Roma - Saylor Steven (книги полностью .TXT) 📗
The supporters of Sicinius’s proposal were wildly enthusiastic, but the opposition was fierce. The landlords and moneylenders of Roma had everything to lose and nothing to gain. Those who ran the city foresaw a dilution of their authority; what if Veii became not an annex of Roma but a rival city, with its own magistrates and priesthoods? Opponents accused Sicinius of scheming to make himself rich by controlling the distribution of properties in Veii; perhaps he even intended to become king of Veii. To the opposition, the proposed migration was nothing less than another secession of the plebs—only this time, the secession would be permanent. The gods had shown favor to one city, Roma, and Roma should remain as it was. Veii should be utterly destroyed, it walls pulled down and its buildings burned to the ground.
Camillus had been among those who spoke most vehemently against the move to occupy Veii. In a speech to the Senate, he had uttered a phrase which became the rallying cry of the opposition: “Any city abandoned by the gods must never be inhabited by men!” Some said his exile was the price he paid for opposing Sicinius and his faction. They had brought charges of corruption against which Camillus had been unable to defend himself, but the real issue had been Camillus’s stand on the Veii Question.
Should Roma be one city or two? Should Veii be inhabited or destroyed? The unresolved issue overshadowed every other concern facing the city. The debate was fierce and unrelenting, and often descended to open violence in the Forum. There seemed to be no middle ground; migration either promised the solution to all problems, or threatened the annihilation of Roma. The stakes were incredibly high. No wonder Foslia had laughed at the Virgo Maxima’s quaint digression on intermarriage when the Veii Question was raised!
And yet, as Postumia had argued, all such questions were at some level related to one another. Politics split each question into many different questions, all of them vexed and insoluble: Every man asserted his own will, and whoever was strongest at a given moment prevailed. Religion unified all questions into one, to which there was a single answer: the will of the gods.
It often seemed to Pinaria that the world outside the House of the Vestals was a swirling chaos of violence and uncertainty. The enemies of Roma sought her destruction, as she sought theirs. The citizens of Roma endlessly struggled against one another for wealth and power; even within families, sons contested against one another and sometimes disobeyed their paterfamilias, and wives rebelled against their husbands. But these struggles were mere shadows of something far greater, and yet hard to see, as a temple by its vastness must be hard for an ant to discern: the will of the gods. Wisdom came not from within, or from other mortals; wisdom came from determining the desire of the gods. But how was this to be done? Even after her many years of study, the path often seemed obscure to Pinaria.
She was glad the dinner was over, and conversation had ceased; now the Vestals would make their way to the temple of the goddess for the evening’s thanksgiving. No matter how much delight the play of words gave to clever people like Foslia, or to teachers like the Virgo Maxima, talking never resolved anything. Peace came only in the performance of ritual, and the greatest peace came in those precious moments when Pinaria could gaze, uninterrupted and free from all extraneous thoughts, into the hearth-fire of Vesta, knowing it to be the one thing in all the world that was pure and everlasting.
“They are on their way! They are on their way! I must warn everyone! They are on their way!”
The madman had forced his way past the servants at the entrance of the House of the Vestals. He had rushed though the vestibule and into the atrium, where he now stood in the center of the impluvium. It was high noon and the sun shone directly down on him. When he stamped his feet in the ankle-deep water, like a child throwing a tantrum, the sunlight sparkled and lit rainbows amid the splashing water.
“They are on their way!” he cried, clenching his fists at his sides and drawing his eyebrows to a point. “Why will no one listen?”
The Vestals and their huddled servants kept their distance and watched him, fascinated. Foslia, who had just arrived, whispered in Pinaria’s ear. “Who is this creature?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve seen him before, in the street between here and the Temple of Vesta.”
“He looks like a beggar, to judge by those rags. And that awful unkempt hair and beard! Has he threatened anyone?”
“No. He seems to be trying to warn us about something. The Virgo Maxima has gone to find the Pontifex Maximus—”
“You must be joking! I should think she’d fetch some armed lictors to take the man away in chains.”
“She seemed to take him rather seriously.”
There was a commotion at the entrance. Postumia and the Pontifex Maximus appeared in the vestibule and strode into the atrium, followed by a retinue of priests and augurs.
The madman dropped to his knees with a splash. “Pontifex Maximus! At last! You will hear the truth of what I say.”
The high priest wore a toga distinctive for its many folds gathered and tucked in a loop just above his waist; the cowl that would have covered his head at ceremonies was pushed back to reveal a bald crown fringed with white hair. He stroked his long white beard and looked down his nose at the man in the impluvium. “Marcus Caedicius! How far you’ve fallen in the world—and I don’t just mean to your knees.”
“Pontifex Maximus, do you know this man?” said Postumia.
“I do. Caedicius used to be a respectable plebeian, a fuller who washed and dyed wool; observe the dark stains behind his fingernails. But some time ago he gave up his shop and became a vagrant. He frequents a particular spot in the street above the Temple of Vesta. Have you not seen him pacing this way and that, muttering to himself? Well, Caecidius, what is this nonsense? What can you be thinking, forcing your way into this sacred dwelling and terrifying the holy virgins! What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Oh, Pontifex Maximus, you must listen to me!”
“I am listening, you fool. Speak!”
“I heard a voice. I was in the street, alone—there wasn’t another mortal in sight, I swear—and a voice spoke to me, as clearly and distinctly as I’m speaking to you now. A voice from nowhere!” Caedicius wrung his hands and chewed his lower lip.
“By Hercules, man, spit it out! Do you think I have nothing better to do? What did this voice say?”
“It said: ‘The Gauls are coming!’ That’s what it said, as clearly as you hear me now: ‘The Gauls are coming!’”
The Pontifex Maximus wrinkled his brow. “The Gauls?”
One of his subordinates drew alongside him. “A tribe of savages who come from a land far to the north, Pontifex Maximus, beyond a great mountain range called the Alps. Some years ago, they discovered a pass across the Alps. Some of them moved into Italy and founded a city called Mediolanum. Poets say it was a craving for wine that drew the Gauls to Italy; in their native land they have nothing like it. Their language is said to be a combination of grunts, very uncouth and grating to the ear.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of these Gauls,” said the Pontifex Maximus. “Why should they come here, Marcus Caedicius, and why should we care?”
Caedicius splashed his hands in the shallow water, close to weeping. “The Gauls are coming! Do you not understand? Their arrival shall be terrible, the most terrible thing that has ever happened! Doom! Death! Destruction! Warn the magistrates! Flee at once, and take the Vestals with you! Pray to the gods for our salvation!”
For quite some time, a rotund little priest in the retinue behind the Pontifex Maximus had been searching through a scroll, rotating the cylinders with both hands and scanning the text. The man gave a sudden jerk, which caught Pinaria’s attention.
