In contrast to the others, the women at the very front of the procession strode forward with great dignity. They were silent and held their heads high. Among them, by their headbands of twined red and white wool and their cropped hair, Titus recognized the Vestal virgins. Five of them were present, one having been left behind, as always, to tend to the sacred hearth in the Temple of Vesta; at a time of such crisis, it was more vital than ever than the flame should not be extinguished. Ahead of the Vestals were three women who, despite their proud, upright bearing, were dressed in dark, tattered rags, like beggars in mourning. They even went barefoot, but clearly were not accustomed to doing so, for their feet were bleeding. Despite the agony they must have felt, they never stumbled or missed a step.
As he had when the senators approached the previous day, Gnaeus signaled the army to halt while he rode forward with Titus beside him.
“Shame on the Senate!” said Titus. “The city’s envoys failed to stop you, so now they stoop to sending women!”
When Gnaeus made no answer, Titus glanced at him. Instead of a sardonic expression to match his own, the look on his friend’s face was troubled and his eyes glistened. Titus’s heart sank. He felt a premonition of what was to come.
At a signal from the Vestals, the women behind them shambled to a stop. The three woman in rags who led the procession continued to stride forward, and stopped only when the two horsemen were almost upon them. In the center, Titus recognized Veturia, Gnaeus’s mother. She looked much older than when he had last seen her. Though she stood rigidly upright, it appeared that she required some assistance to do so from the two women flanking her. To her right was Gnaeus’s wife, Volumnia. When Titus saw the third woman, he let out a gasp. He had not seen Claudia since the day he left Roma. Her face was worn with care. She lowered her eyes and would not look at him.
Veturia, on the other hand, fixed her gaze on her son. “Gnaeus!” she cried out.
“Mother!” he whispered.
“Would you loom above your mother, like a master looking down on a slave?”
Gnaeus at once dismounted. Titus did likewise. But when Gnaeus stepped forward, Titus hung back. He clutched the reins, more to support himself than to restrain the horses. He suddenly felt light-headed. It was like the feeling he had experienced on the Tarpeian Rock when he was struck a blow on the head. Everything between that moment and this seemed a dream, and he feared he was about to be rudely awakened. His heart pounded in his chest.
When Gnaeus reached his mother, he raised his arms, but she refused his embrace. He stepped back. “Why do you not embrace me, mother? Why do you stand so stiffly?”
“If I were to lift my elbows free from the support that Volumnia and Claudia give me, I would fall to the ground.”
“I would catch you.”
“Liar!”
“Mother!”
She glared at him. “I always thought, if ever I reached an age when I could not stand upright on my own, that the strong arm of my son would be there for me to lean on. But when I came to need your arm, Gnaeus, it was not there for me. I had to lean on others—to my shame! May the gods cripple me completely if ever I should lean on your arm!”
“Harsh words, Mother!”
“Not half as harsh as the fate you’ve thrust upon me.”
“What I’ve done, I was forced to do. For the sake of my dignity—”
“You cast away your dignity the day you took up arms against Roma. That day, you put a knife against your mother’s breast. Today, you seem determined to thrust that knife into her heart.”
“No, Mother. What I’ve done, I did for you. You always taught me—”
“I never taught my son to be a traitor! If I hear you say such a thing, I’ll pull the sword from your scabbard and fall upon it, rather than draw another breath!”
“Mother, Mother—”
Veturia suddenly pulled her arm from her daughter-in-law’s grasp. With all her strength, she slapped Gnaeus across the face. The crack of the blow was startlingly loud. The horses whinnied and wrenched sharply at their reins, burning Titus’s palms.
Veturia began to fall forward, but the women caught her. Gnaeus was stunned. After a long moment, he signaled for Titus to come to him. He whispered in his ear. “Tell the men I’ve ordered a halt. Set up my tent beside the road. Too many eyes are upon us. I must meet with my mother in private.”
What was said in that tent? What promises or threats were made, what memories or dreams rekindled? None would ever know but Coriolanus and his mother.
Veturia was the first to emerge from the tent. Volumnia and Claudia—who still had never met Titus’s eyes—quickly stepped forward to assist her. Without a word, the three returned to where the Vestals waited. Veturia spoke to the virgins in a low voice, and they in turn made gestures to the women behind them to turn around and return to the city. As the vast procession retreated, the multitude of women neither wept nor were jubilant, but maintained an eerie silence.
Gnaeus remained alone in the tent for a very long time. When he finally emerged, he wore upon his face a look of determination such as Titus had never seen before.
Gnaeus mounted his steed, then summoned his Roman vanguard. The mounted warriors assembled before him. Titus was among them, dreading what he was about to hear.
“There will be no attack on Roma,” said Gnaeus.
The men were dumbfounded.
“When we left Roma, we set out to meet our destiny. Destiny has led us very nearly in a circle. We have come this close to Roma—but we will come no closer. Over the mountains, across the seas, there is a vast world beyond the lands of the Romans and the Volsci. Out there, perhaps, is where our destiny now lies.”
The men looked at one another anxiously, but such was their degree of discipline that not one of them spoke a word of protest.
“We shall now ride back through the Volscian ranks. When we reach the rear of the army, we shall simply keep riding.”
“And the Volsci?” said Titus.
“If they wish to attack Roma, let them.”
“They’ll never do it! You’re their talisman. Only Coriolanus can lead them to victory.”
“Then I suppose they’ll turn back, as well.” Gnaeus snapped his reins and rode forward. The Roman vanguard followed. Titus caught up and rode beside Gnaeus. The Volscian foot soldiers stepped back to make way, gazing up at them in wonder and confusion.
“It’s that woman’s doing!” shouted one of them. “She’s turned her son against us!”
“Coriolanus is deserting us!”
“Impossible!”
“Look for yourself!”
“But why did he lead us here?”
“It’s a trap! Coriolanus lured us to this place, and now the Romans must have a terrible trick in store!”
Consternation spread through the ranks. It seemed to Titus that they rode above a sea of angry faces. The roar of that sea grew louder and louder. Its currents surged this way and that with ever greater violence.
“Turn back, Coriolanus!” cried the Volsci. “Turn back! Lead us! Or else—”
A stone struck Titus’s helmet. The noise reverberated though his skull. Again, he was reminded of the day the cudgel had struck him on the Tarpeian Rock, and Gnaeus had saved his life. More and more, the world around him seemed strange and dreamlike, muted and distant.
More stones pelted his armor. Titus hardly felt them. The Volsci began with stones, but soon enough they drew their swords. The Romans on horseback did likewise. To Titus’s ears, the clash of iron was oddly muffled. A blur of motion followed. It was with some surprise that he saw blood upon his own sword, then felt a burning pain in his side. The world spun about and turned upside down. Titus vaguely knew that he must be tumbling from his horse, but never felt himself hit the ground.