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The baby quickened in Juno's belly immediately, as Flora still pressed the flower against her, below her navel on the soft ripeness of her skin. Juno laughed with delight as Flora pulled back her hand.
"It worked!" she said. She pressed her own hand against the small bump already stirring, feeling the baby's godhead starting to gather alongside hers. She had always loved this moment, when the new life inside her stretched and grew and sucked up the magic of the world into their tiny little heart and lungs. This was perhaps even better, to know she had made this baby herself, with her own womb and the clever magic of the earth her mother.
The flower still dangled from Flora's fingers, the blood red colour leached from its petals and smeared still on Juno's skin. Juno caught up Flora's hand and the flower and pressed them warmly in delight.
"Thank you for your service, sister," she said.
"You are welcome," said Flora. "I am honoured to help you blossom so."
Juno smiled and looked around her at the little grove she had chosen for conception, growth and confinement. She had eschewed the luxury of her home; something had told her that this child would be one of simple tastes, a lover of order and virtue. She would be pleased to wax fruitful here and birth him on the red earth. Though no one yet dwelt here, seven hills rose watchfully above the plain, and the Tiber spilled past in well-established banks. It was a land made for settlement, made for a city - made for the god she carried.
She rose, carefully, for her belly had already swelled and she marvelled at the new lines that had pulled at her skin. While they would disappear after the birth and her rejuvenation, she honoured the marks she would bear and the way she would swell and grow. She was at the peak of her powers, ripening as scarlet and sweet as any pomegranate.
"I shall walk to the river and around the hills," she said. "This child should know all the land he will be birthed into. Please, wait here, for I shall not be long in my time, and I would have your hands catch him as he comes."
Walking down from the grove, Juno looked at the grey stone that made the bones of the hills and the open woodland that clung to them. It was not yet quite spring, and this child, she felt certain, would come with the rush of life back to the land. He would be part of the great labours of the year, in agriculture and in warfare, and his concerns would be close to the people. He would also know the wild lands, she thought, those outside of cultivation, and would run free there in communion with all the life of the place, in her honour and of her own mother Ops. A god that understood the hidden order of light and shade and wild trails through the bare lands, and the made order of farms and warfare and civil rules built in the gleaming city.
She thought briefly of lofty Jupiter and Minerva of all wisdom, and shook her head. They were happy to dwell in the clouds of thought and possibility, but she was a goddess of the real world of earth and blood and people, and this child would be also. She was satisfied.
"I shall call you Mars," she said. "And this place shall be your place."
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The wind howled and the afternoon was grey and cold, but Mars barely felt it. The seven hills rose up before him and he was heartened, as always, when he saw his birthplace. The land was harsh but the soil rich, at least by the river. The soft loam of the Tiber banks gave slightly beneath his feet and he felt the teeming life of all Ops's creatures below and gave thanks to them, each in its place, each doing its duty, to raise this place above all others.
Not that you'd know it now. The hills were as empty as any corner of this land, and only Mars came here, to the grove that gave him birth and the red earth that had sheltered him as he suckled at his mother's breast. One day, though, he would see these seven hills like so many shining white stars with good stone houses. The lands around would be tilled and fenced and fertile, and the men would honour the farmland and the wild lands, and the virtue of the boundary between them.
Mars frowned as a wisp of smoke wound around the central hill. It was frail against the wind, but no man should be here without his leave. He moved towards it, lifting his spear from its case over his shoulder, just in case. He let it rest, perfectly balanced and ready, as he strode lightly from the springing earth of the river banks towards the rocks and woodland that covered the hills still.
As he got closer, anger began to burn in him. It was smoke, weak and drifting, as from a fire inexpertly laid, but it was the location of the fire that concerned him. No man should be setting a fire in a grove sacred to Mars, not without leave and all the ceremonies needed for sanctity. While this place was wild still, it was sacred to his untamed nature. He would teach that man a final lesson on the topic.
"Who sets fire here, in my grove?" he thundered, striding into the clearing. He looked to the fire; it was a poor thing, catching only slowly, but next to it stood a woman, holding a branch high like a mace. She stood before a stone outcropping, back to the wall, fierce and upright.
