The King, worried by the temper of the city, took to calling meetings of the Senate in especially sacred places. At these meetings, as Perperna made known to his clients with some contempt, all the Latin Senators debated among themselves about new religious ceremonies to avert the disfavour of the gods; the Sabines contributed nothing because they had come to hate the King, and the Luceres also kept silence because it was really no good trying to show these childish Latins how to go about such a solemn business.
‘Romulus may be the son of Mars for all I know,’ Perperna said with smiling scorn. ‘Mars is capable of anything; for example he has given victory to these fantastic Romans, But even if Romulus has a divine father he is not himself divine; no one has been so foolhardy as to suggest it. Therefore these meetings to devise some form of intercession for the King’s welfare are a waste of time. The King is mortal. One day he will die. I think that day will come soon.’
Macro found it curious that everyone should assume that the King’s life was in danger. Romulus was an elderly man, but his health was excellent. It seemed odd that seers and wise men should go about to devise ceremonies for his preservation.
One of these ceremonies was to be held outside the city, at a marshy place near the river known as the Goats’ Mere. The auspicious day chosen was the 9th after the full moon, during the greatest heat of midsummer. All the citizens were to attend, since the 9th day after the full moon was a regular public holiday; the King would offer a bull to Mars, and the whole Senate, standing round him, would take vows for his continued prosperity. When the magnates had done their duty the common people would contribute their share of good wishes; the celeres would enforce the attendance of every free spearman. In this way a much-disliked ruler would gain the devotions of all his subjects, unless some of them were firm enough to defy the King’s command.
Macro would have attended anyway, because this was the sort of characteristically Italian rite which interested him as an onlooker. Rather oddly, Perperna reinforced the King’s command, ordering all his clients to march to the assembly with their patron. On the previous night he feasted them all in his hall; but he himself remained in a little templum he had marked out in the yard behind his house, fasting and purifying himself with sweet-smelling smoke and in general invoking all the divine protection that could be called down by a learned and pious Rasenna. That was even more odd. Omens had declared that the King’s life was in danger, but there was no hint that harm threatened any Senator of the tribe of Luceres.
At the appointed time they marched in procession to the dried-up marsh. It was a very long procession, for in thirty-seven years Rome had become a crowded city. All marched unarmed, in the white cloaks which had become the regulation full dress of a Roman citizen. But in such a populous community there were many grades of distinction. Senators wore shoes of a special pattern, and their cloaks had purple hems. The noble young horsemen who came next wore rings on their fingers. Among the ordinary citizens fathers of families and veterans of great battles came before the newcomers. Macro saw that in a crowd so careful of precedence Perperna would have little benefit from his lowly clients, who might not walk near him. He had made such a point of their all being present, and had taken such trouble to see that they were all ready for anything, that he must be expecting some disturbance; but he could not expect it during the march.
At the Mere a white bull awaited them, held by the King’s herdsmen. But slaves could have not part in such a solemn public sacrifice. Before anything else was done the herdsmen withdrew, and their place was taken by three eminent Senators, one from each tribe. Publius Tatius represented the Sabines, and Perperna the Luceres. For the Latins there stood forth Julius Proculus, an undistinguished warrior but a descendant of the fabled Aeneas and therefore kin to the King; he had been at the foundation of the city, but in the last thirty-seven years he had done nothing of importance. That he should represent the Latins showed once more that among Latins good birth got a man farther than personal achievement.
The citizens were drawn up in a rough circle, with the bull and the altar at its centre; but they were still arranged in careful order of precedence, Senators nearest the middle, then the young horsemen, the common herd on the outside. Macro could not see well over several rows of intervening heads, but those who could see relayed the information that the present delay was caused by the bull’s irreligious behaviour. A sacrifice of this solemnity would be useless unless the beast showed himself a willing victim; but for a long time he would not stretch out his neck and lay his head on the altar, even when attractive barley-cakes were spread before him.
The weather was oppressively hot, but they were spared the direct rays of the midsummer sun. Clouds had been gathering all morning; and now, at midday, they seemed to loom lower in the sky. Presently there would be a thunderstorm. If the lightning came before the bull was killed it would make the whole ritual unlucky and the rite must be postponed; but lightning after a sacrifice signified that the gods were grateful for the offering and was reckoned to be a good omen. That was one more reason for persuading this tiresome bull to co-operate.
At last Macro, craning over the heads of the crowd, saw the gleam of a bronze axe, and heard after the thud of the stroke the last bellow of the dying bull. Everyone relaxed. The sacrifice had beaten the thunderstorm, and prayers and vows could now be recited at leisure.
Then came something quite unexpected. While the great men, hidden at the centre of the crowd, were presumably occupied in eviscerating the bull to inspect its liver, fog suddenly swirled up from the river-bank. In Rome fog was rare at mid-summer, rarer still at noon. But to Macro there seemed nothing supernatural in this thick white mist. He knew that mist was water, drawn up by the heat of the sun. Water was at hand in the shrunken river-bed, and though the sun was hidden the heat prove that it was shining vigorously somewhere above the clouds.
