Patrick (46 page)

Her lavish praise embarrassed me. Regardless, I knew I had made a powerful new ally and friend. From that moment, I entered an exalted position within that family, one I could never have foreseen. In the Columellas' eyes I could do no wrong.

Thereafter I noticed a distinct improvement in my rank within the traveling party. The Columellas invited me to join them at meals, and the vicarius sought my views on diverse matters pertaining to the provinces, especially Britain. In short, my star rose in the heavens of their good opinion.

By the time we reached Rome, I was almost a member of the family. Two months later I was.

T
HERE IT IS,
Succat,” said Vicarius Columella, indicating the gleaming bowl of the valley with a wide sweep of his arm. “The greatest city in the world.”

Leaning forward in the saddle, as if to bring the sight that much closer, I gazed upon the dazzling, sun-drenched sprawl—the deep, ruddy glow of tile and brick; the sparkling glint of whitewashed walls; the dull gleam of the Tiber snaking through…. All my life I had heard the word “Roma”—it had passed my lips a thousand times—but never once had I imagined that such a simple word could signify anything so staggeringly, prodigiously, gloriously vast.

“It is dazzling,” I said. “Truly dazzling.”

“Mother of Nations,” intoned Bishop Cornelius tartly. “Whore Queen, Bitch Goddess.”

“Come now, Bishop,” chided Columella. “Its glory may be somewhat tarnished, but it is never so terrible as all that.”

The vicarius pointed to the foremost prominence. “That is Capitoline Hill, and rising behind it is Palatine Hill; next to that is the Aventine Hill, with the Caelian just behind.” He shifted his hand slightly to indicate a broad plateau to the east with three projections like stubby fingers. “There is the Quirinal, the Viminal, and the Esquiline. You see? The famed Seven Hills of Rome.”

“It is wonderful,” I said, staring intently at the staggering immensity of the city spreading before me. A silvery haze of
smoke and dust hung over the entire valley, causing the city to shimmer softly in the hard midday sunlight.

“Succat,” said Columella, “you are going to enjoy Rome, and I am going to enjoy showing it to you.”

He lifted his hand to signal those behind, and we started down the long, sloping road into the shallow Tiber valley and the sprawling city itself—so various, so grand, so impossibly opulent as to make every other place I had ever seen seem like a mud wallow.

The city had long ago grown beyond its protecting walls, and soon we were passing through a district of low houses and hovels: the dwellings of craftsmen, servants, and day laborers. Men, women, and children came running when they saw our company, offering us bundles of ripe figs, olives, and jars of wine. Vicarius Columella, out of the generosity of his rank, purchased figs, dried beans, and olives as we rode along, dispersing coins to the merchants and their ragged children.

Ignoring the cries of the street vendors, we pushed on through the clamor to the high, gated walls, joining the steady stream of carts, barrows, donkeys, mules, and foot traffic pouring through the Flaminia Gate and into the city. The noise was tremendous and the sights overwhelming. Everywhere I looked, some new wonder met my astonished gaze: theaters, palaces, villas, and houses without number.

“It is not what it was, of course,” said Lord Columella sadly. “The Vandali destroyed whatever they could not carry away. Much has been restored, but there is a very great deal of rebuilding to be done even now. One day, however, Rome will regain her former grandeur.”

The bishop overheard this and delivered himself of a hearty snort of derision.

“Oh, it is easy enough to scoff,” the vicarius continued. “But I believe that Rome has yet to reach her pinnacle.”

We rode for what seemed half a day before finally reaching the wide, rising street which climbed the slope of Palatine Hill, where the vicarius maintained his city residence: a
grand
domus,
or town house, not far from the Curia Julia, where the senate met. The street was lined with princely houses of the principal families of Rome—all white stone and red tile, with ironwork at the windows, carved columns, and statuary in the pediments.

Domus Columella presented a plain, almost drab, buff-colored exterior to the street; inside, it was a palace with mosaics in the vestibule and corridors of dark brown marble, walls painted red or blue or yellow or decorated with frescoes of country scenes: grapes ripening on the vine with Mount Aetna looming in the background, workers harvesting a golden field of grain, oxen pulling a cart down through an olive grove.

