“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.
THE TWELVE TABLES
450 B.C.
“Another toast!” declared Lucius Icilius.
“What? Surely not another!” Lucius Verginius laughed heartily. He was a broad-shouldered bear of a man who greatly enjoyed wine, and his protest was purely for show.
“As your host, I must insist,” said Icilius. With a wave of his long, bony arm, he beckoned to the serving girl to refill the cups.
The occasion was a joyful one-a dinner party to celebrate the upcoming wedding of the son of Icilius, young Lucius, to Verginia, the daughter of Verginius. The marriage would unite two of the most distinguished plebeian families in Roma. The Verginii had been prominent in the city nearly as long as some patrician families. The branch of Lucius Verginius, while not wealthy, was famed for prowess in battle; in recent campaigns against the Sabines and the Aequi, Lucius Verginius had upheld the standards of bravery set by his ancestors. The Icilii were well-to-do, politically active, and full of vitality and ambition. Men from both families had served as tribunes of the plebs.
The marriage bond between the Icilii and the Verginii would strengthen both clans. It was a love match, as well; Lucius and Verginia had fallen for each other at first sight. Tonight, with the wedding only a few days away, the two families dined together under the roof of Icilius to celebrate their impending union.
Icilius raised his cup. “A toast to the mothers! We must never underestimate the power of a Roman matron. More than forty years ago, when the traitor Coriolanus marched on Roma, what was the only thing that could turn him back? Not swords, not walls, not even the abject groveling of the senators. Only a mother’s plea was powerful enough to save Roma. To the mothers of the bride and groom!”
“To the mothers!” agreed Verginius, raising his cup.
“Yes, to our mothers!” said young Lucius, his eyes sparkling from having drunk more wine than he was used to.
The subjects of the toast demurely lowered their eyes, and did not join in the drinking. Nor did the bridegroom’s younger sister, the darkly beautiful Icilia. Nor did young Verginia, who had never tasted wine. She needed no intoxicant to make her blue eyes sparkle or to add color to her cheeks, which were as smooth as rose petals. Verginia was as fair as Lucius was dark; she was short and voluptuous rather than tall and lean like her betrothed. Their physical differences only served to complement each other’s beauty; everyone agreed that they made a lovely couple.
Icilius drained his cup and wiped his mouth. “Now, you may wonder why, in such congenial company, I should mention the foul name of Coriolanus, which inspires loathing in the breast of any patriot.”
“Because it brings up the subject of your toast-a mother’s influence!” said Verginius, slurring his words slightly.
“Ah, yes, but more than that, I mention that accursed name to remind us of the great boon to Roma which was done by one of my relatives, the great tribune Spurius Icilius. It was Spurius who ran Coriolanus out of Roma. A mother may have kept the villain out, but an Icilius drove him away in the first place. I mention this, Verginius, to show you that the family into which your daughter is marrying, while it may not have a history as long as yours, has nonetheless made history. With an upstanding young scion like my boy Lucius, this family will continue to do so!”
“And why not, with the fine sons that my Verginia will give him!” cried Verginius.
Verginia blushed. So did Lucius, though he attempted a manly laugh to cover his self-consciousness. Icilia, whose skin was even darker than her brother’s, did not easily show a blush, but such talk clearly disturbed her; the others, if they noticed, ascribed the pained look on her face to maidenly modesty.
“But, more seriously-” Icilius paused; all his concentration was momentarily required to suppress a belch. The critical moment passed. “As I was saying, on a more serious note: Forty years have passed since the wicked Coriolanus dared to threaten the tribunes, and for that crime he was duly punished; and yet, in many ways, the strife between the classes is now fiercer than ever. Only rarely, these days, is a plebeian elected to the consulship, and this is no accident. The patricians grow more jealous of their privileges, not less. They lay down every possible impediment in order to prevent even the most qualified plebeian from attaining the higher magistracies. You know this is true, good Verginius.”
The other man nodded. “Regrettably, good Icilius, it is the truth.”
Lucius groaned. “No, Papa. No politics tonight!”
