‘He can’t. No one brings arms into the templum, and if there is any suspicion the priests search you.’
‘Then the avengers also will be unarmed.’
‘It sometimes happens that an unarmed man kills another unarmed man.’
‘It won’t happen to King Tatius. He’s as strong as any Latin, and he will have a group of cousins with him.’
Marcus still looked unhappy. ‘It’s not the right place for a Sabine King. Latin blood has been wrongfully shed. There will be bad luck about.’
‘Nonsense. This makes it all the more important that he should go. I shall tell him so. If you like, I shall also warn him that some Latins consider it unsafe. Then he will look out for himself. But go he must, to demonstrate that he took no part in the murder of the envoys.’
In a gloomy city the winter dragged on. The weather was unusual, because in every winter the weather is unusual; but whenever rain or wind menaced next summer’s crop the Latins on the Palatine complained that the gods were angry with blood-polluted Sabines, and the Sabines on the Quirinal complained that of course things went wrong when those selfish Latins hoarded their good luck and would not help their neighbours to put the fields to rights. Nobody discussed war and conquest and great wealth won easily from raided cities; Rome was a community of farmers, or rather an uneasy alliance between two communities of disgruntled farmers.
But in the spring green barley showed above the scratched earth, and after all the city would be fed for another year. In a more cheerful spirit the citizens began to prepare for the embassy to Lavinium.
This would mark the formal reception of Rome as a city among the ancient Latin cities. It must be splendid and glorious and dignified. Everyone contributed willingly to the show. The two Kings would wear purple cloaks and ride in chariots. Romulus already had a chariot, brought among his ancestral possessions from Alba; the Tatians collected a great herd of cattle to buy one for their leader from the Etruscans beyond the river. Any carpenter could make a war-chariot, a pair of wheels and a flimsy basketwork frame; though in fact war-chariots were seldom used now that horses could be bred big enough to carry an armed rider. But only Etruscans knew how to make a ceremonial chariot. This new one was a very splendid object, the frame of solid planking under a thin sheet of bronze on which images of the gods had been worked with a hammer; the carved seat was embellished with strips of a hard white substance called ivory – it came from beyond the sea and no one knew whether it was a stone or a metal. The Tatians gave a hundred heifers and five bulls for it, and had to humble themselves before the craftsmen of Veii to get it even at that price.
The purple cloak was more easily come by, though in Italy no one had discovered a good purple dye. A merchant happened to arrive from the south with a roll of the stuff, bought from foreign traders; he was prevailed on to sell a length for ten times its weight in silver, made up from the ornaments of Tatian women.
Each King was to take ten councillors, who would ride on horses beside his chariot. These companions must of course be unarmed, since they were to visit the festival. They were dressed alike, in long white cloaks worn hanging over the left shoulder. Publius, who was among the ten chosen Sabines, gave his greaves as security for the loan of a pair of red riding-boots, reaching to the knee; they were foreign work, but their present owner was one of the brigand Luceres, who had murdered a solitary traveller to get them. For the journey the councillors would wear shady straw hats; they brought with them a slave skilled in making wreaths, which they would put on for the festival.
In addition each King brought a bodyguard of a hundred picked warriors, fully armed. These men came unwillingly, after strong persuasion, for they would have a weary journey for nothing. They must be left by the roadside ten miles from Lavinium, because no man might bear arms within sight of the sacred assembly.
There were gifts for the shrine, and beasts for sacrifice. It would be the most splendid and costly embassy that had ever left Rome since the city was founded, thirteen years ago. The citizens regretted the expense, but they were consoled by the honour to be shown to their city.
It was high summer when the delegation set out. To the Sabines especially the journey was a great adventure. Never before had they seen the long-settled Latin land, farm touching farm throughout the plain, walled cities built of stone or brick.
