Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  “The problem was not your delivery. You had me going for a while, but then you became too specific. ‘Three days’ this, ‘six days’ that. Hunter, you’re a far better groom than prophet.”

  Bidding Floomis farewell amid the swirling smoke, we mounted our horses and left not knowing whether the palace and old man would still be standing at the end of the day. Some sons and families would have insisted on guarding their property. Linus and his parents were made of different stuff.

  “We don’t have to go, you know,” Quintus said to his deputy before setting off.

  “No, thank you, my brother. If Mother and Father were in residence, my feelings would be more proactive. Having taken so much staff and security, they have obviously relocated the family treasury outside the city. Let’s get this fire sorted. Lady Tullia, I’ll stop by the valley to say farewell before shipping out.”

  “If we still hold our ranks,” Quintus muttered. “You and I may well be sent to prison instead of Iberia.”

  “What a pail of cold water you are, Quintus. My home’s about to burn down and my parents have abandoned me. Is that the best you can do to cheer me up?”

  “The orange glow in the sky makes your cheeks shine like a prostitute’s.”

  “That’s better.”

  Riding beside me, Tullia rolled her eyes.

  Linus led us over the top of the Caelian and down into an area of relative calm. Apart from a few frantic residents trying to fireproof their properties, and many more preparing to evacuate, the zone was free of refugees. It was also out of direct sight of the fire, which made it seem less threatening. The blaze could be smelled and heard, but there was something calming about not being able to see the shells of burned out temples and swaths of neighborhoods reduced to black smears across the cityscape.

  The brief respite made the tumult to come all the more jarring. Via Sacra was overwhelmed by people trying to leave the city. Among the exodus were soldiers with stretchers carrying wounded comrades, weeping mothers holding charred, disfigured babies over their heads, bullies preying on the weak by knocking them to the ground and making off with their rucksacks. The only constants were the fear on the faces and the way everyone kept glancing backward to see how close the fire was.

  If we hadn’t been astride tall warhorses, and had not been led by a pair of cavalrymen, I doubt Tullia and I could have crossed the river of humanity. It had to be 40-people wide, all shoving to funnel through gates in the Servian Wall. We endured shouts and curses, but managed to traverse the flow without crushing anyone, or being stabbed or speared.

  “We’ll bring you food, we can help provision the men fighting the fire,” Tullia said during our quick farewell.

  “No,” Quintus ordered in his decurion voice. “Get to the valley and stay there. Protect the horses. They are all we have.”

  Lady Tullia and I set off at a trot while the boys charged into the smoke to join Nero’s firefighting corps.

  The servants were as happy as the dogs to see us clear the gates and head across the pasture. Desperate for news, they surrounded us as we dismounted outside the barn.

  They want news? I could give it to them, but would anybody believe me? Tullia had the same derisive reaction to my “prophesy” as Quintus. “You worry too much,” she said.

  Perhaps instead of claiming I sacrificed a chicken, I should have told them I was a time traveler from the year 2236 and read about the Great Fire of Rome many times as a child. Would they believe that?

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  64 A.D.

  Strong winds buffeting the trees and sweeping smoke into the valley tapered to dead calm on the fire’s sixth day. By midafternoon, Rome’s mantle of roiling black smoke was replaced by blue skies and sweet, clean air.

  I was scything valley grass down to the nub, sweating under the July sun, when a pebble glanced off my head. Stopping and turning angrily toward the house, I found Tullia studying me with an odd expression.

  “Sorry, I meant to hit you in the buttocks,” she said. “The way you were flailing with that blade like a waterwheel, I couldn’t get close. Didn’t you hear me calling?”

  “Calling?”

  “Yes, I must have shouted your name 10 times. Are you deaf?”

  “No, my Lady, just in the zone.”

  “In the zone?”

  “An expression from where I come from. I was focused on my work.”

  “I’ll say. Listen.”

  Setting aside the escape plan I’d been mulling, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. There was no missing the distant ringing of bells and trumpeting of cornu horns. The Great Fire of Rome was extinguished.

