from one of my places actually. He’s had thousands of his slave-johnnies rebuild Mount Athos to bring saltwater to a whole string of simply amazing lakes. They are enormous. They make this little piss pond of Caesar’s look like a rock pool. A bloody rock pool! Simply amazing. Although again, nastily Persian. Xerxes in a toga, someone was calling him the other day. Bit unfair, but he definitely has gone a smidgen native after his jaunts out east. Those boy-shagging desert-johnnies like their ridiculous gardens, but I doubt they have anything that comes close to Lucullus’s little inland sea. He had a dolphin when I was there, but I suspect he’s eaten it by now. Wonderful chef he has, wonderful.”
The man finished urinating, dropped his toga carelessly and turned to Ragnall. Like most Romans, he was short – a good foot and a half shorter than Ragnall. Small dark eyes peered from his smoothly fat, melon-shaped face.
It seemed that a reply was required, although there’d been no question.
“Sounds … god-like,” said Ragnall, and he meant it. Rebuilding a mountain for nothing but display and entertainment, surely, was something that only capricious, wasteful gods would do. In Britain, he’d thought it was stupid when eccentrics gave the best bits of meat to pet dogs, but remoulding a mountain to house pet fish was another level. Were the fish even pets, he wondered, or more like farm animals? Romans didn’t piss on their pets, surely? Or their farm animals for that matter … “They won’t eat these fish, will they,” Ragnall asked, “after everybody’s—”
“Pissed in their water? Depends how drunk the chefs get, what!”
Ragnall chuckled hesitantly.
“But probably not, no,” the man continued, “they’ll all die this evening of piss poisoning and be thrown into the main drain.”
“Seems a waste.”
“A waste?” The Roman’s face creased into such a look of disgust that Ragnall took a step back. “A waste? A few fish? You’re not some bloody actor making me part of a clever new play are you? You’re meant to be taking a piss, not taking the piss! Ha!”
“No, I’m from—”
“The provinces? Yes, you do have a touch of the barbarian brush, don’t you? That would explain it. Sorry for calling you an actor, old fellow. Waste! A few fish! Ha ha! Just the other day Caesar had a villa built – in Campania, I think it was – then he had it knocked down – razed completely – without ever seeing it.”
“Why?” Ragnall asked.
“Why?” The man snorted a laugh. “Why? By Jove, you really are very provincial.”
He walked away, leaving Ragnall next to the fish-churned piss pond.
He washed his hands in a water-filled giant clam shell held by a topless, dark-skinned woman with sparkling black eyes, a shaved head and very pronounced cheekbones, which he took particular notice of while endeavouring not to look at her chest. She didn’t acknowledge him in any way. Her eyes seemed to be focused on an entirely different reality. The whole toilet experience had made Ragnall feel very uncomfortable. The sooner he found Drustan, the better. If the rest of the party was anything like its loos, he’d be better off at the side of his unflappable mentor.
Drustan had used some magical persuasion and a good deal of charm to get them into the birthday party of Julius Caesar, the man whom nearly everyone Ragnall had met was talking about. He shouldn’t have left Drustan so soon, but he’d been bursting. He’d been drinking a lot of water, partially because it was always as hot in Rome as the very hottest days in Britain, and partially because man-made rivers supported on arches – aqueducts – carried the most delicious cool mountain water right into the middle of the city where anyone could drink it for free.
Magical persuasion was something he couldn’t do, thought Ragnall, as he dried his hands on a wondrously soft animal fur, baby goat perhaps, held by yet another topless, oiled
The man finished urinating, dropped his toga carelessly and turned to Ragnall. Like most Romans, he was short – a good foot and a half shorter than Ragnall. Small dark eyes peered from his smoothly fat, melon-shaped face.
It seemed that a reply was required, although there’d been no question.
“Sounds … god-like,” said Ragnall, and he meant it. Rebuilding a mountain for nothing but display and entertainment, surely, was something that only capricious, wasteful gods would do. In Britain, he’d thought it was stupid when eccentrics gave the best bits of meat to pet dogs, but remoulding a mountain to house pet fish was another level. Were the fish even pets, he wondered, or more like farm animals? Romans didn’t piss on their pets, surely? Or their farm animals for that matter … “They won’t eat these fish, will they,” Ragnall asked, “after everybody’s—”
“Pissed in their water? Depends how drunk the chefs get, what!”
Ragnall chuckled hesitantly.
“But probably not, no,” the man continued, “they’ll all die this evening of piss poisoning and be thrown into the main drain.”
“Seems a waste.”
“A waste?” The Roman’s face creased into such a look of disgust that Ragnall took a step back. “A waste? A few fish? You’re not some bloody actor making me part of a clever new play are you? You’re meant to be taking a piss, not taking the piss! Ha!”
“No, I’m from—”
“The provinces? Yes, you do have a touch of the barbarian brush, don’t you? That would explain it. Sorry for calling you an actor, old fellow. Waste! A few fish! Ha ha! Just the other day Caesar had a villa built – in Campania, I think it was – then he had it knocked down – razed completely – without ever seeing it.”
“Why?” Ragnall asked.
“Why?” The man snorted a laugh. “Why? By Jove, you really are very provincial.”
He walked away, leaving Ragnall next to the fish-churned piss pond.
He washed his hands in a water-filled giant clam shell held by a topless, dark-skinned woman with sparkling black eyes, a shaved head and very pronounced cheekbones, which he took particular notice of while endeavouring not to look at her chest. She didn’t acknowledge him in any way. Her eyes seemed to be focused on an entirely different reality. The whole toilet experience had made Ragnall feel very uncomfortable. The sooner he found Drustan, the better. If the rest of the party was anything like its loos, he’d be better off at the side of his unflappable mentor.
Drustan had used some magical persuasion and a good deal of charm to get them into the birthday party of Julius Caesar, the man whom nearly everyone Ragnall had met was talking about. He shouldn’t have left Drustan so soon, but he’d been bursting. He’d been drinking a lot of water, partially because it was always as hot in Rome as the very hottest days in Britain, and partially because man-made rivers supported on arches – aqueducts – carried the most delicious cool mountain water right into the middle of the city where anyone could drink it for free.
Magical persuasion was something he couldn’t do, thought Ragnall, as he dried his hands on a wondrously soft animal fur, baby goat perhaps, held by yet another topless, oiled
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