Текст книги "Roma.The novel of ancient Rome"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

“What do you mean?”

“This talisman I wear-it’s more than it appears to be. And so am I!” He held up the image of Fascinus. The black amulet gleamed dully in the moonlight. “It’s not made of lead, Pinaria. It’s only been dipped in lead, to hide what’s beneath, so that no master would bother to take it. If you scratch through the lead, you can see the pure yellow gleam underneath. It’s made of gold, Pinaria. It’s an heirloom. It’s very ancient, older than Roma itself-older than all the gods and goddesses of Roma! Fascinus was here first, even before Jupiter.”

She shook her head. “More blasphemy, Pennatus? This isn’t funny.”

“It’s neither blasphemy nor a joke. It’s the truth, Pinaria. Before she died, my mother told me where I came from and who I really am. I was born a slave, yes, and so was she, but her father was the son of Titus Potitius, a Roman of the most ancient patrician blood, and Icilia, the sister of Lucius Icilius, who was a tribune of the plebs. The son of Titus Potitius and Icilia was illegitimate, and he was made a slave at birth because of the spite of his uncle. But even as a slave, he wore the talisman of the Potitii around his neck, and Titus Potitius himself, in secret, told him the tale of his birth. That slave passed the talisman on to his daughter, my mother. She was born a slave in the household of Icilius, but was later sold to my master, in whose house I was born. Before she died, she passed the talisman to me. It represents the god Fascinus, the most ancient deity worshipped by mortals in Roma. Fascinus was known even before Hercules and Jupiter, and long before the gods who came to us by way of the Greeks.”

Pinaria was silent for a long time. “You never told me this before.”

“It’s my deepest secret, Pinaria.”

“You scoff at the gods.”

“I believe in Fascinus!”

“You mock the freeborn. You laugh at the vanity of patricians.”

“I ama patrician-by blood if not by birth! Titus Potitius was my great-grandfather. Don’t you see, Pinaria, the child inside you isn’t the offspring of a nobody, a slave who came from nowhere, who has no ancestors worthy of remembrance. The child inside you carries the blood of the first settlers of Roma, from both his mother andhis father. Whatever others may say, and whatever the law may call me, you need not be ashamed of the child. You can be proud, even if you must be proud in secret!”

“Pennatus! I feel no shame for what we’ve done, or what’s resulted from it. Perhaps it’s not even sinful. If Vesta is truly gone, and all the gods have left their temples here on the Capitoline, it may be that your god Fascinus holds sway in Roma, all alone, as he once did long ago, and you and I are doing his bidding, and everything is proper. Who can say, in a world where everything can change in the blink of an eye? No, Pennatus, I’m not ashamed. But I am fearful, for you, and for me, and for the child.” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to tell you. Some impulse came over me and made me speak. I had thought to keep it to myself, until I was sure, or else…”

She bit her tongue and said no more. Why tell Pennatus where her thoughts had led whenever she considered the child that might be growing inside her? There were ways to rid a woman’s womb of an unwanted baby. Pinaria had a vague notion that there were potions that could be drunk, some of them dangerously poisonous, or that a slender wand, perhaps made of supple willow, might be inserted into her body to bring about the desired expulsion. But Pinaria had no sure knowledge of such matters, and there was no one she could ask for advice or assistance, and there was no way to obtain such a potion. There was not a single willow tree on the Capitoline! And now that she had told Pennatus about the child, and he had responded by sharing his deepest secret with her, and had shown an almost fierce pride in the act of giving her a child…

She shook her head. The voice of the holy Vestal that still dwelled inside her whispered, What a thing, that a slave should be proud of his offspring! What a world, where a Vestal could delude herself into thinking that her pregnancy might please a god!

Suddenly, in the quiet stillness of the night, one of Juno’s sacred geese let out a loud, blaring honk. The unexpected noise broke the tension between them. Pennatus laughed. Pinaria managed a crooked smile.

The goose honked again, and then again.

“If that keeps up, a certain goose is likely to get plucked, sacred to Juno or not,” muttered Pennatus. He brought his lips to hers. They kissed. He moved to embrace her, then drew back. The single goose had been joined by others making the same abrupt, braying racket. “A good thing we’re not trying to sleep!”

“It’s the sentry’s fault, waking them up by calling the all-clear,” said Pinaria.

“But that was a long time ago. Long enough for the geese to fall asleep again.” Pennatus frowned. “Maybe long enough for the sentry to fall asleep…”

The honking of the geese continued.

