Roma.The novel of ancient Rome

CORIOLANUS

510 B.C.

The twelve-year-old boy sat cross-legged on the floor, reciting his lessons. His grandfather sat before him on a simple wooden folding chair with bronze hinges. Despite the fact that the chair had no back, the old man sat rigidly erect, setting an example for the boy.

“Now tell me, Titus, upon what day did King Romulus depart from this earth?”

“Upon the Nones of Quinctilis, two hundred and six years ago.”

“How old was he?”

“Fifty-five.”

“And where did this occur?”

“At the Altar of Vulcan that stands before the Goat’s Marsh, at the western end of the Field of Mars.”

“Ah, yes, but was it called the Field of Mars in those days?”

The boy frowned. Then, remembering what he had been taught, his face brightened. “No, grandfather. In King Romulus’s day, people called it the Field of Mavors, because that’s what they called Mars in olden times-Mavors.”

“And what do we learn from this example?”

“That words and names can change over time-they usually grow shorter and simpler-but that the gods are eternal.”

The old man smiled. “Very good! Now, describe the ascension of King Romulus.”

“There was an eclipse of the sun and also a great storm, and the people fled in fear. That’s why the festival each year held on that day is called the Populifugia, ‘the flight of the people.’ But one man, an ancestor of the Pinarii, remained. His name was just Pinarius; back then, most people only had one name, not two, as we do now. Pinarius witnessed the miracle that occurred. The sky opened and a funnel-shaped whirlwind came down. It was the hand of Jupiter, and it lifted King Romulus into the sky. Before he left, the king removed his iron crown and placed it on the Altar of Vulcan, for his successor. Thus King Romulus became the only man in all history who never died. He simply left the earth, to go live as a god among the gods.”

“Very good, Titus! You’ve been studying hard, haven’t you?”

“Yes, grandfather.” Pleased with himself, young Titus Potitius reached up and touched the amulet of Fascinus that hung from a gold chain around his neck. His father had given it to him at the last Feast of Hercules, when Titus had assisted for the first time as a priest at the altar.

“Now tell me: who were the kings who followed Romulus, and what were their greatest achievements?”

“King Romulus had no son, so after he departed, the senators met and debated who should succeed him. This set a precedent that would be followed forever after, that the succession of the kings is not hereditary; instead, a king is chosen, to serve for life, by the Senate. They chose Numa Pompilius, a man of Sabine blood who had never even set foot in Roma. This set another wise precedent-that the new king could be an outsider, and should not come from the ranks of the Senate, else the senators might fight among themselves to seize the crown. The reign of Numa was long and peaceful. He was very pious, and he did much to organize the colleges of priests and the worship of the gods.”

“Then came Tullus Hostilius. He was as warlike as Numa had been peaceable. By destroying her rivals, he made Roma the chief city of all the Latin-speaking people of Italy. Tullus Hostilius built the great assembly hall in the Forum where the Senate meets.

“Then came Ancus Marcius, who was Numa’s grandson. He built the first bridge across the Tiber. He also founded the city of Ostia at the mouth of the river, to serve as a seaport for Roma.

“The fifth king was the first King Tarquinius. He was of Greek blood but came from the Etruscan city of Tarquinia, from which he took his name. He was both a great warrior and a great builder. He constructed the great underground sewer, the Cloaca Maxima, that follows the ancient course of the Spinon and drains the Forum. He laid out the great horseracing track in the long valley between the Palatine and the Aventine, which we call the Circus Maximus, and built the first viewing stands. And he drew up the plans and began the foundations for the greatest building ever conceived anywhere on earth, the new Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill.”

Titus rose from the floor and strode to the window, where the shutters were open to let in the warm breeze. The house of the Potitii was situated high on the Palatine, so that the window afforded a splendid view of the massive construction project on the neighboring Capitoline Hill. Surrounded by scaffolds swarming with artisans and laborers, the new temple had begun to take shape. It was of an Etruscan design called araeostyle, with a broad, decorated pediment set atop widely spaced columns and a single grand entrance from the recessed porch. Titus gazed at the sight, fascinated.

His grandfather, ever the pedagogue, prompted a digression. “Was the hill always called the Capitoline?”

“No. Since the days of King Romulus it was called Asylum Hill, but now people have started calling it the Capitoline-‘Head Hill.’”

“And why is that?”

“Because of the amazing thing the diggers found when they started work on the new temple foundations, back in the reign of the first King Tarquinius. They uncovered the head of man, which appeared to be very ancient but was remarkably well preserved. The priests called it a sign from the gods, and a most excellent one, portending that Roma would become the head of the world.” Titus frowned. “How could such a thing have happened, grandfather? Who would have buried a head with no body on the Capitoline, and how was it preserved?”

The old man cleared his throat. “There are mysteries which no man can explain, which are nonetheless true, for tradition tells us so. If you doubt the veracity of the tale, I can assure that I myself, as a young man, was privileged to see the head not long after it was found. The man’s features were somewhat decayed, but one could see very clearly that his hair was blond, mixed with gray, as was his beard.”

“He sounds like you, grandfather.”

The old man raised an eyebrow. “I’m not as far gone as that! Now, back to the list of the kings. After the first Tarquinius…”

“The first Tarquinius was succeeded by Servius Tullius. He had been a slave in the royal household, but he rose to such prominence that when Tarquinius died, he was put forward by Tarquinius’s widow to succeed him. He greatly reinforced and extended the fortifications of the city until all the Seven Hills were enclosed by pickets, walls, embankments, and trenches. He also excavated the underground cell in the state prison at the foot of the Capitoline, which we call the Tullianum, where the enemies of the king are executed by strangulation. He put these projects first, so that work on the new temple came to a standstill.”

“And after Servius Tullius comes the present king, the son of Tarquinius, also named Tarquinius. Our king is famous for acquiring the Sibylline Books, which are full of prophecies that guide the people in times of crisis.”

“And how did that come about?”

Titus smiled, for this was one of his favorite stories. “The Sibyl lives in a cave down in Cumae, on the coast. The god Apollo compelled her to write hundreds of strange verses on palm leaves. She stitched together all the palm leaves into nine scrolls, which she brought to Roma and offered to sell to King Tarquinius, saying that if a man could interpret her verses rightly, he could foretell the future. Tarquinius was tempted, but he told her that the price was too steep, whereupon she waved her hand and three of the scrolls burst into flames. Then she offered to sell him the remaining six-for the original asking price of the nine! Tarquinius was angry and again refused, whereupon the Sibyl burned three more scrolls, then named the same price once again. King Tarquinius, thinking of all the knowledge that had already been lost, gave in. He paid the price she had asked for nine books and got only three. The Sibylline Books are very sacred. They must be consulted only in the direst emergency. To house them, Tarquinius set about completing the great temple which his father began.”

Again Titus gazed out the window. For most of his life, work on the temple had been progressing. With the huge columns and massive pediment finally in place, its final form was becoming more evident with each passing month. Even men who had traveled far beyond Roma, to the great cities of Greece and Egypt, said they had never seen a building so grand. “No wonder they call him Tarquinius the Proud,” murmured Titus.

The old man stiffened. “What did you say?”

“Tarquinius the Proud-that’s what I’ve heard men call the king.”

“What men? Where?”

Titus shrugged. “Strangers. Shopkeepers. People passing in the Forum or on the street.”

“Don’t listen to them. And don’t repeat what they say!”

“But why not?”

“Just do as I say!”

Titus bowed his head. His grandfather was the eldest of the Potitii, the paterfamilias. His will within the family was law, and it was not Titus’s place ever to question him.

The old man sighed. “I will explain, but only once. When men use that word about the king, they do not mean it as a compliment. Quite the opposite; they mean that he is arrogant, stubborn, and vain. So do not say such a thing aloud, not even to me. Words can be dangerous, especially words meant to wound a king.”

Titus nodded gravely, then frowned. “One thing puzzles me, grandfather. You say the monarchy is not hereditary, but the present King Tarquinius’s father was also king.”

“Yes, but the crown did not pass directly from father to son.”

“I know; Servius Tullius came between. But didn’t Tarquinius kill him, and that’s how he became king?”

The old man drew a quick breath, but did not reply. Titus was old enough to be taught the list of kings and their principal achievements, but not yet old enough to be taught about the political machinations that had brought each king to the throne and the scandals that had attended each reign. To a young man who could not yet understand the importance of discretion, one hesitated to speak ill even of kings long dead; one certainly did not speak ill of a living king. About Tarquinius and the murders that had brought him to the throne, and all the murders that had followed, there was little to say that was fit for the boy’s ears.

Ambitious to become a king like his father, Tarquinius had married one of the two daughters of his father’s successor, Servius Tullius, but when she proved to be more loyal to her father than to Tarquinius, he decided he preferred her more ruthless sister. When Tarquinius’s wife conveniently died, as did the husband of his sister-in-law, and the two bereaved spouses married one another, the word “poison” was whispered all over Roma. In short order, Tarquinius and his new wife murdered her father, and Tarquinius declared himself king, dispensing with the formalities of election by the people and confirmation by the Senate.

Having seized the throne by force, Tarquinius ruled by fear. Previous kings had consulted the Senate on important matters and called upon them to act as jurors. Tarquinius showed only contempt for the Senate. He claimed sole authority to judge capital cases, and used that authority to punish innocent men with death or exile; he confiscated his victims’ property to pay for his grand schemes, including the new temple. The Senate had grown to include three hundred members, but its numbers diminished as the king destroyed one after another of its wealthiest, most prominent men. His sons grew to be as arrogant as their father, and there were rumors that Tarquinius planned to name one of them as his heir, abolishing outright the ancient rules of nonhereditary succession and election by the people.

The old man sighed and changed the subject. “Fetch your stylus and wax tablet. You shall practice your writing skills.”

Titus dutifully took the instruments from a special box in which they were kept. The tablet was a framed piece of flat wood upon which a thick coating of wax had been laid down. The stylus was a heavy iron rod with a sharpened tip, of a circumference to comfortably fit a boy’s hand. The wax had been written on only a few times, then rubbed flat afterward for the next lesson.

“Write the name of the seven kings, in order,” said his grandfather. Writing was a skill the Romans had learned from the Etruscans; the Etruscans had learned it from the people of Magna Graecia-Greeks who in recent generations had colonized southern Italy, bringing with them the advantages of a culture more advanced and refined than those of the native Italians. Writing, especially, had proven to be of great value. Records and lists could be kept, royal proclamations and laws could be written down, corrections and additions could be made to the calendar, and messages could be sent from one place to another. To master the skill required great diligence, and it was best learned at an early age. As a hereditary priest of Hercules, and as a member of the patrician class-a descendent of one of Roma’s founding families-with the prospect of someday becoming a senator like his grandfather, it was very much to young Titus’s advantage to learn to read and to write.

Usually, Titus was very conscientious about forming letters, but on this day he seemed unable to concentrate. He kept making mistakes, rubbing them clear, then starting over. Repeatedly, he looked toward the window. His grandfather smiled. To capture a boy’s imagination, the making of letters in wax could not hope to compete with the construction of the new temple. Titus’s fascination with the project was perhaps not a bad thing; a knowledge of how such a building was made might serve him well someday.

He waited until Titus had painstakingly written the “s” at the end of Tarquinius, then patted him on the head. “Good enough,” he said. “Your lessons are over for today. You may go now.”

Titus looked up at him in surprise.

“Did I not tell you to go?” said his grandfather. “I’m a bit tired today. Being compared to that head discovered on the Capitoline has made me feel my age! Smooth the wax, put away your stylus, and then be off. And say hello to that fellow Vulca for me!”

The afternoon was warm and sunny, with hours of daylight left. Titus ran all the way from his family’s house on the Palatine down to the Forum, then uphill again to the top of the Capitoline. He didn’t stop until he reached the Tarpeian Rock, the sheer summit from which traitors were hurled to their death. The rock also provided a panoramic view of the city below. His friend Gnaeus Marcius loved to play with miniature wooden soldiers, pretending to be their commander; Titus preferred to gaze down at the city of Roma as if its buildings were toys, and to imagine rearranging them and constructing new ones.

Roma had changed much since the days of Romulus. Where once the Seven Hills had been covered by forests and pastures, and the settlements had been small and scattered, now there were buildings everywhere one looked, built close together with dirt and gravel streets running between them. Some citizens still lived in thatched huts and kept animals in pens, but many homes were now made of wood, some rising to two stories, and the houses of wealthy families-such as the Potitii-were grand affairs made of brick and stone with shuttered windows, interior courtyards, terraces, and tile roofs. The Forum had become the civic center of Roma, with a paved street called the Sacred Way running through it; it was the site of numerous temples and shrines and also of the Senate House. The marketplace beside the river was now called the Forum Bovarium, from the word bovinus, referring to its ancient and continuing role as a cattle market; it had become the great emporium of central Italy. The original settlement at the foot of the Capitoline, including the ancestral hut of the Potitii, had long ago been cleared away and built over to make room for the expanding marketplace. At the heart of the Forum Bovarium stood the ancient Ara Maxima, where once a year Titus and his family, along with the Pinarii, celebrated the Feast of Hercules.

Roma under the kings had prospered and grown. Now the grandest sign of the city’s progress was rising on the summit of the Capitoline. Turning his back on the panoramic view, Titus gazed up at the magnificent project which each day drew nearer to completion. Since his last visit to the site, a new section of scaffolding had gone up along the front of the temple. The workers on the top tier were applying plaster to the recessed surface of the pediment.

“Titus, my friend! I haven’t you seen for a while.” The speaker was a tall man with strands of gray in his beard, about the age of Titus’s father. There was plaster dust on his blue tunic. He carried a stylus and a small wax tablet for making sketches.

“Vulca! I’ve been very busy with my studies lately. But my grandfather let me go early today.”

“Excellent! I have something very special to show you.” The man smiled and gestured for him to follow.

Vulca was an Etruscan, famous all over Italy as an architect and artist. King Tarquinius had employed him not only to oversee construction of the temple, but to decorate it inside and out. The building was made of common materials-wood, brick, and plaster-but when Vulca was done painting, it would be dazzling: yellow, black, and white for the walls and columns, red for the capitals and the bases of the columns, more red to trim the pediment, and many shades of green and blue to highlight the small architectural details.

But the most impressive of Vulca’s creations would be the statues of the gods. Properly speaking, the statues were not ornaments; they would not decorate the temple, but rather, the temple would exist to house the sacred statues. Vulca had described his intentions to Titus many times, and had drawn sketches on his wax tablet to illustrate, but Titus had not yet seen them; the terra-cotta statues were being made in great secrecy in a concealed workshop on the Capitoline, to which only Vulca and his most skilled artisans had access. Titus was greatly surprised when the artist led him though a makeshift doorway into a walled-off area beside the temple, and even more surprised when they rounded a corner and a statue of Jupiter confronted them.

Titus gasped. The statue was of red terra-cotta, not yet painted, but the impression that the god was physically present was nonetheless overwhelming. Seated on a throne, the bearded, powerfully built father of gods looked down on him with a serene countenance. Jupiter was dressed in a toga, much like the royal garment the king wore, and in his right hand, instead of a scepter, he held a thunderbolt.

“The toga will be painted purple, with a border of gold foil,” Vulca explained. “The thunderbolt will be gold, as well. The king balked when he learned the expense of the gold foil, until I pointed out what a thunderbolt made from solid gold would cost him.”

Titus was awed. “Magnificent!” he whispered. “I never imagined…I mean, you’ve described to me what the statue would look like, but in my imagination I could never really…it’s so…so much more…” His shook his head. Words failed him.

“Of course, no one will ever see the god this close. Jupiter will be positioned on a suitably ornate pedestal at the back of the main chamber, so as to gaze down on everyone who enters. The other two will be placed in their own, smaller chambers, Juno to the right and Minerva to the left.”

Tearing his eyes from the Jupiter, Titus saw the other two figures beyond. These were not as far advanced. The Juno had not yet been given a head. The Minerva was little more than an armature that suggested the shape to come.

Then his eyes fell on a sight even more fantastic than the Jupiter. His gasp of astonishment was so loud that Vulca laughed.

The piece was huge, and so complex that it boggled Titus’s imagination. It was a larger-than-life-size statue of Jupiter in a quadriga-a chariot pulled by four horses. The standing Jupiter, holding his thunderbolt aloft, was even more impressive than the Jupiter enthroned. The four horses, each different, were sculpted with remarkable detail, from the flashing eyes and flaring nostrils to the muscular limbs and magnificent tails. The chariot was made of wood and bronze, like a real vehicle, but of giant size, with extravagant designs and decorations on every surface.

