The City Which Once Was King

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away”. 

- Ozymandias, Percy Shelley

Rome is spectacular. It must be said. For a student of history like myself, it would be possible to spend a lifetime here, just unraveling the past of a city that has, in its day, ruled its known world in both secular and spiritual affairs, and seen the passing of some of the western world’s most prominent historical figures.

I arrived in the Rome Termini station a few hours after writing my last post, after a short train journey from Civitavecchia. The Coliseum, I thought, would be a natural place to start, and took the metro there. Rome is a surprisingly small city, especially after the sprawling complexities of Paris and London. There are only two metro lines, and twenty minutes on the trains will bring one out into the rolling Italian countryside.

But Rome’s center is dense, complex, colorful, and very active. Full of street vendors, constantly rushing traffic, buses, bicycles, and of course, hordes of tourists, the people watching alone is enough to occupy a few hours in any given spot. After a couple of weeks of hearing almost no English and certainly no American accents on the streets of Corsica and Sardinia, I suddenly hear it everywhere as tour groups from the States or just groups of friends walk from site to site.

The Coliseum is directly across the street from the metro and I sit to finally pull out my art supplies and draw a picture. I try to imagine it as it was, and find my image is not so different than what it is today. The great stone walls and arches towering above a hot and dusty scene, with street vendors hawking their wares and visitors from around the world moving around it and through it, talking in a multitude of languages. I suppose the only thing that’s missing is the smell of blood in the air, and the water sellers’ prices are doing their best to compensate for the lack.

It’s already late in the day, so I decide to save my amble through the Coliseum and the Roman Forum for later, when I have more time. Instead I start walking, just taking in the sights of the city. It’s hot, and the flowers are blooming, and the trees are green, and the Italian language is being shouted with its usual gusto from every direction. It’s as if the city is making a point of impressing itself on the senses.

I walk down what I later find out to be the road that runs along the site of the Circus Maximus. Where chariots once raced joggers now run circuits; less blood, same unforgiving heat. Along the side a single massive building from the days of emperors, fenced off to the public, fills the field of view behind the Circus from left to right. I’m from America: I’m used to ancient history taking the form of arrowheads and cliff paintings. I’m somehow not prepared for the sheer size of the old Roman buildings, and of the sheer wealth of money, materials and power that backed their construction.

I walk down to the river Tiber and the Tiber island. The island and the south and east banks of the river here once formed the Aventine district of Rome, where the common people were allowed to hold property, and thus a major expansion point in the city’s earlier years. Nearby is the old Jewish quarter, the ghetto, with narrow streets and shops still selling kosher food, despite the banishment of the Jews here from Rome during World War II. I walk through it, and stumble upon a great four sided portico, now roped off, built by Caesar Augustus for his sister Octavia. There are fences, and a small sign explaining what it is. In any other city something like this would be on the front of the tourist brochures. In Rome, it’s merely something to stop by if you happen to be passing through the Jewish quarter.

By now its getting late–I’d let the time slip away from me. I catch the train out of town after dark and camp near one of the smaller towns surrounding Rome. I pick a poor location, and spend the night on a steep hill, but manage to sleep fairly well regardless. The next day entails more walking, this time in a wide southern loop past the site of the baths of Caracalla, a massive complex, one of the biggest of its time in the world at large, and a center for commerce. I spent some time just sitting and looking at the ruins, wondering what it would have been like in its day.

I’ve also picked up a copy of six of Plutarch’s Lives, those specifically dealing with the fall of the republic: Gaius Marius, Sulla, Crassus, Pompey, Julius Caesar, and Cicero. They’re fascinating, written in a storytelling style–Plutarch has been called the first of the modern biographers, and was a major inspiration for Shakespeare’s plays about the Roman empire. Perfect reading material for sitting on a bench on the streets these men themselves once walked.

I cut around back through the newer part of the city, walking past streets full of market stalls selling everything from fake brand fashions to fresh fruit to handmade African jewelry. Finally I catch the train, before sundown this time, and finally make my camp at sunset beside a vast field of sunflowers half an hour north of Rome.

This morning I call the priest I’d met on the train to Florence, Father Withoos, who invites me to come visit him at his office in the Vatican, in a large building facing St. Peter’s Basilica. I do, and we have lunch in his apartment building in the clergy housing provited by the Church, an excellent multiple-course meal with wine on the side, prepared by the sisters who work in the area. Then I was able to do my laundry–more of a blessing than it sounds after camping out for the last couple of weeks–and we went to visit an Australian family who lives in Rome and who are friends of the Father.

We had a (too brief) talk about religion, as the family is Anglican, and Father Withoos was trying nobly to convert both them and myself to Catholicism. They kindly invited me to stay with them in their pleasant home right in the heart of Rome, which I must say beats even a field of sunflowers. I walked down to the Tiber for a beautiful sunset before returning here for the night.

I hope to explore the Vatican more tomorrow morning, and get into the Coliseum and Forum before I leave for Venice on Friday night. As always, we shall see what we shall see. Ciao.