‘That’s a proud boast, and it’s more or less true – while King Romulus lives. When he goes there will be trouble. All the same, thirty-six years of success and security is something of an achievement, even if his city should die with its founder.’
But that supposition was more than old Marcus would accept. With an angry snort he went out to the kitchen.
It began to look as though there might be trouble while King Romulus still reigned. Everything he did was for the welfare of Rome, as he explained afterwards; but he took more and more on himself, and sometimes the assembly was unwilling to ratify the measures he had accomplished for their welfare.
Nowadays the assembly was poorly attended. Settled peace meant that there were no questions of foreign policy, and the meetings came round so frequently that often there was nothing else of importance to be discussed. But Macro never missed a session. He had no other interests to occupy his time, and if civil war was coming (as he suspected) close attention to politics might enable him to choose the winning side. Besides, his patron never missed a meeting; and Perperna could not feel happy in a public place unless he was accompanied by a group of stalwart clients.
These meetings of the assembly, though frequent, had become empty forms. The King no longer sat on an ivory chair; instead he reclined on a couch like the image of Jupiter Stator at his ritual banquet. He wore a long robe of the purple cloth which came only from oversea, a cloth so costly that no one else in the city could afford it; his shoes, of a special design, were not remarkably costly in themselves but so peculiarly his own that no common citizen dared to imitate them. His rowdy, brusque celeres crowded about him, ready to overawe any opposition; from their manner it seemed likely that they carried concealed daggers, though it was the law that all should come to the assembly unarmed.
Before each meeting of the assembly there was normally a meeting of the Senate; but Perperna grumbled to his followers that this also had become an empty form. ‘Our last remaining privilege is that we learn the King’s commands a little before the common run of citizens,’ he complained. ‘The rule is that no question can be introduced into the assembly until the Senate has discussed it; at least, that was the rule when I became a Senator. Now the King tells us what he has done, and we agree that it was rightly done. Then the decision is made known to the assembly, and they also ratify it. There is no debate, because no one dares to speak. For an important matter he gets our consent before he acts, instead of acting first and telling us after; but that is the last remains of our power. He does that much only out of courtesy to us, not because we could hinder him if we disagreed.’
Presently King Romulus exceeded even these bounds. One day the state guesthouse in the middle of the Quirinal stood empty. For ten years it had been inhabited by a score of Etruscan nobles, members of the ruling aristocracy of Veii. The citizens had grown used to seeing these aliens wandering about the streets, peering scornfully at religious ceremonies and searching the market for quaint Italian souvenirs. Sometimes their amused superiority was hard to bear, but their presence was a memorial of the defeat of their city. So long as they were held hostage in Rome the Veientines would not dare to advance across the river.
Now they had gone, and no one had seen their going. In the assembly the King announced airily that he had sent them away at their own request. It was absurd, he added, to continue these precautions. The Etruscans had already proved that they would keep their treaties; or did the citizens think that ten years of honest dealing was not sufficient proof? Now the business was finished. But it would be fitting that the citizens should ratify his decision, taken for the common good.
An angry Sabine rose to reply. He would have liked to climb on the turf platform from which the King had just addressed the crowd, but he could not push his way through the celeres. His cloak bore the coloured edging that was the badge of a Senator; Macro learned from a neighbour that he was Publius Tatius, one of the original Sabine settlers.
‘The King has gone too far, spearmen,’ he called from the floor of the meeting-place, when he saw that the celeres would not make way for him. ‘This matter touches the safety of the whole city, and such a step should not be taken without the consent of the citizens. But even if our safety were not at stake, the King has no right to squander trophies gained by the valour of all the Romans. Perhaps the men of Veii have shown themselves to be trustworthy, though when I was a child my elders warned me never to trust an Etruscan. Even so, the trophy was worth keeping. We Sabines don’t often get the better of Etruscans. It was comforting to see those pampered, conceited god-fanciers hanging about in our city because they did not dare to disobey us. Luckily the damage done so far is not very serious. If they left this morning they can’t yet be home. We must just send a messenger after them, telling them to return. The messenger can explain that there has been a misunderstanding; the King forgot that all matters concerned with peace and war need the consent of the assembly. Now the assembly has overruled him, and the hostages must return… Shall we vote on it now, lord King, or does anyone else wish to speak?’
‘There is no need for another speech,’ the King said firmly, rising with a frown from his godlike couch. ‘You have heard both points of view. I wish only to add that Publius Tatius is mistaken when he tells you that our victory over Veii was the achievement of all the Romans. Alone I overthrew fourteen hundred Velentines, while my army was busy fighting the rest of them. Poets have sung of that exploit, and every child knows it. Now you will vote, either to confirm my action which wins us the friendship of this powerful foreign city, or to bring back a useless and expensive trophy – merely to gratify the vanity of uncouth Sabines who dare not face Etruscans unless they have a Latin to lead them.’