“It all comes apart, of course, so that it can be reassembled atop the pediment,” explained Vulca. “The horses will be painted white-four magnificent, snow-white steeds worthy of the king of the gods. The attachment of this sculpture to the pediment will be the final step in the construction. Once Jupiter and the quadriga are firmly in place and fully painted, the temple will be ready to be dedicated.”

Titus gaped. “Vulca, I can’t believe you’re showing me this. Who else has seen it?”

“Only my workmen. And the king, of course, since he’s paying for it.”

“But why are you showing me?”

Vulca said something in Etruscan, then translated it into Latin: “If the flea hangs around long enough, sooner or later he’ll see the dog’s balls.” When Titus looked at him blankly, Vulca laughed. “That’s a very old, very vulgar Etruscan saying, young man, of which your staid grandfather would doubtless disapprove. How many times did I see you skulking about the work site before I called you over and asked your name? And how many times have you been back since then? And how many questions have you asked me about the tools and the materials and all the processes? I don’t think I can count that high! I daresay there’s not a man in all Roma, outside myself, who knows this building better than you do, Titus Potitius. If I were to die tomorrow, you could tell the workmen what remains to be done.”

“But you won’t die, Vulca! Jupiter would never allow it!”

“Nor would the king, not until I’m done with his temple.”

Titus walked up to one of the horses and dared to touch it. “I never imagined they would be so big, and so beautiful. This will be the greatest temple ever built, anywhere.”

“I’d like to think so,” said Vulca.

Abruptly, Titus gave a yelp. He reached up to rub the spot where a pebble had struck his head. He caught a glimpse of another stone descending on him from the sky and jumped aside.

From beyond the wall which hid the works in progress came the sound of boyish giggling.

Vulca raised an eyebrow. “I believe that must be your two friends, Titus. I’m afraid they are not invited to see the statues, so if you want to join them, you’ll have to step outside.”

“Titus!” called one of the boys outside, in a loud whisper. “What are you doing in there? Is that crazy old Etruscan molesting you?” There was more giggling.

Titus blushed. Vulca tousled the boy’s blond hair and smiled. “Don’t worry, Titus. I long ago stopped taking offense at schoolboy taunts. Run along now, and see what those two want from you.”

Reluctantly, Titus took his leave of Vulca and made his way out of the enclosure. From behind a stack of bricks, his friends Publius Pinarius and Gnaeus Marcius staged a playful ambush, one of them grabbing his arms while the other tickled him. Titus broke free. The others chased him all the way to the Tarpeian Rock, where they all came to an abrupt halt, laughing hard and gasping for breath.

“What was the Etruscan showing you in there?” demanded Gnaeus.

“I think they were playing a game,” said Publius. “The Etruscan said, ‘I’ll show you my measuring rod, if you’ll show me your Fascinus.’” He flicked his finger against the amulet at Titus’s neck.

“Not much of a game,” said Gnaeus. “Anyone can see Titus’s Fascinus!”

Titus made a face and tucked the amulet inside his tunic, out of sight. “You two aren’t worthy to look on the god, anyway.”

“I am!” protested Publius. “Am I not your fellow priest of Hercules? And am I not as much a patrician as you? Last February, did I not run beside you in the Lupercalia? Whereas our friend Gnaeus here…”

Gnaeus shot him an angry look. Publius had touched on a subject about which Gnaeus was increasingly sensitive. Publius and Titus were both of the patrician class, descendents of the first senators whom Romulus had called the fathers, or patres, of Roma. The patricians jealously guarded the ancient privileges of their class. The rest of the citizenry, rich and poor alike, were simply the common people, or plebeians. Plebeians could attain wealth through commerce and distinction on the battlefield. They could even attain great power-Gnaeus’s distant relative, Ancus Marcius, had become king-but they could never claim the prestige which attached to the patricians.

To be sure, Gnaeus’s mother was a patrician; Veturia came from a family almost as old as the Potitii and the Pinarii. But his deceased father had been a plebeian, and, following the law of paterfamilias, a son was assigned to the class of the father. To Titus and Publius, their friend’s plebeian status was of little consequence; Gnaeus was the best athlete, the most skilled equestrian, and the handsomest and smartest boy they knew. But to Gnaeus, class mattered a great deal. His father had died in battle when he was quite young, and he identified more closely with his mother and her family. Veturia had raised him to be as proud as any patrician, and it vexed him greatly that a patrician was the one thing he could never be. Perversely, he had no sympathy with plebeians who argued that class distinctions should be erased; Gnaeus always took the patrician side and showed nothing but contempt for what he called “upstart plebs.”

Gnaeus usually carried himself with aloof self-confidence, a trait which Titus greatly admired; his demeanor matched his haughty good looks. But the irony of his class loyalty was the flaw in his armor; Publius, who enjoyed getting a rise from him, could not resist alluding now and then to Gnaeus’s plebeian status. On this occasion, Gnaeus hardly blinked. He fixed the other boy with a steely gaze.

“Very soon, Publius Pinarius, we three shall be of fighting age. Every Roman fights; it is the highest duty that Roma demands of her citizens, that they train every spring and go forth every summer in search of fresh booty. But not every Roman achieves the same degree of glory. The poorer plebs, with their rusty swords and ramshackle armor, who must fight on foot because they cannot afford a horse, have a hard time of it; we can only pity them, and expect little glory from their bloodshed. But from men of property, like ourselves, who can afford the very best weapons and armor, who have time to train and opportunity to master the fine art of horsemanship, Roma expects much more. Glory is what matters in this world. Only the greatest warrior attains the highest glory. That is what I intend to become, if only to make my mother proud of me: the greatest warrior that Roma has ever seen. For now, Publius, you can taunt me all you want, because as yet we’re still only boys, without glory. But soon we will be men. Then the gods will see which of us can more proudly call himself a Roman.”

Publius shook his head. “Upstart! Pompous little pleb!”

Gnaeus turned and strode away, his head held high.

Titus reacted to Gnaeus’s speech much as he had when he beheld Vulca’s statue, and, gazing after his friend, he muttered the same word: “Magnificent!”

Publius looked at him sidelong and slapped the back of his head. “I think you’re more in love with Gnaeus than you are with your Etruscan pederast.” Publius had just learned this word, Greek in origin, and enjoyed using it.

“Shut up, Publius!”

That night, Titus’s grandfather presided at a large family dinner, which included Titus’s father and uncles and their families. There were two guests, as well: a young cousin of King Tarquinius, named Collatinus, and his wife, Lucretia. The women dined alongside the men, but, after the meal, when a serving girl brought a pitcher of wine, the women were offered no cups. When Collatinus made a toast to the health of the king, the women merely observed.

He was a pleasant-looking young man with a cheerful disposition, a bit loud and overbearing but not as arrogant as the sons of Tarquinius. His approachable manner was the chief reason the elder Potitius had decided to cultivate a relationship with him, thinking that Collatinus might offer access to the king without the unpleasantness of dealing with the king’s sons.

After the toast, rather than taking only a sip, Collatinus drained his cup. “A most excellent wine,” he declared, then smacked his lips and looked sidelong at his wife. “A pity you can’t taste it, my dear.”

Lucretia lowered her eyes and blushed. In that moment, the gaze of every man in the room was on her, including that of Titus, who thought he had never seen another woman half as beautiful. The blush only served to accentuate the perfection of her milky skin. Her hair was dark and lustrous, and so long that it might never have been cut. Though she was modestly dressed in a long-sleeved stola of dark blue wool, the lines of the gown suggested a body of exquisite proportions. As the blush subsided, she smiled and looked up again. Titus’s heart missed a beat when her green eyes briefly met his. Then Lucretia looked at Collatinus.

“Sometimes when you kiss me, husband, I receive a faint taste of wine from your lips. That is enough for me.”

Collatinus grinned and reached for her hand. “Lucretia, Lucretia! What a woman you are!” He addressed the others. “It was a wise law of King Romulus that forbade women to drink wine. They say the Greeks who live to the south let their women drink, and it causes no end of strife. There are even some here in Roma who have grown lax and allow such a thing, men of the very highest rank, who should know better.” Titus sensed that Collatinus was referring to his royal cousins. “But no good can come of it, and I’m glad to see that old-fashioned virtue and common sense is practiced by the Potitii, in keeping with your status as one of Roma’s oldest families.”

Titus’s grandfather nodded to acknowledge the compliment, then suggested another toast. “To old-fashioned virtue!”

Collatinus drained his cup again. Titus, being a boy, was given wine mixed with water, but Collatinus drank his wine undiluted, and was feeling its effects.

“If virtue is to be toasted,” he said, “then a special toast should be drunk to the most virtuous among us-my wife Lucretia. There is no finer woman in all Roma! After the toast, I’ll tell you a story to prove my point. To Lucretia!”

“To Lucretia!” said Titus.

She blushed and lowered her eyes again.

“A few nights ago,” said Collatinus, “I was at the house of my cousin Sextus. His two brothers were present as well, so there we were, all the king’s sons and myself. We were drinking, perhaps a bit more than we should have-those Tarquinius boys do everything in excess! — and a debate arose as to which of us had the most virtuous wife. Well, I say ‘a debate arose’; in fact, perhaps it was I who brought up the subject, and why not? When a man is proud of a thing, should he keep silent? My wife Lucretia, I told them, is the most virtuous of women. No, no, they said, their own wives were every bit as virtuous. Nonsense, I said. Do you dare to make a wager on it? The Tarquinii can’t resist a wager!

“So, one by one, we paid a visit to our spouses. We found Sextus’s wife off in her wing of the house, playing a board game and gossiping with one of her servants. Not much virtue there! Off we went to the house of Titus. His wife-she must be three times the size of Lucretia! — was lying on a dining couch, eating one honey cake after another, surrounded by a mountain of crumbs. Not much virtue in gluttony! Then we called on the wife of Arruns. I regret to tell you that we found her, with some of her friends, actually drinking wine. When Arruns pretended to be shocked, she told him not to be silly and to pour her another cup! Clearly, she does it all the time, without the least fear of being punished. ‘It helps me sleep,’ she said. Can you imagine!

“Then we called on Lucretia. The hour was growing late. I assumed she might be asleep already, but do you know what we found her doing? She was sitting at her spinning wheel, busily working while she sang a lullaby to our new baby, who lay in his crib nearby. I tell you, there was never a prouder moment in my life! Not only did I win the wager, but you should have seen the look on the faces of the Tarquinius brothers when they saw Lucretia. She’s always beautiful, but sitting there at her wheel, wearing a simple, sleeveless white gown so as to leave her arms free, with the glow of the lamplight on her face, she took my breath away. Those Tarquinius boys were so jealous! You made me very proud, my dear.”

Collatinus took his wife’s hand and kissed it. Titus sighed, imagining the sight of Lucretia by lamplight with bare shoulders and arms, but his grandfather frowned and shifted uneasily.

The old man quickly changed the subject, and the talk turned to politics. By cautious degrees, the elder Potitius sought to determine how candidly he could speak before Collatinus. As Collatinus drank more wine, it became evident that he was not overly fond of his cousin the king. The aristocratic bent of his politics, if not the specifics, reminded Titus of his haughty friend Gnaeus Marcius.

“All this coddling of the plebs by the king-and not the better sort of plebs, respectable people you or I might have to dinner, but ordinary laborers and lay-abouts; it’s not to my liking, I can tell you,” said Collatinus. “Of course, it’s very clever of the king, to grind down the power of the Senate even as he curries favor with the mob. He prosecutes rich men, confiscates their wealth, then uses that wealth to build massive public works, which gives employment to the rabble; that monstrosity of a temple is the most obvious example. He sends the bravest and boldest of the patricians into battle against Roma’s neighbors; the territory that’s won is made into colonies where the landless plebs can settle. The blood of Roma’s finest warriors is spilled so that some beggar can be given his own turnip patch!

“If he’d become king the old-fashioned way, by election, then no one could complain. They say the senators of old had to go down on their knees and beg King Numa to take the job; cousin Tarquinius has senators begging him not to take their property! Even the wise Numa needed the Senate to advise him, but not Tarquinius; he has a higher source of knowledge. Whenever there’s a question about public policy, whether it’s making war on a neighbor or fixing a crack in the Cloaca Maxima, Tarquinius whips out the Sibylline Books, picks a verse at random, reads it aloud in the Forum, and declares that it’s proof that the gods are on his side. Tarquinius the Proud, indeed! My mouth is awfully dry. Could we have more wine?”

“Perhaps you’d rather drink some water,” suggested Titus’s grandfather.

“I can’t imagine why, when you have such good wine in this house. Ah, there’s the serving girl. By all means, fill it to the brim! Excellent; this tastes better than the last. Now what was I saying? Ah yes-the Sibylline Books. Well, at least the king paid the Sibyl for those, fair and square, even if he did get the bad end of the bargain. Usually he just takes whatever he wants, even from members of his own family. Look what he’s done to his nephew, Brutus. People love Brutus; in whispers they’ll tell you that he would have made a far better king than his uncle. He’s one of the few men Tarquinius doesn’t dare to destroy outright. Instead, he’s gradually stripped Brutus of all his wealth, bit by bit, reducing him to a pauper. Yet Brutus has endured every indignity without saying one word against his uncle the king. People respect him all the more for showing so much fortitude and restraint.”

Collatinus’s speech was slurred and his eyelids drooped; he abruptly seemed to run out of energy. Titus’s grandfather, who felt that too much had already been said, saw an opportunity to bring the evening to a close. He began to rise, but before he could wish his visitors farewell, Collatinus spoke again.

“Cousin Tarquinius could take everything from me, as well, just as he took everything from Brutus. He could do it like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Quick as a thunderbolt from Jupiter! Ruinous as an earthquake sent by Neptune! I could lose everything, except the one thing-thank the gods! — that the king and his sons can never take from me, the most perfect and most precious of all my possessions: my Lucretia!”

All though the evening, she had listened to him patiently, laughed softly at his jokes, shown no embarrassment when he spoke too loudly, and blushed sweetly when he complimented her. Now she graciously took his hand in hers and rose to her feet, bringing him with her. She had seen that it was time to go, and effortlessly assisted her inebriated husband to make a graceful exit.

Titus, observing her, thought that she must be very wise and very loving, as well as beautiful.

A few days later, Titus, with his friends Publius and Gnaeus, sat on an outcropping of stone near the Tarpeian Rock, watching the workers on the scaffolding that surrounded the new temple. Titus was explaining how the quadriga with Jupiter would be hoisted atop the pediment-Vulca had described the procedure to him at length-when Gnaeus abruptly interrupted. Gnaeus had a habit of changing the subject when he grew bored.

“My mother says there’s going to be a revolution.”

“What do you mean?” said Publius, who was also bored by Titus’s talk about the temple.

“The days of King Tarquinius are numbered. That’s what my mother says. People-at least the people who count-are fed up with him. They’ll take his crown and give it to someone more worthy.”

“Oh, and I suppose Tarquinius will humbly bow his head so that they can remove his crown?” Publius snorted. “What does your mother know, anyway? She’s just a woman. My great-grandfather says quite the opposite.” Publius was proud of the fact that his great-grandfather was still alive and had all his senses, and was very much the paterfamilias of the Pinarius family. “He says that Tarquinius has cut the legs off of anyone who might have opposed him-men like his nephew Brutus-and we’d better get used to the idea that one of his sons will take his place after he’s gone. ‘There may be a Tarquinius on the throne for as long as there’s a Pinarius tending the Ara Maxima’-that’s what my paterfamilias says. How about your grandfather, Titus? When you’re not putting him to sleep with talk of temple construction, what does the head of the Potitii say about our beloved king?”

Titus didn’t like to admit that his grandfather avoided talking to him directly about such serious matters. While he had some idea of his grandfather’s opinions, he also knew that his grandfather wouldn’t want him to discuss them openly with the loose-tongued Publius. “My grandfather would probably say that boys our age shouldn’t indulge in dangerous gossip.”

“It’s only gossip when ill-informed women like Gnaeus’s mother are talking. When it’s men of affairs like ourselves, it’s a serious discussion of politics,” said Publius.

Titus laughed and was about to say something scornful about Publius’s inflated ego, when Gnaeus abruptly threw himself onto the other boy.

