Last of all came the most important and sacred piece of equipment, the twelve bronze shields, said to be copied from the shield carried by Father Mars himself when he goes to war. They were heavy metal objects, two discs joined one above the other to form a figure of eight; the bronze, green with age, had been hammered into a pattern of writhing serpents with terrible open jaws. With a solemn expression, and solemn thoughts, Publius passed his left arm through the upper grip and grasped the lower in his hand. He had never held such a thing before, and he feared that the unusual weight might unbalance his dancing. But now he was truly a Dancer, a link in the chain of generations that handed on the favour of Mars from the first ancestors to unborn posterity; for all that he was terribly excited, he could feel the strength of Mars stiffening his muscles and filling his lungs with deep unhurried breath.
Within the storehouse not a word was spoken. All the Dancers were perfect in their ritual, and they needed no instruction. As soon as they were equipped they scrambled outside, and when the last had emerged the kings drew up the notched pole. During the ceremony they would remain alone in the storehouse, hoping that the mind of Mars would speak to their minds and inspire them with sound plans for the next campaign.
In silence the six Sabines trotted through the Palatine, across the valley, and into their own settlement on the Quirinal. Everything had been done punctually, and as the sun rose they were in position at the edge of the open templum in the midst of the huts. They stood in silence, waiting for Publius to give the signal.
Sunlight, moving over the beech-woods below, crept nearer; at last it flashed in his eyes. Publius gathered himself together and bounded high in the air as he leaped inside the consecrated templum. As he leapt he drummed on the bronze shield with the haft of his dancing-spear.
Behind him his comrades leaped. The smitten shields pealed like thunder. The spearmen of the clan hurried from their huts to watch the luck of Mars brought down to their settlement.
Unto noon the strenuous ceremony continued. Wherever two alleys met the Dancers drummed on their shields and called on Mars while they leapt exactly twenty times. Publius kept careful reckoning, and only once was he compelled to repeat the rite because a Dancer had shouted Mars when he should have used his other name, Marmar. Between leapings they trotted silently to the next crossroad, until the whole settlement had been blessed and they must descend to bring luck to the ploughlands. With never a pause for rest they ran or leapt, and the bronze shields were heavy; but Mars gave them breath to carry out their duty. At last they reached the farthest field, a new clearing ploughed for the first time. Publius was drenched with sweat, so dizzy with fatigue that he could hardly see, his lungs labouring. But this was the most important rite of the day, the final performance from which the clan would draw omens for the coming year. He would give them a worthy omen, one that even the cautious King Romulus could not ignore. His twentieth leap was as high and vigorous as his first; his strokes on the shield kept time with the chant, and he pronounced the right words in the right order.
The crowd of spectators fell silent. Gathering his remaining strength, he hurled his dancing-spear into the sky.
Mars, he had decided, must be helped to make up his mind. The rite demanded that he throw the spear upwards, so that it should fall wherever chance, or the will of Mars, might decree. But if you did that a malicious ghost would sometimes make nonsence of the whole ceremony by turning the spear-point towards your own hut, or making the sacred weapon fall butt downwards. The dancing-spear had been in his hands for nearly five hours; it was a badly balanced toy, too heavy in the head, but he thought he understood it. The weighty head made the spear turn end over end as it flashed through the sky, but Publius had judged its flight correctly. It fell with the point embedded deeply in the soft earth, and it pointed unmistakably to the south-east.
There was a gasp of satisfaction from the assembled clan.
The next meeting of the Senate was noisy and bad-tempered. As soon as the Fathers were in session King Romulus proposed that for this year again there should be peace with all their neighbours. Young men, if they wanted to, might steal cattle on the Etruscan side of the river; but they must not raid under the wolf-ensign which was the communal standard of Rome. If the Etruscans caught them they would not be avenged by the city. On the Sabine and Latin frontiers not even this private raiding would be allowed. The programme for the summer, the thirteenth of Rome’s existence, would be peace and sound farming, and a welcome for newcomers capable of bearing arms. Let the spearmen be patient a little longer; presently they would be strong enough to sack a rich Etruscan city.
