Roma - Saylor Steven - Страница 39

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Titus heard the shrill piping of flutes playing a military air. Surrounded by the musicians, a white ox led the parade. It would later be sacrificed, along with a portion of the spoils of battle, on an altar before the Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline.

Following the ox came the Volscian warriors who had been captured in battle. They had been stripped of their armor and were dressed in rags. Filthy and unkempt, they shuffled forward in shackles, hanging their heads. The crowd laughed and jeered at them. Boys threw pebbles to make them flinch. A grizzled, toothless Roman soldier stepped from the crowd to spit on them. At the conclusion of the triumph, having served their purpose as ornaments, the luckiest of the prisoners might be returned to their families, if an adequate ransom had been offered. The others would be sold into slavery.

Next came the elite prisoners, those who had been the chief men of the captured cities. For them, neither freedom nor slavery waited. While the priests sacrificed the ox to Jupiter, these prisoners would be lowered into the Tullianum, the prison cell at the foot of the Capitoline, and strangled by executioners. According to the priests, offerings were more pleasing to the god when accompanied by the death of those who had been the leaders of Roma’s enemies.

Next came the spoils of battle: the captured arms and insignia of the Voscians, as well as wagons full of coins, jewels, and fine objects including vases and etched silver mirrors—all the portable items of value that had been seized when the fallen cities were sacked. Greatest of all was the booty of Corioli, where the wealthiest of the Volsci had lived in great luxury.

After the spoils of war came the general’s lictors wearing red tunics, marching in single file with their axes raised high, shouting the Latin victory chant. “Io triumphe! Io triumphe! Io triumphe!” The general himself followed in a chariot pulled by four horses and decorated with bronze plates embossed with images of winged victories. Watching the chariot approach, Titus smiled. He could hear in his head the lecturing voice of his grandfather: “Romulus walked up the Sacred Way for his triumphs; his feet were good enough for him! This business of riding in a quadriga began only with the elder Tarquinius.” The clatter of the horses’ hooves was added to the chant of the lictors, then both were drowned by roar of the crowd.

Cominius was dressed a tunic sewn with flowers and a gold-embroidered robe. On his head he wore a laurel crown. In his right hand he carried a laurel bough, and in his left a scepter surmounted by an eagle. His youngest son rode beside him in the chariot and handled the reins.

In commemoration of the enemy blood spilled under his command, the hands and face of Cominius were stained bright red with cinnabar. He raised his scepter in salutation to the senators, who saluted back.

Following the general marched the soldiers who had fought under him. At their head, in a place of honor, was Titus’s old friend, Gnaeus Marcius, the hero of the battle of Corioli.

For years, in battle after battle, Gnaeus had been gaining a reputation as a fearless fighter, but at Corioli, where he had served as second in command to Cominius, his exploits had elevated him to a new level of glory. At a critical moment during the siege, the defenders had boldly opened the gates and sent forth their fiercest fighters. The bloodshed that followed was horrific, but one Roman never wavered as he slew enemy after enemy: Gnaeus Marcius. Driven by a force that seemed more than human, he fought his way to the open gates and ran into the city, alone. The soldiers and citizens of Corioli swarmed around him, determined to kill him, but Gnaeus could not be stopped. After surrounding himself with corpses, he seized a torch and set aflame anything that could burn. The conflagration so terrified and distracted the defenders that the gates were left unmanned. The Romans rushed into the city and a mass slaughter followed.

After the battle, Cominius praised Gnaeus’s heroism before the assembled troops. He presented him with a magnificent war-horse with trappings worthy of a general. He also promised Gnaeus as much of the silver of Corioli as he could carry and his choice of any ten captives to become his slaves. Gnaeus accepted the horse, saying it would help him to fight Roma’s enemies, and one captive, a man he recognized for having fought bravely against him, whom he then released. The other gifts he rejected, saying that he had done no more and no less than any Roman soldier should. The conquest of Corioli itself was the only reward he desired.

Gnaeus Marcius had become a hero to his fellow soldiers that day. Now, marching behind him in the triumphal procession, they began to chant, quietly at first, then louder and louder: “Coriolanus! Coriolanus! Coriolanus!”—an honorific title to hail him as the conqueror of Corioli.

Because such a title would more properly be given to a commander, Titus thought the men must be referring to Cominius. The general apparently thought the same thing, for he smiled broadly, turned around in the chariot to face his troops, and raised his scepter to them. But in the next instant, it became evident for whom the troops were crying out. A band of them broke ranks, rushed forward, and raised Gnaeus Marcius onto their shoulders. They spun him about, all the while shouting: “Coriolanus! Coriolanus! Coriolanus!”

A lesser man might have betrayed a flash of jealousy at seeing a subordinate so honored on the day of his own triumph, but Cominius was as canny a politician as he was a commander. His unwavering grin became a smile bestowed on Gnaeus Marcius. His raised scepter became a salute to the hero of Corioli. When the crowd began to take up the chant as well, Cominius seized the moment. He beckoned to the soldiers bearing Gnaeus aloft. They trotted forward, laughing like boys, and deposited their comrade onto the chariot alongside the commander.

A few in the crowd were taken aback at this breach of decorum. Below him, Titus heard Publius Pinarius let out a gasp and mutter, “By Hercules, did you ever see anything so audacious?” But a far greater number of spectators were roused to cheering and even moved to tears, especially when Cominius warmly embraced Gnaeus, then placed Gnaeus’s hand upon the scepter next to his own and raised it high.

“People of Roma, I give you Gnaeus Marcius, the hero of Corioli! All hail Coriolanus!”

“Coriolanus!” the people chanted. The name reverberated around the Forum like rolling thunder.

From the step above, Appius Claudius leaned over and spoke into Titus’s ear. “I always knew that friend of yours would make a name for himself. Today he has, and everyone in Roma is shouting it.” Claudius stood upright, cupped his hands to his mouth, and joined the others: “Coriolanus! All hail Coriolanus!”

“The temple will be dedicated very soon, then?” said Gnaeus Marcius.

Titus laughed. “Yes, very soon. It’s polite of you to inquire, Gnaeus—or should I call you Coriolanus now? But we both know you have very little interest in temples, and even less in architecture for its own sake. We see each other so seldom nowadays, it seems to me that we should speak of matters that interest us both.”

They were dining, alone, in the garden of the house on the Palatine where Gnaeus lived with his mother and wife. The previous day, various citizens had organized private feasts to follow the triumph. The food had been so sumptuous, and Titus had eaten so much, that he had thought he would never be hungry again. Yet, a day later, his stomach was empty again and he found himself craving a simple meal. Even more, he craved the company of his old friend Gnaeus, just the two of them alone, away from the swarms of strangers and well-wishers who had surrounded Gnaeus the previous day with their incessant cries of “Hail Coriolanus!” And so, when Gnaeus invited him to a private dinner to enjoy his mother’s chickpea and millet porridge, Titus had eagerly accepted.

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