I was wearing the wrong clothes for this. The thin material of my Palmyrene suit shrivelled into little burnt holes every time sparks hit me. I kept on the hat, in the vague hope that it would protect my hair from being set alight. Below me I heard gasps as people realised what was happening.
I arrived below the window and shouted, but nobody appeared. Carefully I climbed higher. I reached up and managed to get one arm over the sill. Then it was necessary to climb with mere toeholds, knowing I had little chance of making my way back again. I pulled myself up, got halfway through the window, and felt the ladder move away front the wall. I let it fall back.
Now I was stuck clinging to the window. No choice but to go in. With a supreme effort I scrambled inside, falling headlong. I stood up, testing the floor beneatlt me nervously. 'Is anyone there?'
The room was full of smoke. It had seeped up from the two blazing storeys beneath, finding its way thickly through cracks and crannies in the ill-maintained building fabric. The air felt hot. The floor beneath my Syrian slippers burned the soles of my feet as if its underside must be smouldering like red-hot cinders. At any moment everything around me could explode into an inferno.
In the back of this apartment fire broke through. The noise was appalling. Walls and floors cracked open. Flames roared up as they gave way. Light flickered wildly through an open door.
Now I saw a human figure. Someone crouched in a far corner. Shorter than me, of course. Flowing female drapes. The head tightly wrapped against the smoke.
To calm any feminine fears I tried jovial reassurance: 'Madam, you need to get out of here!' I strode across. I was all set to do a shoulder hoist, though I was not sure where to turn with the burden afterwards.
Then I saw the glint of a knife. It was no time for being soft on frightened virginity. With a hard blow of my wrist I knocked the blade to the floor. A foot kicked out frantically. Alert for the knee-in-the-groin defence, I glanced downwards ready to protect myself. Beneath the flounced hem of a matronly skirt lashed a dark grey leather travelling boot – on a foot as big as mine. It was a boot I seen before somewhere – the quay at Ostia. This was Balbinus Pius.
I wrenched aside the stole. A hand was grabbing for my throat. I banged that upwards with my forearm. He ought to have used my surprise, but he was still fumbling at his disguise. He underestimated the threat. If Petronius had stumbled in here, Balbinus would really have gone for him; Petro would be dead. I was safer. Balbinus had not bothered to remember me.
But I knew him. I drew my Arabian blade. The scabbard was pure decoration; the weapon was vicious. I set the point straight against his ribs and rammed home the sword.
I heard my voice grating, 'Time to depart, Balbinus!' But he was already dead.
LXIX
Something crashed against the window. From far away across the street I could hear shouts. Wiping and sheathing my sword, I staggered to the sill. On the opposite side of the lane, which was fortunately narrow, the vigiles had somehow raised a ladder, balancing it precariously on a balcony parapet their side and lowering one end to where I was. If I could find the courage, I could now crawl to safety across the full width of Fountain Court. It was no time for debate. Fire was sweeping through the apartment behind me. I took off and threw out my slippers (which had been quite expensive), then I checked that my end of the ladder was stable and set off for the other side.
I made it. Let's leave it at that. There is only one way to scramble for your life across a bowing wooden ladder two storeys above the ground, and it has to be undignified. The moment when Petronius leant out from the opposite balcony and grabbed me was one of the best of my life.
We exchanged glances. Petronius saw there was blood on my tunic, but that I had no visible wounds.
'Where's the crone you went to rescue?'
'I stuck my sword in her.' He did not ask why. I think he guessed. 'It was Balbinus.'
'That's the last time I work with you. You've stolen my case!'
'I owe you one,' I acknowledged.
'Tell me he's dead. I want to hear the words.'
'He's dead,' I answered, seeing it again. Then I was sick. The vigiles blamed the smoke.
With arms across each other's shoulders, Petro and I staggered down to street level. In the lane we discovered Helena, clutching my discarded slippers. She must have watched my feat with the ladder. Just as well I didn't know. Helena was white and trembling, but she managed to sound cheerful: 'Bad news, I'm afraid. In the confusion poor Lenia lost track of her wedding presents and some rotter's swiped the lot.'
Well there you are. That's Rome all over. Organised crime never lies down for long.
Time for someone to compose a petition to the enquiry chief of the vigiles.
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Document creation date: 16.03.2011
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Time to Depart mdf-7 Page 37
