The Fall of Veii- Part 1

by Francis Mulhern

  Marcus took a moment to answer as he considered the words. “I think you are right Centurion” he said with a grasp of the man’s forearm. “Veii has caused us great concern over the past years. They say they uphold the treaty, but all this evidence points to them undermining us at every opportunity. I will speak to Lucius when I return to Rome tomorrow. In fact, I will write to him tonight Marcus” he said, using Rufus’s first name, at which the man smiled.

  “Then, Camillus, come and join the men and my officers tonight at our campaign feast. It would be good to have you complete a reading of the last chicken” he said with a wide grin. “I hear you have learned the art of the Etrusca Disciplina?” he asked as his face lit up into a bright smile.

  “Ha” laughed Marcus as he turned to Potitus. “I wonder who has been gossiping about that” he said as Potitus shook his head innocently. “Yes, I will do. I will join you just before the moon rises above the hills” he said as the two groups went separate ways.

  ****

  The campaign feast was a small, but rowdy, affair in which each officer gathered his men and they toasted their lost friends from the campaign, adding libations to their chosen gods and drinking until they fell asleep. In many cases the augurs gained some quick coins by completing readings of the entrails of the chickens or small goats, if there were any remaining after the long campaigning seasons. In this case the campaign had been short and food was in plentiful supply so the unfortunate animals were prepared for the rituals by the men in each unit.

  Divination, or the reading of the future from various god-given symbols had been a feature of Roman life for centuries, with the formulaic processes being learned by the sons of patricians as they went into the priesthood. The Etrusca Disciplina was the code of conduct, or rules of process, which each priest must follow to understand and glean the information the gods gave to mortal men. Marcus had, indeed, studied one of the three elements, Libri Haruspicini, the theory and rules of divination from animal entrails, extensively, not just during his times as a Camillus in Rome, but also through long conversations and discussions with his Uncle, the Pontifex Maximus. He had learned the texts, drawn the symbols and even divined a few portents from animals over the past few years. Potitus had been impressed with his skill and how precise he had been with the small details of the process of divination. The Etruscans, and to a similar extent the Romans, believed that the will of the gods was paramount. The Romans also believed that if the gods had already decreed the future of mankind, written in the Sibylline books, then they must have a plan for every single man within that future. It also made sense for the gods to communicate their plans to men in complex rituals and signs and it was the job of the haruspex to look for the signs and attempt to interpret them through divination. In this way men could gain glory and honour their chosen gods.

  The light had faded and the air turned chill as Marcus wrapped his woollen cloak around his shoulders, laughing as the soldiers of Rufus’s century sang a bawdy song of Volscan women and Roman stallions, each line of the song growing more vulgar as the song progressed. Potitus had indulged in too much wine and was attempting to sing the chorus along with the men, but his late shouts simply caused more hilarity from amongst the men as they whooped at his drunken, mistimed, words.

  Rufus tapped Marcus’s foot and flicked his head in the direction of the camp gate. “I’ll be glad to see those gates packed up for the last time this season” he said with a weary smile, his face lined with shadows from the glowing fire at their feet.

  Marcus shrugged, his glance to the gates making him think of Livia and his bed at home for the first time in a few days. They had not been immediate lovers and he had taken some time to get to know the headstrong girl, but now they had a bond between them that he hoped would never break. A yearning came to him as he thought of her and he looked into the fire long and hard as he smiled.

  “Time for the ceremony” Rufus suddenly said, breaking Marcus’s thoughts as he noticed the singing had finished with a final late call from Potitus, at which a group of the men had thrown the wine from their wooden cups at him with more hoots of laughter. Potitus looked affronted for a few seconds before falling to his knees and bursting into laughter as three of them jumped on him and started to rub his hair with sand. Marcus shook his head at the stupidity of the scene. Potitus, a patrician of noble blood being man-handled by a number of the rough soldiers. Rufus laughed. “They won’t hurt him, come on” he said as he took a sword from a pile leaning against a rock and rapped the hilt on one of the shields wrapped in a thin leather sheet which stood next to them, the leather designed to stop the wood from becoming damp and useless.

