The Arms of Quirinus: Seven Kings of Rome Novels

By Sherrie Seibert Goff

The Arms of Quirinus spins the tale of young Romulus, Rome's first king, who took the rulership and built Mars' own city, calling his people Romans after his own name and fostering the nation that wore the toga.

This fresh retelling of a classic story brings to life immortal Rome's pastoral beginnings as a craggy, wooded hilltop beside an ancient river crossing and weaves a tale that might have been told by the very people who lived the incredible adventure that fostered the nation destined to extend its rule over the earth.

The author's Seven Kings of Rome Novels will appeal to readers with inquiring minds who have a love of history and a fascination for the cultural roots of civilization, as well as to readers looking simply for an entertaining junket in the form of a novel that can bring to vivid life another time, another place.

"The Arms of Quirinus would be a respectable work on any shelf with The Bull from the Sea or Whom the Gods Would Destroy. What Mary Renault, Robert Graves, and others did so skillfully, Goff is emulating in her own distinct way in her Seven Kings novels." - William Howard Denson III (Writers Festival)

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 13, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595791279

Sherrie Seibert Goff

Sherrie Seibert Goff currently lives in Idaho with her husband Stiofain. She has published four books in a series subtitled Seven Kings of Rome Novels. Her rousing tales set in early Romes regal period are known for their in-depth research and historical imagination. Visit the author at www.sherrieseibertgoff.com.

Book preview

CONTENTS

Preface

Part I Diana’s Mirror

The Vestal’s Tale

Part II Sons Of Mars

The Shepherd’s Tale

Part III The Tarpeian Rock

The Wood Nymph’s Tale

Part IV Stayer Of Armies

The King’s Tale

Part V The October Horse

The Priest’s Tale

Postscript

Author’s Note

For My Dear

Stiofain

With Love

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Preface

In 753 B.C., Rome the Eternal was but a sheep pasture and a marsh, and most of the greater gods were not yet in existence. Even Mars was chiefly a god of farms and forest then, and history dwelt in banquet songs sung in scattered villages. Events before Rome was born are lost in the dark mists of time and have come to us in old tales with more of the charm of myth than of sound historical record.

By their campfires, by their firesides in their little huts, they told the old stories of their race, fables born of desperate, real deeds. Around truth grew up romantic legend, ever dear to warrior and shepherd alike, tales of their first leader’s birth, fit for poets and woven to stir young hearts to daring and young hands to smiting.

PART I

DIANA’S MIRROR

THE VESTAL’S TALE

1

The lakeside quay lay deserted, but distant sounds of party drums and revelry still spilled from the town. I tugged off my wreath of sweet laurel and scrambled up to perch on a low wall, savoring the fecund smells of timeworn stone and garden loam mingling with the pungent aroma of wood fires.

My father sat out on the garden terrace with his new wife and my uncle, relaxing before supper and watching the water ripple pink in the late-afternoon breeze. With the cool of evening, the chattering of a myriad of birds swelled from the birch and pine trees. It was that time of day when the colors of flowers fade, when the light is such that one cannot distinguish between wolf and dog.

All that day, we had thrilled over the foot and horse races and reveled in merry dancing and wild leaping about gigantic bonfires. We had marveled at the wondrous musicians putting to good use their flutes and lyres, rattles and drums, while young lovers drifted in flower wreathed boats singing and quaffing fine honeyed wine. After our joyful sacrifices at noonday, my foolhardy brother hied off to the woods, and I, still an unripe girl of nine summers, begrudged him his wild exploits and freedom.

As I tucked my new wool tunic beneath my thighs for padding against the unfinished rock, I was startled and thrilled by the eerie howl of a hunting wolf in the distance. Or could it have been the festival games around the fires, lovers or comrades calling, hooting to one another in nearby woods?

