Avenger of Rome

XII

Theatre of Pompey, Rome

A storm was coming. He could feel it in the tension in the air and the oppressive heat that lay like a dirty blanket over the city, and he prayed that rain would not spoil the entertainment. All around him was a cacophony of noise: how they roared, the common people, and how quickly they forgot. Afranius had written The Fire as a tragedy, but an Emperor could not be confined by mere convention and he, Nero, in his wisdom, had reconfigured the play as a comedy. Of all the theatres in Rome only that of Pompey the Great had a stage large enough to contain it. Capable of seating twenty thousand people, the vast semicircular auditorium was filled to capacity, with the front six rows packed with evil-smelling plebeians of the lowest rank, lured by free entry and the promise of rich pickings. For this was a play like no other.

He loved the theatre, because it allowed him to escape for a few hours from the increasing cares of state. Sometimes, alone in his great palaces, he had the feeling that the walls were closing in on him. He had lived with the scent of fear his entire life; first his own, the unloved child in a house full of enemies. Then the infinitely more preferable scent of other people’s fear as his power and — yes, he would not deny it — his malevolence grew. Other men’s fear gave him an almost godlike sense of omnipotence that he normally only felt on the stage or on the podium. So why was it so different when he smelled the fear on Tigellinus? Because Tigellinus, of all people, had no reason to be frightened of him. If Tigellinus was frightened it meant that Tigellinus felt vulnerable, even threatened. If Tigellinus felt threatened, it was because he believed his position was weak. And if Tigellinus was weak, where did that leave the Emperor who depended on him? It was a question he would never ask the man standing next to him, for fear of the answer he would receive.

He took a deep breath to still his growing panic and thrust the melancholy thought aside. From his favoured place by the proscaenium wall he was able to look up to where the statues of the mere mortals who had dominated this very stage — Aesopus, the tragedian, and Roscius, who had made laughter into an art form — stared blankly from their niches out towards the great pillared temple where Venus Victrix ruled. Surely they would have appreciated the genius of his production?

The full-sized, five-storey house, a replica of the ubiquitous insula apartment blocks that lined Rome’s streets, was blazing cheerfully now, each room visible to the audience because it had been built without a facade to ensure an uninterrupted view. Inside, the professional actors were doing their bumbling best to ensure that the conflagration would be terminal. It was almost time.

‘Help, help,’ cried the actor playing the brothel owner. ‘Help us save what we can.’

The signal triggered a crazed rush from the front ranks of the audience as hundreds of excited plebs heeded the call. When they reached the wooden structure, the most fearful hesitated, quelled by the searing heat of the inferno. The fire had been skilfully set so that there was only one way into the building, a narrow passage which was alternately filled with flame and clear. Each floor of the block was strewn with treasures which rose in value with succeeding storeys. The lower floors contained furniture, ornate tables, chests full of who knew what valuables, and sacks of grain, the sale of which would keep a family in plenty for a month and more. On the fourth floor a table had been set for a banquet with fine silverware that would provide a man with the wherewithal to buy a small farm. Tethered beside the table, the comely, talented and equally valuable slave girl who had played the prostitute was now screaming frantically in a manner that might convince you she actually feared for her life.

But it was the top floor, the fifth, which had drawn these people, the dregs of Rome, the debtors and the dispossessed, to the theatre of Pompey. The man who found his way through the flames to the top floor, if he returned at all, would return rich, thanks to the chest that had been hidden there by the girl, and contained vessels of gold, glittering jewels and enough golden aurei to set someone up in style for the rest of their life.

‘See how they cower, Tigellinus, burdened by the lack of courage ingrained in their breeding.’

The Praetorian nodded gravely and tried to look interested. This was the fifth time he had seen The Fire and he knew that only by taking immediate advantage would any of the men have the chance to reach the top floor before it was consumed. ‘He who hesitates loses all, Caesar,’ he agreed in a bored voice.