This was not how his neighbours saw it. That mist should veil the sacrifice just as the King was about to read the omens seemed to them terrible evidence of the anger of the gods. In panic someone shouted: ‘Get away before the thunderbolt strikes. Jupiter Stator will protect us. We shall be safe in his templum.’
That templum, surrounding its genuine tiled house for the god to rest in, lay only half a mile from the Goats’ Mere. When one man began to run down the valley others followed, until the whole population of Rome streamed beside the river-bank. Macro went with the crowd, though he was not afraid. A man who has survived pursuit by the Old Women is not easily upset by portents of divine displeasure, and he had noted, as he turned to run, that the Senators were still standing in a close throng round the altar. If those superstitious men, so near the centre of attraction, did not seek refuge the danger could not be very pressing. But it is unwise for a new citizen to stand out against the tide of public feeling. He did not wish to be known for the rest of his life as an unbelieving eccentric. It was easier to go with the crowd.
Presently a breeze sprang up; the mist vanished, and at the same time the clouds cleared from the sky. Soon the sun shone from a field of intense and flawless blue. In the heat birds chirped languidly, the river sparkled in the sun’s rays, two magpies flashed their particoloured wings over the Capitol. The populace gathered in the templum of Jupiter Stator saw them as flying to the right, and two magpies together, in any quarter of the heavens, are a favourable omen. At this sign the crowd took heart, until the bravest spearman began to walk back to the place of sacrifice.
Macro, among the first to return, thought it curious that all the Senators should still be clustered round the altar. It seemed a striking vindication of the King’s choice of councillors that not one of them should yield to superstitious panic when all the common people ran away; it was even more curious that they should wait patiently in exactly the place where they had been standing when the rite was interrupted. Surely during the wait one of them would have felt an urge to stretch his legs, even if not one had enough sense of responsibility to come and rea
ssure the frightened commons. But what had kept all these men busy while the inferiors were dodging the anger of heaven?
At the approach of the citizens the Senators divided their ranks. Through the gap could be seen the rough altar of piled stones, the carcass of the dead bull, the implements of sacrifice piled in an untidy heap. There was no sign of the King, who should be holding up the liver for all to see, while he announced the message it conveyed to the city.
The first comers halted. To leave the assembly without saluting the King would be discourteous, even if the ceremony was finished. But where was the King? Surely he would not leave privately without dismissing his faithful people? Romulus enjoyed being saluted; it was not his custom to slip away from a function incognito.
Then the three tribal leaders came forward. Julius Proculus was their spokesman; but Perperna and Publius stood just behind him, their eyes seeking out their supporters among the Sabines and the Luceres. Julius spoke briefly, in the tone of one reciting a sacred formula.
‘Spearmen, the gods have called our King. The mist covered him, and he vanished. He is now with Skyfather. Go quietly to your homes. Do not mourn him, for he is not dead; he will never die. The Senate will look to the safety of the city until it is fitting to hold another assembly. Then we shall decide on our future form of government. For the present, go in peace – go singly – go to your homes.’
This was something too terrible and too unexpected to be greeted with excited discussion. The spearmen took the advice given them; in ones and twos they walked silently to their homes.
Macro had no other home than Perperna’s great house. He was waiting by the porch when his patron came in.
‘Well, Greek, you see that our omens have a meaning after all,’ the Etruscan called to him. ‘Livers and the flight of birds both indicated that something would happen to Romulus, King of Rome; and something happened. Now listen carefully to what I tell you, for there is a great deal you must do. First you must gather all my other clients, and even the ablebodied slaves. If any neighbours come here to seek protection ask them to join the band also. Give every man a sword, and see that he carries it. Let them tuck their swords under their tunics in deference to the law which forbids us to go armed within the pomoerium; but they need not hide them carefully. No harm if strangers see we are prepared. When you have numbered the garrison collect a shield for each man and stack them in the hall near the door. The men are not to carry their shields unless fighting breaks out, for that would be a serious breach of the law. But you must have the shields handy, and they must know where they are. Presently I shall come out and give more detailed orders. But at this moment I carry something under my cloak, something very sacred, and I must dispose of it properly before it breaks loose and spreads its influence in places where it would do no good.’
Perperna pulled the end of his cloak over his head, as a man should who is about to enter the presence of the gods; then he walked through the hall to squeeze himself into the narrow cupboard where he kept his sacred things. The doors of this cupboard normally stood open; when he had pulled them shut there was just room for a man to stand within. Macro heard his voice raised in an Etruscan invocation; then there was silence, and after a pause he came out. He looked pale and shaken, as though he had just done something dangerous.
He had left the doors open behind him, and Macro could see that the objects within were now differently arranged. In the place of honour on the principal shelf stood a small clay jar, carefully stoppered with wet mud. There was no design on the jar, not even the conventional circles which sometimes indicate a face it is unlucky to depict. Whatever was contained in the jar was completely anonymous – and very full of power.
‘That’s got it penned in for the present,’ Perperna muttered to himself. ‘If the ordinary rules hold good what I have just said should keep it in its place. It’s an honourable place, too, and he ought to be satisfied. All the same, he may not be bound by ordinary spells. Hey, if any of you men dream odd dreams tonight you must let me know at once.’
