Roma - Saylor Steven (книги полностью .TXT) 📗
Titus gasped. The statue was of red terra-cotta, not yet painted, but the impression that the god was physically present was nonetheless overwhelming. Seated on a throne, the bearded, powerfully built father of gods looked down on him with a serene countenance. Jupiter was dressed in a toga, much like the royal garment the king wore, and in his right hand, instead of a scepter, he held a thunderbolt.
“The toga will be painted purple, with a border of gold foil,” Vulca explained. “The thunderbolt will be gold, as well. The king balked when he learned the expense of the gold foil, until I pointed out what a thunderbolt made from solid gold would cost him.”
Titus was awed. “Magnificent!” he whispered. “I never imagined…I mean, you’ve described to me what the statue would look like, but in my imagination I could never really…it’s so…so much more…” His shook his head. Words failed him.
“Of course, no one will ever see the god this close. Jupiter will be positioned on a suitably ornate pedestal at the back of the main chamber, so as to gaze down on everyone who enters. The other two will be placed in their own, smaller chambers, Juno to the right and Minerva to the left.”
Tearing his eyes from the Jupiter, Titus saw the other two figures beyond. These were not as far advanced. The Juno had not yet been given a head. The Minerva was little more than an armature that suggested the shape to come.
Then his eyes fell on a sight even more fantastic than the Jupiter. His gasp of astonishment was so loud that Vulca laughed.
The piece was huge, and so complex that it boggled Titus’s imagination. It was a larger-than-life-size statue of Jupiter in a quadriga—a chariot pulled by four horses. The standing Jupiter, holding his thunderbolt aloft, was even more impressive than the Jupiter enthroned. The four horses, each different, were sculpted with remarkable detail, from the flashing eyes and flaring nostrils to the muscular limbs and magnificent tails. The chariot was made of wood and bronze, like a real vehicle, but of giant size, with extravagant designs and decorations on every surface.
“It all comes apart, of course, so that it can be reassembled atop the pediment,” explained Vulca. “The horses will be painted white—four magnificent, snow-white steeds worthy of the king of the gods. The attachment of this sculpture to the pediment will be the final step in the construction. Once Jupiter and the quadriga are firmly in place and fully painted, the temple will be ready to be dedicated.”
Titus gaped. “Vulca, I can’t believe you’re showing me this. Who else has seen it?”
“Only my workmen. And the king, of course, since he’s paying for it.”
“But why are you showing me?”
Vulca said something in Etruscan, then translated it into Latin: “If the flea hangs around long enough, sooner or later he’ll see the dog’s balls.” When Titus looked at him blankly, Vulca laughed. “That’s a very old, very vulgar Etruscan saying, young man, of which your staid grandfather would doubtless disapprove. How many times did I see you skulking about the work site before I called you over and asked your name? And how many times have you been back since then? And how many questions have you asked me about the tools and the materials and all the processes? I don’t think I can count that high! I daresay there’s not a man in all Roma, outside myself, who knows this building better than you do, Titus Potitius. If I were to die tomorrow, you could tell the workmen what remains to be done.”
“But you won’t die, Vulca! Jupiter would never allow it!”
“Nor would the king, not until I’m done with his temple.”
Titus walked up to one of the horses and dared to touch it. “I never imagined they would be so big, and so beautiful. This will be the greatest temple ever built, anywhere.”
“I’d like to think so,” said Vulca.
Abruptly, Titus gave a yelp. He reached up to rub the spot where a pebble had struck his head. He caught a glimpse of another stone descending on him from the sky and jumped aside.
From beyond the wall which hid the works in progress came the sound of boyish giggling.
Vulca raised an eyebrow. “I believe that must be your two friends, Titus. I’m afraid they are not invited to see the statues, so if you want to join them, you’ll have to step outside.”
“Titus!” called one of the boys outside, in a loud whisper. “What are you doing in there? Is that crazy old Etruscan molesting you?” There was more giggling.