"Stand back from me," she said. "A Vestal may kindle the sacred flame wherever she makes a hearth!"
Mars stopped short, and looked at her again. She was tall and stood in defiance, but he saw now that the hand clutching her cloak about her was shaking, and the branch looked like it might fall from nerveless fingers.
"Peace," he said, lowering his spear. "This grove is mine, sacred to Mars, but I have no quarrel with Vesta."
The tenseness left the woman and she dropped the branch, seeming to catch herself from crumpling. She bowed low and formally to Mars, swaying as she stood.
"Mighty lord," she said, "please forgive me. I mean no disrespect."
"Rise, woman, and fetch some more wood," he said. He could see her shake, and her cloak was not warm enough for the gathering darkness. She would not have survived the night if he hadn't seen the fugitive smoke of her fire. "I shall make up this fire and then you shall tell me what a vestal is doing here, at my lonely hill."
"As my lord commands," she said. He came forth to the fire as she sidled around him and slipped into the woods. He saw that she had ringed the hearth well with stone, and cleared the space, and his opinion of her grew. She should not be here, alone, in such thin clothing and without protection, but she had not intended to go easily into death. Alongside it grew his curiosity, for what could drive a Vestal to this place, alone and unaided?
He patiently lifted the wood, adding his own fire to it so it blazed merrily, and the grove was much warmer by the time she returned, laden with fallen wood. He took it from her and stacked it with the rest.
"Sit by the fire," he said. She came to the open, woodland side, as if to give herself room to run, and he frowned. "On the other side, priestess. Let the rock behind you give you shelter and reflect the warmth. You are safe with me and will have no need to run."
"Thank you," she murmured, voice wavering, and sank down close to the flames.
"Soon I shall fetch us more wood and food, but first I desire to hear how you came to this place and are left so alone," Mars said.
She sat up very straight and her hands left off their fidgeting and rubbing warmth back into her limbs.
"I am Rhea Silvia," she said, "Vestal of Alba Longa, daughter of Numitor, descended from Aeneas, himself the son of Venus." She spoke proudly, and it was clear she felt the strength and comfort of her lineage. "My father no longer sits the throne of Alba Longa," she continued, "and my uncle, Amulius, has taken it and slain my brothers, throwing away his honour as he threw their bodies into the river like common criminals. It was he who sent me here claiming I was needed on the business of the goddess. He provided me with an honour guard of paid thieves, who left me here. To die. No doubt he shall tell people I tried to run away."
The story, simply told, raised as many questions as it answered, but Mars felt first the injustice and the anger of it, and then the determination to fight. If she had simply sat down to die, as her uncle had no doubt intended, then Mars would never have found her.
"Ah, but it cannot yet be your fate to die, for what else can have led you to my grove and me to you?" Mars said. "I will fetch more wood, and I have food in my pack, but you must take my cloak first, for I see you shake still." Such spirit as she had deserved reward, and he would not let her die.
"I shall be warm enough with the fire," she said with pride, though she looked longingly at the cloak and her skin still had the bluish pallor of cold.
"Your pride does you honour," Mars said. "But take the cloak and be warm, for I shall not let you die to serve your uncle's base schemes. The lineage of Aeneas is a long one, and Venus is older still than I am, and for the sake of their dignity, we shall strive."
"Thank you," she said, taking the cloak and carefully wrapping it around herself. "I do not wish to die. You are correct to remind me to live."
Mars smiled, but said nothing more as opened his pack. He handed over his cooking gear and food. Simple fare, but it would suffice. She took it readily, and was already carefully unpacking as he left to find more wood.
He returned, arms laden with dry branches, to find the grove much more hospitable than he left it. The fire blazed merrily with some embers raked aside and water heating in an earthenware pot. Skewers of the goose from his pack waited to be cooked, and Rhea had a rock ready to cook flatbreads. She had taken the simple materials left to her and made order from them, and that was the spirit of striving.
"Come, my lord," she said, finally smiling at him. "My hearth is a simple one, but we shall find sustenance here."
"I need not opulence," he replied, stacking the wood carefully. This was much more to his tastes. "This is my birthplace," he said. "Juno chose it, seeing something special in these seven bare hills and the fertile river banks. Always I have come here and dreamed of people and farms and a gleaming white city, but never before have I found the means to make that a reality."
