood the rules. Members of The Guild swore a solemn oath not to drastically alter history. Yes, every interaction had a butterfly effect, but usually not one that would set off monumental changes. It meant watching people die, allowing them to make decisions that would ruin their lives. Changing historical events created a parallel timeline that led to an alternate, unpredictable future. If you interfered, the bridge to return would be closed to you. It was the nature of time. You could move forward and backward along a single timeline, but could not cross between them.

Leah wasn’t sure how many alternate timelines had been created, but she knew members who never came back either because they couldn’t or because they actually wanted to stay. The reason didn’t matter; their prolonged presence in another time was enough to create a new timeline. And any work they had done to rescue a narrative was erased.

Leah glanced to the north. To Vesuvius.

Looking out on the sea of people, she couldn’t help but see the faceless bodies, covered in ash, their limbs contorted in pain. Out of the corner of her eye, Leah noticed a large dog sprinting towards her like a bullet. It quickly pulled her from the volcanic nightmare. A young man rounded the corner, hot on the dog’s trail.

“Issa!” Her Little Ladyship. Leah smiled at that. The pup came to a halt before her as Leah stuck out her hand and carefully approached.

“It’s alright, Issa,” she cooed. She noticed Issa eyeing her breakfast and tore a bit of the loaf. Gingerly, she laid it before the dog.

“Issa! - i paenitet - Issa mala,” he struck the dog’s behind with a thwap that made Leah wince. Issa let out a small whimper. Violence tended to be more socially tolerated the further you went back in history. It was one of the harder things to watch. The man held Issa between his legs as he wrapped a rope around her neck. He turned his attention to Leah. “Please, forgive her, she’s still learning,” he eyed the half-chewed loaf on the cobblestone, “Allow me to buy you another!”

“Noli commoveri,” Leah could feel the watch ticking against her skin.

“Would you allow my wife to mend your tunic?” Puzzled, Leah scanned down the fabric. It appeared that Issa had left a small tear across the knee. It was a minor casualty, but noticeable enough to draw unwanted attention. The man, Demetrius, led Leah from the market to the South. After spending two years working in the ruins, Leah knew every nook and cranny of the city. But everything looked so much more inviting. Flowers bloomed in windows and children chased each other through the streets. It wasn’t so different from her home in Ohio. As they rounded the corner, she knew instantly where they were going.

The House of the Tragic Poet.

She tried desperately to contain her excitement as Demetrius welcomed her in. The house was a treasure trove for historians because of the preserved mosaics. Most notably, the black and white mosaic in the entryway that depicted a ferocious guard dog. Underneath its paws, it warned “Cave Canem.” Beware of the Dog.

“Don’t worry, that was Agre,” Demetrius said, returning with his wife and Issa. It was evident his anger had dissipated as he gently stroked her head. “This one’s got a bit less bite.”

“Still a little bitch,” his wife laughed. She broke from Demetrius and knelt at Leah’s feet and took the bottom of the tunic in her hands. “I’m so sorry she tore it, but it should be a quick fix,” She rose to her feet. “I’ll grab the thread.”

“Forget something?” Demetrius asked before she crossed the threshold. She looked at him quizzically before introducing herself.

“Ah, yes. Salve, please call me Cornelia.” The words poured out of her like a stream before she whirled around and left the room.

“What she lacks in warmth, she makes up for in intelligence,” Leah smiled complacently. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

“Demetrius, I came to Pompeii to visit a friend of my sister’s -- Cassia? She worked for the Sabinus family.”

Something changed in Demetrius’s demeanor. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Do you work at the Lupanar?”

“I told you, I’m visiting--”

“My debt is paid!” Demetrius stood with a force that knocked his chair to the floor.

“I’m only looking for Cassia.”

“You’ll find her with the other whores.” All warmth had drained from Demetrius’ voice. He brought a cloth to his forehead. Leah hadn’t noticed how much sweat had been building. The Tragic Poet seemed fitting just then. At least she had a lead. Cornelia returned and quickly mended the tear in relative silence. She clearly sensed the shift. After, Leah took to the street again and marched in the direction of the Lupanar, afraid of what she knew she’d see. Although she didn’t need direction, Leah had always found humor in cobblestones carved with phalluses that pointed to the Lupanar. Ah, the Romans.

