Wolves of Rome

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  The emperor would be present on the north stand, at the centre of the long side of the pool, to watch the ships re-enact the naval battle that had changed the destiny of the world.

  It would be a memorable show, although many of those present among the public would have no trouble actually remembering that day. Among the children who were adopted into the House of Augustus after their parents had been killed in battle were the sons of Marc Antony. Their whole lives had been marked by this painful contradiction: the gentleman dressed in white who hosted them, who gave them food and clothing and the instruction necessary for them to take up careers in politics or the army or to marry into the highest ranks, was also the person responsible for the deaths of their parents, or at least one of them. Armin watched the carpenters working hard to build the stand where the supreme ruler would sit to admire the spectacle of that momentous battle, and he was struck by a certain thought. Was the emperor putting himself at risk by presiding publicly over the re-enactment of an event so close and still so painful to many? He stopped to wonder whether his brother Wulf, who the Romans called Flavus, could be thinking the same thing. His own name had been Latinized as well; just about everyone now called him Arminius. As they stood and watched, however, the two boys spoke in their native tongue so as not to let on that they understood Latin.

  And in fact a small group of men, who had fallen silent when the boys showed up, went back to talking among themselves again, in lower voices but loud enough to be heard. The scene that Arminius had seen in his imagination began to take on a realistic shape. Flavus could see his agitation and motioned with his head that it was time for the two of them to leave. They retraced their steps, walking towards the Tiber. Evening was falling.

  ‘Why did you choose Diodorus?’ Flavus spoke up.

  ‘Because he’s the only one who could have an image like that in his head,’ replied his brother. ‘And you?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of that first time that Taurus took us into the City and showed us that monument with those figures sculpted in the marble. The same ones that Diodorus taught us about in his lessons. You remember, the ones on the papyrus that he said would help us better understand . . .’

  ‘You’re right. It’s there we have to look.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Taurus will have us whipped if we get back too late.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s worth the risk.’

  They crossed the river again and found themselves at the big marble altar of the Ara Pacis. They took a couple of lanterns from their hooks and went inside.

  ‘Let’s split up,’ proposed Arminius. ‘You go north, and I’ll go south.’

  Flavus advanced slowly down the eastern side and then the northern one, coming back along the western side to end up at the southern side where they’d started. Arminius had already made his rounds in the opposite direction twice, analyzing the carvings figure by figure – the priests, the magistrates, the commanders of the great units of the army, the ladies of the Empire, the youngsters and the children – and then he stopped. He held his lantern high to illuminate a group of figures. The quivering light animated the faces and the draping of their robes, giving them a soul and a changing expression that no artist would be capable of rendering.

  Two of the guards of the sacred area had entered, without making the slightest sound; they must have been alerted by the moving lights. ‘Who are you?’ one demanded. ‘What are you doing here at this hour?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Flavus promptly. ‘We’d never seen this magnificent monument up close because it’s always so crowded during the day. So we thought we’d take advantage of no one being around. We’re guests of the public house on the Aventine and our tutor is Primus Pilus Centurion Marcus Caelius Taurus of the Eighteenth Legion.’

  ‘All right,’ the guard growled. ‘We’ll be waiting for you at the entrance. Don’t touch anything.’

  Arminius nodded and as soon as the two guards had made their way to the bottom of the stairs he turned to his brother, eyes bright. ‘I’ve found her. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it before now. Come here, look! Here are the three heads. This female figure in the middle is complete, but you can only see the heads of the figures on both sides of her. Then there are two whole bodies, one on either side, who are Agrippa and Tiberius. Look, here they are. And the one between them, the one in the middle, is she who stands between life and death.’

  He fell silent and stood looking at the full female figure.

  ‘It’s Julia,’ he whispered. ‘Beautiful Julia. It’s the emperor’s daughter. She’s flanked by two men: her husband Agrippa is on her right and the tall male figure on her left is Tiberius . . .’

  ‘The one she’s married to now, who’s living on the Greek island . . .’

  ‘Yes, him.’

  ‘Now all we need to do is interpret the last part of the phrase.’

  ‘“At the centre of everything, of life or death.” Maybe the answer to that can be found here as well. But we can’t stay any longer. We’d only attract unwanted attention.’

  They walked out under the watchful eyes of the two guards and made their way towards the Aventine. In front of the entrance to the gardens they found Marcus Taurus waiting for them. He was rhythmically flicking the vitis that he held in his right hand against his left palm.

  Flavus turned to his brother. ‘What did I tell you?’ Arminius nodded with an indifferent air and shrugged.

  DESPITE THE MENACING POSE, Centurion Taurus kept his punishment to a couple of lashes, which the leather of the boys’ corsets pretty effectively neutralized. Once in bed, Arminius and Flavus turned on their sides so they were facing each other and started to talk through what they’d seen and heard in that emotion-filled day. That enormous gouge in the side of the Vatican Hill, the phrases muttered by the workmen . . . they were terse, cut short, but there was an urgency there, talk of a great day and of libertas. And then the reflection of their lanterns on the marble draping, the rush of the Tiber that ran just behind the altar, so close that its waters could almost lap at the walls. The perfection of Julia’s features and the fixity of her gaze. Germanicus, still a little boy, looking cocky beyond his years in his miniscule toga. Would they wear a toga one day? Perhaps, without even fully realizing it, they’d begun to crave that symbol of dignity and self-worth. The noble bearing it required, the way it spoke of austere elegance and centuries-old tradition. Of course it was absurd to think that that could ever happen.

