Even from the safety of the Capitoline, Titus felt a prickle of fear. He had never seen such a spectacle; the fury of the mob was like a force of nature unleashed. His heart pounded in his chest. His mouth was too dry to speak.
“What do you think he meant by that?” said Gnaeus. His voice seemed impossibly calm.
“He couldn’t have said it more plainly,” said Publius, his voice breaking. “Brutus means to drive Tarquinius out of Roma.”
“Yes. And then what?”
Publius snorted with exasperation. “Brutus will take his place, of course.”
“No, Publius, that’s not what he said. ‘Never again will I let them or any other man be king in Roma.’ Brutus means to cast out the king, and put no one in his place.”
Publius frowned. “But if there’s no king, who will rule the city?”
Like his friends, Titus was puzzled. He was frightened and exhilarated, all at once, and struck dumb with grief that Lucretia-beautiful, wise, loving Lucretia-should have suffered such a horrible fate. He was overwhelmed by what he had just witnessed. Something had ended that day, and something else had begun, and all their lives would be changed forever.
509 B.C.
Dressed in his priestly robes and proudly wearing the talisman of Fascinus-for today he was present both in his ancestral role as a priest of Hercules and as the scion of the Potitii-Titus stood between his father and grandfather in the front ranks of the crowd that had gathered on the Capitoline before the new Temple of Jupiter. The Pinarii were there as well, in a place of equal honor. Publius’s great-grandfather was looking very frail and more than a little confused; but whose head was not in a spin, after the tumultuous events of the last year?
The occasion was the dedication of the temple. Up to the last minute, Vulca had been frantically putting finishing touches here and there-daubing paint on the scuffed elbow of Minerva, polishing the great bronze hinges of the doors, instructing his men to move the throne of Jupiter a finger’s width to the left because the statue was not precisely centered atop its pedestal. It did not matter that Vulca still perceived tiny imperfections everywhere; to Titus, there had never been anything as beautiful as the temple. It was truly worthy of its commanding position atop the Capitoline, which made it the most prominent building in all of Roma, dominating the skyline from every vantage point. With the scaffolding gone at last, Titus could fully appreciate the perfection of its proportions and the soaring line of the columns that supported the pediment. Atop the pediment, the statue of Jupiter in his chariot drawn by four white horses majestically evoked the supreme king of gods and men. The temple was a thing of earthly beauty that inspired religious awe.
Standing side by side on the porch of the temple, overseeing the dedication, were the two consuls, Brutus and Collatinus. Though his face was as gaunt as ever, Brutus no longer dressed in beggar’s rags. Like Collatinus, he wore a toga with a purple stripe to denote his status as one of the two highest magistrates of the new republic.
Republic-the word was still new to Titus and fell strangely on his ear. It came from the words res (a thing, circumstance, state of being) and publica (of the people). Res publica: the people’s state. In the wake of Tarquinius’s sudden downfall and departure-the uprising had been so overwhelming that the revolution occurred almost without bloodshed-the leading men of the Senate had decided to run the state themselves, without a king. The common people had loudly insisted they must be given an assembly of their own, and laws to protect them, because the favor of the king had been their only bulwark against the whims of wealthy, powerful patricians.
“Rules, rules, rules!” complained Titus’s grandfather, after attending the first raucous meetings of the new government. “When no man is king, every man is king, and thinks he should have his own way, or at least his own say. The result is chaos! Endless arguments and no agreement about anything, except that there must be new rules to override any old rules that were previously agreed upon. No one is satisfied. Everyone thinks everyone else is getting a better deal. It’s almost enough to make a man nostalgic for the one we called Proud!”
Despite all the problems that plagued the new state, this was a day of celebration. The dedication of the new temple, which was to have been King Tarquinius’s crowning achievement, would serve instead to mark the first year of the new republic. Indeed, to Titus, the magnificence of Vulca’s brightly painted statues and the breathless perfection of his architecture exemplified a bold new spirit in the city of Roma.
