Saenius murmured in agreement. Walking through Rome at midday in the height of summer was akin to sitting in a caldarium for too long: hot, sweaty and uncomfortable.
Crassus closed his eyes, luxuriating as a light breeze trickled across his face. An instant later, his nose wrinkled. The rising heat exacerbated the omnipresent reek of human waste. While he — naturally — had the comforts of piped sanitation, most of Rome’s residents did not. The public toilets weren’t nearly numerous enough to cope either. The maze of alleyways lacing the city were therefore home to vast, steaming dungheaps, the ammonia-laden odour of which now filled Crassus’ nostrils. He frowned. He could order that some olibanum be burned, but it would only mask the stench and leave a cloying, unpleasant taste at the back of his throat. ‘Maybe it’s time for a break,’ he mused. ‘A month at the coast would be very pleasant.’
‘Your villa there is always ready,’ said Saenius, clearly pleased at the idea of quitting the capital. ‘And the sea breezes make the heat easier to bear.’
Crassus was about to agree when a totally different scent reached him. Smoke. His head turned, seeking the direction from which it came. ‘Do you smell that?’
Saenius leaned forward, sniffing. ‘Ah yes.’ He concealed his disappointment well, thought Crassus with amusement. ‘Something’s burning,’ he said.
‘It’s certainly the right weather for it,’ replied Saenius. ‘The city hasn’t had a drop of rain for weeks, and some fools will always leave a brazier untended.’
Crassus threw back the last of his wine and stood. ‘The coast can wait. Let’s go and have a look around.’
Saenius knew better than to argue. ‘I’ll gather the slaves.’ Calling for those who made up Crassus’ entourage, he vanished into the depths of the house.
Crassus took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the harsh tang of burning wood. It was most effective at concealing the stink of shit, he thought wryly.
Anticipation filled him next. The powerful odour meant that somewhere not too far away, there was money to be made.
The source of the fire wasn’t hard to track down. Crassus’ large but plain house was situated on the lower slopes of the Palatine Hill. By simply walking to the nearest crossroads, he could gain a partial view over the centre of Rome. That told him that the conflagration was on the Aventine Hill. The score of slaves trailing Crassus — a mixture of bodyguards, labourers and architects — spied the billowing smoke at once too. Faint cries were also audible above the hum of ordinary life. Debate broke out among the men about the size of the blaze, what had started it and how many people would die before it was put out.
Crassus ignored their chatter. All would become clear when they got there. He strode down the street, indicating that his slaves should follow. ‘It’s bad luck to live on the Aventine,’ he said softly, repeating the old saying.
His bodyguards quickly moved in front of him. Armed with cudgels and knives, they bellowed and used their fists to clear a path through the teeming, narrow streets. ‘Make way for Marcus Licinius Crassus, praetor and the most generous man in Rome!’ they shouted. ‘Scion of one of the Republic’s oldest families, son and grandson of a consul, he regularly donates a tenth of all he owns to Hercules.’
Crassus smiled benevolently.
‘So fucking what? Crassus is so damn rich that he could afford five times that amount and still not notice the loss!’ a voice suddenly yelled from the throng.
The bodyguards’ heads spun angrily, looking for the culprit.
‘Leave it. There’s no time to waste,’ ordered Crassus. Besides, it’s true enough. Similar comments were made everywhere he went. Like the lewd political and sexual graffiti that decorated the walls of houses throughout the city, it was a nuisance that had to be borne, as a dog suffered its fleas. He pulled a heavy purse from inside his tunic and handed it to Saenius. ‘Offer that to the crowd,’ he said loudly.
A wave of excitement rippled through those within earshot. Scores of hungry, dirty faces turned towards them.
‘All of it?’ cried Saenius, acting out the ritual they’d played countless times before.
‘Why not? The worthy citizens of Rome deserve no less,’ replied Crassus. He added in an undertone, ‘I’ll recoup it a thousand times over where we’re heading.’
