Pennatus disappeared within the house. Pinaria released Kaeso’s hands and departed in a different direction, leaving him alone in the garden with the amulet she had given him.
Adults were so very mysterious! Kaeso wondered whether he was ready to become one of them, despite the fact that this was his toga day.
THE ARCHITECT OF HIS OWN FORTUNE
312 B.C.
“So, young man, this is your toga day—and what a splendid day for it! Tell me, how have you celebrated so far?”
Surrounded by the magnificent gardens at the center of his magnificent house, wearing his finest toga for the occasion, Quintus Fabius sat with his arms crossed, wrinkled his craggy brow, and appeared to scowl at his visitor. Young Kaeso had been warned about his eminent cousin’s severe expression; Roma’s greatest general was not known for smiling. Kaeso tried not to be intimidated. Even so, he had to clear his throat before he could answer.
“Well, cousin Quintus, I rose very early. My father presented me with a family heirloom, a golden fascinum on a golden chain, which he took from his own neck to place over mine. There’s a story connected with it; it was given to my grandfather long ago by the famous Vestal Pinaria. Then father presented me with my toga, and helped me put it on. I never imagined it would be so complicated, to make the folds hang correctly! We took a long walk around the Forum, where he introduced me to his friends and colleagues. I was allowed to mount the orator’s platform, to see what the Forum looks like from the perspective of the Rostra.”
“Of course, when I was boy,” said Quintus, interrupting, “the speaker’s platform was not yet called the Rostra, because it hadn’t yet been decorated with all those ships’ beaks. Do you know when that happened?”
Kaeso cleared his throat again. “I believe it was during the consulship of Lucius Furius Camillus, the grandson of the great Camillus. The coastal city of Antium was subdued by Roman arms, and the Antiates were made to remove the ramming prows—the so-called rostra, or ‘beaks’—from their warships, and send them as tribute to Roma. The beaks were installed as decorations on the orator’s platform; hence the platform’s name, the Rostra.”
Quintus scowled and nodded. “Go on.”
“After I stood on the Rostra, we ascended the Capitoline. There we observed a Dorso family tradition—retracing the route taken by my great-grandfather, Gaius Fabius Dorso, when he walked from the Capitoline to the Quirinal, defying the Gauls. At the Altar of Quirinus, an augur took the auspices. A single hawk was seen flying from left to right. The augur declared it a favorable omen.”
“Favorable, indeed! The hawk will watch after you in battle. And how does it feel, young man, to be wearing a toga?”
“It feels very good, cousin Quintus.” In fact, the woolen garment was heavier and hotter than Kaeso had expected.
Quintus nodded. He thought the toga looked rather incongruous on young Kaeso, serving only to emphasize his boyish good looks—his blond curls and blushing, beardless cheeks, his full red lips and bright blue eyes. Aloud, Quintus merely said, “You are a man, now. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, cousin Quintus.” Kaeso forced a smile. Of all the day’s events, this visit might the most important of all; in honor of his ascent to manhood, he had been invited to dine, alone, with the most eminent of all the Fabii, the leading member of the many branches of the family, the great statesman and general Quintus Fabius. Nervous and tired, but determined to make a good show of himself, Kaeso sat stiffly in his backless chair and met his cousin’s steely gaze.
“Well, then, let us retire to the dining room,” said Quintus. “You and I shall eat and drink like two men of the world, and talk about your future.”
In fact, the discussion was almost entirely about the past. Over various delicacies—pork liver with celery in a wine sauce, tripe stewed with cinnamon and nutmeg, mutton in fennel cream—Quintus imparted bits of family history. Kaeso had heard almost all of these tales before, but never as told by the great Quintus. Kaeso’s great-grandfather had still been alive when Quintus was young; Quintus had met the illustrious Dorso on several occasions, and had heard the tale of the famous walk from the man himself.
