7. The Great Fire

Many things have been written about the Great Fire of Amor. It was the worst fire the city had ever seen. The worst fire any city had ever seen.

Of the fourteen districts, ten were completely destroyed. It was easier to count the things left standing, than whatever the citizens had lost.

The more poetically inclined described it as a “sea of flames” that dwarfed those of Tresmo. The sentient tree himself, perhaps thanks to his enclosure of magic fire, escaped completely unharmed. Being one of the few trees left standing, this caused most papyrus in the next years to have been made from his bark.

The more practically inclined made statements such as “AAAH” and “NOOO” and “GET AWAAAY”. They were too busy saving themselves to think of metaphors and rhymes. Only Sinnika had the time to do so, as upon receiving Empero’s message, he had immediately put the plan into action and was safely outside of the Amor walls.

When Empero returned, he immediately barked a long list of orders.

Water was to be gathered from the aqueducts and brought to the fire.

Unfortunately, no matter the container they tried, it was leaky. The animals would arrive at the fire with barely any water to spare. Empero send out a search for the Toxotes elephants, grandchildren of the first firefighters, but could not find them. If he hadn’t sent them away, maybe the Great Fire would have been a Mini Fire that lasted for barely an hour.

But he had sent them away. Just as he had cut almost all funding from the Vigiles. This group of slaves was meant to be both their police force and their fire brigade at night, an invention by emperor Augostos.

Instead, when Empero finally found them, they were actively setting more things on fire. The Vigiles took advantage by looting shops or demanding payment before they’d save your home. Empero ordered several of them arrested, but no soldiers were left to carry out the command.

Hopeless, overwhelmed, and choking on fumes, Empero struggled to find a course of action.

This was the moment, he thought over and over. The moment that defined him as emperor. If he failed to do the right thing, he’d be in Sinnika’s history books, yes, but as a massive failure. The worst emperor, a title that chased him around the palace in his worst nightmares.

Because of the curse of the leaky buckets, their most effective way to combat the fire was to create firebreaks. Purposely demolish buildings, cut trees, remove anything flammable in an entire area. Because a tree requires energy to grow, you could say that energy is stored inside its wood. That energy is the fuel that allows a fire to keep burning—take it away, and it has to die out at some point.

And so Empero ordered his soldiers to strategically demolish homes all over Amor.

Then he opened the doors of all his private residences and monuments. Not the palace, even though it was the largest building and lay at the heart of the city. For the simple reason that it had already been reduced to ash.

He ran over the cobblestones of Amor and told anyone where they could find refuge. He made available all food supplies, for free, and vowed that none would be homeless if he could help it.

Tresmo saw it all happen. Many Amor residents visited him in this time of need to pray or ask for guidance, as if they considered Tresmo an expert on all things fire.

When Empero was out of ideas, he retreated to his favorite tower. And he began to sing. He sung as loud and as well as he could. He sung all the songs he knew, all the beautiful and hopeful songs, to give every wolf, boar, bear, fox, or other animal in Amor the strength to fight the fire.

The Great Fire raged for a full week.

And then, when they thought it was over, some Vigiles started it again. It took three more days to extinguish it a second time.

Clearly, the corrupt Vigiles were not the answer.

Some days after the fire, a new throne was hastily built on top of the ashes. Now that the palace had a distinct lack of walls and roofs, Tresmo could actually see and hear what happened in the throne “room”.

As Empero lounged on his new throne, he rapidly declared new laws.

“I will amend the building codes,” he said formally. “No homes shall be built too close to each other. Materials used are not allowed to be too flammable. And I want a maximum distance of ten streets to the nearest source of water. And I shall create a proper fire brigade, well-funded, to ensure an accidental spark can be stopped before it becomes a disaster.”

Nobody could protest that. Sensible changes. Changes he should’ve made before a Great Fire destroyed three-quarters of his beloved city, and he knew it. Tresmo saw him shed a tear every single day that the fire raged.

“And most of all,” said Empero, “we shall rebuilt my palace, five times as large as before!”

Because of the fire, the area needed for this had become available. And that’s when the tides of his popularity truly changed, as the first false rumors reached his ears.

Night had fallen on the shores of some distant island that you can forget about. In fact, you’re encouraged by the Amori emperor to forget about it, as it’s the island to where they exile everyone they don’t like.

It’s not the island that’s important, but the soaked and exhausted being that washed up with the waves.

Gatagrip took one more step. Then she sunk into the sand, the breath sucked from her lungs. She would have stayed there for days if one of her most loyal servants hadn’t been exiled to the same island and came out to help her.

Her ship had suddenly, mysteriously, collapsed at sea. One moment it sailed smoothly, and Gatagrip had even remarked about the craftsmanship and love poured into the vessel. The next moment, the sails suddenly folded, the bow split off, and her captain was easy dinner for some octopus below.

Wolves are fine swimmers—for short distances, and if they really have to. How Gatagrip had managed to reach safe shores is a topic on which all the history books disagree. Some say the gods shone favorably on her. Some say the ship collapsed much closer to the island than planned. Some say the massive octopus liked her and brought her to the beach.

But swimming happens at much slower speeds than sailing, or running over land.

As her servant helped Gatagrip to her paws, they heard hoofbeats in the distance. As soon as they left the beach, the hoofbeats were right next to them.

“Sinnika!” cried Gatagrip, overjoyed. “I am glad you found me. We know much better how to rule Amor than the young emperor, don’t we? Bring me back to Amor at once and help Empero see sense. Let him reunited with his beloved mother.”

“You … misunderstand the reason for our presence.”

In the span of mere seconds, Gatagrip’s face displayed all possible emotions, ending on disappointment. Not the kind of disappointment that a parent feels when their kid has taken from the forbidden cookie jar. The kind of disappointment that makes a female wolf wonder if her entire life—all the murder, deceit and faking—had even been worth anything.

“Then you’re not as bright as you once where,” said Gatagrip. She eyed the soldiers around him, swords at the ready. Her loyal servant, a rabbit, threw herself before her, but was obviously a meager shield for the much larger wolf. “You know what this looks like.”

“It looks like your final night on Somnia. I do not intend to give you a chance to poison me too—or any other Elites that speak ill of your beloved son. Do you have any last words?”

“The Commonfolk will not stand for it,” said Gatagrip, regaining some strength. “Killing your own mother … I can barely imagine a worst sin. All of Amor will frown upon matricide. Not to mention that it’s highly illegal. Did Empero even think this through? Was it not enough to simply banish me?”

Sinnika nodded to his soldiers to finish the job. “Who said Empero sent us?”

I will not describe the rest of that night, dear reader. To keep that dark stain out of your heart. Gatagrip was a foul being with a lust for power, yes. But murdering her was still murder. Something Tresmo had seen happen again, and again, and again, and again for centuries now. He is tired of telling the same old story. Maybe history doesn’t exactly repeat itself, but it certainly rhymes.

The next time Empero showed his face, far less Commonfolk animals approached him. In fact, they shied away. He received scowls, glares, furtive glances and gossip behind his back.

Soon it was all over the papers. It was the gossip of the Senators before Empero had arrived to lead the meeting, and it was their gossip after he had left. A certain being called the Tattlerat was quick to spread this rumor, adding more and more details as he went.

His mother was dead. They all said he murdered her himself.

He didn’t understand.

Hadn’t he only done good? Hadn’t he vowed to never murder anyone? How could they treat him like that? Where were the smiles, the praise, the applause now?

He didn’t understand.