facade of the place. A reek came from it: an old, sour stench of boiled cabbage and dirt. I saw cracked and broken plaster, slime-stained walls. In one place, above a crumbling cornice, grass and shrubs had seeded themselves over the years. The biggest of the stunted bushes, still sporting a handful of decrepit leaves, was indubitably a pear sapling. I shook my head. ‘It’s a long way,’ I muttered, ‘from the Forum to the Pear Tree. Not counting the stairs ...’
That got Marcus. He had always tended to have a curious sense of humour; now he sat on the offending stairs and laughed till the tears shone on his cheeks. ‘Sergius,’ he said finally, when he could speak again without choking, ‘you have the soul of a scholar, I swear it. Rome’s going to do you a great deal of good ...’ He rose, and lifted the bundles. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Come and see the worst.’
The room we finally reached was tiny, not much more than a pace or two across. It shared with the rest of the house an odour of decay. Rain had seeped through the ceiling in several places, staining the walls, while in one corner the floorboards were so rotten that unless one stepped carefully there was a lively danger of plummeting to the floor beneath. One window, small and square, admitted air and light to the cell. I moved to it, peered through. The view was unexpectedly grand. To the right the cluttered length of the Argiletum ran towards the Capitoline, crowned with the ancient Temple of Jupiter; across the opposing roofs reared the walls of the Flavian Amphitheatre; to the left I saw clear across the huddle of Subura and the Viminal to the great Baths of Diocletian. Suddenly I realised what the curious events of the day had almost driven from my mind: that I was in Rome, living in Rome, at the heart of the Empire. I turned back, feeling a heart-lifting surge of excitement. ‘Marcus,’ I said, ‘I’m already so much in your debt I shall never be able to repay you. But I promise you one thing. I’ll certainly earn my keep somehow, and pay my way.’
‘You certainly will,’ said Marcus with characteristic abruptness. ‘I’m not supporting you, any more than your uncle.’ He sat down on one of the beds and began pulling at the straps of the pack. ‘That half,’ he said, pointing, ‘from the end of the bed there to the door, is yours. This bit’s mine. Keep the place tidy; you know I can’t stand a clutter, and I’m not walking round behind you putting things away.’
‘Marcus,’ I said, ‘what do you think of my uncle?’
He grunted. ‘Nowhere near as mad as he looks,’ he said. ‘But quite mad enough.’
I arrived early next morning to find the office a shambles. The tools were flung about in confusion; one piece of alabaster lay on the floor; the other was cracked clean across, while the slaves were engaged in scrubbing copious bloodstains from the bench and wall. Apparently my uncle’s remark about carving the reliefs himself had been meant in grim earnest. Tackling the business with customary vigour, he had soon succeeded in badly gashing his thumb. Undaunted, he wrapped the wounded member and carried on. He rapidly cut himself again; the second injury was so severe he fainted on the spot, and had it not been for the timely return of Abinnaeus, who knew his employer better than I realised, the career of Lucullus Paullus might have ended then and there. He reappeared at the works a few days later, still swearing blue fire. By that time the offending alabaster had been removed from sight; the job was put out quietly, and nothing more was said. In the end the Emperor never came; my uncle took the whole thing as a personal affront, removed the board from his door and swore never to work for royalty again.
I was to come to know him well, too, over the years, but to this day I don’t pretend I ever understood him. Though he styled himself an architect, most of his profits came from projects as widely removed as the
That got Marcus. He had always tended to have a curious sense of humour; now he sat on the offending stairs and laughed till the tears shone on his cheeks. ‘Sergius,’ he said finally, when he could speak again without choking, ‘you have the soul of a scholar, I swear it. Rome’s going to do you a great deal of good ...’ He rose, and lifted the bundles. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Come and see the worst.’
The room we finally reached was tiny, not much more than a pace or two across. It shared with the rest of the house an odour of decay. Rain had seeped through the ceiling in several places, staining the walls, while in one corner the floorboards were so rotten that unless one stepped carefully there was a lively danger of plummeting to the floor beneath. One window, small and square, admitted air and light to the cell. I moved to it, peered through. The view was unexpectedly grand. To the right the cluttered length of the Argiletum ran towards the Capitoline, crowned with the ancient Temple of Jupiter; across the opposing roofs reared the walls of the Flavian Amphitheatre; to the left I saw clear across the huddle of Subura and the Viminal to the great Baths of Diocletian. Suddenly I realised what the curious events of the day had almost driven from my mind: that I was in Rome, living in Rome, at the heart of the Empire. I turned back, feeling a heart-lifting surge of excitement. ‘Marcus,’ I said, ‘I’m already so much in your debt I shall never be able to repay you. But I promise you one thing. I’ll certainly earn my keep somehow, and pay my way.’
‘You certainly will,’ said Marcus with characteristic abruptness. ‘I’m not supporting you, any more than your uncle.’ He sat down on one of the beds and began pulling at the straps of the pack. ‘That half,’ he said, pointing, ‘from the end of the bed there to the door, is yours. This bit’s mine. Keep the place tidy; you know I can’t stand a clutter, and I’m not walking round behind you putting things away.’
‘Marcus,’ I said, ‘what do you think of my uncle?’
He grunted. ‘Nowhere near as mad as he looks,’ he said. ‘But quite mad enough.’
I arrived early next morning to find the office a shambles. The tools were flung about in confusion; one piece of alabaster lay on the floor; the other was cracked clean across, while the slaves were engaged in scrubbing copious bloodstains from the bench and wall. Apparently my uncle’s remark about carving the reliefs himself had been meant in grim earnest. Tackling the business with customary vigour, he had soon succeeded in badly gashing his thumb. Undaunted, he wrapped the wounded member and carried on. He rapidly cut himself again; the second injury was so severe he fainted on the spot, and had it not been for the timely return of Abinnaeus, who knew his employer better than I realised, the career of Lucullus Paullus might have ended then and there. He reappeared at the works a few days later, still swearing blue fire. By that time the offending alabaster had been removed from sight; the job was put out quietly, and nothing more was said. In the end the Emperor never came; my uncle took the whole thing as a personal affront, removed the board from his door and swore never to work for royalty again.
I was to come to know him well, too, over the years, but to this day I don’t pretend I ever understood him. Though he styled himself an architect, most of his profits came from projects as widely removed as the
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