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‘Hey, Big Nose!’ shouts a wine-seller on the east side of Pompeii’s forum, ‘I’ve got something here you might like.’ Amarantus shifts the big wheel of cheese to his left arm and steps out from the shadowed colonnade of the Macellum. Sometimes the nickname irks him. But who can be grumpy on such a beautiful October morning? ‘Hello, Romulus,’ he says cheerfully as he comes under the shadow of the canvas awning. He kisses his right hand to the small statue of Bacchus on a corner of the trestle table. ‘What have you got for me on this fine day?’ Romulus is a short man with hairy, almost pointed ears that give him the look of a satyr. ‘You tell me!’ He lifts a jug and pours a dribble of deep red liquid into a clay beaker. |
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First Amarantus swirls the cup and studies the contents. The wine is a beautiful red, almost the colour of bull’s blood. It will dilute well. Next, he closes his eyes and sniffs. The rich smell of the wine makes his head feel bigger inside than outside. It is a fruity scent with undertones of thyme, sea foam and … something faintly metallic. Finally, he sips. It lasts all the way down and makes him slightly dizzy. His heart is beating hard, but he keeps his face blank. ‘Not bad,’ he lies. ‘How much are you asking?’ ‘Sixty sesterces for an amphora,’ replies the wine-dealer. ‘SIXTY?’ Amarantus pretends to be outraged. ‘Or thirty-five for an urna, a half-amphora,’ says Romulus, and adds, ‘You must admit, it’s a rare vintage.’ Amarantus takes another sip and forces himself to scowl. ‘It’s too strange to serve in the bar,’ he lies. ‘Tell you what. I’ll give you five for half an amphora. My master is celebrating his birthday with a banquet this afternoon. If we run out of the good stuff, we can use this as a backup.’ ‘Only five?’ cries Romulus. ‘Are you mad? The container alone costs nearly that much.’ He sighs. ‘I’ll mark it down to twenty.’ Soon they reach an impasse. Amarantus will not pay more than ten. Romulus won’t go below fifteen. ‘Tell you what,’ says Amarantus. ‘If I can guess where it’s from, will you let me have it for ten? Otherwise I’ll pay twenty.’ Romulus gives a wicked grin. ‘All right, then. But you only get one guess.’ Amarantus takes a sip, tips his head back and gargles. As he does this, he secretly peeps through half-closed eyes at the amphorae under the trestle table. The stopper of one of them is not pushed in all the way. That must be the amphora containing the divine nectar. But it’s a standard shape for the area and has no label scratched on the shoulder. So no clue there. He’ll have to rely on his nose. Amarantus takes another sniff, long and deep. Suddenly it comes to him. The wine smells of iron. He has never tasted ferrous wine, but he has drunk water with the same metallic tang. Where was it? Somewhere south of here, a small town near the sea. ‘Aequa!’ he cries. ‘It’s from a village called Aequa near Surrentum, about ten miles south of here. They have iron in the water.’ ‘By Bacchus’s beard!’ Romulus stares in astonishment. ‘I don’t believe it! You got it in one.’ |
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Amarantus grins and lowers the wheel of cheese onto the pavement so that it rests against his leg. Then he empties his belt purse onto the table. There are five denarii, ten sesterces, a dupondius and ten asses. He spots a single quadrans, only worth a quarter of an as, and drops it back in his pouch. ‘See? I’ve got less than thirty-five sesterces to pay for the rest of the banquet. I’ve still got to buy a side of pork, nine garlands and some honey-cakes.’ He pushes forward two denarii and two sesterces and puts the other coins back in his belt pouch. |
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Romulus decants half the wine from the amphora into an empty urna, then bangs in a cork stopper with a small wooden mallet. ‘Can you manage the jar and the cheese both? That cheese from Luna weighs as much as a small child.’ Amarantus grins. ‘I may look skinny but I’m strong. Thirty years of being a slave will do that for you.’ |
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He hoists the cheese under his left arm and balances the half-sized version of an amphora on his right shoulder. ‘You need a mule!’ says Romulus. Amarantus nods wistfully. ‘My master used to have one, but his grand- son lost it playing dice.’ As soon as he turns away, he allows himself a smile. He has just bought an exceptional wine for a fraction of its value. They can sell this wine in the bar and make a profit a hundred times over. His master’s grandson Superbus will be pleased and might even reward him with a coin or two. Better yet, he can gift the wine to his aged master. It’s such divine nectar that he might even be granted his freedom then and there. Amarantus wants to kiss his hand to the statues of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva peeping out from the shadows of their temple, but he is struggling to carry both wine and cheese and must content himself with bowing his thanks to them. Later, he nods his respect to the pompous statue of a man named Holconius outside the Stabian Baths. And to Minerva’s owl, painted on the wall of the urine-scented fullers. |
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Pompeii’s roads are often wet from overflowing fountains or water tanks. This flow of water helps wash away the worst of the dung and rubbish but makes the stepping-stones necessary for crossing streets. On this day the water is three fingers deep and moving quickly. Amarantus is about to use the stepping-stones to cross when he sees the water swirling around something. At first, he thinks it’s a rat. Looking closer, he sees it is a small puppy. It appears to be wearing a cabbage leaf as a cloak. The clank of an ox-bell makes Amarantus turn his head in alarm. A wagon is coming down the road, the iron-rimmed wheels grinding and the ox’s hooves splashing. ‘Stop!’ shouts Amarantus to the driver, a man wearing a leather nose on a strap. ‘There’s a puppy in the road!’ The ox-driver doesn’t hear him – he’s missing his ears as well as his nose – but the sodden puppy does. Wagging its wet tail, it moves towards Amarantus. Then it stops and sits in one of the ruts made by the iron-rimmed wheels of ten thousand ox-carts. Although the water almost reaches the puppy’s neck, Amarantus isn’t worried that it might drown. He’s worried that in a few heartbeats it will be squashed flatter than a chickpea pancake. Throwing down the expensive wheel of cheese and the half-amphora of divine wine, Amarantus leaps forward to save the puppy. |
