Inside a Roman Latrine

Marcus Valerius

You step out of the glaring midday sun near the Forum, past the shouting wine buyers and the clattering carts, and you, uh, you duck straight into the shade of a public forica. The first thing that hits you is not just the smell, though gods know that is present. It is the noise of twenty grown men sitting side by side on a continuous bench of polished marble, talking at the top of their voices.

Marcus Valerius

There are no wooden walls here. There are no curtained dividers. There is no privacy whatsoever. You sit inches from a complete stranger, your tunics hitched up, looking each other right in the eye. Just this morning, after I sold three amphorae of good red vintage to a tavern keeper, my gut gave a sudden growl and I had to find the nearest bench fast.

Marcus Valerius

And while I am sitting there, a guy to my left, a prominent wool merchant from the Subura, turns to me and starts negotiating a deal for a barrel of Falernian. It, it, it is the great paradox of our city. In Rome, you buy grain, you gossiped about the Emperor Trajan's latest campaign in Dacia, and you even invite a man to dinner while taking care of your morning business right in full view of twenty fellow citizens.

Marcus Valerius

Now, down by your feet, there is a narrow gutter carved into the stone floor with fresh water constantly rushing through it. And in that running channel rests the tool of the room. According to historians like Pliny the Elder, our whole system of public sanitation is the most noteworthy of all Roman achievements. But when you are sitting on that marble bench, you are looking at a sea sponge tied firmly to a wooden stick, what we call a tersorium.

Marcus Valerius

That single sponge rests in the gutter water, which is laced with salt and vinegar to keep it clean between uses. And yes, you pass it down the bench when your neighbor finishes. Just today, a visiting merchant from Campania was sitting two keyhole seats down from me. He took one look at the communal sponge sitting in the trench, froze in absolute terror, and refused to touch it.

Marcus Valerius

I had to lean over and gently explain the unwritten rules to him. You take the stick, you use the running water in the gutter to rinse it, you do your business, and then you swill it thoroughly in the salt and vinegar water before putting it back for the next citizen. It turns what could be terrible awkwardness into an exercise in simple practical sanitation.

Marcus Valerius

But make no mistake, using a public latrine in Rome is not entirely without peril. Down in those dark, unlined subterranean channels beneath your seat, decaying matter builds up in the dark. Methane gas accumulates. And every so often, an unintended spark from a nearby lamp or a sudden shift in air pressure can send a burst of bright blue flame leaping straight up through the keyhole seat while you are sitting right on it.

Marcus Valerius

And if the fire does not get you, the wildlife might. The dark drains are teeming with sewer rats, and occasionally big water snakes slither up through the holes searching for food. It is enough to make a man jump out of his tunic!

Marcus Valerius

That is precisely why almost every public forica in the city has a painted shrine on the wall, dedicated directly to the goddess Fortuna. You will see her image painted right above the marble benches, holding her rudder and cornucopia. She stands guard against bad air, sudden explosions, noxious vapors, and deadly bites from below. Before you sit, you say a quick prayer to Fortuna to keep the subterranean monsters at bay.

Marcus Valerius

Everything flushed down from these bench seats washes down into the massive stone vaults of the Cloaca Maxima, the Great Sewer, which carries thousands of tons of waste directly into the Tiber River. But not all waste goes to waste. Outside many public buildings, you will see large stone vats stationed at the street corners.

Marcus Valerius

Citizens step up to fill those vats, and local fullers pay tax for the right to collect that aged urine. They take it back to their workshops to use the natural ammonia for washing and bleaching bright white wool tunics. Nothing in Rome is wasted if someone can make a coin from it.

Marcus Valerius

As I wash my hands, adjust my toga, and step back out into the blinding midday sunlight of Trajan's Rome, I look at the great temples, the marble arches, and the bustling crowds. And I am always reminded of one thing. The grandest empire on earth rests directly on top of a dark, roaring underground river, carrying away the daily sins and waste of a million people. Alright, time to head back to the shop.