My father and his companions seemed not to have heard, but I kissed my holiday charm and made a sign of obeisance to Feronia, the old Sabine wolf goddess. Deep Lake Albano sparkled with reflected torches and the late sun. I kicked off my tight new sandals and gazed out over the jeweled lake across the dark-green treetops towards the somber presence of Mount Albano.

My cousins, decked in wilting lavender wreaths and party garlands, burst through the garden gate. They squealed and giggled, brandishing their toy swords and riding their stick horses. I sucked in my breath as Metius circled my stepmother’s chair and lunged with his wooden short-sword to attack my brother’s prize puppy. The pup yelped in distress, then turned to cavort after the children’s heels.

When a nursemaid came to call the young ones to supper and bed, my heart began to pound. The wind whispered, and the hair of my flesh stood up. I broke off a fragrant sprig of pine and tried to hum that lusty ditty we children had giggled over before our mothers and aunts whisked us away from the revels.

The children were gathering up their little wheeled carts and toy animals, protesting an end to play. As I jumped down from the rock wall, my heart cried out, Take heed.

The ground moaned underfoot, and the ridges seemed to stir. As I reached for my sandals, a nimble-footed spirit passed before my face. I halted to listen, trembling in my father’s own garden and staring at the same old two-story redoubt in which I’d been born. Yet the house seemed unfamiliar to me. Strangely distressed, I hurried to catch up with my father, but at the terrace edge something compelled me to turn and gaze once more at Jove’s sacred mountain.

I have since learned to recognize the stirrings of the Goddess in my heart, but just as the roe buck leaves the wolf gasping in the winter wind, that fateful day I was left unable to seize the meaning of the Mother’s warning.

Confused and weak-kneed, I joined the other young folk at a benched table by the kitchen. Aromas of hearty food and the din of kitchen activity drained the numbness from my body. Kitcheners carried out platters of fish and crusty golden bread, and a scullion handed me a napkin and a cup of goat’s milk as I settled down beside my cousin Antho. Antho was born nearest my age of all the Silvii, and she took her looks from Aunt Velia, having dull eyes, mousy-brown hair and a tendency towards pudginess.

Antho raised a disapproving eyebrow and glanced towards my father’s couch. No surprise to the gods, Rhea, your harebrained brother is late again. She leaned against my shoulder and spoke to me behind her hand. I take it, another of his infamous hunting-party excursions with his dear Allectus.

I didn’t mind her insufferable tone, because it amused me how she and other maids of the royal household despised my brother for showing no interest in them. The little ones waited impatiently while their nurses picked bones from the little fishes on their plates, and I waited for Antho to finish with the honey pot. She took her time, signaling for more goat’s milk between her careful attempts to smother a huge chunk of bread with dripping sweetness.

My Father accepted tidbits of crushed olives and goat cheese folded in tender grape leaves from my stepmother’s own hand. He smiled lovingly upon the lady. Who could deny a younger wife had a calming effect on Papa? Something sorely needed to temper the rancor between him and my big brother of late.

Antho followed my gaze. You missed the big storm. The king flew through here with his stableman in tow, rounding him out right well over your brother.

My heart sank. Antho raised that smug eyebrow again, gloating over my brother’s troubles. How could she strive to copy her mother’s mannerisms? I wanted to punch her for it.

The girl delighted in wrath and ire. She said, Without a by-your-leave to anyone, the fool rode off for the hunting lodge on your father’s best warhorse. You’d think the prince already king or something.

I shut my ears to Antho and admired how the lovely queen Petillia moved with the grace of a doe, pouring Papa’s wine and fluffing his pillows. Petillia’s dark beauty fascinated me, and I thought her a perfect jewel to grace my father’s home. On the oaken beam above their heads loomed giant antlers of a mighty stag killed by my grandfather Proca, and across the wall hung the royal shield, decorative lance and prize hunting bow that had belonged to King Proca’s own father.

I could not understand why my brother strayed afar and persisted in running afoul of authority rather than prove his worth to inherit these family treasures. The headstrong fool deliberately brought troubles upon himself, I knew, for how often had I witnessed his challenging Father needlessly?

