Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, sin-dex, sin-dex. . .

'What the – ?' said Demetrius as he rolled out of bed (literally), remembered that he was bipedal, and looked out the window, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The sight did not please him.

Sin-dex, sin-dex, left, right, left, right,

Urbani, servate uxores, keep your women out of sight,

The boys of the VII Claudia are back in town tonight!

Gallias caesar subegit, we conquered all the girls,

Now we're off to Dalmatia, to give Balkan maids a whirl!

Sin-dex, sin-dex, women, keep out of sight!

There looked to be about a cohort of them – nearly 500 all told. Demetrius muttered to himself, 'More playmates for our miles gloriosus. But to what end?' As he poured water to wash his face, he heard singing from another room.

Unde omnes iuvenes?

Quando discent?

He knew Radu had seen the army.

Off to conquer, he thought. But whom?

Demetrius sat at the kitchen table, eating breakfast with Radu, Argyros, Chryssa, and Ermione. 'Don't go into town shopping today, Ermione. Cleo? Send Telly. There's a whole cohort of soldiers camping outside the walls, and far too many of them will be in the marketplace.'

Ermione and the children looked at each other with big eyes and nodded. Cleo snorted. 'Send Telly? Shopping? I don't think so. The vendors will walk all over him! Do you want yesterday's fish for dinner? Besides, what would a Roman soldier want with an old lady like me?'

Demetrius looked at Cleo, perplexed. He figured her to be in her early thirties and quite attractive as humans went. He sighed. 'For some of those soldiers, it isn't about kamaki. It's about making other people uncomfortable and themselves powerful. If you must go, take Telly and Cleopas along to discourage conversation.' Cleo nodded thoughtfully.

'What is it with this army buildup?' mused Radu. 'I haven't heard anything about any particular trouble in Dalmatia.'

'I wonder,' said Demetrius. 'But at least, when these reinforcements board their ship so, I hope, will our next-door neighbour. And things will quiet down around here.'

Argyros grinned. 'Yeah. Less early-morning weight-lifting. Who does he think he is, a gladiator?' The boy stalked around the kitchen, raising and lowering a rolling-pin, grunting with pretended exertion. His mother laughed as she reclaimed the rolling-pin and chased him back to his seat to finish his yoghurt.

Demetrius sat writing a letter to Alex. In English again, which he hoped would be mistaken by any spies for a diabolical code. Or possibly 'Celtic', their word for anything incomprehensible.

The Gheorghenis in Potentia to Alexandros, blah blah.

More military coming your way. Armed to their perfect teeth. Is something going on over there? Please advise.

Hugs and kisses, Your Cousins

He had finished the accordion-folding and was applying the wax seal when he heard shouting outside. He stuck his head out the study door and yelled for Radu.

'What's going on?'

Radu came running. 'Everyone's headed down to the Strata Aranea. There's a fire.'

'Faex!' Demetrius looked around for a cloak, the better to fight fires with. He stopped, puzzled. 'Spider Street?'

Radu shrugged. 'That's our fault, I'm afraid. It got renamed.'

'Oh, no! That's where our young friends live. Grab the band – don't let them take their instruments – and tell Telly to watch the house.'

At first view, the scene looked like pure chaos. There was a lot of shouting going on. Shop people rushed about, trying to rescue their goods in case the fire spread – or, more likely, they were stolen or smashed in the confusion. The corner bakery was ablaze; the fire had probably started in the overheated oven or its creosote-choked chimney. The owners of the houses on either side were busy removing their furniture, as it was obvious the conflagration was going to spread if drastic measures were not taken.

The vigiles, watchmen who also served as firefighters, were rushing to the scene. They wore short tunics, hooded ponchos, and hobnailed sandals. Some of them were pushing a ballista, a siege engine that could hurl stones to knock down walls.

For a moment, Demetrius wondered if they were planning to knock down the neighbouring houses to make a fire break. Then he saw that they were organising a bucket brigade to the nearest well.

They were going to fling buckets, baskets, and bags of water at the burning building. That's using their heads, thought Demetrius.

He shouted to Radu, 'Go find Manius! Tell him to get his cohort here tout de suite!' Radu nodded. Soon a very fleet-looking greyhound could be seen dashing in the direction from which they'd come.

Demetrius spotted a few of the local officials in the crowd, doing their best to help. He even saw old Pertinax wielding a bucket. He waved, and the older man waved back.

Then Demetrius saw something that stopped him in his tracks: Ruffianus the money-lender from two streets over. Ruffianus the sly. Ruffianus the oleaginous. Ruffianus the utterly-without-morals. He was living up to his name: offering to buy up the burning houses for a pittance. Demetrius knew what his game was: he'd buy the property, rebuild, and then sell the shoddy new construction back to the former owners – at a considerable markup. Demetrius wanted to throw something at him in disgust, but this was no time to be discussing the ethics of real estate.

