The Shield of Rome

by William Kelso

  And with that he and his supporters stomped off.

  “Cock,” one of the senators around Fabius grunted.

  “I see what you mean now master,” Publius whispered as he stood at Numerius side. “The man is an actor but why does he not realise that others can see it?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t care,” Numerius shrugged.

  Fabius, Numerius and Publius were the last to leave the Senate house. At the great double doors leading out onto the steps and the bright sunlight Fabius turned and gazed back into the house and the empty benches. “At least we have set something in motion,” he sighed. “Maybe our activity will encourage us to continue the fight.”

  “Metellus was a disgrace,” Numerius muttered, “but are you sure that it was he who split the vote. There were others who spoke against you.”

  Fabius seemed to consider the question.

  “No it was him. He is a dangerous man,” he said wearily. “His purpose today was selfish and partisan. He has already begun to bargain with us. The man cares only for his own and his master’s interests. He split the vote alright. His support is stronger than I had expected and remember this,” Fabius said laying a hand on Numerius’ shoulder, “the Pontifex Maximus is an ambitious man. He is always looking for ways in which to grow his power and influence.” Fabius raised his eyebrows. “Maybe the high priest even wishes to be crowned king, if Hannibal were to occupy the city such a thing would not be impossible.”

  “Crowned king of Rome,” Numerius gasped. It had been nearly 300 years since the last king had ruled Rome. The idea of a return to a monarchy was such an abhorrent idea to any Roman that it had never crossed his mind.

  “There are enemies in our midst,” Fabius muttered darkly. “Some men have stopped believing that the Republic will survive. They are already actively working on what will come next. Be wary of them. What we saw today was an attempt to settle political and personal rivalries using our current ill fortune as an excuse.” Fabius sighed. “What kind of man thinks about growing his power base when the city is in such mortal danger?”

  Numerius glanced at Publius who nodded and patted the leather satchel he had been carrying.

  “I have made a note of everything that was said during the debate,” Numerius said to Fabius. “When the time is right you can present your case. The city should know how much regard their priests have for them.”

  “Good man,” Fabius replied. Then he gave Numerius an inquisitive glance.

  “Are you sure you are alright. You look dreadful.”

  Chapter Eight – Daughter of the state

  The sacred fire of Vesta had nearly gone out and it was all the fault of Opimia and Floronia, Pompeia thought as she fed the dry sticks into the fire. Those two were useless. Always chatting away, gossiping and neglecting their holy duties. Now their sloppiness had nearly caused a major scandal for as everyone knew, if the eternal fire of Vesta was allowed to die out it would bring ruin to Rome. Pompeia fed the last of the sticks into the fire and stood up. Of course it didn’t help that all the vestal virgins were bored out of their minds she thought. But duty was important and Pompeia always took her duties very seriously.

  She was twenty four, with black curly hair that fell to her shoulders and large green eyes. She was dressed in the traditional robes of a vestal virgin, the female priestesses of Rome, a long head dress that draped over her head and shoulders and a Palla, a simple cloak fastened with a brooch. Opimia and Floronia were always complaining about their clothes. They were either old or unfashionable. They made the girls look like old women. But what did those two know. Pompeia didn’t mind. For her the clothes were part of a noble and ancient female tradition. Women had no voice in the great affairs of Rome. Only a Vestal commanded respect. Men would listen to a vestal. Men would obey a vestal. That ancient female foothold in a decisively man’s world had to be honoured. It had to be defended and Pompeia was proud to defend it.

  The temple of Vesta, the goddess of the hearth, where the holy fire was kept burning was where she spent most of her time performing her daily routine. Against the wall stood the vases for collecting water from the sacred spring, kitchen equipment for preparing food used in rituals, the wills and testaments of various senators and in a locked chest, the Palladium, the ancient wooden statue of Pallas Athena, which Aeneas had brought to Rome from Troy and given to the city’s founding fathers five hundred years ago.

  As she stared absentmindedly at the holy fire she became aware of a boy waiting quietly at the entrance to the temple. He stood very still with his eyes down cast as if the sight of the holy temple and its priestesses was too much for him to bear. She strode towards him and recognised him as the cook’s boy from her father’s house.

  “Well, what does my father want?” she demanded.

  “My master asks you to come to his house at once,” the boy replied. Then without another word he was off, disappearing into the crowd that was packed into the forum beyond the temple grounds.

  Puzzled, Pompeia watched him go. She was not expected to visit her father’s house that day. Something urgent must have come up. She glanced towards her matron who had witnessed the scene. The matron, a strict but fair lady nodded.

  “You may go, but be back by nightfall.”

  Pompeia smiled happily to herself as she left the temple and stepped into the covered two wheeled carriage that was waiting for her. Her duties may be sacred but oh how she enjoyed being out in the city on her own with its bustling, exciting crowds, away from the stuffy formality of the temple. The outside world was a huge mystery waiting to be discovered she thought. In the city she could watch the people. She could study how they lived, how people dealt with each other, the conflicts, the passions, the emotions! The city was fascinating.

