The axe was passed. The lictor wiped the blade, raised it in the air, and brought it down on the neck of Titus. Tiberius, who kept his eyes tightly shut, was beheaded next. Nine more prisoners remained. The lictors continued with their work.
Gazing down from the tribunal, the face of Brutus was no less impassive after his sons’ execution than it had been before. The citizens in the crowd looked at him in awe.
When his turn arrived, Vitellius managed to spit the gag from his mouth and began to scream again. The axe rose and fell. His screaming abruptly stopped. The Field of Mars was utterly silent.
Collatinus stood. His bearing was stiff; only by the repeated clenching and unclenching of his fists did he betray his agitation. Next to him, Brutus rose from his chair. For a brief instant, he appeared to falter. As one, the crowd drew a sharp breath, fearful that his legs would give way beneath him. Collatinus instinctively reached out to grasp his fellow consul’s arm, but stopped short of touching him and drew back his hand.
Collatinus spoke to him in a low voice; he was offering to perform a duty which previously they had agreed would fall to Brutus. Brutus shook his head, declining the offer. He extended his right arm. One of the lictors delivered a staff into his open hand.
“Vindicius, come forward!” Brutus cried.
The slave who had exposed his master Vitellius and the other conspirators approached the tribunal. Brutus looked down at him.
“For your role in saving the republic from its enemies, a reward was promised to you, Vindicius. In the brief life of our republic, never before has a slave become a citizen. You shall be the first. By the touch of this staff, I grant you the rights, duties, and privileges of a free man of Roma.”
Vindicius bowed his head. Brutus touched the crown of his head with the staff.
Brutus’s voice, raised to orator’s pitch, had a shrill edge, but it did not break. “Let it be seen that a slave can become a citizen by serving the republic. And let it be seen that any citizen who betrays the republic will be shown no mercy. All the men executed here today were guilty of treason. They betrayed their city and their fellow citizens. Some of them were guilty of another crime: They betrayed their father. Disloyalty to father, or to fatherland-for either crime, there can be only one punishment, which you saw carried out today. This we have done upon the Field of Mars, with nothing to hide us from the eye of heaven. Let the gods pay witness. By their continuing favor, let them affirm that what we have done was well and rightly done.”
Brutus stepped down from the tribunal, his head held high. His gait was steady, but he leaned heavily upon the staff in his right hand. Never before had he needed a staff to help him walk; never again would he be able to walk without it.
Among those in the front of the crowd, watching the consul’s departure, were Titus Potitius and Gnaeus Marcius.
Titus, thanks to his family’s status, was used to being at the front of any assembly; on this day, he might have wished to be anywhere else. Several times, especially during the beheadings, he had grown faint and nauseated, but with his grandfather standing close by, he had not dared to look away. His friend Gnaeus, who was used to being further back in any crowd, had on this occasion pleaded with Titus to allow him a place beside him, so that he could have the best possible view of the proceedings. When Titus had grown weak, he had touched Fascinus with one hand and with the other had reached, like a child, for Gnaeus’s hand. Gnaeus, though it made him feel slightly foolish, had held his friend’s hand without protesting; he owed his place at the front of the crowd to Titus, after all.
Gnaeus was not squeamish; the sight of so much blood had not sickened him. Nor had he felt pity for the prisoners. They had taken a terrible risk, knowing the possible consequences. Had they succeeded, they would have shown no more mercy to their victims than had been shown to them.
About Brutus, Gnaeus was not sure what to think. The man had a will of iron; if any mortal was worthy to be a king, it must be Brutus, and yet the man had no interest in claiming the throne; his hatred of monarchy seemed to be entirely genuine. Brutus had invested all his hopes and dreams in the curious notion of res publica, the people’s state. Res publica had claimed his own sons, and had demanded that he carry out the punishment himself. Even a god who required such a cruel sacrifice might find himself spurned, yet Brutus still worshiped res publica!
Gnaeus had seen the birth of a new world, one in which patriots, not kings, held sway. The world had changed, but Gnaeus had not; he was still determined to be first among men, held in esteem above all others. How this might be accomplished in the new world, he did not know, but he had faith in his destiny. Time and the gods would show him the way.
504 B.C.
The arrival of Attus Clausus in Roma was an occasion of great pomp and celebration. All concerned recognized that it was a momentous event, though none could have realized just how far-reaching its effects would be.
The first five years of the new republic had been marked by many setbacks and challenges. Enemies from within had conspired to restore the king. Enemies from without had sought to conquer and subjugate the city. The citizens roiled with discontent, as power shifted from one faction to another in a relentless contest of wills.
Among the external enemies of the city were the Sabine tribes to the south and east, who had long been unified in their hostility to Roma. When one of their leaders, Attus Clausus, began to argue for peace between the Sabines and Roma, his fellow warlords turned against him and Clausus found himself in imminent danger. He made an urgent request to the Senate that he should be allowed to emigrate to Roma, along with a small army of warriors and their families. The Senate debated the issue and empowered the consuls to negotiate with Clausus. In return for a substantial contribution to the exhausted state treasury and the induction of his warriors into the Roman ranks, Clausus was welcomed to Roma. His dependents were promised land on the Anio river, and Clausus himself was enlisted among the patricians and given a seat in the Senate.
