by Laura Dowers
‘Certainly we can trust it.’
‘Then I’ll address the senate first thing in the morning.’
‘And say what?’
‘That we must be prepared to fight.’
‘You will not try diplomacy with the Veientes?’
‘Diplomacy?’
‘Why not?’ Tanaquil asked. ‘Make another treaty. It worked before.’
But Servius was not thinking of diplomacy. He was all for talking with Rome’s neighbours — treaties were usually so much less costly than battles — but if his unelected accession made the Veientes think they had been presented with an opportunity, then why should he not think the same? Here was an opportunity to show Rome, to show those damned patricians, he was fit to be their king. And nothing would prove that better than a show of force, a victory against a common enemy.
‘We should fight,’ he said, ‘and not wait for them to reach the walls of Rome. We go out and we meet them on the battlefield.’
Tanaquil smiled. It was good to hear a man talk so fiercely; it had been a long while since anyone she knew had done so. Lucomo had brought so much stability to Rome, it had become as if there was nothing left to fight for.
‘Well, do you agree?’ Servius prompted.
‘You want to show what you can do?’
He laughed at himself. ‘Ye gods, am I so obvious?’
‘Only to me,’ she said, reaching out and stroking his cheek. ‘And I think you’re right. We could try diplomacy and I suppose it may work for a while. But it would be good to show how strong we are by teaching Veii a lesson.’
‘Will the senate agree, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes, you won’t have any trouble getting them to commit to a war. They’ll be eager to provide men and money.’
‘An army with me as leader?’
‘There is no other choice, my boy. As king, it is your duty to lead.’
‘And to win?’
‘If you can. But of that, Servius, I have no doubt.’
It had been a cold autumn, not the best time of year in which to battle, but Servius had had little choice. The Veientes, confident their stores of food and drink would be enough to see them through the coming lean months of winter, had made their declaration of war against Rome as expected. The declaration had come hard on the heels of Sisenna’s information. Rome had not had the luxury of making similar provisions and needed a swift victory if the army was not to starve.
The day had begun overcast and by mid-morning rain was falling steadily. It had turned the field of the Romans’ camp to mud and the soldiers were struggling to lift their booted feet out of the sucking ground. Servius’s commander and friend, Cnaeus Sudennus, had decided he would not wait for the Veientes to show their shields on their horizon and had organised the men into lines. This had kept them occupied for a while, but now they had been standing still for over an hour and the sound of creaking wet leather filled the air as bodies twisted to relieve aching muscles.
Cnaeus walked up to Servius, who was standing in front of the lines, scanning the far side of the field where the Veientes would appear. He studied Servius’s profile and noted the grim determination set there. Servius had never been martial-minded, though he had had experience of battle during the late King’s reign, but it seemed to Cnaeus that when Servius addressed the senate and told them of the danger that was coming to Rome, he had been relishing the idea of dirtying his sword with Veientes blood.
Despite his dislike for public speaking, Cnaeus thought Servius had spoken well. He had mounted the dais and addressed the senators in a firm, clear voice. The senators listened and muttered amongst themselves when they heard what Veii was planning. And when they heard Servius tell them he intended to lead the army into battle, they had cheered, Cnaeus as loudly as any of them. The senate had not dallied either, acting swiftly to gather an army. To Cnaeus, it felt almost as if Rome had been waiting for someone to fight and by early autumn, Servius was ready to march out of Rome at the head of a thousand men, and with Cnaeus by his side.
Rome had so far fought two battles with the Veientes. The first had been no more than a skirmish; the Romans had unexpectedly encountered a cohort of Veientes and had had no choice but to fight. The fighting had been fierce and many men had been lost in that first encounter without a decisive victory on either side. But it had been a valuable learning experience for the Roman commanders who, like Servius and all patricians, had been trained in arms as soon as they had been old enough to hold a wooden sword. For the youngest men, all their training had been nothing but theory, for Rome had enjoyed peace for so long. They soon discovered that sword practice was nothing compared to facing an enemy intent on splitting open stomachs and watching guts spill out. It took that first skirmish to make those youngsters realise just what being at war truly meant.
