The Eternal City never slept, but on market days it seemed determined to choke on its own grandeur. Marble temples gleamed under a merciless sun, fountains burbled like senators pretending to be wise, and the air carried the mingled perfume of rose oil, incense, horse dung, and—above all—the thick, green-gold scent of pressed olives. Every street corner had a vendor swearing his oil was the purest in Latium;
