The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (50 page)

Barging through the masses, Arruns bellowed for the people to stand aside. The crowd parted. The bodyguard and his mistress made their way to the wall.

There were archers stationed along the rampart, and she could see others on the bastions projecting from the curtain wall. Kurvenas’ men. There were more atop the two pylons that flanked the entrance, the stone lions decorating them keeping vigil. She frowned when she saw that the bowmen were passive. She was reassured, though, that there were rows of soldiers assembled behind the inner door of the double gates, carrying aloft the standard of Vipinas’ clan.

Using his shoulder, the Phoenician shoved his way up the long rampart’s slope to the bulwark where the lucumo and his advisers were gathered.

The king’s lictors barred them. Arruns placed Caecilia on the ground.

“
Let me through!”

The guards looked doubtful, rods and axes raised to defend their ruler. If she was not so distraught she would have thought such security laughable against a wan, frail woman. Her tone changed to entreaty. “Please, I merely wish to speak to the king about my husband.”

More hesitation and then they relented. Caecilia was allowed to pass, Arruns restrained.

The war horns were louder here. Strident. Brassy. And she could hear the noise of battle rising from beyond the walls: men shouting, the clash of metal and screaming. The breastwork was too high for her to see over it. A pulse beat at her temple as she realized Vel was on the other side.

In the lee of ashlar blocks, Kurvenas and Vipinas were arguing, beads of moisture coating their cloaks and hair, droplets of rain showering them with each gust of wind. The king’s arms were crossed, chest pushed forward. Vipinas’ shoulders were hunched, his wheezing voice loud. Caecilia had seen the lean old man offended and forceful before but now his fury was patent. She searched for Artile, frowning when she found him absent.

Sethre stood next to his father, the bruising on his face less noticeable but the skin around his eyes still puffy. He was transfixed on another warrior sitting on a stool, his armor grimy and bloodstained. A wound on his thigh was bleeding. He was also shouting. It was Tarchon.

Pushing through the bronze-clad officers surrounding the king, Caecilia knelt and threw her arms around him. Startled, Tarchon reared back but then embraced her. There was an earthy smell of drain water about him.

“
How did you get here?”

“
Through the tunnel to the postern gate. Mastarna sent me ahead to call for reinforcements.”

She examined the gash. “You are hurt.”

He grimaced. “I’ll survive.”

She hugged him again. “So Vel is alive?”

Tarchon drew her from him. “Kurvenas is ensuring that he dies. Mastarna’s cavalry broke through Genucius’ forces at the bridge and planned to charge the Roman phalanx from behind. But then Camillus launched a surprise assault, giving the opportunity for some of Genucius’ troops to turn and block our horsemen. Our infantry is now squeezed between both Roman armies on the plain. And Genucius has ordered all his cavalry and skirmishers to attack Mastarna. Our knights are stranded between the river and the city, and are heavily outnumbered.” He pointed to the lucumo. “If this coward does not send reinforcements or open the gates they will be slaughtered.”

Bewildered at his news, Caecilia rose and faced the king. Her hand trembled as she rested it on Tarchon’s shoulder. “Why won’t you send assistance?”

Kurvenas ignored her. Talking strategy to a woman was beneath him. He yelled at his lictors. “Get her out of here!”

Vipinas moved to Caecilia’s side and fronted the monarch as well. “Why not answer her? It is her husband’s fate you determine today.”

The ruler was disdainful. “Mastarna has failed. There are two enemy forces out there. Why should I risk Veii by opening the gates and letting her people swarm over this city?”

Before Caecilia could protest Vipinas challenged him again. “I’ve already told you. The Roman hoplites are still engaged beyond the bridge. At this stage only their cavalry and leves have been sent to slay those that are caught beneath the city wall. My men are already marshaled. Let me march to help Mastarna, or at least allow his troops to retreat inside.”

“
And you think your men can defeat two armies?”

The nobleman drew himself erect. “At least we can show our foe we are not afraid.”

Kurvenas flicked his head, smoothing his hand over his damp hair, vain even in crisis. “Veii is safe behind ditch, mound and walls. It’s no use adding to the casualties by ordering another of our armies to venture out.”

Vipinas’ hands were shaking, voice cracked. “At least let me die saving my grandson!”

Too consumed with her own concern over Vel, Caecilia had forgotten Caile. She understood how the grandfather was feeling—the shock that a loved one would die while they stood helpless behind masonry.

When Kurvenas failed to respond, the princip left Caecilia’s side and strode over to him. “Then at least allow Mastarna’s cavalry to retreat inside! The lock of the double gates will protect us from the Romans should they follow. Our archers can keep them at bay while our soldiers enter the space between inner and outer doors. Then we can let our men inside once the area is secured.”

The king stood over him, snarling. “Can’t you hear me, old man? I’ll not risk Veii being overrun. I have given my command.”

Vipinas’ usually waxen skin suffused with color, but before he could respond Tarchon staggered to his feet, blood flowing down his thigh. “You do this because you want Mastarna dead. You have never forgiven him for defying you.” He leaned against Caecilia. She lurched. Sethre stepped forward, hooking Tarchon’s arm over his shoulder. The lovers smiled at each other, a fleeting glance of affection passing between them.

At the sight, Kurvenas wrenched Sethre back towards him. “Get away from that molles!”

Suddenly deprived of support, Tarchon toppled. He groaned as Caecilia helped him onto the stool. Swearing beneath his breath he studied Sethre, realizing their liaison was no longer secret. Misery exuded from the youth, his shoulders slumping.

Kurvenas loomed over the injured man. “I’m going to throw you over the wall so a Roman can stick his sword into your gullet—if you survive the fall.”