Now, they could call themselves true soldiers, Cnaeus reflected, as the rain continued to fall. He hadn’t had a wash for three days, not a proper one, and the smell of his own sweat offended him. His face, like Servius’s, like all the other Roman soldiers, was grimed with dirt. The dirt mixed with the crusted blood of minor cuts and mingled with a large purple bruise that spread over his cheekbone and blackened his left eye. He ached all over. He was starting to regret his eagerness to join the army. Just how many more battles must they fight, he wondered, before this war would be over?
Servius suddenly noticed Cnaeus and nodded towards the opposite side of the field. ‘They will come soon. I can hear them.’
‘Can you?’ Cnaeus strained his ears but all he could hear was the noises the men behind him were making.
‘They’re there,’ Servius said, almost to himself. ‘Are the men ready?’
‘They’re ready.’
‘How many do we have?’
‘Eleven hundred, not counting the wounded.’
‘And our scouts estimate the Veientes have less than eight hundred men, yes?’
‘Yes. Should be easy.’
‘Don’t get complacent, Cnaeus,’ Servius snapped. Then his face softened and he turned towards his friend. ‘Just in case Bellona deserts us, eh?’
‘The goddess is on our side, Servius, I know it,’ Cnaeus said. ‘And when we win this battle, we’ll sacrifice ten doves to thank her for her goodness to us. Wait, look there.’
Servius turned to where Cnaeus was pointing. On the crest of the hill, the Veientes were moving into position. He nodded. ‘Prepare the men.’
Servius felt Cnaeus move away and, a moment later, heard him giving orders to the men to make ready. The clatter from the ranks was almost deafening after the quiet of waiting. His fingers tightened around his sword’s hilt and he felt all his energy flow into it. Drawing his sword, he pointed its wet silver tip towards the Veientes ranks. He pulled his right foot from the mud and began the steady march towards them, knowing his army was no more than a few feet behind him.
When the two armies were less than fifty feet apart, Servius yelled his war cry and charged. His ears filled with noise, his sword met flesh. Bodies closed around him as he pressed deeper and deeper into the Veientes ranks. He lost all sense of awareness, all sense of time passing. His sword stabbed, withdrew, stabbed again, until he could hardly move for Veientes dead.
‘Servius!’ Cnaeus cried, his face and breast covered in blood. ‘They’re retreating.’
Servius looked to the far side of the field and made a quick count. Perhaps two hundred Veientes were running away, fleeing into the trees for cover. Many never made the wood, hacked down before they got there by Roman soldiers reluctant to see their enemy escape.
‘Sound the trumpet,’ Servius croaked, his throat cracked and dry. ‘Assemble the men. Count our numbers.’
‘We haven’t lost many men, Servius. But look how many we’ve killed.’ Cnaeus gestured with his bloody sword at the bodies littering the ground. ‘And most of them down to you, I’d say.’
‘Don’t be foolish,’ Servius chided, a sheepish smile creeping onto his lips. �
��Is it over, do you think?’
‘Ye gods, it must be, mustn’t it? If that’s all the men they have, there can’t be anyone left for us to fight.’
Servius arched his back, groaning as his spine cracked. ‘I’ll send a messenger to the Veientes camp with the terms we’ll accept of their surrender.’
‘And send word to Rome while you’re about it,’ Cnaeus said, bending to wipe his sword on a dead man’s tunic. ‘Tell them of your victory.’
‘Our victory, my friend. And let’s get the surrender in writing first.’
‘Ever the cautious one,’ Cnaeus said laughed. ‘Allow yourself to enjoy your victory, just a little, won’t you? You are king, after all. And I’ll tell you something, Servius, this has proved it. If anyone doubted you were fit to be king before, those doubts have been quashed here and now.’
Servius gave him a sideways glance. ‘I have been one of those doubters, Cnaeus.’