Icilius shushed him. “This is not politics, my boy. This is serious family talk. The Verginii and the Icilii represent the very best of the plebeians. The union of our families is much more than the betrothal of a beautiful girl and a fine young man; this marriage represents the hope of the future.
“Will there ever be lasting peace between the patricians and ourselves? We must start by admitting that there have been abuses on both sides. Since the days of Coriolanus, we plebs have staged no more secessions, but sometimes, perhaps, we have been too eager to use the power of the tribunes to punish arrogant patricians. Some tribunes have stirred up the populace unnecessarily, and have wielded their power recklessly. To be sure, more than a few patricians, through devious means, have eluded punishment and cheated justice. Failures and abuses on both sides have led to further recriminations, which in turn have led to more strife and discord.
“In these dark days, despite the best efforts of honest men, the two classes seem to be drawing further and further apart. We can only hope that the children of Lucius and Verginia will inherit a better Roma than the one in which their parents were born!”
“Hear, hear!” agreed Verginius. “Well said, Icilius! The Decemvirs themselves should be here tonight, to hear you speak.”
Young Lucius, feeling tipsy, raised his cup. “To the Decemvirs!”
His elders abruptly shot him a look that made Lucius feel quite small. But the mood was too jovial for the tense moment to prevail. Verginius smiled first, then Icilius.
“A toast to the Decemvirs, my son?” Icilius clucked his tongue. “A toast implies congratulations, and in the case of the Decemvirs, that would be premature. No one has yet seen the fruit of their labors, though our ten little Tarquinii have already put a bitter taste in the mouths of many good citizens.”
“The ten Tarquinii? That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” said Verginius.
“Is it?” Icilius raised an eyebrow.
Two years earlier the discord in Roma had grown so extreme that patricians and plebeians alike had agreed to an extraordinary measure. Elections were cancelled, the Senate was disbanded, and the magistrates, including the tribunes, were relieved of their offices. A board of ten men-the Decemvirs-was given temporary power to rule the state and charged with the task of writing a comprehensive code of laws. It had sounded like a good idea at the time: Roma’s ten wisest men would determine why the state had come to a standstill, wield whatever power was necessary to resolve the problems, devise fair laws, and chisel those laws into stone for all to see. The plebs had long agitated for a written law code, believing that a clear list of offenses and an enumeration of citizens’ rights would do more than anything else to put an end to the arbitrary abuses of the patricians. But the process had dragged on for two years, without visible results, and the Decemvirs had grown careless and abusive with their power.
Icilius clucked his tongue. “We all hoped-optimistically, perhaps foolishly-that the Decemvirs would follow the example of Cincinnatus-”
“Good old Cincinnatus! A toast to Cincinnatus!” cried Verginius, who had served under the famous commander. Eight years before, when a Roman army had been trapped by the Aequi and faced certain destruction, the general-turned-farmer Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus had been called from retirement; he was named dictator and given total power over the state for the duration of t
he crisis. Begrudgingly, Cincinnatus left his plow, led a force to rescue the army, soundly defeated the Aequi, resigned his office, and returned to his farm-all in the span of fifteen days. It was said that his plow was exactly where he had left it, and he set about finishing the furrow he had begun, as if there had been no interruption. Expeditious and self-effacing, Cincinnatus had become a living legend.
But the Decemvirs had not followed the example of Cincinnatus. By devious means they had extended their original terms of office and continued to rule as absolute dictators while the people still awaited publication of the new law code. In recent months, their abuses had grown more flagrant as they ruthlessly suppressed anyone who questioned their authority. Men had died for opposing them; but the Decemvirs, so long as they held office, were immune from charges of murder.
“The good news,” said Icilius, “is that the new law code should be made public any day now. The Decemvirs call it the Twelve Tables. Let’s hope they’ve done such an outstanding job that the virtues of the Twelve Tables will make us forget the vices of the ten Tarquinii.”
Young Lucius furrowed his brow. “I heard a rumor the other day, about these new laws.”
“A rumor?” said his father.
“My tutor, Xenon, says they plan to outlaw marriage between patricians and plebeians.”
“A terrible idea!” said Verginius.
