The Devil Will Come (24 page)

There was a full moon that night but because it was cloudy it shone little light on the thousands who were queuing at the Circus Maximus gates for a dawn admission to the grounds.

Deep in the bowels of the Circus’s grandstands, Vibius, Balbilus’s creature of the night, and another man crept through a dark passageway into a cheerfully lit shop. There a leather-aproned baker was sliding loaves into a roaring oven.

‘We’re not open,’ the baker barked.

Vibius walked calmly toward him and ran a sword through his gut upwards to his heart. The baker fell hard and when his wife ran from the second room where the dough was curing the other man killed her likewise with one hard thrust.

A man screamed. Out of the corner of his eye Vibius saw the baker’s son bursting from the curing room with rage in his heart and an iron bar in his hand. With a dull thud of crushed bone Vibius’s colleague crumpled. Vibius wheeled and pounced on the strapping lad, sliced his neck hard and clean and watched him fall onto his mother’s lap.

Cursing, Vibius stepped around the bodies and used the baker’s pallet to scoop embers from deep inside the brick-lined oven. With a flick of his wrists he dumped a red-hot heap into a corner. Instantly the floorboards began to smoke and hiss and in mere moments a line of flame crept up the wall to the rafters.

Vibius returned to the dark corridor and hustled down the stairs, his job imperfectly done. Soon he was mingling with the crowd, waiting for the show to well and truly start.

One floor above the baker there was a lamp-oil shop, laden with heavy amphorae. The clay vessels burst in the heat and fed the fire so spectacularly that the northeastern corner of the Circus Maximus exploded in a fireball. With a collective gasp, the crowd pointed at the blaze and began to stampede. The flames leapt skyward and almost immediately the fire bells of the nearby vigilis station of the district known as Regio IX began to jangle.

A cohort of vigiles mobilized but their bucket brigades quickly exhausted the meager local water supply and all they could do was shout evacuation orders into the night. The circus was ringed with rickety
tenements
, some with illegally built upper stories so shoddily constructed that they practically leaned onto each other across narrow cobblestone lanes. The blaze ran quickly through the blocks of tenements, leaving behind collapsed buildings and charred bodies. Whipped by a strong seasonal wind the fire spread south into Regio XII and then to Regio XIII before jumping the Servian Walls which had once marked the southern boundary of Rome before urban sprawl had stretched the city limits.

The streets filled with frightened, powerless people as the inferno hurtled down some blocks and danced across roofs. One narrow winding street after another was consumed by flames, often with masses of men, women and children trapped by fallen masonry or walls of fire. And although there would be tales of men helping others to escape and beating back pockets of flames, there would also be reports of shadowy figures moving through the city, throwing burning brands into hitherto untouched buildings.

By morning light a pall of heavy smoke hung over many of the southern regions of Rome and the fire was advancing up the Aventine Hill toward wealthy homes and temples. Then the winds shifted ominously and started to drive the fire in the north to the southern slopes of the Palatine and Caelian Hills. The city was doomed.

From the highest balcony of his villa on the Via Appia, Balbilus looked north to the billowing clouds of smoke. Vibius joined him, sooty from his exertions, and was offered a goblet of wine to slake his thirst.

‘It’s too close for comfort,’ Balbilus growled.

‘The wind is turning southerly,’ Vibius said.

‘I can predict the movement of the heavens, but not the wind,’ the swarthy astrologer said. ‘I would rather not lose my house.’

‘I think mine has already gone,’ Vibius said without a trace of emotion.

‘Your family can come here. All the Lemures families who are in peril can come. Put the word out.’

A Praetorian cavalry contingent arrived at Antium as the sun was setting. The city had a new port which Nero had built but the Praetorians trusted their horses more than boats. Nero had turned Antium into a protected enclave settled by Praetorian veterans and retired centurions. He had rebuilt the seaside palace of Augustus to his liking and included a raised columned complex that extended for two thousand meters along the seafront. For his amusement he had built numerous gardens, temples, pools and most importantly, a theater where he could practice his art.