As the hours of evening dripped away with the water clock, my young dismay turned to grim concern, awakening all the pent-up feelings of that fateful day. I felt ill. The afternoon’s somber moods resurged to a crescendo in my heart and were screaming to be released, resolved.

After the first watch of night, my father rode out with a search party seeking news of my brother. The generous gods had favored me with omens that I’d blinked away. What a cutting price I would pay for my failure to speak.

It was near dawn when they returned. We woke to the sound of horses plodding with jangling harness and clattering hooves up the roadway and into the stable yard. In the gray morning mist, the bedraggled men dismounted slowly. My father, disheveled and wild-eyed, stood clenching his fists.

I traipsed trustingly out into the courtyard behind my elders to learn the news and witnessed my lifeless brother being lifted down from the stallion, Gray Ferox. I shall never forget my brother’s sightless eyes, the odor of gore and defecation, the blood smeared flank of his mount.

Someone shrieked. I was jostled about. I strained to reach my brother through the pandemonium, but horrified servants held me back. They tenderly covered my brother over with a woolen cloak and carried him into the hall.

The womenfolk struck up a low keening sound, building in volume and desperation and grief. They carelessly left the broken body of my brother’s groom and best friend lashed to the saddle of the lame red mare, and the poor horse’s eyes rolled white with distress.

As I struggled free, a warrior led the limping roan forward, brushing so close against me that I breathed in the rank odor of his soldier’s sweat. He began to unknot the ropes, and the groom’s pallid face bumped slackly against the horse’s side. The sight of Allectus’ gaping throat, marred by a vicious, red-black wound, rocked me back on my heels. My scream caused the injured mare to bolt, adding to the rising commotion.

My father howled, I’m surrounded by murderers and fools! He thrust his fellows aside and scooped me into his arms, burying my face against his shoulder.

Though I clung to him, Papa handed me over to the women, and after a morning unbelievable in pain of the heart, I drifted into an exhausted sleep with the aid of Felix Pictor’s sleeping potion.

It was dark when I finally awoke, hoping desperately, as mourners do, that the returning memory of loss and horror was only a blessed nightmare, that all was well now that I’d been allowed to wake. As I lay there with my face to the wall, sorrow coursed in to tell me it was no dream. My stomach knotted in anguish at the returning terrible memory.

My tiny chamber was dark and quiet. The younger children must be fast asleep in their adjoining nursery. My head felt heavy, and my throat hurt. Someone opened and gently shut the oaken door to the outer room. I lay still with my eyes closed, wanting no intruders.

My stepmother whispered an inquiry.

She sleeps, came the simple reply of my old nurse.

The king asked me to summon him should Rhea need comfort. Please call me when she wakes. I heard my pregnant stepmother sigh wearily and shuffle back to the door.

Mistress, my blameless boy…Oh, I cannot abide it. Nurse’s words came a sobbing croak as though torn from her heart. She struggled for control. The young prince was my own precious charge, before little Rhea was born.

Hot tears squeezed from my tightly closed eyelids, and my throat constricted painfully.

Good nurse, forgive me, Petillia murmured. In our grief, we forget that others loved him too. A long silence ensued, and I imagined my kind stepmother comforting the wizened nursemaid who slumped in her favorite worn-out nursery chair.

They were but children, the old woman lamented. Who could do such a gutless, unmanly thing?

In a voice soft with sorrow, Petillia whispered, We think a band of raiders. They found the hunting lodge gutted, blackened by fire, the boys’ mutilated bodies nearby in the trees. Their hobbled horses still stood in the forest glade. They appeared to be fleeing for their lives when they were overtaken. Could be, the hunting lodge was watched and set upon by that bunch marauding near Nemi of late.

May the gods blight the monstrous cowards.

My lumpy wool-stuffed pillow was wet against my cheek, and I fought to stifle my sobs.

