Roma - Saylor Steven - Страница 55

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Afterward, when Icilia came to her senses, the first thing she saw was Lucius standing over her in the darkened room. Her heart leaped with sudden hope. Surely he would not have come all the way from Roma if he simply intended to have the baby drowned in the Tiber, or cast into the sea.

“Brother! I was in such pain…”

He nodded. “I saw the sheets. The blood.”

“The baby—”

“A boy. Strong and healthy.” His voice was flat. It was hard to read any expression on his face. He no longer ever smiled, and the upper lid of his bad eye drooped.

“Please, brother, bring him to me!” Icilia reached up with her arms.

Lucius shook his head. “It’s best if you never see the child again.”

“What are you saying?”

“Titus Potitius came to me a few days ago. He asked me—no, begged me—to allow him to adopt your child. ‘No one need know where it came from,’ he said. ‘I’ll say it was an orphan from the wars, or the child of a distant cousin. I’ve asked my father to let me do this thing, and he gave his permission.’” Lucius shook his head. “I told Titus Potitius, ‘It will still be a bastard.’ ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘If it’s a boy, he shall have my name and I shall raise him as my son.’ That’s why I came today, sister.”

“So that you can give the boy to Titus?” Icilia sobbed, partly from relief, partly from sadness.

Lucius grunted. “To the contrary! I told the patrician scum that under no circumstances would he ever come into possession of the child. That’s why I’m here. I feared Potitius might discover your whereabouts and try to lay his hands on the baby. I will make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Icilia clutched his arm. “No, brother—you mustn’t kill him!”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, causing the other to droop even more. “That was my intention. But now that I’ve seen the child, I have an even better idea. I shall take him with me back to Roma, where I shall raise him as a slave, to serve me and my household. Imagine that! A patrician’s bastard, serving as a whipping boy in a plebeian household!” He smiled grimly, pleased at the idea.

“But Lucius, the child is your nephew.”

“No! The child is my slave.”

“And what of me, brother?”

“I know a Greek trader from Croton, at the furthest ends of Magna Graecia. He’s agreed to take you for his wife. You set sail from Ostia tomorrow. You must never speak of the child. You must never return to Roma. Your life will be whatever you make of it. You and I shall not speak again.”

“Lucius! Such cruelty—”

“The Fates are cruel, Icilia. Fortuna is cruel. They robbed me of Verginia—”

“So now you rob me of my child?”

“The child is a bastard and doesn’t deserve to live. This is an act of clemency, sister.”

“Let me see him!”

“No.”

Icilia saw that he would not be swayed. “Do one thing for me, brother. I ask only one thing! Give him this, from me.” With trembling hands, she raised the necklace over her head.

Lucius snatched it from her and studied at it angrily. “What is this? Some sort of talisman? It didn’t come from anyone in our family. Titus Potitius gave it to you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Lucius stared at it for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “Why not? It seems to be made of gold; I could just as easily take it for myself and melt it down for the value, but I’ll do as you ask. I shall let the slave boy have it, as a gaudy trinket to decorate his neck. It will serve to remind me of his origin. Let the ancient bloodline of the Potitii continue in the veins of a slave, and let the slave wear this talisman as a mark of shame!”

THE VESTAL

393 B.C.

On the eve of the greatest catastrophe yet to befall the city, the unsuspecting people of Roma celebrated their greatest triumph. One of the city’s oldest rivals had at last been vanquished.

The city of Veii was scarcely twenty miles from Roma. A man with strong legs could walk the distance in a single day. A rider on horseback could journey there and back in a matter of hours. Yet, for generation after generation, even as Roma conquered more distant enemies, Veii remained proudly independent, sometimes at peace with Roma, sometimes at war with her. In recent generations, Veii had grown immensely wealthy. Her alliances with other cities in the region began to threaten Roma’s dominance of the salt route and traffic on the Tiber.

For ten summers in a row, Roma’s armies laid siege to Veii, yet with the coming of each winter and the cessation of warfare, Veii remained unconquered. It would take a very great general to put an end to Veii, men said. At last such a general appeared. His name was Marcus Furius Camillus.

No one who witnessed it would ever forget the triumphal parade of Camillus. All agreed that it was by far the grandest triumph in memory; the number of captives, the sheer magnificence of the booty displayed (thanks to the opulence of Veii), and the joyous spirit of the event outstripped all previous triumphs. But, impressive as they were, it was not these details that made the event unforgettable; it was the sight of Camillus in a chariot pulled by four white horses.

Standing on the viewing platform reserved for religious dignitaries, the Vestal Pinaria let out a gasp. She whispered to the Vestal standing next to her, “Foslia, have you ever seen such a thing?”

“I should think not. No one has seen such a thing! Four white horses!”

Pinaria shook her head in wonder. “Just like the quadriga of Jupiter atop the temple on the Capitoline.”

“No general has ever done such a thing before,” declared Foslia. At seventeen, Pinaria was the youngest of the six Vestals. Foslia was only five years older, but was very studious, and something of a know-it-all. She was especially well versed in the history of religious observances, and, like every public act in Roma, a triumph was a religious rite. “Romulus walked on foot for his triumphs. Tarquinius the Elder was the first to ride in a quadriga. But no general has ever dared to emulate Jupiter and hitch four white horses to his chariot!”

“Do you think it’s an impious act?” asked Pinaria.

“That would not be for me to judge,” said Foslia, primly.

“Still, it’s quite a sight.”

“It is, indeed.” Foslia smiled. “And the general is so handsome—even with his face painted red!”

The two young women looked at one another and laughed. The Virgo Maxima did not approve of such talk, but all the Vestals indulged in it. It seemed to Pinaria that when they were not discussing religious matters, they were usually talking about men, and as often as not, about Camillus. In his fifties, the general was more robust than many a man in his thirties, with a magnificent mane of white hair, a broad chest, and powerful limbs.

“Do you think he knows how strikingly the white horses set off his white hair?” asked Foslia.

“Surely the man who conquered Veii has no time for vanity,” said Pinaria.

“Nonsense! Who is vainer than a general, especially on the day of his triumph? But look there, coming up behind him—it’s the statue of Juno Regina!”

Of all the objects taken from Veii, this was the most prized: the massive statue of the city’s divine patroness, the queen-mother of the gods, Juno, in whose honor the grandest temple in all Veii had been built. For generations, Juno Regina had protected the Veiians. On the eve of the final battle, Camillus had vowed that if Veii fell, he would bring Juno Regina to Roma and built an even grander temple for her. Now he was making good on the first part of his pledge.

Men who had grown hoarse cheering Camillus raised their voices even louder at the sight of the statue. It was transported on a massive cart pulled by Veiian captives, among them the former priests of Juno, who had been stripped of their robes and put in shackles. The statue was made of wood, but no joinery was visible; the surface had been carved and smoothed by the finest Etruscan sculptors, and covered with bright paint and precious gilt. Juno Regina sat upon a throne, grasping a scepter in one hand and holding a libation bowl in the other, with a peacock at her feet.

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