“
No, Father!” As Sethre called out, Kurvenas cuffed him, sending him reeling.

Seeing his beloved struck, Tarchon made the effort to stand again, stooped over in pain. “Punish me but leave your son alone! I will gladly join Mastarna. At least it will be an honorable death.”

Caecilia slid her hand into his. She felt a tremor run through him, his bravery forced. And yet she admired him. Tarchon always impressed her with unexpected displays of valor.

Anger surged, too. The pulse throbbing in her head matched the frantic beating of her heart. Out on the plain, and just beyond the walls, Mastarna and his clansmen were being slain to satisfy one man’s revenge. “Why not cast me over the wall, too? Why not make it clear that your decision is based as much on vengeance as it is on caution.”

Kurvenas sneered. “Rash defiance as usual, Aemilia Caeciliana? The thought is tempting, but I’m not inclined to provoke outrage by throwing a woman onto a battlefield. Not even a traitoress. As I’ve said before, I prefer Rome to exact its own punishment on you. And make no mistake, by the end of today I will send you back to your city. And your husband will not be here to hinder me.”

Caecilia sighed in disgust. The well-worn threat was irrelevant compared to her despair that Vel was going to die.

Vipinas grabbed Kurvenas’ arm. “Are you confirming that this is personal retribution? Would you have Caile die, too, because you hate Mastarna?”

At the princip’s action the lictors seized him, not prepared to allow him to touch their king. Vipinas collapsed into a coughing fit, striving to gain breath between his words. Phlegm rattled in his throat. Caecilia knew the sound. It was more than illness. It hinted of death. The death her father suffered.

Vainly struggling against his captors, the lord glared at the lucumo. “Is this revenge against me as well? For not supporting the Clan Tulumnes in the past? I should never have agreed for a monarch to be elected again.”

She felt pity for him. This man’s son had died fighting for Veii when only eighteen. Now his daughter’s child would be slain also. A dynasty lost. Just as Caecilia had felt powerless when faced with Artile’s ultimatum, she could see emotion working within the old warrior, how he was grinding his false teeth, eyes hard with hatred. No doubt he had braced himself many times to hear his grandson had fallen—but not in this way. Not when Caile could so easily be saved.

The king signaled the lictors to release the nobleman. Vipinas straightened and readjusted his robes, the cloth darkened with wetness under the steadily increasing rain.

“
You are mistaken, Vipinas,” said Kurvenas. “I make this decision for Veii. Your grandson will be remembered for dying with courage.”

Sethre found his voice, still prepared to question his father. “Please, Father, at least command the archers to let loose volleys. It might drive the Romans away.” The youth’s determination made Caecilia realize that perhaps Tarchon had taught the boy to be a man. That perhaps her stepson had been a true mentor after all. The thought reminded her of Artile. Where was the haruspex?

Kurvenas was dismissive. “Don’t be stupid. A barrage isn’t going to repel the enemy for long. And our horsemen below could be pierced by our own arrows.”

Tarchon snorted. “Yet you’d allow them to be killed by Roman spears.”

The ruler flinched and squared his shoulders as he shouted to his bodyguards, “Pitch the molles over the wall.”

Caecilia felt Tarchon tense beside her. She squeezed his hand. She was not sure if his palm was moist from water or sweat. He glanced down at her, his expression grim, his beautiful face streaked with grime and rain. He was about to be murdered by a mad man after surviving years of fighting. Before the lictors could seize him, though, Sethre stood in front of him. “Please, Father, I beseech you. Spare him … or … or … I will kill myself.”

Caecilia felt sorry for the youth. His display of manliness had been brief. His earnest plea seemed childish. It had the same plaintive note that she’d heard from her own children. Behind him, Tarchon was wise enough to counsel his beloved to be silent.

Kurvenas shoved the youth aside with a clip to the head. “Be quiet! I’m ashamed of you.” He gestured to one of his lictors. “Guard my son.” The black-clad man seized the youth by the arms. Sethre tried to thrust him aside without success. “I will never forgive you, Father. I will hate you always.” His voice rose in pitch. “And so will the people.”

To her surprise, Kurvenas paused. And at his hesitation Vipinas pressed the point. “Your son is right. Your subjects might forgive you for sacrificing men for the sake of the city—but killing Mastarna’s son at the same time as his father is dying for Veii? The people will see you as a tyrant as base as Tulumnes. And remember what happened to him.”

The drizzle was heavier. The king’s armor was glistening, his hair slick from both unguents and rain. Wiping his dripping face, he showed he was canny despite his quest for vengeance. “Very well, Vipinas. I will spare him such a death.”

“
Thank you, Father, thank you.” The lictor allowed Sethre to kneel and pay homage.

Kurvenas raised the youth to his feet. “I have not finished with this dog, do you understand? I will deal with him later.”

Sethre cast an agonized glance at his lover. Ashen, Tarchon nodded shaky reassurance. Seeing the exchange the lucumo roared. “Take the soft creature away.”

Despite pain and loss of blood, Tarchon held himself with dignity as the lictors seized him. “Be brave, Caecilia,” he called over his shoulder as, limping, they dragged him away. “Mastarna would expect it.”

Kurvenas now concentrated on her. “Take the woman, too.”

Caecilia shied away when a lictor tried to seize her with his calloused hand. “No! Let me stand upon the rampart. Let me see my husband one last time.”

Bent over from wheezing, Vipinas moved to her. “I do not think that is wise. Do you really want to watch Mastarna die?”

Smug and implacable, the king smiled as he interrupted the princip. “On the contrary, Lord Vipinas,” he said, rubbing the groove of scar on his bearded chin. “I think that it is an excellent idea.”

Glossary

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