Roma - Saylor Steven (книги полностью .TXT) 📗
Pinaria had never met such a person, or even imagined that such a person could exist. It seemed there was nothing Pennatus feared to say to her. Sometimes she thought he must be flirting with her, though she had so little experience in such matters that she couldn’t quite tell. If only Foslia were with her, so that Pinaria might have someone to talk to about the unfamiliar feelings stirred in her by this peculiar slave!
“For better or worse,” said Pennatus, “despite my name, I do not have, nor have I ever had, wings. Did I not tell you already how I came by my name?”
Pinaria shook her head.
“It was given to me by my master when I was an infant. He owned my mother as well.”
“What about your father?”
Pennatus shrugged. “I never knew him. For all I know, the old master sired me.”
Pinaria blushed. Pennatus clucked his tongue. “Really, do they teach you Vestals nothing about the facts of procreation? Well, of course they don’t. To what practical purpose could a Vestal virgin put such knowledge?”
She blushed more deeply. “Really, Pennatus! I shall pray to Vesta that you may become more respectful of her servants.”
“Why bother? I’m only a slave. I should think your goddess has no more interest in me than I have in her.”
Pinaria sighed, exasperated. “You were telling me how you acquired your name.”
“From this pendant I wear. As you see, it has wings. My mother wore it. It protected her in childbirth, but afterward, she wanted me to have it. She placed it on a cord around my neck not long after I was born. The old master’s eyesight was poor, and all he could tell about the talisman was that it had wings, and so he called me Pennatus: ‘winged.’ I was still quite small when my mother died. Her gift helps me to remember her.”
Pinaria gazed at the black object, which nestled in the cleft of Pennatus’s chest. His tunic was crudely made, and the wide opening for his head exposed a considerable portion of his chest, so that the talisman was always visible. Not for the first time, Pinaria noticed that the muscularity of his chest was quite pronounced, and the firm, sunburned flesh was covered with soft golden hair. “What is the amulet made of?”
He smiled oddly, as if at some private joke. “What does it look like?”
She shrugged. “Lead?”
He hummed and nodded. “And what master would bother to take a worthless lead pendant from a slave? Now, if it were made of some precious metal—silver, or even gold—many a master would take the talisman for himself, either to wear it or to sell it. Even a kindly, indulgent, slightly doddering old master might do so.”
“I suppose,” said Pinaria, who seldom thought about the lives of slaves and the problems and humiliations they faced. The world was as the gods had made it, and one did not question such arrangements. But if one were like Pennatus, who seemed not to believe in the gods, how very different the world and the people in it must appear…
Pennatus had been lucky. His master treated him well, and in return, Pennatus had been very loyal to the old man, who needed constant looking after. When the Gauls came, the master was too frail to be moved. Pennatus stayed with him, and by doing so missed the chance to flee the city. The shock of events proved too much for the old man. His heart stopped beating the very morning the Gauls arrived, leaving Pennatus to fend for himself. That was how Pennatus came to be wandering the city when he encountered Pinaria.
Pinaria sighed and gazed at the plumes of smoke that rose from all over the city. A noise from below drew her attention. Down in the Forum, a group of drunken Gauls were attacking a marble statue of Hercules with wooden staves. Their staves kept breaking against the stone, but the red-faced, maniacally laughing Gauls stubbornly kept up their assault. At last a finger broke off the statue and went clattering across the paving stones. The Gauls pranced about and howled in triumph.
Pennatus laughed. “What idiots!”
“What monsters!” Pinaria was not amused. The sorry spectacle made her feel disheartened and full of sorrow. She raised her eyes to the vast nimbus of smoke that veiled the dark red sun. “If you truly had wings, Pennatus, would you not fly away from here at once? Far, far away?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I might. Or I might keep my wings folded and stay here with you.”
“What a silly thing to say!” muttered Pinaria, but suddenly she felt less sorrowful.
They looked at each other for a long moment, then both turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Gaius Fabius Dorso strode toward them. As always, he carried himself with an erect military bearing, but he was not clad in armor. He wore a toga with a ceremonial belt of gold and purple cloth and a headband of the same material, as if he were about to take part in some religious rite. In his hands, a bit awkwardly, he carried several small vessels made of hammered copper.
“Are you ready, Pennatus? I can carry the vessels of wine and oil myself, but I shall need you to carry the bowls of salt and ground millet.”
Pennatus nodded. He stepped forward to relieve Dorso of the bowls.
“What’s happening?” asked Pinaria.
Dorso stood tall before her and raised his chin. “This is the day of the annual sacrifice of the Fabii on the Quirinal. Since I am the only Fabius left in Roma, I shall tend to the ritual.”
“But where will you offer this sacrifice?”
“At the ancient altar on the Quirinal, of course.”
“But how? There must be a thousand Gauls between here and there.”
“Yes, and another thousand swarming over the Quirinal like rats. Nonetheless, it is incumbent upon me to perform the ritual, and so I shall.”
“But Dorso, it isn’t possible!”
“The ritual has been performed on this day every year, without fail, for many generations. Long ago, during the very first war against Veii, an army made up entirely of Fabii—three hundred seven in all—went to fight for Roma. There was a terrible ambush, from which only a single Fabius returned. To avert the recurrence of such a disaster, each year we make an offering to Father Romulus in his divine guise as the god Quirinus. Today is the day.”
“But Dorso, to leave the Capitoline would be madness!”
“Perhaps. But to neglect the sacrifice would be a greater madness, surely. Dear Vestal, I should think that you, of all people, would understand that. I shall walk across the city, directly to the altar. I shall perform the ritual. I shall walk directly back again. If the Gauls challenge me, I shall tell them they are standing in the way of a sacred procession. These Gauls are a peculiar people. They appear to possess little knowledge of the gods, but they are very superstitious and can easily be overawed.”
“But you don’t even speak their language!”
“They will see that I carry sacred vessels. From my face they will know that my purpose is a holy one. The god Quirinus will protect me.”
Pinaria shook her head. She glanced at Pennatus, and swallowed a lump in her throat. “Must you take Pennatus with you?”
“A slave customarily accompanies the Fabius who performs the ritual, to help carry the vessels.”
“But Pennatus is not your slave.”
“No, he is not, and I am not compelling him to go with me. I asked him to go, and he agreed.”
“Pennatus, is this true?”
The slave shrugged and flashed a crooked smile. “It seemed reasonable at the time. I’m getting bored, trapped up here day after day. I think it may be a great adventure.”
Pinaria shook her head. “No, this isn’t right. Pennatus…Pennatus is impious! He can’t be part of such a ritual. He has no more respect for the gods than the Gauls do.”
“All the better!” declared Dorso. “If I fail to overawe them, perhaps the Gauls will see in Pennatus a kindred spirit, and leave us alone for his sake.” He smiled at Pennatus, who smiled back at him.
