Jupiter and the Arx atop Capitoline Hill to orient himself. He couldn’t go back the way he came, so he would have to circle around the northern base of the hill to reach the west side of the Forum—through these infernal alleys with their forgotten denizens, the hundreds of thousands of people who were born, lived and died in this cesspool of human misery.
And now he was one of them.
All of a sudden the blood-chilling blare of the First Spear horn thundered across the skies. It was the official signal from the Urban Cohorts headquarters to the roaming gangs of the district that there was a fugitive on the loose, and a reward for his capture, dead or alive. Even the official
urbani
patrols avoided this graveyard of danger at night.
Almost immediately shouts and torches burst forth from all directions. He heard the crash of pots and cursing and looked over his shoulder to see a gang of four shadowy figures floating toward him like malevolent spirits in their odd, mismatched pieces of old infantry armor. The gruesome sight made him recall one of Juvenal’s few good jokes about life in modern Rome: that only the careless dared venture out after supper without having first made their will.
I am not going to die in this piss pot tonight, Athanasius vowed to himself, breaking into a sprint. Better to go out in a blaze of faux glory in the arena than go face down here in some ditch.
The apartment slums on either side of him closed in like walls, the snaking alley narrowing into a dirt path. Now he was splashing through an open cess trench that reeked with the foul stench of human waste, dumped from the pots of the inhabitants in the
insulae
above him. The goo caked his aching calves, and it was all he could do to keep his heavy legs moving and not turn his face up toward the windows.
The muck had slowed the ill-clad gangs behind him, however, and he could no longer hear their shouts. But at the end of the alley was a veritable bonfire of thugs at an intersection waiting for him. He couldn’t go back, and he couldn’t move forward. He looked around frantically until he found an open laundry pit between two buildings. It was filled with sanitizing urine.
There was no way around it, he realized. This was his only exit.
He waded through the knee-deep pool, stopping only to untangle soaked garments that wrapped themselves around his legs, like the long tentacles of some sea creature sent to pull him under, and for a moment he entertained the vision of being found face down in the very piss pot he feared. But he made it out the far end of the pool and emerged atop a weed-infested ridge.
There below was Jugarius Street, and on the other side the warehouse district that linked the Forum to the Tiber. The boulevard was filled with carts and slaves of the night. No daytime traffic was allowed in Rome except pedestrians, horses, litters and carrying chairs. Nighttime was for transport carts of all sizes, loading and unloading goods from barges at the port on the Tiber. Like magic, all the stores, stands and markets of Rome would be filled with the treasures of the world by morning. And, with luck, he would be gone with all the garbage from the previous day.
Athanasius slid down the hill to the shoulder of Jugarius Street. He waited for a break in the traffic and then ran across the street and made an immediate left toward the Forum, slipping between two convoys of full wagons. He had just permitted himself to take a breath when the wagon in front of him slowed down and skirted to the right to reveal a line of two-dozen heavily armed
urbani
coming out through the Arch of Tiberius. They were marching straight toward him, their swords and spears at the ready.
Athanasius slowed down as the unit’s commanding officer, a centurion, saluted as he passed by. Athanasius nodded and looked back as the troops marched on toward the Tiber, no doubt to take up positions on the Sublicius Bridge and close off that exit.
Athanasius passed under
And now he was one of them.
All of a sudden the blood-chilling blare of the First Spear horn thundered across the skies. It was the official signal from the Urban Cohorts headquarters to the roaming gangs of the district that there was a fugitive on the loose, and a reward for his capture, dead or alive. Even the official
urbani
patrols avoided this graveyard of danger at night.
Almost immediately shouts and torches burst forth from all directions. He heard the crash of pots and cursing and looked over his shoulder to see a gang of four shadowy figures floating toward him like malevolent spirits in their odd, mismatched pieces of old infantry armor. The gruesome sight made him recall one of Juvenal’s few good jokes about life in modern Rome: that only the careless dared venture out after supper without having first made their will.
I am not going to die in this piss pot tonight, Athanasius vowed to himself, breaking into a sprint. Better to go out in a blaze of faux glory in the arena than go face down here in some ditch.
The apartment slums on either side of him closed in like walls, the snaking alley narrowing into a dirt path. Now he was splashing through an open cess trench that reeked with the foul stench of human waste, dumped from the pots of the inhabitants in the
insulae
above him. The goo caked his aching calves, and it was all he could do to keep his heavy legs moving and not turn his face up toward the windows.
The muck had slowed the ill-clad gangs behind him, however, and he could no longer hear their shouts. But at the end of the alley was a veritable bonfire of thugs at an intersection waiting for him. He couldn’t go back, and he couldn’t move forward. He looked around frantically until he found an open laundry pit between two buildings. It was filled with sanitizing urine.
There was no way around it, he realized. This was his only exit.
He waded through the knee-deep pool, stopping only to untangle soaked garments that wrapped themselves around his legs, like the long tentacles of some sea creature sent to pull him under, and for a moment he entertained the vision of being found face down in the very piss pot he feared. But he made it out the far end of the pool and emerged atop a weed-infested ridge.
There below was Jugarius Street, and on the other side the warehouse district that linked the Forum to the Tiber. The boulevard was filled with carts and slaves of the night. No daytime traffic was allowed in Rome except pedestrians, horses, litters and carrying chairs. Nighttime was for transport carts of all sizes, loading and unloading goods from barges at the port on the Tiber. Like magic, all the stores, stands and markets of Rome would be filled with the treasures of the world by morning. And, with luck, he would be gone with all the garbage from the previous day.
Athanasius slid down the hill to the shoulder of Jugarius Street. He waited for a break in the traffic and then ran across the street and made an immediate left toward the Forum, slipping between two convoys of full wagons. He had just permitted himself to take a breath when the wagon in front of him slowed down and skirted to the right to reveal a line of two-dozen heavily armed
urbani
coming out through the Arch of Tiberius. They were marching straight toward him, their swords and spears at the ready.
Athanasius slowed down as the unit’s commanding officer, a centurion, saluted as he passed by. Athanasius nodded and looked back as the troops marched on toward the Tiber, no doubt to take up positions on the Sublicius Bridge and close off that exit.
Athanasius passed under
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