When the cavalry arrived to inform him about the fire in Rome Tigellinus received the report impassively but refused to let the messenger, who was carrying a personal dispatch from the Prefect of Rome, see the Emperor. Nero was in the wings preparing to take the stage for an evening competition. Dressed in an unbelted, Greek-style tunic he mingled with his competitors, all local lads who knew with certainty that Nero would be the judges’ favorite. When it was his turn
he
took to the stage of the half-moon theater and peered out at an audience of toadies – retired soldiers, senators in his entourage, local Antium magistrates and a cohort of his special troops, the German bodyguard. Though Antium was a good distance from Rome, there was a faint smell of ash in the air and the news of the fire was beginning to take hold. The audience whispered and fidgeted and if not for the royal performance they would have sought out the messengers for more information.

Nero lifted his lyre and began to sweetly sing a song, The Sack of Ilium, about the destruction of Troy by the Greeks during the Trojan War. He would win the competition, of course, but no one seemed pleased to be entertained about a great city being laid waste by fire.

In the slums of the Esquiline Hill stray embers settled onto roofs and balconies and were stamped out by vigilant citizens and slaves before they caught hold. Peter the Apostle was there on one of his pastoral missions as Bishop of Rome. He was a weary but persistent traveller, enduring the months-long mule-train journeys to Jerusalem and Rome from his home in Antioch in Greece where he also served as bishop. Rome had been a tough assignment. His disciples were converting as many slaves and freedmen as they could but the citizens were hostile to the Christian cult, as they called it. But Peter had a small flock and, like lambs, they needed the guidance of a shepherd’s staff from time to time.

Cornelius the tanner had become a priest of the new church and his house was one of their common prayer and meeting points. Peter stood by one of the tenement’s windows in a room packed with devotees. A glowing ember floated by and Peter watched it for a moment before turning back to the papyrus in his hand. He had recently written an epistle to his faithful followers and he wanted them to hear it come from his own lips. ‘So, dear brothers and sisters, work hard to prove that you really are among those whom God has called and chosen. Do these things, and you will never fall away. Then God will give you a grand entrance into the eternal Kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Therefore, I will always remind you about these things – even though you already know them and are standing firm in the truth that you have been taught. And it is only right that I should keep on reminding you as long as I live. For our Lord Jesus Christ has shown me that I must soon leave this earthly life, so I will work hard to make sure you always remember these things after I am gone. For we were not making up clever stories when we told you about the powerful coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. We saw His majestic splendor with our own eyes when He received honor and glory from God the Father. The voice from the majestic glory of God said to Him, ‘This is my dearly loved Son, who brings me great joy.’ We ourselves heard that voice from heaven when we were with Him on the holy mountain. Because of that experience, we have even greater confidence in
the
message proclaimed by the prophets. You must pay close attention to what they wrote, for their words are like a lamp shining in a dark place – until the Day dawns, and Christ the Morning Star shines in your hearts.’

When Peter was done, Cornelius drew him aside to a corner by the cooking stove. ‘Fine words,’ he said.

‘They are from my heart,’ Peter answered.

‘You spoke of leaving your earthly life.’

Peter seemed resolute. Another ember blew past the window. ‘It will happen soon. Rome is being consumed by the fires of hell and I fear Nero will be looking to place the blame.’

‘They’ll look to us, but some say it’s the Lemures.’

‘Superstitions, surely,’ Peter said.

Cornelius whispered, ‘I know a man who swears he saw a charred body in the rubble of the Circus Maximus. It had a tail.’

Peter arched an eyebrow. ‘If true, then evil may indeed be among us.’

‘You should leave Rome,’ Cornelius insisted. ‘Let’s have you returned to Antioch.’

‘No,’ Peter said, ‘I will stay. It was meant to be. Christ suffered for me and now it is my turn to suffer for Him. You know, Cornelius, what they don’t understand is that killing us only makes us more powerful. Come, friend, let’s try to help our brethren. And if there’s evil about, let us confront it.’

Tigellinus held the messenger at bay until the morning. He knew Nero was in a revelatory mood and wouldn’t have appreciated the interruption of matters of empire. Besides, Nero had known about the fire before it happened, hadn’t he? Still, the Prefect of Rome’s message had to be delivered and when the Emperor was gently awakened by his private secretary, Epaphroditus, an attentive Greek Lemures, he was informed that a contingent of Praetorians had arrived from Rome bearing important news.

After an hour of bathing and perfuming, Nero received the soldiers in his grand reception room, attended by Tigellinus, Epaphroditus, and his devoted assassin, Acinetus. The letter he was handed was stark. The Circus Maximus was destroyed. The southern regions of the city were ablaze. The fire was uncontrollable.

