The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (10 page)

Glossary

Cast

Pinna was a night moth. A tomb whore surviving outside the city wall of Rome. Hiding in the darkness. Drawn to the light but knowing it brought danger. Destined to live a life that was sorrowful and brief.

For her, winter brought a special cruelty. The wind was bitter and the cold seeped from the earth to chill the marrow. Her clothes were sodden: fingers icy and painful from chilblains, lips blue and ringed with sores.

She worked as a hired mourner also. She could not afford to shun the chance to earn money at the funerals of patricians in the daylight or well-off plebeians in the night. She did not care whether it was noble or common ash that landed upon her skin, as long as she could support herself and Fusca, her poor sad mother. Although neither job ever paid enough to quell the hunger pangs for long or allow her to escape to a world where her skin was not tinged gray or her clothes dyed darkly.

Tonight she welcomed the chance to lament the death of a wealthy plebeian. She did not mind caking her hair in ashes or wearing sackcloth when it meant that, for a few hours, she could warm herself beside the flames of a burning bier. Hovering close to the fire, she tried to ignore how it roasted the pale anointed body, the unguents a macabre seasoning to dead flesh. Yet when the flames seized a pocket of fat or worried at sinew she winced at how it popped and sizzled. Covering her nose and mouth could not block the stench or taste of cooking viscera saturating the smoke.

And it was with bitterness that she watched the women of the family douse the embers, knowing that cold would soon creep into her bones again just as heat had cracked and charred the corpse’s. Resentful that honey and oil would be used to steep the ashes rather than feed a shivering girl. Aggrieved also that the sacrificial sow would only be consumed amongst the family once the deceased’s portion was burned upon the pyre.

Wintertime was always busy for a hired mourner. All those dead soldiers. Dead heroes. Yet, although she might be paid to mourn for a fallen warrior, the men she serviced were not rich enough to ever wield weapons. Poor men, slaves and bondsmen spent their paltry wages to use her. The low life of Rome could not afford to be choosy. The lee of a doorway of a rich man’s tomb was cover enough for her to give a hand to a needy man or kneel before him.

After the family of the dead man departed to inter the remains, Pinna steeled herself, knowing she had yet to earn enough that night. Holding aloft a feeble lantern to attract customers, she formed a tiny shrine with pebbles and a stub of candle, leaving a paltry offering to Mater Matuta, the goddess of dawn. She renewed her contract daily with the deity, promising she would revere her if she raised her to a brothel whore so she could enjoy shelter while bearing the weight of men upon her. She did not forget to flatter the Shades of the Dead either as she worked among them, calling them good, as all do.

Hunched against the wall outside the city’s sacred boundary, Pinna hoped the oil in her lantern would last the night. At least little Lacerta brought her comfort. The tiny lizard kept on a string around her neck scampered beneath her tunic and the crevice between her breasts. It was her only friend, gaining warmth and food even though fidelity was at the end of a tether. It shared space with the fascinum charm Pinna wore to ward off ghouls and flesh-eating witches who squabbled with phantoms in the darkness.

This tiny phallus was not potent enough, though, to protect her from the urgent hunger and mean souls of her clients. Both men and specters could make her blood quiver and raise goose bumps upon her skin.

When lightning flared she could not bring herself to continue plying her trade. The fear of being seared by a storm bolt struck her with terror. As thunder erupted, she ran through the rows of tombs towards home, the wind blowing out her lamp.

As the storm lit the Campus Martius she huddled for a moment outside a crypt of the Claudian clan. The tomb was built from marble with a boar’s crest emblazoned upon it, impressive as the history of this family. Hoping to gain shelter, she edged towards its entrance only to find a light within. Crouching inside were two young men, the fineness of their woolen cloaks and the cut of their tunics declaring they were noblemen, not grave robbers.

As she hid beside the opening, curiosity overcame fear. Inside, a lantern was propped on a shelf, which housed a line of urns as though their ashy occupants were on parade. One man, lean and angular, was absorbed in writing upon a beaten sheet of lead, his auburn hair common to a descendant of the Sabines. The other watched him, the lines of his face somber with concentration, the bridge of his nose scarred, the skin puckered at the corner of his eye.

Around her, shadows stained surfaces from gray to pitch. Pinna could see the russet-haired man was inscribing a message, laboring over the task as would a schoolboy with stylus and wax tablet. There was anger in the strokes as he gripped the pen. Her eyes widened. What he was doing was forbidden. And she knew why he had to be careful. Casting a curse was a serious business. Carving damnation upon a lead defixio sheet needed precision if a guarantee of harm was to be achieved.

“
It’s finished, Marcus. Now I’ll add it to the others so that he will be thrice cursed.” He turned to the wall of the crypt where two other defixios had already been nailed.

His friend was frowning as he examined the two aging leaden sheets spiked to the brickwork. “When did you write these?”

The patrician’s reply was bitter. “The first one on the night he wed her. The second, a year later, when she chose to return to the Veientane and this war began.”

Marcus grimaced, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. “I’m ashamed of what she did to you, Drusus. Ashamed also of how Caecilia disgraced the Aemilian family and dishonored our clan. Choosing Veii over Rome. Him over you.”

Drusus picked up the defixio. “She also insulted the Claudians when she spurned me. The Etruscan may have corrupted her but she’s a degenerate, too. She is dead to me and should suffer when her husband is destroyed. I pray this curse comes true.”

Marcus placed his hand over his friend’s. “But are you sure you want to do this? Curse a man? The penalty is death if this is discovered.”

