Roma - Saylor Steven - Страница 48
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Icilius clucked his tongue. “We all hoped—optimistically, perhaps foolishly—that the Decemvirs would follow the example of Cincinnatus—”
“Good old Cincinnatus! A toast to Cincinnatus!” cried Verginius, who had served under the famous commander. Eight years before, when a Roman army had been trapped by the Aequi and faced certain destruction, the general-turned-farmer Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus had been called from retirement; he was named dictator and given total power over the state for the duration of the crisis. Begrudgingly, Cincinnatus left his plow, led a force to rescue the army, soundly defeated the Aequi, resigned his office, and returned to his farm—all in the span of fifteen days. It was said that his plow was exactly where he had left it, and he set about finishing the furrow he had begun, as if there had been no interruption. Expeditious and self-effacing, Cincinnatus had become a living legend.
But the Decemvirs had not followed the example of Cincinnatus. By devious means they had extended their original terms of office and continued to rule as absolute dictators while the people still awaited publication of the new law code. In recent months, their abuses had grown more flagrant as they ruthlessly suppressed anyone who questioned their authority. Men had died for opposing them; but the Decemvirs, so long as they held office, were immune from charges of murder.
“The good news,” said Icilius, “is that the new law code should be made public any day now. The Decemvirs call it the Twelve Tables. Let’s hope they’ve done such an outstanding job that the virtues of the Twelve Tables will make us forget the vices of the ten Tarquinii.”
Young Lucius furrowed his brow. “I heard a rumor the other day, about these new laws.”
“A rumor?” said his father.
“My tutor, Xenon, says they plan to outlaw marriage between patricians and plebeians.”
“A terrible idea!” said Verginius.
Icilius’s face grew long. “What would your Greek tutor know about such things?”
Lucius shrugged. “Xenon tutors other boys, including some of the Decemvirs’ grandsons. He hears all sorts of things.”
Icilius peered into his empty cup. “To be sure, there are those, patrician and plebeian alike, who believe that more separation of the classes, not less, is the answer to Roma’s social ills. A ban on intermarriage might not be a bad thing.”
“I suppose I should consider myself lucky, then,” said Lucius, “that the most beautiful girl in all of Roma happens to be a plebeian, and she happens to be betrothed to me.” He beamed at Verginia, who grinned and lowered her eyes.
No one was looking at Lucius’s sister, Icilia, whose dark beauty was abruptly marred by a deep frown.
Verginius grunted. “‘Ten Tarquinii,’ you called the Decemvirs. Appius Claudius must be the worst of the lot! A few generations back, the Claudii weren’t even Romans. They weren’t even the Claudii! What was that uncouth Sabine name his grandfather was born with?”
“Attus Clausus,” said Icilius.
“Ah, yes! And now the grandson is chief among the Decemvirs. A thoroughly unpleasant fellow, always swaggering about, surrounded by lictors, wearing a purple toga and expecting everyone he meets to do his bidding. That man enjoys being a Decemvir entirely too much! And now he proposes to ban intermarriage. The patrician hypocrite! Only a few months ago, he asked me for Verginia’s hand.”
“Papa!” Verginia spoke up. “I don’t think you should mention—”
“Why not? It’s not as if either you or I led the old goat on in any way. Let Jupiter strike me down if I tell a lie! A few months ago, Appius Claudius asked if he might marry Verginia.”
“And what did you say?” asked Icilia.
“I told him no, of course! Not that the match would have been unsuitable; Appius Claudius, a widower with grown children, may be a bit old for Verginia, but the Claudii have made quite a name for themselves in three short generations, and they are patricians, however newly minted.” Verginius said this in an offhand way, but clearly, he didn’t mind letting Icilius know that his daughter could have married a patrician, if Verginius had so chosen. “I rejected Appius Claudius as a suitor because I don’t like the fellow—it’s as simple as that! Couldn’t stand the idea of having him be my son-in-law, or the father of my grandchildren. I much prefer you, Lucius. And more importantly, so does Verginia!”
Verginius laughed heartily and rose from his dining couch to give his daughter a kiss. She turned her face to offer her cheek. By doing so, she also hid her expression from everyone in the room.
“Another toast, then!” said Icilius.
“Another?” Verginius fell back on his couch and pretended to groan.
“Yes! A toast to love.”
“To love, indeed!” said Verginius. “To Venus, the goddess of love, who has clearly blessed this union with the spark of mutual desire. What could be better than a genuine love match of which both fathers approve?”
The men drank more wine, then burst out laughing. The mothers laughed as well, caught up in the men’s exuberance. Even dark Icilia ceased frowning, threw back her head, and laughed.
Only Verginia failed to laugh. From the moment her father had mentioned Appius Claudius the Decemvir, and the man’s thwarted desire to marry her, an uneasy look had settled on her face.
The next day, Icilia and Verginia went shopping together in the market, chaperoned by their mothers.
The two girls had been raised in different circles, and had few acquaintances in common; yet, since they were soon to be sisters-in-law, everyone expected them to begin acting as if they were already old friends. Their recent outings together, since the announcement of Verginia’s betrothal to Lucius, felt forced and artificial to both of them; their mothers, endlessly preoccupied with wedding details, had more to talk about than they did. To complicate matters, each of the girls had a problem that weighed upon her, but as yet felt unready to share her secret with the other. They moved though the market side by side, sporadically making conversation, each wrapped up in her own private thoughts.
“What do you think of this, Verginia?” Icilia ran her fingers over a bolt of finely woven yellow linen.
The merchant grinned. “From Syracuse, on the island of Sicily. All the best things come from Syracuse, and I offer them at the best prices!”
Syracuse had originally been founded by colonists from Corinth, and was nearly as old as Roma. It was one of many Greek colonies, not only on Sicily but across the southern part of Italy, a region so heavily settled by Greeks that the Romans called it Magna Graecia, “Great Greece.” Romans had traded with these cities for generations, and had so far avoided becoming embroiled in the endless wars they fought against one another. In recent years, Syracuse had emerged as the most brilliant, the most free, and the most prosperous city in all of the western Mediterranean. The Syracusan fleet dominated the Tyrrhenian Sea. Syracusan merchants built warehouses in Ostia, at the mouth of the Tiber, to house the goods they traded with Roma and her neighbors. Syracusan grain more than once had saved Roma from famine. Syracusan scholars taught in the best Roman households; Icilius’s tutor, Xenon, came from Syracuse.
“It’s alright, I suppose,” said Verginia, hardly looking at the fabric. Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
“Perhaps the young ladies would be more interested in pottery and earthenware,” suggested the merchant. “The young ladies may as yet have no households of their own, but soon enough two such pretty girls will find themselves married, and will be requiring cups and pitchers for entertaining.” The merchant could see by their simple, long-sleeved tunicae that the girls were still unmarried; they had not yet graduated to the more complicated stolas worn by their mothers. He held up a black pitcher. “This pattern is particularly beautiful. The red border is an unusual variation on a traditional Greek key design—”
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