  She knew the real world was far removed from her own sheltered existence. She had known no other life than that of a Vestal virgin. At the age of seven her father had put her forwards as a candidate. It was considered a great honour and many of the leading families of Rome had competed for her position. Little at the time had she realised how momentous a day that had been for her but, despite the constraints and boredom, she was proud of what she did and who she represented. The goddess Vesta stood for family, kindness and honour. Vesta was pure and through her purity she gave strength and unity to Rome. Pompeia had agreed to serve the goddess for a term of 30 years during which she was forbidden from marrying and having sexual relations. The punishment for being unchaste was to be buried alive beneath the ancient cattle market.

  The carriage was pulled along by two Gallic slaves. Preceding her on foot was a Lictor, a young man dressed in a smart toga. The man shouted at the people in the road to make way for her. As they left the temple grounds she composed herself. It was all an act but it was what the people would expect from her.

  What did father want? The last time they had met a furious row had ensued. She did not see him very often and his stubborn, old fashioned character had often caused friction between them but he was all the family she had now that her mother had died.

  They turned into the forum and she glanced at the money lenders standing in front of their stalls shaking bags of coins to attract business. Further along the lawyers too were touting for work calling out the number of their court victories like gladiators confirming their fights. A young poor and dirty looking boy tried to reach inside her carriage to touch her but the Lictor angrily struck him with his cane and the carriage moved on.

  “I will go through the Trigemina gate today,” she announced.

  Below the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill they turned left and headed west for the Tiber. The carriage rattled and jolted on the cobbled street. The smell of raw sewage rose from the drains below the road but Pompeia pretended not to notice. So much of public life was an act. Women were supposed to act in a certain way and in her time she had become an expert actress. Yet sometimes it was necessary for her to show her true feelings. She would go insane if she didn’t.


  Soon she heard the noise of cattle bellowing in their pens and the cries of the cattle merchants haggling with each other. They entered the cattle market, the forum Boarium and turned sharply southwards skirting the great city wall and ignoring the brand new Aemilian Bridge that spanned the Tiber. The Aemilian Bridge was the fastest route to her father’s house on the Janiculum hill but Pompeia had something else in mind today. The three arches of the Trigemina gate loomed up and they clattered through the middle arch and out of the city of Rome. Immediately beyond the walls they were beset by beggars, filthy looking men and children, some as young as five, who held up their hands and cried out pleading for a few coins or some bread. At the sight of her carriage and the Lictor however even the boldest of the filthy stinking humanity seemed to hesitate. Then they recognised her and cry of joy and reverence rose up.

  “Stop,” she ordered and her carriage came to an abrupt halt. From beneath her cloak she produced a purse and as the beggars crowded around her she proceeded to hand out money. They took it eagerly and many wept and others cried out blessings on her name. As they crowded around, her face was a mask of tight aristocratic detachment. It would have caused a scandal if she had pretended to converse with the beggars as an equal. The great Patrician families already looked dimly on her charity.

  Her salary from the state was more than sufficient and from an early age she had made regular journeys down to the Trigemina gate in order to help the poor. She was her father’s daughter alright. Over the years it seemed that she had developed something of a divine status amongst the down trodden, so much so that the issue of her conduct had even been raised in the Senate. They had been worried that she was becoming too political. Well let them talk. She didn’t care what those rich, privileged senators thought of her. That had been the reason for the quarrel with her father. The last time she’d met him he had tried to tell her that it did matter what the Senate thought of her. How hypocritical of him she thought, after all his legal work defending the poor. The row had left him furious with her but part of his fury, she knew, was because he could not force her to do his will.

  There were more beggars on the Sublicus Bridge, a little way further down river but as the carriage trundled westwards over the wooden bridge she did not stop. Ahead of her the towering ridge of the Janiculum rose steeply above the banks of the Tiber. Its slopes were covered in trees and giant rocks and among them she could see goats grazing peacefully on the sparse vegetation. The sunlight reflected playfully in the green water of the Tiber. Her father had once lived in Rome but had moved out to a comfortable, but more modest villa perched on the ridge of the great hill. It was to avoid the noise and smell of the city he had told her, but Pompeia thought it was because of the memories of her mother which had filled their old house. It hadn’t been a bad investment either for from her father’s terrace he had a fantastic view of the whole city of Rome with lay below, east of the Tiber. Those had been her happiest moments with him, sitting on that terrace, with a cool breeze in her hair and gazing down on the great metropolis. She should have visited him more often she thought, especially now that mama was gone and he was all alone up there. Maybe then they would not quarrel so much.