“Stay here,” whispered Pennatus. “Lock the door after I leave. There’ll be others up, awakened by the geese. I may not be able to return tonight without being seen. Kiss me, Pinaria!”

Pennatus tore himself from her arms, reached for his sword-Dorso had insisted on arming him, despite his status-and slipped out the door. He waited until he heard her drop the lock into place, then hurried toward the sentry post beyond the goose pen.

The rocky face of the Capitoline was very steep at that point-indeed, it was the very place where Pontius Cominius had made his impossible ascent. But of course, the ascent of Pontius Cominius had not been impossible; if he could do it, so could others. On a moonlit night, might a company of Gauls be able to find the footholds and handholds by which Pontius Cominius had reached the top of the Capitoline?

It seemed impossible. And surely, in the stillness of the night, a sentry would hear anyone making such an ascent, and peer over the side to see them long before they reached the top. Unless…

The geese continued to honk.

Pennatus saw the sentry, standing at his post at the cliff’s edge-then realized that the figure dimly lit by the moon was not the sentry, but a Gaul! While Pennatus watched, two other Gauls appeared, clambering over the ledge and standing upright.

His blood froze. He tightened his grip on the sword. He had never actually used such a weapon, except in practice with Dorso. He gripped the image of Fascinus and did something he had never done before: He whispered a prayer for courage and strength.

“Out of my way, slave!” An armor-clad figure knocked him aside and rushed past him. Pennatus recognized Marcus Manlius, a friend of Dorso’s and a former consul. The grizzled veteran rushed headlong toward the Gauls. Giving a great shout, he struck the foremost with his shield. The man staggered back and fell screaming from the cliff, taking the other two with him.

More Gauls scrambled over the edge. Manlius struck with his shield and stabbed with his sword. Pennatus gave a cry and ran to join him.

His sword struck metal with a deafening clang. He lunged again and struck flesh. The sickening impact seemed to travel into his arm and all through his body. Pennatus had scarcely ever caused another man to bleed, much less killed a man. Under moonlight, the blood on the paving stones was glistening and black.

He heard a shout, turned, and saw Dorso. The warrior slashed his sword against the exposed neck of a Gaul with such force that he nearly decapitated the man. A fountain of blood erupted from the wound. The look on Dorso’s face was ferocious and frightening, filled with utter hatred. The Gauls had destroyed his city, driven away his gods, ruined his world. Now, at last, Dorso had a chance to bring death and suffering on at least a few of the Gauls in return.

What had the Gauls done to Pennatus? Their invasion had brought him unexpected freedom, a friendship he could never have known before, and a love he would never have dared to imagine. He feared the Gauls, but he could never hate them as Dorso did. Then he thought of Pinaria. If the Capitoline was taken, all would be lost. Pinaria, the most exquisite and perfect thing in all the world-what might they do to Pinaria?

Miraculously, the Gaul who had been struck by Dorso was still alive, staggering this way and that. With a great cry, Pennatus ran toward him, raised his blade, and finished what Dorso had started. The Gaul’s head went flying through space. It disappeared beyond the precipice, where yet more Gauls were climbing over the edge.

The geese cackled madly. Men shouted and screamed. Suddenly there were many more Gauls and just as many Romans. What started as a skirmish abruptly became a battle, with clanging swords all around and blood everywhere. The moonlit battle seemed incredibly intense and yet utterly unreal to Pennatus, like a strange dream; yet it was no stranger-and no more dangerous-than the waking dream in which Pennatus had become the secret lover of a fallen Vestal.

The Gauls were repulsed. For being the first to rush to the Romans’ defense, Marcus Manlius was declared a hero, and rewarded with extra rations of bread and wine. A full ration of grain was also restored to the sacred geese, whose honking had alerted the defenders.

As for the sentries on duty that night, the military commanders at first declared that all would be put to death for negligence. So would the dogs who kept vigil with them. It was presumed they had all fallen asleep at their posts, including the dogs, since not a single dog barked. The geese had proven to be better sentinels!

Dorso argued against the mass punishment, pointing out that the Romans could ill afford to lose so many men, and among the common soldiers there was a great outcry. It was decided that only the sentry responsible for the area where the assault took place would be punished.

The man denied that he had fallen asleep. In the stillness of the night, he said, he had heard a man and a woman talking. Distracted and bored, he wandered from his post, toward the Temple of Jupiter, trying to figure out where the voices came from. His excuse gained him no sympathy. He was hurled to his death from the ledge where the Gauls had staged their attack. As a token punishment, a single guard dog was also thrown from the cliff.

