***

Camillo was grateful that it had rained that morning. The rain carried the castings of the chamber pots and the scat from the beasts of the city into the gutter. It formed a putrid stream there that wend its way through the city until it reached the river where it would become trapped in the tidal backwater, sometimes for weeks, before the current could drag it away. It made the whole city reek.

But Camillo was used to the smell and needed the stream. He dipped a rag into the filth and wiped it along the full length of his drawn sword. Satisfied that the blade was amply covered, he cast the rag aside, wiped his hand on the side of his tunic, and turned to face his accuser. He saw the man finishing the same ritual on the opposite side of the street.