Timing, they say, is everything.
I took the Tuchuk-pierced Nirah into the Street of Brands District, down the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla. Portia and Six, too, were with me. It is their 'day of respite.' Once per hand, I allow them a break from the work with which I charge them. It is important, in my mind, to keep their interests varied as well as their activities. I own literate women, for example. At various levels of competency, each of them reads and writes. Some paint. Some play instruments like the flute, kalika, lyre or tabor.
We were in the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla, within the Street of Brands District, to pay a visit to the Insula of Achiates. The set of The Good Citizen will feature a representation of one room in that insula. Nirah was along to have a look at the room. If the set design includes a painted backdrop, she will be charged with completing that work. Patrons of the Boarding House, particularly of the second floor of the Boarding House where the alcoves are located, are already familiar with the purple-silked slave's prowess with painting. I've allowed her to paint the walls and doors of the second floor of that domicile, letting her have the freedom to put her imagination on display. Some of it is delightful. Some of it is compelling. Some of it is even disturbing. The interior walls of the alcove she is kept are a constantly changing landscape of color and abstract rhythms. From time to time, rather than let her creativity wander off unchecked, I assign her a project. A handful of ehn on the fourth floor of the insula should have sufficed, I felt, for her to get a feel of the room to paint an accurate enough representation.
We were not afforded a handful of ehn, however. As I have said before, they say timing is everything.
The Insula of Pompeius was set ablaze this afternoon. That is of note, to me at any rate, because the Insula of Pompeius is located directly across the street from the Insula of Achiates. It did not take long for the others within Achiates' tenement to panic and start piling into the hallways above and below the fourth floor. The construction of these places is not such where that much sudden, concerted movement is advisable. The building shook. Shook. As if the earth was moving beneath the foundation, assuming the building has a foundation, of course. Panicked residents crowded the halls, pushing and pulling at one another, shoving and jostling, trying to get outside. Who knew if the fire across the way would spread to this side of the street. Such things are not unknown to go unchecked in the poorer areas of the city. I waited within the room. There was no sense trying to push myself and the chattels with me into that irrational mob. The fire wagons were being rolled down the alley at any rate. I could hear their bells before I could see them through the smoke. As Pompeius' building groaned under the heat and hunger of the flames, men diligently worked at dousing what they could, bucket by bucket. Gawkers were warned to keep back, but most could not resist staring wide-eyed. When the hall cleared on my floor, I made haste to get to the street, instructing the women with me to link wrists. There was still a crowd to get out of the building, but it was manageable.
On the street, I was impressed to see members of the city council with their sleeves up, doing what they could to limit the damage of a building that was past saving. I parked the asses of the women with me and started across the street to offer my assistance as well. That was when the Insula of Pompeius finally gave up the struggle and simply collapsed under it's own weight. Smoke and soot plumed, covering those of us foolish enough to be too close, as I was. I, then, found myself part of a backpedalling throng of arms and legs. People were just trying to get away from the smoke and the debris that shot forward. I saw a woman with her face burned, red like the tunic of a Warrior. She couldn't have had more than the protection of two veils, the remains of which laid uselessly at her cheeks, failing to hide her shame. Another fellow, just to the right of me, tripped as we were rushed back. I heard the distinctive crunch of broken bone and caught sight of him in my periphery, clutching his crushed arm as people were unable to avoid stepping upon him further. I was fortunate. I was not burned, broken or even bruised. I suffered only the simple indignity of a faceful of soot. My tunic will need the efforts of more than one girl to remove the grime, I think.
I do not know what is at work here. On one hand, low-rent apartment buildings collapse or go up in flames all of the time. On the other, not with the frequency that fires seem to be occuring of late. And it is not merely the low-rent tenements. And then there are the murders, of course. Perhaps this is why I do not like politics, why I was hesitant to become a politician, even in the minor role I have accepted. This has the stink of politics to me. The taint of a power struggle. You can almost hear the gold coins moving from one hand to the other.
For the girls behind the red door, today was a day of respite. For the rest of Ar, it was quite another thing entirely.
