Wolves of Rome

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Taurus was browning his piece of meat over the embers. He raised his eyes and looked across at the boys. ‘I’ve heard your tales of warriors who have fallen in battle – the spirits of death who receive them, the Valkyrie virgins who ride at their sides to lead them to the fields of perpetual glory. They’re beautiful stories. We don’t have anything like that. Our heroes are accompanied to the underworld by their own soldiers, no one else . . .’

  He turned to Armin. ‘Could you tell me what the difference between a soldier and a warrior is?’

  Armin hesitated.

  ‘I’ll tell you. You are a warrior, your brother is a soldier.’

  Neither of the two boys answered. It was as if they had heard an oracle.

  ‘Centurion Taurus . . .’ said Flavus.

  ‘What is it?’ grumbled the officer.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘If you must . . .’

  ‘Who is the boy with the white tunic edged in purple that we meet up with at the training ring now and then?’

  ‘You’ll know when it’s time. Do not speak to him and don’t ask anyone else this question, not even when you’re capable of speaking Latin. Go to sleep now.’

  The boys stretched out on their blankets. They were awakened during the night by noises coming from the forest nearby and they saw the figure of Taurus, on his feet with his sword in hand, on top of a large mound of earth. The red moon was setting in the fog.

  8

  THEY SET OFF AGAIN before dawn. A grey dawn, that released from the darkness only the tall burial mounds of the ancient heroes of a city that, Taurus explained, was older than Rome and had once dared to defy her. Flavus and Armin had long understood that under the tough demeanour of their master at arms was a philosopher who asked himself questions about the destiny of men and nations, about the chaotic forces that can storm through history with blind violence, bringing about drastic changes and casting off – in the blink of an eye – what man has taken great time and trouble to build.

  Armin and Flavus wanted to know who was there, under those mounds. What their names were, who their ancestors were. And why their weed-infested tombs were in such a state of abandon, showing signs of profanation and pillaging.

  ‘No monument can survive, intact, without the civilization that has created it,’ replied Marcus Taurus. ‘Look at what remains of these walls. There was a time when no one would have dared to try to take them by force, but Rome did just that. And now they serve only to shelter wild animals. What was once a proud, powerful city has been reduced to a heap of ruins. Our own soldiers even took cover here four centuries ago when they were defeated by the Gauls at the Allia River. Now it is nothing more than a wretched village, destined to disappear from the face of this earth. Its inhabitants have even forgotten their native language and now they use ours.

  ‘And yet the flame of their ancestral memory still burns, I’m told, in many of them. They were called, and still call themselves, Etruscans. One of them is among the emperor’s first councillors and others are poets. Some have proved to be formidable fighters. Rome never wanted to destroy them or wipe out their race. All we want is peace under the same sky. We wanted them to fight on our side against common enemies, to mix their blood with ours in marriage.

  ‘When this city was defeated, everyone was fighting each other for this land, but only one of those peoples was victorious: the Romans. Fate meant for this to happen. But, even when Rome remained alone and triumphant, more conflicts arose,’ he sighed. ‘I’m talking about Romans against Romans, citizens of the same republic. Some claimed to be fighting for freedom against the absolute power of an autocrat. In part, this was true, but it was also a lie. If they had won, they would just have claimed those powers for themselves.

  ‘In the end, a single man put a stop to these fratricidal wars. Our emperor, Augustus. He succeeded in breaking the chain of revenge and bloodletting. And since then there has been peace. Peace, prosperity and all the freedom possible under such circumstances. Every city, every community, stands on its own, administering its own laws, organizing its own ceremonies to propitiate its own gods . . .’

  Both Armin and Flavus had lots of things to say and ask but they knew well that it wasn’t permitted. One of the strictest precepts in their house on the Aventine was to stay clear of politics, and that prohibition alone told them much more than any amount of talk about lost liberties.