The Romans increased their vigilance. So did the Gauls, who were determined that no more messengers should reach the Capitoline from the outside world.

Throughout the winter, the occupation and the siege continued. Rain brought fresh drinking water to the Romans, but food grew scarcer.

“If only it would rain fish,” said Pennatus one day, watching a downpour from beneath the pediment of the Temple of Jupiter.

“Or honey cakes!” said Dorso.

“Or bits of dried beef!” said Marcus Manlius, who had a fondness for military rations.

The situation atop the Capitoline grew more and more desperate, but so did the circumstances of the Gauls. Having never dwelled in a city, they understood nothing about sanitation and the disposal of their own wastes. They made a pigsty of Roma, and a plague broke out among them. So many died so quickly that the survivors gave up on burying the bodies separately, but instead piled the corpses in heaps and set fire to them.

Once again, as earlier in the siege, flames and columns of smoke surrounded the Capitoline. The sight of the flaming pyres was ghastly. The smoke and the stench from the burning bodies was stifling. As Pennatus wryly commented to Dorso, “These Gauls have a madness for burning. Having torched all the houses, now they set fire to each other!”

The Gauls also grew hungry. Early in the siege, they carelessly burned several warehouses full of grain. They sorely missed that grain now. Though the Romans on the Capitoline could not know it, the forces of Camillus had taken control of much of the countryside, and the Gauls could no longer go raiding at will to replenish their stores. The city which they had claimed as a prize was becoming a trap and a tomb.

Publicly, Pinaria joined in the daily prayers that Camillus would soon arrive and rescue them. Privately, she lived in constant fear. She did everything she could to hide the visible evidence of her pregnancy. She had so far succeeded, perhaps because the child growing inside her was small and undernourished. But what would happen when she gave birth? Even if she could hide in her room and deliver the child in secret, how could she conceal a crying baby? Could she bear to kill the child immediately after it was born? Babies were allowed to die every day, especially if they were imperfect, but even the most unfeeling mother did not kill an unwanted baby with her own hands; it was taken from her and left in an open place to die from exposure to the elements or wild beasts. The quickest and easiest way to dispose of the child would be to throw it from the Capitoline, but even that might prove impossible, because such a close watch was kept at all points of the perimeter. Would Pennatus do it, if she asked him? What a terrible thing, to ask a father to murder his own child!

And yet, if the child were born and allowed to live, it would surely be discovered-the proof of their crime-and they would all three be put to death. Many times, Pinaria woke from nightmares in which she saw Pennatus beaten to death, and then was sealed in a chamber underground, without light or air. The baby was buried along with her, and in the utter darkness of the crypt its wailing was the last sound she could hear.

In dark moments, she allowed herself to imagine that the baby would be born dead. That would end the fear and dread-but what a thing for a mother to wish for, to give birth to a dead child! Perhaps it would be better for Pinaria to jump from the precipice herself, and to do so soon, before the child inside her grew any larger. Let the Gauls find her broken body and burn it on a pyre. Men would honor her memory, then; they would say she had offered herself, a pure Vestal, as a sacrifice to the gods. The unborn child would die with her, and Pennatus’s guilt would never be known. Slave or not, such a clever fellow surely had a life worth living ahead of him. He would soon forget her and the child that had resulted from their crime. It would be as if Pinaria had never lived…

The one outcome that she would not allow herself to imagine-because it was impossible, and thus too painful-was that the baby would be born healthy and whole, and that she would be able to look upon its face, and proudly show it off, and cherish it with all the devotion and affection of any normal mother. Such a thing could never happen.

These desperate thoughts consumed her. She grew distant from Pennatus. They ceased to make love. The act that had given her such delight she now saw to be a treacherous thing, a trap into which she had foolishly fallen. For a while, they still met in secret, and instead of making love, they conversed-but what was there to talk about except the suffering inflicted on them by the siege, and the even greater suffering that awaited them? Eventually she forbade Pennatus to come to her private chamber again, saying she did so for his own safety, when in fact she simply could not bear to be alone with him.

She grew closer to Dorso, who treated her always with deference and respect. Pennatus, as Dorso’s friend, was often present in their company, but he knew better than to treat her with too much familiarity. He hid his pain and confusion by making wry comments and bitter jokes, and no one noticed that his behavior was any different than before. People did notice a change in Pinaria, and commented on it. Men called her the melancholy Vestal, but they thought her suffering was for their sake and they honored her sadness as a sign of her piety.

