Next came the bride. Claudia’s veil was bright yellow, as were her shoes. Her long white robe was cinched at the waist with a purple sash tied at the back in a special configuration called the Hercules knot; later, it would be the bridegroom’s privilege, and challenge, to untie the knot. In her hands she carried the implements of spinning, a distaff and a spindle with wool. Flanking her, making a show of offering support to her arms, were two of the bride’s cousins, little boys hardly older than the torchbearer. At first, these escorts took their duty very seriously and set out with somber expressions, but when the torchbearer stumbled, they broke into giggles so infectious that even the Vestal virgin began to laugh.
Following the bride were her mother and father and the rest of the bridal party, who sang a very old Roman wedding song called “Tallasius.” The foreign-born Claudii had to learn this song from scratch, but the words were charmingly appropriate considering the circumstances. When the Sabine women were taken by Romulus and his men, the most beautiful of the women was captured by the henchmen of a certain Tallasius, a loyal lieutenant of the king, who had observed and selected her in advance. As she was carried off, the Sabine woman begged to know where the men were taking her, and so the song went:
Where do you take me?
To Tallasius the dutiful!
Why do you take me?
Because he thinks you’re beautiful!
What will my fate be?
To marry him, to be his mate!
What god will save me?
All the gods have blessed this date!
The wedding party arrived at the home of Titus Potitius. Before the house, under the open sky, by the light of tapers soaked in wax, a sheep was sacrificed upon an altar and skinned. Its pelt was thrown over two chairs, upon which the bride and groom sat. The auspices were taken, and declared to be good. The gods were called upon to bless the union.
Still carrying her distaff and spindle, Claudia rose from her chair and was escorted by her mother to the door of the house, which was decorated with garlands and flowers. Her mother embraced her. Miming an attack, Titus stepped forward and pulled his bride from her mother’s arms. This was another echo of the abduction of the Sabines, as was what came next: Titus, blushing furiously, picked her up, kicked open the door, and carried her like a captive over the threshold.
Claudia’s mother wept. Her father fought back tears with laughter. The wedding party cheered and applauded.
Inside the house, Titus set Claudia down on a sheepskin rug. She put aside her distaff and spindle. He handed her the keys to the house, and asked, with breathless excitement, “Who is this newcomer in my house?”
Claudia answered as the ancient ritual prescribed: “When and where you are Titus, then and there I shall be Titia.” Thus the bride gave herself a first name, the feminine form of her husband’s first name—something that did not exist for women in the world at large, and would only ever be used in private between the two of them.
The wedding banquet was mostly a family affair, but certain close friends of the bride and groom were invited. Titus had thought long and hard about whether to invite Publius Pinarius. In the end, he had taken his grandfather’s advice and had done so, and as his grandfather had predicted, Publius had spared everyone from embarrassment by sending his regrets, saying he could not attend because his family would be visiting relatives in the countryside.
Gnaeus Marcius, however, did accept Titus’s invitation. He had recently become betrothed himself, to a plebeian girl named Volumnia. If he was disappointed not to have arranged a marriage with a patrician girl, he did not admit it. His demeanor was as haughty as ever; if anything, his self-assurance had increased, bolstered by his first forays into battle. As yet, Gnaeus was still some distance from achieving his lofty goal—to become the greatest warrior that Roma had ever seen—but he had made a good start, coming to the attention of his commanders by repeatedly proving his bravery in combat.
Busy accepting the good wishes of all the other guests, Titus was able to pay only passing attention to Gnaeus. He worried that his friend might feel a bit out of place amid so many Claudii and Potitii, or, given his sensitivities, might experience a bit of envy, perhaps even resentment, at seeing the trappings of the patrician wedding he himself would never experience. Then Titus saw, across the crowd, that Gnaeus was deep in conversation with Appius Claudius. The two of them looked very serious one moment, burst out laughing the next, then returned to their sober discussion.
