The Last King of Rome

by Laura Dowers

  Tanaquil drew herself up and gave him a withering stare. ‘And why would you not want to be king, Servius?’

  ‘Why not? Tanaquil, how can you ask that? I saw how kingship burdened Lucomo, don’t forget. And besides, what if the people decide they don’t want me as king?’

  ‘They will want you, Servius, we shall see to it.’

  Servius stood up and began to pace the room. ‘I don’t know, I just don’t know.’

  ‘The throne is yours, Servius, if you are man enough to take it,’ Tanaquil said coldly. ‘Don’t let those cowards who ordered this attack benefit from your lack of confidence. Because that is all it is. You will obey the will of the gods who gave me a sign of your destiny.’

  ‘I can’t think… I can’t think what I should do.’

  Tanaquil beckoned him to her. Servius, feeling like the child he had been when first taken into the Tarquin household, knelt and laid his head in her lap.

  ‘If you cannot put your mind to this, my boy,’ Tanaquil said, her fingers playing with his hair, ‘then you must let me do your thinking for you.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever you say, Tanaquil,’ Servius said, letting his eyes close.

  The sky was turning dark when Servius left Tanaquil and made his way across the domus to his private apartments. His mind was reeling, his body a strange mixture of energy and exhaustion. The death of his father-in-law somehow didn’t seem real, so suddenly had Lucomo been taken. And yet, here was his adoptive mother asserting that he, Servius Tullius, was to be the next King of Rome.

  His eyes were on the flagstones as he walked along the corridors, not noticing the servants who backed into corners and stood ramrod straight against the walls as he passed. He reached the door of his cubiculum without knowing how he got there. He lifted the latch and almost hit his head as it failed to open.

  ‘Who is it?’ a trembling female voice called out.

  ‘Tarquinia?’ he called angrily, ‘why is the door locked?’

  ‘Servius, is that you?’

  ‘Of course it’s me. Open the door.’

  He heard the bolt being drawn back; a moment later, the door was flung open. His wife, Tarquinia, stood before him, her face red and swollen and a terrified look in her light brown eyes.

  ‘Oh, Servius,’ she hurled herself at him, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, and pulled him into the room. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been here all alone.’

  He hadn’t given Tarquinia a thought, he realised guiltily, not once since he heard the terrible news. He put his arms around her waist and drew her to him.

  ‘I’ve been with your mother. I was in the city when it happened.’

  ‘I was at Fulvia’s house,’ she said, gulping dry sobs. ‘We were going shopping and then Nipia came running in and told me Father had been attacked. I wasn’t sure what to do, whether to stay at Fulvia’s or come home. I didn’t know if you were coming to get me…’

  Servius felt another stab of guilt. Why hadn’t he considered Tarquinia’s safety? For all he had known, there could have been more assassins. The plan might have been to remove the entire Tarquin family. Ye gods, what a fool he was. What else hadn’t he considered?

  ‘You did the right thing,’ he assured her. ‘But you haven’t seen your mother yet?’

  ‘I came straight here and locked the door,’ Tarquinia said. ‘I was frightened, Servius.’

  ‘Yes, of course you were. But you should see your mother. She’s very upset.’

  ‘I’m very upset.’

  ‘I know, but I think it would be good for both of you to be together. And she may want to talk to you about… about other things.’

  Tarquinia wiped her eyes and sniffed. ‘What other things?’

  Servius didn’t want to tell her what he and Tanaquil had talked about. It seemed wrong somehow to talk of becoming king so soon after Lucomo’s death, especially with Tarquinia so touchy.

  ‘Go to her now,’ he said instead, pushing her towards the door. He didn’t just want Tarquinia to be with her mother for their sakes; he wanted to be alone for a while, get his brain in some sort of order.

  But Tarquinia hesitated. ‘Is Father… does he look awful?’

  The way she spoke made Servius wonder for a moment whether she knew Lucomo was dead. He quickly thought back over her words. She knew there had been an attack, but she hadn’t said she knew Lucomo had been killed.

  ‘Tarquinia,’ he began kindly, ‘Lucomo didn’t survive the attack.’

