“I understand that you’re even madder than I thought!”
“You’ve been warned, cousin. I’ve done my best to save you. But if you breathe a word of this to anyone, the lovely Valeria will become a widow before she needs to.”
“Get out of my home, cousin!”
Without another word, Pinarius departed.
After his visit from Pinarius, Potitius suffered sleepless nights. He had no doubt that his cousin’s knowledge of a plot against the king was genuine; nor did he doubt that Pinarius’s parting threat was sincere. Should he warn Romulus? Over and over in his mind Potitius imagined doing so, yet he could not find the will to act. Was it because he feared Pinarius? Or was it because, despite his protestations of loyalty, his relations with the king had grown as strained as those of the other senators?
Pinarius had left him with the impression that an attack on Romulus was imminent. Only a few days later, Roma celebrated the festival of Consualia, with rituals and competitions to commemorate the first athletic games and the taking of the Sabine women. Potitius’s duties as a haruspex required his attendance on the king, and he spent the day of the Consualia in an agony of suspense. First, a sacrifice was made to Consus, the god of secret deliberations, to whom Romulus had prayed when formulating his plan to seize the Sabine women, and to whom Romulus had erected an altar after his success. The Altar of Consus was kept buried during the rest of the year and uncovered only for the Consualia, when the king asked for the god’s continued blessing for his covert schemes. What more appropriate day could there be for an attack on Romulus, plotted in secret? Pinarius, too, attended the king, and Potitius watched him closely; but Pinarius showed no signs of strain or high emotion. The sacrifice to Consus was propitious, the games were blessed with splendid weather, and the day passed without incident.
More days came and went with no attack on Romulus, yet Potitius felt no respite from the anxiety that spoiled his sleep. He found himself watching the king and the senators with fresh eyes. Everything Pinarius had said was true. The king had grown arrogant and careless; he blatantly favored young warriors and newcomers, and just as blatantly showed contempt to his old comrades. The senators concealed their anger in the king’s presence, but after he and his young lictors passed by, hatred erupted on their faces and they fell to whispering among themselves—whispers that ceased the moment Potitius drew close enough to hear.
716 B.C.
Summer passed to fall, fall to winter, and winter to spring. Another summer approached, and still the senators did not act. The reign of the king seemed as unshakable as ever. Had the conspirators changed their minds? Had the celestial phenomenon predicted by Pinarius failed to occur? Or had his cousin’s overture to join the plot, and Potitius’s refusal, been reason enough for its cancellation? Potitius had no way of knowing, for the other senators barred him from their counsels. He had forfeited any chance to warn the king by waiting too long; how could he explain to Romulus his procrastination in the face of such a threat? Potitius found himself friendless and alone.
He told himself that the plot against Romulus, like every previous plot, had come to nothing. Nevertheless, a feeling of impending doom settled over him. He could not shake its grip.
Long ago, Potitius had made a decision to break with an old family tradition. Instead of passing the amulet of Fascinus to his son when the boy reached manhood, he had kept the amulet for himself, intending to wear it, on special occasions, until his death. This was in keeping, he reasoned, with the law of paterfamilias decreed by Romulus, whereby Potitius would remain supreme head of his household as long as he lived.
But now, goaded by a premonition of dread, Potitius decided to pass the amulet to his eldest grandson. At first, he thought to honor tradition and do so at the next Feast of Hercules, but his premonition grew so urgent that he called the family together a full month before the festival. He wept to see them all in one place, feeling certain that it was for the last time; they wondered at his tears, which he made no effort to explain. He made a solemn ceremony of removing the talisman from his neck and placing it over the neck of his grandson. Once this was done, Potitius felt greatly relieved. Fascinus was the oldest god of his family, even older than Hercules, and now that Potitius had safely passed on the god’s amulet, the most ancient obligation laid down by his ancestors had been fulfilled.
The next day, Potitius was called upon to take the auspices at the dedication of the Altar to Vulcan, god of the fiery regions underground. The place was the Goat’s Marsh, at the western end of the Field of Mavors, where a streamlet that ran through the valley north of the Quirinal terminated in a pit of hot, bubbling quicksand. Over the years, many a wandering goat had been lost in the treacherous pit; hence its name, and the notion that the site must be sacred to Vulcan. Here the god claimed sacrifices, whether men offered them or not.
Romulus had decided to attach great pomp to the occasion. He ordered all the senators and citizens of Roma to attend. Throughout the morning, people gathered on the Field of Mavors, arriving from their homes scattered across the Seven Hills. The warriors who had fought in the king’s many campaigns wore the trophies they had captured in battle—finely wrought bronze armor, helmets decorated with brightly dyed plumes of horsehair, belts of tooled leather with iron clasps. Even the poorest citizens wore their best, if only a tunic without a hole in it.
At the appointed hour, the king and his retinue came striding though the crowd. Potitius wore his ceremonial yellow cloak and conical cap. The king wore a new cloak upon which the dye was barely dry; Potitius could smell the distinctive scent of the red stain obtained from the madder plant. The king’s young lictors were outfitted in newly minted armor that shone brightly beneath the midday sun. In a tradition borrowed from Etruscan royalty, the weapons they carried were bundles of rods and axes—rods for scourging anyone who offended the king, and axes for executing on the spot any man the king declared to be his enemy.
The new altar had been cut from blocks of limestone and erected on a high mound of earth. It was decorated with elaborate carvings that depicted scenes of battle from the recent war against Veii, and Romulus’s triumphal procession, on foot, through the streets of Roma. The best Etruscan artisans had been hired to carve the altar. Gazing at the results of their intricate workmanship, Potitius thought how simple and plain the unadorned Ara Maxima seemed in comparison.
Nearby, the goat intended for the sacrifice bleated plaintively, as if aware of its fate. Romulus himself would perform the sacrifice, slaying the goat with a ritual knife upon the altar. Potitius’s role was to examine the animal first, to make sure that it was without defects. He checked that the goat’s eyes were clear, its orifices without discharge, its coat unblemished, its limbs whole, its hooves sound. Potitius declared to Romulus that the goat was suitable for sacrifice. While the goat was being bound, Potitius glanced at the faces of the senators in the front ranks of the crowd. His eyes connected with those of Pinarius.
His cousin wore a strange expression. His smiled, but his eyes were grim. With a prickle of apprehension, Potitius knew that the day of which Pinarius had spoken had finally arrived. And yet, how could anyone dare to attack the king in such a place, at such a time? His lictors were all around, the whole population of Roma was assembled to pay witness, and the occasion was sacred.
Bound and bleating, the goat was placed upon the altar. Romulus held up the sacrificial knife and turned to face the great multitude that had gathered on the Field of Mavors. “So many!” he murmured. His voice was so low that only Potitius was close enough to hear. “Did you ever think, when we were young, that such a day as this would come? That they would all stand before us and call us king, that only gods would stand above us?”