What were they talking about? Titus worked his way across the crowd until he was close enough to overhear.
“And yet,” Claudius was saying, “it’s my understanding that even before the coming of the republic, there was considerable friction between the best families and the common people. It seems unfair to blame Brutus for stirring a hornet’s next. His intention, surely, was to spread the powers which Tarquinius hoarded to himself among the senators, so that all the best men could take a turn at the rudder, so to speak.”
“The revolution that Brutus began still continues, and could veer out of control at any moment,” said Gnaeus. “Revolutions begin at the top, then work their way down. The trick is to arrest the process before the worst people kill the best and gain control.”
“But the republic appears to be working,” said Claudius. “It’s true, and perhaps unfortunate, that even the lowliest citizens are allowed to vote for the magistrates; on the other hand, only the best men are eligible to run for office. And citizens vote not as individuals but in tribal units, and those votes are weighted; the units which include the best families and their dependents count for much more than those of the rabble. It seems a reasonable system.”
“Perhaps, if the common people would be satisfied with it. But have you listened to the rabble-rousers in the Forum? They say the debts of the poor should be forgiven. Can you imagine the chaos if that should happen? They say the plebeians must be allowed to elect their own magistrates, to ‘protect’ them from the patricians. They want two governments instead of one! They say the common people should consider seceding from the city altogether—go off and found their own city, and leave Roma to fend for herself against her enemies. That’s traitor’s talk!”
“Serious matters, indeed,” said Claudius. “Thank the gods that Roma has clear-headed young men such as yourself, Gnaeus Marcius, who can recognize that some beasts were born to pull a plow and others to guide it.”
“And thank the gods, Appius Claudius, that a man as wise and honorable as you has chosen to join his destiny with that of our beloved Roma.”
Titus smiled and moved away, pleased but not entirely surprised that his aristocratic father-in-law and his elitist best friend had each found a kindred spirit in the other.
493 B.C.
The slave entered his master’s study, bearing a large, rolled parchment. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Senator. I believe these were the plans you requested.”
Titus Potitius, who stood bent over a table, studying a similar parchment by the bright sunlight from the window, looked up and nodded absently. “What? Oh, yes, the plans for the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline! I’ve been wanting to see Vulca’s old drawings. They may help me solve a problem I’ve encountered with the design of the new Temple of Ceres. Put the scroll there, in that corner. I’ll look at it later.”
The slave obeyed, then returned to Titus and cleared his throat again.
“Yes? Is there something else?”
“You asked me to remind you, master, when the time for the triumph drew near.”
“Of course! I’ve been so busy, I entirely forgot! I mustn’t be late. I daresay old Cominius wouldn’t care whether I showed up or not, but Gnaeus would never forgive me if I wasn’t present to witness his moment of glory. Go fetch my toga and help me put it on.”
An hour later, Titus stood among his colleagues on the steps of the Senate House. His grandfather had died not long after Titus’s marriage; his father had died three years ago. Now, at t
he age of twenty-nine, Titus was paterfamilias of the family and one of the youngest members of the Senate. As always, throughout his life, his pedigree gave him claim to a place of honor—in this case, on one of the upper steps that afforded a splendid view. On the step above Titus stood his father-in-law, Appius Claudius, who had risen to great prominence in the Senate; only the consuls and the other magistrates stood higher, on the porch of the building. On the step below stood his old friend Publius Pinarius. Across from the Senate House, Titus’s son stood in the very spot where he had stood as a boy, at the front of the crowd of patricians who had gathered to watch the triumphal procession on the Sacred Way.
The occasion for the triumph was the successful conclusion of a war against a people called the Volsci, south of Roma. The consul Postumius Cominius had led the campaign. In short order, his troops had seized the Volscian cities of Antium, Longula, Polusca, and the greatest prize of all, Corioli. A grateful Senate had enthusiastically voted to award Cominius a triumph, an honor once given exclusively by the kings to themselves, but which now was granted by the Senate to those consuls who achieved a great military victory.