The Lupanar stood in the middle of a popular road, like a boulder in the middle of a stream, breaking it into two divergent rivulets. It was grand in size with the same façade as most buildings in Pompeii. As Leah approached, the clamor particular to a brothel grew louder. She didn’t consider herself to be prudish, but she knew any pleasure being had inside didn’t belong to those working. A towering, formidable woman stood in the doorway, counting denarii in her palm. If she heard Leah approaching, she didn’t acknowledge it. The sun seemed to be rising higher with every second, so Leah was blunt.

“Good morning! Is there a Cassia here?”

“Working,” the woman replied without lifting her eyes.

Leah explained that she had urgent business, but was told to wait. Leaning against the edifice, she tried to calm her nerves. Guild members could work in tandem, and often did, but Leah tended to work alone. More people meant more moving pieces and chances for failure. It could feel quite lonely at times, but she preferred loneliness to conflict.

Finally, a plump man toddled out of the door and into the street.

“Girl!” Leah met the woman in the doorway. “Her time’s not free.” Carefully, Leah pulled out a few coins. “She’s the last room.”

Accounts of the Lupanar often eroticized it. Sure, the artwork made it look like a pleasurable establishment, but it was a dark, dingy place that smelled of sweat and piss. Without windows, it felt like a cave.

At the end of the hall, Leah found Cassia standing before a mirror, braiding her long, tawny hair. The rendering had accurately depicted her figure, but it hadn’t captured the details. The small specks of gold in her hair that caught the candlelight. Her skin was soft and delicate, but the sharpness of her jaw gave her a more intense look.

“What would you like?”

“I’ve heard you’re a poet,” Leah started. With that, Cassia dropped her hands for a moment.

“Who told you that?”

Leah crossed into the room and sat on the hard edge of a stony bed.

“My name is Aurelia Stephanus-”

“Greek?”

“My father is.”

“Have you been to Greece?”

“Many times,” Leah answered truthfully, “it is a beautiful place.” Cassia struggled to restrain her flowing locks. The rendering also hadn’t quite captured the sheer volume of her hair. “The poets in Greece--they often write their work on the city walls.” A lie, but Cassia wouldn’t know any better. “Would you put your work on a wall?”

“You haven’t read my work.”

“I can read it as we paint it today.”

“I’m working today.”

“I’ve paid,” Cassia’s eyes lit with bewilderment, “Consider me a patron.”

Cassia didn’t hide her confusion. She couldn’t understand how a young woman from Rome would find her work. Leah knew her story had holes, but the allure of recognition was enough to convince Cassia to join her. They stopped by Cassia’s home to gather her writings and a bit of paint. She lived with three other young women, two of whom worked at the Lupanum. Above the doorframe they’d painted: Domum Amicorum, The House of Friends. Small owls were etched into the doorframe--a sign of Minerva. They were delicate and detailed, nearly like barn owls at home. The Romans words may not be preserved in stone, but their animals were.

Leah waited outside, but could hear one of the girls speaking with Cassia.

“Do you think Gaius told her?” She asked.

“I have no idea, but someone knows,” Cassia rustled around, looking for another paintbrush. “I think it’s a good thing.”

“Be careful. And don’t forget the thermal baths tonight,” the other girl commanded, “We’re meeting Claudia.”

Leah led Cassia further south to the Villa dei Misteri. There was a section of it that archaeologists had yet to excavate. If written there, the poems could make for an original archaeological discovery without raising suspicion.

After arriving, the women began the arduous task of transferring the poems. The sun glared down on them, but Leah didn’t mind. With each stroke, she came closer to preserving another piece of Cassia’s story. Another fragment of forgotten history. As they worked, the pair swapped stories. Leah kept her fabricated tales brief, allowing Cassia to do most of the talking. She was a bright, ambitious young woman set, determined to make a life for herself outside of Pompeii. She dreamt of traveling to the furthest reaches of the Roman Empire. Her stories painted vivid pictures of a young woman with a lust for life. Leah had realized long ago that history rarely was able to capture the nuance and complexity and simple humanity of ordinary people like Cassia.

