‘If I can get out of here, that is!’
Vibia smiled.
‘Think of it as training. They say that Julius Caesar’s a war hero. He’s been kidnapped by pirates and caught them later. He’s won decorations. You’ll need to be on your toes if you want to keep up with him in Spain.’
Fronto spared time from his dressing to glare at her. He hadn’t remembered telling her all about his assignment. He really must learn to keep his wine-sodden mouth shut.
Fastening the belt around his middle, he ran his fingers through the tangled hair, getting them irreparably caught in the process and having to disentangle his own hands from his head.
‘Where’s my toga?’
‘You weren’t wearing one when I met you.’
‘Shit. Another one gone. Somewhere in this city there’s a homeless bunch of immigrant Numidians sitting warm and comfy under a collection of my togas.’
He sighed and shook his head to try and clear it once again. The effect was more nauseating than clarifying, but he continued to do it regardless, finally stretching and fixing his eyes on Vibia.
‘Any suggestions then?’
Vibia shrugged.
‘I remember coming in last night, but then I was expected and I came in through the main door from the Via Sacra. I’ve no idea how you got in, but I’d have loved to have seen it!’
Fronto shook his head again.
‘How the hell did I find you then?’
‘Marcus, I have no idea. I still think you could leave publicly. I’ve not officially taken the vows. They won’t do anything.’
Fronto shook his head angrily.
‘You’re young and… well not innocent, obviously, but naïve in the ways of the law. I’ve had to study it and, believe me, they’ll find a way to do us over for this. Just being seen walking out of the vestal house would ruin me for life! Vestals have been executed on merely suspicion of half what we did.’
‘What we did twice’ she corrected.
‘Oh for Gods’ sake.’
Fronto gave her one long lasting glare and then sighed.
‘Good luck in your future life, Vibia; I have a feeling you’re going to need it. If we ever meet again then I pray it’s not for at least thirty years and your vow is over.’
The girl, languishing among the sheets, laughed lightly.
‘Good luck with your new career, tribune Fronto. I hope your star rises rapidly.’
With a nod, Fronto turned and made for the door. Inching it open just a crack, he peered through. The little knowledge he had of the layout of the house of the vestals had come the same way it had for every teenager in Rome: standing on the heights of the Palatine above, near the sacred grove and peering down into the compound in the hopes that the vestals would be, against all odds, cavorting naked with one another in the sunshine.
Leaving the door open a mere crack, he ran through what he remembered of the layout. The precinct had a perimeter wall that would be too high and bare to climb; he’d walked past it in the forum numerous times, wondering what went on within. The inside face was no different from the outside, apparently, with the exception of immaculately-tended hedges and tall, tapering poplars that were so narrow and willowy that they would be of no use in climbing.
There were five structures in the precinct and he ran through them considering the possibilities. To the west: the circular temple itself; a place to avoid, since there would always be a priestess active there. In the centre stood the house of the priestesses itself, six rooms in two rows of three opening onto a central courtyard, one of which currently contained a nervous soldier. To the north: a small functional building containing the stores, kitchen and so on. Too far from any other structure to be any use but possibly affording hiding places. One to think on. To the southwest a bath house…
For a moment Fronto’s mind wandered and, irritatingly, he realised he was smiling as he thought about the bathhouse’s possible occupants.
‘Stop it’ he muttered to himself.
The bathhouse was unlikely to afford a good hiding place. One possibility… no. That didn’t bear thinking about. So that left the shrine of Numa Pompilius, legendary founder of the cult. An apsidal brick structure, roofed but open to one side to display the cult statue. Fronto smiled as he remembered the view from the Palatine. In his mind’s eye he could just about judge the gap between the roof of the shrine and the wall. He could do it. He could jump that far, he was sure.
Reeling in his thoughts and with a clear goal now defined, Fronto peered out through the gap. From here, across the courtyard, he could see the windows and doors of the three rooms opposite. All three doors were closed, which could be either a good or bad sign. He waited patiently for a few minutes but nothing moved in the windows. That was hopeful then. There would have to be at least one priestess on duty in the temple; probably two. One was in bed behind him. That left three. They could be anywhere but, given the earliness of the hour, it was likely they were either abed, bathing, or preparing breakfast in the other structure.
He growled. He’d just have to chance it. His father would beat him if he found out about this, while his mother would faint and his sister would pull him to pieces with her acerbic wit. So nobody must know. Move fast and keep low.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door wider and ducked to the side. There was no sound and, as he risked a quick look, no movement opposite. Slowly and surreptitiously, Fronto leaned out of the doorway slightly, gazing left and right along the near wall. So far, so good. Smoke was rising from the oculus in the temple where the fire forever burned. Opposite, to the east, he could see the recessed shrine of Numa with its ancient and revered statue housed in deep shadow. Frowning, he worked out in advance the best possible route to climb the building. He would have to stand on good old King Numa’s head. Was there no end to his heresy?