Titus heard the shrill piping of flutes playing a military air. Surrounded by the musicians, a white ox led the parade. It would later be sacrificed, along with a portion of the spoils of battle, on an altar before the Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline.
Following the ox came the Volscian warriors who had been captured in battle. They had been stripped of their armor and were dressed in rags. Filthy and unkempt, they shuffled forward in shackles, hanging their heads. The crowd laughed and jeered at them. Boys threw pebbles to make them flinch. A grizzled, toothless Roman soldier stepped from the crowd to spit on them. At the conclusion of the triumph, having served their purpose as ornaments, the luckiest of the prisoners might be returned to their families, if an adequate ransom had been offered. The others would be sold into slavery.
Next came the elite prisoners, those who had been the chief men of the captured cities. For them, neither freedom nor slavery waited. While the priests sacrificed the ox to Jupiter, these prisoners would be lowered into the Tullianum, the prison cell at the foot of the Capitoline, and strangled by executioners. According to the priests, offerings were more pleasing to the god when accompanied by the death of those who had been the leaders of Roma’s enemies.
Next came the spoils of battle: the captured arms and insignia of the Voscians, as well as wagons full of coins, jewels, and fine objects including vases and etched silver mirrors—all the portable items of value that had been seized when the fallen cities were sacked. Greatest of all was the booty of Corioli, where the wealthiest of the Volsci had lived in great luxury.
After the spoils of war came the general’s lictors wearing red tunics, marching in single file with their axes raised high, shouting the Latin victory chant. “Io triumphe! Io triumphe! Io triumphe!” The general himself followed in a chariot pulled by four horses and decorated with bronze plates embossed with images of winged victories. Watching the chariot approach, Titus smiled. He could hear in his head the lecturing voice of his grandfather: “Romulus walked up the Sacred Way for his triumphs; his feet were good enough for him! This business of riding in a quadriga began only with the elder Tarquinius.” The clatter of the horses’ hooves was added to the chant of the lictors, then both were drowned by roar of the crowd.
Cominius was dressed a tunic sewn with flowers and a gold-embroidered robe. On his head he wore a laurel crown. In his right hand he carried a laurel bough, and in his left a scepter surmounted by an eagle. His youngest son rode beside him in the chariot and handled the reins.
In commemoration of the enemy blood spilled under his command, the hands and face of Cominius were stained bright red with cinnabar. He raised his scepter in salutation to the senators, who saluted back.
Following the general marched the soldiers who had fought under him. At their head, in a place of honor, was Titus’s old friend, Gnaeus Marcius, the hero of the battle of Corioli.
For years, in battle after battle, Gnaeus had been gaining a reputation as a fearless fighter, but at Corioli, where he had served as second in command to Cominius, his exploits had elevated him to a new level of glory. At a critical moment during the siege, the defenders had boldly opened the gates and sent forth their fiercest fighters. The bloodshed that followed was horrific, but one Roman never wavered as he slew enemy after enemy: Gnaeus Marcius. Driven by a force that seemed more than human, he fought his way to the open gates and ran into the city, alone. The soldiers and citizens of Corioli swarmed around him, determined to kill him, but Gnaeus could not be stopped. After surrounding himself with corpses, he seized a torch and set aflame anything that could burn. The conflagration so terrified and distracted the defenders that the gates were left unmanned. The Romans rushed into the city and a mass slaughter followed.
After the battle, Cominius praised Gnaeus’s heroism before the assembled troops. He presented him with a magnificent war-horse with trappings worthy of a general. He also promised Gnaeus as much of the silver of Corioli as he could carry and his choice of any ten captives to become his slaves. Gnaeus accepted the horse, saying it would help him to fight Roma’s enemies, and one captive, a man he recognized for having fought bravely against him, whom he then released. The other gifts he rejected, saying that he had done no more and no less than any Roman soldier should. The conquest of Corioli itself was the only reward he desired.