  ‘I know,’ she said as if he was being stupid. ‘I’m not a child, Servius. I know Father’s dead. But I don’t want to see him if he looks horrible. I don’t think I could bear it.’

  Relieved, he said, ‘Wait until tomorrow to see him. He’ll have been looked after properly by then.’

  She nodded and stepped out into the corridor, but once more paused and looked back. ‘Are you all right, Servius? I know how you loved him.’

  He smiled at her, absurdly grateful someone had thought to ask him how he felt. ‘I will be. I just need a bit of time.’

  ‘I know. It won’t be easy for you.’

  ‘What won’t be easy for me?’

  ‘Being king.’

  He stared at her in astonishment. ‘How do you know about that? Tanaquil’s only just told me.’

  ‘I’ve known for years you would become king when Father died,’ Tarquinia shrugged. ‘It’s why we married.’

  ‘You knew then?’

  ‘Mother told me the night before our wedding. I’d asked her why I had to marry you — oh, don’t look at me like that, it was only a question and I was a little in love with Publius at the time — and she said you would be king after Father and that my marriage to you would help with that.’

  ‘You never told me,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘I didn’t think to tell you,’ she protested. ‘And I never imagined it would be because of something like this, or that it would happen so soon. I thought Father had years left.’

  She began to cry again and took a step back into the room, wanting Servius to comfort her. But Servius was furious. It seemed all the Tarquins had been in on this plan for him to become king from the very beginning, and yet no one had bothered to ask him whether he wanted a part in it or whether he thought it was right for him to be king at all. Was his opinion of so little value?

  ‘If this hadn’t happened now,’ he said, trying to control his temper, ‘if your father had lived for another ten or twenty years, Lucius and Arruns would be old enough for the throne and one of them would succeed. Not me.’

  ‘Oh, Servius,’ Tarquinia sighed, ‘you’re not going to be difficult, are you?’

  ‘Difficult!’ he roared, unable to hold his anger back any longer.

  ‘Yes, difficult,’ Tarquinia shouted back through her tears. ‘This has happened now. Father’s gone. Lucius and Arruns are babies. The senate won’t elect one of them king. So, who else is there?’

  ‘Someone of high birth.’

  Tarquinia’s mouth opened, closed, opened again and then puckered. Servius knew why she was struggling to respond; she hated to hear him speak of his origins. He wasn’t sure whether he believed the rumour that he was the son of a slave, or the son of a whore, depending on who was telling the story. He didn’t want to believe it and yet it was always there, in the back of his mind, tormenting him. Tarquinia refused to countenance the possibility that she had been married off to anyone other than a nobleman. The idea cheapened her in her eyes, he knew and understood. It was of small consequence that she loved him as he knew she did. Love wasn’t enough in the Tarquin family.

  ‘I won’t listen to you talk like this, Servius,’ she declared at last. ‘I’m going to Mother. Will you be here when I return?’

  He told her he would.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she promised and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Servius peeled off his toga, leaving just his tunic. Leaning over the bed, he punched the middle of the pillow to create a ho
llow for his head. With a sigh, he lay down, closing his eyes as he sunk into the pillow. He was going to be king, at least, he was if Tanaquil had her way, and why wouldn’t she? Tanaquil always got what she wanted. But this! What Tanaquil wanted was against Roman law. And yet, he also knew she was right. Lucomo had brought stability to Rome. Change didn’t always disrupt; sometimes, change was necessary and good, but it could also be terrible. And now he thought about it, who better than himself to take over the reins of office? He had, after all, observed monarchical rule from the inside, he knew how it worked and what it could do. And there was Tarquinia. She thought it only right and natural that he should take over from Lucomo, it wasn’t just a desire on her part to be called queen. Maybe everyone else would think it right and natural, too.

  Servius wanted to believe that but the rumour of his birth had haunted him since he was old enough to understand the gossip. He played over and over in his mind what Tanaquil had told him of the vision she had witnessed when he was young. He supposed there was some truth in the fact that he had risen in the world, whatever his origins. He had married the King of Rome’s daughter, and he knew he was not a stupid man; he had brains and he knew how to use them. He didn’t doubt he could do all that was required of a king, but did he have the right to sit on the throne? Would he not feel an impostor, a fraud?

