Eva Lubinger - Don't Fall In Love With Marcus Aurelius

That night they slept long and deeply and in the morning Emily announced that it was now high time that they visited the wonderful equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius on the Capitoline Hill, which they had been saving up to now, plus Michelangelo’s facade, the long staircase leading to the summit, and the Basilica of Santa Maria in Aracoeli which stood at the top. Once again they took a taxi which dropped them off at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. They climbed up slowly and painfully, and took a shuddering look back down the infinitely long and lofty staircase which led further up above them to the facade of the Aracoeli Church on their left in dazzling brightness. No, they couldn’t reach the top of these gruelling 124 steps, either on foot, or on their knees, like penitent pilgrims would have been obliged to do in earlier times.

So Emily and Agatha took a short breather. Above them the huge stone Dioskuri pair, Castor and Pollux, guarded the entrance to the Piazza del Campidoglio. Meanwhile Agatha caught sight of the wolf cage in between the blossoming oleanders and broke out into loud lamentations: “Look Emily, those poor poor animals...isn’t that terrible!”

Emily went over to Agatha’s side and, still panting softly from the unfamiliar exertions of climbing the staircase, they both observed with disgust and pity the skinny, shabby-looking wolves, prowling restlessly along the bars of the cage. The sight of captive wild animals, who had to live deprived of their natural habitat and their freedom of movement, was anathema to them.

And in addition Agatha, during her more active years, for around twenty years had been secretary to the Inspector General of the RSPCA: it was her vocation, so to speak, to be rebellious. It was a miracle that she didn’t sit herself straight down on the stone steps of the Capitoline and draw up a blazing protest letter to her former boss. It would probably however have been useless: the arm of the inspector of the RSPCA didn’t extend that far. And what could you really expect from a country in which, despite repeated appeals from Popes and many other sympathetic people, migrating songbirds from North and Central Europe are exterminated repeatedly and across a wide area every spring and autumn, and their small frail bodies - their songs forever silenced - are offered up on the menus of restaurants, to satisfy the thirst for profits of traders and the jaded palates of upmarket diners.

A well turned out, elderly gentleman had stopped next to the English women, and indicated towards the wolves: “Signore, this here is the Roman she-wolf, mother of Romulus and Remus....that was how the history della citta di Roma began.” He bowed slightly and went. But this reference to Rome’s foundation myth offered little comfort to Emily and Agatha.

They climbed the last few steps in silence, passed between the muscular stone calves of the twins Castor and Pollux and entered the splendid self-contained Piazza, whose floor was covered in a great star of wine-red marble. The perfect beauty and harmony of the Capitoline calmed their souls and in raptures they tripped around the equestrian statue of the philosopher emperor Marcus Aurelius with its patina of shimmering green.

Emily planted herself in front of the horse’s nose, tipped her head back and narrowed her myopic eyes. “I can’t quite recognize his face,” she murmured. “That’s a crying shame as we are talking here about the only extant equestrian portrait remaining in Roman sculpture. Perhaps I could climb up on to the pedestal...and then get on the Emperor’s foot.”

Agatha wasn’t listening. She had sunk deep into one of her reveries. The golden light of that Roman morning seeped into her half-closed eyes, favourably tempered by the rays of the marble star at her feet.

A moaning sound summoned her back to reality. She opened her eyes wide in shock and saw Emily, as clumsy as a fat beetle, stuck on Marcus Aurelius’s foot. Her broad face was extremely red and her thick glasses wobbled on her nose:

“Agatha, I can’t get down.” Groaning, she lowered her foot into the void and then, discouraged, pulled it straight back again.

“Oh God, Emily, why did you climb up there in the first place?”

“I wanted to see the Emperor’s face, his actual portrait,” Emily replied meekly.

Enzo Marrone was passing the morning leaning against one of the warm sunlit columns on the edge of the piazza. He had his hands in his trouser pockets, his head leaning back nonchalantly, and his eyes half closed, chewing slowly on a piece of gum and otherwise doing nothing. It was the sort of morning he liked. He had watched idly chewing while this impossible foreigner had scrambled up the monument - Madonna Mia , what a crazy idea! Only tourists could resort to such stupidity and squander energy so pointlessly. He watched with a cold gaze, while Agatha made fruitless attempts to help her stuck friend abseil off the monument. Agatha reached out her hand and frantically grabbed a tuft of bronze horse-hair. At that same moment, the large diamond on her ring flashed in the sunlight, and Enzo stopped chewing. His eyes opened wide, he threw off the morning’s inertia and began thinking. Two wealthy foreign ladies apparently, and English too - that was as much as he needed to hear. One of them had placed her handbag on the statue’s plinth. Enzo sauntered closer. Taking the bag would be easy. But there was the ring flashing again....

An idea, a plan started to stir in Enzo’s mind: Why just slaughter the calf when with a little ingenuity he could have the cow as well?

He took his hands out his pockets, spat out the gum so that it flew in a wide arc down on to the star-adorned square where it stuck to the marble somewhere, and strode zealously across to the Marcus Aurelius memorial: “ Permesso !”

He vaulted skillfully on to the plinth, took Emily by the arm, supported her so that she could let go of the Emperor’s foot, jumped down, gave her some support again and with an “ Ecco ” let her slide unharmed back down on to solid ground, which she had left behind just now so rashly and with such a youthful zeal for art history. “Oh Emily,” Agatha said, “you could have broken an arm or a leg. I was so worried about you. And you know, my rheumatism: I couldn’t have helped you because I have no strength in my arms.”

Emily was still gasping. “Is there anywhere round here where you can get a cup of tea, ” she asked dryly, and managed successfully to maintain her English stiff upper lip. She soon hurried off to the little bar on the edge of the Piazza. Agatha followed her but completely forgot in her usual absent-minded manner the handbag which sat unnoticed at the feet of Marcus Aurelius. Enzo saw the abandoned calf, considered the cow which he still wanted to milk, so picked up the bag and took it back to the ladies.

“Oh thank you, thank you. Emily, this nice young man has brought my bag back. And to think that people told us Rome was full of thieves!” With a gracious smile Emily took her bag back from Enzo‘s hand.

“I also want to thank you, very much,” Emily now said in her deep voice. She extended her hand to Enzo, and looked at him in a firm and admiring way, as she would have done in the past with a well-behaved and satisfactory student:

“Will you have a cup of tea with us? Without your help I might have broken my neck and it would have served me right.” Enzo inclined his head courteously and accepted the invitation.

In that corner, behind the Capitol, where the side steps led up to the Aracoeli Church, stood the vision of a tensed-up little Roman hoodlum called Luigi. On the end of a rope he held a mongrel of undefined origin, which must have been brought into this world by two random strays. It was a mix of rough-, short- and long-haired; of spaniels, poodles and curly-tailed pugs, and those elements of all the different breeds were combined in a most unattractive fashion. It whined softly to itself while pulling hard on its rope.