O’ dear brother, sharer of my childhood secrets and my heart’s blood. If only I could have roused you from that sleep, once more tickled your neck curls and had you waken, unmaimed, to my call. How I would have smiled to see your big, sad eyes, so beloved. I would have seen you race again with the young colts in the meadow. Instead, you found the shock of death.

Dear old Nurse came in and brushed my damp hair away from my face and patted my back. She tucked a linen cover up around my shoulders, and I lay there for hours listening to the sounds of the household.

2

The next evening, I traipsed from the children’s ward, seeking my father. Nearly all had gone to their beds, but I found my aunt and uncle in the reception room. They said Papa and the queen were resting, had taken food in their private quarters, and that I should let them be.

I found a bench near the fire, away from the soft glow of my uncle’s table lamp. Shadows loomed large against the walls, and the corners of the antecham-

ber retreated in darkness. It was so quiet that one could hear the settling of the timbers of the house.

The groom, seated on his three-legged stool by the hearth, began to snore lightly, and I watched my Uncle Amulius across the flickering flame of the sand-lamp. His eyes seemed like sinister, dark hollows. I tried to shake myself, but shuddered. My uncle met my gaze, regarding me without speaking, without expression. His was a look that went through me like a spear.

Aunt Velia noticed her husband watching me. She moved to my side and said, Come, Rhea! Off to bed with you now.

I whimpered, I’m sorry, Auntie. I cannot sleep.

I wanted to talk to someone, but Aunt Velia placed a coaxing, firm hand on my thin shoulder and said, If we see your father later, I’ll send someone to wake you.

Knowing she wouldn’t bother, I just shook my head. Let her stay up! Uncle Amulius rebuked.

Aunt Velia sighed heavily and perched on the edge of her chair near the hearth. By her annoyed look, I wondered if I were the only one present who cared a whit about my brother’s death. I muttered, Thank you, Uncle.

He stifled a smirk, but one side of his mouth curled up and twitched. You always were a willful one, weren’t you?

My heart went numb at his cruel tone, and I could not answer.

Uncle Amulius had a mean streak. Ever the growler and faultfinder, he added, You and your headstrong brother, the both of you. Learn by this where it leads you.

My aunt looked a little chagrined, but forced a smile to lighten the mood. Persistence and endurance are Rhea’s bent. ‘Tis how she learns her lessons so well.

Her husband gave her a bored look and sighed. Aye, how a woman can take the meaning from a man’s tongue and let it fly out the window. He banged his cup once on the table, and the groom roused himself to refill it.

When Uncle Amulius resumed his cold scrutiny of my face over the rim of his cup, I averted my eyes and watched the flickering glow of the lamp light. My hard wooden bench had grown uncomfortable, and I wished for a cushion. I passed time tracing the painted eagles on the straight, high back of the bench with my fingers, letting my wild hair hide my face.

Something sour had niggled its way in to spoil the happy domesticity that had guided our idyllic lives and strengthened the royal house of the Silvii. I remember regarding that revelation as the saddest of thoughts. When the fire began to die, we were roused from our private reveries by low voices in the hall. Alba Longa’s chief physician, Felix Pictor, minced through the door and announced the approach of Petillia, my father’s wife.

My uncle muttered a rude curse under his breath. I noticed a private flicker of communication pass between Uncle Amulius and Felix Pictor, as the physician proceeded to settle my stepmother in Aunt Velia’s chair. Felix Pictor, always a tidy little man, swished forward to scrape a stray cinder into the hearth with his elegant foot.

The queen’s olive skin was as rich and smooth as alabaster, but dark circles had settled around her eyes, and the solicitous physician tucked a light fur covering behind her and across her lap. Petillia possessed a delicate frame and a frail constitution, and her small, patrician face, surrounded by the fox furs, seemed that of a child.

