‘You oaf, I tell you every night that this could happen. We’ve lost everything, you useless fool!’
‘I swear I put it out,’ he protested. ‘I don’t know how this could have happened.’
Carbo stared at the flames, his guts tightening. He stepped back uncertainly.
Vespillo directed one man to fetch the heavy firefighting equipment from the excubitorium, and then turned his attention to the blaze. It had already spread throughout the apartment in which it had begun, and was working its way upwards. A small group of people stood around, watching hopelessly. Some were naked, some wearing the simple tunics or breast bands that they had worn to bed, and some clutched a few objects they had been able to retrieve. One child held a wooden doll, while she buried her face in her mother’s tunic. A woman held a small collection of cooking utensils, a man carried a funerary mask, a small statue that was presumably the lares from the household shrine, and an ornate glass cup. Some of them stared at the blaze in silence, some shouted curses at the man whose wife had identified him as the fire starter, and one woman was on her knees, screaming hysterically, being comforted by her husband.
Vespillo looked around him, assessing the situation briskly. ‘The neighbouring houses will catch soon. There is no firebreak until the end of the street. Before long, this whole neighbourhood will go up. We need to take those houses down. You and you, get inside and clear them out. You, get these people organized into a chain for water. The rest of you, get your axes and hooks and get ready to take those houses down.’
Soon, bleary-eyed families started to emerge from the neighbouring houses, rousted from their beds by the brusque watchmen. Most took in the situation quickly, the blaze, the crowd, the vigiles already taking their axes to the door, and fitting hooks around the beams, ready to tug the house’s supports away to collapse it. One man, sporting a paunch and a bald pate, spotted Vespillo giving orders, and approached him angrily.
‘What is the meaning of this? How dare you get me out of bed? And what are these men doing to my house?’
‘We are demolishing it, sir, to stop the fire spreading.’
‘You most certainly will not,’ said the portly man. ‘I own the toga shop on the ground floor. This is my livelihood.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but there is no choice. If we don’t take these two neighbouring buildings down, the blaze could spread through the city.’
‘Then do your duty and put the blaze out. You little bucket fellows should do your cursed job!’
As he spoke, rope buckets sealed with pitch, filled with water from the nearest fountain, started to be passed down a line of watchmen and civilians, and emptied onto the fire at the ground floor. The inadequacy of this measure was obvious from the fact that the water hissed and evaporated the moment it hit the fire, and went nowhere near the higher reaches of the burning building. Carbo judged this building was six storeys high. It was made predominantly from wood, as many of the cheaper buildings in the poorer parts of town still were, despite official recommendations to use less combustible materials for construction.
‘By law, sir, there should be a gap of five feet between adjacent buildings,’ said Vespillo. ‘I see your insula and the one on fire share a common wall.’
‘But no one obeys that law,’ said the man. ‘Look around you.’ He gestured at the closely packed buildings all around.
‘More’s the pity,’ said Vespillo. ‘If they did, maybe we wouldn’t be forced to take such drastic action.’
Some people from nearby houses were starting to emerge onto the streets now. Some of them brought firefighting equipment with them – it was in their interests to prevent the fire spreading any further.
‘Where is your firefighting equipment, sir? By law you should have a supply of water and other preventative facilities in your house.’
The man stuttered a little. ‘I… well, I had some water, but it got used up, and I didn’t get round to…’
‘You realize I could recommend to the authorities that you are beaten for negligence if you haven’t taken proper steps to prevent fire in your house.’
The man paled at the threat.
‘Now, please step back, sir, and let me do my job.’
Vespillo turned his back on the man, and continued to direct the vigiles and their civilian helpers. Some of the local civilians were supplying filled buckets, some had patchwork quilts soaked in water which were tossed onto the flames, others even had supplies of vinegar, which was supposed to be effective at putting out a blaze. It was obvious, though, that their efforts were insufficient, and the flames were now starting to emerge from the upper floors of the two neighbouring houses. The watchmen who had been allocated to clear those houses emerged, driving some families before them, all coughing and a little blackened, evidence that the fire had taken hold inside.