To a visitor, it might have appeared that the two magistrates on the porch of the temple were co-rulers, little different from kings. Their dress set them apart from and above the rest, and like kings they were guarded by lictors armed with rods and axes. Even the fact that they had been elected to office did not differentiate them from kings, for all the kings of Roma, except Tarquinius, had been elected to the post, even if some had been more freely chosen than others. But the two consuls, ruling side by side so that one might serve as a check on the other, were to serve for only a year, and then to relinquish their office to the next two consuls to win election. By dividing the powers of the consuls and holding annual elections, it was hoped that the state could be made to serve the people, and that Roma would never again fall under the sway of a tyrant like Tarquinius.
The public ceremony came to an end. The great doors of the temple were opened. The consuls entered, followed by a very select group of citizens, for the sanctuary could accommodate only a small portion of the crowd. Titus’s grandfather was among them, as was the great-grandfather of Publius, who ascended the steps with difficulty, leaning upon the arm of his fellow senior priest of Hercules. Titus was not permitted to attend the more exclusive ceremony within the sanctuary, but, thanks to Vulca, he had already seen the finished chambers, which housed the statues of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, and been allowed to gaze upon the gods at his leisure.
The milling throng began to disperse. There was a joyous mood in the air. Men greeted one another with embraces and laughter. Titus felt inspired and uplifted.
When he saw Gnaeus nearby, his spirits rose even more, until Publius muttered into his ear, “Look there! It’s your plebeian friend, Gnaeus Marcius. How did he get so near the front of the crowd? He must be posing as a Veturius today, pretending his mother’s blood makes him one of us.”
“Shut up, Publius! Say nothing to insult him. Deliberately causing dissension on such a day shows disrespect to Jupiter.”
Publius laughed. “By all the gods, I should hate to offend your religious sensibilities, Titus! I’ll simply move along, then. Greet the pompous little pleb in whatever fashion you imagine would please Jupiter.”
After Publius disappeared, Titus called to Gnaeus, who returned his smile.
“You were right all along about Vulca and the temple,” said Gnaeus. “Foreigner or not, he’s given us a truly magnificent building, something all Roma can be proud of. I look forward to seeing the statues inside.”
Titus merely nodded. To Publius, he proudly would have boasted that he had seen the statues already, but Gnaeus might think he was acting superior and take offense.
Gnaeus’s smile faded. “You were standing closer to the consuls than I was. Did Brutus look rather haggard?”
“Perhaps. My grandfather says there’s a rumor that he’s unwell.”
“If it were only that!”
“What do you mean?”
Gnaeus took Titus’s arm and pulled him away from the crowd. He spoke in a low voice. “Have you not heard the rumors about Brutus’s sons?”
The consul’s two sons were a few years older than Titus, who knew them just well enough to greet them by name when he saw them in the Forum. “Rumors?”
Gnaeus shook his head. “Just because your grandfather still treats you like a boy doesn’t mean you have to think like a boy, Titus. We’re too old for that. The times are too dangerous. You need to take a greater interest in what’s going on around you.”
Titus smi
led crookedly and fingered the talisman of Fascinus at his throat. “All I really care about is learning to be a builder, like Vulca.”
“You should leave such matters to hired artisans. Men like us were born to be warriors.”
“But temples bring us closer to the gods. Building a temple is as important as winning a battle.”
Gnaeus snorted. “I won’t even reply to that! But we were talking about Brutus and his sons. Since you seem unaware of the situation, I’ll inform you. This precarious state of affairs-this so-called republic-is hanging by a thread. Our neighbors are making alliances to wage war against us. Without a king, they think we’re weak, and they’re right. All this strife and bickering has sapped our strength. The worthless rabble of the city was placated for a while, after the usurpers allowed them to plunder the Tarquinius family estates-shame on Brutus and Collatinus for permitting such an outrage! — but now the mob is growing suspicious of the new magistrates, and they think their own assembly should take the place of the Senate. May the gods help Roma if that should happen! And now…” He lowered his voice even further. “Now there’s a plot to restore the king to the throne. Some of the most respected men in Roma are involved.”
