What year did you first arrive in Rome? Va bene, but back in the aughts, it was no marble metropolis shining atop seven splendid hills, but a neglected cemetery of crumbling buildings half-buried in dirt with weeds growing all around. One of the first things I saw upon entering the Eternal City was a dead body hanging by a noose in the streets. The corpse had been stripped naked, his skin was gypsum with a wash of indigo, and the whites of his eyes were the color of spoilt yolk. I assumed he was a criminal, since he’d been hanged and all, but I had no real way of knowing. Two streets over, there was a whole row of dead bodies hanging there like sausages, and down by the river there was another and another . . . You’d think some polite Roman could’ve posted signs warning, “If you turn this corner, you’ll come face-to-face with a dead man.” All of those decaying bodies must’ve had something to do with the city’s stench. It was a pungent mix of cow manure, urine, wet wood, fetid river water, and—for some reason—rotting oranges. Then, there were all those wolves, their howls echoing through ruins. It was strange, but then again, everything in Rome was strange, even the moss: bright yellowish-green and disturbingly thick, as if an animal were growing a heavy coat for winter. I’m serious, Rome’s hot, wet air breeds peculiar moss. But the strangest part? All of the statues had been beheaded or at least defaced—noses missing, one eye or cheek removed, half a head of hair knocked off.