As he finished half a dozen Sabines clamoured to be heard. ‘The Dancers,’ they shouted, ‘the Dancers of Mars. The god commanded us to make war. He showed us our prey. We must obey the omen.’
Anxious to still the confusion King Tatius looked down the ranks of his cousins and called on the sound and obedient Publius to address the meeting. Publius, not a good speaker, normally stood silent in the Senate; but today he was so full of what he knew must be done that words poured out of him.
‘Mars has shown us the way, assembled Fathers. I was chief Dancer, I carried the wise spear. I saw the omen. You must believe me, it was the doing of the god. The spear came down with its point completely buried in the earth. That is the signal for all-out war, war to the knife, as we all know. It pointed south-east, to Latin land. I have checked the line, and now I know that it pointed straight at the pastures of Lavinium, a city no stronger than Rome, a city rich in cattle. If we raid Lavinium Mars will grant us riches; if we remain disgracefully at peace we shall be disobeying the command of our protector in heaven. Now, what shall we recommend to the assembly? It is for you to decide, Fathers, after you have heard the advice of the Kings. King Romulus has already advised us. What is the advice of King Tatius?’
King Tatius frowned. This was not what he had expected when he called on a level-headed middle-aged father of a family; he had picked on Publius as a speaker because usually he bored the Fathers and that made them willing to do whatever the kings suggested.
‘King Romulus and I did not see this omen,’ he began slowly, choosing his words with care. ‘All that morning we remained in the sacred storehouse, in silent meditation. In the storehouse Mars said nothing to us, so the omen may not have come from him. If my young cousins want to steal a few Latin cows I shan’t object, but I won’t lead the Tatian clan to war against these neighbours who have never harmed us.’
‘My men won’t even raid them,’ Romulus interrupted brusquely. ‘We are as much the kin of these Lavinians as you Tatians are kin to one another. To make war on them would be impious. It would be bad policy as well, for our best hope of gathering recruits is that adventurous Latins should join us. If we quarrel with the Latins we shall never be strong enough to invade Etruria.’
‘But Mars commanded it,’ Publius objected. ‘The spear told us to make war on Lavinium. That is what happened. But the spear must point somewhere at the end of the dance. If you had already decided that this summer we must live in peace, why did you send out the Dancers to seek a propitious enemy?’
‘Perhaps that was a mistake,’ answered Romulus with a cheerful shrug. ‘You Sabines take omens so seriously. Of course every year we must dance for Mars, or he might forget us when one day we need him. But we shan’t make a campaign every summer of our lives; for this year peace suits us better than war. There’s no need for further discussion. Let’s vote, and then recommend our decision to the assembly. I advise peace, Publius is for war. Do you agree, King Tatius, that we have debated this question long enough?’
‘I think it’s time we had a war, King Romulus We’ll never get anywhere if we just sit quiet and reap our own fields. But I can’t expect your men to rob their own kin, and in fact it would be disgusting if they did. So since your men won’t fight the Lavinians we can’t have this particular war. I’m sorry, cousins,’ he added in an aside to his own followers, ‘but on thi
s occasion only I must vote for peace. perhaps next year we can have a nice little war.’
‘You see that King Tatius supports me. As a rule the majority vote as I recommend. You have heard both sides and there is no more to be said.’ Romulus spoke hastily, as usual stifling debate when it seemed that it might go against him. ‘We’ll take the vote straight away. Remember that you are all bound by the decision, whether you agree with it or not.’
In fact they did not vote by show of hands. The Senate very rarely divided, even to settle the most controversial questions; for men troubled with conflicting loyalties do not like to declare themselves openly. Instead all the Latin Senators, and a fair proportion of the Sabines, moved over to stand behind the kings. Publius and a group of his friends remained stubbornly in their places until it was obvious that they were outnumbered; then they also moved over, sulkily, so that it might be proclaimed that the Senate had decided unanimously.