Publius was no match for Gnaeus, especially when caught by surprise. In the blink of an eye, he was on his back on the ground, his limbs flailing helplessly.

“You will apologize for insulting my mother!” demanded Gnaeus.

Titus tried to pull him off, but his friend’s arms were as unyielding as stone. “Gnaeus, let go of him! How can he say anything while you’re squeezing his throat? Gnaeus, let go! You’ll choke him to death!” Titus was genuinely alarmed. At the same time, he couldn’t help laughing. Publius’s face was as red as the king’s toga, and the sputtering noises he made sounded as though they should be coming out of the other end of his body.

Titus laughed harder and harder, until his sides ached. Gnaeus, trying to keep a scowl on his face, suddenly burst out laughing and lost his grip. Publius jerked free and rolled away. He clutched his throat and glared at Gnaeus. Between coughing and wheezing, he managed a croak of protest. “You’re mad, Gnaeus Marcius! You could have killed me!”

“I should have killed you, for insulting my mother and impugning my honor.”

“Your honor!” Publius shook his head. “There should be a law forbidding a plebeian like you to even lay a finger on a patrician like me.”

Gnaeus did not fly at him, but stood absolutely still. His face turned crimson. “How dare you say such a thing to me?”

“How dare I call you a plebeian? It’s what you are, Gnaeus Marcius! Only a fool can’t accept his fate, that’s what my paterfamilias says.”

Titus shook his head. Why was Publius still taunting Gnaeus? Did he want to be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock? Titus was wondering whether he should run to find help, when he heard a noise from the city below.

“What’s that?” he said.

“What?” Publius kept a wary eye on Gnaeus.

“That sound. Don’t you hear it? Like a great moan…”

“Or a roar. Yes, I hear it. Like the sound you hear from inside a seashell.”

The noise distracted even Gnaeus from his rage. “Or a sob,” he said. “The sound of a great many women all sobbing at once,” he said.

“Something’s happened,” said Titus. “It’s coming from the Forum.”

Together, they strode to the verge of the cliff and looked down. The workers on the temple had also heard the noise. Men climbed from the scaffolding onto the roof of the temple to get a better view.

A great crowd had gathered in the Forum. More people were arriving from all directions. A group of senators, dressed in their togas, stood on the porch of the Senate House. Among them, even at such a great distance, Titus recognized the king’s gaunt-faced nephew. Instead of a toga, Brutus wore a ragged tunic hardly fit for a beggar-a demonstration of the poverty to which the king had reduced him. He was speaking to the crowd.

“Can you hear what he’s saying?” said Titus.

“He’s too far away, and the crowd’s too noisy,” said Gnaeus. “Why won’t they shut up?”

Those in the crowd nearest to the Senate House were quiet and attentive and all turned in one direction, listening to Brutus. It was the people at the back of the crowd who were moving about with their hands in the air, shouting and weeping. They were parting to make way for someone trying to pass through on his way to the Senate House.

“Who’s that man, and what’s he carrying?” said Titus.

“What man?” said Publius hoarsely, rubbing his throat.

“I can’t see who it is, but I can see what he’s carrying,” said Gnaeus. “A woman. He’s carrying a woman in his arms. She’s completely limp. People are stepping back to make way for him. I think I see blood on his tunic. I think the woman must be…”

“Dead,” said Titus, who felt a cold, hard knot in the pit of his stomach.

The man worked his way through the crowd, step by step. Wherever he passed, there was a commotion, followed by an awestruck silence. By the time he reached the steps of the Senate House, the entire crowd had fallen eerily silent. Staggering, as if the burden he carried had become intolerably heavy, he mounted the steps to the porch. Brutus and the senators bowed their heads and drew aside. The man turned to face the crowd.

“I knew it!” whispered Titus. “It’s Collatinus. That means the woman in his arms…”

The lifeless body was dressed in a long-sleeved stola of dark blue, stained with blood at the breast. Her head was thrown back, hiding her face. Her dark hair hung straight down, so long that it brushed her husband’s feet.

Brutus stepped forward. Now, in the utter silence, Titus could hear him clearly. “Tell them, Collatinus. They won’t believe me. They don’t want to believe such a terrible thing. Tell them what’s happened.”

Collatinus’s wrenching sob reverberated around the Forum and sent a shiver through the crowd. For a long moment he seemed unable to compose himself. When he finally spoke, his words rang loud and clear. “Sextus Tarquinius did this. The king’s son! He raped my wife, my beloved Lucretia. While I was away, he came to my house. He was welcomed as an honored guest, invited to dine, given a room. In the middle of the night, he came to her. He forced his way into her bed-our bed! He held a dagger to her throat-you can see where the blade scored her flesh! A servant heard her beg for mercy, but one of Sextus’s men guarded the door. The servant sent for me, but by the time I arrived, Sextus was gone. Lucretia was weeping, inconsolable, mad with grief. Sextus left behind the knife he used to threaten her. Before I could stop her, she plunged it into her heart. She died in my arms!”

As if the weight suddenly grew too heavy, Collatinus dropped to his knees, still cradling the body in his arms. He hung his head and wept.

Brutus stepped forward and held up a bloody dagger. “This is the knife!” he cried. “The very blade that Sextus Tarquinius used when he raped Lucretia, the blade she used to kill herself.” He waited for the gasps from the crowd to die down. “How much longer will we stand for this? What else will we allow the tyrant and his sons to take from us? This intolerable state of affairs ends here and now, today!” Brutus held the knife high in the air and turned to face the Capitoline, as if he were addressing Jupiter in the unfinished temple atop the hill. To Titus, it seemed as if the stern-looking, gauntfaced man had abruptly turned to look directly at him and his friends. The sensation was unsettling, and Titus shivered.

“By the innocent blood on this knife,” declared Brutus, “and by the gods, I swear that with fire and sword, and whatever else can lend strength to my arm, I will pursue Tarquinius the Proud, his wicked wife, and all his children, not one of whom deserves to live in the company of decent men, much less rule over them. I will drive them out, and never again will I let them or any other man be king in Roma!”

The crowd erupted in a tumult of shouting. Women tore at their hair. Men shook their fists. A mob surged up the steps of the Senate House and lifted Brutus onto their shoulders. He seemed to float above the crowd, his arm upraised to thrust the bloody knife toward heaven.

Even from the safety of the Capitoline, Titus felt a prickle of fear. He had never seen such a spectacle; the fury of the mob was like a force of nature unleashed. His heart pounded in his chest. His mouth was too dry to speak.

“What do you think he meant by that?” said Gnaeus. His voice seemed impossibly calm.

“He couldn’t have said it more plainly,” said Publius, his voice breaking. “Brutus means to drive Tarquinius out of Roma.”

“Yes. And then what?”

Publius snorted with exasperation. “Brutus will take his place, of course.”

“No, Publius, that’s not what he said. ‘Never again will I let them or any other man be king in Roma.’ Brutus means to cast out the king, and put no one in his place.”

Publius frowned. “But if there’s no king, who will rule the city?”

Like his friends, Titus was puzzled. He was frightened and exhilarated, all at once, and struck dumb with grief that Lucretia-beautiful, wise, loving Lucretia-should have suffered such a horrible fate. He was overwhelmed by what he had just witnessed. Something had ended that day, and something else had begun, and all their lives would be changed forever.

509 B.C.

Dressed in his priestly robes and proudly wearing the talisman of Fascinus-for today he was present both in his ancestral role as a priest of Hercules and as the scion of the Potitii-Titus stood between his father and grandfather in the front ranks of the crowd that had gathered on the Capitoline before the new Temple of Jupiter. The Pinarii were there as well, in a place of equal honor. Publius’s great-grandfather was looking very frail and more than a little confused; but whose head was not in a spin, after the tumultuous events of the last year?

The occasion was the dedication of the temple. Up to the last minute, Vulca had been frantically putting finishing touches here and there-daubing paint on the scuffed elbow of Minerva, polishing the great bronze hinges of the doors, instructing his men to move the throne of Jupiter a finger’s width to the left because the statue was not precisely centered atop its pedestal. It did not matter that Vulca still perceived tiny imperfections everywhere; to Titus, there had never been anything as beautiful as the temple. It was truly worthy of its commanding position atop the Capitoline, which made it the most prominent building in all of Roma, dominating the skyline from every vantage point. With the scaffolding gone at last, Titus could fully appreciate the perfection of its proportions and the soaring line of the columns that supported the pediment. Atop the pediment, the statue of Jupiter in his chariot drawn by four white horses majestically evoked the supreme king of gods and men. The temple was a thing of earthly beauty that inspired religious awe.

Standing side by side on the porch of the temple, overseeing the dedication, were the two consuls, Brutus and Collatinus. Though his face was as gaunt as ever, Brutus no longer dressed in beggar’s rags. Like Collatinus, he wore a toga with a purple stripe to denote his status as one of the two highest magistrates of the new republic.

Republic-the word was still new to Titus and fell strangely on his ear. It came from the words res (a thing, circumstance, state of being) and publica (of the people). Res publica: the people’s state. In the wake of Tarquinius’s sudden downfall and departure-the uprising had been so overwhelming that the revolution occurred almost without bloodshed-the leading men of the Senate had decided to run the state themselves, without a king. The common people had loudly insisted they must be given an assembly of their own, and laws to protect them, because the favor of the king had been their only bulwark against the whims of wealthy, powerful patricians.

“Rules, rules, rules!” complained Titus’s grandfather, after attending the first raucous meetings of the new government. “When no man is king, every man is king, and thinks he should have his own way, or at least his own say. The result is chaos! Endless arguments and no agreement about anything, except that there must be new rules to override any old rules that were previously agreed upon. No one is satisfied. Everyone thinks everyone else is getting a better deal. It’s almost enough to make a man nostalgic for the one we called Proud!”

Despite all the problems that plagued the new state, this was a day of celebration. The dedication of the new temple, which was to have been King Tarquinius’s crowning achievement, would serve instead to mark the first year of the new republic. Indeed, to Titus, the magnificence of Vulca’s brightly painted statues and the breathless perfection of his architecture exemplified a bold new spirit in the city of Roma.

To a visitor, it might have appeared that the two magistrates on the porch of the temple were co-rulers, little different from kings. Their dress set them apart from and above the rest, and like kings they were guarded by lictors armed with rods and axes. Even the fact that they had been elected to office did not differentiate them from kings, for all the kings of Roma, except Tarquinius, had been elected to the post, even if some had been more freely chosen than others. But the two consuls, ruling side by side so that one might serve as a check on the other, were to serve for only a year, and then to relinquish their office to the next two consuls to win election. By dividing the powers of the consuls and holding annual elections, it was hoped that the state could be made to serve the people, and that Roma would never again fall under the sway of a tyrant like Tarquinius.

The public ceremony came to an end. The great doors of the temple were opened. The consuls entered, followed by a very select group of citizens, for the sanctuary could accommodate only a small portion of the crowd. Titus’s grandfather was among them, as was the great-grandfather of Publius, who ascended the steps with difficulty, leaning upon the arm of his fellow senior priest of Hercules. Titus was not permitted to attend the more exclusive ceremony within the sanctuary, but, thanks to Vulca, he had already seen the finished chambers, which housed the statues of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, and been allowed to gaze upon the gods at his leisure.

The milling throng began to disperse. There was a joyous mood in the air. Men greeted one another with embraces and laughter. Titus felt inspired and uplifted.

When he saw Gnaeus nearby, his spirits rose even more, until Publius muttered into his ear, “Look there! It’s your plebeian friend, Gnaeus Marcius. How did he get so near the front of the crowd? He must be posing as a Veturius today, pretending his mother’s blood makes him one of us.”

“Shut up, Publius! Say nothing to insult him. Deliberately causing dissension on such a day shows disrespect to Jupiter.”

Publius laughed. “By all the gods, I should hate to offend your religious sensibilities, Titus! I’ll simply move along, then. Greet the pompous little pleb in whatever fashion you imagine would please Jupiter.”

After Publius disappeared, Titus called to Gnaeus, who returned his smile.

“You were right all along about Vulca and the temple,” said Gnaeus. “Foreigner or not, he’s given us a truly magnificent building, something all Roma can be proud of. I look forward to seeing the statues inside.”

Titus merely nodded. To Publius, he proudly would have boasted that he had seen the statues already, but Gnaeus might think he was acting superior and take offense.

Gnaeus’s smile faded. “You were standing closer to the consuls than I was. Did Brutus look rather haggard?”

“Perhaps. My grandfather says there’s a rumor that he’s unwell.”

“If it were only that!”

“What do you mean?”

Gnaeus took Titus’s arm and pulled him away from the crowd. He spoke in a low voice. “Have you not heard the rumors about Brutus’s sons?”

The consul’s two sons were a few years older than Titus, who knew them just well enough to greet them by name when he saw them in the Forum. “Rumors?”

Gnaeus shook his head. “Just because your grandfather still treats you like a boy doesn’t mean you have to think like a boy, Titus. We’re too old for that. The times are too dangerous. You need to take a greater interest in what’s going on around you.”

Titus smiled crookedly and fingered the talisman of Fascinus at his throat. “All I really care about is learning to be a builder, like Vulca.”

“You should leave such matters to hired artisans. Men like us were born to be warriors.”

“But temples bring us closer to the gods. Building a temple is as important as winning a battle.”

Gnaeus snorted. “I won’t even reply to that! But we were talking about Brutus and his sons. Since you seem unaware of the situation, I’ll inform you. This precarious state of affairs-this so-called republic-is hanging by a thread. Our neighbors are making alliances to wage war against us. Without a king, they think we’re weak, and they’re right. All this strife and bickering has sapped our strength. The worthless rabble of the city was placated for a while, after the usurpers allowed them to plunder the Tarquinius family estates-shame on Brutus and Collatinus for permitting such an outrage! — but now the mob is growing suspicious of the new magistrates, and they think their own assembly should take the place of the Senate. May the gods help Roma if that should happen! And now…” He lowered his voice even further. “Now there’s a plot to restore the king to the throne. Some of the most respected men in Roma are involved.”

Titus drew a sharp breath. “Is such a thing possible?”

“Not without a great deal of bloodshed. But yes, it’s possible. As long as Tarquinius and his sons are alive, they’ll never stop scheming to take back the throne. I know I wouldn’t!”

“But who would help them to do such a thing? After what Sextus Tarquinius did to Lucretia-”

“What of it? A man raped another man’s wife, not for the first time, and not for the last. It was a crime, to be sure-but not a reason to abolish the whole system of kingship that made Roma a strong city. Don’t forget, it was a king who gave us that temple you’re so proud of. The enemies of Tarquinius merely used the rape as a means to stir up anger against the king, so that they could take his place.”

Titus felt a prickle of dread. “Gnaeus, you’re not involved in this plot to bring back the king, are you? Gnaeus, answer me!”

Gnaeus affected an aloof, mysterious expression, and Titus could see that his friend was enjoying his consternation. “No, I am not,” he finally said. “But nor am I completely unsympathetic to those who think Roma was better with a king.”

“But, Gnaeus, even for one such as you…” Titus realized he must speak carefully, so as not to offend his friend; at the same time, he wanted to show that he was not as ignorant of politics as Gnaeus seemed to think. “Collatinus is a patrician, but Brutus isn’t; his mother was the king’s sister, but his father was a plebeian. By winning election to the consulship, these two have set a precedent for the future. In the republic, any man of worth-patrician or plebeian-will have a chance to rule the state.”

Gnaeus snorted. “For a year! What good is that?”

Titus pressed on. “New men have been added to the Senate, as well. Tarquinius killed off so many senators that Brutus and Collatinus are nominating new members every day, to bring the number back to three hundred. Not only patricians, but plebeians, as well.”

“Even worse! Is that the best a man can hope for? To become one of three hundred?”

Titus frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Gnaeus, I think you miss the point.” He could not help but imagine how bluntly Publius would have stated the case: There may be a place for you yet in the new republic, Gnaeus, even though you’re just a lowly plebeian!

“No, Titus, you miss the point. This republic, this government by the people-what can it offer a man except the chance to become a mere senator, one of three hundred, or at best a consul, the first among equals, and one of a pair at that, elected for only a year? So long as Roma had a king, there was hope; there was something a man could strive for.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hope, Titus! An ambitious man, a great man, a fierce warrior-a man head and shoulders above all other men-such a man, in the old days, might hope someday to occupy the throne, to become a true ruler of men, to be king of Roma. But now, with the monarchy gone, replaced by this pathetic republic, what hope remains for such a man?”

