Founding Fathers

by Alfred Duggan

  King Romulus glanced down with pride at the clerk squatting below him. It was a sign of culture that nowadays there was so much official written record in the business of the city; a sign that the place was wealthy also, since these clerks were expensive. But it was worth the expense. The clerk took down every decree on his tablet of beech-wood, and months later even another clerk could read what he had written in the simplified version of the Greek alphabet which Rome had borrowed from the Etruscans.

  There was no more to be done in this assembly; all had passed off very well, without a single difference of opinion. The people were united behind their monarch, at least when he had his armed celeres with him to impress the doubtful. The King stood to pronounce the formula of dismissal.

  As the small crowd ebbed away he saw that his work was not yet finished. At the edge of the assembly ground, near the house of Jupiter Stator, a stranger leaned against his tall traveller’s staff in the queer attitude which some foreigners found as restful as sitting down. In these days the King could not boast that he knew each one of his subjects by sight; there were too many of them. But this man must be a stranger, for his cloak was not thrown over his left shoulder in the characteristic Roman manner.

  He was a young man, not a Latin, perhaps from the dressing of his hair and beard one of the new Greek settlers from the south. There was no bundle or pack beside him, though he must have come a long way. He stood calmly, making no effort to attract attention. He had plenty of time, and his business was important; somehow his bearing, a mixture of patience and self-assurance, conveyed that as clearly as if he had spoken.

  King Romulus beckoned to a celer. ‘That young man must be waiting to speak to the King of Rome. Find out what he wants, and tell him that now I am free to hear his petition. That is, of course, if what he wants is reasonable.’

  What happened next was very odd indeed. As the celer approached the young man came to life; he swung his staff in a horizontal circle and shouted urgently. One word was repeated again and again, though the King was too far off to understand it. Then the celer came back, alone.

  ‘He won’t allow me to go near him, my lord. He says he’s polluted, too dangerously polluted to be touched by a common man. Only a true King can approach him, and you must go and talk to him by yourself. He says even you may be affected by the pollution, unless your divine protection is strong enough to overcome it. So if you are afraid to go near him he will leave Rome and seek some greater King.’

  ‘That sounds rather impudent. Why should I bother to remove pollution from this stranger?’ said Romulus, nettled. But of course he must interview the fellow at once, or the celer might think he was frightened. The young man had planned his approach with skill, for all that it sounded insolent.

  ‘Hi, you,’ he shouted briskly, swaggering up to the youth who still leaned on his staff, ‘I am the King here. I am also the favourite son of Mars, the wargod. No pollution can injure me. I can cleanse you, if I want to. But first you must tell me what brought about this defilement. For all I know you may deserve every bit of trouble that afflicts you. What have you done, and why did you do it?’

  ‘I killed my brother. There is a long story behind it. I have seen the Old Women, though only in a dream. That’s why I wouldn’t let your messenger come close. I am careful not to infect others. Will you help me? Only a great King, who enjoys the favour of the gods, can cleanse me and bring me back to the life of everyday.’ The stranger spoke in Italian, but it was not his native tongue. Romulus knew him to be a Greek from the south.

  ‘Killed your brother, did you? That’s bad, even if you had an excuse. But for the matter of that I killed mine, a good many years ago, and look at me now. If the gods really favour you these things will always come right.’

  ‘Then will you help me?’

  ‘I shall help you to start with. Between us we can do something to make your pursuers leave you alone for the time being, so that you may enter my city without bringing danger with you. Then we shall talk over the whole thing. When I know your story I shall decide whether you stay here or move on. We mustn’t waste time.’ He turned to the celer. ‘Run up to the Palatine and fetch down a ram. I shall want a bronze knife as well, and dry fuel and a couple of flint firestones. That’s a load for two men. Get one of your comrades to help you. Say it’s the King’s order.’

  He had spoken carefully and distinctly, so that the stranger would understand his Italian. Now he addressed him again. ‘You understand what I intend to do? It ought to be enough for the present. But it will take time to get ready. You will feel cold as the sun sets, but we had better not risk setting your bad luck beside a Roman fire. Just be patient and stay where you are. Behind you is Jupiter’s house, and this place of assembly is also a consecrated templum. So you mustn’t move, or I shall have to consecrate one of them all over again. You were clever to stand in the only open part of the valley, the only place that isn’t part of the city or part of a templum. You must know something about religious affairs. Now tell me your story. Who are you, and where do you come from?’

  ‘I know enough, Lord King, not to speak my name aloud,’ the young man answered. ‘Ears listen for that name in every blade of grass, in every puff of wind. For a very long time I have been hunted, and now if I am careful the hunters will lose me. So I shall not tell you anything about myself until the ram has done his work. When I can sit under a roof once more I shall explain everything, and I hope you will permit me to remain in your city. I am not a murderer.’

  ‘Very well, I shall wait,’ Romulus answered graciously. ‘I don’t really care what you did in the past – except for your disability, that is. We have murderers in plenty in Rome, and thieves besides. What they did before they came here is nobody’s business. Of course if they break the laws of my city they die. But once I have freed you from your pursuers you can make a fresh start. I must know the whole story before we accept you as a citizen, and if it’s too bad we may send you on your way. That’s the worst that can happen.’

