As he passed through the gate he looked closely at the palisade. This was now his city, and at any time he might be called on to man its defences. The grass-grown bank was tall and steeply scarped; patches of raw unweathered soil showed that any gullies made by rainwater were speedily repaired. But many of the stakes above were old and beginning to decay, nearly at the end of their useful life; there were no gaps, but the whole barrier looked flimsy and fragile. It seemed that the Romans did not expect to be besieged.
In such a populous city a strange face might go unremarked. No one stared at him, and since he now wore his cloak thrown over one shoulder in the Roman manner there was nothing obvious to mark him as a newcomer. Down in the market he wandered unnoticed, tormented by the odour of apples boiled in honey. His empty stomach complained, but to go up to a complete stranger and ask for work and food seemed unpleasantly like begging. He stood awkwardly, staring at his own feet, trying to summon the courage to begin.
Then someone greeted him, and at once he felt very much better. A slender man of about thirty, with a short but very black beard, smiled down at him as he slouched in his shyness. He noted in one quick glance that the stranger wore a clean, unmended tunic, and fine shoes of soft leather; except for his round, alien face the man might have been a prosperous Greek townsman. He smiled in reply.
‘You are Macro, the new citizen from the south, aren’t you?’ said the other. ‘My name is Perperna, and I also came here as a grown warrior, though that was more than ten years go. My parents were Etruscan, so I suppose we shall be fellow-tribesmen. Everyone who isn’t a Latin or a Sabine is put into the tribe of the Luceres. That makes a bond between us. If you haven’t eaten breakfast will you join me at this stall?’
The market-woman served them with hot porridge and watered wine, and a little bit of goat’s cheese to finish. Perperna gave nothing in payment, and noticed Macro’s look of surprise.
‘No, breakfast isn’t free to all citizens, though sometimes after a good harvest we share out the extra barley. I’ve heard that in some Greek cities they give free dinners to any citizen in need, but here we are not quite so advanced. In fact we have rich and poor, just as though we had been founded centuries ago; and unless you hold land you must work hard for your food. It’s just that this stall happens to belong to me. Years ago the King gave me two ploughlands because I had been lucky in a battle, and since then I have done well enough to buy three more. My people run several stalls in the market, and sometimes I breakfast down here to keep them up to the mark. Today I was looking for you. I gather you are in need of work, and I am in need of citizens to work for me. Don’t make up your mind immediately. Come to my house and discuss it over a bowl of wine.’
It was a fine brick house with a tiled roof, standing on the very edge of the Palatine. The palisade blocked the view across the valley, but a breeze brought clean air from the open fields and the distant fringe of beech-forest. As he reclined on a sheepskin, looking across a stone-paved floor to his host reclining on the other side of the wine-bowl, Macro felt that he had come to a civilisation that was almost Greek.
Perperna was talking, pleasantly and fluently, in simple Italian that any foreigner could understand.
‘I must begin by explaining our institutions, before you can understand what I want of you. Every family in Rome came here from somewhere else, for the place is not forty years old. So in the nature of things we can’t possess a nobility. But we have a Council of three hundred leading men, and I happen to be one of the councillors. No one has yet decided whether this rank shall be hereditary. Also I hold five ploughlands, five times as much land as is held by the average citizen. This land will descend to my eldest son, and it would be natural if he were appointed to take my place on the Council when I am dead. In short, I am trying to found a noble house. For that I must have followers.’
‘You wish to hire me to follow you. But against whom, and how earnestly? Is it a matter of shouting down your enemies in the assembly, of cutting throats in secret, or of open civil war?’
‘It’s a pleasure to explain these things to a Greek. You see in a flash what I am trying to say. But your conclusions are rather extreme. I don’t quite know what I shall want from my followers. But I know that I shall need followers, for all the other prominent councillors are gathering as many as they can. We have so many of these retainers in the city that we have invented a special name for them. We call them clients. I believe it’s an Italian word, though I don’t know what it meant before Rome existed. A client has all the privileges of a citizen, a vote in the assembly and a place in the levy of spearmen; but normally he votes the same way as his lord, and follows him to battle. In return the lord sees that his follower doesn’t starve, and speaks up for him in the assembly if he gets into trouble with the law. It’s quite open and above board. You will find dozens of poor but respectable citizens who will answer, if you ask them, that they are the clients of some great lord. No one is ashamed of it.’
‘But you still haven’t told me how firmly this tie binds. Can I stop being your client when I want to, either to follow some other lord or to set up on my own? And must I fight for you, right or wrong, even if you break the laws of the city? Must I fight for you ever, in armed combat? Or is it rather a matter of shouting abuse and throwing an occasional stone?’
