Roma.The novel of ancient Rome - Saylor Steven. Страница 47

Claudius’s argument carried the Senate. The keeping of the Ara Maxima would remain in family hands, unchanged. But the newly elected consul, Publius Pinarius, protested that his family would no longer carry out its traditional duties alongside the disgraced Potitii. “After too many generations to count, we relinquish our place in the keeping of the altar. Let the Potitii do it all by themselves!”

There was much talk among the elite of Roma regarding these two ancient patrician families, and the curious twists of fate which had brought Publius Pinarius to the consulship, the pinnacle of his family’s fortunes, even as the Potitii reached their nadir with the disgrace of Titus Potitius.

Years later, a ragged drifter happened to find himself a few miles south of Roma. He was a man with no city or tribe, doomed to perpetually wander, surviving by his wits, which were often befuddled, and dependent on the mercy of strangers; a broken man, without hopes or dreams. He had not passed this way in many years.

He only vaguely realized where he was, but he knew that the small temple beside the road had not been there before. It was of simple design, but handsomely executed and beautifully decorated. A young shepherd was resting on the steps.

“Tell me, boy,” said the vagrant, “what is this temple? To what god is it dedicated?”

The boy looked at the drifter warily at first, then saw that the grizzled stranger was harmless. “Not a god, but a goddess-Fortuna, the first daughter of Jupiter. She decides the ups and downs of life.”

“I seem to recall that there are many temples to Fortuna in Roma,” remarked the drifter, his voice dreamy.

“Yes, but this one is different. They call it the Temple of Fortuna Muliebris, Fortuna of the Women.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the women of Roma paid to build it, if you can believe that. This is the very spot, you see, where the villain Coriolanus was turned back.”

“Is it?” said the drifter, with a quaver in his voice.

“Indeed it is. And afterward, the women thought there should be a temple here, to mark the spot. The Senate and the priests approved, and the women themselves raised the money to build it. It’s a beautiful building, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The drifter gazed admiringly at the structure. “I used to be a builder myself.”

“You?” The shepherd looked at him dubiously, then slapped his thigh and laughed. “And I used to be a senator! But look at me now, herding these dirty sheep!”

So this was the very spot. Titus’s mind was flooded by memories long suppressed. Dimly he remembered witnessing Gnaeus’s gory end; even the greatest warrior in Italy could not take on the whole of an army he himself had trained for combat. At least Gnaeus had died fighting. Dimly-thank the gods, only dimly! — Titus recalled the tortures to which the Volsci had subjected him before they let him go.

It all seemed very distant, like a dream almost forgotten. All the days of his life seemed like that, even yesterday, even today.

“If you like looking at temples,” said the shepherd, “walk on a little ways to the crest of the hill. From there you can see the city. The highest thing you see is the Temple of Jupiter. Now that’s a temple! It sits on the Capitoline like a crown on the head of a king. Even from here, you can see how grand it is. Go on, have a look.”

Titus’s heart pounded in his chest. As he was still wont to do in moments of great emotion, even after all these years, Titus reached up to finger the talisman of Fascinus at this throat. Of course, it was not there. He had given it to his sleeping son on the night he left Roma. How was the boy? Did he still live? Did he prosper? Did he keep the ancient rites of Hercules, as had his ancestors before him?

“Go ahead,” said the shepherd. “Walk to the rise and have a look at the city.”

The ragged wanderer, saying nothing, turned around and walked in the opposite direction.

THE TWELVE TABLES

450 B.C.

“Another toast!” declared Lucius Icilius.

“What? Surely not another!” Lucius Verginius laughed heartily. He was a broad-shouldered bear of a man who greatly enjoyed wine, and his protest was purely for show.

“As your host, I must insist,” said Icilius. With a wave of his long, bony arm, he beckoned to the serving girl to refill the cups.

The occasion was a joyful one-a dinner party to celebrate the upcoming wedding of the son of Icilius, young Lucius, to Verginia, the daughter of Verginius. The marriage would unite two of the most distinguished plebeian families in Roma. The Verginii had been prominent in the city nearly as long as some patrician families. The branch of Lucius Verginius, while not wealthy, was famed for prowess in battle; in recent campaigns against the Sabines and the Aequi, Lucius Verginius had upheld the standards of bravery set by his ancestors. The Icilii were well-to-do, politically active, and full of vitality and ambition. Men from both families had served as tribunes of the plebs.

The marriage bond between the Icilii and the Verginii would strengthen both clans. It was a love match, as well; Lucius and Verginia had fallen for each other at first sight. Tonight, with the wedding only a few days away, the two families dined together under the roof of Icilius to celebrate their impending union.

Icilius raised his cup. “A toast to the mothers! We must never underestimate the power of a Roman matron. More than forty years ago, when the traitor Coriolanus marched on Roma, what was the only thing that could turn him back? Not swords, not walls, not even the abject groveling of the senators. Only a mother’s plea was powerful enough to save Roma. To the mothers of the bride and groom!”

“To the mothers!” agreed Verginius, raising his cup.

“Yes, to our mothers!” said young Lucius, his eyes sparkling from having drunk more wine than he was used to.

The subjects of the toast demurely lowered their eyes, and did not join in the drinking. Nor did the bridegroom’s younger sister, the darkly beautiful Icilia. Nor did young Verginia, who had never tasted wine. She needed no intoxicant to make her blue eyes sparkle or to add color to her cheeks, which were as smooth as rose petals. Verginia was as fair as Lucius was dark; she was short and voluptuous rather than tall and lean like her betrothed. Their physical differences only served to complement each other’s beauty; everyone agreed that they made a lovely couple.

Icilius drained his cup and wiped his mouth. “Now, you may wonder why, in such congenial company, I should mention the foul name of Coriolanus, which inspires loathing in the breast of any patriot.”

“Because it brings up the subject of your toast-a mother’s influence!” said Verginius, slurring his words slightly.

“Ah, yes, but more than that, I mention that accursed name to remind us of the great boon to Roma which was done by one of my relatives, the great tribune Spurius Icilius. It was Spurius who ran Coriolanus out of Roma. A mother may have kept the villain out, but an Icilius drove him away in the first place. I mention this, Verginius, to show you that the family into which your daughter is marrying, while it may not have a history as long as yours, has nonetheless made history. With an upstanding young scion like my boy Lucius, this family will continue to do so!”

“And why not, with the fine sons that my Verginia will give him!” cried Verginius.

Verginia blushed. So did Lucius, though he attempted a manly laugh to cover his self-consciousness. Icilia, whose skin was even darker than her brother’s, did not easily show a blush, but such talk clearly disturbed her; the others, if they noticed, ascribed the pained look on her face to maidenly modesty.