From the top floor of the house to the right of the one where the fire had started, a woman leaned out of the window and screamed for help. Vespillo looked at her helplessly. The woman was illuminated from behind by an orange glow. Her screams became desperate, and she climbed out onto the window ledge.
‘Get the mattresses,’ snapped Vespillo. ‘Now!’
Two of the watchmen hurried to get the mattresses and blankets that could be used to break a fall from a height.
‘Stay where you are,’ bellowed Vespillo up at the woman. ‘We are getting a mattress.’
If the woman heard, she gave no acknowledgement. She edged further out onto the ledge, but the flames were starting to lick around the window frame. Vespillo looked around desperately for the mattresses. The two watchmen were nowhere in sight. A despairing wail came from the top floor, and Vespillo looked up in time to see the woman jump. An impulse seized him to try to catch the woman, but he knew that would kill him. He stepped back, and the woman’s screams were abruptly cut short as she impacted the ground. She lay still at his feet, limbs at unnatural angles, blood pooling around her head, hair smouldering.
The two watchmen he had dispatched for the mattresses returned, empty-handed.
‘Where were you?’ said Vespillo, his voice quiet with anger.
‘Commander, the houses at the end of the street have been collapsed. We couldn’t get through.’
Vespillo looked confused. ‘Who ordered that? That’s not the right place for a firebreak.’
‘I don’t know, Commander. But it’s worse. There is a lumber warehouse down there.’
Vespillo cursed. ‘If that goes up, it could spread through half of Rome. Find a way round to get those mattresses. We may need them yet.’
He turned his attention back to the burning house to the left of the source of the fire. ‘Let’s get this house down.’
He directed the men with hooks attached to ropes to take up the slack on the beams. The correct application of force would bring the endangered houses tumbling down. Vespillo held up a hand, ready to give the order to pull. A blackened man came staggering out of the building, coughing uncontrollably. He gasped for breath, moving towards Vespillo. One of the watchmen supported him as his strength seemed to give. Vespillo took breath to give the order to pull the ropes, but the man grabbed the hem of Vespillo’s tunic.
‘My… son,’ he croaked. ‘My wife. They are…’ He coughed, took a breath and tried again. ‘Inside. The second floor. She won’t leave him. He’s trapped. Please. Help.’
The vigiles on the ropes looked to Vespillo for orders. Vespillo hesitated, looking at the flames and smoke. Then he looked at the dead woman on the street, hastily covered with a blanket. He ripped a strip from his tunic, dunked it in a water bucket, pressed it over his face, and charged into the building. Carbo’s jaw dropped.
‘Vespillo, no!’ yelled Carbo. The other watchmen dropped their ropes, and stood, making no move to assist. Carbo cursed. The stupid bastard, why was he risking his life for a family he had never met? Carbo stepped forward, feeling the heat from the house, the smell of smoke, burning wood, and burning flesh. Suddenly he was back in
Germany, the smell of wood fires heavy in the dank air, scented with the sweet smell of cooking meat, that he knew from the high-pitched screams was the cooking of his comrades.
He stared into the flames and his insides clenched. He struggled to take a deep enough breath, his heart started to race uncontrollably, cold sweat broke out all over his body, and his legs weakened. Every part of him screamed to stay put.
But he needed Vespillo. Marsia’s words echoed in his mind. ‘Bravery is doing the right thing, despite your fear.’ Copying Vespillo, he ripped some cloth from his tunic, wet it, and ran into the house.
The heat was intense. The wooden beams and ceiling were blazing, the doors smouldering. The first room was the shop of the toga maker, and piles of white togas were alight. The air was thick with smoke that made him gag and cough despite the makeshift mask. He heard a scream, and caught a glimpse through the smoke of Vespillo running up the stairs at the back of the shop. Shielding his face against the heat, Carbo followed. Flames licked at him, and the wooden steps groaned as he put his weight on them. He trod carefully, but as rapidly as he could, reaching the first floor quickly. The screams were coming from higher up, though, and he continued to ascend. Vespillo was faster than him, despite his greater age, Carbo’s unreliable leg slowing him as usual. His face felt like it was blistering, his throat was burning, his leg screamed in pain, and his hands were scorched when he stumbled on treacherous floorboards and reached out to the flaming walls to steady himself.
