“Shut up, Publius!”
That night, Titus’s grandfather presided at a large family dinner, which included Titus’s father and uncles and their families. There were two guests, as well: a young cousin of King Tarquinius, named Collatinus, and his wife, Lucretia. The women dined alongside the men, but, after the meal, when a serving girl brought a pitcher of wine, the women were offered no cups. When Collatinus made a toast to the health of the king, the women merely observed.
He was a pleasant-looking young man with a cheerful disposition, a bit loud and overbearing but not as arrogant as the sons of Tarquinius. His approachable manner was the chief reason the elder Potitius had decided to cultivate a relationship with him, thinking that Collatinus might offer access to the king without the unpleasantness of dealing with the king’s sons.
After the toast, rather than taking only a sip, Collatinus drained his cup. “A most excellent wine,” he declared, then smacked his lips and looked sidelong at his wife. “A pity you can’t taste it, my dear.”
Lucretia lowered her eyes and blushed. In that moment, the gaze of every man in the room was on her, including that of Titus, who thought he had never seen another woman half as beautiful. The blush only served to accentuate the perfection of her milky skin. Her hair was dark and lustrous, and so long that it might never have been cut. Though she was modestly dressed in a long-sleeved stola of dark blue wool, the lines of the gown suggested a body of exquisite proportions. As the blush subsided, she smiled and looked up again. Titus’s heart missed a beat when her green eyes briefly met his. Then Lucretia looked at Collatinus.
“Sometimes when you kiss me, husband, I receive a faint taste of wine from your lips. That is enough for me.”
Collatinus grinned and reached for her hand. “Lucretia, Lucretia! What a woman you are!” He addressed the others. “It was a wise law of King Romulus that forbade women to drink wine. They say the Greeks who live to the south let their women drink, and it causes no end of strife. There are even some here in Roma who have grown lax and allow such a thing, men of the very highest rank, who should know better.” Titus sensed that Collatinus was referring to his royal cousins. “But no good can come of it, and I’m glad to see that old-fashioned virtue and common sense is practiced by the Potitii, in keeping with your status as one of Roma’s oldest families.”
Titus’s grandfather nodded to acknowledge the compliment, then suggested another toast. “To old-fashioned virtue!”
Collatinus drained his cup again. Titus, being a boy, was given wine mixed with water, but Collatinus drank his wine undiluted, and was feeling its effects.
“If virtue is to be toasted,” he said, “then a special toast should be drunk to the most virtuous among us-my wife Lucretia. There is no finer woman in all Roma! After the toast, I’ll tell you a story to prove my point. To Lucretia!”
“To Lucretia!” said Titus.
She blushed and lowered her eyes again.
“A few nights ago,” said Collatinus, “I was at the house of my cousin Sextus. His two brothers were present as well, so there we were, all the king’s sons and myself. We were drinking, perhaps a bit more than we should have-those Tarquinius boys do everything in excess! — and a debate arose as to which of us had the most virtuous wife. Well, I say ‘a debate arose’; in fact, perhaps it was I who brought up the subject, and why not? When a man is proud of a thing, should he keep silent? My wife Lucretia, I told them, is the most virtuous of women. No, no, they said, their own wives were every bit as virtuous. Nonsense, I said. Do you dare to make a wager on it? The Tarquinii can’t resist a wager!
“So, one by one, we paid a visit to our spouses. We found Sextus’s wife off in her wing of the house, playing a board game and gossiping with one of her servants. Not much virtue there! Off we went to the house of Titus. His wife-she must be three times the size of Lucretia! — was lying on a dining couch, eating one honey cake after another, surrounded by a mountain of crumbs. Not much virtue in gluttony! Then we called on the wife of Arruns. I regret to tell you that we found her, with some of her friends, actually drinking wine. When Arruns pretended to be shocked, she told him not to be silly and to pour her another cup! Clearly, she does it all the time, without the least fear of being punished. ‘It helps me sleep,’ she said. Can you imagine!
