Текст книги "Roma.The novel of ancient Rome"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Raindrops as hard as jagged pebbles pelted his face. He smelled the dye of the madder, and knew that 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 Capitoline?”

“No. Since the days of King Romulus it was called Asylum Hill, but now people have started calling it the Capitoline-‘Head Hill.’”

“And why is that?”

“Because of the amazing thing the diggers found when they started work on the new temple foundations, back in the reign of the first King Tarquinius. They uncovered the head of man, which appeared to be very ancient but was remarkably well preserved. The priests called it a sign from the gods, and a most excellent one, portending that Roma would become the head of the world.” Titus frowned. “How could such a thing have happened, grandfather? Who would have buried a head with no body on the Capitoline, and how was it preserved?”

The old man cleared his throat. “There are mysteries which no man can explain, which are nonetheless true, for tradition tells us so. If you doubt the veracity of the tale, I can assure that I myself, as a young man, was privileged to see the head not long after it was found. The man’s features were somewhat decayed, but one could see very clearly that his hair was blond, mixed with gray, as was his beard.”

“He sounds like you, grandfather.”

The old man raised an eyebrow. “I’m not as far gone as that! Now, back to the list of the kings. After the first Tarquinius…”

“The first Tarquinius was succeeded by Servius Tullius. He had been a slave in the royal household, but he rose to such prominence that when Tarquinius died, he was put forward by Tarquinius’s widow to succeed him. He greatly reinforced and extended the fortifications of the city until all the Seven Hills were enclosed by pickets, walls, embankments, and trenches. He also excavated the underground cell in the state prison at the foot of the Capitoline, which we call the Tullianum, where the enemies of the king are executed by strangulation. He put these projects first, so that work on the new temple came to a standstill.”

“And after Servius Tullius comes the present king, the son of Tarquinius, also named Tarquinius. Our king is famous for acquiring the Sibylline Books, which are full of prophecies that guide the people in times of crisis.”

“And how did that come about?”

Titus smiled, for this was one of his favorite stories. “The Sibyl lives in a cave down in Cumae, on the coast. The god Apollo compelled her to write hundreds of strange verses on palm leaves. She stitched together all the palm leaves into nine scrolls, which she brought to Roma and offered to sell to King Tarquinius, saying that if a man could interpret her verses rightly, he could foretell the future. Tarquinius was tempted, but he told her that the price was too steep, whereupon she waved her hand and three of the scrolls burst into flames. Then she offered to sell him the remaining six-for the original asking price of the nine! Tarquinius was angry and again refused, whereupon the Sibyl burned three more scrolls, then named the same price once again. King Tarquinius, thinking of all the knowledge that had already been lost, gave in. He paid the price she had asked for nine books and got only three. The Sibylline Books are very sacred. They must be consulted only in the direst emergency. To house them, Tarquinius set about completing the great temple which his father began.”

Again Titus gazed out the window. For most of his life, work on the temple had been progressing. With the huge columns and massive pediment finally in place, its final form was becoming more evident with each passing month. Even men who had traveled far beyond Roma, to the great cities of Greece and Egypt, said they had never seen a building so grand. “No wonder they call him Tarquinius the Proud,” murmured Titus.

The old man stiffened. “What did you say?”

“Tarquinius the Proud-that’s what I’ve heard men call the king.”

“What men? Where?”

Titus shrugged. “Strangers. Shopkeepers. People passing in the Forum or on the street.”

“Don’t listen to them. And don’t repeat what they say!”

“But why not?”

“Just do as I say!”

Titus bowed his head. His grandfather was the eldest of the Potitii, the paterfamilias. His will within the family was law, and it was not Titus’s place ever to question him.

The old man sighed. “I will explain, but only once. When men use that word about the king, they do not mean it as a compliment. Quite the opposite; they mean that he is arrogant, stubborn, and vain. So do not say such a thing aloud, not even to me. Words can be dangerous, especially words meant to wound a king.”

Titus nodded gravely, then frowned. “One thing puzzles me, grandfather. You say the monarchy is not hereditary, but the present King Tarquinius’s father was also king.”

“Yes, but the crown did not pass directly from father to son.”

“I know; Servius Tullius came between. But didn’t Tarquinius kill him, and that’s how he became king?”

The old man drew a quick breath, but did not reply. Titus was old enough to be taught the list of kings and their principal achievements, but not yet old enough to be taught about the political machinations that had brought each king to the throne and the scandals that had attended each reign. To a young man who could not yet understand the importance of discretion, one hesitated to speak ill even of kings long dead; one certainly did not speak ill of a living king. About Tarquinius and the murders that had brought him to the throne, and all the murders that had followed, there was little to say that was fit for the boy’s ears.