‘I must go and bathe,’ he went on in an ordinary voice. ‘I don’t know whether I have been defiled by a corpse or consecrated by touching something too holy for mortals to handle. But in either case I must clean off the infection.’
The lady Vibenna came forward, gloomy and taciturn as always. Without a word she led him to the bath house behind the kitchen.
Later, as his retainers were eating their supper, Perperna addressed them again. He was much more cheerful after several cups of strong wine, and the same medicine had encouraged his household.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said almost gaily, ‘I’m grateful to you for coming here to protect this fine house; but it looks as though your help may not be needed after all. Tonight Rome has no ruler. I expected pillage, if not open civil war. But it seems that our fellow-citizens have settled down to live in peace together. At the next assembly we shall decide on our future. Tonight we must keep the doors barred, and you must all take your turn as watchmen. Tomorrow, if all is still peaceful, you may go home.’
‘But what actually happened?’ called a voice. ‘All we know is that King Romulus can’t be found.’
‘That’s as much as anyone knows,’ answered Perperna. ‘I was beside him, since I represented our tribe at the sacrifice. The mist came down thick, and when it cleared there was no King to be seen. We all know that omens had foretold his end. Now he has vanished. He isn’t dead, for there was no trace of a body. I suppose some god called him away. He may come back to us, or he may not. But if Rome is to continue we must devise a form of government. That will be the task of the next assembly.’
‘Why should Rome continue? It’s not much of a place, except for its fine army. The Sabines hate it. Even the Latins and the Luceres would not be very, disappointed if the whole concern were wound up,’ said Macro. But he said it in a low voice, almost under his breath, waiting to see if any of his neighbours would support him.
But the other clients seemed to be loyal Romans, and all they said in reply to their patron’s speech were a few murmurs about Rome’s luck. Macro said no more, and quietly changed position so that no one could mark where his voice had come from.
While he stood on watch that night he tried to puzzle out what had really happened to King Romulus. There had been omens, certainly; and wise men trusted omens, at least in public affairs. But even the omens had not foretold that the King would be taken up alive into heaven. When he disappeared the sooth sayers had been as surprised as anyone else. Had a god really intervened?
There are gods, dwelling in the sky and in the underworld. There could be no doubt of that, for the gods of the underworld had hunted him from Cumae to Rome. But had any man before been carried alive into heaven? There were stories about it in the dim past, Heracles and Ganymede and a few others; but the heroes so honoured had been from the beginning more than mortal men. It was most unlikely that Romulus had been taken up alive into heaven, even if Mars was truly his father.
That Mars was his father rested on the unsupported evidence of Rhea Silvia, his mother. So much Macro had learned soon after he had reached Rome. True, she had convinced the men of Alba; but then they did not like their wicked King and were probably anxious to be convinced, since the alternative would have been the execution of a popular and wellborn priestess. The mist which had hidden the King’s disappearance had been an ordinary river-fog; Macro had tasted it on his lips. Romulus might have escaped under cover of that mist; a few steps would have taken him to the river-bank, and he could have hidden in the bed of the summer-shrunken stream. But why? It was obvious that he enjoyed being King of Rome.
Standing beside the King had been Publius Tatius, his bitter foe; if he had struck down his master Perperna, ambitious and loyal to Rome as a city but not in the least loyal to its King, would have said nothing; the third tribal representative, the unimportant Julius Proculus, would do as his colleagues told him. Tatius might well have killed the King. But in that case what
had become of the body? Murder means blood, blood spilled on the ground and crying to the underworld for vengeance; Macro knew that better than anyone in Rome, If the murderers had pitched the body over the river-bank, as they had time to do before the citizens recovered from their superstitious fear, there would still have been evidence on the ground.
Suddenly he saw it all, and for a moment felt faint with the shock of discovery. There had been a murder. It had left plenty of blood. The citizens had seen the blood, since no one had attempted to hide it. The altar stood reeking with the blood of the slain bull, slimy with entrails hacked out in the search for the liver covered with gobbets of fat from the thighs which were to be burned as an offering to Skyfather. Kingly blood, Mars’ own blood, might mingle with it and no one the wiser. Perhaps morsels of the King’s flesh lay among the hunks of raw beef.
Of course that was it. They would never dare to leave the King’s body lying under cover of the low river-bank; at any moment someone might see it, and how could they get it away? But there were three hundred Senators. If each hid a small portion under his cloak there would be nothing left by the altar but the expected smear of blood. He knew, not only what had happened down by the Goats’ Mere that day, but what his patron had brought home in the unmarked clay jar. He glanced nervously towards the cupboard at the back of the hall, and saw with relief that its doors were shut.
14. Eintrregnum
It was the time of the morning sacrifice, but there was no King to make the offering. Nevertheless, a routine that had continued for thirty-seven years could not be interrupted. The ten celeres whose duty it was on that day of the month brought the chosen ox to the altar, and then waited to see what the Senate would order to be done. Many Senators were present, for during the last night of alarms there had been time for them to wonder how the new day should be greeted. They stood about, waiting for a lead; until Perperna saw that they looked to him, as an expert in religious ritual who was not a candidate for the vacant kingship.
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