Founding Fathers

by Alfred Duggan

  He landed, smiling easily, beside the celer. The bully shuddered at the desecration, and his hands tightened on his mattock. ‘As for enemies, this is how we deal with them,’ he shouted.

  There was a sharp crack as the mattock came down; Remus collapsed in a heap, his skull splintered.

  Marcus stared, his mouth open and his hands hanging idle by his sides. Things were happening too fast for his mind to follow; and anyway Remus, the leader he had chosen only a few days ago, did not mean much to him. But in the crowd were warriors who had followed their dead lord for eight years, ever since he revealed himself to his grandfather. ‘Remus is dead. Get the man who killed him,’ shouted someone in the front rank. The whole group of unarmed but vigorous young men surged forward against the holy furrow.

  For a moment Marcus thought of running down the hill to fetch his shield and spear. That seemed the most sensible thing to do, but it might look to his comrades as though he were running away from his first fight. He pushed forward in the mob, feeling at his girdle for his little eating-knife.

  Within the furrow the celer who had done the murder could no longer be seen. (He fled to the Etruscans, and never again appeared on the Latin side of the river.) But the other followers of Romulus gathered to defend their wall. Some of them had spades or picks, and they outnumbered the opposing band; as the attackers hesitated there was a momentary stillness.

  A peacemaker seized his opportunity. Faustulus, foster-father of the twins, the only middle-aged man on the hilltop, could be easily recognised by his grizzled hair. ‘Boys,’ he called, ‘what’s done is done. You can’t bring Remus to life again. We don’t want any more murders.’

  ‘Murder it was, and we’ll avenge it,’ shouted someone from the back of the crowd. A stone as big as a fist flew through the air. It was sped by a young shepherd who had just remembered the sling looped round his brow to keep the hair out of his eyes, the lethal sling which was more deadly to marauding wolves even than savage sheepdogs.

  The stone whizzed straight at Romulus, who could not dodge it because of the dense throng at his back. It seemed that the expedition was about to lose both its leaders. But Faustulus could not bear to see both his foster-sons dead at his feet. As he jumped forward to guard his leader the stone caught him in the throat. Again there was a sharp crack, as when the skull of Remus had been crushed; with his neck broken Faustulus was dead before he hit the ground.

  The calamity brought peace, as nothing else could have brought it. Faustulus was by a full generation the oldest man in the expedition, and among the veteran followers of the twins he had been reverenced as a father. Someone raised the wail of mourning, and in a moment it was taken up by the whole company. At the first lull, as the mourners paused for breath, Romulus jumped on a hillock to address them.

  ‘Spearmen,’ he shouted, and the formality of the address made them all feel calm and responsible. ‘Spearmen, we came here to found a city, on a site that has been filled to overflowing with the luck of Jupiter, with the luck of my father Mars – your father Mars. The city has been founded, filled with luck, blessed by omens more favourable than the greatest prophet could foretell. It is ready for us to dwell in. Let us dwell in it, peaceably, as good comrades. It is true that I have incurred the pollution of fratricide. I take the whole of that to myself, and not a particle of it will infect you. The luck bequeathed to me by my divine father is strong enough to overcome it. The man who struck the deadly blow has fled, and he will never return within these holy walls. When we have built our huts and marked out an open square for a templum I shall fetch from Lanuvium certain holy things, things which once belonged to grandfather Aeneas who brought the sacred line of Venus to Italy. You will see them, before I put them in a safe place where human eye shall never look on them again, for so long as this sacred city shall stand. I say again: the luck of this city, my city of Rome, can overcome all misfortunes. But we who live in it must live united. Let any leave who wish to do so. They go with my good will. But to those who stay I shall be the chieftain, the King, King of Rome. Will you obey me?’

  Marcus looked at the chief, ten years older than himself and so in his eyes a mature man in the prime of wisdom. It was less than a month since he had agreed to follow Remus. That had been nothing but a pointless episode; there was no need that he should vow vengeance for a leader he had hardly known. The greatest asset of Remus had been his luck, and now it had been proved that the luck of his twin brother was the stronger. He decided to serve faithfully the new chief whom Fate had put over him.

  As far as could be seen, not one of the followers of Remus abandoned the expedition; though a few may have slipped off unobserved. Marcus followed in the crowd which went carefully through the unploughed gateway and lined up with the adherents of Romulus. When the new King understood that the threatened battle had been averted he once more addressed his followers, now all standing within the city.

  ‘Our enterprise has begun with a fatality. This evening we shall burn my unfortunate brother on a splendid pyre, with all the rites needed for the welfare of his spirit. The pollution of his death I take entirely on myself. Luckily, as you can see, no blood has been shed; and unless blood lies on the ground the Old Women cannot track down the guilty. Nevertheless, a few minutes ago our hearts were filled with hatred. Before the city springs to life that hatred must be purged from us. Let us all gather brushwood for a great fire. When the wood has been heaped up I shall kindle it with my sacred flint, repeating as I do so a prayer taught to me by my father Mars. While the fire blazes we shall all jump through it. Thus shall we leave in the flames all feelings of enmity which are unfitting for the citizens of one city.’

