Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Riots near the Forum had thrown a wrench into the annual Saturnalia festival.

  “Trouble!” Romans warned. “Turn back.”

  Now I was one of the wide-eyed pilgrims ignoring good advice. Belying the tension, roadside vendors called out in dialects from around the Empire to hawk their wares. A smell of fresh-baked bread induced me to stop in front of a stall run by a Sicilian couple. There I bought a pair of loaves.

  “What’s the problem in the city?” I asked, placing two copper coins in the man’s hand.

  “We’ve been outside the wall all day,” he said.

  I jingled the coins in my hand.

  “From what I hear, a band of Christians disrupted the annual sacrifices at the Temple of Saturn. Some say the Christians freed the animals, some say they ate the animals and some say they turned into animals. All I know is it’s bad for business. Saturnalia is one of my busiest days of the year.”

  From the neighboring stall, having seen me tip the Sicilian another copper, a one-legged retired soldier began hectoring me to buy cheese. Pegleg claimed he made the Empire’s best and gave me a free taste to prove it. The creamy sample was so exemplary I felt fortunate to buy a wedge, that is until later when I found he had pulled a bait and switch and wrapped a much lower grade cheese in my bundle of grape leaves tied with string.

  He probably made the switch while I was preoccupied watching a band of bloody men stagger north with torn clothes and missing sandals.

  “Christians,” the amputee spat. “If Nero doesn’t sort those Christ-y buggers out, the Gods will!”

  His words were loud enough to carry over the din to the injured men. Thumbing his nose as they turned their heads, he continued.

  “Saturnalia is an important festival! The Gods will be angry with you. Saturn is no deity to trifle with. If we have drought or famine next year, it will be your fault! Nero will not forget! We will not forget!”

  I paid before he started another riot. The dourness of those escaping the city contrasted sharply with the enthusiasm of the buskers cavorting outside. Every few feet along the Via Flaminia there seemed to be a soloist or group making music, dancing and playing ethnic instruments. Persians, Greeks, Africans black as coal, all desperate to earn a gold coin.

  Passing unchallenged through the gates at the base of Capitoline Hill, I started toward the Forum to see if I could get a feel for what was afoot. Quickly it became obvious I was going the wrong way. Too many passing faces were etched with grief and horror. Romans are not easily horrified.

  The only people headed the same direction as me were heavily armed soldiers marching in ranks. Diverting down a side street serving the back entrance of the grand Tabularium, I headed for Esquiline Hill.

  With each turn, I become more and more lost in the mazes of neighborhoods. Rumbles of far-away thunder and a smell of rain said there was more darkening the mid-day sky than just the smoke of a million cook fires. The deeper into the neighborhoods I got the more the streets became littered with beggars and homeless veterans.

  Most houses had their doors and gates locked tight against the influx of the disenfranchised. I couldn’t say if this was the borough’s status quo or a temporary invasion. The rabble may have been forced out of the city center for the day’s festival or by the rioting.

  The high levels of homelessness in and around Rome reminded me of my college days in the city. Though ravaged by drought and extremes of ultraviolet radiation, Rome in my secondary school years also had about two million inhabitants. Another 100,000 to 200,000 tourists could be in town on any given day. The numbers are very similar.

  Rome in the 2100s will be as sharply divided between the haves and have-nots as it is now. In the future, the wealthy will lock themselves in family compounds and travel high in the sky or in armored ground vehicles guarded by drones. Nowadays, the elite ride in chariots or are carried in curtained palanquins. Bodyguards accompany these masters on horseback and on foot.

  Nearly every house I passed had at least one solider manning its gates. Some places I circled past several times while trying to make my way.

  You’d think a cavalry officer would know how to give better directions. Quintus’ scrawled map relied heavily on the names of estates and palaces I had no way of discerning. Turn left at the “Home of Titus” and continue to the lane once owned by the “cousin of Cicero.” I kept getting turned around and finding myself at the same temple with a sacrificed goat dangling from a second-story balcony. A wooden bucket had been placed under the black and white ram to catch blood dripping from the slash across its neck.

  Views opened up as I reached the wealthier Esquiline. As neighborhood warrens gave way to sprawling estates, my expectations could not help but soar. I’d decide one palace was the prettiest I’d ever seen, only to be stopped short by another down the road that had twice as many columns and more than 50 magnificent horses grazing on the expansive front lawn. If penny-pincher Quintus could afford to live in this precinct he had to be richer than originally gauged.

  I spied no influx of homelessness here, no doubt thanks to the many private and auxiliary troops patrolling the streets. Four times I was stopped and ordered to produce my papers. I knew better than to ask for directions from any of the sots carrying long swords and reeking of sour wine.

  Instead, I sought out passing local servants and slaves. Interrupting their missions, I inquired as to the whereabouts of the estate of the decurion Vinarius. The first few interactions provided vague points that implied “way over there on the other side of the hill.” The Esquiline has three main ridges and I was on the wrong one. No wonder his map made no sense.

  Once I found my way to the Cispius, everyone seemed to know the family Vinarius. That didn’t mean they would give proper directions. Romans are ever wary of strangers. The neighbors seemed protective in their vagueness. Thankfully, the map drawn by Quintus gradually began to make sense.

