Roma.The novel of ancient Rome - Saylor Steven - Страница 76

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There was an uncomfortable moment as both men realized they were thinking the same thought-that Kaeso’s immediate branch of the family, springing as it did from an adoption, did not actually carry the ancient Fabian blood. Neither Quintus nor Kaeso had any way of knowing that the truth was considerably more complicated. In fact, the claim of the Fabii to be descended from Hercules was completely spurious, while the blood of the visitor later identified as Hercules did indeed flow in Kaeso’s veins, through his descent from the Potitii, a circumstance unknown to either man.

The uncomfortable moment stretched intolerably. Kaeso’s face grew hot. They had drawn close to a subject that had made Kaeso uneasy ever since the day he first learned, as a child, that his grandfather was not born a Fabius, but was an adopted foundling. The story was told with pride, for it demonstrated the piety of the great Dorso, who from the ruins of Roma brought up a newborn orphan to be his son. It had also been explained to Kaeso that his grandfather was special. Had not the gods themselves determined that the foundling should be made a Fabius? The gods set life in motion; what mattered after that was what a man made of himself. The true test of a Roman-so said Kaeso’s father-lay not in his pedigree, but in bending the world to his will.

Despite these assertions and reassurances, the fact that his actual bloodline was unknown had frequently caused Kaeso to wonder and to worry about his origins. It seemed inevitable that the subject would come up on this particular day, and so it had, even if it remained unspoken.

Kaeso became so flustered that he abruptly changed the subject. “You spoke earlier of your own illustrious career, cousin, but you made no mention of an episode that has always intrigued me.”

“Oh, yes?” said Quintus. “What is that?”

“I believe it happened not too long before I was born, when you were just beginning your political career. It had to do with a famous case of poisoning-or rather, many cases of poisoning.”

Quintus nodded grimly. “You refer to the investigation that took place the year I served as curule aedile. A veritable plague of poison!”

“If you had rather not talk about it-”

“I’m quite willing to discuss it. As with the disaster of the Caudine Forks, there is no sense in hiding such an episode, no matter how distasteful. As you say, I was a young man, and quite thrilled to have been elected curule aedile, a magistracy that automatically admitted me to the ranks of the Senate. To me fell the responsibility of keeping law and order in the city.”

“That sounds like a fascinating job.”

“Does it? For the most part, it consists of tedious administrative duties-fining citizens who’ve damaged public property, investigating accusations of overcharging by moneylenders, that sort of thing. Not a happy post for a man who would rather be fighting! But my complaints paled beside the general gloom that reigned over the city that year. People were fearful and uneasy, for it seemed that a terrible plague of a most peculiar nature had descended on us. Its victims were all men-not a woman among them-and the symptoms varied inexplicably. Some died swiftly. Others recovered for a while and then relapsed and expired. Even odder was the fact that a disproportionate number of those who died were men of high standing. Plagues tend to strike the poor and the lowborn in preference to their betters, not the other way around. The peculiar nature and the mounting toll of this plague were only gradually perceived over a course of months, and by that time the priests and magistrates were greatly alarmed. It seemed that the wrath of the gods must be at work. What had the people of Roma, especially their leading men, done to offend them?

“Eventually, the Senate resorted to an ancient recourse in times of epidemic. As you know, there is a wooden tablet inside the Temple of Jupiter, affixed to the doorway that leads into the sanctuary of Minerva on the right. Since the founding of the temple, every year, on the Ides of September, one of the consuls drives a nail into that tablet, to mark the passage of each year; thus the age of the temple and of the Republic can be calculated. The tablet adorns Minerva’s sanctuary because numbers were one of her gifts to mankind. But the tablet has another, rarer function. In times of epidemic, a special dictator may be named-a religious, not military appointment-to carry out a single duty: He must drive an additional nail into the wooden tablet. How this custom came about, no one knows, but its effect is to lessen the ravages of plague. Thus, also, the years of plague can be recalled, and the frequency of such outbreaks reckoned.

“So it was done in this instance. A special dictator was appointed-Gnaeus Quinctilius, as I recall. With the Vestals and the priests and all the magistrates in attendance, Quinctilius drove a nail into the tablet, and then, his duty done, he resigned his office. But the ritual brought no relief. The plague continued and the number of victims increased. The people grew more frightened and their leaders more uneasy. I was as concerned as anyone, of course, but as curule aedile it hardly fell to me to devise a proper means of propitiating the gods and dispelling the plague.

“Then, one day, going about my business in my chambers in the Forum, a young woman came to see me. She refused to tell me her name, but from her dress and manner, I could see she was a freeborn servant from a respectable household. She said she had something terrible to tell me, but only if I would promise to shield her from punishment by the state or retribution by those whose crimes she would reveal. Well, I thought this was going to be nothing more dire than a case of a contractor embezzling bricks from the city, or some pipe-layer charging twice for repairing the public sewer. I gave her my assurances, and she proceeded to tell me that the plague that was afflicting the city was of human origin-and perpetrated not by men, but by women. She accused her own mistress, along with some of the most highborn women in Roma.

“On its face, her story seemed preposterous. For what possible reason would so many women resort to poisoning their husbands and other male relatives? One woman might resort to poison, yes; but scores of women, repeatedly, all in the same year? And yet, by that time, hundreds of men had died, and no cause had yet been discovered. I asked for proof. She offered to take me to a house where the poisons were made. If we were lucky, she said, we might catch some of the women in the act of brewing them.

“I had to act and quickly. In that moment, the job I had considered trifling and humdrum suddenly weighed upon me as the world must weigh upon the shoulders of Atlas.” Quintus sighed, but his eyes glittered; relating the grim story clearly gave him great satisfaction.

“And then what happened, cousin Quintus?”

“Speed was essential, yet proper forms had to be observed, or otherwise any evidence might be compromised. I alerted the consuls at once-how old Gaius Valerius blustered when I woke him from a nap in the middle of the day! With the consuls as witnesses, along with their lictors, I went to the house in question, the home of a patrician named Cornelius, one of the first victims of the plague. His widow’s name was Sergia. Her door slave, seeing such a company, blanched and tried to shut us out. I pushed my way inside.

“At the back of the house, we found a room, which must have been a kitchen at one time, but that had been given over entirely to the brewing of potions. Herbs were hung by bits of string from the rafters. Pots were bubbling and steaming. One pot had been set on a wooden rack to cool; lined up beside it was a row of little clay bottles. Sergia was clearly in charge; the other women were merely servants. When she saw us and realized what had happened, she grabbed one of the bottles and raised it to her lips. I knocked the bottle from her hand. It shattered on the floor and spattered my tunic with a green liquid. The lictors restrained her. There was a rage in her eyes that chilled my blood.

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