For seven months the Gauls occupied Roma, from midsummer to midwinter. It was on the Ides of Februarius that Pinaria, crossing the Capitoline, her head clouded by dark thoughts, was given the news by Dorso.

He ran up to her. He said something. She was so distracted that she did not hear his words, but from his animated expression she realized that something of great importance had happened. From the corner of her eye she perceived movement. She looked around and saw that all of the Capitoline was in a great commotion. People hurried this way and that, gripped one another, spoke in whispers and shouts, laughed, wept.

“What’s happening, Dorso?”

“A messenger has come-a Roman! The Gauls allowed him to pass. He came right up the pathway.”

“A messenger? Who sent him?”

“Camillus, of course! Come, let’s hear what the man has to say.” He led her to the Temple of Jupiter, where a soldier, dressed in armor but carrying no weapons, stood on the top step to address the crowd. People shuffled aside to allow Pinaria to move to the front of the crowd.

Men were shouting questions at the messenger, who raised his hand. “Be patient!” he said. “Wait until everyone has gathered. Otherwise, I shall have to repeat myself a hundred times.”

“But look here!” shouted Marcus Manlius. “Gaius Fabius Dorso has arrived with the melancholy Vestal. That’s everyone who counts! Say what you have to say!”

People in the crowd laughed. The mood was cheerful, for everyone could see by the messenger’s face that he came with good news.

“Very well. Over the last few months, our armies have regrouped under the leadership of the dictator Marcus Furius Camillus-”

There was a great cheer.

“-who has met with the Gauls in a number of minor engagements. We cannot claim to have defeated the enemy, but we have stung them repeatedly, and the Gauls have had enough. They’re ready to leave Roma.”

The cheer was deafening. The messenger motioned for quiet.

“But the Gauls will not leave without a ransom.”

“A ransom?” shouted Manlius. “Haven’t they looted everything that was of any value in Roma?”

“They have, but they demand still more. There is to be a payment of jewels and precious metals. Camillus has gathered everything he can from the Romans in exile, and appealed to our friends for contributions-”

“The people of Clusium should pay the ransom!” shouted Manlius. “Did we not sacrifice ourselves to save them from being sacked by the Gauls?”

“The Clusians have contributed, very generously, and so have many others,” said the messenger, “but there is still not enough. Camillus looks to you here on the Capitoline, who never left Roma, to help make up the final measure of the ransom.”

There were shouts of protest. “Us?” said Manlius. “For months we’ve eaten fly-blown flour and drunk nothing but rainwater! These people have nothing left to give!”

“Are you sure? Perhaps some of you know where treasure was buried, to hide it from the Gauls. Perhaps some of the women still have a few pieces of jewelry. All the Roman women in exile have already contributed every piece of jewelry they possessed.”

“This is wrong!” shouted Manlius. “Our women should not be stripped of every ornament, simply to satisfy the greed of Brennus.”

“There is no other way,” said the messenger. “The Gauls must be paid. Once they leave, the city will be ours again, and we can begin to rebuild.”

Dorso looked over his shoulder at Pennatus and grinned. “Perhaps you should donate that little talisman you wear so proudly.”

Pennatus gripped the image of Fascinus. He scowled and clutched it so hard that his knuckles grew pale.

Dorso laughed. “Relax, Pennatus! I was only joking. Not even a Gaul would want that worthless piece of lead!”

The ransom was paid in the Forum.

Brennus insisted on a formal ceremony at which Camillus himself was present. Those on the Capitoline watched the transaction with mingled dismay and relief. The Gauls produced a huge set of scales, large enough to weigh a whole ox. Lead weights were placed on one tray. The Roman emissaries piled the ransom onto the other. The treasure of ingots, coins, and jewels rose higher and higher, until at last the lead weights began to rise.

The two sides of the scale reached equilibrium. A sigh passed through the crowd watching from the Capitoline, to see such a fortune paid to recover the city that was theirs by birthright.

Down in the Forum, Brennus strutted before the scales and laughed. “Not quite enough!” he shouted.

Camillus looked at him darkly. “What are you saying? The scales are balanced.”

“I forgot to include this. You want me to put it aside, do you not?” Brennus drew his sword and tossed it atop the lead weights.

Groans of anger and disgust rose from the Roman delegation. Some of the officers reached for their swords, but Camillus held up his hand to stay them. “We have yet a little more treasure in reserve. Place it on the scales.”