  By this time, the City – as everyone called her – was coming within view. They still hadn’t become accustomed to that spectacle: the triumph of the sun on the temples and columns, the arches and bridges, the green and red pine trees, the twisted, silvery olive trees, the rearing horses and the winged victories in gold and bronze, the iridescent fountains. Taurus signalled for them to follow him. The roads were thronging with people. The notables, who refused to mix with the rabble, were carried on swaying litters while a steady stream of slaves, workers, craftsmen, washerwomen and bakers swirled below. Here and there, groups of pantomimes improvised comical shows, applauded by casual passers-by and intentional spectators alike. Thus flowed life at the feet of towering metal statues and of gleaming victory columns and triumphal arches, beneath the shaded porticoes, around the divine fountains, the altars smoking with incense, the meridians that marked time for the Empire.

  In front of the palaces of government and the gates to the military quarter stood the magnificent praetorians, the guards of Rome and of Italy in their polished muscle cuirasses, blue uniforms and red-crested helmets. Their cloaks flapped like banners in the west wind.

  Time passed rapidly, as if the red at dawn and the red at dusk had mixed into a single golden cloud. Taurus was headed towards the Campus Martius, where he stopped in front of a sculpted, painted monument that stood alone in a wide, open area. It seemed to the two boys as if the centurion had finally reached the site of some mysterious appointment.

  ‘This is the Ara Pacis,’ he said. ‘Augustus’s Altar of Peace. You should try to understand what it means. Each one of the figures you see sculpted here holds a message for the people and the Senate, but also for visitors like you who are coming here for the first time. It is here that you’ll find the answer to a question that you have asked me many times.’

  Neither Armin nor Flavus had a clue to what he was talking about, ignorant as they were of mythology, the imperial family and the symbols of state and religion. They tried in vain to remember what question he could be referring to. They were prompted by the sudden echo of a voice that was as clear as the water that flowed in the City’s fountains. It was coming from inside the monument and the notes it sang made the marble walls vibrate like the sound box of a musical instrument. It was a subtle, melancholy air, like some sad lament. There were no religious celebrations going on, nor were there any priests or acolytes making votive offerings to the gods. That song seemed to be sounding out for a single reason: that the singer could not help but express those notes with heartfelt intensity in that sacred, sublime space.

  Armin was startled, and moved to go up the stairs to see whose voice it was. He thought for a moment that Taurus was trying to stop him, but he was wrong. Taurus had not moved. He simply said, ‘You won’t find anyone in there. Only ghosts rendered in cold, lifeless marble.’ Armin paused for a moment in surprise, but then continued up the steps and entered the monument. He was determined to see what was inside.

  There was no one.

  Not even the shadow of a person. Armin walked out the other side, still looking for an explanation. He could still hear the voice but it had faded, and seemed far away. Just when it seemed about to dissolve into the dusk, it rose into a shrill sharp scream of pain and then vanished into the gathering darkness.

  Taurus was standing in front of him now and it looked for a moment like tears were shining in his dark eyes. Perhaps a trick of the light? Was it possible that such a tough, hardy soldier was feeling such emotion? The voice of a woman, so intense it could cause marble walls to vibrate . . . could
it move even this stony warrior?

  ‘No one can manage to explain this phenomenon,’ he admitted. ‘But one thing is certain. Every day at this time Antonia, the widow of General Drusus, descends into the imperial mausoleum. Look, it’s over there, you can see it from here. Her tears honour the memory of her greatly beloved husband, the man she can never forget. The sad song you heard was the cry of a soul in pain, a lament strong enough, perhaps, to cross the threshold between the living and the dead. Follow me now. There’s something I want to show you.’

  He went to the southern side of the huge altar, where the inaugural procession of the Empire was represented. Every member of the imperial family was sculpted in bas relief on the wide marble surface. Taurus pointed to a standing male figure, his shoulders covered by a cloak; in front of him was a woman of extraordinary beauty depicted in profile as she turned to look at him. She was holding a child, dressed in a tiny tunic and toga, by the hand. Around his neck hung a pendant, a good-luck charm that protected little ones from the evil eye.