At the next meeting of the assembly the decision for peace was ratified without trouble. Many spearmen did not like it, but no one was hardy enough to oppose two kings and the unanimous verdict of the Senate.
For Publius that was the end of the matter. His duties as a citizen of Rome and as a loyal follower of King Tatius pulled in the same direction, and the double obligation was too strong for his private wishes. In sad disappointment he went back to the weary round of farming, weeding his fields, tinkering with his drains, taking his turn at guarding the communal herd of oxen.
But he did not consider it part of his duty to warn the kings that a raid was being planned in defiance of their orders. Romulus had his three hundred overbearing celeres to tell him of approaching trouble; perhaps King Tatius would not be grateful if early information compelled him to prevent a raid of which he did not really disapprove. There were daring young men among the Tatians who were determined to follow the omen of the spear. Quietly, more than a hundred of them stole out of the city; ten days later they returned, driving a herd of raided cattle.
Everyone who lived on the Quirinal, with the doubtful exception of King Tatius, had known all about the raid before it began. The returning warriors were greeted by an enthusiastic crowd, while sullen Latins looked on in disapproval from the Palatine. The beasts came from Lavinium, as anyone could see from their brands. These Tatians had openly defied a resolution passed in due form by the assembly.
At the next meeting of the Senate King Romulus talked of nothing but ritual preparation for the coming harvest. No one suggested that the lawbreakers be punished, and the raid was not mentioned. However, the subject was glanced at in passing; no one could mistake the reference when King Tatius said casually, ostensibly while discussing the place of family ties in the harvest rejoicings: ‘The bonds of kinship are a strong force, as we all agree. The family must support all its members, even when some of these members are in the wrong. But there is another force, stronger than the tie of kinship, the bond that unites fellow-citizens. To save the city I would, if need be, turn even against my kin. I hope such a painful dilemma will never be forced upon me.’
‘In other words, the raiders are forgiven but they mustn’t do it again,’ whispered a young Latin Father who stood near Publius. The unfortunate affair seemed to be decently buried.
It was not. While they were all at work in the fields, getting in a very good harvest, look-outs reported the approach of strangers. There were not enough of them to be raiders, and they walked openly along the track; presently it could be seen that they carried tall staves, wreathed in greenstuff. Closer scouting made it certain that they were an embassy of ten envoys, with a number of servants.
In theory every spearman knew all about embassies, the etiquette of their reception and the privileges of envoys; that was part of the education of every warrior. In fact an embassy was a rare event; none of the Tatians had seen one since the disastrous occasion when the Latins of Rome had come in search of Sabine wives. When the facts were known all work stopped in the fields, and the spearmen were called to the muster by the roaring of bronze trumpets, as though an enemy were in sight.
The citizens mustered in arms, because that was how you answered an unexpected summons in the middle of the day. Then a few celeres bustled about, proclaiming that it was bad manners to receive envoys fully armed, and that everyone must climb the hill again to put his shield away. But there was no time for the double journey, since the embassy was already in sight.
Armed, the citizens formed automatically in their ranks, because that seemed to be the obvious thing to do. The nobles were mounted, and the two Kings also appeared on horseback. When the envoys stalked into the place of assembly they saw before them the whole levy of Rome, ready for immediate battle.
The envoys were not dismayed. They looked a little angry, for this was not a courteous form of reception; but their leader at once began his speech, in the Latin language that was close enough to Sabine to be understood by all his hearers.
‘King Romulus,’ he said without preamble, ‘we are sent by King Aulus of Lavinium to inquire whether you and your Romans are at war with us, or whether you wish to remain at peace so that you may come unhindered to our festival. If you are at war with us, you have committed a grave fault in not sending heralds to proclaim the opening of the campaign. But we shall excuse the ignorance of the rulers of a new city, and defend ourselves with all the means in our power. But if you desire peace with our city, a city which no god-fearing Latin should injure, then you must at once return the stolen plunder, and in our sight punish the robbers.’