Publius hoped that they might ride through a city, but he was disappointed. King Romulus explained that it was contrary to etiquette to bring armed men within a city unless they had been specially invited; and there was strong distrust of the Romans in every Latin city because of the murder of the Lavinian envoys. Even so there was much to be seen from the track: steep citadels, close-set hearths under a cloud of smoke, in one town a building roofed with thin slabs of baked clay instead of thatch, a remarkable innovation.
Presently they left their armed escort in camp by the roadside, and soon after Lavinium came into sight. Now they encountered other Latin rulers hurrying to the conference; more than a score of them, for Rome was not the only Latin city ruled by colleagues. Each King was clad in purple, but many of them rode horses; Etruscan chariots were at once useless and costly. That Rome could furnish two chariots proved that the new city was already more wealthy than some members of the ancient Latin League.
Lavinium climbed a steep hillside, and its interior could be seen from the plain below. At first glance the city seemed to be composed of many fortresses; its square houses were made of solid masonry, their thatched roofs projecting beyond sheer white-plastered walls. Publius was worried to think that his kin had murdered the envoys of such a mighty town. Then he noticed a few Lavinian spearmen scowling from the open gate at the passing Sabines, and saw that they were only common little Latins, slightly built and with high reedy voices. Such people might be rich enough to build brick houses for themselves, but they were puny folk when it came to push of spear in the open.
Above Lavinium the hill towered to a bare rocky crest which was the shrine. The Romans had come to the end of their journey. Good manners demanded that they approached the god on foot, and with relief they left horses and chariots near the city gate. To men who by choice fought on foot riding seemed to jerk their legs loose in the sockets, and a jolting chariot was less comfortable than an ox-waggon.
All the hilltop was a consecrated templum, its boundary marked by flimsy wands set in the ground. The summit was carpeted with green turf, grazed short by a herd of sacred goats. Just below it lay the rocky cleft which was the oracular shrine; a mere crack in the cliffs, twisting so that its far end was hidden. At the entry stood an altar of unmortared stone. Latin Kings were already pressing round it, and behind each ruler was led the bull which he would offer in sacrifice.
‘We have to wait our turn,’ Romulus said casually, ‘but we must get the sacrifice over as soon as we can. We can’t do anything until the god has sniffed his roast beef, but I want to talk to some of these Kings before the conference opens. I shall go first, if King Tatius will permit me. Put the offering of silver on that flat boulder over there; then dedicate the bull to the god in the shrine – without naming him, because if you give him a name you may get it wrong. Lead the beast forward and give it a tap on the head. The professional servants of the shrine will do the rest. They cut the throat and take the hide off and burn the thighs on the altar; they also steal some of the beef, but there will be enough for all. Leave it all to them; they are speedy, because they do this so often. Other Kings are waiting their turn, and we don’t want to put them in a bad temper by delaying them.’
He hurried on with his group of Latin councillors, while the Sabines waited quietly until the altar should be free.
When their turn came Publius noted with regret that no sentiment of religion entered his mind. He had never before witnessed sacrifice on this scale; he was aware of nothing but the stink of blood and burnt flesh, the bellowing of bulls waiting for death, flies, and the stream of animal excrement that fouled his borrowed riding-boots. He thought only of
his own discomfort as two brawny attendants seized the bull, and King Tatius strode forward alone to give it the ritual blow on the head with an archaic bronze axe. The bull would bawl until someone cut its throat, then it would sink to its knees, then they could all move away to the cleaner air of the hillside. He knew what would come and there was no need to watch.
Suddenly he heard a shout, the warcry of his clan; it faded into a bubbling gurgle even as he lifted his head to look. He saw the bull bucking, its tail in the air, while instead King Tatius sank to his knees. The King’s throat had been cut with the sacrificial knife, and for good measure one of the spits on which bulls’ thighs were immolated was sticking out of his back. For a moment the councillors gaped, too amazed to move. King Romulus was running to join them.
Publius groped at his waist, and his hand came away empty. In this sacred place he carried neither sword nor knife; there was not even a stone handy on the smooth turf, and his long cloak hampered his movements. The dozen servants by the altar carried cleavers or spits or long butcher’s knives, and they had closed up together like veteran spearmen awaiting the charge. The ten Sabines were outnumbered and unarmed; even with the head of the clan lying dead before their eyes they could not summon the resolution to run in and avenge him.