  “Men” he called, stepping forward and kicking a soldier who was being a little too vigorous in his attempt to pour sand into Potitus’s underwear. Potitus’ eyes rolled in his head as Marcus waved to Mella and pointed to the figure of his friend as he simply laid back on the ground with his mouth open, and his glassy eyes staring into the sky. With a wave, he pointed at Potitus and flicked his thumb towards his tent and Mella nodded, a grin splitting his face as he nudged the man next to him to help him carry the prone body.

  “Marcus Furius Camillus has offered to prepare and complete a reading for us here today as we close this campaign.” A few cheers and much head nodding greeted this statement as Rufus walked to the nearest tent and returned with a chicken in a small wicker cage, the animal clucking noisily as it was lifted into the air and struggled to retain its feet on the thin wooden cage floor. Marcus had been to Rufus’s cook and been given the chicken earlier in the day and had asked the cook to pluck the feathers from the breast of the bird as the ritual required. He lifted the cage and looked at the panicked face of the chicken, the bird almost accusing him as he looked into its eyes. Shaking the thought from his head he picked up the small bundle of instruments he had prepared earlier, the ceremonial knife with its fine bone handle shining in the firelight. He put on his white robe, the cloak warming him in the slight chill of the evening. The men around the fire had suddenly fallen silent, even the bawdier, more drunken of the men seemed suddenly sombre and sober.

  The stone was laid down and Marcus lifted three small containers from his bag, laying them out on the floor next to the stone as he knelt in front of it and pulled the hood of his white cloak over his head. As he placed the items by the stone he spoke quietly “Nundina, purify this place and make it sacred as I look to interpret the will of the gods. Allow me the sight and understanding as the gods will it so that we, mere men, can achieve your glories.” He heard the shuffling of the men as those behind him moved to the sides and front to gain a better view. Unstopping the first container he poured a small amount of the oil onto the stone, wiping it with a piece of white cotton and saying an invocation to the gods as he did so. The second container contained oil with fine cuts of herbs and grasses from around the camp that Marcus had picked himself earlier in his preparations with Mella following closely behind to ensure that everything was bundled exactly as he requested.

  He raised the knife and placed it on the stone as he opened the cage for the chicken, picking it up by the legs and quickly, efficiently, laying its head on the stone as Rufus, just as Marcus had shown him in advance, put his hand over the chickens head and held it down. Instantly Marcus sliced the neck, the chicken’s kicking legs continuing as the blood mingled with the oils. Within a second Marcus had whipped the knife across the bare chest of the bird, slicing through the breast bone and into the lower stomach expertly to remove the intestines intact. The removal of the feathers prior to the ceremony made this act quick and easy and Marcus was satisfied that the process was going to plan. He lifted the long trail of thin guts and placed them on the stone next to the bird and then quickly cut the heart and liver from the carcass, placing them onto a small silver dish he had to his side, they would be the offerings to the gods at the end of the ceremony when he had sliced them to interpret any messages they may hold.

  Rufus took the empt
y carcass and placed it on the grass, pouring the remainder of the oil with the grasses over the bird as Marcus had instructed. As he heard a few comments from the men around the fire, Marcus placed the knife on the floor and picked up the entrails, his eyes searching for spots in the important areas he knew from his learning of the disciplina. His eyes grew wide as he turned the thicker intestines and ran a finger along a series of lumps, a frown coming to his face.

  “What is it Camillus?” said a man from the crowd of soldiers as a general murmur of sound came from the gathered men.

  Ignoring the question, Marcus laid the intestines along the stone and counted, using his thumb width as a measure. At seven he stopped and picked up the knife to slice through the thin guts. Using the sharp point, he picked at the thin opening and squinted into the gut lining, the blood and half-digested material thick along the inner surface. He nodded to himself as a few more sounds came from the soldiers. Placing the innards back on the stone he picked up the liver and held it to the firelight and spoke for the first time.

