Roma - Saylor Steven - Страница 45
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Cominius stifled a cry of despair. Claudius cast a piercing gaze at Titus. “What do you have to say about this, son-in-law?”
Titus stared back, his gaze steady. “When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me the list of kings: Romulus, Numa Pompilius, Tullus Hostilius, Ancus Marcius, Tarquinius the Elder, Servius Tullius. Tarquinius the Proud was to be the last, the very last, cast out and replaced forever by something called a republic. A mockery! A mistake! An experiment that failed! Today is the republic’s final day. Tomorrow, men will shout in the Forum, ‘All hail King Coriolanus!’”
He drew his sword and raised his arm to Gnaeus. His horse rose on its hind legs. “All hail King Coriolanus!” he cried.
The coterie of loyal warriors who had left Roma with Gnaeus, who always rode at the head of the army, heard Titus’s cry and took it up. “All hail King Coriolanus!”
The cry spread through the ranks of the vast army: “All hail King Coriolanus!” Men raised their swords in salute, then beat them upon their shields, creating a frightful din as they shouted, over and over, “All hail King Coriolanus!”
Claudius seemed to wither. Cominius turned the chariot about. A cloud of dust rose behind them as they hurried back to Roma.
At that spot, a few miles south of the city, the army of Coriolanus made camp.
The next morning the army rose at dawn and made ready to march to battle.
As always, Coriolanus rode at the head of the army, with Titus beside him and his mounted Roman warriors immediately behind him. With each step, they drew closer to Roma.
They approached the crest of a low hill. Once they reached it, the hills of Roma would be visible in the distance.
Above the sound of hooves and the rustle created by a vast army on the march, Titus heard another sound, low at first and then louder. It came from beyond the crest of the hill. Something was on the other side, not yet visible, something that made a horrible, wrenching, frightening sound, a sound such as a man might hear on his descent to the realms of Pluto, a sound of utter hopelessness and despair.
Gnaeus heard it, too. He frowned and turned one ear forward. “What is that?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Titus, “but it raises hackles on the back of my neck.” A superstitious fear swept over him. What if the gods loved Roma more than they loved Coriolanus? What if, by betraying Roma, Titus and Gnaeus had sinned against the gods? What sort of unearthly creature of doom might the gods have conjured to meet them on the road to Roma? Or had a vast pit opened in the earth, into which they would all be cast down, never to return? That was what the noise sounded like—the shrieking and moaning of a vast chorus of the dead.
Once they reached the crest of the hill, they would know.
Gripping the reins of his horse, Gnaeus’s knuckles turned white. Titus swallowed hard. He glanced behind him. Even the battle-hardened warriors in the front ranks had blanched, hearing that unnerving noise.
They came to the crest.
Before them, like a gigantic black snake upon the straight road, stretching all the way back to the city gate in the far distance, was a procession of women dressed in mourning. It appeared that all the women in Roma had come forth from the city
The unearthly sound was the collective noise of their lamentation. Some softly wept. Some were wrenched by sobs. Some swayed and moaned. A few shrieked with laughter, like madwomen. Some walked stiffly, as if in a dream, while others thrashed about in a kind of frenzy and swept the road underfoot with their unbound hair.
In contrast to the others, the women at the very front of the procession strode forward with great dignity. They were silent and held their heads high. Among them, by their headbands of twined red and white wool and their cropped hair, Titus recognized the Vestal virgins. Five of them were present, one having been left behind, as always, to tend to the sacred hearth in the Temple of Vesta; at a time of such crisis, it was more vital than ever than the flame should not be extinguished. Ahead of the Vestals were three women who, despite their proud, upright bearing, were dressed in dark, tattered rags, like beggars in mourning. They even went barefoot, but clearly were not accustomed to doing so, for their feet were bleeding. Despite the agony they must have felt, they never stumbled or missed a step.
As he had when the senators approached the previous day, Gnaeus signaled the army to halt while he rode forward with Titus beside him.
“Shame on the Senate!” said Titus. “The city’s envoys failed to stop you, so now they stoop to sending women!”
When Gnaeus made no answer, Titus glanced at him. Instead of a sardonic expression to match his own, the look on his friend’s face was troubled and his eyes glistened. Titus’s heart sank. He felt a premonition of what was to come.
At a signal from the Vestals, the women behind them shambled to a stop. The three woman in rags who led the procession continued to stride forward, and stopped only when the two horsemen were almost upon them. In the center, Titus recognized Veturia, Gnaeus’s mother. She looked much older than when he had last seen her. Though she stood rigidly upright, it appeared that she required some assistance to do so from the two women flanking her. To her right was Gnaeus’s wife, Volumnia. When Titus saw the third woman, he let out a gasp. He had not seen Claudia since the day he left Roma. Her face was worn with care. She lowered her eyes and would not look at him.
Veturia, on the other hand, fixed her gaze on her son. “Gnaeus!” she cried out.
“Mother!” he whispered.
“Would you loom above your mother, like a master looking down on a slave?”
Gnaeus at once dismounted. Titus did likewise. But when Gnaeus stepped forward, Titus hung back. He clutched the reins, more to support himself than to restrain the horses. He suddenly felt light-headed. It was like the feeling he had experienced on the Tarpeian Rock when he was struck a blow on the head. Everything between that moment and this seemed a dream, and he feared he was about to be rudely awakened. His heart pounded in his chest.
When Gnaeus reached his mother, he raised his arms, but she refused his embrace. He stepped back. “Why do you not embrace me, mother? Why do you stand so stiffly?”
“If I were to lift my elbows free from the support that Volumnia and Claudia give me, I would fall to the ground.”
“I would catch you.”
“Liar!”
“Mother!”
She glared at him. “I always thought, if ever I reached an age when I could not stand upright on my own, that the strong arm of my son would be there for me to lean on. But when I came to need your arm, Gnaeus, it was not there for me. I had to lean on others—to my shame! May the gods cripple me completely if ever I should lean on your arm!”
“Harsh words, Mother!”
“Not half as harsh as the fate you’ve thrust upon me.”
“What I’ve done, I was forced to do. For the sake of my dignity—”
“You cast away your dignity the day you took up arms against Roma. That day, you put a knife against your mother’s breast. Today, you seem determined to thrust that knife into her heart.”
“No, Mother. What I’ve done, I did for you. You always taught me—”
“I never taught my son to be a traitor! If I hear you say such a thing, I’ll pull the sword from your scabbard and fall upon it, rather than draw another breath!”
“Mother, Mother—”
Veturia suddenly pulled her arm from her daughter-in-law’s grasp. With all her strength, she slapped Gnaeus across the face. The crack of the blow was startlingly loud. The horses whinnied and wrenched sharply at their reins, burning Titus’s palms.
Veturia began to fall forward, but the women caught her. Gnaeus was stunned. After a long moment, he signaled for Titus to come to him. He whispered in his ear. “Tell the men I’ve ordered a halt. Set up my tent beside the road. Too many eyes are upon us. I must meet with my mother in private.”
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