  The noises of the night were drifting into the room from outside. The pacing of the guardians and their dogs, the rustle of leaves caressed by the west wind, the passwords called out by the soldiers changing shifts. That was another thing they admired: the Roman State – the Res Publica – was present everywhere. The words the soldiers used as they went on sentry duty, their synchronized gestures, their peremptory voices and the sharp clang of their weapons all embodied the authority of Rome and her jealous control of the Empire.

  The two boys wondered aloud why the enigmatic message had been relayed to them by the Hermundur. Could it be because Diodorus (if he was responsible for the riddle, as they now assumed) wanted to stay in the shadows? That would make sense; the iron rule of staying away from politics surely applied to him, a mere freedman. But why on earth would Diodorus, of all people, expect the two of them, mere boys, to unravel the mystery and choose whether to act on it? A fine mess he’d put them in!

  THE NEXT DAY, the governess of their small community, an old woman of about sixty, showed up with breakfast and an unguent for their backs. Centurion Marcus Taurus had sent her.

  ‘He never changes,’ observed Flavus. ‘A whipping to show us that discipline must always be maintained, no matter what. And then the old lady with some ointment to let us know it’s nothing personal. Or perhaps the opposite; maybe it’s benevolence on his part, and even respect.’

  ‘Wait, maybe he’s our man,’ said Arminius suddenly. ‘He surely knows all the s
ecrets of Roman politics. He has his informers and maybe even the ear of highly ranked officials.’

  ‘If she is at the centre of life or death . . .’ replied Flavus, ‘and by she I mean the lady who’s carved in marble on the Altar of Peace, then we’re really looking at a vipers’ nest. I don’t know if he’s the right person to go to. He’s a lion on the battlefield but I suspect he’d rather keep a mile away from anything that reeks of intrigue like this does.’

  ‘Well, let’s say that if he is willing to get to the bottom of this, we’re willing to help. If he’s not, we shouldn’t pursue it. Who can we trust if not him? Diodorus? That doesn’t seem wise to me. We’re not even sure that he’s the person behind the message; that’s just a guess on our part.’

  They waited a couple of days and then asked for the centurion to receive them, going through Diodorus himself. They got more than they bargained for: an invitation to dinner in his quarters.

  He met them dressed in a dark floor-length tunic with long, wide sleeves trimmed in a light blue fabric and deerskin breeches in the Germanic style. In a corner of the room hung his parade armour: the helmet with its transverse horsehair crest, the cuirass studded with decorations, the baldric and greaves, his gladius and dagger. They ate together sitting at a table as they would have done at camp. The table setting was simple, with ceramic cups. A silver-plated bronze pitcher for pouring wine was the only concession to luxury. They were served by a Syrian servant dressed in the robes of his native country.

  After greeting them with great cordiality, Taurus informed them that he had always maintained contact with their parents in Germania, using public service messengers. He reported that both their father Sigmer and mother Siglinde were well, and that political relations with the Cherusci were good. He poured wine for his guests and asked about the reason for their visit. The two boys exchanged a glance and Arminius began to speak.

  He told Taurus that they’d been given a message, delivered personally by a man who claimed to be speaking on behalf of their father. It contained an enigma that seemed very difficult to work out, but their recent visit to the Altar of Peace had suggested a possible answer.

  After Arminius had provided details regarding the message and the messenger, Flavus took over, rolling out a long papyrus scroll on which the inaugural procession of the Ara Pacis was represented. He pointed at the figures that they believed were referred to in the message. In the middle was Julia, at the centre of life and death.

  Taurus frowned and took a long look at both boys, to see if they were telling him the truth.

  ‘How can you be sure it was a message from your father?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re not, in fact,’ replied Flavus. ‘Thinking about it, we felt that the message was too complex to be from our father, especially because he would have had to be completely familiar with these sculptures and to know all about the people they represent.’

  ‘We’ve come to you for advice,’ said Arminius.

  ‘Have you considered investigating the Hermundur?’ asked Taurus.

  They had thought of everyone but him.

  ‘No,’ admitted Flavus. ‘If it’s hard to believe that our father composed this puzzle, it’s impossible to imagine that the Hermundur did.’

  Taurus dropped his head and sighed, then began to speak again. ‘Julia has many admirers and suitors, as well as a number of very powerful enemies. Many have tried to slander her name but I know that in truth she has had a single, great love in her life . . . an impossible love.’

  So Taurus harbours thoughts of love under that tough shell! Incredible . . . thought Flavus.

  ‘You see, a woman in her position is never allowed to follow her inclinations. Her political weight is too great; her womb gives life to those destined to rise to the top ranks of power and so others decide who will put his seed there. Not others, exactly . . . one other. Her father, the supreme Augustus, has always tolerated her adventures, as long as she obeyed when it came time to accept a marriage of state.’