Quintus also related the most famous and tragic exploit of the Fabii, their great sacrifice during a war against Veii, when the family raised a whole army from its own ranks, only to see all but one killed in a terrible ambush. “Out of three hundred and seven warriors, that young man alone survived to carry on the family name,” said Quintus. “Like a forest of noble trees destroyed by fire, from a single seedling the family regenerated itself—proof of the gods’ determination that the Fabii should play a great role in Roma’s history.”
Quintus was no less shy about trumpeting his own accomplishments. Early in his career, as Master of the Horse to the dictator Lucius Papirius Cursor, he had engaged in battle with the Samnites against the dictator’s express orders. Though he won a resounding victory, he had faced death for his disobedience.
“There I stood in the Forum, with my father on his knees before Papirius, pleading for my life. Only a great outcry from the Senate and the people stayed the dictator from ordering his lictors to execute me on the spot with their rods and axes. Though I was stripped of my office, I kept my head—barely! But reversals of fortune can be swift. Just three years later, I became one of the youngest men ever to be elected consul. I soundly defeated the Samnites once again, and was awarded a great triumph. The very next year, the consuls who succeeded me handed the Samnites one of their greatest victories over us. For better or worse, I was not present at the disaster of the Caudine Forks. I suppose you know the shameful story?”
Kaeso quickly lowered the olive that was on its way to his mouth. “Yes, cousin. A Roman army under the consuls Titus Veturius Calvinus and Spurius Postumius, seeking a shortcut, passed through a narrow defile into a gorge that narrowed even more at its far end. When they reached the second narrows, the army found that the passage had been completely blocked with felled trees and other debris. They hastened back to the entrance, only to discovered that it, too, had been made impassable by the enemy. These narrow defiles were the Caudine Forks, between which the whole army was helplessly trapped. Days passed. Rather than allow the men to starve, or attempt an impossible escape that would have resulted in a complete massacre, the consuls submitted to the terms of their Samnite captors.”
“And what did those terms include?” said Quintus. “Go ahead, young man, tell me what you’ve been taught.”
“The Romans were made to lay down their arms and their armor, and to strip off every garment. Naked, they were made to exit through the defile passing under a yoke, as a symbol of their subjugation to the enemy. Even the consuls were forced to do this. The Samnites jeered and laughed at them, and brandished their swords in the Romans’ faces. The soldiers returned home alive but in disgrace. It was a very dark day for Roma.”
“The darkest since the coming of the Gauls!” declared Quintus. “But rather than pretend it never happened, we must acknowledge it, and by perceiving the mistake which the consuls made—failing to scout the path ahead of them—we will make sure that such a thing never happens again. Meanwhile, the war with the Samnites continues, but there can be no doubt as to the eventual outcome. Only by conquest can we continue to prosper. Only conquest can make us secure! It is the duty of every Roman to raise his sword and lay down his life, if he must, to fulfill Roma’s destiny: the domination of all Italy, and after that, expansion to the north, where we shall one day revenge ourselves upon the Gauls and make sure they never menace us again. Will you do your duty to Roma, young man?”
Kaeso took a deep breath. “I should very much like to kill a few Samnites, if I’m able. And perhaps a few Gauls, as well.”
For the first time, Quintus smiled. “Good for you, young man!” His scowl returned as he began to expound on politics. As patricians, he asserted, it was incumbent on the Fabii to assert their hereditary privileges at all times, and to protect those privileges ag
ainst any further encroachment by the plebeians.
“To be sure, there are some plebeians worthy of attaining high office. It is to Roma’s benefit that the most ambitious and capable of the plebeians have risen to join the ranks of the nobility, intermarrying with us and ruling the city alongside us. Roma rewards merit. The rabble, foreigners, even freed slaves are given a chance to work their way up the ladder, although there are plenty of barriers to slow their advance, which is as it should be!
Democracy as practiced by some of the Greek colonies in southern Italy—giving every man an equal say—has been kept out of Roma, thank the gods! Here, republican principles reign, by which I mean the freedom of the noble elite to compete equally and openly for political honors.”