‘I know,’ Cnaeus said, ‘that’s why I’m telling you this. You’re my friend and my king and I’m very proud of both. No more doubts, Servius. You are the King of Rome.’
‘I know it, now.’
‘Good. And now, I’m going to count our numbers as you ordered, my King.’
‘And find ten doves,’ Servius shouted after him.
‘What’s that?’ Cnaeus frowned.
Servius grinned. ‘Bellona will be expecting a sacrifice, won’t she?’
7
Tarquinia checked the calendar, counting off the days, counting twice, just to be sure. She clapped her hands to her mouth, hardly daring to believe. By her reckoning, she was thirteen days past the time when she should have expected to bleed. She shut her eyes tight.
‘I beg you, Juno,’ she whispered, ‘please let me be pregnant. And please let this baby live.’
But she couldn’t rely on prayers alone. She would have to make a sacrifice. A goat, yes, a goat would be best. Juno would be pleased with a goat.
Tarquinia smoothed her hands over her flat belly. Inside there, she felt sure, new life was growing. She wanted to tell someone, have someone share in her happiness, but who? Servius was not at home; he had been invited to dine with Cnaeus Sudennus at his house and would no doubt come home late, having spent the afternoon recounting their battles and adventures. Tanaquil was out for the afternoon, some meeting with the Vestal Virgins.
The door opened and her maid entered carrying clean bed linen.
‘Nipia,’ Tarquinia addressed her, feeling a little foolish, ‘I have news.’
‘Yes, domina.’ Nipia stopped what she was doing and stood ready to attend to her mistress’s words.
‘My blood hasn’t come,’ Tarquinia said. ‘I think I’m pregnant.’
‘May Juno bless you, domina,’ Nipia said politely and bowed her head. She returned to her work, taking off the soiled bed sheets and replacing them with the clean ones.
What did you expect? Tarquinia thought, chiding herself for feeling disappointed at Nipia’s conventional response. She’s only your maid. What a silly goose she must think you.
The afternoon was an agony of restless waiting and almost too-much-to-bear joy. When Servius came home later that day, reeling a little and with wine sour on his breath, Tarquinia rushed to him and squeezed him tight. He laughed and asked her what she was about to accost him so. With flushed cheeks and bright eyes, she told him her news.
Servius sobered instantly. He embraced his wife and buried his face against her neck, wetting it with his tears. He was going to be a father at last.
Tanaquil studied the wax death masks of her family on display in the atrium. The masks had been created in the first hour after death, before time had slackened the skin or decay set in, and were perfect facial representations of the people they had once been.
On the top shelf were her mother and father, both long dead and buried in Tarquinii. Beneath them were three masks, the first two being of her sons, Arruns and Lucius. Arruns had died of a fever in his fourteenth year; Lucius had been killed in battle. Next to their likenesses was Lucomo, dear Lucomo, the man whom she had thought not good enough to marry. Her death mask would sit alongside Lucomo’s one day, staring soullessly at anyone who passed through the atrium.
But not too soon, she told herself sternly. She still had work to do. Servius still needed her, although she thought sadly, not as much as he had at first. His victory over Veii had not only secured his kingship in the eyes of the patricians; it had proved to Servius himself that he was the King of Rome, not an imposter merely acting the part.
After the Veientes had been defeated, Servius returned to Rome to celebrate a triumph. He had ridden into Rome, his crown upon his head and followed by carts laden with spoils and captives to the adulation of all Rome. No one dared whisper behind their hands about Servius any longer.
And Servius had come home not only with treasure but with ideas. When he had told her of them, Tanaquil realised how lazy Lucomo had been. Yes, her husband had worked hard to make treaties and forge alliances, but once achieved, he had considered his duty done. From that point on, Lucomo had concerned himself only with domestic affairs, acquiring clients, listening to petitioners and filling his money chests. Servius wanted to do things, make changes, make Rome better, make it the envy of all the Latin tribes. Enraptured, Tanaquil had listened to Servius’s ideas and wanted to be a part of them.