‘No fighting in the holy place,’ shouted King Romulus as he panted up the hill. ‘The Latins will kill us if we pollute their sanctuary. Stand still. Let the Lavinians deal with the criminals.’
A patrol of armed men, shields and spears at the ready, hurried up the slope. On their arrival the murderers laid down their butcher’s tools, meekly holding out their hands to be bound.
Someone was already removing the peeled wands from this place which was no longer a templum dedicated to the gods.
‘All of you, go back to your baggage,’ shouted the leader of the Lavinian spearmen. ‘Our elders will judge this crime, and publish their verdict before sunset. All foreigners must go down to the valley at once. The dead man will be delivered to his countrymen as soon as we have got him on a bier.’
‘All out, all out,’ Romulus added his authority. ‘Every Roman will muster by my chariot in the plain below the city. No revenge here, on Lavinian soil. The assassins are already bound and awaiting judgement.’
A Sabine spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders. Publius echoed the unspoken advice with another shrug, rearranging the cumbrous cloak on his shoulder. In the first moment of horror he could have nerved himself to attack armed men with his bare hands; once people began to make speeches that kind of excitement ebbed away. His leader was dead and could not be restored to life. The murderers were under arrest. If the Lavinians spared them there would be time for vengeance later.
In a few minutes the hilltop was deserted; Kings and their councillors hurrying down to the plain passed a procession of soothsayers issuing from the upper gate of the city to purify the desecrated shrine. The service of the god who lived there would not be intermitted for a single day.
As soon as they had reached the baggage Romulus jumped into his chariot and hurried about from one Latin King to another; but the Sabines mounted and rode hard for the encampment of the bodyguard, ten miles away over the ridge. They spent an uneasy afternoon, with the bodyguard under arms and the waggons drawn up to form a barricade. At sunset Romulus joined them, escorting the corpse of Tatius on a fine Lavinian bier, borne by Lavinian elders. The Sabines must guard the corpse all night, to keep the King’s ghost inside it until burial; so the councillors, waking in turn to take over the watch, had no chance to consult together.
Next morning, riding back to Rome, they could discuss the future. But no one would take a definite line until he knew the opinion of the spearmen on the Quirinal, and nothing was decided. Publius rode in silence. After all, he reflected, he was not truly a leader of clan Tatia; he had been appointed Senator because there were not a hundred eminent men available and he had happened to be wearing those fine greaves.
By the time they reached Rome, slowed up by the pace of the spearmen who carried the bier, the King’s body was already stinking. Romulus urged them to burn it by the roadside, and bring home the ashes for burial; but burning was a Latin custom, unfitting for a Sabine, and the Tatians would not hear of it. Rubbish and litter might be burned, but the body of a great warleader must lie complete in the earth, lest its spirit should need it again.
A grave was ready when they reached the city. Since the dead man left no son the pig sacrificed at the grave-closing was killed by the oldest Tatian present:
The dead man left no son. All the Sabine councillors had been thinking of that as they rode home from the murder. There was indeed a daughter, now married; and in ordinary circumstances a son-in-law had a fair claim to succeed. But the husband of Tatia had three elder brothers living, which meant that he must be poor; and by blood he was not a Tatian. A Pompilian could not be the leader of clan Tatia.
After the funeral the leading clansmen met in what had been their King’s hut to discuss the situation, and it soon became apparent that there was no logical successor. Earlier chiefs had been potent in battle but not in bed. The late King had been the only son of an only son; he left neither uncles nor cousins.
Of course every Tatian was descended from the first Tatius, and could recite the names in his pedigree. But in these pedigrees seniority was left uncertain; no one could swear that his great-great-grandfather had been older than his brothers. After discussing the matter back and forth, the councillors concluded that the next chief must be elected in a general meeting of the clan.
