The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (35 page)

Marcus began to rise but she kept her hand on his arm to delay him. “You’ve told me Drusus loved Caecilia but you still haven’t told me why you love him.”

His brow creased. “Why is it so important to you?”

“
Because I want to understand why he is worthy to be cherished.” She ran her fingers over one of his metal wristbands. “I want to know why there are cuts in flesh that is protected by bronze.”

He extended his arms, rotating them as he examined them. Then he eased back in his seat and sighed. “It goes back to our childhood. Drusus had little tenderness in his life. I fear the seed of violence was planted in him by a father who used his fists on his wife and daughters. And beat his only son when he tried to defend them. Drusus’ body and face were always covered with both faded and fresh bruises.” He rubbed the scar that puckered the corner of his eye. “And so when Claudius Senior died, I was glad to see the man who never spoke a sweet word smothered in honey and wine when they interred his ashes.”

Pinna was stunned. She tried to reconcile the image of the battered boy with that of her assailant. Yet the legacy of hurt did not excuse Drusus’ crime against her. “You say you met when you were young.”

“
Yes, at school. Drusus was long-limbed, awkward and had faltering speech—a boy born to be mocked despite his height and weight and temper. And restlessness dogged him. He always fidgeted in his chair and called out constantly. Unfortunately, when he was teased he retaliated with such ferocity his bullies became victims, and punishment was exacted on him alone.

“
I was the opposite. You might not believe it now but I was smaller than most. And the other boys disliked me for knowing answers that they struggled to remember. The stem of a stylus, not the haft of a spear, centered me then. Of course, that was not good enough for my father. I’ll never forget the day I donned a man’s toga at fourteen. He opened our ancestor cupboard to show me the death masks of Aemilian consuls, judges, magistrates and generals. Then he declared his dream. He wanted me to be the youngest of our family to hold supreme office.” He uttered a wry laugh. “After that I was glad such heroes were only displayed on special occasions. I was sure they had judged me and found me wanting.”

Pinna frowned. She could not understand Marcus’ apprehension. Over the past year she’d learned he was well qualified to meet Aemilius’ expectations. After all, he was a decorated war hero at twenty. And yet she knew he felt the pressure to drape a candidate’s white toga around him and climb the Honored Way to a consulship. He’d often mentioned the need to capture fame when frustrated that Camillus would not engage the Faliscans. All Romans aspired to glory. It made a warrior manly. It added to family prestige. It gave an advantage in elections. The distinction of his great-uncle, Mamercus Aemilius, was a shadow as much as a beacon. “So how did you become friends when you were quiet and he was rowdy?”

For a moment Marcus’ gaze grew distant as though not just recalling but reliving a memory. Pinna gently prompted him to continue. He focused on her again.

“
Drusus was often bullied at school. I was, too, but for different reasons. And so we formed an alliance and then a friendship. One day after being taunted by another boy he stood up without permission and threw his writing tablet across the classroom. His tormentor went unseen by the teacher. Nor did he confess. Of course Drusus was ordered to be beaten. I could not bear the injustice so I championed him, challenging the pedagogue’s judgment. As a result I was also birched.”

Pinna thought of all the times she’d borne the brunt of her father’s unfair beltings. Marcus’ story of schoolboy punishment seemed scant reason for his lifelong devotion to his friend. “You stood up for Drusus. But what did he do for you that you so admire him?”

Marcus rubbed his scar again. “Because of what we shared that day. For I became the whipping tree over which Drusus was splayed to receive the caning. I was forced to bend my knees to brace his weight and pull his arms over my shoulders so he was stretched naked across my back. And then I had to listen to the sound of the switch as it rushed downwards, the thwack as it split his skin, Drusus holding his breath, neither crying out nor weeping. He trembled though. He could not hide that.

“
I was not as brave. Drusus also acted as a tripod as I was thrashed. His blood was slick against my chest as I lay upon him. What agony he must have felt with my body upon his torn flesh. My tears must have been hot against his neck, my sobs loud in his ears. But after the punishment he whispered, ‘One day we will be mighty generals, and this pedant will be nothing.’”

Imagining their pain and mortification, Pinna was confused to see Marcus smiling.

“
Afterwards, as we bathed each other’s stripes, Drusus mimicked the teacher’s reedy voice. He made me laugh despite my tears. From that day onwards we made a pact to always protect each other. And when we offered the clippings from our first beards to the gods and truly became men, we swore an oath always to guard each other in battle.”

“
One to which you have held true. Didn’t you gain an oak leaf crown for saving his life at Anxur and holding ground until the conflict was over?”

His usual modesty emerged. “Not for any lack of courage on Drusus’ part. His horse had been killed and his shoulder was dislocated in the fall so he could not raise his shield to defend himself. And his calf muscle was sliced to the bone, leaving him crippled too.”

Pinna had heard other soldiers professing that Drusus was brave. He had a reputation for never resiling from danger. Yet the risks he took were rash, giving equal balance to the chance of glory or disaster. He put the lives of his men in peril also, pushing them without praise. Pinna sensed they were wary of him. His zeal did not always impress Camillus either. He wanted his officers to be calculated in their war lust. It was clear he liked Marcus for his fearless but measured mien. “Even so, you showed the greater valor on that day.”