On the day of his arrival, a great crowd of well-wishers thronged the Forum and cheered him as he strolled up the Sacred Way with his family. Flower petals were strewn in their path. Horns and pipes played the festive melody of an old song about Romulus, his acquisition of the Sabine brides, and its happy result. The procession reached the Senate House. While his wife and children remained at the foot of the steps, Clausus ascended to the porch.
As usual, Titus Potitius stood near the front of the crowd, where he was able to get a good look at the famous Sabine warlord. He was impressed by the man’s distinguished bearing and his regal mane of black hair shot with silver. Titus’s grandfather stood among the magistrates and senators on the porch who welcomed Clausus and presented him with a senatorial toga. The Sabine tunic Clausus wore was a splendid green garment with sumptuous gold embroidery, but he made a show of good-naturedly raising his arms and allowing the toga to be wrapped around him and properly draped. He wore it well, and looked as if he had been born to the Roman Senate.
Speeches followed. Titus’s attention began to wander and he found himself studying the members of the Clausus family who were positioned nearby. The new senator’s wife was a striking woman, and their children were the offspring of two very good-looking parents. One of the daughters in particular caught Titus’s eye. She was a dark beauty with a long nose, sensual lips, and flashing green eyes. Titus was unable to look away. She felt his eyes upon her and returned his gaze, appraising him for a long moment before she smiled and looked away; up on the porch, her father had begun to speak. Titus’s heart was stirred as it had not been stirred since he first saw the doomed Lucretia.
Clausus spoke Latin with a charming Sabine accent. He expressed gratitude to the Senate of Roma-making no mention of the common people, Titus noticed-and he promised to continue his efforts to convince the other Sabine leaders that a peace accord should be struck with Roma. “But if they cannot be pacified in the counsel chamber, then they shall have to be crushed on the batt
lefield, and in that endeavor I shall do my part. The Sabine warriors I brought with me are now proud Roman warriors, just as I am now a proud Roman senator. Indeed, even as I put on this toga, I put aside my Sabine name. This morning I awoke as Attus Clausus, but as of this moment, I declare myself Appius Claudius. I think the name suits me, just as this toga suits me!” He smiled and slowly turned around to show off his new garment, eliciting applause and friendly laughter. The crowd loved him.
Titus, too, felt a surge of love, and also of hope, for now he knew what to call the object of his desire. The daughter of any man named Claudius would bear the name Claudia.
Claudia! he thought. I am in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, and her name is Claudia!
“According to Appius Claudius, he will leave the decision to the girl herself. What a strange character that man is!”
“Yes, grandfather,” said Titus, nodding nervously. “And?”
“And what?”
“What was her decision?”
“By Hercules, young man, I have no idea. I spent the whole visit talking to her father. I didn’t even see the girl. If she’s anything like your grandmother, she won’t make up her mind on the spot. Give her time to think it over!”
In the days following their arrival in Roma, Appius Claudius and his family had been invited to the homes of all the city’s foremost families. Among their first hosts had been the Potitii, for Titus had encouraged his grandfather to invite them to dinner as soon as possible. Titus had seized the chance to meet Claudia, and managed to speak to her privately for a few moments. She proved to be more fascinating than he could have imagined; her voice was like music, and the words she uttered took him into a realm of magic. Claudius, whom the Romans were beginning to consider a bit eccentric as they got to know him, had seen to the education of his daughters as well as his sons. Claudia could actually read and write, and when Titus mentioned his interest in architecture, she spoke of how impressed she was by the great Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline.
“Imagine that, grandfather,” Titus had said afterward. “A female who can read and write! Such a woman might be a great helpmate to her husband.”
“Or a positive menace! A wife who could read her husband’s private papers? What a dreadful idea! But what are you saying, Titus? Do you want this girl for your wife?”
So had begun Titus’s courtship of Claudia. He was allowed to see her on a few more occasions, always with Claudia’s maidservant present to act as chaperone. His enchantment with her grew with each brief visit. The marriage negotiations had been conducted mostly by the patresfamilias of the two households; Titus’s grandfather sent inquiries to Appius Claudius, who responded with a positive reply. A marriage bond would offer advantages to both families. Claudius was immensely wealthy; his daughter would bring a considerable dowry, and the Potitii were in need of an infusion of wealth. They, in turn, were one of Roma’s oldest and most distinguished families; a marriage union with a Potitius would grant the Claudii instant legitimacy among the patricians of the city.
The marriage negotiations went very well, until the day Titus’s grandfather came home with unsettling news. Titus was not the only suitor interested in young Claudia.
“Who else?” demanded Titus. “Whoever he is, I shall…I shall…” He was not certain what he would do, but he felt a wave of aggression such as he had never experienced.
“It’s your friend Publius Pinarius,” said his grandfather. “Can you imagine that! Apparently, Publius saw the girl that first day before the Senate House, just as you did, and the Pinarii had the Claudii to dinner the very day after we did. Publius has been courting the girl ever since, just as assiduously as you have. This puts Appius Claudius in a bit of a spot. He argues-and I cannot deny it-that there is very little to distinguish the Potitii and the Pinarii when it comes to a good match for his household. Our bloodlines are equally ancient, equally distinguished in the history of the city.”