  ***

  They sat together in silence in the dining room, he on the chair beside the wall with a grey cloak wrapped around his shoulders and she by the window which looked out over the terrace and garden. The flowers in their beds and pots were in full bloom and the whole place was lit up by colour and the scent of a dozen different perfumes. She could hear the soft humming of insects and the rustle of birds in the trees. The news of her father’s sudden illness and the doctor’s visit had shocked her beyond words.

  “Papa,” she said at last turning to him, “I think the time has come to start doing all those things you wished to do once. You still have time and your friends would be honoured by a visit.”

  Numerius shook his head.

  “I am not leaving Rome,” he replied. “And you will tell no one about my condition. There is a war going on and the city will need me.”

  They were silent for a while longer and then his mood seemed to improve. He glanced at his daughter.

  “Pompeia, I would like to give you my will for safe keeping in the temple.”

  She nodded lowering her eyes, “Of course, we have space.”

  “I will be dead within a few months,” he said. Then he paused, “I am going to ask you to do something for me, a final request.”

  A tear appeared in her eyes and she nodded again. “Of course papa, I will pray to Vesta.”

  “Come Publius,” Numerius raised his voice and the young freedman appeared. The young man looked worried but Numerius smiled at him. “I have not departed just yet,” he chuckled. “Have you got it?”

  In reply the freedman handed over a sealed scroll of parchment marked with the blood red seal of Numerius’ signet ring.

  “It is customary that a will should be written before several witnesses but I have not done so,” Numerius said.

  She took the scroll of parchment and stared at it.

  “I ask only that you honour me. There is something that you need to know,” Numerius said quietly, “It is recorded in my will,” he pointed at the parchment, “but you should know of it only after I am gone. Promise me now that you shall honour my wish.”

  She looked up at her father and fought to hold back the tears in her eyes. There was a kind and infinitely compassionate expression on Numerius’ face, but also a hint of something else, shame. Desperately she wanted to rush across the room and throw her arms around him but such a show of emotion would just have upset him.

  “I promise on the holy name of Vesta,” she whispered bringing her emotions back under control.

  “Good then we are done”, Numerius clapped his hands and a slave brought in a canter of wine. He offered Pompeia a cup but she declined it.

  “Lady,” Publius now spoke out, his boyish face a model of quiet resolution, “your father gave me my freedom, both of you have for many years treated me with every honour and decency a man could expect and I th…th…thank you for this and I would like you to know that I will always will be at your ser…vice as a friend, an ally and as …” the young man started to stutter and his voice faded away.

  “As family,” Numerius said finishing the sentence. “For that is what you are Publius. In my will I have adopted you as my son. My daughter here is a vestal and cannot continue the family name, yet the name must go on, it is my final duty as a father, so it may as well be you.”

  Publius’ face turned a dark red. He stuttered again and fell to his knees and grasped his patron’s hand.

  “Alright, alright,” Numerius said patting the man on his shoulder as the young freedman broke out into great sobs.

  “Publius,” Pompeia interrupted sharply, “The man who takes my father’s name does not show weakness in front of others. We are a Patrician family, descended from the first founders of Rome and we are born to lead. The people will not look kindly or respectfully on a man who tries to win favour by pretending to be one of them. You must remember that.”

  As she spoke Pompeia caught a glimpse of approval in her father’s face.

  The boy rose quickly to his feet. His cheeks were still red but he managed to compose himself.

  “I am s..sorry,” he sniffed, “You are quiet right.”

  Then he hurried away.

  Pompeia glanced out of the window and waited until Publius was gone.

  Then she turned to her father.

  “I like Publius, he is loyal and a good man,” she said, “But are you sure that he is the best choice to become your son?”

  Numerius raised his eyebrows and gave her a challenging look.

  “He wants to become a lawyer,” he replied, “It is a good profession. Publius will continue the work that I started. Our house will be known for our service to the law and to the people. That will be our reputation.”

  Pompeia nodded, she did not wish to argue w
ith him today. Nothing she would say would change his mind anyway. It would do no good reminding her father that the families reputation had been irreparably damaged by what her uncle had done all those years ago. The murder of her grandfather would be what people would remember, not her father's service to law.

  “I would like to have a walk in the garden and sit on your terrace,” she said rising to her feet.

  Father and daughter strolled to the edge of the paved terrace where a low hedge marked the boundary of the garden. Beyond, the hillside fell away steeply; a dry and parched wilderness of boulders and grew yellow scrubs. Tall trees provided the terrace with some shade and a cool westerly breeze was coming off the distant sea. Down below her the green Tiber snaked its way through the land disappearing off into the north. The city of Rome shimmered and glistened in the heat and she could pick out the individual monuments. They sat down on a garden seat and Numerius called for more wine.

  “Mama would have loved it up here,” she said.

  “Maybe,” he shrugged and took a gulp from his cup, “But she would have complained about the journey into the city and about being separated from her friends. You never did get on with her did you?”