  He turned over onto his side, staring at the wall. In the end, it wouldn’t matter what he thought or what he wanted. Tanaquil was determined he would become king and Tanaquil would let nothing stand in her way.

  Lucomo had been wrapped in his shroud and his body removed from the cubiculum to lie in an empty room. The bed she had shared with Lucomo had been stripped of its soiled linen and the mattress thrown out, so all that remained was the wooden frame and the crisscrossing rope supports. A new mattress was laid on the ropes and the servants set about making the bed with fresh linen.

  That night, when her mind was so tired she could think no more, Tanaquil retired to the cubiculum and bent her body into the bed that felt so cold without Lucomo in it. He would never be with her again, not in this life, at least. She was alone at last, now the servants and her daughter had left her, and she suddenly understood what she had lost.

  She and Lucomo had been married for many years and it had been a happy marriage. And yet, she had not wanted to marry Lucomo. She had shouted at her parents that no matter what they did, no matter what they threatened, she would not stand before the priest and utter the words that would bind her to him. She had not objected to Lucomo’s looks nor his manner; he had been quite handsome back then and very courteous. She objected to him because he was unworthy of her, she being of a rank above him. But he had been rich, oh yes, he had had plenty of money, and that, so her parents told her, made all the difference.

  So, she had married Lucomo and those early years had not been easy for her. Her friends sniped constantly about her husband of low birth, how she had demeaned herself by marrying someone so inferior, and she had pretended she didn’t care. And in a way, she hadn’t, for she had come to realise her friends could say what they liked but it was she who wore expensive silks imported from Phoenicia and she who had gold chains to hang around her neck while they wore cheap jewellery, had to mend what good clothes they had and make a dozen other petty economies.

  But in those moments when Tanaquil had been alone, her friends’ words would play on her mind, and then they had had the power to sting her pride. So, one night, when she and Lucomo lay in bed, she had twined her fingers in his chest hair and suggested they leave Tarquinii and move to Rome. In Rome, she told him, they would have a chance to make something of themselves. In Rome, money mattered, and well, they had plenty of that. In Rome, nobility could be purchased and public office attained.

  And that was what she wanted, for her husband to be somebody important. She allowed herself a small smile at the memory. Lucomo had certainly not disappointed her and she had loved him for it. Yes, she had fallen in love with her husband. What a joke!

  His rise to power had been heralded by a portent, too, she remembered. When she and Lucomo had trundled into the city sitting atop a wagon packed with their belongings, an eagle had dropped out of the sky and plucked the cap from off Lucomo’s head. He had yelped in alarm as the shadow of the big bird fell across them and ducked his head as the clawed feet scraped through his long black hair.

  But Tanaquil had kept her eyes on the eagle, watched it soar and circle the wagon three times as though reluctant to leave. It had flapped its wide wings and hovered above them for a thrilling few seconds before dipping and dropping the cap back onto Lucomo’s head.

  As the eagle flew away, Tanaquil had kissed her astonished husband and said it was a sign from Jupiter that Lucomo was destined for greatness. And so, once they had found themselves somewhere to live in Rome, Tanaquil told Lucomo that henceforth he was to be Lucomo no longer but Lucius Tarquinius, a true Roman, although Tanaquil found it impossible to address him as anything other than Lucomo in private and so, to her, Lucomo he remained. And as any true Roman, he began to make valuable friends and acquired a reputation that brought him to the attention of King Ancus and a position in the royal household. This memory made Tanaquil cry out into the darkness. King Ancus, who had so loved Lucomo that he had consulted him on all matters of politics and made him tutor to his sons, those very sons who had conspired to murder him.