Gnaeus Marcius had become a hero to his fellow soldiers that day. Now, marching behind him in the triumphal procession, they began to chant, quietly at first, then louder and louder: “Coriolanus! Coriolanus! Coriolanus!”—an honorific title to hail him as the conqueror of Corioli.
Because such a title would more properly be given to a commander, Titus thought the men must be referring to Cominius. The general apparently thought the same thing, for he smiled broadly, turned around in the chariot to face his troops, and raised his scepter to them. But in the next instant, it became evident for whom the troops were crying out. A band of them broke ranks, rushed forward, and raised Gnaeus Marcius onto their shoulders. They spun him about, all the while shouting: “Coriolanus! Coriolanus! Coriolanus!”
A lesser man might have betrayed a flash of jealousy at seeing a subordinate so honored on the day of his own triumph, but Cominius was as canny a politician as he was a commander. His unwavering grin became a smile bestowed on Gnaeus Marcius. His raised scepter became a salute to the hero of Corioli. When the crowd began to take up the chant as well, Cominius seized the moment. He beckoned to the soldiers bearing Gnaeus aloft. They trotted forward, laughing like boys, and deposited their comrade onto the chariot alongside the commander.
A few in the crowd were taken aback at this breach of decorum. Below him, Titus heard Publius Pinarius let out a gasp and mutter, “By Hercules, did you ever see anything so audacious?” But a far greater number of spectators were roused to cheering and even moved to tears, especially when Cominius warmly embraced Gnaeus, then placed Gnaeus’s hand upon the scepter next to his own and raised it high.
“People of Roma, I give you Gnaeus Marcius, the hero of Corioli! All hail Coriolanus!”
“Coriolanus!” the people chanted. The name reverberated around the Forum like rolling thunder.
From the step above, Appius Claudius leaned over and spoke into Titus’s ear. “I always knew that friend of yours would make a name for himself. Today he has, and everyone in Roma is shouting it.” Claudius stood upright, cupped his hands to his mouth, and joined the others: “Coriolanus! All hail Coriolanus!”
“The temple will be dedicated very soon, then?” said Gnaeus Marcius.
Titus laughed. “Yes, very soon. It’s polite of you to inquire, Gnaeus—or should I call you Coriolanus now? But we both know you have very little interest in temples, and even less in architecture for its own sake. We see each other so seldom nowadays, it seems to me that we should speak of matters that interest us both.”
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br /> They were dining, alone, in the garden of the house on the Palatine where Gnaeus lived with his mother and wife. The previous day, various citizens had organized private feasts to follow the triumph. The food had been so sumptuous, and Titus had eaten so much, that he had thought he would never be hungry again. Yet, a day later, his stomach was empty again and he found himself craving a simple meal. Even more, he craved the company of his old friend Gnaeus, just the two of them alone, away from the swarms of strangers and well-wishers who had surrounded Gnaeus the previous day with their incessant cries of “Hail Coriolanus!” And so, when Gnaeus invited him to a private dinner to enjoy his mother’s chickpea and millet porridge, Titus had eagerly accepted.
“It’s true that our lives have taken different paths in recent years,” said Gnaeus. “But that may be about to change.”
“How so? Am I to leave the Senate, and the construction projects they’ve entrusted to me, and join you in battle? I was never very good at it. I suppose I could be your spearbearer, or hold open the gate of an enemy city while you rush inside.”
“I mean quite the opposite. I shall be invading your domain.”
“My construction projects?”
“No! I mean the Senate.”
“What are you saying?”
Gnaeus smiled. “Cominius promised me as much, yesterday, after he invited me onto his chariot. As we passed all those cheering people, he whispered in my ear, ‘See how they love you, my boy! Amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it! A man like you belongs in the Senate, where you can do even more good for Roma than you did at Corioli. I shall make a special appointment, and for that alone, men will say my year as consul was well spent.’”
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