  “The intestines are unclear” he said, adding “though I am only learning this trade they suggest three problems may lie ahead of us before the season is finished.” A murmur went up from the men as they all stared at Marcus as he moved the liver in his fingers. “The three problems are not clear, but they are unmistakable. The liver will give more clues” he added as he placed the small liver on the stone and sliced it in three places, taking the first slice and pouring a drop of oil onto it from the first container.

  “Another war” he said with a frown “or maybe just another skirmish, I cannot tell” he said as a few groans came from the crowd around him. “But victory” he added as he viewed the second slice of liver, placing it aside quickly as he contemplated the last. After a moment, in which the silence of the countryside grew above the occasional spit of the fire, Marcus placed the three slices of liver back on the silver dish and picked up the heart. There it was again, he thought, three ridges, three lines across the heart as he had seen in the liver and three lumps on the intestines. The dark patch on the liver had shown war, directly over the ‘Mars point’ of the liver.

  The heart was very small and quite difficult to cut, but his sharp knife made easy work of the tough outer skin. He looked up and said, “the blood is clean in the heart, a good sign” at which a few sighs of relief came from the men, some of whom he could see were clutching lucky talismans or other objects to revert the evil eye that all soldiers tried to avoid. He strained his eyes in the semi-darkness as he scanned the chambers for spots or signs, but could see none. He placed the heart with the remains of the liver and leant the dish forwards over the fire, dropping the two parts of the bird into the flames and whispering an oath to the gods as he did so.

  “My reading” he said, sitting back on his knees and looking at the expectant faces of the men “is this.” He stood and then sat back on the campaign chair he had sat on earlier. Turning to Rufus he added “I must warn you that I am no expert at this” at which Rufus half laughed and some of the soldiers called out to him ‘tell us Camillus’ their tones nervous.

  “I see three concerns, one of which involves a skirmish and one is a sickness. I don’t understand what they are, and the will of the gods is hard to interpret without years of training. The third I understand fully. It means that whatever happens with the first two we will be victorious in the end. Rome will endure but it may be many years until we can conquer the enemy who is close at hand. Seven or more years” he added as he closed his eyes trying to understand the meanings he had read about in the rituals and codes he had learned. “I wish I could add more, but that is all I see” he finished as Rufus and all of the men around the fire looked at him in silence.

  *

  *

  *

  *

  Chapter 19

  Postumius laid another libation at the foot of the statue in the Lararium, the small carving of the house gods looking down on him with a blank stare. His forehead lay against the cold stone of the floor as his whispered entreaties to the gods streamed from his mouth.

  “Apollo, give him strength, heal his body and mend him” he intoned as he rocked backwards and forwards, light tears dripping onto the grey tiles. “Aesculapius, give your help” he added as he lifted his head and poured more of his best wine into the bowl in front of the statue, his eyes blurring as he bent back to place his head on the floor. “I offer the goat and the calf” he added, alluding to the sacrifice he had paid for that morning “in return for his safety. I ask this of you my gods and my ancestors” he said, his voice trembling.

  Behind him he heard another grating cough and his head twitched as his heart lurched in his chest. He had returned to his house from the meeting with the Senators to find that his son had continued to deteriorate; the pestilence that seemed to have appeared suddenly in Rome had spread rapidly to the patrician streets. He had called for the best physicians and they had clawed all over the boy, his thirteen years of strength dripping out of his body as he coughed, sweated and bled the fever that had taken control of his body. It had been two days since the hearing and in those two days the city had become swamped with people coughing blood and dying in the streets. The return of the army had become secondary to the pestilence as the people of Rome hid in their houses for fear of contracting the disease, with many patricians leaving the city for their country houses in an attempt to avoid coming into contact with the sick and dying.

