Roma.The novel of ancient Rome - Saylor Steven - Страница 35
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“No, Titus, you miss the point. This republic, this government by the people-what can it offer a man except the chance to become a mere senator, one of three hundred, or at best a consul, the first among equals, and one of a pair at that, elected for only a year? So long as Roma had a king, there was hope; there was something a man could strive for.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Hope, Titus! An ambitious man, a great man, a fierce warrior-a man head and shoulders above all other men-such a man, in the old days, might hope someday to occupy the throne, to become a true ruler of men, to be king of Roma. But now, with the monarchy gone, replaced by this pathetic republic, what hope remains for such a man?”
Titus gazed at his friend, fascinated and appalled. Had Gnaeus truly imagined that he might someday be king of Roma? Where had such unbridled ambition come from? Was it to be feared or admired? He almost wished that Publius were present, to deflate Gnaeus’s fantastical notions with a snide comment.
Titus shook his head. “How did we come to speak of such things? You were going to tell me something about Brutus…and his sons…”
“Never mind,” said Gnaeus. He hid his face, but in his voice Titus heard all the anger, pain, and exasperation of a youth whose dreams are understood by no one else, not even his closest friend.
Gnaeus strode away without another word.
Just as his grandfather had stressed to Titus the importance of mastering letters, so, too, had Brutus made sure that his two sons could read and write. It was this ability that doomed them.
The younger brother of Brutus’s wife was deep in the plot to restore the king. It was this man, Vitellius, who convinced his nephews to join the conspiracy, with promises that they would be greatly rewarded in the second reign of Tarquinius. Secret envoys carried messages back and forth between the king and the conspirators. As the date for Tarquinius’s planned return grew closer-a day that would turn the Forum into a lake of blood-the nervous king pressed for greater assurances from his supporters. He demanded letters of express intent, with explicit pledges of loyalty, signed by their own hands. The two sons of Brutus, Titus and Tiberius, signed such a letter, and placed it into the hands of a slave owned by their uncle Vitellius.
The slave had been bribed by Brutus to keep him informed of the plot. Brutus knew that his brother-in-law was involved; having no love for Vitellius, he was determined to expose him. Brutus did not know of the involvement of his own sons.
If he could produce proof of the conspiracy, the slave had been promised freedom and all the rights of citizenship in the new republic. With mingled dread and excitement, he strode into the presence of the two consuls to deliver the letters with which he had been entrusted.
“How many?” said Brutus.
“Twenty letters,” said the slave, “signed by twenty-one men.”
Brutus frowned. “One of the letters bears two names?”
“Yes, consul.”
One by one, Brutus took the letters and read them, then passed them to Collatinus. Some of the names came as no surprise to Brutus; others shocked him. Acutely conscious of the gravity of the moment, he kept all expression from his face.
The slave averted his eyes when he handed Brutus the last letter. The consul stared at it for a such a long time, maintaining such an unnaturally rigid posture, that Collatinus, waiting for the letter to be passed to him, wondered if Brutus had been stricken by some form of paralysis. Growing impatient, he took the letter from Brutus’s hands. When he saw the two names upon it, he let out a gasp.
Still, Brutus showed no reaction. His voice was devoid of emotion. “We have their names now. We have proof of their guilt. We know where all these men reside. We must send our lictors to apprehend them as quickly as possible, so that none can warn the others.”
“And then?” said Collatinus in a whisper.
“There is no need for a trial. The Senate has entrusted us with emergency powers to deal with just such a circumstance. We will act swiftly and surely to save the republic.”
The next day, the citizens were called to assemble on the Field of Mars, where the consuls took their seats upon a raised platform.
The condemned men were brought before them. They had been stripped of all clothing. They were all young, and all from respectable families. From a distance, they might have appeared to be naked athletes parading before the crowd in the Circus Maximus, except for the fact that athletes would wave to the crowd, and these men had their hands bound behind them.
All eyes were on the sons of Brutus. If they had learned nothing else from their father, they had learned composure. While some of the conspirators shouted curses, or begged for mercy, or wept, or struggled against the lictors, Titus and Tiberius stood rigidly upright with their mouths shut and their eyes straight ahead.
Thick tree trunks had been laid in a continuous row before the tribunal. The prisoners were made to stand side by side before the trunks, then to kneel in the sand and to lean forward until their chests rested upon the wood. A long rope was wound once around each man’s neck, linking them all together; the slack portions of rope between each man were secured by iron cleats hammered into the ground. Thus the prisoners were restrained and made ready for punishment.
First they were flogged. The lictors took their time. The sons of Brutus and their uncle Vitellius were beaten no more and no less than the others. The flogging continued until the sand was red with blood. Some of the prisoners fainted. They were doused with water to revive them.
Had the prisoners been the captured warriors of another city, or common criminals, or rebellious slaves, the crowd would have jeered and laughed; as it was, there was hardly a noise to be heard, except, here and there, the sound of muffled weeping from men who hid their faces and could not bear to watch. Most in the crowd did their best to emulate Brutus, who sat in his chair of state as rigid as a statue and observed the punishment of the traitors without flinching.
One by one, the prisoners were beheaded. The lictors shared the duty, passing the axe from man to man, wiping it free of blood and gore before using it again. The sons of Brutus were near the middle of the line, side by side. When the lictors came to Titus, ten men had already been executed; their heads lay where they had fallen on the sand in pools of blood that poured from their severed necks. Some of the men farther up the line were weeping; some, in fits of panic, were struggling frantically against their bonds. Some had lost control of their bowels and their bladders; the stench of urine and feces was added to the odor of blood. Vitellius, who was at the very end of the line, had begun to scream incessantly. One of the lictors, unable to stand the noise, gagged his mouth with a bloody rag.
The axe was passed. The lictor wiped the blade, raised it in the air, and brought it down on the neck of Titus. Tiberius, who kept his eyes tightly shut, was beheaded next. Nine more prisoners remained. The lictors continued with their work.
Gazing down from the tribunal, the face of Brutus was no less impassive after his sons’ execution than it had been before. The citizens in the crowd looked at him in awe.
When his turn arrived, Vitellius managed to spit the gag from his mouth and began to scream again. The axe rose and fell. His screaming abruptly stopped. The Field of Mars was utterly silent.
Collatinus stood. His bearing was stiff; only by the repeated clenching and unclenching of his fists did he betray his agitation. Next to him, Brutus rose from his chair. For a brief instant, he appeared to falter. As one, the crowd drew a sharp breath, fearful that his legs would give way beneath him. Collatinus instinctively reached out to grasp his fellow consul’s arm, but stopped short of touching him and drew back his hand.
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