Titus gazed at his friend, fascinated and appalled. Had Gnaeus truly imagined that he might someday be king of Roma? Where had such unbridled ambition come from? Was it to be feared or admired? He almost wished that Publius were present, to deflate Gnaeus’s fantastical notions with a snide comment.

Titus shook his head. “How did we come to speak of such things? You were going to tell me something about Brutus…and his sons…”

“Never mind,” said Gnaeus. He hid his face, but in his voice Titus heard all the anger, pain, and exasperation of a youth whose dreams are understood by no one else, not even his closest friend.

Gnaeus strode away without another word.

Just as his grandfather had stressed to Titus the importance of mastering letters, so, too, had Brutus made sure that his two sons could read and write. It was this ability that doomed them.

The younger brother of Brutus’s wife was deep in the plot to restore the king. It was this man, Vitellius, who convinced his nephews to join the conspiracy, with promises that they would be greatly rewarded in the second reign of Tarquinius. Secret envoys carried messages back and forth between the king and the conspirators. As the date for Tarquinius’s planned return grew closer-a day that would turn the Forum into a lake of blood-the nervous king pressed for greater assurances from his supporters. He demanded letters of express intent, with explicit pledges of loyalty, signed by their own hands. The two sons of Brutus, Titus and Tiberius, signed such a letter, and placed it into the hands of a slave owned by their uncle Vitellius.

The slave had been bribed by Brutus to keep him informed of the plot. Brutus knew that his brother-in-law was involved; having no love for Vitellius, he was determined to expose him. Brutus did not know of the involvement of his own sons.

If he could produce proof of the conspiracy, the slave had been promised freedom and all the rights of citizenship in the new republic. With mingled dread and excitement, he strode into the presence of the two consuls to deliver the letters with which he had been entrusted.

“How many?” said Brutus.

“Twenty letters,” said the slave, “signed by twenty-one men.”

Brutus frowned. “One of the letters bears two names?”

“Yes, consul.”

One by one, Brutus took the letters and read them, then passed them to Collatinus. Some of the names came as no surprise to Brutus; others shocked him. Acutely conscious of the gravity of the moment, he kept all expression from his face.

The slave averted his eyes when he handed Brutus the last letter. The consul stared at it for a such a long time, maintaining such an unnaturally rigid posture, that Collatinus, waiting for the letter to be passed to him, wondered if Brutus had been stricken by some form of paralysis. Growing impatient, he took the letter from Brutus’s hands. When he saw the two names upon it, he let out a gasp.

Still, Brutus showed no reaction. His voice was devoid of emotion. “We have their names now. We have proof of their guilt. We know where all these men reside. We must send our lictors to apprehend them as quickly as possible, so that none can warn the others.”

“And then?” said Collatinus in a whisper.

“There is no need for a trial. The Senate has entrusted us with emergency powers to deal with just such a circumstance. We will act swiftly and surely to save the republic.”

The next day, the citizens were called to assemble on the Field of Mars, where the consuls took their seats upon a raised platform.

The condemned men were brought before them. They had been stripped of all clothing. They were all young, and all from respectable families. From a distance, they might have appeared to be naked athletes parading before the crowd in the Circus Maximus, except for the fact that athletes would wave to the crowd, and these men had their hands bound behind them.

All eyes were on the sons of Brutus. If they had learned nothing else from their father, they had learned composure. While some of the conspirators shouted curses, or begged for mercy, or wept, or struggled against the lictors, Titus and Tiberius stood rigidly upright with their mouths shut and their eyes straight ahead.

Thick tree trunks had been laid in a continuous row before the tribunal. The prisoners were made to stand side by side before the trunks, then to kneel in the sand and to lean forward until their chests rested upon the wood. A long rope was wound once around each man’s neck, linking them all together; the slack portions of rope between each man were secured by iron cleats hammered into the ground. Thus the prisoners were restrained and made ready for punishment.

First they were flogged. The lictors took their time. The sons of Brutus and their uncle Vitellius were beaten no more and no less than the others. The flogging continued until the sand was red with blood. Some of the prisoners fainted. They were doused with water to revive them.

Had the prisoners been the captured warriors of another city, or common criminals, or rebellious slaves, the crowd would have jeered and laughed; as it was, there was hardly a noise to be heard, except, here and there, the sound of muffled weeping from men who hid their faces and could not bear to watch. Most in the crowd did their best to emulate Brutus, who sat in his chair of state as rigid as a statue and observed the punishment of the traitors without flinching.

One by one, the prisoners were beheaded. The lictors shared the duty, passing the axe from man to man, wiping it free of blood and gore before using it again. The sons of Brutus were near the middle of the line, side by side. When the lictors came to Titus, ten men had already been executed; their heads lay where they had fallen on the sand in pools of blood that poured from their severed necks. Some of the men farther up the line were weeping; some, in fits of panic, were struggling frantically against their bonds. Some had lost control of their bowels and their bladders; the stench of urine and feces was added to the odor of blood. Vitellius, who was at the very end of the line, had begun to scream incessantly. One of the lictors, unable to stand the noise, gagged his mouth with a bloody rag.

The axe was passed. The lictor wiped the blade, raised it in the air, and brought it down on the neck of Titus. Tiberius, who kept his eyes tightly shut, was beheaded next. Nine more prisoners remained. The lictors continued with their work.

Gazing down from the tribunal, the face of Brutus was no less impassive after his sons’ execution than it had been before. The citizens in the crowd looked at him in awe.

When his turn arrived, Vitellius managed to spit the gag from his mouth and began to scream again. The axe rose and fell. His screaming abruptly stopped. The Field of Mars was utterly silent.

Collatinus stood. His bearing was stiff; only by the repeated clenching and unclenching of his fists did he betray his agitation. Next to him, Brutus rose from his chair. For a brief instant, he appeared to falter. As one, the crowd drew a sharp breath, fearful that his legs would give way beneath him. Collatinus instinctively reached out to grasp his fellow consul’s arm, but stopped short of touching him and drew back his hand.

Collatinus spoke to him in a low voice; he was offering to perform a duty which previously they had agreed would fall to Brutus. Brutus shook his head, declining the offer. He extended his right arm. One of the lictors delivered a staff into his open hand.

“Vindicius, come forward!” Brutus cried.

The slave who had exposed his master Vitellius and the other conspirators approached the tribunal. Brutus looked down at him.

“For your role in saving the republic from its enemies, a reward was promised to you, Vindicius. In the brief life of our republic, never before has a slave become a citizen. You shall be the first. By the touch of this staff, I grant you the rights, duties, and privileges of a free man of Roma.”

Vindicius bowed his head. Brutus touched the crown of his head with the staff.

Brutus’s voice, raised to orator’s pitch, had a shrill edge, but it did not break. “Let it be seen that a slave can become a citizen by serving the republic. And let it be seen that any citizen who betrays the republic will be shown no mercy. All the men executed here today were guilty of treason. They betrayed their city and their fellow citizens. Some of them were guilty of another crime: They betrayed their father. Disloyalty to father, or to fatherland-for either crime, there can be only one punishment, which you saw carried out today. This we have done upon the Field of Mars, with nothing to hide us from the eye of heaven. Let the gods pay witness. By their continuing favor, let them affirm that what we have done was well and rightly done.”

Brutus stepped down from the tribunal, his head held high. His gait was steady, but he leaned heavily upon the staff in his right hand. Never before had he needed a staff to help him walk; never again would he be able to walk without it.

Among those in the front of the crowd, watching the consul’s departure, were Titus Potitius and Gnaeus Marcius.

Titus, thanks to his family’s status, was used to being at the front of any assembly; on this day, he might have wished to be anywhere else. Several times, especially during the beheadings, he had grown faint and nauseated, but with his grandfather standing close by, he had not dared to look away. His friend Gnaeus, who was used to being further back in any crowd, had on this occasion pleaded with Titus to allow him a place beside him, so that he could have the best possible view of the proceedings. When Titus had grown weak, he had touched Fascinus with one hand and with the other had reached, like a child, for Gnaeus’s hand. Gnaeus, though it made him feel slightly foolish, had held his friend’s hand without protesting; he owed his place at the front of the crowd to Titus, after all.

Gnaeus was not squeamish; the sight of so much blood had not sickened him. Nor had he felt pity for the prisoners. They had taken a terrible risk, knowing the possible consequences. Had they succeeded, they would have shown no more mercy to their victims than had been shown to them.

About Brutus, Gnaeus was not sure what to think. The man had a will of iron; if any mortal was worthy to be a king, it must be Brutus, and yet the man had no interest in claiming the throne; his hatred of monarchy seemed to be entirely genuine. Brutus had invested all his hopes and dreams in the curious notion of res publica, the people’s state. Res publica had claimed his own sons, and had demanded that he carry out the punishment himself. Even a god who required such a cruel sacrifice might find himself spurned, yet Brutus still worshiped res publica!

Gnaeus had seen the birth of a new world, one in which patriots, not kings, held sway. The world had changed, but Gnaeus had not; he was still determined to be first among men, held in esteem above all others. How this might be accomplished in the new world, he did not know, but he had faith in his destiny. Time and the gods would show him the way.

504 B.C.

The arrival of Attus Clausus in Roma was an occasion of great pomp and celebration. All concerned recognized that it was a momentous event, though none could have realized just how far-reaching its effects would be.

The first five years of the new republic had been marked by many setbacks and challenges. Enemies from within had conspired to restore the king. Enemies from without had sought to conquer and subjugate the city. The citizens roiled with discontent, as power shifted from one faction to another in a relentless contest of wills.

Among the external enemies of the city were the Sabine tribes to the south and east, who had long been unified in their hostility to Roma. When one of their leaders, Attus Clausus, began to argue for peace between the Sabines and Roma, his fellow warlords turned against him and Clausus found himself in imminent danger. He made an urgent request to the Senate that he should be allowed to emigrate to Roma, along with a small army of warriors and their families. The Senate debated the issue and empowered the consuls to negotiate with Clausus. In return for a substantial contribution to the exhausted state treasury and the induction of his warriors into the Roman ranks, Clausus was welcomed to Roma. His dependents were promised land on the Anio river, and Clausus himself was enlisted among the patricians and given a seat in the Senate.

On the day of his arrival, a great crowd of well-wishers thronged the Forum and cheered him as he strolled up the Sacred Way with his family. Flower petals were strewn in their path. Horns and pipes played the festive melody of an old song about Romulus, his acquisition of the Sabine brides, and its happy result. The procession reached the Senate House. While his wife and children remained at the foot of the steps, Clausus ascended to the porch.

As usual, Titus Potitius stood near the front of the crowd, where he was able to get a good look at the famous Sabine warlord. He was impressed by the man’s distinguished bearing and his regal mane of black hair shot with silver. Titus’s grandfather stood among the magistrates and senators on the porch who welcomed Clausus and presented him with a senatorial toga. The Sabine tunic Clausus wore was a splendid green garment with sumptuous gold embroidery, but he made a show of good-naturedly raising his arms and allowing the toga to be wrapped around him and properly draped. He wore it well, and looked as if he had been born to the Roman Senate.

Speeches followed. Titus’s attention began to wander and he found himself studying the members of the Clausus family who were positioned nearby. The new senator’s wife was a striking woman, and their children were the offspring of two very good-looking parents. One of the daughters in particular caught Titus’s eye. She was a dark beauty with a long nose, sensual lips, and flashing green eyes. Titus was unable to look away. She felt his eyes upon her and returned his gaze, appraising him for a long moment before she smiled and looked away; up on the porch, her father had begun to speak. Titus’s heart was stirred as it had not been stirred since he first saw the doomed Lucretia.

Clausus spoke Latin with a charming Sabine accent. He expressed gratitude to the Senate of Roma-making no mention of the common people, Titus noticed-and he promised to continue his efforts to convince the other Sabine leaders that a peace accord should be struck with Roma. “But if they cannot be pacified in the counsel chamber, then they shall have to be crushed on the battlefield, and in that endeavor I shall do my part. The Sabine warriors I brought with me are now proud Roman warriors, just as I am now a proud Roman senator. Indeed, even as I put on this toga, I put aside my Sabine name. This morning I awoke as Attus Clausus, but as of this moment, I declare myself Appius Claudius. I think the name suits me, just as this toga suits me!” He smiled and slowly turned around to show off his new garment, eliciting applause and friendly laughter. The crowd loved him.

Titus, too, felt a surge of love, and also of hope, for now he knew what to call the object of his desire. The daughter of any man named Claudius would bear the name Claudia.

Claudia! he thought. I am in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, and her name is Claudia!

“According to Appius Claudius, he will leave the decision to the girl herself. What a strange character that man is!”

“Yes, grandfather,” said Titus, nodding nervously. “And?”

“And what?”

“What was her decision?”

“By Hercules, young man, I have no idea. I spent the whole visit talking to her father. I didn’t even see the girl. If she’s anything like your grandmother, she won’t make up her mind on the spot. Give her time to think it over!”

In the days following their arrival in Roma, Appius Claudius and his family had been invited to the homes of all the city’s foremost families. Among their first hosts had been the Potitii, for Titus had encouraged his grandfather to invite them to dinner as soon as possible. Titus had seized the chance to meet Claudia, and managed to speak to her privately for a few moments. She proved to be more fascinating than he could have imagined; her voice was like music, and the words she uttered took him into a realm of magic. Claudius, whom the Romans were beginning to consider a bit eccentric as they got to know him, had seen to the education of his daughters as well as his sons. Claudia could actually read and write, and when Titus mentioned his interest in architecture, she spoke of how impressed she was by the great Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline.

“Imagine that, grandfather,” Titus had said afterward. “A female who can read and write! Such a woman might be a great helpmate to her husband.”

“Or a positive menace! A wife who could read her husband’s private papers? What a dreadful idea! But what are you saying, Titus? Do you want this girl for your wife?”

So had begun Titus’s courtship of Claudia. He was allowed to see her on a few more occasions, always with Claudia’s maidservant present to act as chaperone. His enchantment with her grew with each brief visit. The marriage negotiations had been conducted mostly by the patresfamilias of the two households; Titus’s grandfather sent inquiries to Appius Claudius, who responded with a positive reply. A marriage bond would offer advantages to both families. Claudius was immensely wealthy; his daughter would bring a considerable dowry, and the Potitii were in need of an infusion of wealth. They, in turn, were one of Roma’s oldest and most distinguished families; a marriage union with a Potitius would grant the Claudii instant legitimacy among the patricians of the city.

The marriage negotiations went very well, until the day Titus’s grandfather came home with unsettling news. Titus was not the only suitor interested in young Claudia.

“Who else?” demanded Titus. “Whoever he is, I shall…I shall…” He was not certain what he would do, but he felt a wave of aggression such as he had never experienced.

“It’s your friend Publius Pinarius,” said his grandfather. “Can you imagine that! Apparently, Publius saw the girl that first day before the Senate House, just as you did, and the Pinarii had the Claudii to dinner the very day after we did. Publius has been courting the girl ever since, just as assiduously as you have. This puts Appius Claudius in a bit of a spot. He argues-and I cannot deny it-that there is very little to distinguish the Potitii and the Pinarii when it comes to a good match for his household. Our bloodlines are equally ancient, equally distinguished in the history of the city.”

“Except that the Pinarii came late to the Feast of Hercules!”

His grandfather laughed. “Yes, there is that, but I don’t think a blunder made a few hundred years ago is enough to tip the scales in our favor. With all things being equal between you and Publius, Claudius says he shall leave the decision to the girl herself.”

“When will she decide?”

“My dear boy, as I’ve already told you, I have no idea. I didn’t give the man a deadline.”

“Perhaps you should have. I don’t think I can stand the waiting! This is worse than the first time I went into battle. At least then I felt it was all up to me, whether I made a good showing of myself or not. But this is terrible; I’ve done all I can, and now all I can do is wait. I’m totally at her mercy!”

Titus began to pace. They were in the small garden in the courtyard at the center of the house. Rose bushes stood at each corner of the garden. Titus paced from one to the other, taking no notice of the blooms or their scent. His grandfather shook his head and smiled, recalling, vaguely, what it had been like to feel the passionate longings of a young man not yet married.

“Fretting will accomplish nothing,” he said. “Perhaps you should-”

A slave approached and announced that a visitor was at the door.

The old man raised an eyebrow. “This could be our answer. Claudius said he would send a messenger as soon as the girl made her decision.”

