Romulus collapsed upon his brother’s corpse, weeping uncontrollably.
Potitius averted his face. He found himself looking at Pinarius, who gazed unblinking at the spectacle of Romulus’s grief. More than ever, Potitius knew that he must be in a nightmare, for how could any man look upon the horror of what Romulus had done and react, as did Pinarius, with a faint smile?
Remus was buried at the summit of the Aventine, at the site where he had searched the sky for vultures. Potitius oversaw the funeral rites. Romulus stood among the mourners. He did not weep. Nor did he speak; it was Potitius who delivered the eulogy. Indeed, Romulus would never speak of his brother again, nor, after the funeral, would he ever allow anyone else to speak the name of Remus in his presence.
It was a curious fact, noted by everyone, that after the death of Remus, the series of setbacks stopped. Construction of the fortifications continued with no further mishaps, and the grand project was quickly finished.
Had Remus been lying to Potitius when he disclaimed responsibility for the mischief? No. Potitius believed that someone else had been responsible, and stopped after the death of Remus so as to make it seem that Remus had been the culprit. That same person had worked to poison the mind of Romulus against his brother, and likewise had incited Remus against Romulus by telling him, on the day of his death, that the contest of vultures had been a sham.
But Potitius had no way of proving these suspicions, and without proof, his ideas counted for nothing; his influence with the king had waned. After the death of Remus, Romulus relied more than ever on the counsel of Pinarius.
It was on the advice of Pinarius that Romulus, as king of Roma, took on more and more of the religious duties of the city—duties which otherwise would have fallen to Potitius. Potitius remained hereditary priest of Hercules and keeper of the Ara Maxima, and would be so for the rest of his life, and from time to time King Romulus still called upon his skills as a haruspex; but more often it was the king, not Potitius, who read the sky for signs of the gods’ favor and determined the will of heaven. And why not? Romulus was himself was the son of a god.
717 B.C.
Romulus was only eighteen years old when he founded the city and became its king. Thirty-six years later, he was still king of Roma.
Much had been accomplished in those years. Many battles had been fought. Most of these had been little more than seasonal raiding parties to take booty from neighbors and to establish Romulus’s dominance over other men who called themselves kings. A more important series of battles recently had been waged against the nearby town of Veii, which tried to claim ownership of the salt beds at the mouth of the Tiber and take control of the salt trade. By force of arms, Romulus forced the Veiians to give up their claims. He established Roma’s supremacy as a salt emporium beyond dispute and assured her continuing prosperity. But Veii had only been bested, not conquered; the city would continue to engage in warfare with Roma for many generations to come.
Altars to many gods and goddesses had been erected, and temples had also been built. The very first temple in Roma was built by Romulus atop Asylum Hill and dedicated to the king of the gods, Jupiter. It was a small, rectangular wooden building—its longest side measured only fifteen paces—and its facade was quite plain, with an unadorned pediment supported by two pillars. It contained no statue, only an altar, but it housed the spoils of war which Romulus had taken from other kings.
In honor of Rhea Silvia, his mother, he built a temple to the goddess Vesta. It was a round building with wicker walls and a thatched roof; in shape, it was not unlike the hut Romulus had grown up in, but much larger. It contained a hearth in which burned a sacred flame, tended by virgin priestesses. In honor of Mavors, his father, he erected an altar upon the broad plain enclosed by the arm of the Tiber, which provided a suitable training ground for his soldiers. That area became known as the Field of Mavors.
As he had fortified the Palatine, so Romulus eventually fortified Asylum Hill, and also the Aventine, fulfilling the ambition of his brother. The marshy lake which fed the Spinon he drained and filled with rubble and hard-packed earth. The resulting valley, accessible to all the Seven Hills, became a natural crossroads and meeting place; men called it the Forum.
For himself, Romulus built a royal dwelling, bigger and grander than the hall of Amulius in Alba. The hut in which he had grown up was consecrated as a sacred site, to be preserved for posterity in its humble condition as a monument to the founder’s origins. Likewise, the tree beneath which he had been suckled was made sacred, and it was declared that a fig tree should always be located there and called the ruminalis, or suckling-tree.
To reward his bravest warriors and most steadfast supporters, he established an elite body called the Senate. To its one hundred members he granted special privileges and delegated special duties. Potitius was among the first senators. So was Pinarius.
Romulus altered and added to the calendar of festivals. The Palilia had been celebrated every spring since a time beyond memory; because of the holiday’s proximity to the groundbreaking ceremony for Roma, the Palilia had also become the occasion to celebrate the birth of the city. Only old men in their fifties, like Potitius, could remember a time when the Palilia had been a festival unto itself, with no connection to the founding of Roma.