  They fell silent, inspecting one another. The King drew himself up and tried to look impressive. To be accepted as a Roman citizen was a great privilege; too many of these hunted fugitives seemed to take it for granted that any ablebodied man would be welcome. This fellow, must realise that he would be weighed in the balance and might be found wanting. He looked very sure of himself, but then it was said that every Greek believed himself to be superior to all Italians. Romulus felt himself grow peevish, as he stood there waiting awkwardly for his servants to bring him the ritual paraphernalia. It was a familiar feeling and he tried to fight it down. The truth was that now he had grown old he envied vigorous youth; the mere proximity of a young warrior would put him in a bad temper. But he needed the support of young warriors to maintain his power. He must master these foolish sentiments.

  Presently the two celeres arrived with the ram and the firewood (it was a task too sacred to be delegated to slaves). At the end of a busy day King Romulus was feeling his age, and now he was faced with strenuous physical labour. But it was important work, which could be done only by a King who was also a favourite of the gods, and he buckled down to it.

  First the unco-operative ram must be induced to stand still, on a spot outside either templum. The fugitive, who knew this ritual well enough to need no prompting, quickly leapt astride it and lifted his feet so that no part of him was in contact with the ground. It was a tricky moment, for the celeres might not touch the animal, and yet it ought to remain more or less in the same place. Waving his knife, the King sprang at the victim, collared its head under his arm, and began sawing at its throat. Luckily his first snatch had given him a firm grasp, and now strength was needed rather than agility. The muscle of a veteran warrior was enough to make the knife pierce the rubbery throat; as the blood flowed Romulus directed it at the patch of bare earth he had already chosen as suitable. Grasping the fleece with both hands, the young man kept himself clear of the ground.

  As the ram co
llapsed the fugitive still crouched on its back. Now came the most difficult part of the work; but still the King must do all single-handed, without assistance. The beast lay in a puddle of its own blood. It might not be moved, but the firewood must be placed underneath it and the fugitive must remain in position. From time to time Romulus groaned, as twinges of rheumatism caught at his shoulders. But at last the billets of wood were inserted, and the pyre was ready. Holding a twist of tinder between the fingers of his left hand the King prepared to strike fire from his lucky flints.

  There was the usual maddening delay, as a little breeze that had not been there before that moment carried the sparks wide of the tinder. After three or four failures Romulus was tempted to send for a glowing brand from one of the hearths on the Palatine. But that might mean the pollution of every fire in his city; for pollution could travel back from a flame to its source, and the hearths of Rome were constantly rekindled from any other hearth that happened to be alight. Muttering angrily, he fought back the temptation; and at last coaxed out a little flicker of glowing light. Then came the business of kindling the blood-soaked pyre.

  A horrid stench of smouldering wool and scorched mutton anounced that the sacrifice was in a way to be consumed. Coughing, the King leaned into the foul smoke and caught the young man by his shoulders. The burden nearly pulled him off his feet; but the fugitive, strong and athletic, did his part. He had held his position without moving when it seemed as though he would be burned alive, and he was still self-possessed. The King swung him clear of the fire and set him down on his feet just within the templum dedicated to Jupiter Stator. Panting, they once again stared at one another.

  ‘That’s done,’ said Romulus with satisfaction, when he had got back his breath. ‘It’s some years since the last time I did it, but it’s not the kind of thing you ever forget. It was well done, too, and I don’t think we made a mistake. But, mind you, it hasn’t cleared up your pollution. If something is tracking you we have broken the trail, but a good nose could still puzzle out the line. For a day or two you will be safe, while we decide what to do with you. Then I must either cleanse you thoroughly, with the help of various wise men who live with me in my city, or you must go off on your travels again.’

  ‘Don’t bother to spare my feelings, lord King, by talking of a nose or of something on my trail. For two months the Old Women have been in my thoughts day and night, and I don’t mind speaking of them aloud. They will follow me until they reach that sacrifice, and then the blood and the smoke will make them suppose I have met my doom. But when they look for me in the underworld they will know they have been tricked, and then they will resume the hunt. I know that you have given me a respite, and that it is no more than a respite. But now I can talk freely, will you listen to my story?’

  ‘Not here and now,’ Romulus answered firmly. ‘We must get farther away from the sacrifice; and don’t speak of the Old Ones so loudly. Over there is the Mundus, one of the entries to the underworld; though for the present I have closed it with some bits of magic of my own. In any case, I alone shall not judge you. I am full of luck and divine favour, but I am not so wise as some of my councillors. You must tell your story to the full council, and then we shall decide what to do with you. Now I think it is safe for you to come into our city, and eat our food. In the morning the council will meet, and you may speak to them.’

  More than two hundred councillors had crowded into the enclosure, which lay open to the sky but was screened from the populace by walls of wicker. They squatted or stood in a circle, with the King on his ivory chair opposite the entry. In the centre of the circle burned a lucky fire of sweet-smelling wood, and by it stood the young man who sought cleansing from pollution. He began his speech without hesitation; for he had been all night composing it, and in his native city stammering or sentences left in the air were considered evidence, not of sincerity, but of incompetence.

