Potitius heard the king’s words, but knew they were not intended for him; it was to Remus that Romulus spoke. In that instant, Potitius knew why he had never warned the king of the plot against him—not because he feared Pinarius, and not because of his own small grievances against the king. In the deepest recesses of his heart, he had never forgiven Romulus for the murder of Remus. Nor had Romulus ever forgiven himself.
The murmur that rose from the crowd grew hushed in anticipation of the king’s invocation to Vulcan. Potitius gazed out at the sea of faces. It seemed to him that there had been a gradual change in the light, an increasing dimness that was most peculiar, almost uncanny. Others had noticed the change, as well. A few in the crowd turned their faces up to the sun.
What they saw was bizarre and inexplicable. A great portion of the sun had turned as black as coal, as if a portion of its flame had gone out.
Men pointed and shouted in alarm. Soon everyone was gazing at the sun. Its fire dwindled until it appeared to be a blackened ball of coal rimmed with flame. People in the crowd gasped in wonder and awe, then began to scream in of panic.
At the same time, Potitius felt a strong wind on his face. The day had been almost cloudless; now, from the west, vast heaps of black clouds tumbled across the already darkened sky. The wind snatched the conical cap from Potitius’s head. He reached in vain to snatch it back and watched it go spinning though the air. An invisible hand seemed to lift it over the altar, crumple it, then throw it down onto the glistening surface of the Goat’s Marsh. The cap weighed very little, yet the bubbling quicksand sucked it under in the blink of an eye.
Potitius turned to face the crowd again. By a spectral light which grew dimmer with each heartbeat, he saw that the Field of Mavors had become a scene of chaos. Above the howling of the wind, he heard screams of pain and fear. People ran this way and that, trampling and tripping over those who fell. Romulus’s young lictors were as frightened as the rest; instead of forming a cordon around the king, they scattered like leaves. A jagged bolt of lightning tore across the black sky and struck Asylum Hill. The crack of thunder that followed split his ears and almost knocked him down. The flash had completely blinded him, so that when he stepped forward, thinking to find the king, Potitius groped the empty air like a man without eyes.
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.”