Titus drew a sharp breath. “Is such a thing possible?”
“Not without a great deal of bloodshed. But yes, it’s possible. As long as Tarquinius and his sons are alive, they’ll never stop scheming to take back the throne. I know I wouldn’t!”
“But who would help them to do such a thing? After what Sextus Tarquinius did to Lucretia-”
“What of it? A man raped another man’s wife, not for the first time, and not for the last. It was a crime, to be sure-but not a reason to abolish the whole system of kingship that made Roma a strong city. Don’t forget, it was a king who gave us that temple you’re so proud of. The enemies of Tarquinius merely used the rape as a means to stir up anger against the king, so that they could take his place.”
Titus felt a prickle of dread. “Gnaeus, you’re not involved in this plot to bring back the king, are you? Gnaeus, answer me!”
Gnaeus affected an aloof, mysterious expression, and Titus could see that his friend was enjoying his consternation. “No, I am not,” he finally said. “But nor am I completely unsympathetic to those who think Roma was better with a king.”
“But, Gnaeus, even for one such as you…” Titus realized he must speak carefully, so as not to offend his friend; at the same time, he wanted to show that he was not as ignorant of politics as Gnaeus seemed to think. “Collatinus is a patrician, but Brutus isn’t; his mother was the king’s sister, but his father was a plebeian. By winning election to the consulship, these two have set a precedent for the future. In the republic, any man of worth-patrician or plebeian-will have a chance to rule the state.”
Gnaeus snorted. “For a year! What good is that?”
Titus pressed on. “New men have been added to the Senate, as well. Tarquinius killed off so many senators that Brutus and Collatinus are nominating new members every day, to bring the number back to three hundred. Not only patricians, but plebeians, as well.”
“Even worse! Is that the best a man can hope for? To become one of three hundred?”
Titus frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Gnaeus, I think you miss the point.” He could not help but imagine how bluntly Publius would have stated the case: There may be a place for you yet in the new republic, Gnaeus, even though you’re just a lowly plebeian!
“No, Titus, you miss the point. This republic, this government by the people-what can it offer a man except the chance to become a mere senator, one of three hundred, or at best a consul, the first among equals, and one of a pair at that, elected for only a year? So long as Roma had a king, there was hope; there was something a man could strive for.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Hope, Titus! An ambitious man, a great man, a fierce warrior-a man head and shoulders above all other men-such a man, in the old days, might hope someday to occupy the throne, to become a true ruler of men, to be king of Roma. But now, with the monarchy gone, replaced by this pathetic republic, what hope remains for such a man?”
Titus gazed at his friend, fascinated and appalled. Had Gnaeus truly imagined that he might someday be king of Roma? Where had such unbridled ambition come from? Was it to be feared or admired? He almost wished that Publius were present, to deflate Gnaeus’s fantastical notions with a snide comment.
Titus shook his head. “How did we come to speak of such things? You were going to tell me something about Brutus…and his sons…”
“Never mind,” said Gnaeus. He hid his face, but in his voice Titus heard all the anger, pain, and exasperation of a youth whose dreams are understood by no one else, not even his closest friend.
Gnaeus strode away without another word.
Just as his grandfather had stressed to Titus the importance of mastering letters, so, too, had Brutus made sure that his two sons could read and write. It was this ability that doomed them.
The younger brother of Brutus’s wife was deep in the plot to restore the king. It was this man, Vitellius, who convinced his nephews to join the conspiracy, with promises that they would be greatly rewarded in the second reign of Tarquinius. Secret envoys carried messages back and forth between the king and the conspirators. As the date for Tarquinius’s planned return grew closer-a day that would turn the Forum into a lake of blood-the nervous king pressed for greater assurances from his supporters. He demanded letters of express intent, with explicit pledges of loyalty, signed by their own hands. The two sons of Brutus, Titus and Tiberius, signed such a letter, and placed it into the hands of a slave owned by their uncle Vitellius.