Rhea handed him a flatbread, fresh from the stone, and he paused a moment to bless it, before breaking it in half and handing a share back to her.
"I have heard your story, and it is my wish to found my city tonight," continued Mars. "If you will bear me a son, I shall see him here in my heartland, and you shall see your father avenged at his hand."
Rhea considered the bread in her hands. If it was not exactly the vengeance she would have chosen, her face showed no disappointment, and only calculation. Mars approved of her consideration. She did not appear governed by impulse.
"There will be a price," she said, "for Vesta is not a goddess to take my vow lightly, but it is one I am willing to pay." Mars said nothing, holding his half of the first bread and waiting for her decision.
She looked at him, full in his face, and he realised the power he had over her at that moment. She sat, alone, at his fire, in his cloak, cooking his meal. But he would let her make the decision that kept the prestige of her family, even if there was really no choice in it. This was the fateful moment for his future city, and as the fates gave, they demanded a price. He would also pay it, one day, even as Rhea would.
"My lord," she said, lifting the bread to her mouth and taking the first bite with small, sharp teeth. "Let us eat, and then let us found a city."
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The thin wail of infant screams alerted Mars, and he strode gratefully towards them. When he had found the house of Rhea Silvia empty, with the signs of recent childbirth and struggle, he had feared the worst, but a terrified gardener had told him that the babe had been taken, alive and wailing, to be exposed at the river. He had no news of the mother. Mars hoped that the shrill sounds of crying heralded his son, at least.
He found the swaddled bundle under a bush and pulled it forth, heedless of the scratches that rose on his arms from the thorns. His blood was a small enough price to pay, given that which Rhea Silvia had already spilled for the child. He pushed aside a fold of the fabric to look at his son's face and laughed softly. Two dark heads huddled together, his sons clinging to each other.
They quieted as he lifted them and held them close against his chest to warm them. He had expected to find them with their mother, suckling at her breast first in warmth and comfort, such as the exile and imprisonment of her uncle allowed, but it seemed his city insisted on endurance. He regretted arriving late at the house, and his decision not to ask his mother to attend the confinement; he had wished for his sons a joyous and peaceful birth. He spared a thought for Rhea Silvia, and hoped she had not found the price too high. He promised her, wherever she was, that he would keep his end of the bargain now.
The babies had been abandoned not far from his own sacred grove, and it was there that he headed now. He called to the woodland around him, letting the awareness of his godhead speak with all alive around them. He was not surprised to slip between the familiar trees of his grove and find a she wolf waiting patiently there for him.
He brought his sons to her and saw them latched to her teats. They would grow good and fat, until he found fosterage for them.
The wolf slunk away once they had their fill, but Mars knew she would return, having replenished herself on rabbits and goat. He laid a fire, dividing his attention between the wood and flint and his slumbering sons.
Once the fire was crackling and the grove warmed, he looked more closely at them, lifting them one at a time to admire their fat arms and the soft swirl of dark hair that crowned them. One had a birthmark, not unlike a wolf's paw, and Mars touched it gently.
"Remus," he said. "You are the wild one, aren't you? The space of woodland not in cultivation, and of all alive in it." He tucked him back into the cheap swaddling cloth and watched his face a moment. This child would see the hidden order of what grew where and why, and how the wind and soil worked with the hills to make a place. He would live in harmony with those rhythms. Mars hoped the child would feel the lands the way he did, from the tiny creatures of the soil to the new leaf unfurling to the sun in the canopy, and would see and honour the rules that governed them.
Mars lifted his other son and looked for his birthmark. A spear, long and heavy with a pyramidal tip, adorned him, and Mars rubbed his thumb over it gently, soothing his son as he made a face as if to cry.
"Romulus," Mars said. "The virtue of order imposed by people." This child would understand the two great human labours of warfare and agriculture, and how civil life must work to support them. The calendar made by men for the tasks of men would be his birthright, and Mars hoped he would see the cycle of the year and the values embedded in it.
