Candless called the guide to him and questioned the man. “There are laws, Lord,” said the guide, “but people ignore them. The buildings are not supposed to be more than 60 feet tall, with outside walls of up to a foot and a half, but many are much taller, the walls are very thin and the floors, for economy, are pathetically fragile. It just takes a bribe or two to the city inspectors, that’s enough to get it all overlooked. They look good, though, don’t they?”
The man referred to the appearance of the outside masonry, which often had a façade of marble or coloured tile, or pebbled patterns set in the brick and concrete skin, and to the flowerpot-adorned balconies and climbing plant-wrapped pillars of the loggias that stretched over their heads. “Looks solid, doesn’t it,” he said, nodding to an especially handsome structure that stretched high over their heads. “But it’s probably propped up with bed slats and straw.”
Candless would learn that almost all of Rome’s citizens lived in about 50,000 apartment blocks, and that only a few, the very wealthy, occupied the 2,000 or so single-storey houses. “You can get hundreds of people in one insula, “ said the guide casually. “But if you don’t live at ground level, there’s no water for you unless you carry it up yourself from the fountains. There’s no toilets, and no fireplaces in there either, just open stoves or braziers. People suffocate from the smoke all the time in the winter, when they close the rooms up against the cold.” Candless shuddered. Even the most primitive Pict hut had its homely fire and usually, a closeness to a water source. And this was great Rome!
The million-person mass of humanity might be crammed inside the vast walls of Aurelius, but the same fortifications that ringed them also contained much green space: half a hundred parks, gardens and public open spaces, plus large swathes of land dedicated to the gods that were virtually empty of humans.
Additionally, in among the human rookeries were the oases of the wealthy: private homes whose outside showed blank walls to the world, but whose interiors opened onto verdant gardens with fountains, fruit trees and private courtyards far removed from the city bustle and stink outside their protective fronts.
The bishop was familiar with stink and crowds, for he had known the streets of Londinium before it was destroyed, and he knew towns like the bustling seaport citadel of Bononia, but those places did not compare with the sensory overload he was experiencing here. Every street, plaza and circus offered a bewildering abundance of temples, basilicas, docks, baths, taverns, public administration buildings, theatres, monuments and statuary, all crowded between the teetering insulae that swarmed with humanity.
He knew that no waggons were allowed inside the walls during daylight hours, and that many streets were designated for vehicle travel in one direction only, for they were far too narrow to allow wheeled vehicles to pass each other. Only two viae in all of the city, the Via Sacra and the Via Nova, were wide enough for two carts to pass. The acti were rated wide enough for a single cart, the itinera made a tangled zig-zagging net of pedestrians-only thoroughfares, and Candless could see the sense of allowing only horsemen, pedestrians and chairmen-carried litters on the streets between dawn and dusk.
He knew that at night the city was locked up and dark. The rich might venture out with their torchbearers and guards, and waggoners with their necessary guards had no choice but to rumble around making their deliveries at night, but Rome after dark was the province of murderers, footpads and burglars and the ordinary citizen stayed safe in his tenement tower insula.
Another thing surprised the bishop. In this place of marble and polished limestone, of golden statuary and the opulence of an empire, he was shocked to see how the streets ran with filth, and he mentioned it to the guide.
“Well, yes, there are cess trenches, but there are some fine sewers under the streets, too,” said the man with a touch of indignation. “Some are big enough to drive a hay wain through. The sewers collect the waste from the insulae, but I suppose really only from the ground floor apartments. But they also serve the public latrines, and they are quite splendid places.”
The group had halted as an altercation broke out ahead between two well-dressed women. One was clutching a naked baby, the other seemed to want to take it from her. “It happens,” said the guide. “Unwanted babies can legally be exposed by the cess trenches, but quite often wives eager for a baby will snatch them up. These two seem to have both wanted the same child. The loser will just wait and watch for another woman putting out a child, usually after dark. I think they should let them be collected at the public toilets, as a service.”