On the third floor, he found Vespillo, struggling with a beam that had fallen across a doorway, jamming the door shut. Vespillo looked round at Carbo, his face registering brief surprise, before he yelled over the noise of the fire and the screaming from inside the room, ‘Quick, give me a hand.’
Carbo stepped forward, placing his hands under the beam. He shifted his grip to find a part that wasn’t alight, but still felt his hands start to burn. The damp cloth discarded, he felt as if he couldn’t breathe in the thick smoke.
‘On three,’ said Vespillo. ‘One, two, three, heave!’
The beam lifted a little way under the combined efforts of the two men, then a piece of ashen wood broke off under Vespillo’s grip and it sank back.
‘Again! One, two, three!’
Carbo couldn’t speak, and he felt he would suffocate if he was there much longer. Straining every muscle, he lifted and twisted the beam from where it had jammed, and together they hefted it away. Vespillo yanked the door open and they entered.
Inside, the air was clearer, the small window allowing some ventilation, and Carbo took deep breaths, still spluttering. Near the window, a young woman held a boy of three or four close to her, as far from the flames and as near the outside as they could stand. The boy had his face turned into his mother’s stola. The woman’s face was pale underneath the soot and ashes that marred it.
‘This way,’ said Vespillo, reaching out a hand. The woman hesitated then passed the boy to Vespillo. Carbo grabbed the woman’s wrist and pulled her towards the stairs. Vespillo and the boy started to descend, but had taken no more than a few steps when Vespillo’s foot went straight through the wood. He staggered, his leg tearing against the splintered stairs, and the rest of the stairway started to give way. Carbo grabbed the boy, almost throwing him back up the stairs to his mother, then reached a hand out to Vespillo. Their hands clasped, but for a moment it seemed like Vespillo would drag Carbo down through the widening hole with him. Carbo braced himself on the most sturdy part of the stairs he could find, and pulled with all his strength. Vespillo, using his hands for purchase, clambered back up to the top of the stairway. A couple of heartbeats later, the rest of the stairs gave way, and they stared at the loss of their escape route.
The woman started to howl afresh, but Vespillo grabbed her and the boy and hurried back into the room where they had found her. He moved to the window, looking down from the third floor to the small-looking vigiles below.
‘Bring up those mattresses,’ he called out.
‘They are on their way, Commander,’ replied one of the watchmen below. ‘They will be here soon.’
‘Hurry,’ yelled Vespillo, and turned back to the others.
They stood, looking at each other. Fire was licking along the beams and the roof, and the room was filling with more smoke, despite the ventilation. The woman hugged her son tight.
‘You didn’t need to come in here,’ said Vespillo to Carbo.
Carbo shrugged. ‘Neither did you.’
They both fell silent, while Vespillo watched for signs of progress from below. The heat started to build, and the boy began to wail. The woman moved to the window, retreating from the fire and the smoke. The pain from the heat was becoming intense, and the boy was screaming. The woman looked out of the window to the street below.
‘Just wait,’ said Vespillo. ‘We can jump soon.’
A roof beam collapsed in the middle of the room, sending up a shower of sparks, and a burst of searing heat washed over them. Some of the sparks lodged in the woman’s flamboyant hairstyle, and the oil with which she had styled it caught alight. She screamed, and holding the boy, she jumped.
Carbo and Vespillo both dived towards her, but she was gone. They looked out of the window and saw that she had landed on three piled-up cloth mattresses. The watchmen were wrapping mother and son, both of whom seemed stunned by the fall, in damp cloths to extinguish the flames. They pulled the two clear of the mattresses and yelled up to Carbo and Vespillo.
‘Jump, Commander.’
Vespillo looked at Carbo. ‘Watch what I do.’
