“I wish things were different, too. I wish that you weren’t a Vestal. I wish that I wasn’t born a slave! If it weren’t for the bitterness of fate, I might have been as high-born as you, Pinaria. I have the blood of patricians in me.”
“What do you mean?”
“This talisman I wear—it’s more than it appears to be. And so am I!” He held up the image of Fascinus. The black amulet gleamed dully in the moonlight. “It’s not made of lead, Pinaria. It’s only been dipped in lead, to hide what’s beneath, so that no master would bother to take it. If you scratch through the lead, you can see the pure yellow gleam underneath. It’s made of gold, Pinaria. It’s an heirloom. It’s very ancient, older than Roma itself—older than all the gods and goddesses of Roma! Fascinus was here first, even before Jupiter.”
She shook her head. “More blasphemy, Pennatus? This isn’t funny.”
“It’s neither blasphemy nor a joke. It’s the truth, Pinaria. Before she died, my mother told me where I came from and who I really am. I was born a slave, yes, and so was she, but her father was the son of Titus Potitius, a Roman of the most ancient patrician blood, and Icilia, the sister of Lucius Icilius, who was a tribune of the plebs. The son of Titus Potitius and Icilia was illegitimate, and he was made a slave at birth because of the spite of his uncle. But even as a slave, he wore the talisman of the Potitii around his neck, and Titus Potitius himself, in secret, told him the tale of his birth. That slave passed the talisman on to his daughter, my mother. She was born a slave in the household of Icilius, but was later sold to my master, in whose house I was born. Before she died, she passed the talisman to me. It represents the god Fascinus, the most ancient deity worshipped by mortals in Roma. Fascinus was known even before Hercules and Jupiter, and long before the gods who came to us by way of the Greeks.”
Pinaria was silent for a long time. “You never told me this before.”
“It’s my deepest secret, Pinaria.”
“You scoff at the gods.”
“I believe in Fascinus!”
“You mock the freeborn. You laugh at the vanity of patricians.”
“I am a patrician—by blood if not by birth! Titus Potitius was my great-grandfather. Don’t you see, Pinaria, the child inside you isn’t the offspring of a nobody, a slave who came from nowhere, who has no ancestors worthy of remembrance. The child inside you carries the blood of the first settlers of Roma, from both his mother and his father. Whatever others may say, and whatever the law may call me, you need not be ashamed of the child. You can be proud, even if you must be proud in secret!”
“Pennatus! I feel no shame for what we’ve done, or what’s resulted from it. Perhaps it’s not even sinful. If Vesta is truly gone, and all the gods have left their temples here on the Capitoline, it may be that your god Fascinus holds sway in Roma, all alone, as he once did long ago, and you and I are doing his bidding, and everything is proper. Who can say, in a world where everything can change in the blink of an eye? No, Pennatus, I’m not ashamed. But I am fearful, for you, and for me, and for the child.” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to tell you. Some impulse came over me and made me speak. I had thought to keep it to myself, until I was sure, or else…”
She bit her tongue and said no more. Why tell Pennatus where her thoughts had led whenever she considered the child that might be growing inside her? There were ways to rid a woman’s womb of an unwanted baby. Pinaria had a vague notion that there were potions that could be drunk, some of them dangerously poisonous, or that a slender wand, perhaps made of supple willow, might be inserted into her body to bring about the desired expulsion. But Pinaria had no sure knowledge of such matters, and there was no one she could ask for advice or assistance, and there was no way to obtain such a potion. There was not a single willow tree on the Capitoline! And now that she had told Pennatus about the child, and he had responded by sharing his deepest secret with her, and had shown an almost fierce pride in the act of giving her a child…
She shook her head. The voice of the holy Vestal that still dwelled inside her whispered, What a thing, that a slave should be proud of his offspring! What a world, where a Vestal could delude herself into thinking that her pregnancy might please a god!
Suddenly, in the quiet stillness of the night, one of Juno’s sacred geese let out a loud, blaring honk. The unexpected noise broke the tension between them. Pennatus laughed. Pinaria managed a crooked smile.
The goose honked again, and then again.
“If that keeps up, a certain goose is likely to get plucked, sacred to Juno or not,” muttered Pennatus. He brought his lips to hers. They kissed. He moved to embrace her, then drew back. The single goose had been joined by others making the same abrupt, braying racket. “A good thing we’re not trying to sleep!”
“It’s the sentry’s fault, waking them up by calling the all-clear,” said Pinaria.
“But that was a long time ago. Long enough for the geese to fall asleep again.” Pennatus frowned. “Maybe long enough for the sentry to fall asleep…”
The honking of the geese continued.
“Stay here,” whispered Pennatus. “Lock the door after I leave. There’ll be others up, awakened by the geese. I may not be able to return tonight without being seen. Kiss me, Pinaria!”
Pennatus tore himself from her arms, reached for his sword—Dorso had insisted on arming him, despite his status—and slipped out the door. He waited until he heard her drop the lock into place, then hurried toward the sentry post beyond the goose pen.
The rocky face of the Capitoline was very steep at that point—indeed, it was the very place where Pontius Cominius had made his impossible ascent. But of course, the ascent of Pontius Cominius had not been impossible; if he could do it, so could others. On a moonlit night, might a company of Gauls be able to find the footholds and handholds by which Pontius Cominius had reached the top of the Capitoline?
It seemed impossible. And surely, in the stillness of the night, a sentry would hear anyone making such an ascent, and peer over the side to see them long before they reached the top. Unless…
The geese continued to honk.
Pennatus saw the sentry, standing at his post at the cliff’s edge—then realized that the figure dimly lit by the moon was not the sentry, but a Gaul! While Pennatus watched, two other Gauls appeared, clambering over the ledge and standing upright.
His blood froze. He tightened his grip on the sword. He had never actually used such a weapon, except in practice with Dorso. He gripped the image of Fascinus and did something he had never done before: He whispered a prayer for courage and strength.
“Out of my way, slave!” An armor-clad figure knocked him aside and rushed past him. Pennatus recognized Marcus Manlius, a friend of Dorso’s and a former consul. The grizzled veteran rushed headlong toward the Gauls. Giving a great shout, he struck the foremost with his shield. The man staggered back and fell screaming from the cliff, taking the other two with him.
More Gauls scrambled over the edge. Manlius struck with his shield and stabbed with his sword. Pennatus gave a cry and ran to join him.
His sword struck metal with a deafening clang. He lunged again and struck flesh. The sickening impact seemed to travel into his arm and all through his body. Pennatus had scarcely ever caused another man to bleed, much less killed a man. Under moonlight, the blood on the paving stones was glistening and black.