“Except that the Pinarii came late to the Feast of Hercules!”
His grandfather laughed. “Yes, there is that, but I don’t think a blunder made a few hundred years ago is enough to tip the scales in our favor. With all things being equal between you and Publius, Claudius says he shall leave the decision to the girl herself.”
“When will she decide?”
“My dear boy, as I’ve already told you, I have no idea. I didn’t give the man a deadline.”
“Perhaps you should have. I don’t think I can stand the waiting! This is worse than the first time I went into battle. At least then I felt it was all up to me, whether I made a good showing of myself or not. But this is terrible; I’ve done all I can, and now all I can do is wait. I’m totally at her mercy!”
Titus began to pace. They were in the small garden in the courtyard at the center of the house. Rose bushes stood at each corner of the garden. Titus paced from one to the other, taking no notice of the blooms or their scent. His grandfather shook his head and smiled, recalling, vaguely, what it had been like to feel the passionate longings of a young man not yet married.
“Fretting will accomplish nothing,” he said. “Perhaps you should-”
A slave approached and announced that a visitor was at the door.
The old man raised an eyebrow. “This could be our answer. Claudius said he would send a messenger as soon as the girl made her decision.”
“It’s not a messenger,” said the slave. “It’s the young lady who’s visited before.”
“Claudia?” Titus, suddenly short of breath, strode past the slave. A short hallway led to the vestibule at the front of the house. From the open skylight above, a beam of midday sunlight lit the impluvium, the little pool for catching rainwater. Flashes of reflected light danced across Claudia and her chaperone.
“You’ve come!” Titus said, striding past the maidservant and daring to take the girl’s hands in his own.
Claudia lowered her eyes. “Yes. I had to send my regrets…”
Titus’s heart sank.
“…to Publius Pinarius. My father’s messenger should be at his door now. But to you I wanted to come myself, so that I could say to you: Yes! I will be your wife, Titus Potitius.”
Titus threw back his head and laughed, then took her in his arms. The maidservant discreetly turned her face away, but Titus’s grandfather, from the shadows, watched the young couple’s first kiss with a smile of satisfaction at having conducted the marriage negotiations so successfully. He only hoped that young Publius Pinarius would not take his rejection too bitterly.
The marriage ceremonies of most Romans were simple family affairs, without religious rites. Many couples entered into matrimony with hardly any ceremony at all; a man and woman needed only to state that they were married and to live together for their union to be recognized.
The marriage of two patricians was another matter.
First, Titus’s grandfather took the auspices to determine a favorable day for the ceremony. Because the bride would need to perform certain religious rites in her new household on the day after her marriage, various days of the calendar with conflicting religious rites were immediately excluded from consideration. Likewise, from long tradition, the entire months of Februarius and Maius were thought to be inauspicious. Upon the Ara Maxima, Titus’s grandfather placed a parchment on which he had written five possible dates. One by one, he placed a stone upon each date, watched the flight of birds in the sky for signs of heaven’s favor, and determined the most auspicious day for the ceremony.
This was the first Roman wedding in the family of Appius Claudius, and he was determined to observe all the local traditions. When he inquired about the origins of each custom, the Romans could explain some but not others, which had been handed down from a time beyond memory.
On the appointed day, at sundown, the wedding party departed from the house of Appius Claudius. The procession was led by the youngest boy in the household-Claudia’s little brother-who carried a pine torch lit from the fa
mily’s hearthfire; its flame would be added to the hearthfire of the bridegroom when they arrived at the house of Titus Potitius.
Following the torchbearer was a Vestal virgin, wearing the linen vestments of her order, with a narrow headband of twined red and white wool tied around her closely shorn hair. She carried a cake made from consecrated grain and sprinkled with holy salt; a few bites would be taken by the couple during the ceremony, after which the cake would be shared with their guests.
Next came the bride. Claudia’s veil was bright yellow, as were her shoes. Her long white robe was cinched at the waist with a purple sash tied at the back in a special configuration called the Hercules knot; later, it would be the bridegroom’s privilege, and challenge, to untie the knot. In her hands she carried the implements of spinning, a distaff and a spindle with wool. Flanking her, making a show of offering support to her arms, were two of the bride’s cousins, little boys hardly older than the torchbearer. At first, these escorts took their duty very seriously and set out with somber expressions, but when the torchbearer stumbled, they broke into giggles so infectious that even the Vestal virgin began to laugh.
Following the bride were her mother and father and the rest of the bridal party, who sang a very old Roman wedding song called “Tallasius.” The foreign-born Claudii had to learn this song from scratch, but the words were charmingly appropriate considering the circumstances. When the Sabine women were taken by Romulus and his men, the most beautiful of the women was captured by the henchmen of a certain Tallasius, a loyal lieutenant of the king, who had observed and selected her in advance. As she was carried off, the Sabine woman begged to know where the men were taking her, and so the song went:
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