Believe
Believe
Book 13: Back to Pompeii
Fiona
Excitement for tonight’s ceremony and the award I will be accepting for my work on the Puebloan ruins has fueled me all week. Stepping into the dimly lit ballroom, the orchestra playing, the well-dressed audience around me, and the surge of adrenaline that comes every time I think of my acceptance speech is overwhelming in the best way. I take my seat near the front next to my colleagues as the lights flicker, signaling that the ceremony is about to begin.
From her seat beside me, Dr. Moreno leans over and smiles. “Fiona, the way you reconstructed the Puebloan site layouts from those fragmentary ruins was brilliant. You really made their village come alive. You deserve this award tonight.”
“Thank you, that means a lot coming from you, Sandy,” I reply. “I’m proud of what we all accomplished, and it’s wonderful to see it recognized. I just hope I’m not so nervous that I start to ramble up there.”
“Don’t be nervous,” she says softly. “You’re always articulate and entertaining. You’ll do great.”
“I appreciate that,” I whisper as the lights dim further, and a hush spreads through the room. The orchestra softens, and the host steps onto the stage.
I scan the seats around me, recognizing archaeologists, surveyors, consultants, lab technicians, and historians. They’re friendly, but none of them are family or close friends. I moved to Santa Fe not long ago, and I don’t have anyone here beyond these acquaintances, so this award feels like a lift for my spirit.
The first award is announced, and the audience applauds as a peer I’ve only ever seen in panels, Regina Green, stands. Her husband rises with her and kisses her on the cheek before she walks up onto the stage to accept her award.
As Regina begins her acceptance speech, I notice a couple of children sitting near her husband, and a twinge of sadness mixes with a vague sense of jealousy. Maybe someday the audience will hold someone for me, but even when I won awards at school as a teenager, my family wasn’t there. My grandmother took over raising me after my parents died in a car accident when I was twelve. She worked constantly, so she was rarely able to attend school events.
Regina gives a brief acceptance speech, and I clap, genuinely happy for her, as the ceremony continues. One after another, awards are given. Speeches offer thanks and acknowledgments, and I drift in and out of listening, my mind rehearsing what I’ll say when it’s my turn. The feeling grows, a tightening of nerves and anticipation. Tonight is about recognition and affirmation, a reminder that I can be proud of the work I’ve done here.
The host says, “And now, for her contributions to the study of Puebloan ruins… Fiona Lockwood.”
Applause fills the auditorium as I stand and walk to the stage in the sapphire gown I chose for tonight, a color that brings out my blue eyes.
I begin my acceptance speech. “When I was a little girl, my father and I would watch Indiana Jones over and over.” I smile as the audience chuckles, because I’m sure everyone in this room can relate.
“He always told me that I could be anything I wanted when I grew up. When I was twelve, he and my mother passed away in a car accident, and for a little while, my ability to dream and to believe that I could be anything I wanted vanished. But tonight, when I look out at all of your faces, the faces of such respected and unbelievably gifted archaeologists, I know my dad was right. We can all achieve our dreams. We just have to believe in ourselves. Thank you.”
Toward the end of my speech, I start to feel a little sentimental and pretentious, especially since most people accepting awards tonight are just getting up and saying a quick thank you. But by the time I finish, people are rising for a standing ovation.
I make my way back to my seat with the trophy in my hands, still beaming with pride and buzzing with adrenaline. I never expected the crowd to react with such enthusiasm.
The ceremony continues, and soon, we reach the final speeches. As the last few words are spoken, the orchestra music swells again, signaling the end. The energy in the room rises as people begin to prepare for the next part of the evening.
Guests stand and make their way toward the ballroom. I follow the crowd, stepping into the room as the scent of fresh flowers and savory dishes fills the air. The sound of a jazz band greets me, setting the tone for the evening. People sip champagne and chat as the atmosphere shifts. Some move toward the dance floor; others order their dinner from menus at each place setting.
I wander around until I spot my name on a card at one of the stunningly decorated tables. Cream and coral flowers are arranged beautifully, and tiny archaeology tool decorations add a playful yet elegant touch.
I pull out my chair and take a seat, still unsure if I’m hungry or too nervous to eat. A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne, and I raise my finger to signal him. He brings me a glass and I take a sip. It’s the deliciously expensive kind. I look around the room, wishing I had someone to share this moment with.
As I sit there, lost in thought, a tall man in a well-tailored suit approaches with a warm smile. “Miss Hammer, do you mind if I sit?” he asks.
I gesture to the empty chair next to mine. “Please.”
“I just wanted to congratulate you on your award,” he says, sitting down. “And your speech was incredibly moving, but it’s your work I’m most impressed by.”
I can’t help but smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry, have we had the pleasure of—”
He jumps in. “Oh, where are my manners?” He offers his hand, and I shake it. “I’m James Delacroix. I work on an archaeological team that’s looking for someone with your expertise and enthusiasm. I also heard through the grapevine that you’re fluent in Greek and Latin, as well as an expert in ancient Roman history. Is that true?”
