The next day, Potitius was called upon to take the auspices at the dedication of the Altar to Vulcan, god of the fiery regions underground. The place was the Goat’s Marsh, at the western end of the Field of Mavors, where a streamlet that ran through the valley north of the Quirinal terminated in a pit of hot, bubbling quicksand. Over the years, many a wandering goat had been lost in the treacherous pit; hence its name, and the notion that the site must be sacred to Vulcan. Here the god claimed sacrifices, whether men offered them or not.
Romulus had decided to attach great pomp to the occasion. He ordered all the senators and citizens of Roma to attend. Throughout the morning, people gathered on the Field of Mavors, arriving from their homes scattered across the Seven Hills. The warriors who had fought in the king’s many campaigns wore the trophies they had captured in battle-finely wrought bronze armor, helmets decorated with brightly dyed plumes of horsehair, belts of tooled leather with iron clasps. Even the poorest citizens wore their best, if only a tunic without a hole in it.
At the appointed hour, the king and his retinue came striding though the crowd. Potitius wore his ceremonial yellow cloak and conical cap. The king wore a new cloak upon which the dye was barely dry; Potitius could smell the distinctive scent of the red stain obtained from the madder plant. The king’s young lictors were outfitted in newly minted armor that shone brightly beneath the midday sun. In a tradition borrowed from Etruscan royalty, the weapons they carried were bundles of rods and axes-rods for scourging anyone who offended the king, and axes for executing on the spot any man the king declared to be his enemy.
The new altar had been cut from blocks of limestone and erected on a high mound of earth. It was decorated with elaborate carvings that depicted scenes of battle from the recent war against Veii, and Romulus’s triumphal procession, on foot, through the streets of Roma. The best Etruscan artisans had been hired to carve the altar. Gazing at the results of their intricate workmanship, Potitius thought how simple and plain the unadorned Ara Maxima seemed in comparison.
Nearby, the goat intended for the sacrifice bleated plaintively, as if aware of its fate. Romulus himself would perform the sacrifice, slaying the goat with a ritual knife upon the altar. Potitius’s role was to examine the animal first, to make sure that it was without defects. He checked that the goat’s eyes were clear, its orifices without discharge, its coat unblemished, its limbs whole, its hooves sound. Potitius declared to Romulus that the goat was suitable for sacrifice. While the goat was being bound, Potitius glanced at the faces of the senators in the front ranks of the crowd. His eyes connected with those of Pinarius.
His cousin wore a strange expression. His smiled, but his eyes were grim. With a prickle of apprehension, Potitius knew that the day of which Pinarius had spoken had finally arrived. And yet, how could anyone dare to attack the king in such a place, at such a time? His lictors were all around, the whole population of Roma was assembled to pay witness, and the occasion was sacred.
Bound and bleating, the goat was placed upon the altar. Romulus held up the sacrificial knife and turned to face the great multitude that had gathered on the Field of Mavors. “So many!” he murmured. His voice was so low that only Potitius was close enough to hear. “Did you ever think, when we were young, that such a day as this would come? That they would all stand before us and call us king, that only gods would stand above us?”
Potitius heard the king’s words, but knew they were not intended for him; it was to Remus that Romulus spoke. In that instant, Potitius knew why he had never warned the king of the plot against him-not because he feared Pinarius, and not because of his own small grievances against the king. In the deepest recesses of his heart, he had never forgiven Romulus for the murder of Remus. Nor had Romulus ever forgiven himself.
The murmur that rose from the crowd grew hushed in anticipation of the king’s invocation to Vulcan. Potitius gazed out at the sea of faces. It seemed to him that there had been a gradual change in the light, an increasing dimness that was most peculiar, almost uncanny. Others had noticed the change, as well. A few in the crowd turned their faces up to the sun.
What they saw was bizarre and inexplicable. A great portion of the sun had turned as black as coal, as if a portion of its flame had gone out.