“Then we called on Lucretia. The hour was growing late. I assumed she might be asleep already, but do you know what we found her doing? She was sitting at her spinning wheel, busily working while she sang a lullaby to our new baby, who lay in his crib nearby. I tell you, there was never a prouder moment in my life! Not only did I win the wager, but you should have seen the look on the faces of the Tarquinius brothers when they saw Lucretia. She’s always beautiful, but sitting there at her wheel, wearing a simple, sleeveless white gown so as to leave her arms free, with the glow of the lamplight on her face, she took my breath away. Those Tarquinius boys were so jealous! You made me very proud, my dear.”
Collatinus took his wife’s hand and kissed it. Titus sighed, imagining the sight of Lucretia by lamplight with bare shoulders and arms, but his grandfather frowned and shifted uneasily.
The old man quickly changed the subject, and the talk turned to politics. By cautious degrees, the elder Potitius sought to determine how candidly he could speak before Collatinus. As Collatinus drank more wine, it became evident that he was not overly fond of his cousin the king. The aristocratic bent of his politics, if not the specifics, reminded Titus of his haughty friend Gnaeus Marcius.
“All this coddling of the plebs by the king-and not the better sort of plebs, respectable people you or I might have to dinner, but ordinary laborers and lay-abouts; it’s not to my liking, I can tell you,” said Collatinus. “Of course, it’s very clever of the king, to grind down the power of the Senate even as he curries favor with the mob. He prosecutes rich men, confiscates their wealth, then uses that wealth to build massive public works, which gives employment to the rabble; that monstrosity of a temple is the most obvious example. He sends the bravest and boldest of the patricians into battle against Roma’s neighbors; the territory that’s won is made into colonies where the landless plebs can settle. The blood of Roma’s finest warriors is spilled so that some beggar can be given his own turnip patch!
“If he’d become king the old-fashioned way, by election, then no one could complain. They say the senators of old had to go down on their knees and beg King Numa to take the job; cousin Tarquinius has senators begging him not to take their property! Even the wise Numa needed the Senate to advise him, but not Tarquinius; he has a higher source of knowledge. Whenever there’s a question about public policy, whether it’s making war on a neighbor or fixing a crack in the Cloaca Maxima, Tarquinius whips out the Sibylline Books, picks a verse at random, reads it aloud in the Forum, and declares that it’s proof that the gods are on his side. Tarquinius the Proud, indeed! My mouth is awfully dry. Could we have more wine?”
“Perhaps you’d rather drink some water,” suggested Titus’s grandfather.
“I can’t imagine why, when you have such good wine in this house. Ah, there’s the serving girl. By all means, fill it to the brim! Excellent; this tastes better than the last. Now what was I saying? Ah yes-the Sibylline Books. Well, at least the king paid the Sibyl for those, fair and square, even if he did get the bad end of the bargain. Usually he just takes whatever he wants, even from members of his own family. Look what he’s done to his nephew, Brutus. People love Brutus; in whispers they’ll tell you that he would have made a far better king than his uncle. He’s one of the few men Tarquinius doesn’t dare to destroy outright. Instead, he’s gradually stripped Brutus of all his wealth, bit by bit, reducing him to a pauper. Yet Brutus has endured every indignity without saying one word against his uncle the king. People respect him all the more for showing so much fortitude and restraint.”
Collatinus’s speech was slurred and his eyelids drooped; he abruptly seemed to run out of energy. Titus’s grandfather, who felt that too much had al
ready been said, saw an opportunity to bring the evening to a close. He began to rise, but before he could wish his visitors farewell, Collatinus spoke again.
“Cousin Tarquinius could take everything from me, as well, just as he took everything from Brutus. He could do it like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Quick as a thunderbolt from Jupiter! Ruinous as an earthquake sent by Neptune! I could lose everything, except the one thing-thank the gods! — that the king and his sons can never take from me, the most perfect and most precious of all my possessions: my Lucretia!”
All though the evening, she had listened to him patiently, laughed softly at his jokes, shown no embarrassment when he spoke too loudly, and blushed sweetly when he complimented her. Now she graciously took his hand in hers and rose to her feet, bringing him with her. She had seen that it was time to go, and effortlessly assisted her inebriated husband to make a graceful exit.
Titus, observing her, thought that she must be very wise and very loving, as well as beautiful.