  Leaving the stunning views of Rome and marble showplaces behind, I crested the hill on the precinct’s main spoke road and eventually turned down a rutted dirt lane winding to the bottom of a narrow, wooded glen. The neighbors’ tall stone boundary walls topped the ridgelines on both sides of the valley to accentuate its canyon-like ambiance. From the bottomlands, the only things visible over the walls were more trees and the neighboring palaces’ red-tile roofs. No windows or balconies. Here, inside the Servian Wall, in the middle of the city, was a private sliver of country.

  Overhanging oaks made it like walking through a tunnel as I approached the stone wall and rusted iron gates dominating the dead end’s cul-de-sac.

  Peering through the gates, I noticed a young man dressed head to toe in repurposed canvas sailcloth. Picking tiny currants from a bush one at a time, he lethargically tossed the tiny fruit into a woven basket. If this was a representation of the vitality of the farm’s workforce, I was not impressed.

  “I’m here to see the headman,” I shouted.

  He pretended to be deaf.

  “You there, I have a message from the decurion Quintus. I must speak to the headman, the Greek.”

  “I’m not stopping you,” the gardener called over his shoulder. “Small gate’s not locked. Perdix is in the barn. Over there.”

  He waited for me to reach a no-man’s land halfway between the barn and gate before saying, “I hope you like dogs.”

  To his whistle, a fellow with black curly hair emerged from the barn with a pitchfork in his hand. The stout man studied me briefly before ducking back inside. Seconds later, a pair of Molossian war dogs burst from the building. Precursors to mastiffs and Rottweilers, the barking maniacs were big as horses.

  All I could do is hope Quintus wasn’t playing one of his jokes as I whistled the three notes he taught me. Rather than slowing, the giants picked up speed. “Romulus! Remus!” I sang in a soprano voice. “Who wants a goodie? Do you want a goodie? Who da dog who wants a goodie?”

  The waist-high beasts nearly knocked me to the ground as they wagged t
heir tails and rubbed against me.

  “Sit! Sit!”

  Slobber dripping from floppy jowls, the dogs whined in anticipation as they reluctantly settled on their rears.

  I fed them bits of bread and old cheese saved for the purpose as Quintus counseled. (If I had known better, I would have given them the rancid goat-milk/sawdust blend I purchased outside the wall.)

  Perdix the Greek made no comment as my new friends Romulus and Remus escorted me to where he stood waiting in the barn’s doorway. Quintus claimed the man was half Roman, but everyone called him the “Greek.” He said Perdix made up for his surly nature and deficiencies in communication with an expertise in horses. His ability to turn injured and sick mounts into profitable horseflesh was legendary.

  Dark-skinned, keg-chested, he surveyed me with tiny feral eyes. His mean squint dripped with suspicion. While I had no intention of upsetting the apple cart, neither would I be cowed.

  “Thanks for the warm welcome,” I said, patting the blockheads crowding for more treats. Opening my leather scroll case, I handed over the letter from Quintus. The scroll bore a wax seal stamped with the master’s family crest and gave very specific instructions. I was on loan to Quintus for one year to pay off a gambling debt. My master lost a horse race to Quintus and offered me, his property, in lieu of cash.

  Knowing the Greek’s penchant for mistreating the staff, Quintus laid down very specific guidelines to assure he would not mistreat me. I was to be housed under a roof and be provided with a proper bed. My primary job was groom, but I could be used in the vineyards and gardens two days a week. I was to have full daily rations and one day off a month, as well as appropriate feast days.

  As the staff was working on Saturnalia, I knew Perdix had a narrow interpretation of “appropriate” days off.

  “How do I know you’re the man? You could have stolen this scroll.”

  Opening the leather case, I produced my letters of identification and introduction. Handing them back after barely a glance, he continued to rebuff me.

  “I do not believe it is true. You should leave. Come back when the master is here.”

  “Decurion Vinarius is in Ariminium and from there will be headed to Pisae,” I bluffed. Quintus and Linus kept me firmly out of the loop. “Your master will be–”

  “What is going on?”

  Turning to the main house, a two-story fieldstone and log structure with gray slate roof, I found a woman in her mid-20s with a ratty old bearskin cape pulled over blue silk pajamas walking my way. I needed no introduction to the Lady Tullia. Strong teeth, Roman nose, thick eyebrows, dark hair, she was the spitting image of her brother, Quintus.

  “Who are you?” She asked, reaching down to give one of the dogs a friendly rub behind the ear.

  “My name is Hunter. Your brother Quintus sent me.”

  “My brother? Do I know you? Why you assume Quintus is my brother?”

  “Forgive me if I misspoke, mistress. Master Vinarius has been blessed with a handsome face, one quite similar to yours, my lady. I merely assumed.”

  Why was I babbling? The primary rule of being a servant is to keep your mouth shut.

  “You’re not the first to note the resemblance.”

  Sighing, she plucked the scroll from Perdix’s hand. The headman gave her time to finish reading before stating his case.