  “The boy is saddling horses for us. I want to ride up to Dog Pack Rock.”

  “Wouldn’t the lane be quicker and easier?”

  “You forget your place, Hunter.”

  “Only thinking of your safety, madam.”

  “And yours?”

  “Of course.”

  “The view from the rock is superior. We’ll be able to see the entire city.”

  “Sounds like a great idea.”

  “That’s a better attitude.”

  Atop the rock, gazing out over the neighbor’s terracotta roof, we scrutinized a skeleton of a city. Amazingly, The Forum, Temple of Saturn, Senate House and most of the city’s other grand buildings had been saved. Though we couldn’t be certain, it appeared the neighborhood of Linus’ family was also spared.

  But the gaps in the city’s jack-’o-lantern smile were wide. Entire districts had been wiped away. The blaze that brought down the Vesta had somehow been stopped from claiming the neighboring Temple of Castor and Pollux. Below us, the beautiful Basilica Aemelia remained standing though its surrounding shops were gone–not burned, but missing. The ancillary buildings must have been demolished and moved as part of Nero’s efforts to head off the fire.

  Firebreaks appeared to have been cut through entire swaths of the city. Roughly a fifth of the damage to poorer neighborhoods looked to have been caused not by the fire but demolition.

  “He did it.”

  “Who, my Lady.”

  “Emperor Nero. You men constantly deride him. Nobody else, no other general could have accomplished this feat.”

  “I’d like to see Nero,” I admitted. “From a safe distance.”

  “We spoke once. This was before he had been adopted by Emperor Claudius and his name was still Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Mother and Father took Quintus and me to a party far above our station and he was there.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “We were children. He asked me if I’d seen his friend Tiberius and I stammered no.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. Now, tell me about this prophesy of yours again. How long until the fire restarts?”

  This fortunetelling business is getting out of hand. It’s all the staff wants to talk about. Through long experience I know this brand of attention never ends well. I was halfway through a mumbled “I don’t remember” when she cut me off.

  “Can’t you see it is truly out for good? You’re wrong. Somewhere down there, Quintus and Linus are right in the middle of the horns and bells. I’m certain they did more than their share to help put the fire out.

  “The Emperor loves building great structures. Under his guidance–”

  “You there! What are you doing on my property?”

  Tullia motioned me to be still as a white-haired gentleman stormed up the path followed by two well-armed escorts that turned out to be his nephews. Stopping at the base of the rock, he shook his fist up at us.

  “Trespassers! You’re not supposed to be here. This is my land!”

  “Calm down, Gaius. You’ll spook our horses.”

  “Calm down? You’ll not tell me what to do, wench! I’ll have my nephews cut you to pieces!”

  Judging by the come-hither looks the nephews were casting toward Tullia, they appeared more likely to ask for a
date than molest her.

  “We’ll leave, if this is your wish,” Tullia said flatly. “My headman and I have come up to confirm the end of the fire. On this historic day for Rome, perhaps you and I can put aside family rivalries and celebrate the salvation of our city. We could drink a toast to the fact that both of our properties have been spared.”

  The taller of the two nephews reached forward to pat the angry landowner’s arm. “She speaks the truth, Uncle. We have much to thank the Gods for.”

  “Get your paw off me, dimwit! This is the bitch who killed my dogs the week I bought the property. Pet killer! She set the hill on fire and nearly burned down my house as it was under construction.”

  “You have no proof of any of that.”

  “My men back-tracked you and your brother. We found the arrow you missed. A child’s arrow.”

  “The Senate inquiry declared my family innocent. Why can’t you let it go?”

  “Get off my property and don’t ever come back.”

  I wondered how long it would take before her conscience forced her to give me a clarification on events atop Dog Pack Rock. Strong was my desire to needle her, to ask, “Didn’t you say you were attacked by rabid, feral dogs?” It came as we walked the horses across the pasture, and was neither mea culpa nor denial.