  So it was done; and the common effort of gathering brushwood and carrying it to the hilltop brought the first stirrings of a sense of community to the assembled warriors.

  When the ritual had been accomplished Romulus set his men to building shelters for themselves, and to bringing up the baggage from the valley. That night they slept in the new city. But when they awoke on the morning of the 22nd of March, 753 years before the Incarnation, there was still much to be done.

  During that first spring, while they planted the barley which must keep them through their first winter, King Romulus found time for a private talk with every one of his new subjects. Marcus was one of the last to be interviewed, for a clanless exile without even a sword was among the least important members of the new community. But Romulus spared no pains, and took as much trouble to inquire into the private life of this insignificant spearman as if he had been the head of a powerful family.

  In the raw unpainted wooden hut that was the King’s house they talked together, squatting on billets of wood beside a pan of charcoal. First Marcus must explain how he came to be so utterly alone in the world. ‘Chief – I mean King,’ he said nervously, blurting out the whole truth lest he be accused of concealing the worst, ‘my father drove me from my village, and my name has been removed from the muster of my clan. But I was not accused of a crime for which the clan-elders might punish me. It was rather that my father feared I would commit a crime if I remained in his hut.’

  ‘How was that? I don’t understand.’

  ‘My lord, I had a young stepmother.’

  ‘I see. But as yet you had done nothing wrong? Then why did your father send you into exile without even the protection of your clan? Surely it would have been enough to arrange for you to leave?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. That was how it started. But later we had words, and I answered until my father swore that I might not stay a moment longer. It had been planned that I should leave with the Sacred Spring, which was due to set off in two years. Do you have the custom in Alba? All the children born in one year must emigrate when they grow up, and they take with them the increase of the flocks born in the same year. I wasn’t born in the sacred year, but they would have taken me. Then we had this quarrel, and my father chased me with a stick. So I had to leave. I am too old to be beaten, but I could not str
ike my father. In my village we don’t do that.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ said the King. ‘No one does. But did your father really want you to go? What about carrying on his line?’

  ‘I have an elder brother, Perhaps I should say I had one; now I have no kin. I possess nothing but a spear and a shield, and I have those only because they were a gift from my mother’s brother, and my father could not touch them. But at the next battle I shall get a sword.’

  ‘Yes, you need a sword, and a helmet, if you are to take your rightful place in the levy. It’s right that you should win them for yourself. Now what else do you need, that I, or my city of Rome, can offer you?’

  ‘Not much, my lord. But then I have nothing. A patch of ground to grow my barley, a corner where I can store my plunder, a roof where I can sleep safe from my enemies, comrades to avenge me when I am slain.’

  ‘I can give you those, though I cannot give you more. You need kinsmen to take an interest in you, to tend you if you are sick and to buy your freedom if you are enslaved. You can’t expect three thousand citizens to look after you as though you were cousin to all of them. So tomorrow you must join a kindred. I am dividing the whole body of citizens into thirty kindreds; choose one of them, and stick to it. That will give you a clan-name as well; I won’t ask your old one, for it has been taken from you and it might be unlucky to pronounce it. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, my lord. Or rather, only one thing. You have mentioned luck, and I know that you are one of the luckiest men in the world. Is there anything you can do to help me to regain the favour of the gods? I must now be suffering under their displeasure, since I am so lonely and friendless and poor.’

  Marcus was surprised to hear his own voice uttering these words. He used to think of himself as an enlightened scoffer, and suspect that all this business about the favour of the gods was just another invention of the old to keep the young in order. Now, without friends or advocates in the other world, he felt lonely and isolated.

  ‘You will share in the luck of my city,’ Romulus answered. ‘That is all I can do for you, but in the end you will find it sufficient. If you fear the enmity of your father you won’t want to share my personal luck. I have offended pretty heavily against the gods of the kindred; though what I did was righteous, and I shall give my answer when I am accused.’

  ‘Very well, my lord. I shall have kindred to avenge me, and a wall to shelter me. That is a great deal. With the gods I must make my own terms.’

  ‘Even there the city can help you. There may be death on my hands, but my ancestors were endowed with holy things of great power. Soon I shall bring them here to Rome; and there are rituals that we must perform, all together. The men of Rome will know how to serve the gods and to please them. Wait until the barley is sown, and you shall see.’

  On the next day Marcus chose his kindred, from among the thirty groups into which Romulus planned to divide the whole body of citizens. It seemed odd to call a young man of twenty-one his father; but there was no other way of joining a kindred, for in the new city there were no elderly men. Aemilius was a noble from Alba, who had been driven to emigration by the poverty of his house and the number of his elder brothers. He was an affable young nobleman, very pleased to increase the number of his followers. He told Marcus that he might use Aemilius as his second name, and reckon himself personally a full member of the Aemilian clan. But he added that only men of genuine descent by blood might offer sacrifice on behalf of the kindred; as soon as they got hold of someone who could write (for there was not a single scribe in the new city) they must make a supplementary list of the new members of the clan, whose descendants could never succeed to the chieftaincy or rank themselves as equal with those born of the true blood. That seemed fair enough, and very much better than having no clan at all. Marcus Aemilius willingly agreed to these conditions.