  ‘Councillors of Rome, fathers,’ he began, in a fluent but mispronounced Italian, ‘I was born a citizen of Cumae, a Greek city far to the south-east; but still a city of Italy. I shall not tell you the name of my father, or of my kin, or that by which I was enrolled among the citizens. For, as you will understand, I no longer have a father, or kin, or a city. My friends used to call me Macro, the Big Fellow, because I was the tallest youth in my company. That is not my true name, but it is all the name I shall use during my exile.’

  He went on to relate that he had been the elder son; but when his father died he had been overseas, trading in Greece, and he returned to find his brother in possession of the family farm.

  ‘That is against the custom of my city, by which land goes to the eldest son. But it was not a serious wrong, for I am a trader and my brother was a ploughman. The quarrel came on the day of our annual feast, when we offer sacrifice to the heroes who guard our city. We march in procession to the altar, and we march fully armed. Now my father had been a horseman, and the farm was charged with the maintenance of a warhorse. That is a very great honour. It showed that we were rich and accounted brave in battle. As my father’s heir I was entitled to ride our warhorse in the procession. My brother said the horse was his, with everything else on the farm. So we stood, face to face, by the stable. And since it was the morning of the procession we were both armed. When I tried to take what was mine my brother refused me. He struck me with his fist, though I was the elder. Then swords were drawn, and my brother lay dead at my feet…. Therefore I have come to your great King, to beg him to cleanse me from bloodguilt; and if I am cleansed I wish to settle in your city and end my life here.’

  At once an elderly councillor was questioning him. ‘You say that swords were drawn. Did your brother draw his sword?’

  ‘It came out as mine did. We carried no shields, for we were both armed as horsemen. But I remember the shock as he parried my first blow.’

  ‘Your brother lay dead,’ persisted the councillor. ‘Can you tell us how he lay, and where was his wound?’

  ‘He lay on his back. His helmet had fallen off. The blood flowed from a great gash in his throat.’

  Another councillor interrupted, a wizened middle-aged man with a foxy grin. ‘The quarrel concerned land, and a horse? There was no woman in it?’

  ‘We were neither of us married. I had a concubine in a Greek port, and I think my brother lived with a slave-girl on the farm. There was no woman for us to quarrel over.’

  ‘I think that the rights and wrongs of this manslaying have nothing to do with the Senate and People of Rome,’ put in King Romulus, anxious to end the questioning. ‘The killing of a brother may well call down the vengeance of the gods. But in this case the gods have not chosen to avenge it, for here is the slayer in good health and seeking to join our city. It is true that he is disabled by pollution. That disability I can remove. We need young spearmen; here is a young warrior anxious to help us. Unless my councillors advise otherwise I shall recommend the assembly to accept him.’

  There was a murmur of agreement, though some Senators shrugged their shoulders as though they might have argued further if the King had not made up his mind. Then Macro went off with the King to the storehouse of sacred things, for he must be thoroughly cleansed before he entered the assembly.

  Next morning he rolled up his borrowed bedding and swept out the corner which had been assigned to him in the guest house. He was no longer a guest of the city, a charge on the public treasury; he was a full citizen of Rome, and if he wanted to eat breakfast he must go out and find it by his own efforts.

  He had nothing at all except a tunic, a cloak, a pair of shoes and an empty wallet. But he faced the future with confidence. If this city needed warriors so urgently that it welcomed any ablebodied stranger the citizens must also need hands to work in their fields. He would find employment, and with it food and lodging. One day, when they had taken more land from their neighbours, a farm would be allotted to him. For the present they had explained to him that every field was occupied, and that he must wait his turn
.

  He strolled down towards the valley, where in the morning the place of assembly was used as a market. There were stalls selling cheese and fruit; if no one had steady work for him he could help to load donkeys and pack up goods until he had earned his keep for this one day. It was wonderful to rub shoulders with a crowd without spreading the pollution of fratricide; to smile at women, to let babies play at his feet, without warning every stranger to keep his distance. Best of all was the feeling that he did not have to keep looking behind him; that bitch sniffing at his heels, the she-goat lifting her head as he passed, were not someone else in disguise. He had committed a terrible crime; but, as King Romulus had pointed out to him yesterday, he had expiated it by embracing the punishment of penniless exile – and also by the supernatural effect of those complicated ritual cleansings.

  He was a free man, a citizen of a thriving city; after his haunted journey through the mountains he now had neighbours who would guard his back.

  But still he had no food, and no friend in all this strange and crowded city. There was much to be done.

  The settlement on the Palatine seemed to be still in part a temporary encampment. There were new houses, their walls gleaming with plaster and their roofs stretching level under clay tiles; but there were also crazy old cabins, huts of un-painted plank, warped and rotting. The narrow streets ran straight, as in a military fortress; they were clean, and the cobbles underfoot made a sound pavement. But the dwellings pressed close on every side; the city was outgrowing its site. Across the valley the other settlement on the Quirinal looked equally crowded, misted with smoke from many close-set hearths. But the place of assembly was clear and uncluttered. There was a law against building on it, and it seemed that these people obeyed their own laws.