Marcus shook his head. “It was more a case of nerves giving birth to courage. I managed to fend off three Volscians and drag Drusus to safety, then went back to continue fighting till the enemy was defeated. And all I could think as I rejoined my unit was that, despite our pact, one of us could die and one survive even as we fought shoulder to shoulder.” He turned to her abruptly and held both her hands. “The thought he might be lost to me terrifies me more than the fear of dying. I would rather be dead than live without him.”

This time it was the girl who looked down, unable to cope with his devotion. She suspected Drusus no longer felt bound by an oath made on the verge of manhood. “But Marcus, I don’t think he feels the same way. I think he now begrudges you delivering him from danger.”

He stood up, knocking over his stool. “You know nothing.”

“
Don’t I? Drusus owes his life to you. The burden of repaying such a debt can foster resentment as well as gratitude.”

“
That’s not true. He knows I don’t consider him obligated. And it would be the same if our positions were reversed.”

Pinna stood as well. “Drusus is not like you.”

“
And you are colored in your judgment.”

He stepped away and picked up his shield. Pinna felt helpless. “Please listen. You are blind to his failings and his envy! Even today he was aggrieved that the general did not recruit him to act as a diplomat. He knows Drusus would repel, not attract, possible supporters. Don’t you see that your friend seethes with jealousy every time he is overlooked and you are chosen?”

“
Enough!” His face was white, the pockmarks on his cheeks clear against his pallor, the scar on his neck livid.

Pinna obeyed, sensing that words of placation would only rile him.

Marcus adjusted his belt, ramming his sword into its scabbard and slinging his shield over his shoulder with a scrape of metal and squeak of leather. “Never speak to me of such things again. Drusus is loyal.”

Anxious not to part on bad terms, Pinna hurried to fetch his helmet and pack some provisions before bidding him a farewell. “Be careful, Marcus. The roads are dangerous. There may be raiding parties between here and Rome.”

He remained gruff. “I will be back soon enough.” Then, to her surprise, he held her upper arms. “Be warned, Pinna. I can see you are enamored of Furius Camillus. But to all in this camp you are my concubine. And remember you are indebted to me. I don’t want to return to find you’ve been unfaithful—or that you have betrayed my secret.”

Once again she claimed innocence but was nonplussed that her desire for Camillus was so obvious. “I only tend to his headaches. I would not do anything to dishonor you. Nor would the general.”

As she helped him put on his cloak, she smoothed the material across his shoulders. “You saved my life, too. I pledge my fidelity to you.”

He pulled away as though scalded by her touch. “Oh, but that allegiance comes at a price, remember?”

Pinna burned inside. His words were hurtful despite their truth. His earlier declaration of friendship had been retracted. She’d forgotten that the foundation upon which their confidences were shared was fragile and based on desperation: his to hide a vice, hers to escape degradation. “I swear I will never betray your secret.”

Marcus paused. She could tell he was weighing her words and still found her lacking.

“
I don’t believe you.”

She watched him throw back the tent flap and stride away, wanting to run after him and convince him that she was truly loyal. And to beg him to let her repair the flimsy bond she had broken between them.

Glossary

Cast

Semni found Arruns training at dawn in the brief coolness between stifling night and searing day. He was practicing with his spear on the small patch of lawn beside the stable. His lance thudded against the wooden wall. The tip embedded deeply, vibrating with the impact. The freshly splintered row of gouges in the timber was evidence he’d thrown it many times.

When he walked back to retrieve it, she expected the Phoenician to yank out the javelin but instead he gripped the haft with one hand then laid his forearm against the wall, resting his brow against it.

His despondency was disconcerting. Here was a man who prided himself on repressing emotion. He did not seek companionship, either, encouraging people to be wary.

Conscious that she was as much an intruder upon his mood as his exercise, the girl hesitated to disturb him. She heaved Nerie higher on her hip. The one-year-old had laid his head on her shoulder, sucking his thumb. When he saw Arruns, though, he raised his head and pointed. “Roons! Roons!”

The guard spun around then turned back to the wall to pull out the spear. “What are you doing here, Semni?”

She lowered her son to the ground. He tottered like a little drunkard towards the man who crouched then swung the infant onto his bare shoulders. Nerie squealed and tapped Arruns’ shaven head as if it was a drum, unperturbed that his fingers were also touching the head of a serpent.

“
Cook is punishing me. Setting me to work on the hand mill. I bet it was Cytheris’ idea.”

“
What did you do this time?”

She stuck out her chin. “I haven’t got into trouble for ages!”

Arruns said nothing as he lifted Nerie over his head and set him down. The boy sat with a bump onto his bottom and promptly raised his arms.

Ignoring him, the guard lay on his stomach on the grass and began doing push-ups. Thinking it a game, Nerie climbed onto his back. Arruns bore his weight as if the tot was a fly. The child giggled each time the man raised and lowered himself, slipping off and then climbing on again.

Semni ladled some grain from an amphora into the stone hopper of the quern. She was not looking forward to the monotony of turning the handle round and round for the next few hours. And so she dallied, pretending to ready herself but instead studying the Phoenician with surreptitious glances. She had not chosen daybreak to work just for its coolness. She knew Arruns always trained at that time. His master might have been absent but the guard needed to remain fit to protect Mastarna’s family.

Most women recoiled from him, seeing him only as a hired killer. Yet it was this sense of danger that attracted Semni. His latent power. The broad fingers that carefully held her son’s frail body could also pummel someone when curled into fists. She imagined them upon her, perhaps gentle, perhaps rough. Either way she grew excited.