“It’s not a messenger,” said the slave. “It’s the young lady who’s visited before.”

“Claudia?” Titus, suddenly short of breath, strode past the slave. A short hallway led to the vestibule at the front of the house. From the open skylight above, a beam of midday sunlight lit the impluvium, the little pool for catching rainwater. Flashes of reflected light danced across Claudia and her chaperone.

“You’ve come!” Titus said, striding past the maidservant and daring to take the girl’s hands in his own.

Claudia lowered her eyes. “Yes. I had to send my regrets…”

Titus’s heart sank.

“…to Publius Pinarius. My father’s messenger should be at his door now. But to you I wanted to come myself, so that I could say to you: Yes! I will be your wife, Titus Potitius.”

Titus threw back his head and laughed, then took her in his arms. The maidservant discreetly turned her face away, but Titus’s grandfather, from the shadows, watched the young couple’s first kiss with a smile of satisfaction at having conducted the marriage negotiations so successfully. He only hoped that young Publius Pinarius would not take his rejection too bitterly.

The marriage ceremonies of most Romans were simple family affairs, without religious rites. Many couples entered into matrimony with hardly any ceremony at all; a man and woman needed only to state that they were married and to live together for their union to be recognized.

The marriage of two patricians was another matter.

First, Titus’s grandfather took the auspices to determine a favorable day for the ceremony. Because the bride would need to perform certain religious rites in her new household on the day after her marriage, various days of the calendar with conflicting religious rites were immediately excluded from consideration. Likewise, from long tradition, the entire months of Februarius and Maius were thought to be inauspicious. Upon the Ara Maxima, Titus’s grandfather placed a parchment on which he had written five possible dates. One by one, he placed a stone upon each date, watched the flight of birds in the sky for signs of heaven’s favor, and determined the most auspicious day for the ceremony.

This was the first Roman wedding in the family of Appius Claudius, and he was determined to observe all the local traditions. When he inquired about the origins of each custom, the Romans could explain some but not others, which had been handed down from a time beyond memory.

On the appointed day, at sundown, the wedding party departed from the house of Appius Claudius. The procession was led by the youngest boy in the household-Claudia’s little brother-who carried a pine torch lit from the family’s hearthfire; its flame would be added to the hearthfire of the bridegroom when they arrived at the house of Titus Potitius.

Following the torchbearer was a Vestal virgin, wearing the linen vestments of her order, with a narrow headband of twined red and white wool tied around her closely shorn hair. She carried a cake made from consecrated grain and sprinkled with holy salt; a few bites would be taken by the couple during the ceremony, after which the cake would be shared with their guests.

Next came the bride. Claudia’s veil was bright yellow, as were her shoes. Her long white robe was cinched at the waist with a purple sash tied at the back in a special configuration called the Hercules knot; later, it would be the bridegroom’s privilege, and challenge, to untie the knot. In her hands she carried the implements of spinning, a distaff and a spindle with wool. Flanking her, making a show of offering support to her arms, were two of the bride’s cousins, little boys hardly older than the torchbearer. At first, these escorts took their duty very seriously and set out with somber expressions, but when the torchbearer stumbled, they broke into giggles so infectious that even the Vestal virgin began to laugh.

Following the bride were her mother and father and the rest of the bridal party, who sang a very old Roman wedding song called “Tallasius.” The foreign-born Claudii had to learn this song from scratch, but the words were charmingly appropriate considering the circumstances. When the Sabine women were taken by Romulus and his men, the most beautiful of the women was captured by the henchmen of a certain Tallasius, a loyal lieutenant of the king, who had observed and selected her in advance. As she was carried off, the Sabine woman begged to know where the men were taking her, and so the song went:

Where do you take me? To Tallasius the dutiful! Why do you take me? Because he thinks you’re beautiful! What will my fate be? To marry him, to be his mate! What god will save me? All the gods have blessed this date!

The wedding party arrived at the home of Titus Potitius. Before the house, under the open sky, by the light of tapers soaked in wax, a sheep was sacrificed upon an altar and skinned. Its pelt was thrown over two chairs, upon which the bride and groom sat. The auspices were taken, and declared to be good. The gods were called upon to bless the union.

Still carrying her distaff and spindle, Claudia rose from her chair and was escorted by her mother to the door of the house, which was decorated with garlands and flowers. Her mother embraced her. Miming an attack, Titus stepped forward and pulled his bride from her mother’s arms. This was another echo of the abduction of the Sabines, as was what came next: Titus, blushing furiously, picked her up, kicked open the door, and carried her like a captive over the threshold.

Claudia’s mother wept. Her father fought back tears with laughter. The wedding party cheered and applauded.

Inside the house, Titus set Claudia down on a sheepskin rug. She put aside her distaff and spindle. He handed her the keys to the house, and asked, with breathless excitement, “Who is this newcomer in my house?”

Claudia answered as the ancient ritual prescribed: “When and where you are Titus, then and there I shall be Titia.” Thus the bride gave herself a first name, the feminine form of her husband’s first name-something that did not exist for women in the world at large, and would only ever be used in private between the two of them.

The wedding banquet was mostly a family affair, but certain close friends of the bride and groom were invited. Titus had thought long and hard about whether to invite Publius Pinarius. In the end, he had taken his grandfather’s advice and had done so, and as his grandfather had predicted, Publius had spared everyone from embarrassment by sending his regrets, saying he could not attend because his family would be visiting relatives in the countryside.

Gnaeus Marcius, however, did accept Titus’s invitation. He had recently become betrothed himself, to a plebeian girl named Volumnia. If he was disappointed not to have arranged a marriage with a patrician girl, he did not admit it. His demeanor was as haughty as ever; if anything, his self-assurance had increased, bolstered by his first forays into battle. As yet, Gnaeus was still some distance from achieving his lofty goal-to become the greatest warrior that Roma had ever seen-but he had made a good start, coming to the attention of his commanders by repeatedly proving his bravery in combat.

Busy accepting the good wishes of all the other guests, Titus was able to pay only passing attention to Gnaeus. He worried that his friend might feel a bit out of place amid so many Claudii and Potitii, or, given his sensitivities, might experience a bit of envy, perhaps even resentment, at seeing the trappings of the patrician wedding he himself would never experience. Then Titus saw, across the crowd, that Gnaeus was deep in conversation with Appius Claudius. The two of them looked very serious one moment, burst out laughing the next, then returned to their sober discussion.

What were they talking about? Titus worked his way across the crowd until he was close enough to overhear.

“And yet,” Claudius was saying, “it’s my understanding that even before the coming of the republic, there was considerable friction between the best families and the common people. It seems unfair to blame Brutus for stirring a hornet’s next. His intention, surely, was to spread the powers which Tarquinius hoarded to himself among the senators, so that all the best men could take a turn at the rudder, so to speak.”

“The revolution that Brutus began still continues, and could veer out of control at any moment,” said Gnaeus. “Revolutions begin at the top, then work their way down. The trick is to arrest the process before the worst people kill the best and gain control.”

“But the republic appears to be working,” said Claudius. “It’s true, and perhaps unfortunate, that even the lowliest citizens are allowed to vote for the magistrates; on the other hand, only the best men are eligible to run for office. And citizens vote not as individuals but in tribal units, and those votes are weighted; the units which include the best families and their dependents count for much more than those of the rabble. It seems a reasonable system.”

“Perhaps, if the common people would be satisfied with it. But have you listened to the rabble-rousers in the Forum? They say the debts of the poor should be forgiven. Can you imagine the chaos if that should happen? They say the plebeians must be allowed to elect their own magistrates, to ‘protect’ them from the patricians. They want two governments instead of one! They say the common people should consider seceding from the city altogether-go off and found their own city, and leave Roma to fend for herself against her enemies. That’s traitor’s talk!”

“Serious matters, indeed,” said Claudius. “Thank the gods that Roma has clear-headed young men such as yourself, Gnaeus Marcius, who can recognize that some beasts were born to pull a plow and others to guide it.”

“And thank the gods, Appius Claudius, that a man as wise and honorable as you has chosen to join his destiny with that of our beloved Roma.”

Titus smiled and moved away, pleased but not entirely surprised that his aristocratic father-in-law and his elitist best friend had each found a kindred spirit in the other.

493 B.C.

The slave entered his master’s study, bearing a large, rolled parchment. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Senator. I believe these were the plans you requested.”

Titus Potitius, who stood bent over a table, studying a similar parchment by the bright sunlight from the window, looked up and nodded absently. “What? Oh, yes, the plans for the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline! I’ve been wanting to see Vulca’s old drawings. They may help me solve a problem I’ve encountered with the design of the new Temple of Ceres. Put the scroll there, in that corner. I’ll look at it later.”

The slave obeyed, then returned to Titus and cleared his throat again.

“Yes? Is there something else?”

“You asked me to remind you, master, when the time for the triumph drew near.”

“Of course! I’ve been so busy, I entirely forgot! I mustn’t be late. I daresay old Cominius wouldn’t care whether I showed up or not, but Gnaeus would never forgive me if I wasn’t present to witness his moment of glory. Go fetch my toga and help me put it on.”

An hour later, Titus stood among his colleagues on the steps of the Senate House. His grandfather had died not long after Titus’s marriage; his father had died three years ago. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, Titus was paterfamilias of the family and one of the youngest members of the Senate. As always, throughout his life, his pedigree gave him claim to a place of honor-in this case, on one of the upper steps that afforded a splendid view. On the step above Titus stood his father-in-law, Appius Claudius, who had risen to great prominence in the Senate; only the consuls and the other magistrates stood higher, on the porch of the building. On the step below stood his old friend Publius Pinarius. Across from the Senate House, Titus’s son stood in the very spot where he had stood as a boy, at the front of the crowd of patricians who had gathered to watch the triumphal procession on the Sacred Way.

The occasion for the triumph was the successful conclusion of a war against a people called the Volsci, south of Roma. The consul Postumius Cominius had led the campaign. In short order, his troops had seized the Volscian cities of Antium, Longula, Polusca, and the greatest prize of all, Corioli. A grateful Senate had enthusiastically voted to award Cominius a triumph, an honor once given exclusively by the kings to themselves, but which now was granted by the Senate to those consuls who achieved a great military victory.

Titus heard the shrill piping of flutes playing a military air. Surrounded by the musicians, a white ox led the parade. It would later be sacrificed, along with a portion of the spoils of battle, on an altar before the Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline.

Following the ox came the Volscian warriors who had been captured in battle. They had been stripped of their armor and were dressed in rags. Filthy and unkempt, they shuffled forward in shackles, hanging their heads. The crowd laughed and jeered at them. Boys threw pebbles to make them flinch. A grizzled, toothless Roman soldier stepped from the crowd to spit on them. At the conclusion of the triumph, having served their purpose as ornaments, the luckiest of the prisoners might be returned to their families, if an adequate ransom had been offered. The others would be sold into slavery.

Next came the elite prisoners, those who had been the chief men of the captured cities. For them, neither freedom nor slavery waited. While the priests sacrificed the ox to Jupiter, these prisoners would be lowered into the Tullianum, the prison cell at the foot of the Capitoline, and strangled by executioners. According to the priests, offerings were more pleasing to the god when accompanied by the death of those who had been the leaders of Roma’s enemies.

Next came the spoils of battle: the captured arms and insignia of the Voscians, as well as wagons full of coins, jewels, and fine objects including vases and etched silver mirrors-all the portable items of value that had been seized when the fallen cities were sacked. Greatest of all was the booty of Corioli, where the wealthiest of the Volsci had lived in great luxury.

After the spoils of war came the general’s lictors wearing red tunics, marching in single file with their axes raised high, shouting the Latin victory chant. “Io triumphe! Io triumphe! Io triumphe!” The general himself followed in a chariot pulled by four horses and decorated with bronze plates embossed with images of winged victories. Watching the chariot approach, Titus smiled. He could hear in his head the lecturing voice of his grandfather: “Romulus walked up the Sacred Way for his triumphs; his feet were good enough for him! This business of riding in a quadriga began only with the elder Tarquinius.” The clatter of the horses’ hooves was added to the chant of the lictors, then both were drowned by roar of the crowd.

Cominius was dressed a tunic sewn with flowers and a gold-embroidered robe. On his head he wore a laurel crown. In his right hand he carried a laurel bough, and in his left a scepter surmounted by an eagle. His youngest son rode beside him in the chariot and handled the reins.

In commemoration of the enemy blood spilled under his command, the hands and face of Cominius were stained bright red with cinnabar. He raised his scepter in salutation to the senators, who saluted back.

Following the general marched the soldiers who had fought under him. At their head, in a place of honor, was Titus’s old friend, Gnaeus Marcius, the hero of the battle of Corioli.

For years, in battle after battle, Gnaeus had been gaining a reputation as a fearless fighter, but at Corioli, where he had served as second in command to Cominius, his exploits had elevated him to a new level of glory. At a critical moment during the siege, the defenders had boldly opened the gates and sent forth their fiercest fighters. The bloodshed that followed was horrific, but one Roman never wavered as he slew enemy after enemy: Gnaeus Marcius. Driven by a force that seemed more than human, he fought his way to the open gates and ran into the city, alone. The soldiers and citizens of Corioli swarmed around him, determined to kill him, but Gnaeus could not be stopped. After surrounding himself with corpses, he seized a torch and set aflame anything that could burn. The conflagration so terrified and distracted the defenders that the gates were left unmanned. The Romans rushed into the city and a mass slaughter followed.

After the battle, Cominius praised Gnaeus’s heroism before the assembled troops. He presented him with a magnificent war-horse with trappings worthy of a general. He also promised Gnaeus as much of the silver of Corioli as he could carry and his choice of any ten captives to become his slaves. Gnaeus accepted the horse, saying it would help him to fight Roma’s enemies, and one captive, a man he recognized for having fought bravely against him, whom he then released. The other gifts he rejected, saying that he had done no more and no less than any Roman soldier should. The conquest of Corioli itself was the only reward he desired.

Gnaeus Marcius had become a hero to his fellow soldiers that day. Now, marching behind him in the triumphal procession, they began to chant, quietly at first, then louder and louder: “Coriolanus! Coriolanus! Coriolanus!”-an honorific title to hail him as the conqueror of Corioli.

Because such a title would more properly be given to a commander, Titus thought the men must be referring to Cominius. The general apparently thought the same thing, for he smiled broadly, turned around in the chariot to face his troops, and raised his scepter to them. But in the next instant, it became evident for whom the troops were crying out. A band of them broke ranks, rushed forward, and raised Gnaeus Marcius onto their shoulders. They spun him about, all the while shouting: “Coriolanus! Coriolanus! Coriolanus!”

A lesser man might have betrayed a flash of jealousy at seeing a subordinate so honored on the day of his own triumph, but Cominius was as canny a politician as he was a commander. His unwavering grin became a smile bestowed on Gnaeus Marcius. His raised scepter became a salute to the hero of Corioli. When the crowd began to take up the chant as well, Cominius seized the moment. He beckoned to the soldiers bearing Gnaeus aloft. They trotted forward, laughing like boys, and deposited their comrade onto the chariot alongside the commander.

A few in the crowd were taken aback at this breach of decorum. Below him, Titus heard Publius Pinarius let out a gasp and mutter, “By Hercules, did you ever see anything so audacious?” But a far greater number of spectators were roused to cheering and even moved to tears, especially when Cominius warmly embraced Gnaeus, then placed Gnaeus’s hand upon the scepter next to his own and raised it high.

“People of Roma, I give you Gnaeus Marcius, the hero of Corioli! All hail Coriolanus!”

“Coriolanus!” the people chanted. The name reverberated around the Forum like rolling thunder.

From the step above, Appius Claudius leaned over and spoke into Titus’s ear. “I always knew that friend of yours would make a name for himself. Today he has, and everyone in Roma is shouting it.” Claudius stood upright, cupped his hands to his mouth, and joined the others: “Coriolanus! All hail Coriolanus!”

“The temple will be dedicated very soon, then?” said Gnaeus Marcius.

Titus laughed. “Yes, very soon. It’s polite of you to inquire, Gnaeus-or should I call you Coriolanus now? But we both know you have very little interest in temples, and even less in architecture for its own sake. We see each other so seldom nowadays, it seems to me that we should speak of matters that interest us both.”