He leaned back on his couch and ceased his discourse for a few moments to enjoy a plate of sautéed carrots and parsnips. “But I’ve strayed from the subject of family history, a more suitable topic for your toga day. The origin of the Fabii is shrouded in mystery, of course, as are all matters that stretch back to a time before writing was introduced among the Romans. However, our best authorities believe that first Roman families were descended from the gods.”
“My friend Marcus Julius claims that his family is descended from Venus,” said Kaeso.
“Indeed,” said Quintus, raising an eyebrow. “That might explain why the Julii make better lovers than fighters. Our pedigree is a bit more heroic. According to family historians, the very first Fabius was the child of Hercules and a wood nymph, born on the banks of the Tiber at the dawn of time. Thus the blood of Hercules flows in the veins of the Fabii even now.” Quintus begrudged Kaeso a second smile, then abruptly frowned and fell silent.
There was an uncomfortable moment as both men realized they were thinking the same thought—that Kaeso’s immediate branch of the family, springing as it did from an adoption, did not actually carry the ancient Fabian blood. Neither Quintus nor Kaeso had any way of knowing that the truth was considerably more complicated. In fact, the claim of the Fabii to be descended from Hercules was completely spurious, while the blood of the visitor later identified as Hercules did indeed flow in Kaeso’s veins, through his descent from the Potitii, a circumstance unknown to either man.
The uncomfortable moment stretched intolerably. Kaeso’s face grew hot. They had drawn close to a subject that had made Kaeso uneasy ever since the day he first learned, as a child, that his grandfather was not born a Fabius, but was an adopted foundling. The story was told with pride, for it demonstrated the piety of the great Dorso, who from the ruins of Roma brought up a newborn orphan to be his son. It had also been explained to Kaeso that his grandfather was special. Had not the gods themselves determined that the foundling should be made a Fabius? The gods set life in motion; what mattered after that was what a man made of himself. The true test of a Roman—so said Kaeso’s father—lay not in his pedigree, but in bending the world to his will.
Despite these assertions and reassurances, the fact that his actual bloodline was unknown had frequently caused Kaeso to wonder and to worry about his origins. It seemed inevitable that the subject would come up on this particular day, and so it had, even if it remained unspoken.
Kaeso became so flustered that he abruptly changed the subject. “You spoke earlier of your own illustrious career, cousin, but you made no mention of an episode that has always intrigued me.”
“Oh, yes?” said Quintus. “What is that?”
“I believe it happened not too long before I was born, when you were just beginning your political career. It had to do with a famous case of poisoning—or rather, many cases of poisoning.”
Quintus nodded grimly. “You refer to the investigation that took place the year I served as curule aedile. A veritable plague of poison!”
“If you had rather not talk about it—”
“I’m quite willing to discuss it. As with the disaster of the Caudine Forks, there is no sense in hiding such an episode, no matter how distasteful. As you say, I was a young man, and quite thrilled to have been elected curule aedile, a magistracy that automatically admitted me to the ranks of the Senate. To me fell the responsibility of keeping law and order in the city.”
“That sounds like a fascinating job.”
“Does it? For the most part, it consists of tedious administrative duties—fining citizens who’ve damaged public property, investigating accusations of overcharging by moneylenders, that sort of thing. Not a happy post for a man who would rather be fighting! But my complaints paled beside the general gloom that reigned over the city that year. People were fearful and uneasy, for it seemed that a terrible plague of a most peculiar nature had descended on us. Its victims were all men—not a woman among them—and the symptoms varied inexplicably. Some died swiftly. Others recovered for a while and then relapsed and expired. Even odder was the fact that a disproportionate number of those who died were men of high standing. Plagues tend to strike the poor and the lowborn in preference to their betters, not the other way around. The peculiar nature and the mounting toll of this plague were only gradually perceived over a course of months, and by that time the priests and magistrates were greatly alarmed. It seemed that the wrath of the gods must be at work. What had the people of Roma, especially their leading men, done to offend them?