I remember her hair was as black as a moonless night and as smooth as a horse’s rump, nothing like the wavy unruliness and tawny hue of the Silvian clan, and her gracious manner enhanced her dark beauty. In our household, Queen Petillia was a rarity, prized by my father, but as yet unsure of her place.

She smiled at me and informed us that my distraught father was sleeping at last. Petillia should have been resting too, being five months into a difficult pregnancy and having endured a long and tiring day. But that night, I cherished her company, if only as a buffer against my uncle’s disturbing visage. Later Queen Petillia walked with me to the nursery and soothed my broken heart as she saw me tucked into bed.

The next morning, as I lay there in my bed of unrelenting grief, ruing so much and wishing these days undone, Nurse came in to help me dress. She laid her gnarled hand on my head, and I squeezed the old woman’s fingers for strength. That day, we were to consign my brother’s shade to our family ancestors in the underworld.

Nurse set her lamp down on the chest and breathed a heartbroken sigh at the sight of me. Be happy, little one. The prince will be gathered in the arms of his departed grandparents. His mamma will kiss his brow and cry happy tears to see him. Know that he’ll bide easy in that other land.

But we shall miss him keenly, I thought. And how I envied his seeing Mamma again. Dear old Nurse brushed my damp hair away from my face. She hummed parts of a comforting lullaby while sorting through my chest for the things I’d wear that day.

Already tasting the loneliness of being left behind in this world, I whispered, Nanna, why is my uncle so cold and mean? I know he hates me.

She squinted at me with her pale eyes. Her forehead wrinkled with concern. Shah, your Uncle Amulius doesn’t hate you. Why do you say such a thing?

Tears spilled down my cheeks, surprising me, for I thought myself wrung dry.

I wiped them with my wet pillow and sobbed. Last night, he said unkind things to me.

Tsk, like what, my sweet? Nurse’s tone was light, but her body tension told me I was on to something.

I told the old woman about Uncle Amulius’ rudeness while the rest of the house mourned my brother.

Bah, you caught him in a grouchy mood, is all. The man dislikes children. She clucked her tongue. Not once have I seen that younger son of Proca visit my nursery or gaze with affection on any of his misbehaved whelps.

I pouted. I’m the king’s daughter, not one with his flawed, pesky brood. I swallowed hard and blew my nose in the nursery diaper she handed me. I think he hated my brother too.

She rubbed my back and said, Ah, little pea, just pay him no mind. There be a passel of such things you’ll learn about your elders when you get a mite older. They’d thrash me for sure were I to teach ’em all to you.

The youngest baby began to fuss in the adjoining room. My old nursemaid rose shakily on her creaking legs, brushed her drooping gray hair from her eyes and hobbled out to check on the mewling infant. Instead of waking the young wetnurse, she came back with the boy in her apron and sat on the end of my bed rocking him.

I flung myself over to face the wall, hugging my limp pillow, my grief giving way to anger. I pounded my small fists against the bed. I shall tell my father how rude Uncle behaves when they’re not around to see.

Nurse chuckled. It’ll do no good. Nothing can change that bigheaded grump. Not even your father.

Father’ll be angry, I warned.

Rhea. The tone of Nurse’s voice dropped, taking on an ominous note. You must remember that your father wasn’t always assured of the sovereignty. Your father rules today only by the grace of your Uncle Amulius.

I turned over and stared at her with wide eyes. She raised one hoary eyebrow and explained. When your Grandfather Proca died, the Vestal Virgins revealed that he’d left Alba Longa to be ruled alternately each year by his two sons, Amulius and Numitor.

I had not known that and struggled to understand the import of her shocking disclosure. But Nurse had even more revelations to impart.

Your own father foresaw tragedy over a succession falling to two brothers. Numitor wisely proposed that Alba Longa divide the Silvian heritage into two parts, setting the ancient treasures that Aeneas brought from Troy against the kingdom itself.