Ambitious to become a king like his father, Tarquinius had married one of the two daughters of his father’s successor, Servius Tullius, but when she proved to be more loyal to her father than to Tarquinius, he decided he preferred her more ruthless sister. When Tarquinius’s wife conveniently died, as did the husband of his sister-in-law, and the two bereaved spouses married one another, the word “poison” was whispered all over Roma. In short order, Tarquinius and his new wife murdered her father, and Tarquinius declared himself king, dispensing with the formalities of election by the people and confirmation by the Senate.

Having seized the throne by force, Tarquinius ruled by fear. Previous kings had consulted the Senate on important matters and called upon them to act as jurors. Tarquinius showed only contempt for the Senate. He claimed sole authority to judge capital cases, and used that authority to punish innocent men with death or exile; he confiscated his victims’ property to pay for his grand schemes, including the new temple. The Senate had grown to include three hundred members, but its numbers diminished as the king destroyed one after another of its wealthiest, most prominent men. His sons grew to be as arrogant as their father, and there were rumors that Tarquinius planned to name one of them as his heir, abolishing outright the ancient rules of nonhereditary succession and election by the people.

The old man sighed and changed the subject. “Fetch your stylus and wax tablet. You shall practice your writing skills.”

Titus dutifully took the instruments from a special box in which they were kept. The tablet was a framed piece of flat wood upon which a thick coating of wax had been laid down. The stylus was a heavy iron rod with a sharpened tip, of a circumference to comfortably fit a boy’s hand. The wax had been written on only a few times, then rubbed flat afterward for the next lesson.

“Write the name of the seven kings, in order,” said his grandfather. Writing was a skill the Romans had learned from the Etruscans; the Etruscans had learned it from the people of Magna Graecia-Greeks who in recent generations had colonized southern Italy, bringing with them the advantages of a culture more advanced and refined than those of the native Italians. Writing, especially, had proven to be of great value. Records and lists could be kept, royal proclamations and laws could be written down, corrections and additions could be made to the calendar, and messages could be sent from one place to another. To master the skill required great diligence, and it was best learned at an early age. As a hereditary priest of Hercules, and as a member of the patrician class-a descendent of one of Roma’s founding families-with the prospect of someday becoming a senator like his grandfather, it was very much to young Titus’s advantage to learn to read and to write.

Usually, Titus was very conscientious about forming letters, but on this day he seemed unable to concentrate. He kept making mistakes, rubbing them clear, then starting over. Repeatedly, he looked toward the window. His grandfather smiled. To capture a boy’s imagination, the making of letters in wax could not hope to compete with the construction of the new temple. Titus’s fascination with the project was perhaps not a bad thing; a knowledge of how such a building was made might serve him well someday.

He waited until Titus had painstakingly written the “s” at the end of Tarquinius, then patted him on the head. “Good enough,” he said. “Your lessons are over for today. You may go now.”

Titus looked up at him in surprise.

“Did I not tell you to go?” said his grandfather. “I’m a bit tired today. Being compared to that head discovered on the Capitoline has made me feel my age! Smooth the wax, put away your stylus, and then be off. And say hello to that fellow Vulca for me!”

The afternoon was warm and sunny, with hours of daylight left. Titus ran all the way from his family’s house on the Palatine down to the Forum, then uphill again to the top of the Capitoline. He didn’t stop until he reached the Tarpeian Rock, the sheer summit from which traitors were hurled to their death. The rock also provided a panoramic view of the city below. His friend Gnaeus Marcius loved to play with miniature wooden soldiers, pretending to be their commander; Titus preferred to gaze down at the city of Roma as if its buildings were toys, and to imagine rearranging them and constructing new ones.

Roma had changed much since the days of Romulus. Where once the Seven Hills had been covered by forests and pastures, and the settlements had been small and scattered, now there were buildings everywhere one looked, built close together with dirt and gravel streets running between them. Some citizens still lived in thatched huts and kept animals in pens, but many homes were now made of wood, some rising to two stories, and the houses of wealthy families-such as the Potitii-were grand affairs made of brick and stone with shuttered windows, interior courtyards, terraces, and tile roofs. The Forum had become the civic center of Roma, with a paved street called the Sacred Way running through it; it was the site of numerous temples and shrines and also of the Senate House. The marketplace beside the river was now called the Forum Bovarium, from the word bovinus,referring to its ancient and continuing role as a cattle market; it had become the great emporium of central Italy. The original settlement at the foot of the Capitoline, including the ancestral hut of the Potitii, had long ago been cleared away and built over to make room for the expanding marketplace. At the heart of the Forum Bovarium stood the ancient Ara Maxima, where once a year Titus and his family, along with the Pinarii, celebrated the Feast of Hercules.