‘I can’t answer those questions accurately, because they have not yet been determined,’ said Perperna with a smile. ‘You must remember that the city is only thirty-five years old, and so far we have not fought a civil war. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll support you for a few days while you learn your way about; I ask nothing in return except your friendship. Say that I do it because I like Greeks. There will be no obligation on either side. In the meantime I shall introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine, one of the first men I met when I myself came to the city. Marcus Aemilius has been here since the foundation. He’s an old man now, officially discharged from the levy; though he still keeps his vote in the assembly, and might help to man the palisade in an emergency. The point is that he’s most respectable; everyone admires him as an honest, upright householder. Yet since he came here he has been a client of the chief of the Aemilian clan. His first lord died last year, and he automatically became the client of the heir, who is young enough to be his son. When you know old Marcus you will understand that anything he does must be honourable in Roman eyes. He’s the best man to tell you exactly what obligations a client undertakes. He’s a really countrybred Latin, of the same stock as King Romulus. The laws of Rome were made by people like him, to bind people like him. He understands them by the light of nature, because they suit all his native prejudices.’
‘That’s a fair offer, and I accept it,’ Macro answered with gratitude. ‘While I eat your bread I shall reckon myself your follower, but if I find the obligation too exacting I shall warn you openly and withdraw.’
He took anther long drink of wine, to nerve himself before speaking again; for he knew that what he was about to say might be considered too frank for politeness.
‘Lord Perperna, for at present you are my lord, tell me this. If civil war is a thing unheard of in Rome why do you spend your wine and barley in hiring more followers, especially young unattached followers of military age?’
‘Rome is thirty-five years old, and has never seen civil war,’ Perperna answered with a slow grin. ‘But there must be a first time for everything, just as once there was a first sunrise. Many things have never yet happened in Rome. In particular, we have never yet been faced with the choice of a King.’
At this frank reply Macro buried his face in his cup, and when he spoke again it was to ask for instructions in his daily duties.
‘I don’t ask anything of you today. Just call on Marcus Aemilius and tell him I sent you. When the assembly meets it will be correct for you to follow me there in company with my other clients. There is food for you in my kitchen whenever you feel hungry, and you may sleep somewhere about the house. Do
n’t sleep with the slaves, though, or you will be despised. The porch would be the best place. By the way, I suppose you don’t mind sleeping alone? Or are you still afraid that something may creep up on you in the middle of the night?’
‘Oh no, my lord. All my fears are at rest. King Romulus performed a most elaborate ritual, and my past has been buried for ever.’
‘H’m, it was a Latin ritual, I suppose? I am a Rasenna, and we have a different method of appeasing the gods. But that is a thing we can talk over when we have more leisure. It’s getting on for mid-morning, no time to be sitting over the wine-bowl. My steward will tell you how to find Marcus Aemilius. At this hour he should be at home, for he’s too old to work in the fields.’
Macro understood that his meeting with this old man was really important, and within an hour set out to find him.
In the evening blankets and a pillow were ready for him in the porch of Perperna’s great house. Three or four others slept there that night, colonists come up on business from their cities and a tenant-farmer who lived mostly on his remote holding. All were free citizens, and in some measure dependent on Perperna. His slaves slept in an inner room, where their proximity could not contaminate citizens. Macro settled down with a sigh of content. For the first time since that terrible day at Cumae he could sleep easily, without fear of the pursuers. In this strange city he was well established, and the future seemed hopeful.
Marcus Aemilius was a good man, the kind of simple honest rustic you heard about in the songs of nostaligc poets. He had seen the foundation of Rome, and did not deny that it had been founded in bloodshed and guilt; though he was reluctant to speak of these unhappy events, and instead told at great length of the bleeding head found on the Capitol and of all the other omens that had made plain the stupendous supernatural endowment of his favourite city of Mars. Since his youth he had been a client of Aemilius, so dependent that he even took the name of his lord. Without hesitation he had decided that the obligation was lifelong, and had transferred his loyalty to the heir. In the same way he had assumed that in following his lord he could never offend against the laws of the city; for his lord (patron was the Italian word he used) would never command him to do anything unlawful.
In other words, no one had ever thought out the contradictions of this odd institution of clientship. But a Greek mind must think out everything to the very roots. Macro owed a loyalty to the city which sheltered him; he owed another loyalty to the patron who fed him. Before these loyalties came into conflict he must make up his mind which he would put first.
One thing was certain: it could not be shameful to live as Marcus Aemilius lived. Therefore clientship was an honourable status. Another thing was certain: he had shaken off the pursuers. In fact he was a very lucky man.
But he could not sleep soundly; perhaps because after an idle day he was not tired enough for deep sleep. When he dropped off for a minute he saw his brother’s white face staring up at him above a gashed and bleeding neck; twice he dreamed of his brother, and woke with a start of fear. But he had not dreamed of the pursuers, and when he looked round him there was no creature that might be one of the Old Women in disguise. So he made a lucky sign with his fingers, mumbled a Greek formula which ought to placate any god who lived in that porch; and composed himself to rest until dawn, even if he could not sleep properly.