Nurse chuckled behind the back of her hand and dropped her voice to a whisper. Your greedy uncle foolishly asked for the treasure. Her old eyes twinkled.

My gaping mouth closed and relaxed into a halfhearted smile, for I knew Papa had gotten the best cut. Perhaps he knew his brother better than most. So that’s why Uncle Amulius hates us all? He envies Papa.

Perhaps. But somehow I still doubt that, little girl.

Why?

Well, for one thing, she said, rocking the sleeping child, who in the world would’ve thought that Prince Amulius, having only the treasure and little authority, would himself become as important as King Numitor?

Has he? I breathed.

She fixed my eye with a shrewd look and advised, Riches bring with them a power of their own.

I suppose I bore my brother’s murder with much more difficulty than anybody, Papa included, for let it be said that, though he had lost a son, he had yet the hopes of another by his young and pregnant wife. In days to come, the promise of Queen Petillia’s fertility played much on the tongues of the household folk and was used often to palliate my father’s grief. It seemed I could find no balm for my own.

But, in her seventh month of pregnancy, Petillia was taken with a high fever and retired to her bed, where she was immediately seized by a heavy headache and pains in her loins. That night, my stepmother suffered a violent shivering fit and could not get warm. Her tongue was parched, and she had trouble sleeping. By morning, she complained of pains in her heart and in her genitals. I overheard my aunt telling the women that Felix Pictor had applied a pessary that had provided the queen some relief.

That day, we were told that Petillia was in labor. The womenfolk milled about the house, mopping their brows and fanning against the stifling heat, speaking in knowing whispers about early births. The gravity of the queen’s situation was not lost on the children, who hung wide-eyed about the legs of their nurses.

You would imagine most men wary of the mysteries surrounding childbirth, but not that manipulator Felix Pictor. He persuaded my father that, having lost my brother, he dare not leave matters concerning the royal heir solely in hands of midwives and temple women. Thus this male physician dared encroach on an exclusively female area of medicine, making predictions and administering his vile potions.

My stepmother’s labor waxed strong for awhile, but gradually weakened as her exhausted body was sapped of strength. I heard Felix tell Father that the queen was too feverish to help herself or her child. When Papa begged the physician to do anything to save his young wife, Felix Pictor gave Petillia a brew of henban and bryony root to hasten labor, then trussed her up in a girdle to spur delivery and ease her pain.

Not until the third day were midwives called, and then only at Petillia’s pleas. No one seemed surprised when the queen brought forth a stillborn son. Indeed, it appeared the child had been dead for some time, and Alba mourned the loss of yet another prince.

On the second day after her delivery, Petillia was horribly racked with rigors and vomiting. She could not rest and was distraught. Papa allowed me to visit, hoping to cheer and calm her. Her beautiful hair hung grimy and dull, and her face was ashen. Father and I watched the meddling physician administer more infusions which Petillia promptly vomited. When Felix Pictor tried to force more of his potions into her, Petillia screamed out for mercy and wept. At my father’s furious look, Felix threw up his hands and retreated.

My wrung-out father never left his young wife’s side. For both of them, sleep was impossible. The queen continued to suffer pains in her head, neck and loins. Her tongue was dry, and she endured constant thirst, delirium and eventually even deafness.

One morning, I tiptoed into her sickroom, hating the wretched smell. Petillia breathed deep and slow, immediately drawing each breath back again. My father lay curled up by Petillia’s side, and I was pleased to see that he slept. As I turned to slip away, he jerked awake and laid a palm to his young wife’s cheek.

I asked, How is she today, Papa?

He sighed with grief and got up to straighten the bedcovers. His tunic was dirty and rumpled, and though dark bags of flesh sagged under his eyes, he looked like a lost child.

Rhea, in the night your new mother became speechless and fell into a stupor. This morning, she suffered a heavy nosebleed.

He gestured helplessly. I stared with terror at the bloody cloth by Petillia’s bedside, then fled to the nursery. I had not the courage to return again until Aunt Velia came to inform me that convulsions had supervened and Petillia had died, on the eighth day of her fever.