“I’ve heard a great deal about Greece. About the people....the water in the summertime.” She draped her scarf around the back of her head, careful to keep paint off it. “Perhaps I should go next year.”

Leah’s heart sunk. “Perhaps you should.”

“Do you really think I could be a great poet one day?” She asked, her voice tinged with a hesitant hope.

Leah’s stomach twisted as she remembered Cassia’s fragmented skull. Her life was barely beginning. After all of the pain of her past, her hopes would be snuffed by the fate of an agonizing death. It wasn’t fair. But, as Leah knew, life was never fair.

The Guild’s rules were clear: if you drastically altered a timeline, you wouldn’t be able to return to your own. There were cosmic consequences for altering history. It didn’t matter who it was, The Guild’s mission was bigger than any individual.

Leah turned towards Cassia, trying not to drown in her stormy irises.

That was the hardest part. Looking into their eyes and knowing you couldn’t change anything.

“Yes, I do.”

The women worked in silence as the sun began its descent. It was nearly time. They rose to their feet and stood to admire the wall, now covered in drying poems. There was only one thing missing.

“Put your name there in the middle,” she instructed. A few simple strokes and it was finished. Leah would have just enough time to make it back to the temple.

“I never thought anyone would care,” Cassia whispered, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks.

“People notice more than you know,” Leah brought her hand to Cassia’s shoulder, “and they’ll remember.”

“Aurelia, stay with us tonight. Come to the baths and let me buy you a drink after.”

She imagined what it would be like to join Cassia and her friends in the baths and then laugh and drink until the early morning hours. Despite the consequences, she desperately wanted to return to the domum amicorum and whisk the women away, as far from Pompeii as possible. For a moment, returning to her timeline no longer felt as urgent. Ever since she was a child, Leah felt that she belonged to a different era. Part of it was her calling to The Guild, but no matter where she went, she never felt quite at home in her own time. Each journey to the past sparked a desire to abandon her modern life.

Suddenly, the ground began to shake beneath their feet. Leah knew the eruption had been preceded by a week of mild earthquakes, but the exact timing of its eruption on the 24th of August was still unknown. Although she felt foreign in her own time, she valued the freedom that came with being able to traverse the bounds of history. More than that, she valued her life.

With a painful last glance at Cassia, Leah began running through the streets of Pompeii, careful to avoid any falling stone. She could still feel the heat of the cobblestone through the thin soles. Panicked, Cassia abandoned her book and paints to follow Leah. The earth had finished trembling, but the city shook as its inhabitants raced around the city, checking on their family and friends.

As Leah caught sight of the temple, she noticed two men run towards each other. They tearfully embraced, each relieved that the other was alive. It was heart-rending to watch these men celebrate life when they were so close to death.

The earth shook violently once again, knocking Leah to her knees. She was only a few meters away from the temple.

Shit. The sheet.

She sprinted furiously towards the alley to find the sheet caught under a fallen pillar. She grabbed hold of the edge and pulled as forcefully as she could. The tension released with a horrifying riiiiip. It would be incinerated in just a few hours, but she worried about unforeseen consequences. Leaving it was not part of the plan.

“Aurelia!” Cassia’s voice echoed in the street. Her footsteps were loud against the pavement as she turned down the alley. “Are you hurt?!” Leah tugged the sheet once more.

“My linen is caught,” she explained.

“It is only linen, Aurelia! You must leave it!”

“I can’t,” Leah cried. Though she didn’t understand, Cassia pulled against the fallen pillar, trying to release more of the cloth. With a final tug, Leah fell back onto the street with her sheet.

Cassia extended her hand, “Come with me.”

“Listen, you have to go home,” Leah said sternly. “I have to --” The streets hummed with a series of small tremors. It was time. Leah ran again towards the temple, shouting at Cassia to return.

As she knelt by the temple steps, she dug her fingers deep into the earth. With your whole being. Cassia continued to run towards her as the frenzy of the city grew.

Blink.

And she whispered to the wind

Asking it to take her name

To times and lands unknown

Beyond the hills, beyond the sea

This was her only wish:

To be written in stone