He moved to the window, stood facing into the room, and let himself fall backwards, arms outstretched. Carbo watched the fall, seeing him hit the mattresses with a thump, the impact reduced by the whole area of back, arms and legs connecting with the cushioning at the same time. Vespillo rolled clear, and yelled up at Carbo to jump. Carbo moved forwards, turned so he was facing into the room, and gripped the sides of the window. He hesitated. Letting himself fall felt too unnatural.
The ceiling collapsed. Another shower of sparks raced towards him. He let go.
He knew straight away that he hadn’t got it right. His head was lower than his legs. The fall, a matter of a heartbeat in length, seemed to draw out forever. Then he hit, the back of his head thumping down hard, before the rest of his body caught up and arrested the momentum. Darkness rushed into the periphery of his vision, and he lay for a moment, unable to move. Several strong hands grabbed him and dragged him clear, pouring water over him to douse any flames and remove any lingering heat, then carrying him, semi-conscious, to the other side of the road.
He lay slumped against a wall, the world spinning round him, only vaguely aware of what was happening. He heard Vespillo giving the orders to collapse the building, heard the groan of stressed timbers, then the unbelievable din of a building falling down, clouds of dust and rubble and burning timbers all crumbling in on themselves. He was aware of the arrival of the sipho, a fire engine pulled by two horses, with a reservoir of water and a pump. As his head started to clear, he heard another crash as the building on the other side of the fire’s source was demolished. By the time he was able to get to his feet, the blaze was under control, the siphonarius directing the pump, the aquarius directing the supply of water, Vespillo pointing out places where the vigiles needed to beat out a flame or move some combustible material.
The building in which the blaze had started finally collapsed, its burnt-out timbers giving up supporting the shoddy construction. When the last of the flames were extinguished, Vespillo turned to Carbo.
‘Let’s go back to the station. The medicus will need to look at you.’
‘And you,’ said Carbo. ‘What happens here now?’
Vespillo shrugged. ‘Clearing up to be done by the residents. No doubt some bodies to recover. Livelihoods to be rebuilt. Not our job any more, though. We have done what we are paid to do.’
Vespillo clapped Carbo on the shoulder and toget
her they started limping back to the headquarters, Carbo hampered by his old war injury, Vespillo by the new injury where he had ripped his leg on the broken floor. They clambered painfully over the ruins of the collapsed building at the end of the street. Vespillo looked back at it, frowning, then carried on towards the fire station.
In the shadows at the end of the street, Glaukos smiled triumphantly.
‘You see, Mother? If we plan this carefully, then a few strategic collapses of buildings in main roads will choke the city. The panicking people will never be able to escape. The vigiles will be unable to bring up their firefighting equipment. The families in the houses and trying to flee on the streets will be consumed, and even those attending the games will be caught up in the conflagration. By the time it reaches them, it will be unstoppable.’
Elissa nodded. ‘It is good. The Lord and Lady will be pleased. Provided they receive their chosen sacrifice.’
A cloud passed over Glaukos’ face.
‘They will, Mother, I promise.’
* * *
Philon scurried down the alleyway, heart pounding at the thought of the terrors of the night. The times he had been out after dark before, it had been in a group, accompanying a former master to a party, along with a retinue of other slaves and hangers-on, a number of which would have clubs and knives concealed subtly about their person. Now Philon had none of that assurance and protection. He passed the open mouth of an alley and a sudden scream made him start, his heart faltering. A small cat came rushing out, pursued by a larger tomcat. A short way down the street, the tomcat caught the queen, grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, and with a large amount of noise from both parties, mated with her.
Philon pictured himself in the place of the queen, a position he had found himself in so many times, and flushed in embarrassment and anger. The gods are cruel, he thought. Had he not been born into slavery, he would have been the master of his own fate. He would maybe have slaves of his own now, food and wine whenever he wanted, a woman, whatever that felt like. Instead he had been raised in servitude, sold away from his mother when he was only seven to a succession of masters of varying wealth, kindness and proclivities. From a young age he had been a catamite, used for the pleasure of his master or the guests in any way they saw fit.
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