  “I didn’t recognize the dogs. They were going for my little brother’s throat, or at least I thought they were. I did what any Roman would do. I defended my family.”

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  64 A.D.

  Life returned more or less to normal once the fire was extinguished. A horse farm requires the same duties and attention to details no matter how much drama is going on outside its stone walls.

  Tullia stopped talking about giving away all our food and fodder to refugees and began plotting how to turn the bounty into a fortune. The Law of Supply and Demand is not lost on Lady Vinarius.

  Near midnight on the third day, a clamor of alarm bells and cornu horns drifted down the steep valley walls. Gathering in the gravel yard between the barn and house, we beheld a smoke-filled sky once again glowing orange.

  Tullia and I quickly saddled a pair of horses and galloped to the top of the neighborhood to see house fires dotting all districts of the city, including a string of blazes along the base of the Esquiline. In the short time we sat gawping at the disheartening scene, Rome’s freshening wind turned toward the hill’s upward slopes, directly toward us.

  Returning, we found the staff had abandoned the farm. The sensible little mutineers must have scampered up the lane the instant we turned onto the spoke road. Disquieted by my stupid “prophesy,” aware their Lady may well lollygag until it was too late to escape, they bolted for the nearest city gate.

  Though the evacuation plan I devised over the past nine days allotted for more help, it could still work if we got cracking. Sadly, the staff’s betrayal knocked Tullia off the rails. Not sure whether to be hurt or angry, she began wasting time ranting how she was going to hunt them down and make them return to their posts. Grabbing the nearly hysterical woman by the arms, I gave her a good shake.

  “They’re gone!” I shouted. “And bloody smart to leave! We must do the same. We have an hour, two at most. We’ll pack up what you need, gather the horses at the front gate and hope like hell we can keep them together until we are well outside the city. We’ll find a farmer who will rent us pasture space. There are no other options!”

  “Let go of me, Hunter.”

  “Not until you–”

  Sidestepping her kick to my groin, parrying an elbow to the head, I used a judo leg sweep to knock Tullia’s feet out from under her. Chopping trees and scything hay has left me strong as I’ve ever been. Guiding her to the ground with a controlled takedown, I wrenched her arm up to the middle of her back and used my full weight to pin her belly-first in the dirt.

  Grunting, bucking my inescapable hold, she uttered a litany of threats. She was going to kill me, to have Quintus kill me, to have the dogs kill me, to see me dead at the earliest possible moment. I let her blow off steam before placing my lips to her ear.

  “You must listen if you want me to stay and serve you,” I hissed. “If you insist on ignoring me, I’ll leave with the clothes and sandals I arrived in. I will not stay to be burned into a black lump of coal. Will you listen if I let you up?”

  “Get off me!”

  Standing and panting, we faced each other in the firelight. During the pause, there could be no mistaking the crackling sounds of fire less than a mile away.

  “The maids said you have built a pile of belongings by the front door.” My tone said the time for compromise was over. “We’ll pack them in the wagon along with the saddles, tack, farm tools and supplies I’ve already loaded. We’ll tie the dogs to opposite sides of the wagon, hitch a few stallions to the back, open the gates and get the herd the hell out of here. You drive the wagon and I’ll bring up the rear on horseback.”

  Her chest was no longer heaving as she judged me in the flickering orange light. “What were you before you became my brother’s groom? A general? A sorcerer? A warlock?”

  “My Lady, I’ve had many occupations in my life, but never general, sorcerer or warlock. They tend to die in tragic, painful ways. My last profession was farmer. Before that, I was an Oriental merchant with thousands of employees and three homes that made Linus’ family palace seem like a quaint country cottage.”

  Extending my hand in the Roman way, I asked, “I’ve survived troubles worse than this, my Lady. Will you trust me?”

  After a pause she gave my hand a firm shake.

  “One alteration,” she said. “You drive the wagon. I bring up the rear.”

