The Third Floor of the Insula

Fiction

Marcus ascended the stairs. The wood shivered under his boots. Every landing smelled of boiled cabbage and sulfur. He reached the third floor. The noise arrived first: a rhythmic, metallic thud that rattled his teeth. Gaius stood in the hall. He wore a toga of bleached white wool. It was a ridiculous garment for a district where the rain fell black. He pointed a manicured finger at the door of apartment 3B. "It is a violation of the civic code, Centurion. Section four, paragraph twelve. The nuisance of unnatural vapors." Marcus entered the room. Livia did not stop the machine. The loom was a monstrosity of cast iron and brass. It hissed. A small coal furnace glowed in the corner, casting a sickly orange light over soot-streaked walls. "My lease allows for trade," Livia shouted over the clatter. Her face was a mask of grease. Gaius scoffed. He stepped back, shielding his nose with a silk handkerchief. "Trade, yes. Not the summoning of Vulcan's forge into a residential block. Look at the ceiling! It is weeping oil." Marcus looked up. A jagged crack ran through the plaster. The entire building seemed to vibrate in sympathy with the iron beast. Was this the New Rome? A city of marble built on a foundation of soot? "The code is specific about vapors," Marcus said. He did not care about the vapors. He cared about the pounding in his temples. "But a lease is a contract. A contract is the bedrock of the Empire." "Bedrock?" Gaius shrieked. "My investment is turning into a chimney!" Marcus stepped toward the loom. He touched the iron casing. It was scorching. He looked at Livia. He looked at the shivering walls. "Pay the landlord a monthly soot-tax. Three sestertii. Or I seize the machine as a public hazard." Livia cursed. Gaius sneered. Neither was happy. The machine kept thumping.