Candless said: ”Toilets, eh? Well, let’s try one. I could use a natural break.” Minutes later, they halted outside a forica. Entry to it cost a small coin, but the interior of the cedar-ceilinged building was impressive. This particular forica was circular, with marble seats lined all around the walls. The seats were supported by brackets formed in the shape of dolphins, which acted also as separators between clients. Water flowed in channels under the seats, more channels provided water to wash the citizens’ personal sponges, a fountain played in the room’s centre and niches above the lines of seats contained small statues of the gods and a fine altar to Fortuna. Citizens about their business sat and chatted with their neighbours and the whole place had an air of social ease and a total lack of embarrassment.
“What do the poor do, if they cannot afford to pay even an as to enter one of these places?” Candless asked as he and the guide settled into adjoining seats. “Well, they can use their own chamber pots, which they empty at the ground floor of their insula. There’s usually a vat placed under the staircase; or they can dump it on the local dungheap, to be taken away by a manure merchant. They can even donate their urine into one of the row of shaped pots the fullers put outside their shops, because they need the ammonia for bleaching.”
The guide paused, and added: ”Then there are the people who are too lazy or too feeble to go downstairs to empty their chamber pots, and they’ll just pitch it out of the window onto the street. It’s a common court case brought by someone injured or fouled by a shit pot’s contents, if the plaintiff can track down who did it.”
The bishop and his party regrouped outside to continue on their way to the house of Bishop Militades, who lived among Rome’s wealthy on the Caelian Hill, close to the huge baths of Caracalla. Candless’ talkative guide was eager to point out the sights along the way. “Rome has seven hills, but two of them aren’t really much,” he said, as they skirted the Viminal. “This all used to be marsh in the old days, and the different gens lived on the hills around it until it was drained. It was like living on islands, they say. That’s the Esquiline ahead of us. Old Nero built his Golden House on the cemetery and dump there, and the Temple of Claudius and Trajan’s baths are the big attraction now. They’re leveling the Vatican hillock, going to build something there.”
Candless viewed the splendid structures on the hill to his right, in the west. “Capitoline Hill,” said the guide briefly. “The temples of Jupiter and Juno are on it, just beyond the forum. In the old days, that cliff over there, the Tarpeian, is where they used to throw off the mad and the bad. It’s still haunted. Next to it’s the Palatine Hill, with the Temple of Apollo, and those of Augustus, Tiberius and Domitian. Just beyond is the Circus Maximus where the chariot racing goes on, a good day out, sometimes a good week out, too. The ground was boggy in the old days, softer for the riders who fell off, they say, and the spectators clung onto the hillsides where they could to watch the races. It’s all improved now, proper track, proper seating. Rome’s come a long way.
“There’s a few temples on that hill there, too, the Aventine. Diana’s and Ceres’ are the biggest. Pollio’s Library is there, too and so’s the Armilustrium where you go to get your weapons purified at the end of the military campaign season.”
Potius tugged at Candless’ sleeve. “I’m getting a bit dizzy with talk about all these buildings,” he muttered. “Can’t you shut him up?”
“Ig
nore him, look at the women,” the bishop hissed.
As the group approached the great baths and library built by Caracalla, the tyrant they called The Enemy of Mankind, the streets were bright with fashionable, elegant matrons, their lips rouged, their hair piled in elaborate coiffures, tinted gold with saffron or red with beechwood ash, hints of it peeking out discreetly from under hooded pallae. Their slaves stood attentive as the ladies lingered and chatted, holding bright green parasols to protect their mistresses from the sun that could spoil their lily-white complexions. Many women fanned themselves with peacock feathers and carried a mappa dangling from the wrist to mop away dust or perspiration. A few even affected the new fashion of having a cloth just to wipe the nose.
They all seemed conscious of their appearance, noted Candless, who wondered at how long their morning toilet took them, to fix their hair, and don their jewels, bracelets, pendants and collars, but they seemed not to be busy, just ladies with leisure, passing away the easy days in a pleasant place.