His sons neatly wrapped and slumbering, Mars looked up at the sky and thought of the future. It was here, but it would not be simple to walk towards. He thought of his sons and the life of men that they represented, and the old familiar dream of a gleaming city spread over seven hills. He let both parts of his godhead sit close to him, both the awareness of the teeming land and the wild spaces, and the order constructed by men to make regular that wildness. And now he had two sons, one for each.
The wolf slunk back into the grove, willing to brave the fire for the will of Mars, and she curled close to his sons so they might huddle in her warmth. Tomorrow, he would find them fosterage, and set them on a path of a simple life, perhaps hard, full of work and the quiet joys of people everywhere. It would suit them.
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Mars was there, of course, standing at the entrance of his grove at the new laid altar. The sacrifices had been made and the plough was ready to pace out the planned walls. He watched the men gathered around, not far from him, the two dark heads of his sons in the middle. The sun shone on them, bright and warm for the first day of spring and the first day of the new city. Mars let the men prepare and impose their order. It was a day he'd long waited for, and he could wait a little longer for them to be ready. First they would harness the two oxen, specially feed and hung with garlands, and then they would walk down from the grove and mark out the square for their first walls.
A sudden press of the men together and raised voices made his smile fade a little. His sons were not always in accord, but he had hoped they could get through the rituals of creating a new civil space without strife. It seemed he always hoped too much. He could not tell, from the press of voices and men, what exactly the argument was, but, having witnessed many, he could make some guesses.
The two parts of his nature lay side by side in him, both important and honoured, both leading to the virtues of a life lived correctly. But his sons had never been able to see the way that order threaded through all the earth, both the wild and the built. He let the men separate his sons, waiting for them to find the accord they needed. The little knot broke apart, his two sons stepping away from each other.
Romulus turned, and Mars caught a glimpse of his face. So serious, this child, so determined to do correctly all the things that made propriety, and with little regard for the hidden regularity and rules of that which was uncultivated. His breath caught as Romulus shrugged off the hand of his advisor, his own hand dropping instead to his belt and the knife held there.
"I can stand this no longer," Romulus said, turning to face his brother and all those assembled. "I shall be patient no longer. Brother, you must yield to me and to the right laws and systems of this city of men."
Remus shrugged off the hands of his own closest advisors and friends and turned towards his brother. His face was hard with anger, and Mars found it hard to remember the joy he'd shown just that morning at the sacrifices.
"It is good to hear you name your anger," said Remus, "but I shall not yield. You are wrong: this city's laws and systems are not wholly for the world of men, and you must respect the order of all life."
"I shall not," said Romulus. He jerked his knife free from his belt and stepped forward. "One of us shall be proved right, and the other shall be part of the blood spilled for the foundation of this great city."
In vain did the men assembled there work to bring peace between the brothers. Mars stood fixed in pace, watching the quarrel escalate, the two sides too different to reconcile. He thought of the night he had made these children, and the price he had agreed to pay to the fates for giving them to him. It seemed that the fates were ready to collect, and he found the price high and grieved for it.
Men turned to him in supplication, but he understood now the long working of fate that had given him two sons, and the inevitability of losing one. He made no move to intervene, not to remonstrate, nor to give his blessing to either. Even a god must yield to fate, and he would let this play out.
They formed a rough circle on the grass, standing in uneasy silence. No man cheered, but cold anger burned through both Romulus and Remus. They fought bitterly, roughly, with every trick of their lifetime together. Mars thought of all the times they had raced and sparred and played together, and hoped, vainly, that this would end the same, in a draw and renewed bonds.
At last, one prevailed, and the other slumped to the ground.
"I shall take this throne," said Romulus, stepping over his brother's corpse. "This city shall grow strong in the richness of our land and the strength of our spears. We shall have order."
Mars bowed his head, looking at the fresh green grass rather than his son's body, feeling already the kindly creatures of Ops coming to consume him into the earth. The sense faded from him, and he took a deep breath. The soil under his feet became just a resource of silt and loam and blood, and he relinquished the slow rhythm of the earth. The wild spaces were gone from him.
"It is as the king says," he agreed, letting his godhead wrap around him like a cloak. He would be a father of orderliness and honour for this city. "As the king, so the city, so the world."