Rome’s Toga: Glory, Filth, and Fullers

Marcus Valerius

You see them in the marble statues, don't you? [chuckles] Those grand senators, draped in perfect, flowing white folds, looking as if they, uh, they floated down from Olympus itself. But let me tell you a secret, friend, as we stand here in the shadow of the Aventine. The toga is a nightmare. It is eighteen feet of heavy, thick, unyielding wool, cut in a massive semi-circle, and- and today, it is my personal curse. I live on the fourth floor of a crowded insula—a tenement, you'd call it—where we have no running water, no hearth big enough to boil a pot of soup, let alone wash this beast. And last night, at my cousin's feast, a splash of dark, cheap Caecuban wine met my left shoulder. Now? It is a disaster. A dingy, sweat-soaked, stained disaster that weighs more than a wet dog.

Marcus Valerius

So, [pauses] what do we do? We walk. Watch your step here—no, really, watch it. The street-sweepers haven't cleared this alley since the Kalends, and between the mule dung and the, uh, well, let's just say what people throw out of their upper windows isn't always rainwater. I've got the toga slung over my shoulder like a dead sheep, trying to keep the hem from dragging in the gutter. It's barely past dawn, but the city is already screaming. Iron-rimmed cart wheels clattering on the basalt paving stones, donkey drivers cursing, the smell of fresh bread from the bakery mixing with... god, is that old cabbage? [laughs] Yes. Yes, it is. But ahead, where the alley opens up, there is a smell that is entirely different. A smell that tells you you've arrived at the heart of Roman civilization, whether you like it or not.

Marcus Valerius

Ah, the fullonica. [sniffs] Take a deep breath. No, wait, don't! [laughs] That sharp, stinging bite in the back of your throat? That is the scent of progress. That is pure ammonia. My local fuller, a fellow named Macro—sharp-eyed, skin like old leather, and always ready to squeeze you for every last sesterce—runs this place. See those clay jars sitting out on the street corner? People stop there to relieve themselves. Macro collects it. Every drop. Because to get the grease and sweat out of raw wool, you need alkali, and the cheapest alkali in the entire Empire is... well, human urine. It's a trade, you see. The Emperor Vespasian even put a tax on it, the clever old fox. Pecunia non olet, he said—money doesn't smell. But let me tell you, this shop certainly does.

Marcus Valerius

Look over the low wall there. You see those three boys? Slaves, hip-deep in stone vats, holding onto the walls for balance while they stomp, stomp, stomp on the wet wool. They're jumping on my toga like they're treading grapes for wine, but there's no joy in this vintage. They're pounding the urine and fullers' earth right into the fibers to strip the grease. It's brutal, rib-cracking work. Once they're done, they'll rinse it in clean water—well, relatively clean water—and then hang it over a wicker frame. Underneath, Macro will burn sulfur. The rising fumes bleach the wool back to that brilliant, dazzling white that makes a Roman citizen look like... well, like he doesn't spend his days dodging dung in the Subura.

Marcus Valerius

Macro! [clears throat] How much for the wine stain? Three sesterces? [scoffs] You're robbing me in broad daylight! Two, and I won't tell the aedile about your jars leaking onto the pavement. [pauses] Good. Two it is. He'll have it ready by sunset. It's a funny thing, isn't it? Our great Roman dignity, the majestic toga that marks us as masters of the world... it all starts right here, in a vat of warm piss, under the dirty bare feet of a slave. That's Rome for you. Glory and filth, walking hand in hand. Let's go grab a cup of watered wine while we wait, shall we? My nose needs a holiday.