Roma under the kings had prospered and grown. Now the grandest sign of the city’s progress was rising on the summit of the Capitoline. Turning his back on the panoramic view, Titus gazed up at the magnificent project which each day drew nearer to completion. Since his last visit to the site, a new section of scaffolding had gone up along the front of the temple. The workers on the top tier were applying plaster to the recessed surface of the pediment.

“Titus, my friend! I haven’t you seen for a while.” The speaker was a tall man with strands of gray in his beard, about the age of Titus’s father. There was plaster dust on his blue tunic. He carried a stylus and a small wax tablet for making sketches.

“Vulca! I’ve been very busy with my studies lately. But my grandfather let me go early today.”

“Excellent! I have something very special to show you.” The man smiled and gestured for him to follow.

Vulca was an Etruscan, famous all over Italy as an architect and artist. King Tarquinius had employed him not only to oversee construction of the temple, but to decorate it inside and out. The building was made of common materials-wood, brick, and plaster-but when Vulca was done painting, it would be dazzling: yellow, black, and white for the walls and columns, red for the capitals and the bases of the columns, more red to trim the pediment, and many shades of green and blue to highlight the small architectural details.

But the most impressive of Vulca’s creations would be the statues of the gods. Properly speaking, the statues were not ornaments; they would not decorate the temple, but rather, the temple would exist to house the sacred statues. Vulca had described his intentions to Titus many times, and had drawn sketches on his wax tablet to illustrate, but Titus had not yet seen them; the terra-cotta statues were being made in great secrecy in a concealed workshop on the Capitoline, to which only Vulca and his most skilled artisans had access. Titus was greatly surprised when the artist led him though a makeshift doorway into a walled-off area beside the temple, and even more surprised when they rounded a corner and a statue of Jupiter confronted them.

Titus gasped. The statue was of red terra-cotta, not yet painted, but the impression that the god was physically present was nonetheless overwhelming. Seated on a throne, the bearded, powerfully built father of gods looked down on him with a serene countenance. Jupiter was dressed in a toga, much like the royal garment the king wore, and in his right hand, instead of a scepter, he held a thunderbolt.

“The toga will be painted purple, with a border of gold foil,” Vulca explained. “The thunderbolt will be gold, as well. The king balked when he learned the expense of the gold foil, until I pointed out what a thunderbolt made from solid gold would cost him.”

Titus was awed. “Magnificent!” he whispered. “I never imagined…I mean, you’ve described to me what the statue would look like, but in my imagination I could never really…it’s so…so much more…” His shook his head. Words failed him.

“Of course, no one will ever see the god this close. Jupiter will be positioned on a suitably ornate pedestal at the back of the main chamber, so as to gaze down on everyone who enters. The other two will be placed in their own, smaller chambers, Juno to the right and Minerva to the left.”

Tearing his eyes from the Jupiter, Titus saw the other two figures beyond. These were not as far advanced. The Juno had not yet been given a head. The Minerva was little more than an armature that suggested the shape to come.

Then his eyes fell on a sight even more fantastic than the Jupiter. His gasp of astonishment was so loud that Vulca laughed.

The piece was huge, and so complex that it boggled Titus’s imagination. It was a larger-than-life-size statue of Jupiter in a quadriga-a chariot pulled by four horses. The standing Jupiter, holding his thunderbolt aloft, was even more impressive than the Jupiter enthroned. The four horses, each different, were sculpted with remarkable detail, from the flashing eyes and flaring nostrils to the muscular limbs and magnificent tails. The chariot was made of wood and bronze, like a real vehicle, but of giant size, with extravagant designs and decorations on every surface.

“It all comes apart, of course, so that it can be reassembled atop the pediment,” explained Vulca. “The horses will be painted white-four magnificent, snow-white steeds worthy of the king of the gods. The attachment of this sculpture to the pediment will be the final step in the construction. Once Jupiter and the quadriga are firmly in place and fully painted, the temple will be ready to be dedicated.”

Titus gaped. “Vulca, I can’t believe you’re showing me this. Who else has seen it?”

“Only my workmen. And the king, of course, since he’s paying for it.”

“But why are you showing me?”

Vulca said something in Etruscan, then translated it into Latin: “If the flea hangs around long enough, sooner or later he’ll see the dog’s balls.” When Titus looked at him blankly, Vulca laughed. “That’s a very old, very vulgar Etruscan saying, young man, of which your staid grandfather would doubtless disapprove. How many times did I see you skulking about the work site before I called you over and asked your name? And how many times have you been back since then? And how many questions have you asked me about the tools and the materials and all the processes? I don’t think I can count that high! I daresay there’s not a man in all Roma, outside myself, who knows this building better than you do, Titus Potitius. If I were to die tomorrow, you could tell the workmen what remains to be done.”