“Yes, that’s true,” I say, smiling. “You didn’t just read it off my LinkedIn, did you?”
He laughs. “No, but actually, I do want to offer you what I feel is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
My mind skips from Delphi to Olympia, then from Knossos to Mycenae, and even to Ostia Antica, each possibility flashing through quickly as I try to guess what he’s about to say.
“We’re looking for someone to join our dig in Pompeii,” he continues, a gleam of excitement in his eyes.
I’m glad I’m not sipping my champagne. I would’ve spit it all over him. “Pompeii?” I ask, astonished. “You can’t be serious.”
He nods, smiling mischievously. “Of course I am. There are three topics I never joke about: death, taxes, and Pompeii.”
“I’m in. When do we leave?”
He chuckles. “I was hoping you’d say that. We leave at the end of the month. I’ll get with you about all the details on Monday morning. I’m glad you’ll be joining our team, Fiona.”
We pull out our phones and exchange numbers. “Thank you so much for this opportunity,” I say as we rise and shake hands once more in parting.
“It was nice meeting you, Fiona. I look forward to working with you.”
“It was nice meeting you as well,” I reply.
“I’m going to go mingle,” he says with a grin and walks off.
I sit back down, letting it sink in. This is the kind of opportunity I’ve worked toward for years, the chance to apply everything I’ve learned in the field. The award tonight was recognition of my work, but this invitation feels like a step into the future I’ve been striving for. Every late night in the archives, every long excavation, every challenge I’ve faced, every hour I spent learning Greek and Latin, mastering how to read their graffiti and pronounce their ancient dialects, will all pay off now. I feel satisfaction knowing that my skills, knowledge, and dedication are valued and needed.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of laughter and extravagant dishes, which I taste and appreciate even as my mind drifts back to Pompeii. A few coworkers and acquaintances ask me to dance, and I oblige politely, raising my glass to a couple of toasts in between.
Later, as I ride home in a cab, I can’t stop thinking about the dig. We’re not leaving until the end of the month, but I’m already imagining what I’ll need to pack and how I’ll prepare for the most epic adventure of my entire career.
A month of careful planning and preparation has passed. I organize my gear meticulously: notebooks, trowels, brushes, measuring instruments. Every item has its place in my case. I review excavation plans and site maps, running through each area in my head. I imagine the first steps I’ll take on the streets of Pompeii, picturing the fragments and inscriptions waiting to be uncovered.
Finally, the day arrives. The plane lifts off smoothly, carrying the team to Italy. James sits beside me, flipping through his notes, and after a while, he looks over at me. “How did you learn Latin and Greek well enough to read and speak fluently?”
“Years of reading whatever I could get my hands on. I read inscriptions, religious and ancient texts wherever I could find them. I practiced pronunciation, translated in context, and worked with experts. Knowing the languages isn’t just about the words; it’s about understanding the culture, daily life, and how people expressed themselves.”
He nods. “That kind of expertise is rare.”
“It helps me notice details others might miss,” I say. “Every symbol tells a story. Understanding the language is how you learn the people.”
The conversation drifts to logistics and schedules, and I review plans in my head, thinking about which sections we’ll tackle first. I picture trowels brushing ash and dust away, fragments of walls revealed, inscriptions coming to light.
After layovers, changing flights, and a long overnight in the air, we finally arrive in Italy. I’m exhausted, but the sight of the coastline and the distant ruins on the drive south sharpens my focus. A shuttle carries the team through hills dotted with villas and past the sprawling site until we reach our hotel in modern Pompeii’s town center, just minutes from the entrance to the ruins.
Once I’m in my room, I close the door behind me, drop my bag on the floor, walk over to the balcony door, and push it open. From here, I can see the bright green leaves and yellow lemons of the trees lining the street below, and the faint scent of citrus drifts up, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee from a nearby café. The distant hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of dishes reach me, blending with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.
I step back into the room and flop onto the bed, letting myself stretch out fully. Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating pale stone walls and casting shadows across the terra-cotta tiles. The room is larger than I expected, with a high ceiling. The furniture is minimal but elegant, and a few touches of local craftsmanship—a woven rug, hand-painted ceramics—give it character. I’m glad it’s beautiful because I’ll be staying here for the next few weeks, living and working beside the ruins, and it feels like a place where I can actually breathe.
I take a short nap, just long enough to shake off the travel fatigue. Later, I join the team for our evening meal. The table is filled with fresh garlic bread, glasses of rich red wine, and laughter that drifts through the room. We listen to the people around us speaking Italian and revel in being somewhere so ancient and yet completely new to us.
After dinner, we walk back to our hotel under the glow of the streetlights. A shiver runs up my spine at the thought of how close we are to the ruins of Pompeii.
Back in my room, I change into something comfortable, brush my teeth, run through my skincare routine, and slide under the covers, thinking about the dig waiting for me at first light. These relics have held their secrets for centuries, and now, I’ll be part of uncovering them.