It was a popular place to linger, for the baths was a natatorium where as many as 1,600 bathers at one time could enjoy the temperature-controlled pools, emerging refreshed and cleansed to browse an array of displays of all the goods of the empire. They could wander into the vast library, open from the first to the sixth hour, where scholars pored over scrolls from all over the known world. Two whores, recognisable by their blonde wigs and gilded nipples, which were visible through their filmy kirtles, chatted in the shade. Above them were their tariff boards and the guide squinted to see the prices.
“This way, Lord,” he said, recovering and openly proud of his city, “we are almost at the bishop’s house.”
“Wait a moment,” said Candless. “What about the Christians?” In the euphoria of seeing how well the true gods were regarded in this welter of statues, marble and gold, the pagan masquerading as a Christian bishop had quite forgotten to ask about his fellow congregants.
“Oh, they’ve surfaced, come out of the catacombs now,” said the guide, shrugging. “They’ve taken over one or two minor temples since the emperor gave them an unofficial nod. They’re back to being tolerated again. They had a hard time of it for a while there, with the crucifixions and the arena fodder they made. It was good spectacle though for the rest of us, but that’s over and they seem to be decent enough people, very helpful if they live near you. They’re not exactly lying low, they offer to help if you have sick people in the house, that kind of thing, but they’re not flaunting their beliefs much, either. The last couple of their bishops got exiled, you know.”
“I know,” said Candless grimly. It had been a major setback for his plans to acquire sacred relics. “Don’t stop. Take me on to Bishop Militades’ house.”
X - Escape
My small craft skittered down the Rhine like a lively horse. The sail was straining, driven well by Vulturnus, god of the east wind, and Sol smiled down from the morning sky. I was making good time, putting distance between myself and Mainz, where hopefully my former jailers had not yet learned of the boat stolen from the local customs post.
It would have been simple to sail all the way to the coast, but I reluctantly acknowledged that I should abandon the little vessel. Its official status was plain from its blue sail and I certainly did not look the part of a Roman tax inspector, so, although the locals might shy away from me, no military patrol would hesitate to stop and question me.
The river narrowed and took a sharp turn north as I sailed opposite a sizeable settlement with the walls of an obvious castrum and I guessed I was close to the Via Ausonium, a military road that ran up the west side of the Rhine. I recalled it from my days as a soldier in Mainz and knew I’d be courting inspection if I continued much longer. Soon enough, a suitable stretch of willow-lined river appeared. I dropped the telltale sail, bundled and pushed it over the side, then rowed my craft to the shore and under the concealment of a big willow’s overhanging foliage, where I tied up and stepped onto the bank.
The boat had a couple of official markings burned into the gunwale at the bow, but any halfway-larcenous local would plane them out and use the boat for his own purposes. With luck, Maxentius’ men might not come across it for weeks, if ever.
Ashore, I took stock. Judging by the time I had been sailing, I was probably 20 miles north of Mainz. I’d been captured southwest of there at Vallis, where my cavalry troop under Grabelius would have returned to find me missing. They would deduce from witnesses to the attack that Maxentian’s Romans would have taken me either to Mainz or to Colonia, which was still a distance north of where I stood. It was reasonable to assume that Grabelius would send patrols cautiously towards each place, in hope of finding where I was held, so I resolved to head back south and west, to intersect the line between Vallis and Mainz. At best, I could meet a patrol of my men, second best was that I could return the entire way to Vallis. I did not contemplate the worst case, I had no intention of being recaptured.
For equipment, I had the drayman’s cloak and straw hat, his boots, which fitted passably well, his knife and a hammer, plus the man’s purse with its few small coins. I’d been worse equipped, I’d been better equipped, it would have to do. At least the hat and cloak provided some disguise, although my size, scarred face and bad limp would make me recognisable to any official, should word go out in the coming days. Maybe by that time, I would be safe somewhere. I shrugged, glanced at Sol to take a bearing and set off southwest. Within a few hundred paces, I came across the military road, checked for sight or sound of patrols or traffic, crossed it cautiously and stepped into the woods.