  ‘The man with the cloak is General Drusus and she is Antonia, his wife. They were greatly in love and she would travel to the ends of the world just to be able to lie in his arms. The little boy whose hand she’s holding is Germanicus, so named for his father’s victories in the Germanic campaigns.’

  Flavus and Armin exchanged a glance that meant ‘not a word!’

  ‘The lad that you’ve sometimes seen in the ring training against me with sword and shield is Germanicus. He was just a little boy when this image was sculpted.’

  Armin shot another look at Flavus, filled with the memories of so many stories that their father Sigmer had told them. They’d long known about the reciprocal esteem that had persisted between their father and Drusus, despite the fact that they had often faced each other as enemies on the battlefield. And the boys were also well aware of how much truth there was to the legend that the two men had shared a deep, secret friendship.

  Armin pointed to another figure further on in the procession. He was a young man, tall, dressed exactly like Drusus, with a tunic and military cape.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘That is Tiberius, the older brother of General Drusus,’ replied Taurus. ‘The last time I saw Tiberius, he was sitting on his brother’s bed, holding his hand as he lay dying,’ he added. ‘He clasped him to his breast at the moment of his passing.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Armin.

  Taurus let his head drop forward and remained silent. Flavus shot his brother a look of warning that Armin picked up on instantly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I imagine that doesn’t concern me.’

  The centurion did not add another word.

  THE BOY ARRIVED on time that day and Taurus went to help him on with his training armour.

  Flavus and Armin had got to the ring earlier and were sitting at the side of the arena. Flavus turned to his brother and whispered in his ear, using their native tongue, ‘What kind of a question was that for Taurus?’

  ‘I said I was sorry, didn’t I?’

  ‘It’s not a question of saying you’re sorry. There’s much more to it.’

  ‘What, then?’

  Flavus watched as the boy, who they now knew was Germanicus, engaged in hand-to-hand fighting with his instructor. Germanicus was sweaty and panting, Taurus was as solid as a boulder. Although he didn’t need to worry about Taurus overhearing him, he spoke quietly nonetheless. ‘It’s a story that everyone knows about, but no one admits it and no one talks about it. Emperor Augustus, the supreme head of the State, and that means the most powerful man in the world, has only one daughter, Julia, who was born to his first wife. He arranged for Julia’s first marriage to be with his sister’s son. Marcellus was a good lad, but he died before he turned twenty. Poisoned, they say,’ he added, lowering his voice even further.

  At that point, he had to cut his story short, because the lesson with Taurus had finished. Master and apprentice were quenching their thirst with a pitcher of cool water. The centurion looked over at the edge of the arena and seemed to be noticing Armin and Flavus for the first time. He beckoned for them to come over. The two brothers obeyed and Taurus said, turning to Germanicus, ‘Are you feeling up to defending your family name? Can you see how tall they are? And do you see the colour of their eyes?’

  ‘Like the colour of your own,’ said the boy. And then, scowling, he nodded. His proposed adversaries were fresh and rested, while he was exhausted after engaging in a bout with a man twice his weight without a libra of fat. But Germanicus, son of General Drusus, could not reject the challenge.

  ‘You should be able to fight both of them at once and knock them both out, given the name you bear, but considering that you did a decent job of grappling with me, I’ll let you, just this once, chose one of them. Whichever you prefer.’

  Germanicus walked towards the two boys who looked at him calmly, without locking eyes. He stopped for a moment at an equal distance from one and the other, then trained his glance on Armin. ‘This one,’ he said. Then, turning to Taurus, he asked, ‘What kind of weapons? Training or real?’

  ‘Metal helmet, leather corsets, wooden swords and shields,’ replied the centurion. ‘You must fight fairly. No going for your opponent’s eyes, or his testicles. You might be needing those for continuing the dynasty,’ he said, smiling, looking at Germanicus. ‘I will signal the end to the fight by cutting through the air in a downward motion, using my hand as a knife. Combat will begin when I clap my hands.’