Men pointed and shouted in alarm. Soon everyone was gazing at the sun. Its fire dwindled until it appeared to be a blackened ball of coal rimmed with flame. People in the crowd gasped in wonder and awe, then began to scream in of panic.
At the same time, Potitius felt a strong wind on his face. The day had been almost cloudless; now, from the west, vast heaps of black clouds tumbled across the already darkened sky. The wind snatched the conical cap from Potitius’s head. He reached in vain to snatch it back and watched it go spinning though the air. An invisible hand seemed to lift it over the altar, crumple it, then throw it down onto the glistening surface of the Goat’s Marsh. The cap weighed very little, yet the bubbling quicksand sucked it under in the blink of an eye.
Potitius turned to face the crowd again. By a spectral light which grew dimmer with each heartbeat, he saw that the Field of Mavors had become a scene of chaos. Above the howling of the wind, he heard screams of pain and fear. People ran this way and that, trampling and tripping over those who fell. Romulus’s young lictors were as frightened as the rest; instead of forming a cordon around the king, they scattered like leaves. A jagged bolt of lightning tore across the black sky and struck Asylum Hill. The crack of thunder that followed split his ears and almost knocked him down. The flash had completely blinded him, so that when he stepped forward, thinking to find the king, Potitius groped the empty air like a man without eyes.
Raindrops as hard as jagged pebbles pelted his face. He smelled the dye of the madder, and knew that Romulus was near. His fingers touched another man’s garments. He gripped the wool and held it tightly. Another bolt of lightning tore the sky. By its unearthly white light, he saw before him not Romulus, but Pinarius. In one hand his cousin held a bloody sword. In the other, gripping it by a tuft of hair, he held a severed head. Its face was turned away from him, but upon the head Potitius saw the iron crown of Romulus.
When Remus had died, Potitius had felt as if he were in a nightmare. Now, despite the stark horror of the moment, he felt acutely, supremely clearheaded, as if he were waking from a dream. Another bolt of lightning lit the scene. He watched, with curious detachment, as Pinarius drew back his sword. Potitius reached up reflexively to touch the amulet of Fascinus at his neck, but the talisman was not there; he had given it to his grandson the day before. The amulet, at least, was safe.
With a great shout, Pinarius swung the red blade toward his neck.
Jupiter himself had sanctioned what he had done. Or so Pinarius reasoned, for although he had long ago predicted the eclipse and planned to take advantage of the awe and confusion it would inevitably inspire, he could not have foreseen the magnificent storm that accompanied it. Lightning was the hand of Jupiter. Thunder was his voice. The god himself had lighted Pinarius’s way to the altar. The god had roared with approval when Pinarius severed the head from Romulus’s shoulders.
Pinarius had warned his cousin not to stand too close to the king. Everyone else, even Romulus’s lictors, had fled from the scene, and yet, in the first moment after the deed was done, there was Potitius, gripping his robes and staring at him. The decision to kill him had been instantaneous, and correct. Jupiter had roared approval with a deafening peal of thunder.
Very quickly, Pinarius and his accomplices stripped the headless body of Romulus, then threw it into the Goat’s Marsh, where it sank without a trace. They did the same with the body of Potitius. Even if the marsh should ever give up its secrets, who could identify two naked bodies, each without a head? Various of the senators departed with pieces of the clothing hidden under their robes, vowing to burn these bits of incriminating evidence as soon as they reached their homes.
Pinarius removed the crown from Romulus’s head and placed the
circle of iron upon the altar, where it could easily be found. He had intended to dispose of the head of Romulus himself, but instead he handed it to one of his accomplices and ordered the man to bury it in a secret location. The death of Potitius presented him with a more pressing obligation. The man had been a fool, but he was also Pinarius’s relative and his fellow priest of Hercules; to dispose of his severed head was the least and the last favor that Pinarius could perform for Potitius.