Publius took no part in the discussion. He was not a skilled genealogist, but he knew that his birth gave him no claim to the succession, and he did not support any other candidate. But regular attendance in the Senate had taught him something of practical politics, and just as the meeting ended he made a startling proposal.
‘Look here, cousins,’ he said awkwardly, ‘do you want to go on living in Rome? I do, on the whole. It’s crowded, and it smells bad in summer; but it’s safe, and lucky, and often amusing. If I went back to a little hamlet I should miss the throng of neighbours. Well, if you want to live in Rome why have a clan-chief at all? Our late chief commanded us when we lived by ourselves, and he was the undisputed heir of his father. Coming to Rome was his idea, and we followed him. But a new, untried leader will never live content as the colleague of King Romulus. He will want to take us back again to the hills. Some of us won’t follow, and then the clan will split. I propose that we make King Romulus our warchief, as we might appoint any good warrior if the head of the family were a child or a cripple. The clan can still sacrifice to the ancestors. The elders will teach the ritual to our children, and our Latin fellow-citizens will help us to keep alive the spirit of the tribe of the Tities, as they call us in their odd pronunciation. But if we remain in Rome we don’t want another King of our own. I propose that we do not elect another leader, and that except for religious affairs we merge ourselves with the other citizens.’
‘It hadn’t occurred to me, but I agree with Publius,’ said the eldest of the Senators. ‘I also want to stay here. I like this palisade, and I’m too old to run up a cliff when raiders attack my undefended village. Let Romulus rule over us all.’
For that night the council left the matter undecided, but at the general assembly of the clan next day it soon appeared that no candidate for the chieftancy could win a clear majority. After long haggling and argument it was resolved to end clan Tatia as a political organisation, keeping the tribe only for religious purposes. King Romulus was chosen as warleader. Nobody’s honour had been slighted, and Rome was now peacefully under the rule of a single man.
Within a few days an embassy arrived from Lavinium. The envoys brought with them, in fetters, the murderers of King Tatius. The Lavinians declared that it was for the Romans to judge these men and inflict the due penalty. At once the assembly of the people met to try the case.
Marcus Aemilius had arranged a supper party. There
were only two guests, but they had never before come to a formal meal, though they had sometimes dropped in for a friendly visit; that was because the Senator Publius Tatius and his wife the lady Claudia were socially much higher than a client of the Latin Aemilians. It was a festival; there was wine and pork even for the slave-woman who cleaned the pots (Sabina herself did the cooking), and the Lar was decked with flowers.
Marcus had taken trouble. He had borrowed Etruscan couches for the men, which left his two chairs free for the ladies. The food was as Latin as a Sabine wife could make it, but there was more meat than usual, and barley-porridge was served only at the very end, in case someone still felt hungry.
After they had eaten the wine-bowl was filled with the lavish mixture of equal parts of wine and water, and the company settled down to conversation.
‘Let us drink to Rome,’ said Marcus, spilling a libation to the gods. ‘I was here when it all began, more than thirteen years ago. At first we were a Latin city, with a few refugees from all over the place. Six years ago you and your cousins came in; but you didn’t exactly join us. Rather were we a double city. Now at last we are united. No more Sabines and Latins, just Romans, living in one city.’
‘My Publius was the first to suggest an end to clan Tatia,’ said Claudia proudly. ‘Of course he never told me about his speech, husbands never remember to tell their wives that kind of thing. But I heard about it all the same, and I think all his friends ought to know.’
‘It’s not a secret, my dear, though it’s not important. All my cousins agreed as soon as it was put to them. After all, it’s silly to keep up two kingdoms in one city. After all these years in Rome I want to stay. If we had chosen another King he would have taken us back to the hills.’
‘Yes, a city is the place to live in,’ said Sabina. ‘No one led me here, and I felt very surprised when first I was carried into this hut. But the children play in safety behind the stout palisade, and there are always plenty of neighbours.’
Founding Fathers Page 14