  Catching and harnessing the skittish draft horses was no picnic, but by the dim light of an oil lamp I accomplished the tasks while Tullia loaded the wagon and said her farewells to the family home. Once the two big, excited dogs were tethered to the sides of the wagon with leather leashes short enough to keep them from getting tangled in the wheels, we walked the three alpha horses I’d been holding in the stalls and tied their bridles to the wagon’s tailgate.

  Up to this point everything was moving smoothly and according to plan. Dawn was fast approaching and tasks were becoming easier as the light improved. Why was I not surprised when the situation turned to absolute guano?

  Our troubles began with a skittish mare balking at the gate leading to the top pasture. I don’t know if the smoke spooked her or she picked up our tension, but suddenly she was rearing, kicking and charging off to the bottom lot, taking more than half the herd of valuable warhorses with her.

  Tullia kicked the sides of her horse and set off in their wake. There was no choice but to close the gate and follow. As she slowed to a walk, I reined in beside her.

  “My Lady, we’re running out of time. If we get caught in this valley we’re–”

  Turning to a crashing noise we watched what looked like a wooden worktable tumble down the side of the valley wall. In quick order the table was followed by three beds and a chicken coop. Brush snapping on the opposite valley wall announced the neighbors on that side were also starting to jettison combustibles, mostly orchard trees and firewood.

  Combined with the thickening smoke, the racket sent the horses into even greater fits of neighing, snorting and racing the fence lines, wide eyes bulging.

  “My Lady, we may need to leave them.”

  “Never! Wait, what the . . . who’s that?”

  Following her point to the top of the valley, I spotted a contingent of soot-stained men skulking along the base of the neighbor’s wall. They were carrying woven baskets and armfuls of cattails. To our amazement, several stopped to light a dozen pitch-soaked cattails from an oil lamp being carried inside a basket. Once good and lit, the torches were flung high over the wall into the neighbor’s compound.

  Casting my eyes to the opposite wall, I saw those neighbors were under similar attack. The arsonists didn�
�t appear to be current soldiers, more a mix of gladiators, agitators and pickpockets.

  “Lady Vinarius, we must leave.”

  In response, she nocked an arrow in her bow and launched. The missile hit the wall a foot above a basket carrier’s head and clattered in pieces to the ground. In a flash, we had warriors charging down the valley walls on both sides. The few seconds it took Tullia to empty her quiver, they reached the valley floor and were scrambling over the pasture’s stone walls.

  Still, Tullia would not retreat. Kicking her horse into a trot, she made one last attempt to drive the herd from the bottomlands, only giving up as the men on foot closed in. Halfway to the house, we found a gaggle of armed ruffians swinging the middle gate closed.

  Handing me her short sword, Tullia drew a long, straight spatha from the leather scabbard strapped to her saddle. Roman to the core, there was no fear on her face, only determination and battle lust. Live or die, Lady Tullia would do it with honor.

  Veterans of many battles, our warhorses didn’t miss a step as we closed on the arsonists. There was no hope of leaping the gate or fence. Both were too tall. Our only chance was to get the gate open and fight our way through.

  A blast of heat swept across the valley as the western neighbor’s villa ignited, its bright orange flames reflecting off the faces of the hooligans at the gate. Ignoring their spears and swords, we rode our horses right into the timbers. Rearing and kicking, the horses mauled the men pinned against the heavy timbers. Pawing with its front hooves, turning in a half circle under no orders of mine, my mount jackhammered our opponents.

  One second he and I were laying waste and the next we were crashing to the ground. Stabbed through the heart, my mount buckled and dropped. All I could do was leap clear and hack the nearest man before he skewered me with his trident. With a lucky slash, I cut the rope holding the gate closed and gave it an ineffective push. Tullia muscled by me to use the withers of her horse to force the gate wide.

  “Get on!” She called, slashing attackers with her long sword to keep them from reaching me. Before I could climb aboard, the lumbering gladiator who slayed my horse plunged the head of his long harpoon-like spear through her mount’s rib cage and found its heart. Despite the dire situation, I could not help but be impressed by her agility as she leaped from the dying horse to join me.