They were dining, alone, in the garden of the house on the Palatine where Gnaeus lived with his mother and wife. The previous day, various citizens had organized private feasts to follow the triumph. The food had been so sumptuous, and Titus had eaten so much, that he had thought he would never be hungry again. Yet, a day later, his stomach was empty again and he found himself craving a simple meal. Even more, he craved the company of his old friend Gnaeus, just the two of them alone, away from the swarms of strangers and well-wishers who had surrounded Gnaeus the previous day with their incessant cries of “Hail Coriolanus!” And so, when Gnaeus invited him to a private dinner to enjoy his mother’s chickpea and millet porridge, Titus had eagerly accepted.

“It’s true that our lives have taken different paths in recent years,” said Gnaeus. “But that may be about to change.”

“How so? Am I to leave the Senate, and the construction projects they’ve entrusted to me, and join you in battle? I was never very good at it. I suppose I could be your spearbearer, or hold open the gate of an enemy city while you rush inside.”

“I mean quite the opposite. I shall be invading your domain.”

“My construction projects?”

“No! I mean the Senate.”

“What are you saying?”

Gnaeus smiled. “Cominius promised me as much, yesterday, after he invited me onto his chariot. As we passed all those cheering people, he whispered in my ear, ‘See how they love you, my boy! Amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it! A man like you belongs in the Senate, where you can do even more good for Roma than you did at Corioli. I shall make a special appointment, and for that alone, men will say my year as consul was well spent.’”

“But Gnaeus, this is wonderful! Except that now I truly have no idea what I should call you. Senator? Coriolanus? Senator Gnaeus Marcius Coriolanus-that’s a mouthful!”

“Then stuff your mouth with chickpeas and millet instead,” said Gnaeus. He laughed, but a moment later Titus saw that Gnaeus’s lips were silently mouthing his impressive new title, and that it pleased him.

“How the gods must love you! You always said you’d become Roma’s greatest warrior, and so you have. Now you can become Roma’s most beloved politician. Cominius is no fool. He wouldn’t appoint you to the Senate if he didn’t see great potential in you. Appius Claudius sees it, too. Mark my words, in due course, you shall be elected consul.”

“Perhaps. In the meantime, I shall need someone to teach me the ins and outs of the Senate. You’re the man for that, Titus.”

“I hardly think so! Appius Claudius is your man. He took me under his wing when I entered the Senate. It was thanks to his influence that I was put in charge of building the Temple of Ceres. He’ll do the same for you, insofar as such a capable fellow needs to be taken under anyone’s wing.”

“Claudius is a good man to know. But nothing takes the place of a boyhood friend. When the odds are against me, it’s to you I’ll turn, Titus.” Gnaeus put his hand on Titus’s shoulder.

Titus nodded. “Coriolanus honors me.”

Gnaeus leaned back and smiled. “So-how goes the work on the Temple of Ceres?”

“A subject in which you have no interest!”

“No interest as a soldier, perhaps. But as a senator, I may have a great deal of interest in the project.”

“Then tomorrow you shall come and see for yourself. It’s a prominent location, quite spectacular-a spur of the Aventine that looms above the starting gates of the Circus Maximus. It’s in the Etruscan araeostyle, just like the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline. Not as large, but it will be quite grandly decorated. Vulca is no longer with us, alas, but we’ve employed the very best Etruscan sculptors for the terra-cotta statue of Ceres. To execute the frescoes and reliefs on the walls, we’ve brought in two Greek artists, Gorgasus and Damophilus. They’re almost done, and their work is amazing! And…” Titus realized that Gnaeus was not paying attention. He was staring into the middle distance with a distracted look.

Gnaeus noticed that Titus had stopped speaking, and flashed a wry smile. “You’re right, Titus. I care nothing about the temple’s architecture or its adornments. But I do care about the politics behind it.”

“Famine,” said Titus bluntly. “It was the famine three years ago that inspired the building of the temple. So many men were called to war that there was no one to sow the crops that year, and the fields that were sown were devastated by more warfare. Roma had insufficient stores in reserve, and people starved-the poorer people, anyway. My father also died that year-not directly from the famine, because our sort never went hungry, but from a fever; disease goes hand in hand with famine, and from a fever no man is safe. The Sibylline Books were consulted. It was decreed that a temple should be dedicated to Ceres. To prevent another famine, we would appeal to the goddess of the harvest. Sometimes the advice of the Sibylline verses actually makes sense!”

“Or was there another agenda?” said Gnaeus. His tone was suddenly grave. “Ceres is a favorite deity of the plebeians. Is it not true that the annual festival to commemorate her temple will be organized exclusively by plebeians, just as the annual festival to commemorate the Temple of Jupiter is organized by patricians?”

“Yes. Thus we’ll have a new plebeian festival to match the old patrician festival. What’s wrong with that?” asked Titus, with a sigh. He knew where Gnaeus’s argument was leading, for he had heard it before, from Appius Claudius; it was really quite amazing, how closely Gnaeus’s attitudes matched those of Titus’s father-in-law. Both men were endlessly suspicious of anything that might advance the political power of the plebeians. Claudius had maneuvered to have Titus oversee construction of the Temple of Ceres not because he approved of the project, but for reasons quite the opposite: “If it must be done, then better we put you in charge of the project, my boy, rather than some sycophant who wishes only to curry favor with the mob!”

Titus himself was largely apathetic about politics; if anything, he was sympathetic to the struggles of the plebs. His chief priorities were to determine the best design for any given project, to employ the best artists and artisans at the best prices, and to see the building progress from imagination to splendid reality.

Gnaeus shook his head. “If the plebeians continue to have their way, Titus, one morning you may wake up in a world you no longer recognize, where the lowest have usurped the highest, and the age-old prestige of a name like Potitius counts for nothing. Can you not see that the new plebeian festival indicates a dangerous shift in the balance of power? Since the birth of the republic, by this means and that, in small ways and large, the plebeian masses have ceaselessly conspired to wrest power from the patricians, always to the detriment of Roma’s security and prosperity.”

“Some would say they’ve merely been trying to wriggle out from under the patrician heel,” said Titus.

“They’ve refused to pay their debts, which is robbery! Some have refused military service, which is treason! And last year, they pulled the most outrageous stunt of all, their so-called ‘secession’ from the city. Thousands of them-men, women, and children-packed their things and left Roma altogether. They brought the city to a standstill, and refused to come back until their demands were met.”

“Were their demands unreasonable?”

“Of course they were! Appius Claudius fought like a lion to stop his fellow senators from capitulating, but they did. The plebs were granted their demands and that ended the secession. Now they’re allowed to elect their own magistrates. And what will these so-called aediles of the plebs do?”

“Their primary function is sacred-to guard the new Temple of Ceres.”

“And what will be kept in the temple? An archive of the Senate’s decrees. That was another of the plebs’ demands, that all the decrees of the Senate should be written down, so anyone who wishes may search them for discrepancies and scrutinize them for unfair treatment of the plebs.”

“Is it a bad thing, Gnaeus, that laws and proclamations should be written down? The kings ruled by spoken words. They could make promises with one breath and take them back with another. They could ruin a man’s life on a whim, then disclaim all responsibility. My grandfather, may Hercules bless him, taught me to respect the written word. That the laws should be duly and precisely recorded is not a bad thing.”

Gnaeus was unswayed. “Even worse than the aediles-much worse-are these other officers whom the plebeians can now elect, the so-called tribunes. From ancient times the people have been divided into tribes, so they call these representatives their tribunes-but I call them bullies and upstarts! Under the pretext of protecting common citizens from the alleged abuses of magistrates and senators, these tribunes of the plebs can summarily confiscate the property of anyone-anyone! — who they deem has threatened the physical well-being of a citizen. And where will the confiscated goods be deposited? In the Temple of Ceres, under guard of the aediles! And if any man should dare to threaten or in any way interfere with a tribune, that man can be exiled or even put to death!”

Titus sighed. “There have been abuses against the plebs. Once, in the year of the famine, I saw an old veteran being hounded by the hired ruffians of a senator. The veteran was crippled and in rags. He may have owed the senator money, but he clearly had no means to repay the debt, nor was he fit to work it off, no matter how much the ruffians shoved him about. The old man begged them for mercy. He finally tore off his tunic to show his battle scars-the wounds he had received fighting for Roma. If the tribunes had existed then, they could have put a stop to that shameful spectacle! And if the Temple of Ceres had existed, the veteran could have gone there for protection, because, among its other functions, it will serve as an asylum for the plebs.”

Gnaeus snorted. “I’ve heard that tired story about the abused veteran a hundred times before, and I’ve never believed it. No man worthy to be called a Roman veteran would show off his scars to escape paying a debt.”

Titus shook his head. “The temple will also house a center for distributing food to the poor. Does that offend you?”

“Indeed it does! How will the aediles purchase that food? With the confiscated wealth of patricians who’ve dared to offend the tribunes!” Gnaeus raised an eyebrow, then leaned back and crossed his arms. He exhaled a long breath. “Titus, dear Titus. I think I liked it better when I was a warrior and you were a builder, and we had no interests in common.”

“Membership in the Senate does not necessarily draw men together,” said Titus wryly. “But if my father-in-law and I can get along, despite our differences, then so can we, Gnaeus. You’ll find that I have few fixed opinions; in matter of politics, I follow the consensus. The only thing I truly care about is my passion for building.”

The conversation was joined by a feminine voice. “Did I hear you say something about distributing my food to the poor, Titus Potitius? Is my chickpea and millet porridge too common for your taste?”

Titus stood to acknowledge the appearance of Gnaeus’s mother in the garden. One needed to look no further than the graceful Veturia to see the model which had inspired her son’s erect posture and haughty demeanor. “Veturia! You misheard my comments. For your porridge, I have only the highest praise!”

“Good! I made it myself. No slave’s cooking will do for my son, on the rare occasion that finds him home from fighting Roma’s enemies!” From behind, she leaned over to embrace Gnaeus, who remained seated and reached up to grasp her hands and give her a kiss. The widow Veturia was still a very handsome woman, and Gnaeus unabashedly adored her. If only to make my mother proud of me, Gnaeus had once said, declaring his boyhood ambition to become Roma’s greatest warrior. At that moment, the mother of Coriolanus looked very proud indeed.

It was not every senator whose first speech before the august body set off a near-riot inside the chamber, and a full-scale riot outside.

The special appointment of the hero Coriolanus to the Senate was swiftly done. He was outfitted with a senatorial toga, and the day of his induction, if not as momentous as that of Appius Claudius, was nonetheless marked by all the proper ceremonies and speeches of welcome.

The fact that Gnaeus was a plebeian was not an impediment to his admission. A number of wealthy, powerful plebeians had been admitted into the ranks of the Senate. A small handful had even been elected consul, beginning with the great Brutus himself, though for any man not of patrician rank the attainment of the consulship posed a steep challenge. It was one thing to achieve nobilitas, the status of being among “the known,” which membership in the Senate conferred to a man and his descendents; it was quite another thing to attain the nobility’s highest honors. As Publius Pinarius had once remarked to Titus, approvingly, “To reach the very top in our brave new republic, it’s not enough merely to be noble; it’s necessary for that nobility to be covered with purple must like old wine, to be ancient and rusty like iron. That sort of status comes only with generations of breeding!”

If anyone might have opposed Gnaeus’s appointment to their ranks, it would have been the plebeian minority in the Senate who regularly put forth radical legislation and who knew very well where Gnaeus’s allegiances lay; but the plebs bided their time and did not speak against him. It was Gnaeus who spoke against them.

The more conservative senators had always opposed the establishment of the tribunes as protectors of the plebs. Some who had acquiesced to the necessity, in order to end the secession of the plebs, now regretted it. Yet no one, not even the reactionary Appius Claudius, dared to call publicly for the abolition of the tribunes. There was some question as to whether it would be even legal to do so; to interfere with the work of the tribunes was a crime punishable by exile or death, and could it not be argued that calling for their abolition amounted to interference with their work?

It was left to a man who knew no fear to do what Appius Claudius and his colleagues were afraid to do.

On the morning that Gnaeus was inducted into their ranks, the business of the Senate was commonplace. Funds needed to be appropriated to repair a section of the Cloaca Maxima. More funds were needed to rebuild a portion of a road south of the city rendered impassable by heavy rains. A section of the wall protecting the Aventine needed repair. There was debate as to who should receive these contracts; certain senators were notorious for getting the most lucrative contracts, and for overcharging, as well. After some acrimonious exchanges, the matter of funding was tabled and scheduled for further debate.

Titus Potitius was asked about progress on the Temple of Ceres. “I am happy to report that the work of the Greek artists Gorgasus and Damophilus is very nearly complete. Some of you have seen the results already. I believe I can say without exaggeration that our grandchildren, and their grandchildren, when they look upon this temple, will praise their ancestors for having created a gift of such exquisite beauty to the goddess. In years of bounty, we shall have a place to thank her. In lean years, we shall have a place to appeal to her favor.”

There was a murmur of approval throughout the chamber. Titus was well liked, and his competence was beyond dispute.

The attention of the Senate turned to its newest member, who had put in a request to speak. Gnaeus, who was sitting between Appius Claudius and Titus, rose to his feet and strode to the center of the chamber, so that he could move about freely and face all the senators in turn.

“My colleagues, let me tell you straight out that I am not a man of delicate words. My oratorical skills, such as they are, were not learned on the Field of Mars where the men standing for consul beg for votes. I am not accustomed to flattering anyone, least of all my inferiors. I learned to speak on the battlefield, exhorting other men to fight and to spill their blood for Roma. Today, I find myself on another battlefield, where the fate of Roma hangs in the balance. You, senators, are the warriors I must rally to take up arms and fight for Roma!

“Not long ago, when the plebs staged their so-called secession, one of your number, the distinguished Menenius Agrippa, made an impassioned speech to the people, trying to make them see reason. He told them a fable which went something like this: Long ago, the parts of the human body were not all in harmony, as they are now, but each had its own thoughts and ideas. The hard-working limbs and the vigilant eyes and ears noticed that the belly seemed to do nothing but lay idle and wait for the other parts to feed it. ‘We all work hard to satisfy the belly, but what does the belly do for us?’ they said. ‘Let us teach the belly a lesson!’ So they conspired to withhold all nourishment from it. The limbs refused to gather grain, the eyes refused to watch for game, the hands refused to take food to the mouth, the mouth refused to open. When the empty belly began to grumble-not a selfish demand, but a warning of danger! — the other parts merely laughed. How simpleminded, how spiteful were these resentful parts! Because, quite soon, the limbs began to wither, the hands began to tremble, the eyes and ears grew dull. The weakened parts fell prey to every manner of disease. Finally, they realized that the belly, too, had its essential part to play in the great scheme of things, for it was the belly that sustained the rest of the body, and without it the other parts could not continue to exist! The rebellion ceased. The natural order was restored. The body gradually returned to health, and the other parts never again conspired against the belly. When it asked to be fed, they all worked together to do so, without questioning.

“If only the fable told by Agrippa had sufficed to make those malcontents see the error of their ways! A city must be ruled by the best and wisest of its men, and to those men must be given the respect and privileges they deserve. The other citizens have their purpose, but it is not to rule the city! They exist to fill the ranks of the army, to settle new colonies so as to spread the power of Roma and encircle her with obedient allies, to harvest the crops, and to build the roads. It is not the rabble’s place to rule, yet they persist in their reckless attempts to pull down their betters and take their place! They can only fail, because, like the limbs who rebelled against the belly, what they are attempting goes against the natural order of the universe, against the will of the gods.

“And yet, these malcontents have already done great damage to the state, and they have done so with the craven cooperation of a majority within this very chamber! This appeasement must stop. More than that, it must be rolled back, before the damage becomes irreparable. This is not merely an internal matter, a disagreement among citizens. Never forget that Roma is surrounded by enemies, and those enemies are always watching. How gleeful they must be, to see our predicament! One by one, the best men of Roma will be pulled down by the rabble. Who then will defend the city against her foes? Just as the lesser men will destroy the greater men in Roma, so lesser cities will unite to destroy Roma herself. Your fortunes and your land will be taken from you. Your families shall be sold into slavery. Our beloved Roma shall cease to exist-and men will say that her destruction began with the creation of the tribunes of the plebs!”

There was an uproar in the chamber. Members cried out, “This issue has already been settled!” and “The plebs are not the enemy!” But others were exhilarated by Gnaeus’s words, including Appius Claudius, who sprang to his feet and shouted, “Hail Coriolanus, the man who dares to speak the truth!”

Gnaeus raised his hands. As the din subsided, one senator shouted, “What exactly do you propose, Gnaeus Marcius?”