Saenius’ answering grin was wolf-like. Filling his fist with coins, he fell out of step long enough to fill the air with showers of bronze asses, silver sestertii and denarii. Crassus glanced back at the mob, which had gone wild. Excellent. To add to the spice, he’d added an occasional gold aureus to the change in his purse. One of those was but a drop in the ocean to him, but to the average impoverished resident of Rome, the rare piece of currency represented food for weeks, if not months.
It took perhaps a quarter of an hour to work their way to the Aventine. The multi-storey buildings pressed in on either side, creating a gloomy, claustrophobic world and preventing a view of the fire’s exact location. The problem was easily solved, however. Hordes of frantic, wild-eyed people were fleeing the quarter. All Crassus had to do was order his bodyguards to drive against the crowd’s flow. Drawing their cudgels from their belts, three of them formed a wedge and shoved forward. From then on, anyone who got in their way was simply smashed over the head. Magically, the centre of the street opened up. Set on a new course, the rabble streamed by on either side of Crassus.
Some citizens carried their belongings, wrapped in sheets, on their backs. Others had nothing but the clothes they wore. Children who had been separated from their parents screamed. Husbands cursed under the weight of what their wives had made them carry. Upset by the din, babies added their mewling cries to the general mayhem. Crassus ignored the fear-stricken masses, focusing instead on the shopkeepers’ faces framed in the entrances of the establishments that lined both sides of the street. Their precious stock, whether it be meat, pottery, metalwork or amphorae of wine, meant that each of them stood to lose far more than the average person if the fire spread. It also meant that the traders did not panic unnecessarily. The expressions of the men he saw here were not that concerned. Yet. ‘Press on,’ Crassus ordered his bodyguards. ‘The blaze is a good way off still.’
They found it a dozen streets further up the hill.
Thick brown smoke filled the air all around them now, and the temperature rose sharply. The area was already almost empty of people, and the only ones visible were scuttling in the opposite direction. Crassus wasn’t surprised. Other than the owners of affected buildings, there was no one to fight fires in Rome. The ground floors of most structures were constructed using bricks, but above many towered the dizzying wooden heights of the insulae, three, four and even five storeys of tiny, miserable flats. This was where most people lived. Existed would be a more accurate description, thought Crassus, feeling grateful for his station in life. Built with little regard to safety or architectural design, the insulae were death-traps waiting to collapse or burn down. Fire was the more common of the two disasters. And once a blaze had a foothold in a building, it was virtually impossible to put out. Thanks to the fact that everything was constructed either directly adjoining or actually touching the structures around it, it was the norm for the flames to spread lethally fast. Anyone who stayed in the vicinity risked being incinerated. Conflagrations in which entire neighbourhoods were destroyed, killing hundreds, were commonplace during the summer months.
He caught sight of two anguished figures ahead: a middle-aged man wearing a grubby shopkeeper’s apron and an attractive woman of similar age. Crassus smiled. This would be the owner and his wife. Those whose livelihoods were in peril could never bring themselves to leave until the very last moment.
Now the crackling of flames could be heard. Looking up through the swirling eddies of smoke, Crassus saw bright orange-yellow tongues licking hungrily at the third floor of a wood-faced block of flats. ‘It started in a cenacula. It’s out of control already.’
‘Is it ever any other way?’ asked Saenius.
‘Rarely,’ admitted Crassus dryly. He pushed aside the bodyguards. ‘Greetings, friend!’
The man he’d spied didn’t hear his salutation. Ignoring his wife’s warnings, he darted into the open-fronted shop that formed the structure’s base. He emerged a moment later, carrying a large ceramic pot. Setting it down beside half a dozen others, he prepared to run inside again.
‘You risk much, friend,’ said Crassus loudly. ‘Many’s the man who’s been buried alive when a building collapsed.’
The shopkeeper regarded him with a dazed expression. ‘I have no choice,’ he said in a monotone. ‘My life savings went into constructing this block of flats. I’m ruined, I know, but without any stock, we’ll starve.’ He turned