3

A sweetness blew in the air as I crossed the courtyard on my way to my father’s rooms. Rain mixed with fog pooled in the courtyard and garden paths. Using the terrace to skirt the main part of the house, I took pleasure in the mists lying across the hills and drifting through the heavy green foliage in the glades beside the deep lake.

In the quiet mystery of the morning, my father had sent for me, and I rejoiced, for we had seen little of each other since my stepmother’s death. I was much heartened by the hope that King Numitor had found the strength to put aside his mourning at last and resume the duties of government that Uncle Amulius had been performing on his behalf.

I found my sire in his favorite chair, beside a small, wheeled brazier that warmed his cheerless bedchamber. Hylax, my father’s loyal hunting dog, lay at his feet. When I entered, the old hound scarcely moved. One ragged ear perked up, and his rheumy eyes followed me across the lightless room.

Papa was dressed in a fine morning-tunic with embroidered edges and a wide girdle embossed with turtle patterns. His short mantle was held at the shoulder by a scorpion brooch with claw-like pincers of gold and a ruby tip on its long upturned tail. The brooch, a Tyrrhenian treasure, had come to him from my mother’s family. It pleased me to see him wearing it, but more so that he had emerged from his funeral garments and trappings.

I shivered in the chill of the sunless bedroom and was grateful when Papa led me down to his sitting room where we enjoyed a grand view overlooking the lake. The cozy chamber, as always, smelled of old parchment and ink brought up by the scribes from the Greek trading post at Pithecusae.

A low fire crackled on the hearthstone. I sat on a fireside stool and welcomed the warm glow on my cheeks and forehead. My father poured me a warm posset of sweetened and spiced milk curdled with wine, a child’s portion, served in the same child’s-cup of hammered silver I had used in that room since my earliest memory.

My father’s rich honey-colored hair had dulled to a sandy brown hue. His once-royal bearing sagged, and his face looked haggard. His hazel eyes no longer twinkled, but reddened orbs peered out at me from dark circles and bags. Still I said, Papa, you’re looking well. I’ve missed you at supper.

I know, Rhea. My mind’s been unfit for company of late. He smiled feebly. You’re all I’ve got left, you know.

I swallowed hard. I know, I said simply.

I was drawn by curiosity over to my father’s work table which was laden as always with fancy boxes, strange instruments to measure angles of the moon and stars, and an array of scrolls, old diagrams and writing tools. We played for awhile with a board game called little thieves. Papa turned his chair towards the hearth and stretched out his legs, crossed at the ankles, and his old hound plodded down from the bedchamber and flopped down beside us.

Out of nowhere, my father said, Your uncle tells me you’d like to enter the service of the Vestal Virgins.

Instantly wary, I eyed my father. Where’d he get that? He’s never heard me request such a thing, nor has anyone else.

Since you were a cub, you always dreamed of becoming a Vestal. ‘Tis no secret. You used to dress up and perform solemn ceremonies for your brother, blessing him and his playmates to go forth in battle. You promised our lads victory in their raids on your cousin’s makeshift fort under the big olive tree. He chuckled sadly.

That was just the best way to make them obey me, I confided, fingering a bronze stylus.

He raised an amused eyebrow and beamed at me proudly. Still and all, you shall make a most lovely and awesome Vestal, my girl. Your ardor and piety. So like your dear mother…

Papa, you know things have changed. I’ve changed. I wish you’d listen to me more than to Uncle Amulius. I much prefer to stay here in Alba with you.

He wagged his scolding-mother finger at me and clucked his tongue like an old woman. Rhea, I’ll not see you alter your designs on my account.

I’m not. When you take back the throne of Alba this winter, I want to be here at your side. Should you decide not to marry again, my sons will be your heirs, Papa. Nothing could please the gods or me more than that.

