Nero

40

We fought the fire for six days, and lost. Bassus had put me in charge of part of the section between the Pullian Incline and the Caelian, although by the end that was a burned desert and we'd moved east almost as far as the Querquetulan Gate. If I close my eyes I can still see the flames and taste the acrid smoke at the back of my throat, and hear the slipping rumble of masonry and the screams that went with it. I see other things, too, that are worse: the half-charred corpse I trod on in an alleyway, that I thought was a dog and which turned out to be a child. The woman who jumped from the roof of a tenement I'd ordered cleared for demolition, just before it fell. The fear-crazed mule, broken jars dangling from its sides, that ran past us soaked in blazing oil. There was never enough time, never enough help. Never enough water, either: the nearest mains supply was the Claudian Aqueduct, a mile away on the Caelian, and we had to make do with the public stand-pipes and fountains. Even if one happened to be nearby and clear of rubble a full bucket moved down the chain with nightmare slowness. When I got home at night — if I got home at night — to the false peace of the Quirinal the first thing I noticed was the obscene sound of water splashing into my ornamental pool.

The fire ate Rome's heart out. On the second day the wind shifted, blowing the flames away from the Market Square and the Capitol but driving them across the northern slopes of the Palatine. By the third day, everything south of the Sacred Way was ablaze, and by the fourth there was nothing left there but blackened masonry, charred beams and a silting of ash. The House of the Kings. Vesta's temple and grove. The Temple of Jupiter Stayer of the Host, which Romulus had founded eight hundred years before. Gone. All gone. To the east, where I was, the flames raced between Caelian and Esquiline, gutting Isis and Serapis as far as the Servian Wall. By the sixth day between the river and Mount Caeliolus to the west and east and the Sacred Way and the Aventine to the north and south Rome was a ruin, stinking of sour smoke and half-burned corpses.

Lucius had come as soon as he'd got Bassus's message. He threw open the public buildings on Mars Field in the north-west of the city and his own Vatican Gardens beyond to the refugees, organised emergency accommodation and an extra grain supply from the Ostian granaries and the towns outside Rome, cutting the price to a sixteenth of its value. All this, however, I heard at second-hand. I only saw him once, on the fourth day, when I went to the Tower of Maecenas to beg Bassus for more men.

The first thing that struck me was the quiet. Although it was nothing compared to the screaming hell of the Third District, Maecenas Tower, being the operations centre, was always noisy. The ground floor, where most of the routine reports were made, was even fuller than usual, but there was no movement, only a terrible stillness. I shoved my way inside and grabbed the nearest clerk by the shoulder.

'Where's Bassus?' I said.

'What?' His eyes hadn't followed the rest of his body round. They were still turned towards the base of the staircase.

'The consul, you fool! Is he here?'

'Yes.' He had finally given me his full attention, but it had cost an effort. I knew him now: he was one of Bassus's best freedmen, a clever Asian Greek from the Public Works Department. 'Yes, he's on the roof. But he's got — '

I didn't stop to listen. Pushing past I began to climb the stair. That was crowded, too; but again no one was moving. The whole tower seemed, for some reason, to be frozen, listening.

I heard the first notes just before I squeezed through the final group on to the roof itself and saw the reason for the stillness.

Lucius was standing with his back to me, facing out over the burning city. He was wearing a tragic gown, sewn with pearls and sequins that flashed and glittered in the light of the flames. In the crook of his left arm he held a cithara, the heavy eleven-string lyre used for concert performances. As I watched he drew the plectrum across the strings and began to sing:

Muse, tell of the wrath of the Greeks, when the wooden horse gave birth,

Tumbling to earth her bronze-clad foals

Terrible in their anger,

Bringing death to Ilium…

I stood as if nailed to the roof's floor. The song was Lucius's Sack of Troy, which he had written the year before and had intended for his cancelled Greek tour. Under and above it came the sounds of the dying city far below; in my ears, and in my head, too. Men shouting. Women and children screaming. The sliding crash of falling buildings and the terrible, constant crackling of the flames. Over to the left, against the southern parapet, I saw Bassus in the middle of a knot of others. He was weeping. I put my fingers to my own cheeks and they came away wet and dark with soot.

At last the thing ended. Lucius struck a final chord and held his pose, waiting for the applause. It came; scattered, yet it came. I couldn't bring myself to join in. I was thinking of the corpse in the alleyway, that I'd thought was a dog's.

The emperor turned and made his bow. I was about to slip away, but he saw me.

'Titus, darling! What're you doing here?' He handed the cithara to awaiting slave and came towards me. His gown — purple-dyed — was dull as old blood in the firelight. 'Did you enjoy that?'

'Very nice,' I said.

'My dear, you look like a half-burned scarecrow!' He hugged me. 'And you absolutely stink! What've you been doing to yourself?'

'Oh, this and that.' I could've hit him. 'Taking part in the sack of Rome, mostly.'

'It's terrible, isn't it?' For a moment — but only for a moment — his face clouded. 'Bassus was telling me three districts have gone already. Including the palace, of course. Such a shame. We'd just had the decorators in.'

'At least the fire's had its uses.' I gestured towards the slave with the cithara. I don't think I'd ever been so angry. 'It makes for such marvellous theatre.'

'Yes, doesn't it?' He nodded, and beamed. His arm was still round my shoulders and he smelled of scent. 'I couldn't waste the opportunity, could I? Such drama, my dear! Such excitement! It's almost worth everything.'

'Almost.' As unobtrusively as I could I moved out of his grip.

Not unobtrusively enough. He frowned.

'I do care, Titus,' he said gently. 'I've done my best. And what can it possibly matter to anyone?'

'What indeed?' I glanced across at Bassus. His face, and the faces of the others around him — I noticed they were all senators — were hard as stone.

'You'll see.' Lucius was talking to me as if to a child. 'Once we get this terrible fire under control I'll build a proper city. Wide streets with covered walks. Proper fire precautions. Lots of new public buildings. Grants, of course, for private citizens who've lost their property. It'll be a blessing in disguise, Rome was such a dump.' He paused. 'Oh, and a proper palace as well. Not just for me. For Rome. Something we can all be proud of.'

'I'll look forward to that,' I said. 'And now, if you'll excuse me…'

I moved away, towards Bassus. Lucius didn't stop me; but I couldn't help noticing his sudden look of hurt, as if I had actually hit him after all. In a way he was right; that was the dreadful thing. Performing his Sack of Troy to the backdrop of the blazing city meant nothing; as I'd said myself, a marvellous bit of theatre. It didn't matter a straw, especially set against all the good he'd done since he'd got back to Rome. He was sincere, too, about his plans for the city. I knew that; Lucius would move heaven and earth to make sure that Rome after the fire was a better and a safer place to live in.

But what would they remember, the Romans of a hundred years' time, when all of us were dead? That the Emperor Nero had rebuilt the city, much of it at his own expense? Or that he played the lyre and sang while the old Rome burned below him? You, my readers, know the answer as well as I do. And so will your children, and your children's children.

Lucius's tragedy was that he couldn't even ask himself the question.