Potitius swallowed a lump in his throat. “No, Father. I’m quite sure that it wasn’t Pinarius.”
His father grunted and gave him a shrewd look. “Very well. Enough of this matter. I have something much more important to discuss. It involves you, my son.”
“Yes, Father?” said Potitius, relieved at the change of subject.
The elder Potitius cleared his throat. “As priests of Hercules, we play a very important role among the people. Our judgment in matters of the divine is greatly respected. But there is much that we could still learn when it comes to reading the will of gods and numina. Tell me, my son: When a farmer’s well runs dry, whom does he call upon to pacify the spiteful numen that blocked the spring? When a fisherman wants to find a new fishing spot, whom does he call to mark boundaries in the river and say a prayer to placate the water numina? When a bolt of lightning kills an ox, whom does the oxherd consult to determine whether the blasted flesh is cursed and should be consumed by fire upon an altar, or blessed and should be eaten with rejoicing?”
“If they can afford it, people call for an Etruscan diviner—what the Etruscans call a haruspex.”
“Exactly. Our good neighbors to the north, the Etruscans, are very wise in the ways of divination—and Etruscan haruspices make a very good living at it. But divination is simply a skill, like any other. It can be taught, and it can be learned. There is a school of divination in the Etruscan town of Tarquinia. I am assured that it is the finest of all such schools. I have arranged for you to study there, my son.”
Potitius was silent for a long moment. “But Father, I don’t speak Etruscan.”
“Of course you do.”
“Only enough to barter with Etruscan traders in the market.”
“Then you shall learn to speak Etruscan fluently, and then you shall learn all the Etruscans can teach you about divination. When your studies are done, you will return to Roma as a haruspex, and you will become an important man among the people.”
Potitius felt torn between excitement and a fear of leaving family and friends. “How long will I be gone?”
“I’m told that your studies will take three years.”
“Such a long time! When do I leave, Father?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So soon!”
“The sooner the better. As today’s incident of the wolflings demonstrated all too clearly, there are bad influences among us. I have every faith in your character, my son. Nonetheless, I think it would be best to remove you from those influences, and the sooner the better.”
“But Father, you don’t think—”
“I think that Romulus and Remus must be very persuasive young men. I think their harmful influence might draw even the most upstanding youth into serious trouble. It is my duty as your father to see that such a thing does not happen to you, my son. You will go to Tarquinia. You will obey your instructors in all matters. You will master the Etruscan arts of divination. I suspect you have an aptitude for such things, and the learning will come easily to you. And you will think no more about Romulus and Remus. The swineherd’s brats are good for only one thing—making trouble. They came from nothing and they shall amount to nothing!”
754 B.C.
About his love of learning and his natural aptitude for divination, Potitius’s father proved correct. About the fate of twins, he could not have been more mistaken.
Potitius had been the first youth to fall under the spell of the twins, but he was not the last. The incident of the wolflings greatly elevated their standing among the restless young men of Roma, many of whom were eager to become their companions. Romulus and Remus soon attracted a considerable following, especially among those whom Potitius’s father would have labeled disreputable—young men of obscure family and little means who were not above stealing the occasional cow or shearing a sheep and bartering the wool without its owner’s knowledge.
“They shall come to a bad end,” declared Potitius’s father, glad that his son was away in Tarquinia pursuing his studies. “Romulus and Remus and their little gang think their activities are harmless, that the men they rob are either too wealthy to care or too timid to strike back. But sooner or later, they will cross the wrong man, and that will be the last we see of Romulus and Remus!”
His prediction very nearly came true on the day that Remus and a few companions, venturing farther afield than usual, fell into a skirmish with some shepherds in the vicinity of Alba, a town in a hilly region to the southeast of Roma. Unlike the Romans, the Albans had long ago been subjugated to the strongest man among them, who called himself their king and wore an iron crown. The current king of Alba, Amulius, had accumulated a great store of wealth—precious metals, finely wrought jewelry, exotic clay vessels, and woven goods of the highest quality—which he kept inside a gated compound surrounded by high wooden pickets and guarded by mercenary warriors. He lived not in a hut but in a great hall made of wood.
The cause of the skirmish was later a subject of much debate. Many assumed that Remus and his men were trying to steal some sheep and the Alban shepherds caught them; Remus would later declare that it was the shepherds who picked a fight with his men, taunting them with insults to their manhood and slurs against the people of Roma. Whatever the cause, it was Remus who got the worst of the skirmish. Some of his men were killed, some were captured, and a few managed to escape. Remus himself was taken prisoner, bound with iron chains, and led before King Amulius. Remus’s attitude was defiant. The king, who was not used to being crossed, ordered Remus to be hung from a rafter and set about torturing him, using hot irons, sharp blades, and leather whips.
When word of Remus’s captivity reached his brother on the Palatine, Romulus set about mustering all the young men of the Seven Hills, calling on them not only to rescue Remus but to defend the pride of Roma. Even men of upstanding families who had never consorted with the twins joined the cause. Knowing the mercenaries of Amulius would be well armed, they gathered whatever weapons they could find—shepherd’s crooks that might serve as staves, butchering knives, slingshots, hunter’s bows and arrows—and set out.
Before the walls of Alba, Romulus demanded that the king release his brother and the other captives. Amulius, flanked by his mercenaries on the parapet, peered down at the motley band and refused.
“Is it ransom you want?” asked Romulus.
Amulius laughed. “What could the likes of you afford to pay? A few moth-eaten sheepskins? No, when I’m done torturing your brother and his friends, I shall cut off their heads and mount them on this picket wall, as a warning to others of their ilk. And if you’re still in my kingdom when morning comes, young fool, your head will end up next to your brother’s!”
Romulus and his men withdrew. The height of the pickets which surrounded the king’s compound at first daunted them, as did the archers who guarded the wall. There seemed no way to storm the compound without being struck down by a hail of arrows. But that night, under cover of darkness, Romulus managed to set fire to a poorly guarded section of the wall. The fire spread quickly. In the chaos that followed, his men proved braver and more bloodthirsty than the mercenaries of Amulius. The king’s guards were slaughtered.
Striding into the great hall, Romulus seized Amulius and demanded to see his brother. The king, shaking with fear, took him to the room where Remus hung in chains, then produced a key and released him from his shackles. Too weak to stand, Remus sank to his knees. While Remus watched, Romulus knocked Amulius to the ground, kicked and beat him until he was senseless, then cut his throat. The king’s crown, a simple circle of iron, went rolling across the floor, spun on its edge, and with a clatter came to rest on the floor before Remus.