Icilius’s face grew long. “What would your Greek tutor know about such things?”
Lucius shrugged. “Xenon tutors other boys, including some of the Decemvirs’ grandsons. He hears all sorts of things.”
Icilius peered into his empty cup. “To be sure, there are those, patrician and plebeian alike, who believe that more separation of the classes, not less, is the answer to Roma’s social ills. A ban on intermarriage might not be a bad thing.”
“I suppose I should consider myself lucky, then,” said Lucius, “that the most beautiful girl in all of Roma happens to be a plebeian, and she happens to be betrothed to me.” He beamed at Verginia, who grinned and lowered her eyes.
No one was looking at Lucius’s sister, Icilia, whose dark beauty was abruptly marred by a deep frown.
Verginius grunted. “‘Ten Tarquinii,’ you called the Decemvirs. Appius Claudius must be the worst of the lot! A few generations back, the Claudii weren’t even Romans. They weren’t even the Claudii! What was that uncouth Sabine name his grandfather was born with?”
“Attus Clausus,” said Icilius.
“Ah, yes! And now the grandson is chief among the Decemvirs. A thoroughly unpleasant fellow, always swaggering about, surrounded by lictors, wearing a purple toga and expecting everyone he meets to do his bidding. That man enjoys being a Decemvir entirely too much! And now he proposes to ban intermarriage. The patrician hypocrite! Only a few months ago, he asked me for Verginia’s hand.”
“Papa!” Verginia spoke up. “I don’t think you should mention-”
“Why not? It’s not as if either you or I led the old goat on in any way. Let Jupiter strike me down if I tell a lie! A few months ago, Appius Claudius asked if he might marry Verginia.”
“And what did you say?” asked Icilia.
“I told him no, of course! Not that the match would have been unsuitable; Appius Claudius, a widower with grown children, may be a bit old for Verginia, but the Claudii have made quite a name for themselves in three short generations, and they are patricians, however newly minted.” Verginius said this in an offhand way, but clearly, he didn’t mind letting Icilius know that his daughter could have married a patrician, if Verginius had so chosen. “I rejected Appius Claudius as a suitor because I don’t like the fellow-it’s as simple as that! Couldn’t stand the idea of having him be my son-in-law, or the father of my grandchildren. I much prefer you, Lucius. And more importantly, so does Verginia!”
Verginius laughed heartily and rose from his dining couch to give his daughter a kiss. She turned her face to offer her cheek. By doing so, she also hid her expression from everyone in the room.
“Another toast, then!” said Icilius.
“Another?” Verginius fell back on his couch and pretended to groan.
“Yes! A toast to love.”
“To love, indeed!” said Verginius. “To Venus, the goddess of love, who has clearly blessed this union with the spark of mutual desire. What could be better than a genuine love match of which both fathers approve?”
The men drank more wine, then burst out laughing. The mothers laughed as well, caught up in the men’s exuberance. Even dark Icilia ceased frowning, threw back her head, and laughed.
Only Verginia failed to laugh. From the moment her father had mentioned Appius Claudius the Decemvir, and the man’s thwarted desire to marry her, an uneasy look had settled on her face.
The next day, Icilia and Verginia went shopping together in the market, chaperoned by their mothers.
The two girls had been raised in different circles, and had few acquaintances in common; yet, since they were soon to be sisters-in-law, everyone expected them to begin acting as if they were already old friends. Their recent outings together, since the announcement of Verginia’s betrothal to Lucius, felt forced and artificial to both of them; their mothers, endlessly preoccupied with wedding details, had more to talk about than they did. To complicate matters, each of the girls had a problem that weighed upon her, but as yet felt unready to share her secret with the other. They moved though the market side by side, sporadically making conversation, each wrapped up in her own private thoughts.
“What do you think of this, Verginia?” Icilia ran her fingers over a bolt of finely woven yellow linen.
The merchant grinned. “From Syracuse, on the island of Sicily. All the best things come from Syracuse, and I offer them at the best prices!”