The slave had been bribed by Brutus to keep him informed of the plot. Brutus knew that his brother-in-law was involved; having no love for Vitellius, he was determined to expose him. Brutus did not know of the involvement of his own sons.
If he could produce proof of the conspiracy, the slave had been promised freedom and all the rights of citizenship in the new republic. With mingled dread and excitement, he strode into the presence of the two consuls to deliver the letters with which he had been entrusted.
“How many?” said Brutus.
“Twenty letters,” said the slave, “signed by twenty-one men.”
Brutus frowned. “One of the letters bears two names?”
“Yes, consul.”
One by one, Brutus took the letters and read them, then passed them to Collatinus. Some of the names came as no surprise to Brutus; others shocked him. Acutely conscious of the gravity of the moment, he kept all expression from his face.
The slave averted his eyes when he handed Brutus the last letter. The consul stared at it for a such a long time, maintaining such an unnaturally rigid posture, that Collatinus, waiting for the letter to be passed to him, wondered if Brutus had been stricken by some form of paralysis. Growing impatient, he took the letter from Brutus’s hands. When he saw the two names upon it, he let out a gasp.
Still, Brutus showed no reaction. His voice was devoid of emotion. “We have their names now. We have proof of their guilt. We know where all these men reside. We must send our lictors to apprehend them as quickly as possible, so that none can warn the others.”
“And then?” said Collatinus in a whisper.
“There is no need for a trial. The Senate has entrusted us with emergency powers to deal with just such a circumstance. We will act swiftly and surely to save the republic.”
The next day, the citizens were called to assemble on the Field of Mars, where the consuls took their seats upon a raised platform.
The condemned men were brought before them. They had been stripped of all clothing. They were all young, and all from respectable families. From a distance, they might have appeared to be naked athletes parading before the crowd in the Circus Maximus, except for the fact that athletes would wave to the crowd, and these men had their hands bound behind them.
All eyes were on the sons of Brutu
s. If they had learned nothing else from their father, they had learned composure. While some of the conspirators shouted curses, or begged for mercy, or wept, or struggled against the lictors, Titus and Tiberius stood rigidly upright with their mouths shut and their eyes straight ahead.
Thick tree trunks had been laid in a continuous row before the tribunal. The prisoners were made to stand side by side before the trunks, then to kneel in the sand and to lean forward until their chests rested upon the wood. A long rope was wound once around each man’s neck, linking them all together; the slack portions of rope between each man were secured by iron cleats hammered into the ground. Thus the prisoners were restrained and made ready for punishment.
First they were flogged. The lictors took their time. The sons of Brutus and their uncle Vitellius were beaten no more and no less than the others. The flogging continued until the sand was red with blood. Some of the prisoners fainted. They were doused with water to revive them.
Had the prisoners been the captured warriors of another city, or common criminals, or rebellious slaves, the crowd would have jeered and laughed; as it was, there was hardly a noise to be heard, except, here and there, the sound of muffled weeping from men who hid their faces and could not bear to watch. Most in the crowd did their best to emulate Brutus, who sat in his chair of state as rigid as a statue and observed the punishment of the traitors without flinching.
One by one, the prisoners were beheaded. The lictors shared the duty, passing the axe from man to man, wiping it free of blood and gore before using it again. The sons of Brutus were near the middle of the line, side by side. When the lictors came to Titus, ten men had already been executed; their heads lay where they had fallen on the sand in pools of blood that poured from their severed necks. Some of the men farther up the line were weeping; some, in fits of panic, were struggling frantically against their bonds. Some had lost control of their bowels and their bladders; the stench of urine and feces was added to the odor of blood. Vitellius, who was at the very end of the line, had begun to scream incessantly. One of the lictors, unable to stand the noise, gagged his mouth with a bloody rag.
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