Macro heard a hiss of indrawn breath; as though Perperna standing just in front of him, had heard something so remarkable that he could not contain his surprise. Otherwise there was no reaction. Soon the celeres brought out the long ropes which formed the voting lobbies. There were two pens, one for Yes and one for No, and each could hold about a hundred citizens. Those who had voted moved over to the far side of the assembly, but today they had not long to wait. At the fourth counting the No enclosure was not filled. The King called out once to inquire whether anyone else wished to vote No. Then he announced that the assembly had ratified his action.
This was the first time Macro had seen a genuine division in the assembly; usually assent was given by acclamation or by show of hands. It seemed to him a reasonably fair way of counting heads, even though it was unobtrusively weighted in favour of the King. Those who would not vote at all were reckoned among his supporters. Those who voted No must do so in the presence of the King, who might perhaps remember their names; but he was entitled to know which of the citizens were his opponents. Perhaps the result might be rigged, in moderation; but if a great majority of the assembly opposed him the King must give way.
The men who had voted No were all Sabines; they had been standing in a group beside Publius Tatius. That made the affair look like organised defiance. But then if opinions differed open defiance was healthier than secret disloyalty.
But Macro, with his memories of the public quarrels and extravagant insults of Greek political life, was the only man present who was not frightened and depressed by the breach. Every other citizen left the assembly with a worried look, and Perperna was so excited that he discussed the crisis with his clients as they all climbed up to the Palatine together.
‘Publius and the King were disputing about nothing,’ he said with a weary sigh. ‘It doesn’t matter whether we keep those hostages or send them back. As Publius said, they are a comforting trophy; the Veientines will keep faith with us anyway, as the King reminded us. No, the dispute doesn’t matter. It’s the King’s speech that worries me.’
‘What was wrong with it?’ asked Macro, seeing that everyone else was too depressed to keep up this enthralling conversation. ‘I thought he spoke adequately, in his bullying way, and I have hear
d Greeks trying to persuade Greeks.’
‘He got what he wanted, but he was quite reckless in his argument. He behaved as though nothing mattered except getting the assembly to agree with him tonight. Hitherto he has taken the line that all right-thinking men must support him, and that his opponents were an insignificant minority. Tonight he let it be seen quite casually that he regards Publius Tatius as the leader of the Sabines, and that he will overcome Sabine opposition by the votes of his Latin followers. That’s the way to civil war, but it would be the end of Rome. At present we are as strong as the combined Latin League, and stronger than the great city of Veii. What will be our strength after the King’s celeres have killed the best of our warriors? That was frightening enough. If the King had not insulted the whole Sabine nation nearly three hundred of them would not have united to vote for Publius. But the other point is even worse; it shows that the King is losing his common sense. I suppose if you listen every night to poets singing your praises you begin to believe the nonsense they bellow over your wine-bowl. The King solemnly argued that because he alone had defeated the army of Veii he alone might impose terms of peace without consulting the assembly. Every child knows the song about his deeds – he’s quite right so far. But even the children don’t believe it, any more than they believe that a real cow jumped over the moon. We all know it’s a lie, or at best a slab of gross flattery; all of us except King Romulus. If he believes the flattery of the poets he will soon be thinking himself divine. It’s the end of him. He is breaking up. We must make plans to face what will come after.’
‘What ought to come after, lord patron? Is there an heir of his line? I gather he has no sons?’
‘He married that silly bitch Hersilia for her pretty face, and she gave him only two children. After she died he never bothered to marry again. No care for the future! A feckless King! His son Avillius sickened and died. You can hardly say he was killed by the vengeance of the gods, though of course there were old followers of Remus who said it. The boy just came out in spots and died, like a great many other boys of his age that hot summer. The girl is still alive, but she doesn’t count. Prima was always a bit queer in the head, and she got religion in the silly unbalanced fashion of these Latins; they don’t understand the true service of the gods. She persuaded herself that her mission in life is to keep alight the lucky fire in the King’s old hut. To have leisure for that duty she took a vow of perpetual virginity; she will be past child-bearing by now, though the fire burns well if that is any consolation. She ought to have been married to some promising noble, who would succeed when her father dies. That kind of inheritance is actually more common among Latins than straightforward succession from father to son. They think that it’s more lucky, or more natural, or some nonsense of that kind. So now there’s no one to come after. I suppose Romulus has persuaded himself that the son of Mars will live for ever. He’s wrong. He will die quite soon. If he doesn’t show some ordinary prudence he will die at the next assembly. Challenging the whole Sabine nation! Setting his young louts to bully Publius Tatius, who was cutting throats before they were born! I suppose that when he puts on that purple cloak he thinks he is Mars. But he isn’t. He isn’t a god, he is one of us. We shall deal with him.’
Perperna had grumbled himself out of breath. Except for a few snorts, he finished the journey in silence.
All through the autumn there was trouble between the young Sabine followers of Publius Tatius and the King’s celeres. The duty of the celeres was to arrest lawbreakers, not to punish them. In theory they went unarmed within the sacred pomoerium, though it was well known that they carried hidden daggers. Hitherto they had been able to seize any citizen whom the King wished to put on trial; because there were three hundred of them, all strong young men. Now the young Sabines, also about three hundred strong, would often come to the rescue of their victims.