  When the barley had been sown and might be left to do its own growing until harvest Romulus did not lead out his army to raid the Etruscans, as had been expected. He announced that before his men did any fighting they must increase their luck by appropriate service to the gods. To begin with he brought his own ancestral Guardians from the sacred Latin city of Lanuvium. These Guardians already had a long history. It was said that grandfather Aeneas, the first recorded ancestor of King Numitor, had brought them to Italy from the fallen city of Troy; that had been long ago, at the time when all the divine cities were sacked by the Peoples of the Sea. But their origin was even more ancient. Before Troy had been founded they had been lodged in the magic island of Samothrace; before that, in the very beginning of the world, a goddess had given them as the dowry of her daughter who married a mortal man. Romulus himself was descended from this goddess; but then most men, if you went back far enough, had some supernatural being in their genealogies. It was not the divine descent that impressed Marcus as he saw the holy things carried in procession to their new home, but their amazing antiquity.

  In appearance they were not impressive. There was a large earthenware jar, of the kind used to hold the ashes of a corpse; it was certainly old, but it might have been empty. Everyone who saw it was disappointed, until Romulus explained that within it was a very ancient wooden image of the Maiden, the gift of his divine grandmother to her mortal son-in-law. He had wished to display the image to the people, but soothsayers had advised against it; for the wood was filled with divine power, which must not be dissipated by spreading it through a multitude. The soothsayers had prophesied that while this image remained safe in its lodging the new city could not be captured by an enemy.

  Behind the mysterous jar were borne on a second litter the remaining holy things: an old green spearhead that was the emblem, perhaps the material body, of the speargod Quirinus, and two staffs of bronze, wreathed with bronze serpents. That looked more like strong magic, and the onlookers were impressed; nobody knew what power they embodied, for they were not objects associated with the Maiden, or with the Mother, or with Skyfather. But snakes are uncanny things, and snakes of bronze must be very potent indeed. The arrival of these supernatural protectors encouraged every citizen of the new foundation.

  Romulus had not yet finished. He was determined to give his city all the protection that wise men could devise. On the swampy wasteland between the hill and the river he marked out a circle with his divining staff. Every man of his following was ordered to throw within the circle a handful of earth from his original home. Many citizens had foreseen this need and had brought a pot of earth with them; but Marcus was not the only spearman who gathered a handful of mud at random, in token that before he became a citizen of Rome the wide world in general had been his only dwelling-place.

  When the pile of earth was complete Romulus made magic over it, and decreed that henceforth it would be known as the Mundus; for it was the essence of the whole inhabited world. Then, while nervous spectators clutched at their amulets, he took a bronze pick and dug down through the pile deep into the swamp below. Presently he had gone far enough. He called to his assistants to hand him a sealed jar. This was quickly lowered to the very bottom of the pit, where it would be safe for all time; then a great stone was brought to seal the mouth of the hole. Romulus explained that this was now a passage between Rome and the Underworld. In general it was a good plan to keep the gate shut; but there were occasions when it should be opened, to remove spirits from the living world to their true home. The King would decree when the time had come to open it.

  So now they were in touch with all the gods, above and below. The sacred things in the storehouse brought down to them the influence of the sky; the Mundus could open, or close, communication with the Realm of the Dead. The new city was well protected.

  They did not neglect the affairs of this world, for Romulus believed in keeping his followers busy. During the first summer they felled beech trees, and hauled the timber to the top of the hill; soon the bank and ditch which defined the settlement had been strengthened with a stout palisade of upright stakes.
One result of this was that, although Romulus insisted that his city ought to be called Rome after its founder, the citizens usually spoke of the hill on which their huts stood as the palisade, the Palatine.

  Another palisade crowned the steep outlying hill known as the Capitol, where that magical bleeding head had been dug up. A small garrison lived there permanently; for as a fortress it was much stronger than the Palatine, though it was too small to make a city.

  All summer the men worked at building palisades or huts, or by turns guarded the common herd of oxen, sheep and pigs. In autumn all hands were needed for the harvest; when that had been gathered they had barley enough to last them with care until next year. By working hard every day from dawn to sunset they could just keep themselves alive.

  There was discontent among the common spearmen. This city was all very well for Romulus, for his bodyguard of heavy-handed celeres, for the young men who had been appointed chiefs of the new clans. They were rulers in this new community, much greater men than they would have been at home. But the ordinary men in the ranks were living no better than landless labourers; they had gained nothing by leaving their fathers’ farms, where on the evenings of festivals they used to drink wine and court the giris of their village. Men who had bravely left home and kin to win a fortune by the sword were expected to sweat all day in the fields, and in the evening sup frugally on porridge and onions. That was not how they had pictured the lives of successful bandits.

  Marcus shared a little round hut with five other unattached warriors, and every evening they quarrelled about whose turn it was to boil the porridge. Cooking was women’s work, but there were no women to do it. Common sense warned Marcus that soon he must beget children to care for him when he grew too old to plough or fight. In the end he laid his worries at the feet of Aemilius, his adopted patron whose duty it was to solve all the problems of his client followers.