He shook his head sadly and sighed. Your loyalty is commendable, my girl. But I don’t plan to retake my heavier judicial and administrative duties this winter. That’s one reason I called you here, to help you understand.

My heart froze.

I’m still too ill to govern well, little Rhea. He groaned, as if to prove it. Alba Longa deserves better. Amulius has offered to continue in my stead for a time, and I’m grateful.

Grateful? Grateful for betrayal? Grateful to a thief? I burst into tears. Father, no! You mustn’t…

My father threw up his hands. Your uncle suggested I speak to you. He knew you’d react unpleasantly.

Aye, and well he might! Father, you can’t let him do this to you. All kinds of fears were welling up inside me, although I could scarcely name them.

Do what, Rhea? Good heavens! He’s my own brother. It’s only for a time, child.

But he’s the younger. You should govern Alba and carry forth the lineage.

I’ve no sons left to succeed me now. His eyes reflected a pain and bitterness I could only imagine.

I was on my feet. This is treachery. Can’t you see that? You say I’d make a good Vestal. Then listen to my predictions on this!

He indulged me with a smile and shook his head. For all your grand thoughts, you’re still but a babe. Your wise grandfather had such troubles in mind when he decreed alternate rule in his will. Just one year. Then when I’m feeling better…

I stamped my small foot in frustration. Father, you wear the crown, you sit the throne, now you must rule.

I could see his patience fading fast. He said, You mustn’t let lust for power tarnish your natural piety and grace, lovely Rhea.

I just shook my head. I’m thinking only of you, Papa. How can you get well unless you make yourself busy again? With your people and important things to care about, you’ll forget your troubles. The people of Alba still look to you. Inside me a small voice said, and I need you, too.

I was startled when he banged his fist on the arm of his chair. He nearly shouted, I’m not ready! I’m not ready, Daughter. And there’s no need, he reminded.

His good hound, Hylax the barker, struggled to stand and peered at his master as though awaiting orders. My father patted the aged dog’s head. Surely thou art Numitor’s dog, he murmured, reassuring the old cur with a caring touch that I could have wished for myself. Then he poured a medicinal draught from a silver flask and closed his eyes as he drank, as though the liquid soothed his throat immensely. I sipped my milk and honeyed wine and watched the fire burn lower.

The coals toasted my bare legs and wafted soothing tendrils of warmth up under my wool tunic. In a little while I ventured, Your sickness could be in your heart only, Papa. It’s time to drive it out with renewed caring. If not for yourself, for your image.

Leave me be, Rhea. There’s little hope one so young could understand. You want too much. His brow knitted, wrinkled in consternation, and he started to sob. You all want too much from me.

I had never seen my father weak, and it embarrassed me. It must have been something in the elixir he had taken. Feeling awkward in my comforting, I moved to my father’s side and laid my small hand on his arm. He gave no response to my touch. He wiped his eyes quickly and poured another swig of his medicine.

Eventually, Papa took a deep breath and patted my hand. I made some vague noises of commiseration, thinking to broach the subject again at a better time. I left, vowing to spend much more time in Papa’s company to help ease his loneliness and persuade him to take the kingship back from Amulius. I felt this of vital importance to my father’s recovery.

Unwilling to rule? Or unfit? Which did Amulius say of my father? It matters not. He used custom, that unwritten law by which the people keep even kings in awe, to defeat and depose my father. The king must be whole and flawless, Amulius said, and free from deformity or incapacity, for as the leader he represents the health and well-being of Alba Longa and thus of the people of the entire Latin race. From this, it must be seen that he who seems most kingly is king.

One evening, I ate early with my younger cousins, for the adults would be feasting long into the night to honor visiting guests from Lavinium. As usual, my father supped alone in his rooms. Suspecting that he would not face our guests, I had sent word asking if I might join him for a private supper together. But he pleaded exhaustion, leaving me to fend for myself among the other children.

Servants and cooks scurried about, and musicians tuned