I joined in the bucket chain that had already formed, handing off my pot to the next pair of beefy hands, grabbing another vessel from a slimmer pair. The pots, jars, and buckets kept coming, one after the other, until my fingers were raw from grasping the rough clay or wooden edges.
Screams sounded, followed by the crash and groan of wood and masonry, as the men with poles dragged down a wall. Women, with children wrapped in their arms, fled past me. Older children on foot ran to keep up with their mothers.
One taller boy halted and wedged himself into the bucket chain, thrusting vessels at me with energy.
“Where did it start?” I asked him.
“Insula just beyond the shrine of Fortuna,” the boy said breathlessly. “We live behind it. Vigiles turned us out.”
Meaning they’d destroyed the lad’s home, and others around it. The insulae up here were smaller than those in the Subura and on the lower slopes of the Esquiline, but fire could quickly render them heaps of ash and fallen blocks.
Fire anywhere in Rome was a disaster. With the lanes packed full of houses, which were in turn packed full of people, one overturned brazier or neglected oil lamp could destroy an entire neighborhood.
We continued to pass vessel after vessel, my fingers bloody now, and the buckets kept coming. Scaevola passed the chain from time to time, shouting orders, once snatching a pole from one of his men to go pull down walls himself.
The night slid on, and the smoke grew thicker. We coughed, spit to clear our throats, and continued to shove the water from hand to hand. The lad at my side drooped with exhaustion, though he resolutely continued. Finally, his legs gave way, and he fell.
I paused long enough to prop him against the wall behind us, then continued to grab buckets and hand them to the next man in line.
Smoke muted the gray of dawn. As the sun rose, true clouds blotted out the sky, and rain began to fall. A soft patter at first, then it became a steady deluge, wetting us to the skin.
A ripple of relief came down the line, and the smoke began to thin. A man close to where the fire had begun set down his bucket and stretched his back. A louder clatter joined the rain as pots and buckets fell to the stone, men groaning as they straightened stiff limbs.
We drifted apart, the taut rope of men who had kept the water coming all night now tiredly dispersing. My legs shook as I started up the hill, toward the source of the fire. Many others did the same, wanting a look at what they’d struggled to save.
Not far past the small shrine to Fortuna, which was untouched, a heap of smoking debris proclaimed where an insulae had stood. The smaller shops and apartments on either side of it were also gone, blocks of tuff-covered concrete toppled, the stench of burning wood nearly choking me.
People stood about the wreckage, women wrapped in cloaks, men with resignation in their eyes. A few dispirited goats picked their way around the people, children watching over them.
Scaevola continued to give orders, having his men gather up the poles and whatever buckets belonged to the vigiles and take them back. He said nothing to the survivors. His job was to make sure the fire was contained, that was all.
It was likely that most of these people on the street had rented their rooms. They’d lost their belongings, but there’d be nothing left for whoever owned the buildings.
Those landlords would likely recoup their loss by raising the rents in the other insulae they owned. The tenants who gathered here, on the other hand, had nothing more than the clothes on their backs and whatever they’d managed to carry off.
But at least the fire was out. A final wall toppled into the mess, pulled down by soot-streaked vigiles, to ensure that no spark went beyond this circle of rubble.
Scaevola turned from the scene. His face was black with smoke and soot, his eyes burning behind this mask.
“Leonidas,” he said as he neared me. “Well done.”
“Anyone killed?” I asked.
“No.” He was grimly satisfied. “We got them all out. Including the goats.” A smile tugged his lips, a man pleased the night hadn’t turned out as tragically as it might have.
“Maybe living near Fortuna’s shrine helped them,” I offered.
“Possibly.” Scaevola wiped the continuing rain from his face, smearing the soot there. “Didn’t stop the fire from starting, though. I don’t have much faith in Fortuna.”
“Her wheel turns in both directions.” I was tired, not certain what I was saying.
“Too true.” Scaevola looked me up and down, skeptical humor in his eyes. “Go lie down before you fall asleep, Leonidas. It will hurt less.”
“I need to speak to you.” My mind had gone numb, and at the moment, I couldn’t remember why.
“In the morning.” Scaevola turned me around and gave me a little shove. “Go home. If my men have to carry you, they’ll shut you in my cell again. Easier on them if you just leave.”
Normally, a man pushing me would earn my wrath, or catapult me back into images of the arena, but tonight I was too tired and drained to give the touch much notice.