The running of the wolflings had also become an annual event, which greatly amused Potitius. How his late father, in his dotage, had railed against this development! Each winter, on the anniversary of the occasion when Romulus, Remus, and Potitius had run naked around the Seven Hills, the Romans celebrated the Lupercalia, a festival in honor of Lupercus, god of flocks. A goat was sacrificed. The young sons of senators caroused naked, but instead of adorning themselves with wolf skins and brandishing wolf-hide straps, they carried strips of hide from the sacrificed goat. Young women offered their wrists to be slapped, believing that contact with the sacred fleece enhanced their fertility; to be sure, a great many babies were born nine months after the Lupercalia. The ritual which began as a celebration of predators now celebrated the flock, as befitted a civilized people who lived within a protective enclosure under the rule of a king.
Other traditions remained intact and unchanged throughout the king’s long reign. The Feast of Hercules was still performed at the Ara Maxima each year exactly as it had been for generations, with the Pinarii pretending to arrive late for the feast and the Potitii claiming the exclusive privilege of eating of the entrails offered to the god.
For the fifty-fourth time in his life—and, though he did not know it, the last time—Potitius had taken part in the Feast of Hercules. His eldest grandson, for the first time, had joined in the ritual, waving the sacred oxtail whisk to keep flies away from the Ara Maxima. The boy had done a good job. Potitius was proud of him, and had been in a good mood all day, despite the heat, and despite the unavoidable, annual unpleasantness of having to deal with his fellow priest and cousin Pinarius.
Now the feast was over. Potitius had retired to his hut on the Palatine and was lying down for a nap. Valeria, his wife of many years, lay beside him, her eyes closed. She had eaten her fill at the feast and was also sleepy.
Potitius gazed at his wife and felt a great swelling of love and tenderness. Her hair was almost as gray and her face as wrinkled as his own, but he still found pleasure in looking at her. She had been a loyal wife, a wise and patient mother, and a good partner. If nothing else, life had given him Valeria. Or, to give proper credit: If nothing else, Romulus had given him Valeria.
In a few days, the people of Roma would celebrate the great midsummer festival, the Consualia. Potitius could not think of Valeria without thinking of the Consualia; he could not think of the Consualia without thinking of Valeria, and remembering…
The very first Consualia—though the festival would only later receive its name—had been celebrated by Romulus early in his reign. He had decreed a festival of athletic contests to be held in the long valley between the Palatine and the Aventine—foot races, somersaulting, demonstrations of daring on horseback, and stone-hurling competitions. To join in friendly competition with the youths of Roma, Romulus invited some of the city’s neighbors—members of a tribe called the Sabines who had settled on the most northern of the Seven Hills. The Sabines called this hill the Quirinal, after their chief god, Quirinus.
The ostensible purpose of that first Consualia had been athletic competitions; but Romulus had a surprise in store for the unsuspecting visitors.
Potitius, when he had been made aware of Romulus’s secret plan, had strongly protested. Hospitality to visitors was a law decreed by the gods. Every priest in every land agreed: A traveler with honest intentions must always be welcomed, and it was the duty of his host to keep him safe. What Romulus was plotting—encouraged, Potitius had no doubt, by his counselor, Pinarius—went against every law of hospitality.
Potitius tried to dissuade him, but the king was adamant. “There are too many men in Roma, and not enough women, and more men arrive every day,” he insisted. “The Sabines on the Quirinal have a surplus of young women. I’ve made overtures to their leader, Titus Tatius, inviting him to send brides for my men, but he refuses; their mothers complain that the Romans are too uncouth. They want their daughters to marry other Sabines, even if it means they must leave the Quirinal to go live with the tribes in the mountains. This is nonsense! My men deserve wives. Are they not good enough for the Sabine women? As for impiety, I have prayed to the god Consus for guidance on this matter.”
“The god of secret counsels?”
“Yes. And by various signs he has shown his favor.”
Romulus had carried out his design. The Sabine youths arrived to take part in the competitions. The Sabine elders and women came to watch; it was easy to tell which of the women were unmarried, for the matrons stayed in one group and the virgins in another. All the Sabines arrived unarmed, as befitted invited guests. The contests proceeded. The Sabine youths exerted themselves to the utmost, exhausting themselves, while the Romans held back and saved their strength. At a signal from Romulus, some of the Romans seized the unmarried Sabine women and carried them off, into the fortified city, while others took up arms. The Sabine men, unarmed and exhausted, were easily driven off.