  “I think we should wait for master Quintus to return before taking him on. It’s winter, I don’t need more help.”

  “Then why are you working the men on Saturnalia?”

  “I . . .”

  “The letter says you are a groom,” Tullia said, pivoting my way.

  “Yes, my lady, I’m indentured to a horse ranch near Perusia.”

  “And Quintus beat your master in a race?”

  “Yes, my lady, it was not even close.”

  “Did you serve my brother before coming to Rome?”

  “For several months I had the honor, yes.”

  “This should be easy then. Tell us the name of my brother’s second favorite horse.”

  “His favorite is the roan, Hercules,” I thought out loud, “and his preferred secondary mount is . . . the mare, Cleopatra.”

  “And why is she second favorite?”

  “Because . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “He says her gait is easy on his balls, my Lady.”

  Her expression did not change as she studied me from my toes to the top of my head.

  “Do you have anything for me?”

  “Yes, my lady. Quintus asked that you keep this scroll case for him until his return.”

  A fleeting smile as she slung the case over her shoulder suggested a secret compartment for personal correspondence. Nothing brightens a gloomy day like a letter from a loved one.

  “Put him in the old foreman’s quarters.” Her tone let Perdix the Greek know it was now his turn to keep his mouth shut. At his “Yes, m’ Lady,” she did an about-face and nearly skipped back to her modest home.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “This is Kaikane hailing Duarte. Maria, if you can hear me, please acknowledge.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Six weeks in and I already know the canoe is never going to be finished on time. There’s no way.

  My piece-of-shit tools keep breaking. The last shark’s tooth saw cracked in half today and I’m down to two little pieces of sandstone.

  Gray Beard’s been so busy searching for materials to make new tools and keeping us fed, I hardly see the guy. He brought back some clamshells a couple days ago and I haven’t seen him since.

  I hate to sound like a complainer, but that leaves me to do everything by myself. I could really use some fucking help! Where are you, Maria? Where are you, Hunter? Why didn’t we make Sal and Jones come? Knowing those two bums, they’re probably living the easy life. It’s just not fair! Even when I manage to catch a few hours sleep, I’m still working on the damn project in my dreams.

  Goddamnit!

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “This is Specialist Kaikane hailing Doctor Maria Duarte. Just wanted to let you guys know, we need you back here. We need your help and know-how. The way things are going, I’ll never finish on time.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  The smell of smoke woke me in time to see the smoldering right hull burst into flames. Only two things saved us. One, I happened to be sleeping in the shade of the burning hull’s twin. Two, both cook bags had just been filled to the brim with drinking water.

  Jumping to my feet, I tried to smother the flames with the leather tarp I had been sleeping on. The bags of water were hanging on stumps about 20 feet away, but it felt like a mile running in the deep sand. My precious tarp was smoking and about to go up as I dumped the first bag overtop. Not the best plan. Most water splashed to the sand and did no good, but enough soaked through the hole growing in the leather to get the fire’s attention.

  Knowing it would be a long run to refill the bags, I was a lot more careful with the second. There were a bunch of sponges we use for sanding on the ground. I dipped a few into the water and started dabbing the red coals until they were black and looked completely out. That was the mistake I made before I took my nap. This time I packed the entire opening with wet sponges and covered the area with wet tarps.

  Scary how I couldn’t get the dang fire to work for shit while I was awake, then as soon as I go down, Leilani decides she’s willing to accept fire. I must have left a hot spot smoldering in a worm tunnel or something. All I know is there was no smoke or flames when I lay down. Hell, if I had flames going I would have kept trying to “surgically” burn the hole bigger. With my saws and supply of serrated shells all crapped out, I figured it was worth giving fire a shot. I knew better. This is old wood.

  I hate to think how close we came to losing her. Weird, considering how much I love this damn b
oat, what really makes my neck burn is knowing how disappointed Maria would be. What kind of ship’s captain sets his own boat on fire? Even if nobody said it out loud, they all would be thinking how stupid I was. How the dumb Hawaiian either couldn’t handle the job or was too lazy to see it through. Was it really an accident or did he torch it on purpose so he could go fishing and watch his stupid sunsets?

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “This is Paul Kaikane hailing his beautiful and talented wife, Maria. Darling, I miss you. I hope you are being good.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  It’s taken me two days, but the fire in the right hull is finally out. I hope. There hasn’t been a new wisp of smoke all afternoon. Every other time it started back up, the hull was puking smoke within an hour or two.

  No matter how many times I spit water into the smoking hole or tried to jam wet reeds and junk inside, it didn’t work because I was concentrating on the wrong place, a good two feet above where the ember actually was.

  I found the hot spot by chance last night. No longer heated by the sun, the hull was cool to the touch as I ran my hands along Leilani and tried to reason with her.

  “Why are you being so difficult? Don’t you know we’re fighting for your life here?”

  That’s when I felt the fire with my hand, nowhere near where I figured it was. The wormhole was a chimney. I knew I had to expose it to put out the fire, but I also figured if I tried pounding a flint or antler point to make my hole, I’d probably start another crack. And this crack would be in the worst place possible. No, I had to be careful.