The eclipse was passing. The darkness lessened by small degrees, but the storm raged on. The Field of Mavors was abandoned, but Pinarius nonetheless kept the head concealed beneath his robes as he made his way toward Asylum Hill. He hurried up the steep path. Newcomers still made camps before the Altar of Asylaeus, but the storm’s fury had driven them all elsewhere. Pinarius proceeded to the Temple of Jupiter. To give thanks to the god for blessing the events of the day, Pinarius would bury his cousin’s head in the shadow of Jupiter’s temple.
He knelt in the mud and took a last look at his cousin’s face. Then, using his bare hands, he set about digging a deep hole in the soft, wet earth.
CORIOLANUS
510 B.C.
The twelve-year-old boy sat cross-legged on the floor, reciting his lessons. His grandfather sat before him on a simple wooden folding chair with bronze hinges. Despite the fact that the chair had no back, the old man sat rigidly erect, setting an example for the boy.
“Now tell me, Titus, upon what day did King Romulus depart from this earth?”
“Upon the Nones of Quinctilis, two hundred and six years ago.”
“How old was he?”
“Fifty-five.”
“And where did this occur?”
“At the Altar of Vulcan that stands before the Goat’s Marsh, at the western end of the Field of Mars.”
“Ah, yes, but was it called the Field of Mars in those days?”
The boy frowned. Then, remembering what he had been taught, his face brightened. “No, grandfather. In King Romulus’s day, people called it the Field of Mavors, because that’s what they called Mars in olden times-Mavors.”
“And what do we learn from this example?”
“That words and names can change over time-they usually grow shorter and simpler-but that the gods are eternal.”
The old man smiled. “Very good! Now, describe the ascension of King Romulus.”
“There was an eclipse of the sun and also a great storm, and the people fled in fear. That’s why the festival each year held on that day is called the Populifugia, ‘the flight of the people.’ But one man, an ancestor of the Pinarii, remained. His name was just Pinarius; back then, most people only had one name, not two, as we do now. Pinarius witnessed the miracle that occurred. The sky opened and a funnel-shaped whirlwind came down. It was the hand of Jupiter, and it lifted King Romulus into the sky. Before he left, the king removed his iron crown and placed it on the Altar of Vulcan, for his successor. Thus King Romulus became the only man in all history who never died. He simply left the earth, to go live as a god among the gods.”
“Very good, Titus! You’ve been studying hard, haven’t you?”
“Yes, grandfather.” Pleased with himself, young Titus Potitius reached up and touched the amulet of Fascinus that hung from a gold chain around his neck. His father had given it to him at the last Feast of Hercules, when Titus had assisted for the first time as a priest at the altar.
“Now tell me: who were the kings who followed Romulus, and what were their greatest achievements?”
“King Romulus had no son, so after he departed, the senators met and debated who should succeed him. This set a precedent that would be followed forever after, that the succession of the kings is not hereditary; instead, a king is chosen, to serve for life, by the Senate. They chose Numa Pompilius, a man of Sabine blood who had never even set foot in Roma. This set another wise precedent-that the new king could be an outsider, and should not come from the ranks of the Senate, else the senators might fight among themselves to seize the crown. The reign of Numa was long and peaceful. He was very pious, and he did much to organize the colleges of priests and the worship of the gods.”
“Then came Tullus Hostilius. He was as warlike as Numa had been peaceable. By destroying her rivals, he made Roma the chief city of all the Latin-speaking people of Italy. Tullus Hostilius built the great assembly hall in the Forum where the Senate meets.
“Then came Ancus Marcius, who was Numa’s grandson. He built the first bridge across the Tiber. He also founded the city of Ostia at the mouth of the river, to serve as a seaport for Roma.
“The fifth king was the first King Tarquinius. He was of Greek blood but came from the Etruscan city of Tarquinia, from which he took his name. He was both a great warrior and a great builder. He constructed the great underground sewer, the Cloaca Maxima, that follows the ancient course of the Spinon and drains the Forum. He laid out the great horseracing track in the long valley between the Palatine and the Aventine, which we call the Circus Maximus, and built the first viewing stands. And he drew up the plans and began the foundations for the greatest building ever conceived anywhere on earth, the new Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill.”