  The duellists collected their arms and as Armin was putting on his corset, Flavus helped by lacing up his boots, taking the opportunity to make a suggestion in their native language: ‘Defend yourself but don’t hurt him. He’s the son of General Drusus and the adopted grandson of the emperor. You’d be a dead man.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Armin curtly as he settled into a defensive stance.

  The two opponents studied each other at length, each looking for an in to throw the other off guard. Taurus kept his eyes on both of them; he knew that if he could foresee their manoeuvres he could also prevent any unpleasant consequences. He was well aware of how much these boys were worth and he could see his own teachings in their every move.

  The first lunge was Germanicus’s, the tip of his sword directed at Armin’s left side. Armin was quick to deflect it with his shield and attack his adversary’s left side tip-on. A high parry followed, and then a low, edgewise crossing of blades. Germanicus tried to immobilize Armin’s sword on the ground so he could strike at the base of his neck with the edge of his shield. Armin barely dodged the blow, which could have been fatal. They faced each other again and squared off, before letting loose with a violent exchange of blows and a series of boisterous collisions, shield against shield. Germanicus faltered. Armin did not let up, landing a surprise blow with the top of his foot on the back of his opponent’s knee. Germanicus fell to the ground and Armin was about to point the tip of his sword at his throat to declare victory, but Germanicus twisted around, leapt back up to his feet and delivered a downward blow behind his back with the edge of his shield. A grimace on Taurus’s face revealed the tension that was consuming him, but the centurion did not stop the fight. The two boys were dripping with sweat, tunics soaked through and hair pasted to their foreheads. Both showed bruises on their sides, their thighs, their shoulders and arms. Both were bleeding from multiple cuts.

  The springtime sun was high and quite hot. Both boys were panting and looked exhausted, but they were still gritting their teeth and striking out with unflagging vehemence. Blow after blow, shields crashing, using up all the strength left in their weary limbs. When Taurus noticed that fatigue had set in hard and that their strikes were swinging wide, he finally decided to slash his hand downwards and declare the duel ended.

  Armin returned to his brother’s side as Germanicus went to the fountain to wash away his sweat. Taurus spoke: ‘Neither of you managed to prevail over the other so I shall call this match a dra
w. There are two things, however, that I must take into account: Armin is taller and heavier than Germanicus, but he did perhaps hold back so as not to endanger his opponent and suffer the consequences. If he did so, he did it well, because the fight seemed completely authentic. I would say that it was somewhat similar to a fight between gladiators. I know that Germanicus has witnessed this type of spectacle, whereas Flavus and Armin are barely acquainted with it. You are dismissed.’

  Flavus helped his brother off with his armour so that Armin could wash at the fountain as well and then the two boys set off for their lodgings. Germanicus, accompanied by Taurus at a certain distance, was limping.

  ‘What was he like?’ asked Flavus.

  ‘Strong. Often vicious.’

  ‘Yes, but you fought as if your hands were tied!’

  ‘That’s not true. When you’re in the middle of a fight you just strike out. And that’s that.’

  They went on without speaking for some time, each curious about what was on the other’s mind.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Flavus in the end.

  ‘What you’re thinking. If we ever meet up on a real battlefield . . .’

  ‘The Cherusci are allies of the Romans.’

  ‘And we’re prisoners,’ replied Armin.

  ‘Guests,’ corrected Flavus. ‘Prisoners don’t live like we do. Look at the clothes you’re wearing, think of the foods you eat. Don’t you remember that millet meal that Mother used to make?’

  Armin looked down because he didn’t feel like talking.

  ‘Did he say anything to you when you were hand-to-hand?’

  ‘Yeah, he was muttering something in Latin but it was more like growling than talking. Maybe he was swearing, maybe something else. Maybe one day everything will be clearer. Tell me where General Drusus’s brother is.’

  ‘You’re still thinking about that? How should I know anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. You always know more than I do about the Romans.’

  ‘Because my Latin is better than yours and because I listen. And lots of people talk openly when we’re around because they think we can’t understand them, that’s why I learn a lot more than you do.’