In the morning he faced another day of pleasant idleness. He was sure of food and shelter and protection, and again and again he might refresh himself in the delightful proximity of a friendly crowd. That was the keenest pleasure of all. For two months he had wandered up the central spine of Italy, in safety since his pollution was so fearful that even hardened brigands would not approach him; but also in utter solitude. When he entered a village the children were snatched away, any fires burning in the open were hastily smothered, doors were barred and even watchdogs kept their distance. Some responsible elderly man would put out a little heap of parched barley on a green leaf, or a hunk of bread on the naked dust. It was his duty to eat all of it, or to take away any fragments left over; so that his pollution should not remain in the settlement. Of course he must see to it that his shadow did not fall on a house, or even on a cultivated field. He knew all this without ever having been told about it; just as he knew that he must not leave any material trace of his passage, a worn-out shoe or a rag from his cloak or even a splinter from the ragged branch that served him as a staff. Perhaps the most burdensome prohibition was that he must never use fire.
It seemed to him quite natural that strangers should see at a glance that he was defiled by bloodguilt in its most ghastly form. It was the kind of thing that ought to leave some physical mark; very likely an emissary of the Old Women was all the time fluttering above his head. He never understood that his countenance, his manner of walking, the way he held himself, all proclaimed that he was an outcast. Sometimes as he entered a village he shouted a warning; but he was not aware of it, because often he shouted at the top of his voice the guilt which filled his mind, not noticing whether he spoke his thoughts or merely endured them in silence. He accepted the fact that this crime had cut him off from mankind.
Naturally he had not attempted to enter a gated city. To go into such a place would be to bring down pollution on the innocent; but he could not go in if he would, for the guard by the gate would spear him if he came too close.
Now it was wonderful to stand at a busy corner, feeling the impact of hurrying citizens as they jostled him; a child chasing a puppy ran into his legs, and he laughed aloud with delight.
But though his body no longer carried pollution his mind was not at ease. His brother’s white face rose continually before his eyes; it was not so much that he feared vengeance as that he could not escape remorse. He knew himself to be worse than other men, even though he had been cleansed from the consequences of his crime.
After the evening assembly he found Perperna loitering in the porch, enjoying the cool night breeze. There was no one else within hearing, and he grasped his opportunity. ‘My lord,’ he said, approaching with deference, ‘you are an Etruscan, a trained servant of the gods. Will you set my mind at rest? Tell me, has King Romulus cleansed me from the guilt of fratricide?’
‘Well, has he? You ought to know. If you feel clean you are clean. The vengeance of the underworld affects only the mind. There is no mark on your body, so it must be clean. But then there never was a mark, even when you felt most deeply accursed. Whether your spirit is marked you can tell, but not I.’
‘I feel that I have been cleansed. There is no pursuit. But continually I see the dead face of my brother.’
‘Of course. What did you expect? The King can save you from the pursuers. He cannot make you into a good man if you are a bad one.’
‘Can anyone do that?’
‘Someone, perhaps, but not King Romulus. Our King is a mighty warrior, and he rules his city with prudence. But he does not rule as the representative of heaven. What he has is the most astounding luck. He hasn’t earned it, it came at his birth. For all I know he may be truly the son of Mars; though that is not a matter in which his own evidence is any proof. Who knows, who can know, who was really his own father?’
‘I see, my lord. Very well. Here I am safe from vengeance. I shall live and die a Roman, and not seek out some more powerful priest-king. And I will gladly be your client, to serve you as Roman clients serve their patrons. Have you any commands for me?’
‘That isn’t easy to say, just at present. In Cumae you were a sailor, I understand, and here we have no ships. Perhaps you could help in my smithy. I employ a first-class armourer, a free man and a fugitive from Etruria like myself. He’s always asking for more hands to help him, and it isn’t prudent to permit slaves to handle arms. Yes, the smithy would be a good place for you. But your chief duty is to be within call when the assembly meets or when anything unusual happens. You must pick out a good panoply, one that will fit you; and keep it within reach, especially at night. If I knew what
was going to happen I could tell you what to do. All I really know is that something will happen soon, and that when it happens a band of armed clients will be useful to the house of Perperna.’
It seemed to Macro that perhaps his patron thought to employ him as a hired assassin; but then what employment could be more suitable to a man who had murdered his brother? He agreed with deference, and went off to arrange with the steward about some more private sleeping-place than the windswept porch of his patron’s house.
Rome was not a Greek city, but it was not such a bad place to live in. The work of the smithy was interesting, when he was allowed to do more than fetch and carry. As far as he could gather the iron came from Etruria and was paid for in live oxen. But there was an air of mystery about its arrival. He surmised that somewhere the trade was illegal, though in Rome it was open enough. Probably the Etruscans forbade the export of raw iron.
The smith made nothing but iron swords and flat strips of bronze to be fastened on the leather foundation of a corselet. The corselets were without ornament, and the swords nothing but heavy, ill-balanced knives. But, though ugly and clumsy, they were cheap. There were many other smithies in Rome, enough for the armourers to form a guild of their own; and as a result every citizen owned an iron sword and a complete panoply.
The average smith is a talkative man, and his forge, with its fire which burns all day, something of a social centre in cold weather. But Perperna’s smith was a morose and tongue-tied Etruscan, knowing only a few words of Italian. He never spoke to his helpers except to give orders; and when he muttered spells in verse, as he did to hearten himself on a difficult job, they were always in incomprehensible Etruscan. There were no visitors except on business. Work in the smithy was dull.
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