A few days later, Titus, with his friends Publius and Gnaeus, sat on an outcropping of stone near the Tarpeian Rock, watching the workers on the scaffolding that surrounded the new temple. Titus was explaining how the quadriga with Jupiter would be hoisted atop the pediment-Vulca had described the procedure to him at length-when Gnaeus abruptly interrupted. Gnaeus had a habit of changing the subject when he grew bored.
“My mother says there’s going to be a revolution.”
“What do you mean?” said Publius, who was also bored by Titus’s talk about the temple.
“The days of King Tarquinius are numbered. That’s what my mother says. People-at least the people who count-are fed up with him. They’ll take his crown and give it to someone more worthy.”
“Oh, and I suppose Tarquinius will humbly bow his head so that they can remove his crown?” Publius snorted. “What does your mother know, anyway? She’s just a woman. My great-grandfather says quite the opposite.” Publius was proud of the fact that his great-grandfather was still alive and had all his senses, and was very much the paterfamilias of the Pinarius family. “He says that Tarquinius has cut the legs off of anyone who might have opposed him-men like his nephew Brutus-and we’d better get used to the idea that one of his sons will take his place after he’s gone. ‘There may be a Tarquinius on the throne for as long as there’s a Pinarius tending the Ara Maxima’-that’s what my paterfamilias says. How about your grandfather, Titus? When you’re not putting him to sleep with talk of temple construction, what does the head of the Potitii say about our beloved king?”
Titus didn’t like to admit that his grandfather avoided talking to him directly about such serious matters. While he had some idea of his grandfather’s opinions, he also knew that his grandfather wouldn’t want him to discuss them openly with the loose-tongued Publius. “My grandfather would probably say that boys our age shouldn’t indulge in dangerous gossip.”
“It’s only gossip when ill-informed women like Gnaeus’s mother are talking. When it’s men of affairs like ourselves, it’s a serious discussion of politics,” said Publius.
Titus laughed and was about to say something scornful about Publius’s inflated ego, when Gnaeus abruptly threw himself onto the other boy.
Publius was no match for Gnaeus, especially when caught by surprise. In the blink of an eye, he was on his back on the ground, his limbs flailing helplessly.
“You will apologize for insulting my mother!” demanded Gnaeus.
Titus tried to pull him off, but his friend’s arms were as unyielding as stone. “Gnaeus, let go of him! How can he say anything while you’re squeezing his throat? Gnaeus, let go! You’ll choke him to death!” Titus was genuinely alarmed. At the same time, he couldn’t help laughing. Publius’s face was as red as the king’s toga, and the sputtering noises he made sounded as though they should be coming out of the other end of his body.
Titus laughed harder and harder, until his sides ached. Gnaeus, trying to keep a scowl on his face, suddenly burst out laughing and lost his grip. Publius jerked free and rolled away. He clutched his throat and glared at Gnaeus. Between coughing and wheezing, he managed a croak of protest. “You’re mad, Gnaeus Marcius! You could have killed me!”
“I should have killed you, for insulting my mother and impugning my honor.”
“Your honor!” Publius shook his head. “There should be a law forbidding a plebeian like you to even lay a finger on a patrician like me.”
Gnaeus did not fly at him, but stood absolutely still. His face turned crimson. “How dare you say such a thing to me?”
“How dare I call you a plebeian? It’s what you are, Gnaeus Marcius! Only a fool can’t accept his fate, that’s what my paterfamilias says.”
Titus shook his head. Why was Publius still taunting Gnaeus? Did he want to be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock? Titus was wondering whether he should run to find help, when he heard a noise from the city below.
“What’s that?” he said.
“What?” Publius kept a wary eye on Gnaeus.
“That sound. Don’t you hear it? Like a great moan…”
“Or a roar. Yes, I hear it. Like the sound you hear from inside a seashell.”
The noise distracted even Gnaeus from his rage. “Or a sob,” he said. “The sound of a great many women all sobbing at once,” he said.
“Something’s happened,” said Titus. “It’s coming from the Forum.”
Together, they strode to the verge of the cliff and looked down. The workers on the temple had also heard the noise. Men climbed from the scaffolding onto the roof of the temple to get a better view.
