Romulus was near. His fingers touched another man’s garments. He gripped the wool and held it tightly. Another bolt of lightning tore the sky. By its unearthly white light, he saw before him not Romulus, but Pinarius. In one hand his cousin held a bloody sword. In the other, gripping it by a tuft of hair, he held a severed head. Its face was turned away from him, but upon the head Potitius saw the iron crown of Romulus.
When Remus had died, Potitius had felt as if he were in a nightmare. Now, despite the stark horror of the moment, he felt acutely, supremely clearheaded, as if he were waking from a dream. Another bolt of lightning lit the scene. He watched, with curious detachment, as Pinarius drew back his sword. Potitius reached up reflexively to touch the amulet of Fascinus at his neck, but the talisman was not there; he had given it to his grandson the day before. The amulet, at least, was safe.
With a great shout, Pinarius swung the red blade toward his neck.
Jupiter himself had sanctioned what he had done. Or so Pinarius reasoned, for although he had long ago predicted the eclipse and planned to take advantage of the awe and confusion it would inevitably inspire, he could not have foreseen the magnificent storm that accompanied it. Lightning was the hand of Jupiter. Thunder was his voice. The god himself had lighted Pinarius’s way to the altar. The god had roared with approval when Pinarius severed the head from Romulus’s shoulders.
Pinarius had warned his cousin not to stand too close to the king. Everyone else, even Romulus’s lictors, had fled from the scene, and yet, in the first moment after the deed was done, there was Potitius, gripping his robes and staring at him. The decision to kill him had been instantaneous, and correct. Jupiter had roared approval with a deafening peal of thunder.
Very quickly, Pinarius and his accomplices stripped the headless body of Romulus, then threw it into the Goat’s Marsh, where it sank without a trace. They did the same with the body of Potitius. Even if the marsh should ever give up its secrets, who could identify two naked bodies, each without a head? Various of the senators departed with pieces of the clothing hidden under their robes, vowing to burn these bits of incriminating evidence as soon as they reached their homes.
Pinarius removed the crown from Romulus’s head and placed the circle of iron upon the altar, where it could easily be found. He had intended to dispose of the head of Romulus himself, but instead he handed it to one of his accomplices and ordered the man to bury it in a secret location. The death of Potitius presented him with a more pressing obligation. The man had been a fool, but he was also Pinarius’s relative and his fellow priest of Hercules; to dispose of his severed head was the least and the last favor that Pinarius could perform for Potitius.
The eclipse was passing. The darkness lessened by small degrees, but the storm raged on. The Field of Mavors was abandoned, but Pinarius nonetheless kept the head concealed beneath his robes as he made his way toward Asylum Hill. He hurried up the steep path. Newcomers still made camps before the Altar of Asylaeus, but the storm’s fury had driven them all elsewhere. Pinarius proceeded to the Temple of Jupiter. To give thanks to the god for blessing the events of the day, Pinarius would bury his cousin’s head in the shadow of Jupiter’s temple.
He knelt in the mud and took a last look at his cousin’s face. Then, using his bare hands, he set about digging a deep hole in the soft, wet earth.
CORIOLANUS
510 B.C.
The twelve-year-old boy sat cross-legged on the floor, reciting his lessons. His grandfather sat before him on a simple wooden folding chair with bronze hinges. Despite the fact that the chair had no back, the old man sat rigidly erect, setting an example for the boy.
“Now tell me, Titus, upon what day did King Romulus depart from this earth?”
“Upon the Nones of Quinctilis, two hundred and six years ago.”
“How old was he?”
“Fifty-five.”
“And where did this occur?”
“At the Altar of Vulcan that stands before the Goat’s Marsh, at the western end of the Field of Mars.”
“Ah, yes, but was it called the Field of Mars in those days?”
The boy frowned. Then, remembering what he had been taught, his face brightened. “No, grandfather. In King Romulus’s day, people called it the Field of Mavors, because that’s what they called Mars in olden times- Mavors.”
“And what do we learn from this example?”
“That words and names can change over time-they usually grow shorter and simpler-but that the gods are eternal.”
The old man smiled. “Very good! Now, describe the ascension of King Romulus.”
“There was an eclipse of the sun and also a great storm, and the people fled in fear. That’s why the festival each year held on that day is called the Populifugia, ‘the flight of the people.’ But one man, an ancestor of the Pinarii, remained. His name was just Pinarius; back then, most people only had one name, not two, as we do now. Pinarius witnessed the miracle that occurred. The sky opened and a funnel-shaped whirlwind came down. It was the hand of Jupiter, and it lifted King Romulus into the sky. Before he left, the king removed his iron crown and placed it on the Altar of Vulcan, for his successor. Thus King Romulus became the only man in all history who never died. He simply left the earth, to go live as a god among the gods.”
“Very good, Titus! You’ve been studying hard, haven’t you?”
“Yes, grandfather.” Pleased with himself, young Titus Potitius reached up and touched the amulet of Fascinus that hung from a gold chain around his neck. His father had given it to him at the last Feast of Hercules, when Titus had assisted for the first time as a priest at the altar.
“Now tell me: who were the kings who followed Romulus, and what were their greatest achievements?”
“King Romulus had no son, so after he departed, the senators met and debated who should succeed him. This set a precedent that would be followed forever after, that the succession of the kings is not hereditary; instead, a king is chosen, to serve for life, by the Senate. They chose Numa Pompilius, a man of Sabine blood who had never even set foot in Roma. This set another wise precedent-that the new king could be an outsider, and should not come from the ranks of the Senate, else the senators might fight among themselves to seize the crown. The reign of Numa was long and peaceful. He was very pious, and he did much to organize the colleges of priests and the worship of the gods.”
“Then came Tullus Hostilius. He was as warlike as Numa had been peaceable. By destroying her rivals, he made Roma the chief city of all the Latin-speaking people of Italy. Tullus Hostilius built the great assembly hall in the Forum where the Senate meets.
“Then came Ancus Marcius, who was Numa’s grandson. He built the first bridge across the Tiber. He also founded the city of Ostia at the mouth of the river, to serve as a seaport for Roma.
“The fifth king was the first King Tarquinius. He was of Greek blood but came from the Etruscan city of Tarquinia, from which he took his name. He was both a great warrior and a great builder. He constructed the great underground sewer, the Cloaca Maxima, that follows the ancient course of the Spinon and drains the Forum. He laid out the great horseracing track in the long valley between the Palatine and the Aventine, which we call the Circus Maximus, and built the first viewing stands. And he drew up the plans and began the foundations for the greatest building ever conceived anywhere on earth, the new Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill.”
Titus rose from the floor and strode to the window, where the shutters were open to let in the warm breeze. The house of the Potitii was situated high on the Palatine, so that the window afforded a splendid view of the massive construction project on the neighboring Capitoline Hill. Surrounded by scaffolds swarming with artisans and laborers, the new temple had begun to take shape. It was of an Etruscan design called araeostyle, with a broad, decorated pediment set atop widely spaced columns and a single grand entrance from the recessed porch. Titus gazed at the sight, fascinated.
His grandfather, ever the pedagogue, prompted a digression. “Was the hill always called the