King Romulus frowned at the ranks of his followers. ‘Go away, all of you,’ he called angrily, ‘and come here this evening, decently unarmed. This is a grave matter, and I must take the advice of my councillors. Sir,’ he turned to the envoy, ‘I go now to decide on my answer, with my Senate. This evening our decision must be ratified, or perhaps rejected, by the spearmen of the city. If you will pitch your tents here, just outside the templum dedicated to Jupiter Stator, you will receive my answer in the morning. Come with me, Senators. Get your friends to carry your arms back up the hill. We must talk about this at once, and it won’t look decent if you come armed to a meeting of the Senate.’
Publius had of course taken post among his nearest kin of the Tatian clan, for when preparing for battle it is always wise to have a faithful cousin on your unshielded right side. This cousin could be trusted to take home his weapons, even the precious greaves; he handed them over and went straight to the Senate House.
The Senate House, in spite of its name, was a mere unroofed enclosure; no one could roof a room big enough to hold two hundred councillors but there would be no point in picking a council of elders to discuss grave matters in private if any casual spearmen could overhear their deliberations. In the valley between the Palatine and Quirinal, some distance from the river-bank, stood a stout enclosure of hurdles higher than a man; behind these woven hurdles the Senators could argue and differ without spreading dissension among the common people, while patrolling celeres kept eavesdroppers out of hearing. Within the enclosure tree-stumps and billets of wood were arranged in rows as seats, and at the end was a platform of turf from which the King could speak.
Or rather the two Kings. Latins sometimes forgot that Romulus shared power with an equal colleague; the Sabines never forgot it for a single moment.
Publius, sitting on his stool among a clump of Sabines, was annoyed to see Romulus alone on the tribunal. But after a few minutes King Tatius bustled up beside him, and in fact the Sabine King was the first to address the meeting.
‘Well, young men – I mean reverend fathers, of course,’ he began, with a smirk at the old, stale jest about beardless Senators, ‘it doesn’t much matter what we tell these envoys from Lavinium, so long as we all stick to the same story. I’m quite ready to make war on them if you are, and I don’t think we would get the worst of it. Or if you prefer it we can have peace. We can get that by a graceful apology and the offer of a few lumps of copper in compens
ation. What I won’t sanction, on any account, is that we give back the booty my young cousins won at the risk of their lives. This is the Age of Iron, and there is far less justice in the world than there used to be; any soothsayer will agree with me there. If these silly Latins want to keep their cattle they must guard them more carefully; and if we guard our own cattle carefully no one can take them from us.’
He might have said more, but a roar of cheering made it unnecessary to continue. He grinned broadly and sat back on his stool.
When the noise had subsided King Romulus rose to his feet.
‘Fathers,’ he said gravely, for he had never been able to see the funny side of anything connected with his city of Rome, ‘Fathers, what King Tatius proposes seems to me dishonourable; it is even worse, because it is faint-hearted. If we think only of this city perhaps our wisest course would be to make war on Lavinium. But we can’t, because we can’t fight our own kin. So since we can’t make war we must make peace. It should be a true peace, with compensation for all wrongs done; stolen property should be restored to its rightful owners. We don’t want a state of affairs in which our Latin neighbours are technically at peace with Rome, but all the time harbouring a grievance against us and ready to help any of our enemies. Peace is good, and there is something to be said for war. But enmity without open fighting is about the worst state of affairs there is in the world. Let us return the stolen cattle, and pay compensation for any Lavinian killed or injured in the course of the robbery. Of course if they ask us to hand over the robbers we must refuse. We can say quite truthfully that we don’t know who they are. Now do you all agree to that?’
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