A rider had gone ahead to warn the household servants, so we were met at the door with welcome cups of cool, sweet wine and small parcels of ground meat wrapped in honey-glazed pastry. After eating a few of these, I was led by a servant to my room in a remote part of the house. Apart from the size, which was more than bountiful, the room was remarkably like the one I had known in my father's house. The walls were dark blue below and pale yellow above, and the floor was covered with red-brown tiles over which were placed rugs of woven wool. The wall across from the bed was occupied by a single large window that was closed by sturdy, ironbound shutters. When I opened them, I found myself looking down into a tidy square courtyard containing a single tall pine tree in the center, numerous flowering plants in long stone troughs, and in one corner a large marble box into which water splashed from the mouth of a white alabaster swan spreading its wings from a blue-flowered niche above.

The day was hot, but my room was cool, and I instantly felt myself at home.
I was born to this,
I thought.
I belong here.

Bishop Cornelius and his retinue did not remain with us; after refreshing themselves, they were conducted to the Church of St. John Lateran, where they were given lodgings
in the extensive clutch of dwellings surrounding the great basilica. The soldiers were afforded quarters in the Praetorian garrison. I would have been happy enough to go with them—I was still a soldier under command, after all—but the vicarius wished me to remain with him. “I need you, Succat,” he told me, “and I will not have you out of my sight.”

“You are too kind, Vicarius,” I replied. “But it is my duty to report to the commander of the garrison.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Yet since I, as Vicarius of Gaul and Germania, am your commanding officer, you may consider yourself under my authority during your stay in Rome.”

My commander's rule was light, however, and I was given free rein to wander about the city as I would—an opportunity I eagerly grasped. In those first heady days, I walked the streets of Rome in a continual state of wonder, gazing upon one extravagance of human endeavor after another: the Forum Romanum and the Forum Augustum—with their basilicas, markets, shops, stalls, and magisterial buildings—either of which could have served as capital city for any nation the world over; temples without number and monuments to gods whose names I had never heard before: Temple of Vesta, Temple of Concord, Temple of Saturn, Temple of Venus Genetrix, Temple of Mars Ultor, Temple of Caesar, Temple of Claudius, and many another I could not name.

Everywhere I went, I was met by a continual throng of people—most of them selling something: roast fowl on skewers, boiled eggs, cakes freshly baked on a griddle; live ducks, piglets, goats, puppies; shoes, belts, hats made of straw; bowls, cups, and plates made of olive wood, pottery, brass, copper; bracelets of leather, ivory, or silver; tiny bronze votive figures and candles in the shapes of arms, legs, eyes, heads, or entire human figures. These last were meant to be offered in the temples for the healing of particular ailments—a degenerate practice, according to Grandfather Potitus.

One day the vicarius took me to see the Colosseum and,
near it, the Baths of Trajan. “There are no games just now,” he explained as we strolled in the cool shadow of the enormous curving wall, “and the last gladiator display was over twenty years ago—although, if you are lucky, we might be able to see a wild animal combat while you are here. We could go to one if you like.”

I thanked him but declined, saying I had seen enough of combat to last me the rest of my life.

He accepted this genially and asked, “Do you feel the same way about baths?”

“Indeed I do not. My father considered a good bath the very apex of civilization, and I agree.”

“Splendid! Then follow me, and I will show you the best bath in the entire world.”

For a nominal fee—a few small coins—we were treated to a most luxuriant and refreshing afternoon in the extraordinary baths constructed in honor of Emperor Trajan. The intricately connected domes, halls, and basilicas were covered floor to ceiling with so many murals that I could not take them in. There were shops and exercise halls, spectator galleries where men could relax and discuss business or the events of the day, and rooms where bathers could receive the ministrations of Greek slaves trained in the art of massage. In addition to the usual cold and hot pools, there were plunge pools, swimming pools, and numerous fountains with dolphin-riding nymphs sculpted in gold.

Mosaics adorned every floor and quavered beneath the surface of the enormous swimming pool, too. There was even a library where patrons could select books to read while they rested or refreshed themselves in one of the dining rooms.