‘And what am I to do?’ Nero asked rhetorically. ‘Am I to carry a bucket? Surely this is a matter for Prefect Sabinus to deal with. That’s his job! My job is to sing tonight in competition. There is said to be a Thracian with an excellent voice who will be my rival. I cannot disappoint my audience.’

‘Shall I deliver a written reply to Prefect Sabinus?’ the Praetorian commander asked.

‘Tigellinus can pen something if he likes,’ Nero said. ‘By the way, is there any danger to the Esquiline Hill?’

The soldier replied he didn’t believe so and Nero dismissed the cohort with an imperial wave.

Nero called for some watered wine. ‘It seems you’ve done a good job of it, Tigellinus.’

‘Rome took many a day to build but it can be destroyed in a very few,’ Tigellinus said with a smile.

‘Remember,’ Nero said irritably, ‘I’m as interested in destruction as you, but I just completed the Domus Transitoria and I fancy living there until the Domus Aurea is built on reclaimed land.’

The Domus Transitoria was a long, colonnaded palace that ran from the Palatine all the way to the Gardens of Maecenas, occupying much of the Esquiline Hill in Regio III. But building the Domus Aurea was his ultimate goal, a palace so grand and audacious it would eclipse all buildings in Rome. He had personally approved the plans and drawings. It would sit on 200 acres of burnt-out land at the foot of the Palatine Hill. The entrance hall would be high enough to accommodate a 40-meter statue of himself, a true Colossus of Rome. This entrance hall, three stories high, which Nero dubbed the Millaria, would run for two kilometers along the Forum valley through the fire-ravaged Carinae and Suburba districts. There would be an enormous pool, a veritable sea in the middle of Rome which he would use for lavish pageants.

‘I am confident that the land you need for the Domus Aurea is already consumed,’ Tigellinus said. ‘If the winds are favorable, the Domus Transitoria should be safe. I too am worried about my shops at the Basilica Aemilia.’

Nero was not inclined to offer sympathy. He had made Tigellinus the second-most powerful man in Rome and immensely wealthy.

‘If you lose your precious Basilica you’ll build a larger one with smaller shops and charge higher rents. You know how it works. We’ll use Lemures marble quarries, cement and timber works for our new constructions. We’ll give prime land to our allies. We’ll get our personal levy on every transaction. We’ll make a fortune on the back of all the suffering and death. How fine is that? By the way, are we spreading the word that the Christian Cult is behind this?’

‘It’s being done.’

Nero rose and stretched. ‘It’s a good day, Tigellinus. Leave me now. I’m going to rest my throat for the evening’s competition.’

The fire raged on. Flames climbed the Palatine, Caelian and Aventine Hills and fierce winds drove them north toward the Esquiline Hill and the heart of Rome.

Later in the day a Praetorian messenger arrived with news which firmly caught the Emperor’s attention. The Domus Transitoria was threatened. With that, Nero angrily sent back orders that everything had to be done to protect his properties and ordered preparations for his departure to Rome by sea the following morning.

Nero arrived in one of a flotilla of small boats that sailed up the Tiber under a filthy brown sky. As his boat drew closer to the city he marveled at the great clouds of smoke and the fierce balls of fire which rose majestically into the air. The usual dock areas in Regio XIII had been razed so the flotilla had to find a landing downstream beside the Campus Martius.

Accompanied by Tigellinus, Nero was taken by litter to meet with Sabinus, the Prefect of Rome, who gave him a sober summary: the city was at the mercy of the fire. It was beyond the control of man. They passed through the Esquiline Gate, then entered the smoldering Gardens of Maecenas which days earlier had been the loveliest spot in Rome. Nero climbed to the top of the hill and ascended the squat Tower of Maecenas for the ultimate view of his burning city. Across the valley the Palatine Hill and all the old imperial palaces of Augustus, Germanicus, Tiberius and Caligula were burning. The Forum Romanum was gone, the House of the Vestals, the Temple of Vesta, the Regia, the ancient home of the kings of Rome – all consumed. With a heavy sigh, Nero watched the flames licking at the Domus Transitoria. A firebreak constructed by Praetorian cohorts and imperial slaves had failed.