One man, a tall dark-haired fellow braver than the rest, broke the spell, timing his run to coincide with a gap in the flames. His courage inspired or shamed another, and then four or five. As one, they rushed for the stairs, ignoring the inferior treasures on the ground floor which would be secured by those less brave. But the stairway was only wide enough for one man. The dark-haired pleb made it first, with a stocky peasant, a thief by trade, with ugly misshapen features and a missing eye, hard on his heels. The others jammed the narrow space and fought for progress, kicking and punching, until one pulled a dagger and kept his snarling fellows at bay long enough to dart upwards. The house was of particularly cunning manufacture. The builders had used hard and soft woods, and designed damp and dry areas, so it burned in a particular way. This left the upper floors clear of fire, but difficult to access, while those below burned quickly, but still left enough of a way out for a man making his way to the top to believe he had a chance of escape. Already flames were consuming the third floor and those who risked their lives to reach that level had to dash through the narrowest of gaps to reach the next stair. The tall man and the one-eyed thief both made it through, but the man with the knife took one look and retreated. One of his companions darted past and made a grab for a pot overflowing with bronze coin, only to drop shrieking through a gap in the floor and into the maw of the flames on the level below. A roar of applause and guffaws of raucous laughter from twenty thousand throats accompanied his demise.

By now the first man had reached the silver level. He was clearly the crowd’s favourite and they cheered him on, screaming at him to go for the gold. The slave girl, her stola already smoking in the intense heat, howled at him for help, but her voice was almost drowned out by the jeers of the audience. Remarkably, he hesitated. It was only for the merest fraction of a second, but long enough for the thief to smash him aside and send him sprawling. Still, he recovered quickly; without another glance at the girl he bounded for the stairs, taking them two at a time, only to be met at the top by a flying boot that took him clean in the face. He tumbled down the stairs and lay motionless at the foot. The crowd howled in outrage, but the thief put the chest to his shoulder and charged downstairs, leaping over the prone figure who clawed weakly at his legs. Time was running out. Every floor but the uppermost pair was a mass of flame, and it was clear these would soon be enveloped. Only the stairs provided a tantalizing, narrow and fast closing avenue of escape.

The tall man rose groggily to his feet and the crowd could sense the calculations running through his mind. He hadn’t risked everything to leave empty-handed and his eyes flickered between the silver and the girl. They screamed at him to take the silver, but he could see it was impossible to carry it all. The girl was as valuable, perhaps more so, as anything he could take in his hands. He ran across floorboards glowing with heat, untied her hands and feet and pulled her upright. At first, she didn’t understand what was happening, but gradually a smile crossed her face. She said something to the tall man no one would ever hear and gave him a hefty push that sent him staggering backwards until his feet met air and he plummeted through the flames of the lower floors to land with a sickening crack on the flagstones four storeys below. As the crowd roared, the girl grabbed what she could from the table and ran for the stairs.

Two floors below, the one-eyed thief exulted in the knowledge that he was a rich man. Clutching the casket to his chest he groped his way through the smoke to where the stairs to the ground floor smouldered. As he reached them, a faceless figure with the blackened remains of singed tunic protecting his face rose up and stabbed him deep in the guts. The thief screamed at the white-hot agony in his vitals and watched helplessly as the knife man prised the chest from his unprotesting fingers and disappeared from view. He tried to move, but his legs wouldn’t work. The pain in his insides was like nothing he had ever experienced, but when the flames reached out for him it paled into insignificance and his dying shrieks goaded the crowd to ever greater rapture.

As the peasant burned, the knife man was making for safety through the flames of the ground floor and was already mentally spending his money when his foot hit some hidden pressure point. Before he could even scream a jet of burning liquid erupted between his feet and made him one with the inferno that surrounded him.

Now the only living thing in the burning building was the slave girl. When she reached the first floor she could tell the location of the stairs by the blue flame that consumed the thief’s fat. She knew there was no escape by that route but she had lived by her wits for half her life and now it stood her in good stead. Still holding her loot, she ran directly into the flames and leapt through what had been the open front of the room. It was only a single storey, but when she landed she felt her ankle snap and she realized her hair was on fire. Her only consolation was the cheers of the crowd and the silver scattered around her.

As she lay exhausted, the applause grew louder and she looked up into the face of the Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Germanicus, who regarded her with a benevolent smile. ‘Get rid of her, Tigellinus. She’s no good to anyone now.’ He turned away to accept the justified acclaim of the mob. Had there ever been a better entertainment?

Just then, the storm broke and great droplets of rain hammered down on the dry stones and hissed among the burning timbers. He looked up to the heavens and allowed the cool water to pour over his face. It was a sign. He was still the favourite of the gods.