“What do you think? I propose that the tribunes must be abolished.”

“The proposal is illegal!” shouted a senator. “Withdraw it at once!”

“I will not! I stand by my words, and I ask you, my colleagues, to stand by me. A grave mistake was made and it must be rectified, for the sake of Roma!”

If Gnaeus had hoped to put forward a formal proposal and to call for a vote, he was thwarted. All over the chamber, senators sprang to their feet and loudly demanded to be recognized. Shouting led to name-calling, and then to shoving matches. Amid the chaos, Gnaeus, who was used to the discipline of the army and its clear lines of authority, threw up his hands in disgust and strode out of the chamber.

Titus caught up with him as he descended the steps of the Senate House. “Gnaeus, where are you going?”

“Anywhere to escape that tumult. The Senate is just what I expected-all kings and no crown. How they ever accomplish anything, I can’t imagine. Would you believe it, just this morning, Cominius was telling me that I should consider a run for consul. Can you see me currying favor with that lot and the common rabble? I think not!”

“It’s usually not quite so…disorderly.” Titus laughed. “You certainly riled them up.”

“I did, didn’t I? Because they needed it!” Gnaeus’s smile abruptly faded. In the middle of the Forum, he found himself confronted by a large group of men. One of the men stepped forward.

“Are you Gnaeus Marcius, called Coriolanus?”

“You know I am. Who are you?”

“Spurius Icilius, tribune of the plebs. I’ve been informed of a threat made against myself and the well-being of all plebeians.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you not, only moments ago, make a proposal on the floor of the Senate that the tribunate of the plebs should be abolished, therefore threatening the safety and protection of all plebeians?”

“How would you know about that? Do you have spies in the Senate?”

“The eyes and the ears of the tribunes are everywhere. We are the protectors of the people.”

“You’re nothing more than hooligans.”

“Did you or did you not threaten the tribunes?”

“What I said before the Senate, I’ll say to your face: For the survival of Roma, the tribunes must be abolished!”

“Gnaeus Marcius, I place you under arrest for threatening a tribune of the plebs and for interfering with his mission. Your fate will be decided by a vote of the people’s assembly.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“You will come with me.”

“I will not! Take your hands off me!” Gnaeus repulsed the tribune so forcefully that the man stumbled and fell backward.

Some of the men with Icilius produced cudgels and brandished them. Gnaeus struck one of them squarely in the nose and sent him reeling, then adroitly ducked a cudgel swung at his head. He struck another man and knocked him down. Titus, caught up in the excitement, joined the fight just as more men with cudgels arrived.

“We must run, Titus!” shouted Gnaeus.

“Run? Surely Coriolanus never runs!” Titus ducked a cudgel.

“When he’s unarmed and outnumbered, even Coriolanus makes a strategic retreat!”

The tribune’s men blocked the way back to the Senate House. Titus and Gnaeus ran in the opposite direction, toward the Capitoline, with the tribune and his men in pursuit. The last time the two of them had ascended the hill had been on the day of the triumph, when Gnaeus had received his title by the acclamation of the people. It occurred to Titus that some of the men pursuing them had probably been among those who shouted “Coriolanus!” How they had loved Gnaeus on that day; how they hated him now! Gnaeus was right, he thought. The rabble were fickle and foolish and did not deserve to have a warrior like Coriolanus to fight their battles.

They sprinted up the winding pathway and approached the summit. “Has it occurred to you,” asked Titus, breathing hard, “that we shall have nowhere to go when we reach the top?”

“There is no strategic retreat without a strategy!” said Gnaeus. “I shall enter the Temple of Jupiter and demand asylum. If the rabble can find asylum in your Temple of Ceres, then surely Jupiter can shield a senator!”

But as they approached the temple steps, they were blocked by a group of men who had somehow circled ahead of them. There was no choice but to keep running, until they came to the Tarpeian Rock and could run no more.

The swiftest of the pursuers, almost upon them, shouted back to the others, “Can you believe it? The gods have led them straight to the place of execution!”

“Stand back!” cried the tribune Icilius. “No one will be executed today. This man is under arrest.”

But as the mob approached, there were cries of “Swift justice!” and “Push him over!” and “Kill him now!”

Titus, already light-headed from running, glanced over the precipice and staggered back. He was dizzy and his heart was pounding.

“Now we see what sort of men you really are,” said Gnaeus. “Cold-blooded murderers!”

“No one will be murdered!” insisted Icilius. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd. The mob surged behind him. He lowered his voice. “Senator, I am barely able to restrain these men. Do nothing to provoke them further! For your own safety, Senator, you must come with me.”

“I will not! I recognize the authority of no man to arrest a Roman citizen simply for speaking his mind. Call off your curs, tribune, and leave me in peace!”

“You dare to call us dogs?” One of the men behind Icilius threw his cudgel. It missed Gnaeus but struck a glancing blow to Titus’s temple. Titus staggered back and tottered on the precipice. Gnaeus leaped to catch him, and for an instant it appeared that both of them would fall. Gnaeus at last gained his balance and pulled Titus to safety.

The mob, which had watched in breathless excitement, now roared with disappointment and surged forward. Icilius held out his arms to restrain them, but there were too many.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the back of the crowd. The consul Cominius had arrived with his lictors. The cudgels of the mob were no match for the axes of the lictors, who cleared a path through the crowd.

“Tribune, what is happening here?” demanded Cominius.

“I am placing this man under arrest.”

“That’s a lie!” shouted Gnaeus. “These hooligans chased my colleague and me all the way from the Forum, with the clear intention of murdering us. Before you arrived, they were about to throw us from the Tarpeian Rock.”

“A traitor’s death is what you deserve!” shouted one of the men. “Death to any man who tries to take away the protectors of the people!”

“Stand down!” cried Cominius. “Spurius Icilius, stop this madness. Call off your men. Retract the arrest.”

“Do you dare to interfere with the lawful duties of a tribune, Consul?” Icilius locked his gaze on Cominius, who eventually lowered his eyes.

“Let there be a trial, if you insist,” said Cominius. “But in the meantime, let Coriolanus go free.”

Icilius stared for a long moment at Gnaeus, then nodded. “Very well. Let the people decide his fate.”

Gradually, grumbling and spitting contemptuously at the feet of the lictors, the mob dispersed, and Icilius withdrew. Gnaeus burst out laughing and strode forward to hug his old commander, but the consul’s expression was grim.

Titus, feeling a bit sick from the blow to his head, sat down on the Tarpeian Rock. The others seemed like phantoms from a dream. He found himself staring at the temple and the magnificent quadriga of Jupiter atop the pediment. How he loved the building that Vulca had made!

“Sometimes I think that even the gods have turned against me,” whispered Gnaeus. He paced back and forth across the moonlit garden. His face was in shadow, as were the faces of those who had come in answer to his summons. No lamps had been lit; the least flicker of light might alert his enemies to the midnight meeting in the house of Gnaeus Marcius.

Titus was there. So were Appius Claudius and the consul Cominius. There were also a number of men dressed in full armor, as if ready to ride into battle. There seemed to be a great many of them, pressed together under the colonnade that surrounded the garden. By the light of the full moon upon their limbs Titus could see that most were young, and by the quality of their armor, he could see that all were men of means.

In recent days, Gnaeus had attracted a large following of young warriors, most of them patricians, or men like himself, of plebeian rank but with patrician blood. Their devotion to Gnaeus-or Coriolanus, as they always called him-was fanatical. No less fanatical was the determination of the tribune Icilius and his plebeian followers to see Gnaeus destroyed. The raging dispute over his fate had torn Roma apart. His trial was to be held the next day.

“The gods have nothing to do with this farce,” said Appius Claudius bitterly. “Men are to blame. Weak and foolish men! You should have been applauded as a hero by the Senate, Gnaeus. Instead, they’ve abandoned you.”

“The matter was never that simple,” said Cominius with a sigh. “The right to elect the tribunes was won by the plebs only after a fierce struggle. Gnaeus stepped into the path of a raging bull when he decided to take them on.”

“And are we to do nothing while that bull tramples the best man in Roma?” said Titus, his voice breaking. The day the mob chased them to the Tarpeian Rock had marked a turning point in his life. A great anger had welled up inside him; it hardened Titus’s heart against the plebs and drew him closer than ever to his boyhood friend. How had he been blind for so long to the threat posed by the plebs? How had he failed to see that Gnaeus was right all along? Titus felt guilty for not having supported Gnaeus more enthusiastically from the beginning. When Gnaeus was booed by weaker men for speaking the truth in the Senate, Titus should have been ready with his own speech to back him up.

“Don’t worry about the rampaging bull, Titus,” said Gnaeus. He placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The beast will never touch me! I’ll sooner die by my own sword than submit to the punishment of that rabble.”

“That ‘rabble,’ as you call it, is the people’s assembly,” said Cominius, “and I fear that their right to try you is beyond dispute. The matter has been fully debated in the Senate-”

“Shameful!” muttered Appius Claudius. “I did my best to sway them, but to no avail!”

“And so this mockery of justice, this so-called trial, will take place tomorrow,” said Gnaeus. “Is there truly no hope, Cominius?”

“None. Icilius has stirred the plebs into a frenzy. I had hoped the influence of their betters might serve to cool their thirst for your blood, but even outright bribery has failed. Tomorrow you’ll be tried before the people’s assembly and found guilty of impugning the dignity and endangering the persons of the tribunes. Your property will be confiscated and auctioned; the proceeds will be donated to the fund for the poor in the Temple of Ceres. Your mother and wife will be left with nothing.”

“And I?”

Cominius hung his head. “You will be publicly scourged and executed.”

“No! Never!” cried one of the young warriors from the shadows of the colonnade. His colleagues joined him with cries of outrage.

Gnaeus raised his hands to quiet them. He turned to Cominius. “And if I leave Roma tonight, of my own volition? If I flee into exile?”

Cominius drew a deep breath. “Icilius could try you in absentia, but I think I can convince him not to. He will have scored the victory he seeks, establishing the inviolability of the tribunes. If there is no trial, your property will remain intact. Your mother and wife will be provided for.”

“I care nothing for my own life,” said Gnaeus. “Let them flay me and eat my flesh, if they wish. But I will never allow my property to be put into the hands of the aediles, to feed the lazy rabble of Roma!” He turned his face up to stare at the full moon. By its white light, his handsome features looked as though they had been sculpted from marble. “Exile!” he whispered. “After all I’ve done for Roma!” He lowered his face, so that it was once again in shadow. He addressed the warriors who surrounded him.

“Some of you, when last we met, made a pledge that you would raise a sword and spill plebeian blood rather than see me executed, or, failing that, that you would follow me into exile. But now that the moment of decision has arrived, I do not hold any man to that pledge.”

“We made a vow!” objected one of the men. “A Roman never breaks his oath!”

“But if we leave Roma, never to return, are we still Romans? Think what it means to be a man without a city! This fate was thrust upon me. I cannot thrust it upon anyone else.”

One of the men stepped forward. “We all came here tonight armed and ready to fight-ready to die, if necessary. If your decision as our commander is to withdraw instead of engaging the enemy, we go with you, Coriolanus!”

“Even beyond the gates of Roma?”

“Yes, just as we followed you inside the gates of Corioli! That day, you fought your way inside, alone, and the rest of us trailed after you, like tardy schoolboys. Not so, on this day! We remain at your side, Coriolanus!”

“So say you all?”

“So say we all!” shouted the warriors.

Gnaeus laughed. “With that cry, you’ve awaked the whole Palatine! All Roma will soon be wondering what’s afoot at the house of Gnaeus Marcius. We have no choice now, but to leave at once!”

While the others made ready, Gnaeus said farewell to Cominius and Claudius. He saw Titus standing in the shadows and went to his side. “I’ve already said farewell to my mother and my wife. Look after them, Titus, as carefully as you look after Claudia.”

“I should go with you.”

Gnaeus shook his head. “You heard what I told my warriors. This is a sacrifice I can demand of no man.”

“Yet they follow you.”

“That is their choice.”

“It should be my choice, as well.”

Gnaeus was silent for a long moment. Shadows hid his face, but Titus felt the man’s eyes upon him. “You have a temple to complete, Titus.”

“Damn the Temple of Ceres, and all it stands for!”

Gnaeus frowned. “A man must have something to believe in.”

“As you once believed in Roma?”

“Believe in Roma, Titus. Believe in the Temple of Ceres. Forget that Coriolanus ever lived.” Gnaeus turned and walked away. His followers encircled him. The entourage departed from the garden.

Titus’s house was only a short distance away. Claudius offered to go with him, but Titus preferred to walk alone.

The night was warm. The shutters were open. Moonlight flooded the chamber where Claudia was sleeping. Titus gazed upon her face for a long time. He walked to the room where his son slept, and gazed upon his face for an even longer time.

He kept thinking of the image which Cominius had planted in his mind, of Gnaeus confronted by a stampeding bull. Hercules, whose altar had been in the keeping of Titus’s family for generations, had once fought a bull on the faraway island of Crete. Gods demanded sacrifice; heroes deserved loyalty. Was not Coriolanus just such a hero as Hercules had been?

In his study, by moonlight-for he feared that lighting a lamp might wake those who slept-he wrote a message to Appius Claudius: Father-inlaw, I beseech you, look after your daughter and your grandson. I have done what I know to be right.

He entered his son’s room. He lifted the talisman of Fascinus over his neck and slipped it, carefully and quietly, over his son’s neck. Deep in slumber, the boy reached up and touched the talisman, but never woke.

If Titus hurried, he might catch up with Coriolanus and his men before they passed beyond the city gates.

491 B.C.

“It’s a long road that’s brought us here,” said Gnaeus.

“A very long road indeed,” said Titus, smiling ruefully. He knew that his friend did not literally mean the road beneath their feet, which brought them, with each clop of the horses’ hooves, closer to Roma. Gnaeus was speaking of the curious twists and turns their lives had taken since the night they fled the city, two years ago.

A man such as Gnaeus, with his knowledge of warfare and his reputation for bravery, and with a company of fanatically devoted warriors at his side, would have been welcomed in many cities. It was ironic, but perhaps predictable, that he chose to make an overture to the Volsci. True, he had spilled much Volscian blood, but always in honorable combat, and who was more likely than the Volsci to recognize his true worth? It was a curious thing, puzzling at first to Titus, that those whom Gnaeus had fought so ferociously could welcome him into their rank so enthusiastically. This was the way of the warrior: By a simple twist of fate, and in the blink of an eye, an enemy could become an ally.

Of course, Gnaeus, being Gnaeus, had become much more than an ally. He quickly became the Volsci’s leading warrior, and then, just as quickly, commander of the whole army. The campaign to wreak vengeance on Roma had not been his idea, but that of the Volscian elders, who had to argue long and hard to overcome his resistance. Who better to anticipate and foil every Roman strategy than the man who been Roma’s greatest warrior? What greater triumph for the Volsci than to see Coriolanus do to Roma what he had done to Corioli? What sweeter revenge for Gnaeus Marcius than to bring the city that had spurned him to its knees?

In the campaign against Roma, Gnaeus had transcended himself. The man who had proclaimed his desire to become Roma’s greatest warrior had become the greatest warrior in all of Italy, and the boldest general as well. It seemed to Titus, who fought at Gnaeus’s side in battle after battle, that the gods themselves must have taken a hand in delivering so many victories to his friend. The men under Gnaeus developed a superstitious belief in his leadership; the magic of his presence, not their bravery, was the key to victory. It was Titus’s private conviction that the ancient spirit of Hercules now lived again in Coriolanus, the hero of the age. This religious conviction was a great solace to Titus in those moments when homesickness for Roma and his family threatened to overwhelm him.

Now the final battle drew near. Every clop of the horses’ hooves along the road brought Gnaeus and the army of the Volsci closer to the very gate by which he had fled the city. In battle after battle, the armies of Roma had been defeated. Their ranks were depleted, their stores of arms captured and confiscated. The people were weakened as well. Crops had been burned, Roman colonies had been looted, and emergency supplies of grain from Sicily had been intercepted. As Roma grew more enfeebled, all the enemies whom she had humiliated in recent years flocked to join Gnaeus and the Volsci. The force led by Coriolanus was invincible.

While the invaders were still two days south of Roma, envoys had ridden out from the city to meet with Gnaeus. They reminded him of his Roman lineage. They pleaded with him to turn back his army. Gnaeus treated them with scorn, but allowed them to return to Roma with their heads. “The fact that the Romans beg for peace shows they’re certain of defeat,” he said to Titus.

