The same day. Fortune, is thine, and the same founder, and the same place. But who is yonder figure that is hidden in robes thrown one upon the other? It is Servius: so much is certain, but different causes are assigned for his concealment, and my mind, too, is haunted by a doubt. While the goddess timidly confessed her furtive love, and blushed to think that as a celestial being she should mate with a mere man (for she burned with a deep, an overmastering passion for the king, and he was the only man for whom she was not blind), she was wont to enter his house by a small window (fenestra); hence the gate bears the name of Fenestella (“the Little Window”). To this day she is ashamed and hides the loved features beneath a veil, and the king’s face is covered by many a robe. Or is the truth rather that after the murder of Tullius the common folk were bewildered by the death of the gentle chief, there were no bounds to their grief, and their sorrow increased with the sight of his statue, until they hid him by putting robes on him?
A third reason must be expounded in my verse at greater length, though I will rein in my steeds. Having purchased her marriage at the price of crime, Tullia used to incite her husband by these words: “What boots it that we are well matched, thou by my sister’s murder, and I by thy brother’s, if we are content to lead a life of virtue? Better that my husband and thy wife had lived, if we do not dare attempt some greater enterprise. I offer as my dower the head and kingdom of my father: if thou art a man, go to, exact the promised dower. Crime is a thing for kings. Kill thy wife’s father and seize the kingdom, and dye our hands in my sire’s blood.” Instigated by such words, he, private man though he was, took his seat upon the lofty throne; the mob, astounded, rushed to arms. Hence blood and slaughter, and the weak old man was overpowered: his son-in-law (Tarquin) the Proud snatched the sceptre from his father-in-law. Servius himself, at the foot of the Esquiline hill, where was his palace, fell murdered and bleeding on the hard ground. Driving in a coach to her father’s home, his daughter passed along the middle of the streets, erect and haughty. When he saw her father’s corpse, the driver burst into tears and drew up. She chode him in these terms: “Wilt thou go on, or dost thou wait to reap the bitter fruit of this thy loyalty f Drive, I say, the reluctant wheels across his very face!” A sure proof of the deed is the name of the street called Wicked after her; the event is branded with eternal infamy.
Yet after that she dared to touch the temple, her father’s monument: strange but true the tale I’ll tell. There was a statue seated on a throne in the likeness of Tullius: it is said to have put its hand to its eyes, and a voice was heard, “Hide my face, lest it should see the execrable visage of my own daughter.” The statue was covered by a robe lent for the purpose: Fortune forbade the garment to be moved, and thus she spoke from her own temple: “That day on which the statue of Servius shall be laid bare by unmuffling his face will be the first day of modesty cast to the winds.” Ye matrons, refrain from touching the forbidden garments; enough it is to utter prayers in solemn tones. Let him who was the seventh king in our city always keep his head covered with Roman drapery. This temple was once burnt, yet the fire spared the statue: Mulciber himself rescued his son. For the father of Tullius was Vulcan, his mother was the beautiful Ocresia of Corniculum. After performing with her the sacred rites in due form, Tanaquil ordered Ocresia to pour wine on the hearth, which had been adorned. There among the ashes there was, or seemed to be, the shape of the male organ; but rather the shape was really there. Ordered by her mistress, the captive Ocresia sat down at the hearth. She conceived Servius, who thus was begotten of seed from heaven. His begetter gave a token of his paternity when he touched the head of Servius with gleaming fire, and when on the king’s hair there blazed a cap of flame.
‘ To thee, too, Concordia, Livia dedicated a magnificent shrine, which she presented to her dear husband. But learn, thou age to come, that where Livia’s colonnade now stands, there once stood a palace huge. The single house was like the fabric of a city; it occupied a space larger than that occupied by the walls of many a town. It was levelled with the ground, not on a charge of treason, but because its luxury was deemed harmful. Caesar brooked to overthrow so vast a structure, and to destroy so much wealth, to which he was himself the heir. That is the way to exercise the censorship; that is the way to set an example, when the judge does himself what he warns others to do.
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