Rome’s Water: 63 Steps Up, Slops Down

Marcus Valerius

Four flights. Sixty-two... actually, no, sixty-three cracked, creaking pine steps between my small room and the street. And every single morning, it-it-it is the same test of the knees. If you live on the ground floor of a Roman tenement, an insula, you are a man of means. You have frescoed walls, maybe even a pipe bringing water right to your kitchen. But up where I sleep? Up under the tiles where the roof leaks? The higher you live, the th-thirstier you are. You see, the water, it-it doesn't climb. It stays down here with the rich and the dust.

Marcus Valerius

But you learn the rhythm of it. You grab the big clay jar, the heavy one with the chipped left handle, loop your arm through it, and you head down. It is early, just past dawn, but the stairwell is already... well, it smells of stale cabbage, cheap olive oil, and the-the unmistakable draft from the shared privy on the second floor. You hold your breath, you avoid the step with the rotten edge, and you push out into the light. And there it is. The noise. Rome does not wake up gently. The street is already a-a thick soup of people.

Marcus Valerius

I make my way down the alley toward the lacus, our neighborhood fountain. You can hear it before you see it, that sweet, steady rushing sound of water splashing over stone. But of course, you have to fight for it. The morning rush at the fountain is... it is like a battle, but fought with brass buckets and copper jugs. You have kitchen slaves from the grand houses pushing their way through, shouting, and the cooks from the local taverns smelling of garlic, and the-the neighborhood gossips who have been there since the first light, trading stories about whose wife was seen near the Subura last night. You squeeze in, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for a gap at the stone basin.

Marcus Valerius

And then, you get your turn. You lean in, and the spray hits your face. Oh, gods, it is... it is magnificent. And let me tell you, this is not the old, tepid water we used to get. No, this is Trajan's water. The new Aqua Traiana. The Emperor, may the gods keep him, just opened the aqueduct last year, bringing it all the way from the mountains near Lake Sabatinus. It is icy cold, so cold it makes your teeth ache when you gulp it from your hand, and it tastes of-of clean rock and high pine woods. You fill your jar, watching the water swirl up to the brim, clear as glass. For a second, just a second, you forget the heat and the squeeze of the crowd behind you.

Marcus Valerius

But then... then comes the hard part. The journey down is a holiday compared to the climb back. A full clay jar, wet on the outside, sliding against your ribs, weighs... oh, it feels like a heavy block of travertine by the time you reach the second landing. You have to walk with this-this strange, awkward swagger, knees bent, balancing the weight against your hip, keeping one hand flat over the mouth of the jar so you do not spill a single precious drop on the dry timber stairs. One slip, one loose sandal strap, and you are back at the bottom with a shattered pot and soaked feet.

Marcus Valerius

I am halfway up, just passing the third floor, when the door creaks open. It is old Geta, the weaver. He is... well, he is not a man of small frame, let us put it that way. And the landing is barely wide enough for one thin dog. So we do this dance. I squeeze my back against the damp plaster wall, holding the heavy jar high against my chest, feeling my shoulder blades digging into the laths, while Geta grunts and slides past me, his woolen tunic scratching against my arms. We do not speak. We just grunt, nod, and pray the floorboards do not give way under the double weight. You see, these insulae... they are built by greedy landlords who use cheap timber and bad mortar. You are always wondering if this is the day the whole place decides to slide into the street.

Marcus Valerius

It is a strange thing, when you think about it. You look out the window on the landing, and you can see the great aqueducts arching across the sky, marching over the hills, bringing millions of paces of water into the heart of the city. We have great baths, grand fountains, gardens that stay green in the August heat. The city is literally flooded with water. And yet, here I am, and here are thousands like me, carrying every single drop we need for cooking, for washing, for drinking, up sixty-three steps, ounce by ounce, on our own bruised shoulders. And then, of course, there is the other side of the water cycle. The-the part we do not like to talk about at dinner.

Marcus Valerius

Because what goes up... must come down. We do not have pipes going down either, you see. So every evening, the chamber pots fill. And at night, when the streets are dark, you hear the windows creak open above. If you are lucky, someone shouts "Effundite!"—watch out below!—before they dump it. If you are unlucky... well, let us just say you learn never to walk close to the walls of an insula after twilight. It is the great Roman lottery. We build monuments that will last a thousand years, but we still dodge flying slops on our way to buy bread. But anyway, my jar is safe, the water is cool, and my hearth is waiting. Time to go make some porridge. See you at the baths later, yes?