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Updated: May 18, 2025
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.
Here he was, a slave in this rich Roman's house. Yet he was a free-born son of Athens, from a family of painters. Pirates had brought him here to Pompeii, and had sold him as a slave. His artist's skill had helped him, even in this cruel land. For his master, Tetreius, loved beauty. The Roman had soon found that his young Greek slave was a painter.
Give health to this Roman boy. O fairest Athena, shed new beauty upon our violet crowned Athens. For there is coming to visit her the best of men, my master Tetreius." So a living city was buried in a few hours. Wooded hills and green fields lay covered under great ash heaps. Ever since that terrible eruption Vesuvius has been restless.
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.
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.
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.
He was ashamed to be caught asleep in his master's presence. He feared a frown for his laziness. "My picture is finished, master," he cried, still half asleep. "And so is your slavery," said Tetreius, and his eyes shone. "It was not a slave who carried my son out of hell on his back. It was a hero." He turned around and called, "Come hither, my friends." Three Roman gentlemen stepped up.
The Greek thought of the temple and garden of Aesculapius on the sunny side of the Acropolis at home in Athens. But he could not speak. He gazed hungrily into Tetreius' eyes. The Roman smiled. "Ariston, this ship is bound for Athens! All my life I have loved her her statues, her poems, her great deeds. I have wished that my son might learn from her wise men.
He was lying on a soft mattress. A warm blanket covered him. Clean air filled his nostrils. The gentle light of dawn lay upon his eyes. A strange face bent over him. "It is only weariness," a kind voice was saying. "He needs food and rest more than medicine." Then Ariston saw Tetreius, also, bending over him. The slave leaped to his feet.
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.
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