Time to Depart

by Lindsey Davis

  Luckily a centurion with sense turned up, bringing more men with grappling hooks, axes and mattocks. A party below us were clearing space in the log store, although one side of it was now raging with fire. Before they were forced back, the landlord’s prop was replaced beneath the bed, along with poles they had brought themselves, to give him more security until someone could rescue him. Ordered to this task, vigiles pressed past Petronius and me, at last working with speed and efficiency. They flung a huge espartograss mat across the room and commanded Smaractus to throw himself onto it. Just in time, he obeyed. They hauled. We helped. We dragged him clear at the very moment the flames shot up through the floor and devoured the bed. We all leapt back into the outer room, and heard the floor fall in accompanied by a huge roar of fire and sparks.

  The blaze went racing up the walls. Smaractus had collapsed. He was picked up as if he were light as a leaf and rushed outside. A terrific gust of heat and smoke rushed through the building. Petro and I found ourselves coughing. The foul-tasting smoke was so thick it was difficult to find the door. As we fell outside, covering our mouths and retching, a member of the vigiles ran up the stairs, axe in hand, gesturing upwards.

  ‘Who lives in the other apartments?’

  ‘No one. They’re even more derelict than this one.’

  ‘Quick then. Get out of here!’

  We all staggered down to street level, relieved to be out of it.

  * * *

  A syphon party came running up, towing their pumping engine. They forced a passage into the laundry, and soon there were more buckets being passed out at a fast pace. More foot patrols arrived. When Petronius found his breath, he began organising these into crowd control, gradually moving the sightseers back. A recruit with a bucket went up the street, dousing the wedding torches. We had enough light now without them. A ballista was dragged to the corner, though it got stuck trying to turn into the narrow lane. Smaractus saw it, panicked, and began wandering about drunkenly, threatening to sue if anyone made a firebreak by knocking down any other buildings owned by him. He was so much of a nuisance, the vigiles arrested him for failing to keep fire buckets, interfering with their duties, and (just to make certain) arson with his bridal torch.

  The fire was now being contained, but with difficulty. One problem was the outer stairs. They had been rickety to start with, and the weight of heavy patrolmen thundering up in gangs with their buckets proved too much. The broken stonework gave way, luckily without too much damage to the fire-fighters. Petronius rushed forward to help them, and was knocked flat by a blazing shutter as it fell from above. I raced to pull him clear. At least he was conscious. Two patrolmen took charge of him, flapping cloths to give him air and checking him for broken bones. They knew their stuff.

  I saw Cassius, standing with his arms folded, glumly watching the loss of his premises. Leaving Petro for a moment, I went over to commiserate.

  ‘Could have been worse. You could have been in there asleep.’

  ‘Not with Lenia and Smaractus pounding all Hades out of the ceiling! But thanks, Falco.’ I had turned away. ‘By the way,’ asked the baker, ‘has anyone checked the upper floors?’

  ‘Nobody lives there, do they?’

  ‘I’ve seen an old woman going up a few times. Could be a new tenant – Smaractus will lease anything. Or a vagrant.’

  ‘Dear gods. Any idea whereabouts she snuggles down?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Cassius shrugged, too absorbed in his own problems.

  I stepped across to the centurion to warn him there might be a person trapped. At the same moment he noticed for himself: two floors up a shutter opened, and through the smoke we glimpsed a frightened face.

  The vigiles had brought up ladders after the stairs collapsed. Without a word the centurion and I ran for a spare one, praying it would be long enough. We dragged it forwards and raised it below the right window. It barely reached the ledge. Whatever was in there had disappeared. We yelled, but there was no response.

  The centurion swore. ‘We’ll make a bridge from across the street.’ I had seen them do that, raising and lowering ladders on ropes to form a dangerous crossing point. Sooner them than me.

  But it would take time to organise. There was nothing for it. The centurion had turned away to give orders. While his back was turned I sprang onto the lower rungs of our own ladder and started up.

  I was wearing the wrong clothes for this. The thin material of my Palmyrene suit shrivelled into little burnt holes every time sparks hit me. I kept on the hat, in the vague hope that it would protect my hair from being set alight. Below me I heard gasps as people realised what was happening.

  I arrived below the window and shouted, but nobody appeared. Carefully I climbed higher. I reached up and managed to get one arm over the sill. Then it was necessary to climb with mere toeholds, knowing I had little chance of making my way back again. I pulled myself up, got halfway through the window, and felt the ladder move away from the wall. I let it fall back.

  Now I was stuck clinging to the window. No choice but to go in. With a supreme effort I scrambled inside, falling headlong. I stood up, testing the floor beneath me nervously.

  ‘Is anyone there?’

  The room was full of smoke. It had seeped up from the two blazing storeys beneath, finding its way thickly through cracks and crannies in the ill-maintained building fabric. The air felt hot. The floor beneath my Syrian slippers burned the soles of my feet as if its underside must be smouldering like red-hot cinders. At any moment everything around me could explode into an inferno.

  In the back of this apartment fire broke through. The noise was appalling. Walls and floors cracked open. Flames roared up as they gave way. Light flickered wildly through an open door.

  Now I saw a human figure. Someone crouched in a far corner. Shorter than me of course. Flowing female drapes. The head tightly wrapped against the smoke.

  To calm any feminine fears I tried jovial reassurance: ‘Madam, you need to get out of here!’ I strode across. I was all set to do a shoulder hoist, though I was not sure where to turn with the burden afterwards.