‘Here goes’ he muttered under his breath and, ducking low enough to move along the wall beneath the level of the windows, he set off at breakneck speed. What the hell was he doing here? He panted as he charged along past the plastered walls of the house, hoping not to wake any sleeping priestesses with his pounding feet. It was only twenty yards into the shadow of the shrine. There he could take a rest and get his breath back. He could…
Fronto nearly had a heart attack as he hurdled the priestess’ leg like an athlete at Olympia. As he’d reached the end of the wall, elated at the thought of reaching relative safety, he’d almost collided with, or tripped over, the priestess who had been walking toward him along the far side of the building. Practiced military training took over as he leapt. He’d planned nothing in his panicked moment and would have come down in a heap on the floor had he not had the sense to curl up. He hit the ground at speed, rolled and came up to find himself face to face with his nemesis, who had turned to stare at him.
The vestal priestess, struck silent and immobile by sheer shock, was quite possibly the ugliest old bat Fronto had ever laid his eyes on. In the slow motion experienced by wrong doers as they are found the world over, he watched in horror as the harpy in white before him dropped the carefully folded linen she had been carrying and her hand came slowly up to point an accusing finger at him. Her mouth formed into an ‘O’.
Fronto smiled weakly.
‘’Scuse me.’
And then he was running. The panic was truly setting in now. His heart pounded like the feet of a legion on the march, only faster. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, for which he was extremely grateful as it almost drowned out the shrieks and bellows from the priestess behind him. Had the circumstances been different, he would have been convinced that, with a voice like that, there was some bovine in the woman’s ancestry.
The problem was that the panic had carried him automatically. It had given him a head start, but pointed him in the wrong direction. Now he was out of the harpy’s reach but leaving the shrine behind and heading toward the bath house.
Shit. Quite literally. There was only one solutio
n now.
He risked a glance over his shoulder and wished fervently that he hadn’t. What had, a moment ago, looked like an ugly old priestess screaming in terror now bore more resemblance to Cerberus or some fiendish and malignant lemur of the underworld, howling its hatred and evil as it bore down on him with what he considered an unprecedented turn of speed. What was this woman? If all the vestals were like this, he’d hate to meet one in a dark alley and he’d certainly not be coming back in thirty years to look for Vibia.
Muscles pumping, heart pounding and sweat pouring from his hairline, Fronto examined the building ahead. No door visible, so it must be around the other side. Good. He could hear another voice somewhere behind him now. The only thing he could truly hope for was that, if he made it out of this, the chances of the priestesses recognising him once he’d cleaned up from this horrendous state was extremely unlikely.
His heart in his mouth, Fronto hurtled round the corner. There was the door. Hoping he was as clever as he thought, he wrenched the door open with a clatter and then ran on along the outside toward the next corner. As he ran, he kept an eye on the ground. He had only one hope here: a drain cover down to the sewers. It was possible there was one, though far from guaranteed, given the security and sanctity of the precinct. Even if there was, it could be buried beneath the grass. Dodging round the far corner, he came to a halt and looked around desperately.
Fortuna was Fronto’s patron Goddess.
There, like a beautiful square, white, marble dream, was the cover of the drain. Just wide enough to admit him and kept free of grass, gravel and weeds by the helpful priestesses, who presumably gardened a great deal to keep their mind off the pastimes they were forbidden. It may be a gateway to half the poo of central Rome but, right now, Fronto could kiss every brick down that tunnel.
Dropping to his knees, he yanked at the marble block and succeeded in levering it upright, balanced on its thick edge. With a quick, desperate look around, he leaned forward to look down the hole.
The blast of acrid air that rose from the passage brought tears instantly to his eyes and threatened to burn off his nose hair. Blinking, he leaned back. He was just considering looking for an alternate route when he overheard the edge of a shouted warning inside the baths. Now there were two voices. Crap. He was getting outnumbered.
Taking as deep a breath as he dared attempt, Fronto narrowed his eyes to slits and pulled himself forward across the hole. Holding himself up with his arms, he dropped his feet into the dank darkness and scrabbled around until he found purchase on either side with his feet. Achieving a foothold among the slippery bricks, he concertinaed his body down into the hole so that he could pull the cover over the top.
Trying very hard not to breathe at all, he began to carefully descend the eight feet down to the tunnel below. He had almost worked his way down to the point at which the brickwork opened out into a wide tunnel when the worst thing imaginable happened and his boot slipped on the fungus that grew on the bricks. He was pretty sure he shrieked, regardless of the possibility of being heard from above. What he was sure about was that he had the presence of mind to close his mouth and grip his nose tightly before he plunged with a wet slap into the depths of the oozing nastiness beneath him.
In the brief moment before he recovered his wits, Fronto found himself seriously wondering whether it might have been preferable to be caught and executed than to have escaped by this route.
He stood, gripped his sides and leaned over to be copiously sick into the ooze and almost laughed when he considered the possibility that such an act may just make the place marginally nicer. Reaching up to wipe his mouth, he remembered just in time and lowered his browny-green stinking arm back to his side.
Gritting his teeth, he climbed out of the torrent onto one of the walkways and began to plod along the tunnel. He would have to get his bearings. He needed to make it back to the Aventine, but was now so thoroughly turned around that he could be anywhere.
