Pinaria had become very fond of Dorso during their captivity on the Capitoline. Afterward, she was careful to keep a respectable distance from him, lest their friendship arouse unsavory suspicions. Nevertheless, at public ceremonies their paths frequently crossed. On those occasions, Pinaria sometimes caught glimpses of Pennatus. She avoided looking into his eyes and never spoke to him.
These occasions also allowed Pinaria to see her son at various stages as he grew up. When Kaeso attained his majority and celebrated his sixteenth birthday by donning a man’s toga, no one, including Kaeso, thought it odd that Pinaria should be invited to the celebration. Everyone knew that the Vestal had witnessed his father’s famous walk beyond the barricades, and that his father held her in special esteem.
But young Kaeso was a little surprised when Pinaria asked him to join her alone in the garden. He was still more surprised at the gift she gave him. It was a gold chain upon which hung a gleaming golden amulet of the sort called a fascinum.
Kaeso smiled. With his unruly, straw-colored hair and his bright blue eyes, he still looked like a child to Pinaria. “But I’m not a baby. And I’m certainly not a pregnant woman! I’m a man. That’s the whole point of this day!”
“Even so, I want you to have this. I believe that a primal force—a power older than the gods—accompanied your father and protected him on his famous walk. That force resides in this very amulet.”
“Are you saying that my father wore this when he walked among the Gauls?”
“No, but it was very close to him, nonetheless. Very close! This is no common fascinum, of the sort that anyone can buy in the market for a few coins. This is the first of all such amulets, the original. This is Fascinus, who dwelled in Roma before any other god, even before Jupiter or Hercules.”
Kaeso was a little taken aback. These were odd words, coming from a Vestal. An image of the masculine generator of life was an odd gift to receive from a sacred virgin. Nonetheless, he obediently put the necklace over his head. He examined the amulet. Its edges were worn from time. “It does look very old.”
“It’s ancient—as old as the divine power it represents.”
“But it’s too precious! I can’t accept it from you.”
“You can. You must!” She took his hands and held them tightly. “On this, your sixteenth birthday, I, the Vestal Pinaria, make a gift of Fascinus to you, Kaeso Fabius Dorso. I ask you to wear it on special occasions, and to pass it on, in time, to your own son. Will you do that for me, Kaeso?”
“Of course I will, Vestal. You honor me.”
Both heard a slight noise, and turned to see that the slave Pennatus was watching them from the portico. There was a look on his face such as Kaeso, who had known the slave all his life, had never seen before, an extraordinary expression of mingled sorrow and joy, fulfillment and regret. Confused, Kaeso looked again at the Vestal, and was astounded to see the very same expression on her face.
Pennatus disappeared within the house. Pinaria released Kaeso’s hands and departed in a different direction, leaving him alone in the garden with the amulet she had given him.
Adults were so very mysterious! Kaeso wondered whether he was ready to become one of them, despite the fact that this was his toga day.
THE ARCHITECT OF HIS OWN FORTUNE
312 B.C.
“So, young man, this is your toga day—and what a splendid day for it! Tell me, how have you celebrated so far?”
Surrounded by the magnificent gardens at the center of his magnificent house, wearing his finest toga for the occasion, Quintus Fabius sat with his arms crossed, wrinkled his craggy brow, and appeared to scowl at his visitor. Young Kaeso had been warned about his eminent cousin’s severe expression; Roma’s greatest general was not known for smiling. Kaeso tried not to be intimidated. Even so, he had to clear his throat before he could answer.
“Well, cousin Quintus, I rose very early. My father presented me with a family heirloom, a golden fascinum on a golden chain, which he took from his own neck to place over mine. There’s a story connected with it; it was given to my grandfather long ago by the famous Vestal Pinaria. Then father presented me with my toga, and helped me put it on. I never imagined it would be so complicated, to make the folds hang correctly! We took a long walk around the Forum, where he introduced me to his friends and colleagues. I was allowed to mount the orator’s platform, to see what the Forum looks like from the perspective of the Rostra.”
“Of course, when I was boy,” said Quintus, interrupting, “the speaker’s platform was not yet called the Rostra, because it hadn’t yet been decorated with all those ships’ beaks. Do you know when that happened?”
Kaeso cleared his throat again. “I believe it was during the consulship of Lucius Furius Camillus, the grandson of the great Camillus. The coastal city of Antium was subdued by Roman arms, and the Antiates were made to remove the ramming prows—the so-called rostra, or ‘beaks’—from their warships, and send them as tribute to Roma. The beaks were installed as decorations on the orator’s platform; hence the platform’s name, the Rostra.”
Quintus scowled and nodded. “Go on.”
“After I stood on the Rostra, we ascended the Capitoline. There we observed a Dorso family tradition—retracing the route taken by my great-grandfather, Gaius Fabius Dorso, when he walked from the Capitoline to the Quirinal, defying the Gauls. At the Altar of Quirinus, an augur took the auspices. A single hawk was seen flying from left to right. The augur declared it a favorable omen.”
“Favorable, indeed! The hawk will watch after you in battle. And how does it feel, young man, to be wearing a toga?”
“It feels very good, cousin Quintus.” In fact, the woolen garment was heavier and hotter than Kaeso had expected.
Quintus nodded. He thought the toga looked rather incongruous on young Kaeso, serving only to emphasize his boyish good looks—his blond curls and blushing, beardless cheeks, his full red lips and bright blue eyes. Aloud, Quintus merely said, “You are a man, now. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, cousin Quintus.” Kaeso forced a smile. Of all the day’s events, this visit might the most important of all; in honor of his ascent to manhood, he had been invited to dine, alone, with the most eminent of all the Fabii, the leading member of the many branches of the family, the great statesman and general Quintus Fabius. Nervous and tired, but determined to make a good show of himself, Kaeso sat stiffly in his backless chair and met his cousin’s steely gaze.
“Well, then, let us retire to the dining room,” said Quintus. “You and I shall eat and drink like two men of the world, and talk about your future.”
In fact, the discussion was almost entirely about the past. Over various delicacies—pork liver with celery in a wine sauce, tripe stewed with cinnamon and nutmeg, mutton in fennel cream—Quintus imparted bits of family history. Kaeso had heard almost all of these tales before, but never as told by the great Quintus. Kaeso’s great-grandfather had still been alive when Quintus was young; Quintus had met the illustrious Dorso on several occasions, and had heard the tale of the famous walk from the man himself.
Quintus also related the most famous and tragic exploit of the Fabii, their great sacrifice during a war against Veii, when the family raised a whole army from its own ranks, only to see all but one killed in a terrible ambush. “Out of three hundred and seven warriors, that young man alone survived to carry on the family name,” said Quintus. “Like a forest of noble trees destroyed by fire, from a single seedling the family regenerated itself—proof of the gods’ determination that the Fabii should play a great role in Roma’s history.”