  Then I saw the glint of a knife. It was no time for being soft on frightened virginity. With a hard blow of my wrist I knocked the blade to the floor. A foot kicked out frantically. Alert for the knee-in-the-groin defence, I glanced downwards ready to protect myself. Beneath the flounced hem of a matronly skirt lashed a dark grey leather travelling boot – on a foot as big as mine. It was a boot I seen before somewhere – the quay at Ostia. This was Balbinus Pius.

  I wrenched aside the stole. A hand was grabbing for my throat. I banged that upwards with my forearm. He ought to have used my surprise, but he was still fumbling at his disguise. He underestimated the threat. If Petronius had stumbled in here, Balbinus would really have gone for him; Petro would be dead. I was safer. Balbinus had not bothered to remember me.

  But I knew him. I drew my Arabian blade. The scabbard was pure decoration; the weapon was vicious. I set the point straight against his ribs and rammed home the sword.

  I heard my voice grating, ‘Time to depart, Balbinus!’ But he was already dead.

  LXIX

  Something crashed against the window. From far away across the street I could hear shouts. Wiping and sheathing my sword, I staggered to the sill. On the opposite side of the lane, which was fortunately narrow, the vigiles had somehow raised a ladder, balancing it precariously on a balcony parapet their side and lowering one end to where I was. If I could find the courage, I could now crawl to safety across the full width of Fountain Court. It was no time for debate. Fire was sweeping through the apartment behind me. I took off and threw out my slippers (which had been quite expensive), then I checked that my end of the ladder was stable and set off for the other side.

  I made it. Let’s leave it at that. There is only one way to scramble for your life across a bowing wooden ladder two storeys above the ground, and it has to be undignified. The moment when Petronius leant out from the opposite
balcony and grabbed me was one of the best of my life.

  We exchanged glances. Petronius saw there was blood on my tunic, but that I had no visible wounds.

  ‘Where’s the crone you went to rescue?’

  ‘I stuck my sword in her.’ He did not ask why. I think he guessed. ‘It was Balbinus.’

  ‘That’s the last time I work with you. You’ve stolen my case!’

  ‘I owe you one,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘Tell me he’s dead. I want to hear the words.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ I answered, seeing it again. Then I was sick. The vigiles blamed the smoke.

  * * *

  With arms across each other’s shoulders, Petro and I staggered down to street level. In the lane we discovered Helena, clutching my discarded slippers. She must have watched my feat with the ladder. Just as well I didn’t know.

  Helena was white and trembling, but she managed to sound cheerful: ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. In the confusion poor Lenia lost track of her wedding presents and some rotter’s swiped the lot.’

  Well there you are. That’s Rome all over. Organised crime never lies down for long.

  Time for someone to compose a petition to the enquiry chief of the vigiles.

  Check out the Marcus Didius Falco Mysteries by

  Lindsey Davis

  And don’t miss the third book in the series featuring Flavia Albia,

  Deadly Election

  Follow the latest news from Lindsey Davis at

  lindseydavis.co.uk

  Copyright © 2015 by Lindsey Davis

  About the Author

  Author photograph by Fergus Noone

  LINDSEY DAVIS is the author of the New York Times bestselling series of historical mysteries featuring Marcus Didius Falco, which started with The Silver Pigs, and the mysteries featuring Falco’s daughter, Flavia Albia, which started with The Ides of April. She has also authored a few acclaimed historical novels, including The Course of Honour. She lives in Birmingham, UK. Visit the author’s Web site at www.lindseydavis.co.uk. You can sign up for email updates here.

  ALSO BY LINDSEY DAVIS

  THE FLAVIA ALBIA NOVELS

  The Ides of April

  Enemies at Home

  Deadly Election

  THE FALCO SERIES

  The Silver Pigs

  Shadows in Bronze

  Venus in Copper

  The Iron Hand of Mars

  Poseidon’s Gold

  Last Act in Palmyra

  Time to Depart

  A Dying Light in Corduba

  Three Hands in the Fountain

  Two for the Lions

  One Virgin Too Many

  Ode to a Banker

  A Body in the Bathhouse

  The Jupiter Myth

  The Accusers

  Scandal Takes a Holiday

  See Delphi and Die

  Saturnalia

  Alexandria

  Nemesis

  The Course of Honour

  Rebels and Traitors

  Master and God

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  St. Martin’s Press ebook.

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  and info on new releases and other great reads,

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  For email updates on the author, click here.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Rome: Two Weeks in October, AD 72

  Extract from the Family Tree of Marcus Didius Falco

  Principal Characters

  Map of Imperial Rome

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  XLI

  XLII

  XLIII

  XLIV

  XLV

  XLVI

  XLVII

  XLVIII

  XLIX

  L

  LI

  LII

  LIII

  LIV

  LV

  LVI

  LVII

  LVIII

  LIX

  LX

  LXI

  LXII

  LXIII

  LXIV

  LXV

  LXVI

  LXVII

  LXVIII

  LXIX

  About the Author

  Also by Lindsey Davis

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  TIME TO DEPART. Copyright © 1995 by Lindsey Davis. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover design by Kerri Resnick

  Cover photograph of torn paper © LeksusTuss/Shutterstock

  Cover illustration © The Pantheon and other Monuments, 1735 (oil on canvas), Pannini or Panini, Giovanni Paolo (1691/2-1765) / Indianapolis Museum of Art, USA / Gift of Lila Allison Lilly in memory of her husband / Josiah Kirby Lilly / Bridgeman Images

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  e-ISBN 9781466857483

  First published in Great Britain in 1995 by Century and imprint of The Random House Group Limited

  First U.S. Edition: June 2015