  Postumius stopped his supplicant prayers as his son hacked again, the noise lasting longer than before. He rose from his position and shuffled to the doorway of his son’s chamber, his hand gripping the doorway with white knuckles. Inside his son lay pale and ghostly on a cot, a thin woollen cover spread over his body as he jerked at each cough, his eyes bulging and red. The physician sat at his side and wiped his brow with a damp cloth, taking another blood spotted cloth from the boy’s hand and placing it into a pouch which he would burn later. The physician had stated that he must sweat out the fever and eat no food until the coughing had stopped. Postumius, like most men, mistrusted these Greek physicians. What did they really know of the sickness that was eating away at his only son? He stared helplessly at the boy, his eyes pleading with his father as he drew a deep breath and lay back on the cushions under his chest and head.

  “Father” his weak voice said. Postumius entered the room quickly, his nervous steps pattering on the hard floor, and knelt next to his son, taking the thin hand that was raised towards him. He grimaced at how weak the boys grip was, his thoughts turning angrily to the sacrifices and whether there was something more he could do to buy the favour of the gods or bargain for their help.

  “Will I live?” the boy asked, his frail face pallid in the low light of the room “do the gods answer your prayers?”

  Postumius looked deep into the eyes of his son. Two of his children had died in infancy, yet this boy had grown quickly and vigorously, his healthy appetite and boisterous fitness bringing great joy to his parents after the losses they had endured.

  “Yes Megellus” he replied, “they listen.” The boy’s eyes seemed to know he was lying to him and Postumius couldn’t hold his stare for more than a few seconds before he turned to the physician. “Have you seen any improvement?” he asked angrily.

  “There is a glimmer in his eyes that was not there before” the man said in his thick Greek tones. “He is a strong boy and I believe that within a day this fever will pass. When that happens, he must eat” the man’s voice spoke in staccato tones as his eyes flicked from father to son. “He will need meat and he will need fresh air” he said with authority.

  Postumius stared silently at the man, his dark brown eyes confidently returning his gaze. He looked back to his son, who had also been looking at the physician. As he did so he saw a spark of hope deep in his eyes and watched as the boy’s face began to slowly creep into a weak smile.

  ****

  “We must do something” said the exasperated vo
ice of Centurion Appius Tolero, his left eye covered with a roughly cut patch which barely hid the angry red scar that ran across the remnants of his eye socket. “There must be something we can do?” he asked of the men sat around the table, each of whom sat shaking their heads.

  “It’s typical of that son of a dog” spat Bassano, his teeth grinding. “Rufus, what can we do? You’re the clever one amongst us. If I had my way I’d march up to that pompous prick and stick my sword through his guts” he added without moving his eyes from a spot on the table in front of him.

  Rufus shook his head slowly. Since the return of the army, the city had been pre-occupied with clearing the dead from the streets as the plague took a hold on the common people. Each day another bout of coughing citizens was evicted from their homes by landlords who didn’t want their other tenants catching the pestilence. The merciless eviction had seen many of the families of the soldiers from Bolae left to starve in the streets, their possessions stolen or simply left behind as they were beaten from their rooms. They roamed the streets until their bodies gave in to the coughing and shaking fits that wracked them, dying in the gutters of Rome where stray dogs chewed at their gnarled limbs. The stench of death was upon the City and the people locked their doors to it and avoided contact with anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. To make things worse the heat and humidity had given way to thunderous rain, the water splashing into the streets in sudden torrents before disappearing to return hours later. The heat of the previous month had left the ground hard and bare and the sudden heavy rain had seen great rivers running down the hills of Rome, filth and detritus cascading to the lower parts of the city and creating a greater stench than the dead bodies of the previous days. The people of Rome were hard-pressed to understand the heat, the pestilence and now the thunderous rain. Augers and mad witches read the signs, watched the patterns in the lightening and Rome was afraid. Gossip ran riot, the gods had abandoned them, the vestals had broken their vows and the sacrifices were not being closely observed. Every day a new reason for the weather and the pestilence was roaming the streets making the populace nervous.