The going was conveniently good. The land was wooded, interspersed with agricultural and grazing lands, so it was easy enough to move across in fair concealment. At dusk, I came across a small settlement, slipped into a chicken coop, lifted a drowsy bird without too much clucking and was quietly out and away into the woods without even a single dog barking. I kept my fire concealed, roasted the fowl and slept well in my cloak, fed and warm. I was under way again before dawn.
On the third day, I felt confident enough to make contact with a villager who gave me a supply of dried, smoked pork in exchange for the hammer. He was a rat-faced, gotch-eyed villain and he eyed my dagger with cupidity, though it was a poor weapon, but we concluded the transaction peaceably and I moved on. Something alerted my instincts and I looked back once or twice, sensing that someone was following me, but saw nothing. A half hour later, as I was sitting with my back to a tree, eating some of the pork, the fellow tried to kill me with his axe. I heard something creak behind me and moved just in time to avoid the swing of it, then I was on my feet, dagger out and punching an upthrust under the axeman’s ribs.
It was the gotch-eyed villager. The blow lifted him off his feet and I was close enough, face-to-face, to smell his onion-scented breath. I was holding him impaled. I lowered him to his toes, and he gasped in pain. “What?” I said.
“The knife,” he said, a bubble of blood on his lips. “I wanted the knife.”
It seems harsh to tell it now, the way it happened, but I have been a soldier all my life. I saw my father slaughtered by sea raiders, my comrades have died around me, in ambush and battle, and some were executed in cold blood. My twin brothers vanished and are dead or slaves not so far from that place where I had the robber on my blade. Life is hard and can be cheap, so when he said he was willing to kill me for a poor blade like that, I had no mercy. “You want the knife?” I repeated. “Well, have it now.”
I twisted and thrust up deeply, giving the killing stroke that bursts the heart. I felt the warmth of the blood gush on my wrist and pushed the thief away. He was dying as he slumped into the leaf mould. I spat the remains of the pork from my mouth, onto his body, wiped my knife and hands on his tunic, checked to see if he had a purse at his belt – he had none – tossed the axe into the undergrowth and moved away, going again to the south and west.
Within an hour, I saw horsemen, and knew from the size and stepping gait
of their steeds they were my own troops. Frisian mounts are not common, and to see four of them in one group is doubly rare. I stepped out of the woodland and whistled.
The decurion who headed the group was known to me by sight, a burly, red-haired old sweat whose name I learned was Bradlio. He ordered two of the smaller men to share a horse and I mounted up, relieved to be astride a horse again. Bradlio quickly told me what had happened.
The cavalry had come back to Vallis from their training exercise to hear of my capture, and their commanders had sent out more than a dozen patrols across the country with orders to ride out for three days, then to circle back. This they had done, without success until one patrol had heard of a new prisoner in the gatehouse at Mainz. The description was mine.
The tribunes had moved the entire cohort close to Mainz and had sent out patrols by night to avoid detection, and had inserted several spies into the castrum. They had returned a couple of days previously with news of my escape, although the Romans still had no knowledge of who their prisoner had been. My tribune Quirinus had put a strong force up close to monitor the castrum and any countermeasures, then ordered a daylight sweep of the country, and Bradlio’s small troop had found me.
That night, I slept in my own tent after enduring all the jokes about my inability to handle a couple of soldiers when digging a latrine trench, feebleness at being captured, sarcastic comments on my weight loss since taking my ‘prison diet cure,’ and a roar of approval when Quirinus said “He’s been in more tight places than a shepherd’s arm, but he still keeps coming home.” I found the remarks hilarious, we were all drinking wine, I was back with my horse soldiers and I was happy.
XI - Spectres
The King's Cavalry Page 6