That had not been the end of the matter. Titus Tatius, at first determined to take back the women, called upon his relatives among the Sabine tribes to help him, but he could not muster enough manpower to seriously lay siege to Roma. Many a skirmish and ambush followed; meanwhile, Romulus encouraged his men to court the captive women and win them over without force. Many of the women eventually married their suitors, willingly, and gave birth to children; even those who were unhappy in Roma began to realize that they could not return to their homes on the Quirinal, for the other Sabines would consider them compromised and unfit for marriage. Eventually, Titus Tatius decided to make the best of a bad situation and to end the dispute by negotiation. Romulus made a settlement of goods to the families of the seized women, and in return the Sabines recognized the marriages and agreed to resume peaceful relations. Some hard feelings lingered, but in the end, the intermarriage of the two groups drew them closer together, and Romulus and Titus Tatius formed a long-lasting alliance.
Potitius had never stopped protesting the plan to seize the Sabine women—until the moment he laid eyes on Valeria. She had been among the other Sabine virgins being held against her will in the walled courtyard of the king’s house. Looking frightened and miserable, she had not been the most beautiful of the Sabines, but some quality about her attracted Potitius’s gaze, and he could not look away. Pinarius saw him staring and whispered in his ear, “Do you want her, cousin? Take her—or else I will!” As the two men approached her, Valeria cowered at the predatory gleam in Pinarius’s eyes, but when she saw Potitius, who looked as miserable as herself, a very different emotion lit her face. In that moment, a bond was forged between them that was to last a lifetime. Of all the Sabine women, Valeria had been the very first to marry one of the captors willingly. Their child had been the first to be born to a Roman and a Sabine.
Romulus himself married one of the Sabines, Hersilia. Their marriage was happy, but barren. Potitius, who had many children, wondered if the gods had cursed Romulus to remain childless because he had so flagrantly violated the sacred laws of hospitality to capture the Sabine women. If the king himself harbored such thoughts, he never spoke them aloud.
Romulus did, however, develop strong ideas about marriage and family life. As king, he made his ideas into law. No marriage could ever be dissolved, although a husband had the right to put his wife to death if she committed adultery or drank wine (because drinking wine, Romulus believed, led women to adultery). Over his children and their children, a father wielded absolute control during his entire life; he could hire them out to others as laborers, imprison them, beat them, or even put them to death. No son ever outgrew the legal authority of his father. This was the law of the paterfamilias—the supreme head of the household—and it was to remain absolute and unquestioned in Roma for centuries to come.
These things Potitius remembered and pondered, thinking of Valeria, and the first Consualia, and the so-called rape of the Sabine women. If nothing else, Romulus had given him Valeria…
Beside him, Valeria slept. Potitius could tell, because she was gently snoring. Studying her face, remembering all their years together, he decided that their marriage would have been a successful one with or without the stern laws of Romulus, just as their children would have grown up to be respectful and obedient whether or not the king had decreed the law of paterfamilias. Potitius’s own father had often disapproved of his decisions, but would never have invoked a law to punish him or to break his will. What did Romulus—who had no sons or daughters, who claimed to have no human father—know about raising children or respecting a father? And yet, the world that came after Romulus would be different from the world that came before him, because of the laws he imposed on the families of Roma.
There was a rapping at the door to his hut. Moving quickly but carefully so as not to wake Valeria, Potitius went to answer the door. The afternoon sunlight dazzled his eyes and made a silhouette of his visitor, and Potitius did not recognize him until he spoke.
“Good afternoon, cousin.”
“Pinarius! What are you doing here? The feast is over. I thought I wouldn’t have to see your face again for at least a year!”
“Unkind words, cousin. Will you not invite me in?”
“What do we have to say to one another?”
“Invite me in, and find out.”
Potitius frowned, but stepped aside to let Pinarius enter. He shut the door. “Keep your voice low. Valeria is asleep.” From behind the wicker screen that hid their bed, he could hear her quiet snoring.
“I took a good look at her at the feast today,” said Pinarius. “She’s still a handsome woman. If only I had moved a bit faster than you, all those years ago—”
“Why are you here?”
Pinarius lowered his voice even more. “A change is coming, cousin. Some of us will survive it. Others will not.”
“Speak plainly.”
“You’ve always had differences with the king. Over and over you’ve opposed him, since the very beginning of his reign. If I were to tell you that his reign will soon be over, would you shed a tear?”