Demetrius directed the band to join the bucket brigade. He helped load wagons with household goods, figuring that the sooner their owners got out of the way of the firemen, the safer for all. The air was stifling and the blaze dangerous. Flaming bits of building fell at random intervals and had to be dodged. Demetrius loaded small children onto the carts, ordering them to stay there. He'd made some headway in clearing the street of civilians when Radu returned (in human form) with Manius and what looked like a couple of hundred soldiers.

Manius took in the scene with a practised eye – fires were not new. He spoke a few words to the ballista team. Then he said something to his sergeant, who turned and did a bit of shouting.

Quickly and efficiently, the army set up a bucket brigade that stretched down the decumanus, the main cross-artery, through the open gate, and to the harbour. Water was passed at an impressive speed.

The soldiers didn't chant this time. They saved their breath for passing buckets, baskets, whatever the fishermen on the docks had that would hold water.

My kingdom for a water balloon, thought Demetrius. He looked up at the bakery, which was now shorter by a storey. It was a good thing the families were well away. The neighbouring houses were now affected. The water was working, but if it didn't work fast enough, the fire would spread. Potentia was in danger again, but this time, it was no earthquake.

'Radu, come with me!' Demetrius shouted. He gestured for his cousin to follow him around the corner, where they could talk.

'I have a idea.' Demetrius yelled this in English, because this was the sort of idea that shouldn't be overheard. 'Do you remember how to do that Elijah thing?'

'What? The barbecue thing? The place is already burning!'

'No, you idiot, the rain thing.'

Radu's eyes got wide. 'Oh, haven't done that in a while. Let's go for it!'

They really needed to go further away for this one.

The citizens of Potentia pitched in to fight the fire. They made way for wagonloads of refugees from the burning street. They passed buckets, stamped out isolated flares from falling debris, and helped to pull down fences and outbuildings to limit the spread of the blaze. They cooperated with the vigiles and followed the orders of Manius, who proved himself an able organiser.

But still, the inferno threatened to spread. If not stopped, the whole street would burn. They worked desperately. More than one Potentian privately prayed the gods to have pity.

Then a weird thing happened. The sky, which had been pitilessly blue and cloudless all day, suddenly darkened. But only over Potentia. Looking out to sea, there was not a sign of cloud cover. Only one cloud – smallish, rather fluffy – poised exactly where it was needed: over the fire in Spider Street. It seemed to know it, too: without even a premonitory dribble, the little cloud dumped a violent stream of water – right down on the blazing structures.

It had a surprising cubic capacity, that little cloud. The rain came pelting down on fire and firefighters alike. Soon everybody was thoroughly soaked – and so was the fire. Flames fizzled out, leaving clouds of smoke that choked people but left them relieved. The city was saved. They looked around in wonder as the vigiles and milites went about making sure that every spark was out.

It was only because some of the more devout people were looking up   – at the cloud, and mentally thanking whatever god or goddess they'd been appealing to – that anybody got a clear view of what happened next.

Ruffianus, standing uselessly in the middle of the street, having run out of homeowners to swindle.

Ruffianus, not looking up at all.

A single, surprisingly powerful lightning bolt, striking – not, as would be expected, the nearby watchtower, or at least, the metal spear of the god atop the Temple of Jupiter – but the stone ground about three feet away from Ruffianus, who fell to his knees babbling in abject terror.

'Ohnoohnoohno, I'm sorry, I won't do it again, I'll find out which one you are and offer a sacrifice, I'll give all the property back, I promise, ohnoohnoohno, please, please, please don't smite me. . . '

The townspeople, startled by the flash and thunderclap, and even more startled by Ruffianus's performance, burst into spontaneous fits of laughter. Relief at the end of the fire, plus amusement at the crooked businessman, plus a general sense of pride and gratitude and fellow-feeling, spilled over the streets of Potentia. Everyone began linking hands, dancing and singing. Patricians and plebeians, freeborn and slaves, soldiers and watchmen cavorted in fellowship and moved to the music. . .

. . . of Cleopas and his band, who of course had stashed their instruments in the taverna around the corner. They loved Demetrius, but seriously, the man had no appreciation for the universal appropriateness of a good concert. The Song of Seikilos could be heard all over town.

While you live, shine! Never grieve,

For a little, life exists, time takes its toll.

In all the jubilation, nobody noticed when the little cloud quietly slipped away over the harbour. And only one very alert fisherman's son, a boy about Argyros's age, heard it as it floated overhead.

It said: Heh, heh, heh.

DG

06.05.24 Front Page

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