  Lucomo was dead! Those three words seemed impossible. He was dead and she was still alive. Tanaquil had always thought she would die first. The possibility of her dying young had been great, as it was for any woman who bred; indeed, with her first son, she had laboured so long and so greatly, the midwives thought her poor exhausted body would give out. But she had lived and Lucomo had given thanks to both Jupiter and Juno for her deliverance with the sacrifice of a kid. And when her childbearing days were over, she had thought she could look forward to a few more years working alongside her husband before leaving him to carry on as king alone.

  And now, all that was over. Lucomo had left her and what was she to do now? She was too old to enjoy power for its own sake. And her pride, so important to her in her youth, had all but gone, for only the young cared what other people thought. What is there left to me? she asked the empty room.

  The answer came immediately. Vengeance! She would see those murderers die and revel in their deaths and Lucomo would be avenged. And those setters-on of his murder, the sons of Ancus Marcius, would never become kings of Rome. She had Servius Tullius, no son of her body but of her moulding, and in the end, perhaps that was better.

  Servius had disappointed her a little, it was true. She had expected his eyes to shine with excitement at the thought of becoming king but his eyes had had fear in them. Perhaps she had been too precipitate in telling him of her plans so soon after the attack. She should have told him tomorrow when the horror would, Jupiter willing, have receded and he understood what needed to be done.

  Worn out with grief, Tanaquil slept soundly that night. She rose early, calling for her maid to dress her hair and pick out her most expensive dress. When dressed, she sat down at her dressing table and held up the bronze mirror to watch her warped reflection as the maid applied her makeup. Tanaquil instructed her to cover up the dark patches beneath her eyes and to flesh out the hollows of her cheeks with the powder of crushed rose petals.

  When she could find no fault with her appearance, Tanaquil called for the lictor to accompany her to the balcony at the front of the domus. The lictor seemed determined to let her know how sorry he was for her and she wished he wouldn’t. To stop his chatter, she asked what the news abroad was and the lictor reported the attack was known all over the city and that there was a crowd waiting in the street to hear the latest.

  ‘I know,’ Tanaquil said, ‘I can hear them.’

  ‘We could post a proclamation on the front doors,’ the lictor suggested.

  ‘No, I will talk to them.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise, lady?’ />
  ‘Yes, I am sure. Is Servius Tullius ready?’

  ‘I’m here, Tanaquil,’ Servius called, hurrying along the corridor. He was wearing Lucomo’s royal robes as Tanaquil had instructed before they parted the previous evening. ‘How are you? Did you get any sleep?’

  ‘I did,’ she said, a little ashamed of just how well she had slept.

  They reached the balcony. She and Servius lingered in the shadows, Tanaquil’s eyes raking over the crowd gathered below. ‘Do you think they are here because they want to find out how badly hurt the King is or to hear the grisly details of the attack?’

  ‘Both, I expect,’ Servius said. He turned to the lictor. ‘Word hasn’t got out, has it, that the King was killed?’

  The lictor assured him it had not.

  ‘That’s something, at least,’ Servius said, examining Tanaquil’s face. ‘Are you up to this?’

  ‘When I say, you come out,’ she said. She moved into the sunlight, blinking away the black spots that appeared before her eyes. The crowd quietened when they saw her.

  ‘Go—,’ she began, and the sound was too feeble, it would not carry. She cleared her throat and began again. ‘Good people of Rome. You will have heard the King was attacked yesterday. This attack was completely unprovoked and the assailants apprehended before they could escape. The King was wounded but is now resting. Until he is once again able to stand before you, I ask that you obey his appointed regent, and beloved son, Servius Tullius. He will dispense justice and take upon himself all other duties until the King is well once more.’

  Tanaquil knew he would be nervous; she fancied she could almost hear his heart thumping as Servius joined her at the balcony. She clutched at his hand in the folds of his clothing and gave it a quick squeeze.

  ‘People of Rome.’ His voice came out strong and she breathed a silent sigh of relief. ‘My heart is heavy at this attack on my beloved father and filled with hate for those who dared to hurt him. But they will not succeed in bringing this state to ruin. Rome is too strong to be blown down by such a feeble wind. The King will recover to stand before us once again. Until that time, I am proud to serve you in his place as regent and I promise you all that I will give my last breath for Rome.’