  As Flavus listened to his words, he thought of the young girl crowned with flowers who had fascinated his brother in the Germanic forest. A single glance, and he was lost forever. He thought of Iole the prostitute who was just a girl herself; she could never even hope to entertain certain thoughts. All that awaited her was disgust, sperm, blood and vomit. Until the brutal, never-ending violence killed her. She would die without ever having lived a single day of sun and happiness. Or maybe he had offered her a ray of light when he had looked at her with longing and given her a gift. Maybe sweet little Iole was dreaming that one day he would be back at that way station, a powerful man wearing shining armour, and that he would carry her away from all that misery.

  A dream like that was poison. Better no dream at all.

  Taurus’s voice called him back. ‘Even the son of Mark Antony and his first wife is depicted on the wall of the great Altar of Peace. Iullus Antonius is his name. He’s the last figure of the inaugural procession.’

  Taurus paused, and then went on.

  ‘This man is Julia’s great love. They met when they were just children, living together with the other orphans of the civil wars in the house of Augustus. A boy and a girl who fell in love in that odd orphanage. But can either of you imagine that such feelings between the offspring of the fiercest adversaries of the last civil war could be allowed to have a future? Julia always kept that great love of hers secret, but in reality anyone who needed to know did so. She has always been kept under strict surveillance. Everything about her is reported directly to her father, the supreme ruler of the Roman State.’

  Arminius was astonished that Taurus was revealing such important, delicate matters to two young Germanic princes, but he didn’t realize how intimately Roman he himself had become in those years of living in the capital of the known world. He didn’t realize how his Germanic accent was disappearing, how he had learned the military tactics of the army and the rudiments of Roman law, how he had absorbed their elegance and sense of aesthetics, the custom of tending to his body in the gymnasia and stadiums, the habit of bathing and being massaged daily.

  ‘When Julia’s mother, Scribonia, became pregnant,’ Taurus continued, ‘her husband Octavian – Augustus’s name at the time, before he became emperor – dearly desired a boy. As soon as Julia was born, he tore her from the arms of her mother and he immediately repudiated her, his own wife, deaf to her cries of despair. Years later, as soon as Julia had her first monthly cycle, she was engaged and then married to her cousin Marcus Claudius, who died before he turned nineteen. She was married again. This time to a man twenty-five years her elder, Marcus Agrippa, her father’s right arm. He impregnated her five times but died eight years ago before he could grow old. Julia is now married to Prince Tiberius, who is said to spend all his time pacing the beaches of the deserted island where he has chosen to live alone in a kind of voluntary exile. The supreme ruler was Tiberius’s adoptive father and he actually forced his son to repudiate his own wife who he loved dearly in order to marry Julia. They say that every time Tiberius sees Vipsania, even from afar, he is unable to hold back tears. He went on to have a child with Julia, but it died while only a baby.

  ‘So with Tiberius gone, Julia is free to encounter her beloved, who is a poet. They are said to meet in the hidden corners of the secret city, but also at the gatherings of a literary circle. But for long years they never saw each other. Their souls were close only in the marble figures sculpted on the wall of the great altar.’

  10

  FOR A LONG TIME, Arminius and Flavus put the phrase pronounced by the Hermunduri warrior out of their minds, along with the enigma hidden there. They were always busy with Taurus, who had been put in charge of arranging a parade, with various military exercises which the Auxilia corps were to perform in the presence of Roman notables and army chiefs, including the commander of Taurus’s Eighteenth Legion, Legate Sextus Varinius. There were to be other visitors in the afternoon as well, but no one knew who they might b
e. Taurus had been ordered to keep all plans secret so as not to lessen the effect when the moment came.

  The audience had assembled, and Flavus was first to set out at the head of a squad of Chatti and Suebi, simulating a cavalry charge. The target they were tasked to assail was formed of mannequins made of straw and fresh clay equipped with wooden shields and corsets made of hemp. The two young princes wore leather helmets and a lorica of iron mail which was heavy but easy to move in, and carried two spears and two swords, the long swords favoured by the cavalry.

  Arminius was second in leading the charge. Halfway into the exercise, his men all hurled their spears. He let fly the first and then the second, hitting both targets, then unsheathed his swords and decapitated two of the mannequins. He wheeled around, took another couple of spears from the arms bearers and led a second assault, once again hitting his mark perfectly with both spears and swords. More exercises with other groups followed, and then it was Flavus’s turn again. He performed daring manoeuvres of great speed and skill. The exercises became increasingly more difficult and dangerous and cries of wonder came from the finest ladies in the audience. Flavus rode an extraordinarily beautiful stallion, as black and shiny as the wings of a crow, with tufts of horsehair hanging from his ankles to cover his lustrous tallow-coated hoofs. Arminius mounted a white steed with a long mane that Taurus himself had chosen for him, a horse worthy of a great warrior. The sun had risen high over the Campus Martius, and the only creatures not dripping with sweat were the guests positioned to take full advantage of the western breeze, sitting on shaded stands under a white linen canopy, drinking cold water out of silver cups.