Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

Perhaps I had been expecting angels, or stern-faced ancients in togas, but as my foot landed in a pile of fresh donkey-shit and a swarm of filthy ragged children seized me around both legs and held their hands up to me in eager supplication, chattering like sparrows, and as the scent of cooking grabbed me by the nose and filled me up with the promise of garlic, herbs and roasting meats while a passing tradesman yelled at us in fury or brotherly greeting – it was impossible for me to tell which it might be – I had my first inkling that this city was indeed the centre of the world, but not in any spiritual sense. For Rome, although it is the home of God's representative on earth, is above all else the centre of the world of men, and here is concentrated all the glory, chaos, beauty and squalor that man has ever created. 'Dear God!' I squeaked. 'Somewhat absent here,' said the Captain, shaking an urchin from him and waving to the tradesman, who had been greeting and not cursing. 'Despite the presence of His vicar. Throw some coin to get rid of these little ones, Patch, and let us make haste’

And so began my life in Rome. From that day on I began to roam its streets, sometimes with a crewmate, more often alone, gorging myself upon its strangeness, its age, and the ferocious, frenzied humanity of its citizens. It would take a whole book just to tell what I saw, and since the Mirabilia Urbis Romae has already been written I shall not repeat what it says. Sufficient to relate, I lost myself in the clamour, the filth and the beauty, and in so doing I began to blunt the cruel edge of memory, and to accept that the sun could still warm my skin while another's would never be warm again.

I had no adventures, save with the local food, and soon learned my way around the maze of streets. I was strolling through the Borgo one morning after a visit to Saint Peter's, marvelling as ever at the myriad stalls that crammed the streets close to the great church, devoted to nothing else but fleecing pilgrims. Gawping bumpkins, from Frisia and Ireland were handing over their last groats for worthless lead badges, and shrewd-eyed Catalans were striking what they believed were bargains for vials of holy water that had been Tiber fish-piss this very morning. Englishmen and Welshmen groused to one another about the local food, Danes gave directions to Basques, Hungarians argued with Swiss. It was like a county fair peopled by all of Christendom, a carnival for the gaily credulous, and I found it darkly fascinating, for was this not my company's business, writ large?

Wearying of the crowds I turned off the main street, for I remembered a small market in a square I had found a few days before that sold fine sausages from the countryside, and I thought I would bring some back for the dinner table. The market was busy, although here the crowds were local folk, women buying fruit and all the spiky and leafy vegetables the Romans love so well. I bought some sausages and had turned to leave when I heard a woman cry out behind me in anger. There was nothing unusual about that, except that the voice was English -I could have sworn it was English, and London at that, but when it came again the words were Italian, in some dialect I did not know. There she was: a slender figure with a cascade of yellow hair, over on the other side of the square. Curious despite myself, I began to wander towards her. She was standing, hands on hips, facing a thickset man in gaudy silk clothes. As I watched, the woman shook her head defiantly. Then, so quick I barely saw it, the man's hand darted out and caught the woman a hard blow on the side of her face. She fell as if hamstrung, and lay for a moment among the feet of the marketgoers, all shuffling now to get out of her way, or to get a closer look. She rolled over slowly and got on to all fours, head hanging; her hair falling about her face like a veil and trailing on the dusty cobblestones.

Her man looked down upon her. He had a crudely handsome face, somewhat florid – from too much wine, perhaps – and freshly shaved, for he had an oily gleam about the chops. His eyes were narrow and his eyebrows bristled above them like battlements. His nose had once been broken and his mouth had a proud downward curve at its corners; and his thick, curly brown hair was fashionably long. He was obviously a nobleman or a rich banker, judging by his clothes, which were the finest, no doubt, that could be bought in Venice – for by their cut I took him for a Venetian, and he was certainly as noticeable here as a pheasant amongst pigeons. And yet he had the look of a brawler, and it was not just his flattened nose that said this, but the loosely coiled way he held himself. He gave off an intelligent yet brutal menace, scanning the crowd as if daring someone to challenge him. Then he turned and stalked off.

The girl knelt, and pushed the hair away from her face. It was flushed and there was an angry red patch, already blueing, around one eye. Her nose was running and she wiped it, uncaring, with a sleeve. I shoved past two leering boys and was about to offer her my hand when she stood up and began to brush half-heartedly at her sullied clothes. I drew back, not wishing to embarrass her further, and the crowd began to drift away, pretending it had seen nothing, feigning no interest in the disputes of yet more mad foreigners. The girl – she was no older than me, I saw, swayed a little, then gathered herself and looked around. Her eyes were very blue, the colour of forget-me-nots, and one of them stood out, blazing from a purple halo of bruised flesh. She had a sharp nose, which she wiped again, and a wide mouth, twisting as if she were about to cry. But she did not, and with a defiant shake of her head she put her nose in the air and flounced off between the stalls and out of my sight. She plainly had not needed my help. She had been beautiful, though – no, not beautiful, but sensual. Reflecting that I had no doubt avoided making a fool of myself, I left the market, and by the time I had reached the Palazzo Frangipani I had forgotten all about the Venetian lord and his wench.

And thus my life meandered for the next month or so – nay, I am being too casual with time. For although my days were lacking in both form and purpose I believe I noted the passing of every minute, for grief ordered my hours as strictly as any hour-glass and calendar, and I still spent my idle time meditating upon the stark text of Anna's death. Time passed in the world, and passed at another pace entirely within my head. And in Anna's tomb in heartless London, it did not pass at all. So it was not a month or so: it was exactly three weeks and two days, while the numberless bells of Rome were ringing out Sext, when Zianni caught me on my way out of the Palazzo.

'Horst and myself have been invited by our dear Captain to join him tonight at his favoured tavern. It is not far from here. Fine food, abundant wine, brave friends. You will come too.'

It was not an invitation, it was a command. And I had to accept. I knew full well that my shipmates – for if things were a little different now that we were on land, and matters did not move in the rigid order that perforce they had to at sea – had been putting up with me for far longer than I had any right to expect. In ship's terms I was a useless mouth, a non-paying passenger. I did no work – there was no work for me to do, but that is never an excuse for idleness – and I was not even amusing company. Plainly the time had come to stop indulging myself, and besides, what could befall me but good food and drink, and fine company?

But now, with that perversity that so often comes when the humours are disturbed, I began to feel apprehensive. So I took to my room again and paced there until Zianni, taking pity on me, came in to help me make ready. He picked out my clothes, for Zianni was Venetian to his fingernails, and regarded the world beyond the Rialto as no more than a rabble of uncouth and unfashionable savages.