More was added to the ransom, until the two sides were balanced again. Brennus let out a roar of triumph and clapped his hands. The Gauls broke into raucous cheering and laughter. Even from the Capitoline, the watchers could see Camillus’s face turn dark red from fury and chagrin.

Pinaria, watching with the rest, suddenly felt the presence of Pennatus beside her. His hand sought hers. She submitted to linking her fingers with his. “Whatever may happen, Pinaria, I love you!” he whispered.

“And I…” She could not bring herself to say the words. She let out a gasp, drew back her hand, and placed it on her belly. The baby was kicking inside her. She sensed that the time was drawing very near.

Like a ruinous floodtide receding, the Gauls withdrew from Roma. The process took several days; there were a great many of them, and they were not in a hurry. They continued to rummage for loot and set fires until the final hour of their occupation.

The Romans on the Capitoline, despite their impatience, waited until the last Gaul had departed before they began to climb over the barricades and descend the winding path. Elated to be free at last, but horrified at the wreckage of their beloved city, they dispersed across the Seven Hills, each seeking a remnant of home, and awaited the return of Camillus and the exiles.

Dorso, with Pennatus at his side, accompanied Pinaria to the doorway of the House of the Vestals. The structure appeared to be intact, though the doors had been broken open and hung crookedly from their hinges.

Trembling, Pinaria stepped inside. Dorso moved to follow her, but Pinaria shook her head. “No, stay back. What I must do here, I must do alone.”

“But we can’t be sure it’s safe. I can’t leave you, Vestal.”

“Of course you can! Do you think the goddess has protected me this long, only to allow some misfortune to befall me in the House of the Vestals? Go, Dorso. Leave me, so that I can set about purifying the house before the other Vestals return. Aren’t you eager to see what’s become of your own house?”

Dorso frowned. “And you, Pennatus? Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “Back to my old master’s house, I suppose-if there’s anything left of it.”

“Very well, then,” said Dorso. The three parted company.

Only moments after Pinaria crossed the threshold, her water broke, and then the pains began. Staggering, she made her way to her bedchamber. The room was filthy, the bed disheveled; a Gaul had slept there in her absence. She felt a wave of revulsion, but had no other choice than to collapse onto the bed.

A little later, she opened her eyes. Pennatus stood over her. In her delirium, she thought he was an image sent by Vesta to taunt her with her guilt, but then Pennatus smiled, and she knew he was real. He took the cord from his neck and placed it over her head.

“Fascinus protects women in childbirth,” he whispered. “Don’t worry, Pinaria! I’ll stay with you.”

“But what do you know about childbirth?”

He grinned. “What do I notknow? When I was small, I watched slave girls give birth to my master’s bastards. When I grew older, I carried and fetched for the midwives. I know what to do, Pinaria. You’ll be safe with me, and so will the baby.”

“Pennatus, Pennatus! Will you never cease to amaze me?”

“Never! I love you, Pinaria.”

“That amazes me most of all.”

It was an early birth and the baby was small, but nonetheless healthy; he gave a great cry when Pennatus held him up to examine him for defects. For an hour Pinaria held him.

The winter day was short, and shadows were already growing long.

There were voices from the street. The first of the exiles had already entered the city. At any moment, the Vestals might arrive.

“Pennatus, what shall we do with the child?”

“He was born whole and healthy. That means the gods want him to live.”

“Do you really think so?”

“ Iwant him to live, no matter what the gods intend.”

“Blasphemy, Pennatus!” She shook her head and managed a rueful laugh. “How absurd, that I should chide you. I’ve just given birth to a child, in the House of the Vestals!”

“Will you stay here, Pinaria?”

“There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

“The baby can’t stay here with you.”

“No.”

“Can you bear to give him up, Pinaria?”

She gazed at the child in her arms. “Where will you take him, Pennatus? What will you do with him?”

“I have a plan.”

“You always do! My clever Pennatus…”

Gently, he took the child from her. Tears ran down her cheeks. She touched the talisman at her breast. “You must take this as well, for the baby.”

Pennatus shook his head. “Fascinus is for you. It averts the evil eye. It will protect you from the scrutiny of the other Vestals.”

“No, Pennatus-”

“Fascinus is my gift to you. Let it remind you of me, Pinaria, as it served to remind me of my mother.”

“Your mother is dead, Pennatus.”

“And so am I, in the world to which you must return. We will never see one another again, Pinaria, at least not like this. We will never again be alone together, never speak words of love. But you will know that our child is alive and well, proof of the love we shared on the Capitoline. I promise you that!”