The next day, two more envoys arrived. The dust from their chariot rose high in the still air and could be seen for a long time before they drew near enough to be recognized. Titus drew a sharp breath when he saw the haggard faces of Appius Claudius and Postumius Cominius.

Gnaeus ordered his men to stay back while he rode forward to meet the two senators. Titus accompanied him. While Gnaeus acknowledged the two men’s greeting, Titus stayed to one side, unwilling to look his father-in-law in the eye.

Cominius first assured Gnaeus that his wife and mother were well; despite Gnaeus’s betrayal, no one had taken vengeance on his family, and now no one would dare to do so. “My daughter Claudia and young Titus Potitius are also well,” added Claudius, though Titus still averted his eyes. Speaking for the consuls and the Senate, the two men acknowledged the great wrong that had been done to Gnaeus. They promised the restoration of his citizenship and his place in the Senate, and full immunity from prosecution by the tribunes.

Gnaeus listened respectfully to his two old mentors, then asked, “And what of the tribunes of the plebs, and the aediles? Will they be abolished? Will the Temple of Ceres be pulled to the ground?”

Cominius and Claudius lowered their eyes. Their silence provided the answer.

Gnaeus laughed. “You think to turn back Coriolanus with a few words, yet with all the power of the Senate you cannot even bend the plebs to your will! No empty promises will stop me now. If you truly love Roma, go back and advise your colleagues to surrender the city. I have no wish to spill more blood than is necessary, and my men’s craving for plunder will be easier to control if they take the city without a fight. Whether you resist me or not, by this time tomorrow Roma will belong to me.”

“A bitter homecoming!” said Cominius.

“But a homecoming, nonetheless.”

“And if you take the city-Jupiter forbid! — what will you do then?” asked Claudius.

Gnaeus drew a deep breath. “If they haven’t already killed themselves, certain of my old enemies will receive the retribution they deserve. I think you know who heads the list.”

“The tribune Spurius Icilius,” said Cominius.

“What a pleasure it will be to cast him from the Tarpeian Rock!”

“What of the Senate?” said Claudius.

“Perhaps I will allow it to remain in existence, restored to the role it played under the kings, to give advice and assistance to the royal power. Its less useful members will be purged and replaced by new members of Volscian blood.”

Cominius stifled a cry of despair. Claudius cast a piercing gaze at Titus. “What do you have to say about this, son-in-law?”

Titus stared back, his gaze steady. “When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me the list of kings: Romulus, Numa Pompilius, Tullus Hostilius, Ancus Marcius, Tarquinius the Elder, Servius Tullius. Tarquinius the Proud was to be the last, the very last, cast out and replaced forever by something called a republic. A mockery! A mistake! An experiment that failed! Today is the republic’s final day. Tomorrow, men will shout in the Forum, ‘All hail King Coriolanus!’”

He drew his sword and raised his arm to Gnaeus. His horse rose on its hind legs. “All hail King Coriolanus!” he cried.

The coterie of loyal warriors who had left Roma with Gnaeus, who always rode at the head of the army, heard Titus’s cry and took it up. “All hail King Coriolanus!”

The cry spread through the ranks of the vast army: “All hail King Coriolanus!” Men raised their swords in salute, then beat them upon their shields, creating a frightful din as they shouted, over and over, “All hail King Coriolanus!”

Claudius seemed to wither. Cominius turned the chariot about. A cloud of dust rose behind them as they hurried back to Roma.

At that spot, a few miles south of the city, the army of Coriolanus made camp.

The next morning the army rose at dawn and made ready to march to battle.

As always, Coriolanus rode at the head of the army, with Titus beside him and his mounted Roman warriors immediately behind him. With each step, they drew closer to Roma.

They approached the crest of a low hill. Once they reached it, the hills of Roma would be visible in the distance.

Above the sound of hooves and the rustle created by a vast army on the march, Titus heard another sound, low at first and then louder. It came from beyond the crest of the hill. Something was on the other side, not yet visible, something that made a horrible, wrenching, frightening sound, a sound such as a man might hear on his descent to the realms of Pluto, a sound of utter hopelessness and despair.

Gnaeus heard it, too. He frowned and turned one ear forward. “What is that?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” said Titus, “but it raises hackles on the back of my neck.” A superstitious fear swept over him. What if the gods loved Roma more than they loved Coriolanus? What if, by betraying Roma, Titus and Gnaeus had sinned against the gods? What sort of unearthly creature of doom might the gods have conjured to meet them on the road to Roma? Or had a vast pit opened in the earth, into which they would all be cast down, never to return? That was what the noise sounded like-the shrieking and moaning of a vast chorus of the dead.

Once they reached the crest of the hill, they would know.

Gripping the reins of his horse, Gnaeus’s knuckles turned white. Titus swallowed hard. He glanced behind him. Even the battle-hardened warriors in the front ranks had blanched, hearing that unnerving noise.

They came to the crest.

Before them, like a gigantic black snake upon the straight road, stretching all the way back to the city gate in the far distance, was a procession of women dressed in mourning. It appeared that all the women in Roma had come forth from the city

The unearthly sound was the collective noise of their lamentation. Some softly wept. Some were wrenched by sobs. Some swayed and moaned. A few shrieked with laughter, like madwomen. Some walked stiffly, as if in a dream, while others thrashed about in a kind of frenzy and swept the road underfoot with their unbound hair.

In contrast to the others, the women at the very front of the procession strode forward with great dignity. They were silent and held their heads high. Among them, by their headbands of twined red and white wool and their cropped hair, Titus recognized the Vestal virgins. Five of them were present, one having been left behind, as always, to tend to the sacred hearth in the Temple of Vesta; at a time of such crisis, it was more vital than ever than the flame should not be extinguished. Ahead of the Vestals were three women who, despite their proud, upright bearing, were dressed in dark, tattered rags, like beggars in mourning. They even went barefoot, but clearly were not accustomed to doing so, for their feet were bleeding. Despite the agony they must have felt, they never stumbled or missed a step.

As he had when the senators approached the previous day, Gnaeus signaled the army to halt while he rode forward with Titus beside him.

“Shame on the Senate!” said Titus. “The city’s envoys failed to stop you, so now they stoop to sending women!”

When Gnaeus made no answer, Titus glanced at him. Instead of a sardonic expression to match his own, the look on his friend’s face was troubled and his eyes glistened. Titus’s heart sank. He felt a premonition of what was to come.

At a signal from the Vestals, the women behind them shambled to a stop. The three woman in rags who led the procession continued to stride forward, and stopped only when the two horsemen were almost upon them. In the center, Titus recognized Veturia, Gnaeus’s mother. She looked much older than when he had last seen her. Though she stood rigidly upright, it appeared that she required some assistance to do so from the two women flanking her. To her right was Gnaeus’s wife, Volumnia. When Titus saw the third woman, he let out a gasp. He had not seen Claudia since the day he left Roma. Her face was worn with care. She lowered her eyes and would not look at him.

Veturia, on the other hand, fixed her gaze on her son. “Gnaeus!” she cried out.

“Mother!” he whispered.

“Would you loom above your mother, like a master looking down on a slave?”

Gnaeus at once dismounted. Titus did likewise. But when Gnaeus stepped forward, Titus hung back. He clutched the reins, more to support himself than to restrain the horses. He suddenly felt light-headed. It was like the feeling he had experienced on the Tarpeian Rock when he was struck a blow on the head. Everything between that moment and this seemed a dream, and he feared he was about to be rudely awakened. His heart pounded in his chest.

When Gnaeus reached his mother, he raised his arms, but she refused his embrace. He stepped back. “Why do you not embrace me, mother? Why do you stand so stiffly?”

“If I were to lift my elbows free from the support that Volumnia and Claudia give me, I would fall to the ground.”

“I would catch you.”

“Liar!”

“Mother!”

She glared at him. “I always thought, if ever I reached an age when I could not stand upright on my own, that the strong arm of my son would be there for me to lean on. But when I came to need your arm, Gnaeus, it was not there for me. I had to lean on others-to my shame! May the gods cripple me completely if ever I should lean on your arm!”

“Harsh words, Mother!”

“Not half as harsh as the fate you’ve thrust upon me.”

“What I’ve done, I was forced to do. For the sake of my dignity-”

“You cast away your dignity the day you took up arms against Roma. That day, you put a knife against your mother’s breast. Today, you seem determined to thrust that knife into her heart.”

“No, Mother. What I’ve done, I did for you. You always taught me-”

“I never taught my son to be a traitor! If I hear you say such a thing, I’ll pull the sword from your scabbard and fall upon it, rather than draw another breath!”

“Mother, Mother-”

Veturia suddenly pulled her arm from her daughter-in-law’s grasp. With all her strength, she slapped Gnaeus across the face. The crack of the blow was startlingly loud. The horses whinnied and wrenched sharply at their reins, burning Titus’s palms.

Veturia began to fall forward, but the women caught her. Gnaeus was stunned. After a long moment, he signaled for Titus to come to him. He whispered in his ear. “Tell the men I’ve ordered a halt. Set up my tent beside the road. Too many eyes are upon us. I must meet with my mother in private.”

What was said in that tent? What promises or threats were made, what memories or dreams rekindled? None would ever know but Coriolanus and his mother.

Veturia was the first to emerge from the tent. Volumnia and Claudia-who still had never met Titus’s eyes-quickly stepped forward to assist her. Without a word, the three returned to where the Vestals waited. Veturia spoke to the virgins in a low voice, and they in turn made gestures to the women behind them to turn around and return to the city. As the vast procession retreated, the multitude of women neither wept nor were jubilant, but maintained an eerie silence.

Gnaeus remained alone in the tent for a very long time. When he finally emerged, he wore upon his face a look of determination such as Titus had never seen before.

Gnaeus mounted his steed, then summoned his Roman vanguard. The mounted warriors assembled before him. Titus was among them, dreading what he was about to hear.

“There will be no attack on Roma,” said Gnaeus.

The men were dumbfounded.

“When we left Roma, we set out to meet our destiny. Destiny has led us very nearly in a circle. We have come this close to Roma-but we will come no closer. Over the mountains, across the seas, there is a vast world beyond the lands of the Romans and the Volsci. Out there, perhaps, is where our destiny now lies.”

The men looked at one another anxiously, but such was their degree of discipline that not one of them spoke a word of protest.

“We shall now ride back through the Volscian ranks. When we reach the rear of the army, we shall simply keep riding.”

“And the Volsci?” said Titus.

“If they wish to attack Roma, let them.”

“They’ll never do it! You’re their talisman. Only Coriolanus can lead them to victory.”

“Then I suppose they’ll turn back, as well.” Gnaeus snapped his reins and rode forward. The Roman vanguard followed. Titus caught up and rode beside Gnaeus. The Volscian foot soldiers stepped back to make way, gazing up at them in wonder and confusion.

“It’s that woman’s doing!” shouted one of them. “She’s turned her son against us!”

“Coriolanus is deserting us!”

“Impossible!”

“Look for yourself!”

“But why did he lead us here?”

“It’s a trap! Coriolanus lured us to this place, and now the Romans must have a terrible trick in store!”

Consternation spread through the ranks. It seemed to Titus that they rode above a sea of angry faces. The roar of that sea grew louder and louder. Its currents surged this way and that with ever greater violence.

“Turn back, Coriolanus!” cried the Volsci. “Turn back! Lead us! Or else-”

A stone struck Titus’s helmet. The noise reverberated though his skull. Again, he was reminded of the day the cudgel had struck him on the Tarpeian Rock, and Gnaeus had saved his life. More and more, the world around him seemed strange and dreamlike, muted and distant.

More stones pelted his armor. Titus hardly felt them. The Volsci began with stones, but soon enough they drew their swords. The Romans on horseback did likewise. To Titus’s ears, the clash of iron was oddly muffled. A blur of motion followed. It was with some surprise that he saw blood upon his own sword, then felt a burning pain in his side. The world spun about and turned upside down. Titus vaguely knew that he must be tumbling from his horse, but never felt himself hit the ground.

In the days that followed, the Senate of Roma decreed that the day of the city’s salvation from Coriolanus should be a day of thanksgiving, and that special honors should be given to the courageous women of Roma, who had achieved what neither force of arms nor diplomacy could have achieved.

Those decisions were easy. Harder decisions followed.

Considerable acrimony attended the debate regarding the Ara Maxima. Since the dawn of time, the Altar of Hercules had been kept by the families of the Pinarii and the Potitii, the hereditary priests who jointly celebrated the Feast of Hercules. In light of the dishonor brought upon his family by Titus Potitius, should that family be allowed to continue as keepers of the altar, or should they be stripped of their role, and should it be given to another family, or to priests appointed by the state?

Appius Claudius was among those who argued that the state had no right to interfere in a religious arrangement that predated the state itself. Hercules himself had chosen the two families to keep his shrine. No act of the state could undo what a god had willed in a time before memory. This was his public stance. Privately, Claudius told his colleagues that the shame brought upon him by his son-in-law was a torment hardly to be borne; he disowned his daughter and grandchild, and declared that so long as he or any descendent bearing his name held any influence in the state, no man with the name Potitius would ever be elected to high office.

Claudius’s argument carried the Senate. The keeping of the Ara Maxima would remain in family hands, unchanged. But the newly elected consul, Publius Pinarius, protested that his family would no longer carry out its traditional duties alongside the disgraced Potitii. “After too many generations to count, we relinquish our place in the keeping of the altar. Let the Potitii do it all by themselves!”

There was much talk among the elite of Roma regarding these two ancient patrician families, and the curious twists of fate which had brought Publius Pinarius to the consulship, the pinnacle of his family’s fortunes, even as the Potitii reached their nadir with the disgrace of Titus Potitius.

Years later, a ragged drifter happened to find himself a few miles south of Roma. He was a man with no city or tribe, doomed to perpetually wander, surviving by his wits, which were often befuddled, and dependent on the mercy of strangers; a broken man, without hopes or dreams. He had not passed this way in many years.

He only vaguely realized where he was, but he knew that the small temple beside the road had not been there before. It was of simple design, but handsomely executed and beautifully decorated. A young shepherd was resting on the steps.

“Tell me, boy,” said the vagrant, “what is this temple? To what god is it dedicated?”

The boy looked at the drifter warily at first, then saw that the grizzled stranger was harmless. “Not a god, but a goddess-Fortuna, the first daughter of Jupiter. She decides the ups and downs of life.”

“I seem to recall that there are many temples to Fortuna in Roma,” remarked the drifter, his voice dreamy.

“Yes, but this one is different. They call it the Temple of Fortuna Muliebris, Fortuna of the Women.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the women of Roma paid to build it, if you can believe that. This is the very spot, you see, where the villain Coriolanus was turned back.”

“Is it?” said the drifter, with a quaver in his voice.

“Indeed it is. And afterward, the women thought there should be a temple here, to mark the spot. The Senate and the priests approved, and the women themselves raised the money to build it. It’s a beautiful building, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The drifter gazed admiringly at the structure. “I used to be a builder myself.”

“You?” The shepherd looked at him dubiously, then slapped his thigh and laughed. “And I used to be a senator! But look at me now, herding these dirty sheep!”

So this was the very spot. Titus’s mind was flooded by memories long suppressed. Dimly he remembered witnessing Gnaeus’s gory end; even the greatest warrior in Italy could not take on the whole of an army he himself had trained for combat. At least Gnaeus had died fighting. Dimly-thank the gods, only dimly! — Titus recalled the tortures to which the Volsci had subjected him before they let him go.

It all seemed very distant, like a dream almost forgotten. All the days of his life seemed like that, even yesterday, even today.

“If you like looking at temples,” said the shepherd, “walk on a little ways to the crest of the hill. From there you can see the city. The highest thing you see is the Temple of Jupiter. Now that’s a temple! It sits on the Capitoline like a crown on the head of a king. Even from here, you can see how grand it is. Go on, have a look.”

Titus’s heart pounded in his chest. As he was still wont to do in moments of great emotion, even after all these years, Titus reached up to finger the talisman of Fascinus at this throat. Of course, it was not there. He had given it to his sleeping son on the night he left Roma. How was the boy? Did he still live? Did he prosper? Did he keep the ancient rites of Hercules, as had his ancestors before him?

“Go ahead,” said the shepherd. “Walk to the rise and have a look at the city.”

The ragged wanderer, saying nothing, turned around and walked in the opposite direction.