“But, more seriously-” Icilius paused; all his concentration was momentarily required to suppress a belch. The critical moment passed. “As I was saying, on a more serious note: Forty years have passed since the wicked Coriolanus dared to threaten the tribunes, and for that crime he was duly punished; and yet, in many ways, the strife between the classes is now fiercer than ever. Only rarely, these days, is a plebeian elected to the consulship, and this is no accident. The patricians grow more jealous of their privileges, not less. They lay down every possible impediment in order to prevent even the most qualified plebeian from attaining the higher magistracies. You know this is true, good Verginius.”
The other man nodded. “Regrettably, good Icilius, it is the truth.”
Lucius groaned. “No, Papa. No politics tonight!”
Icilius shushed him. “This is not politics, my boy. This is serious family talk. The Verginii and the Icilii represent the very best of the plebeians. The union of our families is much more than the betrothal of a beautiful girl and a fine young man; this marriage represents the hope of the future.
“Will there ever be lasting peace between the patricians and ourselves? We must start by admitting that there have been abuses on both sides. Since the days of Coriolanus, we plebs have staged no more secessions, but sometimes, perhaps, we have been too eager to use the power of the tribunes to punish arrogant patricians. Some tribunes have stirred up the populace unnecessarily, and have wielded their power recklessly. To be sure, more than a few patricians, through devious means, have eluded punishment and cheated justice. Failures and abuses on both sides have led to further recriminations, which in turn have led to more strife and discord.
“In these dark days, despite the best efforts of honest men, the two classes seem to be drawing further and further apart. We can only hope that the children of Lucius and Verginia will inherit a better Roma than the one in which their parents were born!”
“Hear, hear!” agreed Verginius. “Well said, Icilius! The Decemvirs themselves should be here tonight, to hear you speak.”
Young Lucius, feeling tipsy, raised his cup. “To the Decemvirs!”
His elders abruptly shot him a look that made Lucius feel quite small. But the mood was too jovial for the tense moment to prevail. Verginius smiled first, then Icilius.
“A toast to the Decemvirs, my son?” Icilius clucked his tongue. “A toast implies congratulations, and in the case of the Decemvirs, that would be premature. No one has yet seen the fruit of their labors, though our ten little Tarquinii have already put a bitter taste in the mouths of many good citizens.”
“The ten Tarquinii? That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” said Verginius.
“Is it?” Icilius raised an eyebrow.
Two years earlier the discord in Roma had grown so extreme that patricians and plebeians alike had agreed to an extraordinary measure. Elections were cancelled, the Senate was disbanded, and the magistrates, including the tribunes, were relieved of their offices. A board of ten men-the Decemvirs-was given temporary power to rule the state and charged with the task of writing a comprehensive code of laws. It had sounded like a good idea at the time: Roma’s ten wisest men would determine why the state had come to a standstill, wield whatever power was necessary to resolve the problems, devise fair laws, and chisel those laws into stone for all to see. The plebs had long agitated for a written law code, believing that a clear list of offenses and an enumeration of citizens’ rights would do more than anything else to put an end to the arbitrary abuses of the patricians. But the process had dragged on for two years, without visible results, and the Decemvirs had grown careless and abusive with their power.
Icilius clucked his tongue. “We all hoped-optimistically, perhaps foolishly-that the Decemvirs would follow the example of Cincinnatus-”
“Good old Cincinnatus! A toast to Cincinnatus!” cried Verginius, who had served under the famous commander. Eight years before, when a Roman army had been trapped by the Aequi and faced certain destruction, the general-turned-farmer Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus had been called from retirement; he was named dictator and given total power over the state for the duration of the crisis. Begrudgingly, Cincinnatus left his plow, led a force to rescue the army, soundly defeated the Aequi, resigned his office, and returned to his farm-all in the span of fifteen days. It was said that his plow was exactly where he had left it, and he set about finishing the furrow he had begun, as if there had been no interruption. Expeditious and self-effacing, Cincinnatus had become a living legend.
But the Decemvirs had not followed the example of Cincinnatus. By devious means they had extended their original terms of office and continued to rule as absolute dictators while the people still awaited publication of the new law code. In recent months, their abuses had grown more flagrant as they ruthlessly suppressed anyone who questioned their authority. Men had died for opposing them; but the Decemvirs, so long as they held office, were immune from charges of murder.
“The good news,” said Icilius, “is that the new law code should be made public any day now. The Decemvirs call it the Twelve Tables. Let’s hope they’ve done such an outstanding job that the virtues of the Twelve Tables will make us forget the vices of the ten Tarquinii.”
Young Lucius furrowed his brow. “I heard a rumor the other day, about these new laws.”
“A rumor?” said his father.
“My tutor, Xenon, says they plan to outlaw marriage between patricians and plebeians.”
“A terrible idea!” said Verginius.
Icilius’s face grew long. “What would your Greek tutor know about such things?”
Lucius shrugged. “Xenon tutors other boys, including some of the Decemvirs’ grandsons. He hears all sorts of things.”
Icilius peered into his empty cup. “To be sure, there are those, patrician and plebeian alike, who believe that more separation of the classes, not less, is the answer to Roma’s social ills. A ban on intermarriage might not be a bad thing.”
“I suppose I should consider myself lucky, then,” said Lucius, “that the most beautiful girl in all of Roma happens to be a plebeian, and she happens to be betrothed to me.” He beamed at Verginia, who grinned and lowered her eyes.
No one was looking at Lucius’s sister, Icilia, whose dark beauty was abruptly marred by a deep frown.
Verginius grunted. “‘Ten Tarquinii,’ you called the Decemvirs. Appius Claudius must be the worst of the lot! A few generations back, the Claudii weren’t even Romans. They weren’t even the Claudii! What was that uncouth Sabine name his grandfather was born with?”
“Attus Clausus,” said Icilius.
“Ah, yes! And now the grandson is chief among the Decemvirs. A thoroughly unpleasant fellow, always swaggering about, surrounded by lictors, wearing a purple toga and expecting everyone he meets to do his bidding. That man enjoys being a Decemvir entirely too much! And now he proposes to ban intermarriage. The patrician hypocrite! Only a few months ago, he asked me for Verginia’s hand.”
“Papa!” Verginia spoke up. “I don’t think you should mention-”
“Why not? It’s not as if either you or I led the old goat on in any way. Let Jupiter strike me down if I tell a lie! A few months ago, Appius Claudius asked if he might marry Verginia.”
“And what did you say?” asked Icilia.
“I told him no, of course! Not that the match would have been unsuitable; Appius Claudius, a widower with grown children, may be a bit old for Verginia, but the Claudii have made quite a name for themselves in three short generations, and they are patricians, however newly minted.” Verginius said this in an offhand way, but clearly, he didn’t mind letting Icilius know that his daughter could have married a patrician, if Verginius had so chosen. “I rejected Appius Claudius as a suitor because I don’t like the fellow-it’s as simple as that! Couldn’t stand the idea of having him be my son-in-law, or the father of my grandchildren. I much prefer you, Lucius. And more importantly, so does Verginia!”