An offender could not be punished until he had been judged and found guilty by a vote in the assembly. But he could not be tried unless he was physically present before his judges, and custom decreed that no man might be bound or fettered until he had been found guilty by his fellow-citizens. An offender had only to keep out of the way while the assembly was in session and he would never come to trial. That had not happened hitherto, for the celeres could make his life so uncomfortable that he would either submit to trial or else vanish from Rome of his own free will (which was the customary solution). Now anyone persecuted by the celeres could rely on powerful protectors.
Violence between citizens is the downfall of any city. Another equally fatal distemper is lack of respect for private property. Macro was the first to recognise the danger, for it was a truism of his Greek education; but soon these Italian villagers who were trying to live as citizens recognised it also. Luckily the trouble was slow in coming to a head. There had never been very much serious crime in Rome; for thieves and murderers, who could live comfortably in the greenwood, had no incentive to join this new community. Now valuable tools and weapons began to disappear, and there was an ugly murder – a jealous husband found with his throat cut. Instead of running away the suspected slayer swaggered through the streets, and married the widow immediately after the funeral. Nothing could be done about it, unless the private vengeance of the dead man’s kin should bring in the blood-feud to divide more deeply the already divided city.
‘Your consecrated pomoerium is not up to its work,’ said Macro lightly when his patron referred to this latest scandal. ‘Isn’t it supposed to keep strife from entering the walls? Perhaps the power with which the King endowed it has grown weak after more than thirty years. He should go round it again with his lucky plough.’
‘It’s not the fault of the pornoerium. I’ve heard accounts of the foundation from old men who saw it done, and everything was performed as it should be. A genuine Rasenna couldn’t have done it better.’
‘But the first man to enter was a fratricide,’ said Macro.
‘Very true, and we all forget it much too easily. There’s hardly anyone left who remembers Romulus as an ordinary man. When we think of his crime we think only that the foundation of the city was marked by a peculiarly striking human sacrifice. In a sense, shed blood strengthens a wall; any haruspex can see that. But this city was founded on strife and murder, and strife and murder must dwell within its walls. What has kept it going so far is the luck of King Romulus. I have been looking carefully into the omens, but I can’t see what will come to us after he is gone.’
‘Tell me, patron, what will you do when the King dies?’ asked Macro boldly. ‘My work in your smithy doesn’t pay for my meals, so I suppose you keep me as a hired spear. Are you gathering mercenaries to make yourself the next King of Rome? If you are, you need more of us, and you must take us into your confidence. I have no ties anywhere, and I will follow you against any foe. But some of the others won’t fight against their fellow-citizens unless you prepare them for it.’
‘Don’t dream that one day you will be the favourite of a mighty tyrant. I have no ambition to be King of Rome. I haven’t done so badly, for a man who arrived as a penniless fugitive. I want to found a noble family, and to do that I must keep hold of my wealth. That’s why I need armed retainers, so that my sons will stay rich even after I am gone. But my family is not worthy to rule in Rome. I am the last true Rasenna of my house; the boys have an Italian grandmother. Land and servants will be enough for my children. As for myself, I would rather be a simple spearman than King of this turbulent city. Rome is a good place to get rich in, but it isn’t important enough or civilised enough to be worth the labour of ruling it.’
‘Yes, it’s the home of the second best, isn’t it?’ Macro agreed sadly. ‘I want to be a noble horseman more than I want anything else in the world, and here the few horsemen are Italian villagers. I shall never be a horseman of Rome. But here I am safe from the pursuers. I eat cooked food and sleep under a roof. That’s enough to be getting on with. When the next war comes I shall carry my spear for Rome.’
‘You may do better than sleep under a roof. If I continue to prosper you shall sleep under your own roof. It’s a pity we are still so short of women, but we shall find you a wife somewhere. But before you found a family we must wipe out your unfortunate past. I could have done that myself in my young days, when I lived in a city where the gods were served correctly. Here, among ignorant savages, I can’t order the ritual as it should be performed. What King Romulus has done for you probably won’t survive him; and the omens say he will die soon. Well, we must not look too far into the future. Rome harbours us now. When trouble comes we shall surmount it, or move on somewhere else.’
In winter Macro found Rome a dull place. Its people were mostly ploughmen, who in their native villages might have displayed a quaint rustic charm; he could recognise the beauty of simple agricultural life, with its ordered round of festivals that were little more than jollifications, and its frank interest in the reproductive aspect of nature. But men of that sort transplanted to a crowded settlement could not cope with their own squalor; their wooden cabins, that might have looked functional scattered among fields and covered with creeper, were mere boxes when set down in rows. On the Palatine there was no unofficial meeting-place where men could gossip together; though the dwellers on the Quirinal, all Sabines connected by cousinship, would drop into one another’s kitchens when they had nothing better to do. Down in the valley, where the legendary Asylum had flourished in the old days, there was a tavern for visitors; but it served disgusting food and wine at an extortionate price, and most of the customers were bandits on holiday. When the weather was too bad for work in the fields the true citizens of Rome stayed in their own homes; or if they went into a strange house it was as clients to curry favour with their patrons, not as equals visiting their equals.
Founding Fathers Page 25