A great crowd had gathered in the Forum. More people were arriving from all directions. A group of senators, dressed in their togas, stood on the porch of the Senate House. Among them, even at such a great distance, Titus recognized the king’s gaunt-faced nephew. Instead of a toga, Brutus wore a ragged tunic hardly fit for a beggar-a demonstration of the poverty to which the king had reduced him. He was speaking to the crowd.
“Can you hear what he’s saying?” said Titus.
“He’s too far away, and the crowd’s too noisy,” said Gnaeus. “Why won’t they shut up?”
Those in the crowd nearest to the Senate House were quiet and attentive and all turned in one direction, listening to Brutus. It was the people at the back of the crowd who were moving about with their hands in the air, shouting and weeping. They were parting to make way for someone trying to pass through on his way to the Senate House.
“Who’s that man, and what’s he carrying?” said Titus.
“What man?” said Publius hoarsely, rubbing his throat.
“I can’t see who it is, but I can see what he’s carrying,” said Gnaeus. “A woman. He’s carrying a woman in his arms. She’s completely limp. People are stepping back to make way for him. I think I see blood on his tunic. I think the woman must be…”
“Dead,” said Titus, who felt a cold, hard knot in the pit of his stomach.
The man worked his way through the crowd, step by step. Wherever he passed, there was a commotion, followed by an awestruck silence. By the time he reached the steps of the Senate House, the entire crowd had fallen eerily silent. Staggering, as if the burden he carried had become intolerably heavy, he mounted the steps to the porch. Brutus and the senators bowed their heads and drew aside. The man turned to face the crowd.
“I knew it!” whispered Titus. “It’s Collatinus. That means the woman in his arms…”
The lifeless body was dressed in a long-sleeved stola of dark blue, stained with blood at the breast. Her head was thrown back, hiding her face. Her dark hair hung straight down, so long that it brushed her husband’s feet.
Brutus stepped forward. Now, in the utter silence, Titus could hear him clearly. “Tell them, Collatinus. They won’t believe me. They don’t want to believe such a terrible thing. Tell them what’s happened.”
Collatinus’s wrenching sob reverberated around the Forum and sent a shiver thro
ugh the crowd. For a long moment he seemed unable to compose himself. When he finally spoke, his words rang loud and clear. “Sextus Tarquinius did this. The king’s son! He raped my wife, my beloved Lucretia. While I was away, he came to my house. He was welcomed as an honored guest, invited to dine, given a room. In the middle of the night, he came to her. He forced his way into her bed-our bed! He held a dagger to her throat-you can see where the blade scored her flesh! A servant heard her beg for mercy, but one of Sextus’s men guarded the door. The servant sent for me, but by the time I arrived, Sextus was gone. Lucretia was weeping, inconsolable, mad with grief. Sextus left behind the knife he used to threaten her. Before I could stop her, she plunged it into her heart. She died in my arms!”
As if the weight suddenly grew too heavy, Collatinus dropped to his knees, still cradling the body in his arms. He hung his head and wept.
Brutus stepped forward and held up a bloody dagger. “This is the knife!” he cried. “The very blade that Sextus Tarquinius used when he raped Lucretia, the blade she used to kill herself.” He waited for the gasps from the crowd to die down. “How much longer will we stand for this? What else will we allow the tyrant and his sons to take from us? This intolerable state of affairs ends here and now, today!” Brutus held the knife high in the air and turned to face the Capitoline, as if he were addressing Jupiter in the unfinished temple atop the hill. To Titus, it seemed as if the stern-looking, gauntfaced man had abruptly turned to look directly at him and his friends. The sensation was unsettling, and Titus shivered.
“By the innocent blood on this knife,” declared Brutus, “and by the gods, I swear that with fire and sword, and whatever else can lend strength to my arm, I will pursue Tarquinius the Proud, his wicked wife, and all his children, not one of whom deserves to live in the company of decent men, much less rule over them. I will drive them out, and never again will I let them or any other man be king in Roma!”
The crowd erupted in a tumult of shouting. Women tore at their hair. Men shook their fists. A mob surged up the steps of the Senate House and lifted Brutus onto their shoulders. He seemed to float above the crowd, his arm upraised to thrust the bloody knife toward heaven.
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