“The senate will meet in three weeks' time,” Columella told me as we basked in the warm water of the caldarium.

“We must prepare what we will say to them.”

“My Lord Vicarius—”

“Aulus—always, please—for the man who saved my life.”

“I will be more than happy to tell the senate anything—whatever you desire, tell me, and I will say it.”

“Your reply is most gratifying,” he answered, then paused for a long moment to ponder. “First, I think I would have you speak of your life in Britain before the raid in which you lost your parents, then the raid itself, of course, and your time as a slave in Hibernia.”

“Very well,” I agreed, “if you believe that it will help.”

“Oh, it will. It will,” he assured me. “Once you have pricked the senators' interest, then I would like you to tell of the battle.” He fell silent, considering how to proceed. “Yes,” he said at last. “I would have you tell them what it was like to fight as a soldier on that dire day—what it is like to stand on the line with sword in hand as shrieking barbarians thunder down upon you, to fight and kill, to see friends and comrades slaughtered by your side, and to escape with your life. I would have them hear from the lips of a soldier what unnecessary distress their perpetual vacillation and miserly ways have brought to our fighting men.”

“Then that is what they will hear,” I told him.

Lady Columella decided that I should take meals at the family table; my initial reluctance melted before her insistence. She also saw to it that my clothes were appropriate for the higher society in which I found myself. Indeed she seemed determined that my sojourn in Rome should be as a member of the ruling aristocracy. She took me under her wing to polish my long-corroded speech and manners so that I might blend more easily among the refined Roman populace. “It is very important,” she told me, “not to be thought a rustic from the provinces.”

“I
am
a rustic from the provinces,” I pointed out.

“Of course, but you need not publish the fact in word and deed to everyone you meet. Let them find out
after
they have had a chance to meet you and assess your character and abilities.”

To please her I undertook my tutelage in all seriousness—with the result that very soon I not only looked like a gen
uine Roman, but I could act like one, too. I moved more easily among the city's elite, and my confidence soared accordingly. This in turn produced a curious change in Oriana. She grew less flighty and capricious and, so it seemed, more charitable in her opinion of me.

She often sought me out either just before or immediately after the evening meal. We would talk, and she would ask my opinions of inconsequential things: whether I preferred a town house or a villa, what was the best time of the year, the way my father governed our estate, how my mother used to make bread, whether I considered soldiering a noble profession…and many other such topics. Trivial they might have been, but Oriana took them seriously and listened carefully to all I said—though of course she argued with most of it on principle.

“What possible difference can it make to you how my mother made bread?”

Oriana shrugged. “None at all. I only want to know.”

“Why? Are you going to make bread for me?”

“Would that be so terrible?”

I paused, sensing a change in her voice. “Well, I can think of worse things, perhaps.”

“You think me a poor cook?” she challenged.

“Lady, I have no opinion whatever on the matter,” I declared.

“No?” She regarded me from under arched brows.

“How could I? You know I have never eaten anything you prepared. Anyway, why is it so important what I think?”

She made no reply.

“Well?”

“I know,” she said brightly. “I shall prepare a meal for you, and then you can judge.”

“If you like,” I allowed cautiously. “But I still do not see why it matters even the smallest scrap what I think about y—”

“Tomorrow evening,” she decided. “I will make Numidian chicken.”

“If it pleases you to make it,” I acquiesced, “I will eat it.”

The next day I did not see Oriana before I left the house on yet one more excursion into the city. I walked the meandering streets of the older section below the Palatine Hill, an area of small dwellings for people of more humble means. Around midday I found a shady spot under a tree in the extremely modest Forum of Nerva. There was a small fountain, which no longer worked, but I whiled away the day watching children frolic in the dry basin and listening to a boy play a lyre. On my way back to the house, I strolled through a
cuppedinis,
or dainties market, where all sorts of trifles and sweetmeats were sold. On a whimsy I bought Oriana a length of blue silk ribbon from an old woman who wove the stuff herself.

Upon returning to the house, I discovered the place deserted save for one elderly servant and, in the kitchen, Oriana herself. She forbade me entrance, pushing me from the room before I entered, saying, “You're too early. Go wash yourself and change your clothes.”