She closed her eyes and wept. When she opened them again, Pennatus and the baby were gone. The room grew dark. Time passed, and more time, and the room slowly grew light again. From within the house, she heard voices, indistinguishable at first, then growing closer and louder. They were the voices of women, talking with great excitement.

She recognized the voice of the Virgo Maxima, and of Foslia. They called her name aloud: “Pinaria! Pinaria! Are you here?”

The Vestals had returned.

“Tell me again, where and when you found this infant?” said Dorso, frowning.

“Yesterday, abandoned in the bushes outside the ruins of my old master’s house,” said Pennatus. “Clearly, the mother had just given birth.”

“And who might the mother have been?”

“Not a Gaul, surely. The child is too handsome to be a Gaul, don’t you think?”

Dorso scrutinized the baby. “He isa good-looking fellow. And too tiny to be a Gaul! The child of a returning Roman, then?”

“My intuition tells me so. No doubt the mother experienced great hardship during the occupation, and when she returned to the city to find that all she knew was burned or in ruins, the prospect of caring for the newborn was simply too much for her. Another harsh legacy of the Gauls, that the women of Roma should be so beset by fear and uncertainty that they abandon their children! And such a beautiful child as this little fellow!”

“You appear to be very fond of this infant, Pennatus.”

“There is something very special about him. Can you not sense it? I think it was a sign, that I should have found this child on the very day the Gauls departed and the Romans returned-a pledge from the gods that the city is to be reborn, that its best years lie ahead.”

“Words of piety and optimism from you,Pennatus?”

“I am a changed man since my months on the Capitoline.”

“And you will be a free man, as well, if I have any say in the matter. You accompanied me when I made the sacrifice on the Quirinal. You fought beside us when the Gauls gained the summit and frightened the geese. You’ve more than earned your freedom, and your master is dead and no longer needs you. I intend to approach his heirs, pay them a reasonable sum, and see that they set you free. What do you say to that, Pennatus?”

“The gods are surely smiling upon me, that I should rescue this child, and receive such a pledge from you, in the space of two days! But…”

“What is it, Pennatus? Speak!”

“If you truly wish to reward a humble slave for his service on the Capitoline, I have a different request to make. Not so much for myself-for what am I except a broken thread in the great tapestry woven by of the Fates? – but for the sake of this helpless, innocent child.”

Dorso pursed his lips. “Go on.”

“What use is freedom to me? On my own, in such a devastated city, a dull fellow like me would probably starve. I would much prefer that you purchase me outright and keep me as your slave. I promise that I shall strive every day to prove my worthiness to be your trusted servant. I shall be honored to be the slave of the bravest descendent of the bravest of all Roman houses, the Fabii. And if someday, after my years of service, you should see fit to manumit me, I will proudly bear a freedman’s name that honors my former master: Gaius Fabius Dorso Pennatus.”

Dorso was not immune to flattery, even from a slave. “I see your point. I will be glad to honor this request. You shall be the most senior of the slaves in my household, and my trusted friend.”

“And also-though I know this is an extraordinary request, still I feel compelled to make it-I ask that you adopt this foundling, and raise him as your own son.” Seeing the look of surprise on Dorso’s face, Pennatus pressed on. “Is there not an ancient precedent for such an act? Romulus and Remus were foundlings, the flotsam left behind by a great flood; so, too, this child was left behind when the Gauls at last receded. Faustulus adopted the Twins and never had cause to regret it, for the gods meant him to do so, and surely you shall not regret it if you adopt this foundling.”

Dorso raised an eyebrow. Why was Pennatus so interested in the child? He claimed to see the newborn as an omen, but seeing omens and bowing to the will of the gods was not in character for Pennatus, unless his captivity on the Capitoline had truly transformed him. Was it not more likely that Pennatus’s concern for the newborn sprang from a more personal reason? In his head, Dorso had already done some simple arithmetic. The occupation and siege had lasted seven months; a normal pregnancy lasted about nine months. It was not hard to imagine that Pennatus had enjoyed a dalliance shortly before the arrival of the Gauls, and then, during the occupation, had became separated from his lover-probably a slave girl, but possibly a free woman, perhaps even high-born, for such things did happen. Now Pennatus had descended from the Capitoline to discover that he was the father of a newborn. Whether slave or free, the mother felt obliged to relinquish the child rather than keep it-and now the wily slave sought, by this gambit, to make his own bastard the son of a Fabius!