Where do you take me? To Tallasius the dutiful! Why do you take me? Because he thinks you’re beautiful! What will my fate be? To marry him, to be his mate! What god will save me? All the gods have blessed this date!
The wedding party arrived at the home of Titus Potitius. Before the house, under the open sky, by the light of tapers soaked in wax, a sheep was sacrificed upon an altar and skinned. Its pelt was thrown over two chairs, upon which the bride and groom sat. The auspices were taken, and declared to be good. The gods were called upon to bless the union.
Still carrying her distaff and spindle, Claudia rose from her chair and was escorted by her mother to the door of the house, which was decorated with garlands and flowers. Her mother embraced her. Miming an attack, Titus stepped forward and pulled his bride from her mother’s arms. This was another echo of the abduction of the Sabines, as was what came next: Titus, blushing furiously, picked her up, kicked open the door, and carried her like a captive over the threshold.
Claudia’s mother wept. Her father fought back tears with laughter. The wedding party cheered and applauded.
Inside the house, Titus set Claudia down on a sheepskin rug. She put aside her distaff and spindle. He handed her the keys to the house, and asked, with breathless excitement, “Who is this newcomer in my house?”
Claudia answered as the ancient ritual prescribed: “When and where you are Titus, then and there I shall be Titia.” Thus the bride gave herself a first name, the feminine form of her husband’s first name—something that did not exist for women in the world at large, and would only ever be used in private between the two of them.
The wedding banquet was mostly a family affair, but certain close friends of the bride and groom were invited. Titus had thought long and hard about whether to invite Publius Pinarius. In the end, he had taken his grandfather’s advice and had done so, and as his grandfather had predicted, Publius had spared everyone from embarrassment by sending his regrets, saying he could not attend because his family would be visiting relatives in the countryside.
Gnaeus Marcius, however, did accept Titus’s invitation. He had recently become betrothed himself, to a plebeian girl named Volumnia. If he was disappointed not to have arranged a marriage with a patrician girl, he did not admit it. His demeanor was as haughty as ever; if anything, his self-assurance had increased, bolstered by his first forays into battle. As yet, Gnaeus was still some distance from achieving his lofty goal—to become the greatest warrior that Roma had ever seen—but he had made a good start, coming to the attention of his commanders by repeatedly proving his bravery in combat.
Busy accepting the good wishes of all the other guests, Titus was able to pay only passing attention to Gnaeus. He worried that his friend might feel a bit out of place amid so many Claudii and Potitii, or, given his sensitivities, might experience a bit of envy, perhaps even resentment, at seeing the trappings of the patrician wedding he himself would never experience. Then Titus saw, across the crowd, that Gnaeus was deep in conversation with Appius Claudius. The two of them looked very serious one moment, burst out laughing the next, then returned to their sober discussion.
What were they talking about? Titus worked his way across the crowd until he was close enough to overhear.
“And yet,” Claudius was saying, “it’s my understanding that even before the coming of the republic, there was considerable friction between the best families and the common people. It seems unfair to blame Brutus for stirring a hornet’s next. His intention, surely, was to spread the powers which Tarquinius hoarded to himself among the senators, so that all the best men could take a turn at the rudder, so to speak.”
“The revolution that Brutus began still continues, and could veer out of control at any moment,” said Gnaeus. “Revolutions begin at the top, then work their way down. The trick is to arrest the process before the worst people kill the best and gain control.”
“But the republic appears to be working,” said Claudius. “It’s true, and perhaps unfortunate, that even the lowliest citizens are allowed to vote for the magistrates; on the other hand, only the best men are eligible to run for office. And citizens vote not as individuals but in tribal units, and those votes are weighted; the units which include the best families and their dependents count for much more than those of the rabble. It seems a reasonable system.”
“Perhaps, if the common people would be satisfied with it. But have you listened to the rabble-rousers in the Forum? They say the debts of the poor should be forgiven. Can you imagine the chaos if that should happen? They say the plebeians must be allowed to elect their own magistrates, to ‘protect’ them from the patricians. They want two governments instead of one! They say the common people should consider seceding from the city altogether—go off and found their own city, and leave Roma to fend for herself against her enemies. That’s traitor’s talk!”
“Serious matters, indeed,” said Claudius. “Thank the gods that Roma has clear-headed young men such as yourself, Gnaeus Marcius, who can recognize that some beasts were born to pull a plow and others to guide it.”
“And thank the gods, Appius Claudius, that a man as wise and honorable as you has chosen to join his destiny with that of our beloved Roma.”
Titus smiled and moved away, pleased but not entirely surprised that his aristocratic father-in-law and his elitist best friend had each found a kindred spirit in the other.
493 B.C.
The slave entered his master’s study, bearing a large, rolled parchment. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Senator. I believe these were the plans you requested.”
Titus Potitius, who stood bent over a table, studying a similar parchment by the bright sunlight from the window, looked up and nodded absently. “What? Oh, yes, the plans for the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline! I’ve been wanting to see Vulca’s old drawings. They may help me solve a problem I’ve encountered with the design of the new Temple of Ceres. Put the scroll there, in that corner. I’ll look at it later.”
The slave obeyed, then returned to Titus and cleared his throat again.
“Yes? Is there something else?”
“You asked me to remind you, master, when the time for the triumph drew near.”
“Of course! I’ve been so busy, I entirely forgot! I mustn’t be late. I daresay old Cominius wouldn’t care whether I showed up or not, but Gnaeus would never forgive me if I wasn’t present to witness his moment of glory. Go fetch my toga and help me put it on.”
An hour later, Titus stood among his colleagues on the steps of the Senate House. His grandfather had died not long after Titus’s marriage; his father had died three years ago. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, Titus was paterfamilias of the family and one of the youngest members of the Senate. As always, throughout his life, his pedigree gave him claim to a place of honor—in this case, on one of the upper steps that afforded a splendid view. On the step above Titus stood his father-in-law, Appius Claudius, who had risen to great prominence in the Senate; only the consuls and the other magistrates stood higher, on the porch of the building. On the step below stood his old friend Publius Pinarius. Across from the Senate House, Titus’s son stood in the very spot where he had stood as a boy, at the front of the crowd of patricians who had gathered to watch the triumphal procession on the Sacred Way.
The occasion for the triumph was the successful conclusion of a war against a people called the Volsci, south of Roma. The consul Postumius Cominius had led the campaign. In short order, his troops had seized the Volscian cities of Antium, Longula, Polusca, and the greatest prize of all, Corioli. A grateful Senate had enthusiastically voted to award Cominius a triumph, an honor once given exclusively by the kings to themselves, but which now was granted by the Senate to those consuls who achieved a great military victory.