The Claudian slid his hand away and brandished the leaden sheet. “It’s not a citizen but an enemy of Rome I seek to doom. And don’t worry. If I ever get the chance I will relish killing him. In the meantime, why not invoke evil spirits to plague a foe?”

Marcus prized the defixio from his friend’s fingers. “Then let me read it aloud. They say a hex is stronger that way. If he is to be condemned then let it be done with vehemence.”

His voice was earnest, steady; the words chilling. “I consecrate Vel Mastarna to damnation. May his mind and soul be tormented, his body twisted and shattered, his tongue cut out and his ears and eyes pierced by hot pokers. And if he has, or shall have, any money or inheritance, may they be lost, and his entire house be stricken with disaster and destruction.”

Drusus smiled as he listened to this relegation of an enemy to darkness. “Then you think it is enough?”

Marcus nodded as he handed Drusus the sheet. “Yes, it is enough. It is no small thing to wish such a fate upon a man.”

It had begun to rain, making Pinna creep further inside. She shivered. It was not a Roman name but it was a Roman curse. Brutal and annihilating. And she understood the reason, and why Marcus Aemilius would disown his cousin. Vel Mastarna and Aemilia Caeciliana. Their names would be linked forever. An enemy and a traitoress.

Their wedding day was one that Pinna would remember always, but for a very different reason, because it was on that summer’s day, at the age of eleven, that she became a whore.

Unlike others, she did not watch the wedding procession wind its way through the crowded streets, nor did she spy the groom’s caravan departing the next day on its journey to Veii. Although she heard later that both were solemn proceedings since many felt sorry that Aemilia Caeciliana was being married to an enemy to seal a truce. But not Pinna. She felt too sorry for herself. Pinna did not see them because she needed to take advantage of the crowd. A state occasion was good for business.

At eleven she was too young to be a wife. Not too young, though, to remain a virgin. The stonemason’s son who picked his ears and tasted of stone dust claimed that prize in an awkward coupling. It had made Pinna wonder why women would seek a repetition unless they were paid. Until she slept with a customer and knew that no amount of bronze would ever be enough.

Her first was a fat oaf who hummed before, during and after. A thin little whine that set her teeth on edge, a tuneless melody to accompany his groping. At least the next was quick on a day that seemed to last forever as one man after another taught her what was expected of a harlot. And over the years she had borne the same and worse
.
But not Aemilia Caeciliana. In that time she fell in love with a foe and started a war.

Marcus placed his hand on Drusus’ back. “Forget Caecilia. Think instead of how we will tear down Veii’s wall.”

Drusus shrugged him away. “Only if Camillus is given the chance to lead an assault! I’m sick of lesser generals commanding us at Veii. And now we will have to wait another year for him to be given the chance to be elected as one of the six consular generals.”

The muscles in Marcus’ shoulders tensed. “Don’t forget my father is one of those ‘lesser’ men. I am proud of serving under him. He gained more ground this year than any other commander.”

Drusus flushed crimson as he stammered: “I meant no offense. General Aemilius is a fine man. I’ve learned much from him. But neither he nor any other of our leaders have taken Veii. It’s time Camillus is given the task.” Suddenly his voice no longer faltered. “You have to admit there is fire in him. Look how he succeeded against the Volscians this year.”

Marcus smiled. “I agree. He has the power to lead men to victory. It would be a privilege to be under his command,” he continued. “But it is unlikely that would ever happen. My father would never approve.”

A sheet of lightning pierced the inner darkness, cutting short any reminiscences. Marcus drew his cloak around him. “It’s time to leave. Nail the curse to the wall and let us be gone.”

Drusus shook his head. “You go. I want to stay a little longer.”

Worried Marcus would discover her as he left, Pinna stepped back outside, flattening herself against the shadows of the tomb wall. She smiled to see the Aemilian shiver from more than cold as he quickened his step to dodge any tortured spirits that might detain him.

The rain was steady, the water trickling down the back of her neck to mingle with the ash on her skin. She was quaking too. A layer of sackcloth did little to ward off the cold. Thunder grumbled, encouraging her once again to take up her position within the crypt. Drawn to watch.

Drusus had taken another sheet of lead from his cloak. His list of enemies must indeed have been long. Growing bolder, she crept closer, peering over to his handiwork. The words were cut deep with the force of frustration and, surprisingly, for an educated man, his lettering was crude.

This time tears flowed as he wrote. This time his fingers trembled as he held the stylus. She was confused at how determined he was to use the defixios. Rich young officers were expected to defeat their enemies in battle, not by calling on dark fate to stab them in the back.

Intent on his task, he did not notice her. His tongue was pushed into one cheek as though he had eaten a slice of apple. A frown split his brow, his eyelashes stuck with wetness. A snail’s trail of clear snot was smeared along the top of his lip where he had wiped his nose.

Pinna wondered who could cause a soldier to weep even as he damned them, but as Drusus read his sentence aloud, one finger painstakingly tracing the words, she was stunned. It was no curse but an enchantment.

“
May Aemilia Caeciliana burn with dreams. Let her feel aflame for Drusus so that she may know love, and Drusus peace.”

He must have heard her surprise. He lifted his head, voice wavering and his neck tensing as though the hair was rising on his skin. “Who’s there?”

Too frightened to speak she turned to flee, but the man crossed the gap between them in one stride and dragged her into the lantern light. He was lean, raw-boned and strong, filling the cramped space in the low-ceilinged chamber. Realizing a mere night moth was observing him rather than a Shade, his arrogance emerged. “You little slut, how long have you been listening?”

She was filled with a familiar sense of dread, sensing there was an edge to this man, a tinge of violence, a need for power—even over a night moth of eighteen.