Syracuse had originally been founded by colonists from Corinth, and was nearly as old as Roma. It was one of many Greek colonies, not only on Sicily but across the southern part of Italy, a region so heavily settled by Greeks that the Romans called it Magna Graecia, “Great Greece.” Romans had traded with these cities for generations, and had so far avoided becoming embroiled in the endless wars they fought against one another. In recent years, Syracuse had emerged as the most brilliant, the most free, and the most prosperous city in all of the western Mediterranean. The Syracusan fleet dominated the Tyrrhenian Sea. Syracusan merchants built warehouses in Ostia, at the mouth of the Tiber, to house the goods they traded with Roma and her neighbors. Syracusan grain more than once had saved Roma from famine. Syracusan scholars taught in the best Roman households; Icilius’s tutor, Xenon, came from Syracuse.
“It’s alright, I suppose,” said Verginia, hardly looking at the fabric. Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
“Perhaps the young ladies would be more interested in pottery and earthenware,” suggested the merchant. “The young ladies may as yet have no households of their own, but soon enough two such pretty girls will find themselves married, and will be requiring cups and pitchers for entertaining.” The merchant could see by their simple, long-sleeved tunicae that the girls were still unmarried; they had not yet graduated to the more complicated stolas worn by their mothers. He held up a black pitcher. “This pattern is particularly beautiful. The red border is an unusual variation on a traditional Greek key design-”
Icilia, who had frowned and turned aside as soon as the man mentioned marriage, suddenly saw a familiar face across the crowded market. Her heart leapt into her throat. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that their mothers, deep in conversation, had strolled on ahead. Impulsively, Icilia gripped Verginia’s arm, pulled her away from the nattering merchant, and whispered in her ear.
“Verginia, you must do me a favor!”
“What is it, Icilia?”
“Please, I beg of you-”
“Icilia, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter. But I must leave you for a moment-only a moment, I promise! If our mothers come back and miss me, say…say that I had to st
ep into the women’s lavatory above the Cloaca Maxima.”
“And if they ask why I didn’t go with you, or if they decide to go looking for you?”
“Then say…oh, I don’t know what!”
Verginia smiled. She was not sure what Icilia was up to, but from various small signs, she had come to suspect that Lucius’s sister must have a secret suitor; perhaps this had something to do with him. If Icilia was still not ready to tell her the details, here was an opportunity for Verginia to earn her trust, and for the two girls to become closer. Was that not exactly what their mothers desired?
“Of course I’ll help you, Icilia. Do what you must-but don’t be too long! I don’t have much experience at telling falsehoods to my mother.”
“Fortuna bless you, Verginia! I shall be very quick, I promise.” Casting a final glance at their mothers, who had ambled further ahead, she vanished into the crowd.
He had glimpsed her at the same instant she glimpsed him. He was waiting for her just around the corner from where she had seen him, with an anxious grin on his face.
“Icilia!”
“Titus! Oh, Titus!” It was all she could do not to kiss him, right there; but although they were away from the heavy traffic of the market, they were still visible. Eagerly, he took her arm and led her around another corner, into a narrow space between two buildings that was shielded from view by the foliage of a cypress tree.
He held her body against his and kissed her for a long time. Icilia was not shy; the very impossibility of their relationship encouraged her to abandon all restraint during the rare, fleeting moments she was with him. She ran her hands over his strong shoulders, inside the neck of his tunic and onto his chest, which was covered by fine blond hair. Her fingers encountered the talisman he wore. “Fascinus,” he called the curious pendant, saying it was a god that had protected his family for centuries.
Icilia could not help thinking that Fascinus had fallen down on the job in recent generations. It was hard to believe that the Potitii had once been wealthy; even Titus’s best tunics were threadbare. The first time Icilia had seen him, he was wearing the one garment he owned that was not covered with patches, the priestly robe he wore at the Ara Maxima. Watching him officiate at the altar with his father, she had been swept away by his good looks. Afterward, it had taken considerable ingenuity on her part to make his acquaintance. The passion that had stirred between them was so immediate and so overwhelming it must have been the hand of Venus that guided them to one another. Yet, when Icilia mentioned Titus Potitius in a very roundabout way to her father, he had reacted with a vehemence that startled her.
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