“Eventually, the Senate resorted to an ancient recourse in times of epidemic. As you know, there is a wooden tablet inside the Temple of Jupiter, affixed to the doorway that leads into the sanctuary of Minerva on the right. Since the founding of the temple, every year, on the Ides of September, one of the consuls drives a nail into that tablet, to mark the passage of each year; thus the age of the temple and of the Republic can be calculated. The tablet adorns Minerva’s sanctuary because numbers were one of her gifts to mankind. But the tablet has another, rarer function. In times of epidemic, a special dictator may be named—a religious, not military appointment—to carry out a single duty: He must drive an additional nail into the wooden tablet. How this custom came about, no one knows, but its effect is to lessen the ravages of plague. Thus, also, the years of plague can be recalled, and the frequency of such outbreaks reckoned.
“So it was done in this instance. A special dictator was appointed—Gnaeus Quinctilius, as I recall. With the Vestals and the priests and all the magistrates in attendance, Quinctilius drove a nail into the tablet, and then, his duty done, he resigned his office. But the ritual brought no relief. The plague continued and the number of victims increased. The people grew more frightened and their leaders more uneasy. I was as concerned as anyone, of course, but as curule aedile it hardly fell to me to devise a proper means of propitiating the gods and dispelling the plague.
“Then, one day, going about my business in my chambers in the Forum, a young woman came to see me. She refused to tell me her name, but from her dress and manner, I could see she was a freeborn servant from a respectable household. She said she had something terrible to tell me, but only if I would promise to shield her from punishment by the state or retribution by those whose crimes she would reveal. Well, I thought this was going to be nothing more dire than a case of a contractor embezzling bricks from the city, or some pipe-layer charging twice for repairing the public sewer. I gave her my assurances, and she proceeded to tell me that the plague that was afflicting the city was of human origin—and perpetrated not by men, but by women. She accused her own mistress, along with some of the most highborn women in Roma.
“On its face, her story seemed preposterous. For what possible reason would so many women resort to poisoning their husbands and other male relatives? One woman might resort to poison, yes; but scores of women, repeatedly, all in the same year? And yet, by that time, hundreds of men had died, and no cause had yet been discovered. I asked for proof. She offered to take me to a house where the poisons were made. If we were lucky, she said, we might catch some of the women in the act of brewing them.
“I had to act and quickly. In that moment, the job I had considered trifling and hu
mdrum suddenly weighed upon me as the world must weigh upon the shoulders of Atlas.” Quintus sighed, but his eyes glittered; relating the grim story clearly gave him great satisfaction.
“And then what happened, cousin Quintus?”
“Speed was essential, yet proper forms had to be observed, or otherwise any evidence might be compromised. I alerted the consuls at once—how old Gaius Valerius blustered when I woke him from a nap in the middle of the day! With the consuls as witnesses, along with their lictors, I went to the house in question, the home of a patrician named Cornelius, one of the first victims of the plague. His widow’s name was Sergia. Her door slave, seeing such a company, blanched and tried to shut us out. I pushed my way inside.
“At the back of the house, we found a room, which must have been a kitchen at one time, but that had been given over entirely to the brewing of potions. Herbs were hung by bits of string from the rafters. Pots were bubbling and steaming. One pot had been set on a wooden rack to cool; lined up beside it was a row of little clay bottles. Sergia was clearly in charge; the other women were merely servants. When she saw us and realized what had happened, she grabbed one of the bottles and raised it to her lips. I knocked the bottle from her hand. It shattered on the floor and spattered my tunic with a green liquid. The lictors restrained her. There was a rage in her eyes that chilled my blood.
“Sergia refused to answer questions, but, with a little persuasion, her slaves spoke readily enough. They led us to more than twenty houses where the products of Sergia’s kitchen might be found. What a day that was, bursting into house after house, witnessing the outrage of the women, the disbelief of their husbands, the fear and confusion of the children. The implicated women were made to appear before the consuls in the Forum, along with the potions that had been seized.
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