Titus blushed. Vulca tousled the boy’s blond hair and smiled. “Don’t worry, Titus. I long ago stopped taking offense at schoolboy taunts. Run along now, and see what those two want from you.”
Reluctantly, Titus took his leave of Vulca and made his way out of the enclosure. From behind a stack of bricks, his friends Publius Pinarius and Gnaeus Marcius staged a playful ambush, one of them grabbing his arms while the other tickled him. Titus broke free. The others chased him all the way to the Tarpeian Rock, where they all came to an abrupt halt, laughing hard and gasping for breath.
“What was the Etruscan showing you in there?” demanded Gnaeus.
“I think they were playing a game,” said Publius. “The Etruscan said, ‘I’ll show you my measuring rod, if you’ll show me your Fascinus.’” He flicked his finger against the amulet at Titus’s neck.
“Not much of a game,” said Gnaeus. “Anyone can see Titus’s Fascinus!”
Titus made a face and tucked the amulet inside his tunic, out of sight. “You two aren’t worthy to look on the god, anyway.”
“I am!” protested Publius. “Am I not your fellow priest of Hercules? And am I not as much a patrician as you? Last February, did I not run beside you in the Lupercalia? Whereas our friend Gnaeus here…”
Gnaeus shot him an angry look. Publius had touched on a subject about which Gnaeus was increasingly sensitive. Publius and Titus were both of the patrician class, descendents of the first senators whom Romulus had called the fathers, or patres, of Roma. The patricians jealously guarded the ancient privileges of their class. The rest of the citizenry, rich and poor alike, were simply the common people, or plebeians. Plebeians could attain wealth through commerce and distinction on the battlefield. They could even attain great power—Gnaeus’s distant relative, Ancus Marcius, had become king—but they could never claim the prestige which attached to the patricians.
To be sure, Gnaeus’s mother was a patrician; Veturia came from a family almost as old as the Potitii and the Pinarii. But his deceased father had been a plebeian, and, following the law of paterfamilias, a son was assigned to the class of the father. To Titus and Publius, their friend’s plebeian status was of little consequence; Gnaeus was the best athlete, the most skilled equestrian, and the handsomest and smartest boy they knew. But to Gnaeus, class mattered a great deal. His father had died in battle when he was quite young, and he identified more closely with his mother and her family. Veturia had raised him to be as proud as any patrician, and it vexed him greatly that a patrician was the one thing he could never be. Perversely, he had no sympathy with plebeians who argued that class distinctions should be erased; Gnaeus always took the patrician side and showed nothing but contempt for what he called “upstart plebs.”
Gnaeus usually carried himself with aloof self-confidence, a trait which Titus greatly admired; his demeanor matched his haughty good looks. But the irony of his class loyalty was the flaw in his armor; Publius, who enjoyed getting a rise from him, could not resist alluding now and then to Gnaeus’s plebeian status. On this occasion, Gnaeus hardly blinked. He fixed the other boy with a steely gaze.
“Very soon, Publius Pinarius, we three shall be of fighting age. Every Roman fights; it is the highest duty that Roma demands of her citizens, that they train every spring and go forth every summer in search of fresh booty. But not every Roman achieves the same degree of glory. The poorer plebs, with their rusty swords and ramshackle armor, who must fight on foot because they cannot afford a horse, have a hard time of it; we can only pity them, and expect little glory from their bloodshed. But from men of property, like ourselves, who can afford the very best weapons and armor, who have time to train and opportunity to master the fine art of horsemanship, Roma expects much more. Glory is what matters in this world. Only the greatest warrior attains the highest glory. That is what I intend to become, if only to make my mother proud of me: the greatest warrior that Roma has ever seen. For now, Publius, you can taunt me all you want, because as yet we’re still only boys, without glory. But soon we will be men. Then the gods will see which of us can more proudly call himself a Roman.”