Titus rose from the floor and strode to the window, where the shutters were open to let in the warm breeze. The house of the Potitii was situated high on the Palatine, so that the window afforded a splendid view of the massive construction project on the neighboring Capitoline Hill. Surrounded by scaffolds swarming with artisans and laborers, the new temple had begun to take shape. It was of an Etruscan design called araeostyle, with a broad, decorated pediment set atop widely spaced columns and a single grand entrance from the recessed porch. Titus gazed at the sight, fascinated.
His grandfather, ever the pedagogue, prompted a digression. “Was the hill always called the Capitoline?”
“No. Since the days of King Romulus it was called Asylum Hill, but now people have started calling it the Capitoline-‘Head Hill.’”
“And why is that?”
“Because of the amazing thing the diggers found when they started work on the new temple foundations, back in the reign of the first King Tarquinius. They uncovered the head of man, which appeared to be very ancient but was remarkably well preserved. The priests called it a sign from the gods, and a most excellent one, portending that Roma would become the head of the world.” Titus frowned. “How could such a thing have happened, grandfather? Who would have buried a head with no body on the Capitoline, and how was it preserved?”
The old man cleared his throat. “There are mysteries which no man can explain, which are nonetheless true, for tradition tells us so. If you doubt the veracity of the tale, I can assure that I myself, as a young man, was privileged to see the head not long after it was found. The man’s features were somewhat decayed, but one could see very clearly that his hair was blond, mixed with gray, as was his beard.”
“He sounds like you, grandfather.”
The old man raised an eyebrow. “I’m not as far gone as that! Now, back to the list of the kings. After the first Tarquinius…”
“The first Tarquinius was succeeded by Servius Tullius. He had been a slave in the royal household, but he rose to such prominence that when Tarquinius died, he was put forward by Tarquinius’s widow to succeed him. He greatly reinforced and extended the fortifications of the city until all the Seven Hills were enclosed by pickets, walls, embankments, and trenches. He also excavated the underground cell in the state prison at the foot of the Capitoline, which we call the Tullianum, where the enemies of the king are executed by strangulation. He put these projects first, so that work on the new temple came to a standstill.”
“And after Servius Tullius comes the present king, the son of Tarquinius, also named Tarquinius. Our king is famous for acquiring the Sibylline Books, which are full of prophecies that guide the people in times of crisis.”
“And how did that come about?”
Titus smiled, for this was one of his favorite st
ories. “The Sibyl lives in a cave down in Cumae, on the coast. The god Apollo compelled her to write hundreds of strange verses on palm leaves. She stitched together all the palm leaves into nine scrolls, which she brought to Roma and offered to sell to King Tarquinius, saying that if a man could interpret her verses rightly, he could foretell the future. Tarquinius was tempted, but he told her that the price was too steep, whereupon she waved her hand and three of the scrolls burst into flames. Then she offered to sell him the remaining six-for the original asking price of the nine! Tarquinius was angry and again refused, whereupon the Sibyl burned three more scrolls, then named the same price once again. King Tarquinius, thinking of all the knowledge that had already been lost, gave in. He paid the price she had asked for nine books and got only three. The Sibylline Books are very sacred. They must be consulted only in the direst emergency. To house them, Tarquinius set about completing the great temple which his father began.”
Again Titus gazed out the window. For most of his life, work on the temple had been progressing. With the huge columns and massive pediment finally in place, its final form was becoming more evident with each passing month. Even men who had traveled far beyond Roma, to the great cities of Greece and Egypt, said they had never seen a building so grand. “No wonder they call him Tarquinius the Proud,” murmured Titus.
The old man stiffened. “What did you say?”
“Tarquinius the Proud-that’s what I’ve heard men call the king.”
“What men? Where?”
Titus shrugged. “Strangers. Shopkeepers. People passing in the Forum or on the street.”
“Don’t listen to them. And don’t repeat what they say!”
“But why not?”
Roma.The novel of ancient Rome r-1 Page 12