“But you won’t die, Vulca! Jupiter would never allow it!”

“Nor would the king, not until I’m done with his temple.”

Titus walked up to one of the horses and dared to touch it. “I never imagined they would be so big, and so beautiful. This will be the greatest temple ever built, anywhere.”

“I’d like to think so,” said Vulca.

Abruptly, Titus gave a yelp. He reached up to rub the spot where a pebble had struck his head. He caught a glimpse of another stone descending on him from the sky and jumped aside.

From beyond the wall which hid the works in progress came the sound of boyish giggling.

Vulca raised an eyebrow. “I believe that must be your two friends, Titus. I’m afraid they are notinvited to see the statues, so if you want to join them, you’ll have to step outside.”

“Titus!” called one of the boys outside, in a loud whisper. “What are you doing in there? Is that crazy old Etruscan molesting you?” There was more giggling.

Titus blushed. Vulca tousled the boy’s blond hair and smiled. “Don’t worry, Titus. I long ago stopped taking offense at schoolboy taunts. Run along now, and see what those two want from you.”

Reluctantly, Titus took his leave of Vulca and made his way out of the enclosure. From behind a stack of bricks, his friends Publius Pinarius and Gnaeus Marcius staged a playful ambush, one of them grabbing his arms while the other tickled him. Titus broke free. The others chased him all the way to the Tarpeian Rock, where they all came to an abrupt halt, laughing hard and gasping for breath.

“What was the Etruscan showing you in there?” demanded Gnaeus.

“I think they were playing a game,” said Publius. “The Etruscan said, ‘I’ll show you my measuring rod, if you’ll show me your Fascinus.’” He flicked his finger against the amulet at Titus’s neck.

“Not much of a game,” said Gnaeus. “Anyone can see Titus’s Fascinus!”

Titus made a face and tucked the amulet inside his tunic, out of sight. “You two aren’t worthy to look on the god, anyway.”

“ Iam!” protested Publius. “Am I not your fellow priest of Hercules? And am I not as much a patrician as you? Last February, did I not run beside you in the Lupercalia? Whereas our friend Gnaeus here…”

Gnaeus shot him an angry look. Publius had touched on a subject about which Gnaeus was increasingly sensitive. Publius and Titus were both of the patrician class, descendents of the first senators whom Romulus had called the fathers, or patres,of Roma. The patricians jealously guarded the ancient privileges of their class. The rest of the citizenry, rich and poor alike, were simply the common people, or plebeians. Plebeians could attain wealth through commerce and distinction on the battlefield. They could even attain great power-Gnaeus’s distant relative, Ancus Marcius, had become king-but they could never claim the prestige which attached to the patricians.

To be sure, Gnaeus’s mother was a patrician; Veturia came from a family almost as old as the Potitii and the Pinarii. But his deceased father had been a plebeian, and, following the law of paterfamilias, a son was assigned to the class of the father. To Titus and Publius, their friend’s plebeian status was of little consequence; Gnaeus was the best athlete, the most skilled equestrian, and the handsomest and smartest boy they knew. But to Gnaeus, class mattered a great deal. His father had died in battle when he was quite young, and he identified more closely with his mother and her family. Veturia had raised him to be as proud as any patrician, and it vexed him greatly that a patrician was the one thing he could never be. Perversely, he had no sympathy with plebeians who argued that class distinctions should be erased; Gnaeus always took the patrician side and showed nothing but contempt for what he called “upstart plebs.”

Gnaeus usually carried himself with aloof self-confidence, a trait which Titus greatly admired; his demeanor matched his haughty good looks. But the irony of his class loyalty was the flaw in his armor; Publius, who enjoyed getting a rise from him, could not resist alluding now and then to Gnaeus’s plebeian status. On this occasion, Gnaeus hardly blinked. He fixed the other boy with a steely gaze.

“Very soon, Publius Pinarius, we three shall be of fighting age. Every Roman fights; it is the highest duty that Roma demands of her citizens, that they train every spring and go forth every summer in search of fresh booty. But not every Roman achieves the same degree of glory. The poorer plebs, with their rusty swords and ramshackle armor, who must fight on foot because they cannot afford a horse, have a hard time of it; we can only pity them, and expect little glory from their bloodshed. But from men of property, like ourselves, who can afford the very best weapons and armor, who have time to train and opportunity to master the fine art of horsemanship, Roma expects much more. Glory is what matters in this world. Only the greatest warrior attains the highest glory. That is what I intend to become, if only to make my mother proud of me: the greatest warrior that Roma has ever seen. For now, Publius, you can taunt me all you want, because as yet we’re still only boys, without glory. But soon we will be men. Then the gods will see which of us can more proudly call himself a Roman.”