Sighing as deeply as he dared, he peered down at the direction of what could laughingly be called ‘the flow’. It would be a bit of a walk, but following it to its inevitable conclusion where the Cloaca Maxima emptied into the Tiber, he would at least exit somewhere away from the crowded central markets.
Miserably, he plodded and slapped along through the tunnels, slowly becoming acclimatized to the oppressive darkness, broken only by the occasional light from a drain cover above, and to the unbelievable smell. How you couldn’t smell this in the street above was beyond him. He was pretty sure he’d be able to smell this for the rest of his life, no matter where he was.
Several twists and turns later, he saw a bright glow ahead and picked up his pace as much as he dared, worrying over the possibility of slipping back into the murk. Gradually the arc of light came closer until finally, he found himself striding out into the brilliant dazzling sunlight. Edging toward the end of the tunnel, he peered left and right along the river bank. The Tiber flowed past, deep and green. Well… green until it converged with the brown sludge beneath him. Taking a lungful of air he exploded in a coughing fit.
There was no one close by. A fisherman sat on the bank some hundred yards away upstream, but he could keep himself hidden by shrubs.
Tentatively, he slipped down the bank by the side of the channel that emptied Rome’s sewage into the river. Taking a deep breath, fully clothed, he continued sliding down until he plunged with relief into the cold water. Deep beneath, among the weeds, he thrashed around, trying to get as much as possible of both clothes and skin in cleansing contact with the water. He stayed down as long as he could hold his breath and finally launched himself upwards and out into the air with a loud splash.
Looking round, he saw the fisherman watching him. He considered a cheeky wave, but this was not the time for frivolities. Looking down, the remnants of the sludge that had covered him sat like a slick on the surface of the water, gradually carried away from him by the flow.
He took a deep breath.
No.
He may be ostensibly clean, but he still smelled like a public latrine during the Saturnalia. Wincing, he swam to the bank a few yards away and splashed water into his armpits. Sighing, he climbed the bank up to the pavement. Peeking over the edge, he saw the forum boarium stretching away before him. There were a few people setting up stalls, but no one close enough to the river to panic him.
Taking another deep breath, he stood and stepped back into the civilised world. Shaking his head in amazement at the things that happened to him, he turned south and began to run along the bank.
Ignoring the looks he received from passers by and the few audible comments about vagrancy and atrocious smells, he jogged past the end of the Circus Maximus and off into one of the many streets that snaked up the hill of the Aventine, keeping his head down to stay unrecognisable as he passed the houses of friends and neighbours until finally, blessedly, he saw the front gate of his family’s villa.
In a flood of relief, he rushed to the door and hammered repeatedly on it, hopping nervously from foot to foot, while he waited to be admitted. A moment later, Posco, the chief house slave opened the door, his eyes widening in disgust.
‘Can we help you?’
‘Posco… it’s me!’
The slave blinked and then stared at Fronto.
‘Master Marcus?’
‘Yes, now in the name of Venus Cloacina, will you let me in?’
The slave stood to one side and Fronto tried not to take personally the face the man made as he passed close by. Posco closed the door behind him.
‘Would the master care to make his way to the bath and I shall find some clean clothes and a strigil?’
Fronto deflated and nodded.
‘Thank you, Posco.’
‘To remove the odour from your person would be a pleasure, sir.’
Fronto shot him an irritated glance and then rolled his eyes skyward as his sister turned the corner into the atrium.
‘Gods, Marcus. What hav
e you been doing? Swimming in sewers?’
‘Faleria, you have no idea. I have had the morning from hell, with the torture, the Hydra, Tisiphone and everything.’
‘Torture, Hydra, Tisiphone, and apparently poo.’
Fronto glared at his sister as she laughed past the hand that held her nose shut.
‘Funny. Very funny. I’m going for a bath.’
‘On our evening of debauchery, dear brother, did we perhaps lose another toga?’
Fronto nodded, grimacing.
‘Going to have to borrow some more coin from mother to buy another.’
Faleria chuckled.
‘She’s going to love that. You’ll have to get a move on, too. You need a good one.’
Fronto shook his head. ‘I’m not going anywhere for several days. I won’t need it. It can be packed away for the voyage.’
‘I think not, Marcus’ she said as she turned to walk away. ‘The day after tomorrow, the Vestalia begins. With no father around these days, you’ll have to escort her to the vestal temple for the rites.’
Behind her, Posco rushed to try and catch the young master as, under the weight of the stress, the hangover and the violent fumes, his eyes rolled up into his head and he sank to the floor like a sack of grain.
Full glossary of terms:
Ad aciem: military command essentially equivalent to ‘Battle stations!’.
Amphora (pl. Amphorae): A large pottery storage container, generally used for wine or olive oil.
Aquilifer: a specialised standard bearer that carried a legion’s eagle standard.
Aurora: Roman Goddess of the dawn, sister of Sol and Luna.
Bacchanalia: the wild and often drunken festival of Bacchus.
Buccina: A curved horn-like musical instrument used primarily by the military for relaying signals, along with the cornu.
Capsarius: Legionary soldiers trained as combat medics, whose job was to patch men up in the field until they could reach a hospital.
Civitas: Latin name given to a certain class of civil settlement, often the capital of a tribal group or a former military base.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 154