Tanaquil knew the changes Servius wanted to make would benefit Rome, it was true, but in her mind, there was a better reason for pursuing them. If Servius succeeded, he would be not only popular but powerful, and he could change forever the way Rome thought about kings. Roman kingship could become truly hereditary.
Tanaquil had never believed in the concept of an elected monarchy. To her, such an arrangement was messy and unnecessary. Under the present system, a man could become king simply because he had proved himself a good soldier, not because he had any brains in his head. Such a man knew how to hold a sword but could not be relied up to know how to rule a kingdom. But a man who had been brought up in the royal household, a man who had been trained from the earliest age to rule! Such a man was fit to be a king.
And that was why Rome needed to change. Rome needed a royal dynasty.
Tanaquil’s eyes returned to the death masks of her two sons. Her sons were gone, but now Tarquinia was at last pregnant and in her belly might be a great Roman, an admirable successor to Servius. And if not, if the child were lost or if it were only a girl, then there were still Tarquins who could succeed Servius, her grandsons, Lucius and Arruns. They were fit and well, and though young, they seemed intelligent enough.
Of course, there was no guarantee the boys would stay fit and well. Children died, even adults died, well before their time, she reminded herself, looking at her sons’ masks. And the Tarquins were burdened now with misfortune, all because of that wretched woman’s curse. Tanaquil closed her eyes at the memory. She and Servius had sacrificed the ox that very night after the executions, and the priests had assured them that Jupiter would be pleased and Poena appeased, but Tanaquil couldn’t be sure.
Nothing was certain. The only thing Tanaquil knew for sure was that the future of the Tarquins as Rome’s royal family could be secured, or destroyed, by the children.
Her labour had begun in the late morning.
Tarquinia had been spinning wool in the garden, enjoying the cool breeze of the spring day, when a pain wrenched through her body. She had cried out, clutching her swollen belly and Nipia had hurried to her mistress, putting her arm around her waist and helping her to her room.
They had only gone a few feet when Tarquinia’s waters broke. The sudden gush of fluid down her legs had made her cry, not just because of the pain but from embarrassment. She hadn’t wanted to make such a mess. She felt suddenly, horribly undignified.
Nipia had managed to get Tarquinia to her bed before scurrying off to send for the midwife and fetch the birthing chair. Tarquinia had been left on her own, struggling to find a position, sitti
ng or standing, that would ease the pain. She hadn’t expected her labour to come on so suddenly, nor to intensify so quickly. She had thought she would feel mild twinges and spasms for a few hours before her pains truly began. In that way, she would be able to prepare herself for the birth. She would have time to talk to the midwife and remind her of her duty. She would have time to make sure her room had everything she could want: food and drink to see her through the labour, clean clothes to keep a respectable appearance. And then the baby would come and she would be in bed with the child in her arms and looking beautiful when Servius walked in.
Tarquinia hadn’t imagined this, this pain and mess and fear she felt. Her mother had told her the pain would be great but she had not, could not, have imagined it would be so very cruel.
Nipia came back with clean linen towels over her arms. She laid them on a table and told Tarquinia the midwife had been summoned.
‘I want my mother,’ Tarquinia panted.
Tanaquil had been sent for and now sat on a stool, silently praying to Juno and watching as her daughter clutched the arms of the birthing chair and screwed up her face in pain.
Servius was at the senate house.
When he had left Tarquinia that morning, there had been no sign her labour would begin that day, and as the matters to be discussed mounted up, his mind was too occupied to spare even the smallest thought for his wife. Servius returned home only when night was coming on, his way lit by torchbearers and his person protected by bodyguards.
As he passed through the atrium, he heard a low-throated scream that turned into a shuddering moan. His mind weary from the day’s work, Servius’s first thought was that some animal had been set loose in the house, but then he remembered Tarquinia and realisation coursed through him. He rushed through the house to their cubiculum, his momentum so fast he almost ran into the closed door. With his hands on the door frame, he pressed his ear to the wood, his heart pounding. He heard murmurings and the padding of feet. And then a cry, the unmistakable protest of a baby.