The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (53 page)

The horns continued. A call for retreat. The Romans responded, withdrawing at pace to avoid bombardment.

Her relief caused Caecilia to sway with dizziness. Arruns steadied her as he balanced the shield above them. Recovering, she laughed in astonishment, realizing that Vel was safe, that they would be reunited. To gain his attention she screamed so loudly her throat and lungs hurt. It was to no avail. The wind and hail deadened the sound. She waved frantically, still yelling. The bodyguard joined her, his voice loud and abrasive over her high-pitched cries.

The movement of the solitary figures on the rampart caught Mastarna’s eye. He looked towards them and raised his hand despite the hail striking his helmet and armor. The thrill of gaining his attention was exquisite.

Her delight was short-lived. From the direction of the conflict on the plain, a lone Roman knight was braving the weather on his skittish steed. He plowed through the current of withdrawing troops, not heeding the call, instead searching among the corpses of his countrymen—until he spied Mastarna.

To her dismay he spurred his horse through the sheet of white towards her wounded husband.

She clutched Arruns’ arm. “Help him!” Yet even as she uttered the command she knew she might be condemning him to death. The height of the wall was great. The jump could kill him.

Arruns nodded. He had been too long a nursemaid. He wanted to be a warrior again. Then she saw him hesitate. To leave meant denying her protection. The shield was too heavy for her to hold. “Go,” she urged.

With the grace of a panther, he sprung from the rampart over the wall. The drop to the mud-filled ditch below was nearly thirty feet. To her horror, he hit the soggy ground hard and pitched forward. Caecilia’s stomach lurched when he did not recover. She’d thought Arruns indestructible. Shock set in at the sight of his motionless body being struck by the ice.

She dragged her eyes back to the battlefield, panic rising. The Roman was drawing closer, spear held aloft.

Mastarna was now aware of his stalker. He hauled his shield from the wet earth with his good arm, and heaved it up to cover his body, staggering a step from the effort and weight. Caecilia’s chest hurt, anxiety tearing her insides. With his right arm useless by his side, Vel had no way to wield a weapon against the horseman. Instead he would be vulnerable to a spear thrust from the knight as he made a pass on his stallion.

Caecilia uttered little cries of pain as the hailstones beat upon her head and shoulders, hands and back. But still she kept watching her husband. She could scarce believe she was going to see him die after all. She gripped the rough edges of the ashlar wall as the cavalryman advanced. There was something familiar about him. Poise in his stature and confidence in his riding.

For the second time that day Caecilia reeled with surprise. There was a horse emblem on the soldier’s shield and corselet. The Aemilian crest. The knight was Marcus.

Two ghosts from her past had come to haunt her. Drusus and now her cousin. It was the first time she’d seen Marcus in nine years. Her tension eased, glimpsing hope. They had been so close. Surely he would not murder her husband?

Suddenly the hailstorm ceased as swiftly as it had started. The wind dropped, the rain eased to a drizzle. And in the lull came a strangled cry as Marcus spied Drusus.

Kicking his stallion’s sides, he circled Mastarna. Yet Marcus did not take advantage of attacking from a height. Disbelieving, Caecilia saw him command his horse to halt, then, discarding his spear, he jumped down to stand in front of his enemy, slapping the horse’s rump to order it away. Shield held close, he drew his sword, ready to strike. And in that moment she saw there would be no mercy. Fear rose in her. This man had won an oak leaf crown. He would be a master at killing.

Mastarna raised his shield to parry any blows, planting his feet firmly, knees flexed.

The attack never came. A lance struck Marcus’ shield, the impact throwing him backwards so that the warrior lay spread-eagled in the mud, the javelin piercing the metal and embedding in the bronze.

Stunned, Caecilia looked around to see who’d hurled the missile.

Arruns had only been winded. He was sprinting towards his master, coated in muck like some monster from the Beyond. Without even breaking stride, the Phoenician leaned down to collect another abandoned spear from a dead levis. Caecilia murmured a prayer of thanks to Juno for saving both her husband and his servant.

Reaching Mastarna, Arruns raised the lance to impale his foe, but his general dropped his shield and grabbed the guard’s arm. Poised for the kill, the Phoenician was reluctant to respond, his need to strike signaled in the steep angle of the lance and the clench of his fist. Yet his master did not have to command him twice. Maintaining discipline, Arruns lowered his weapon.

Caecilia fought to understand Vel’s clemency after he had faced death at her cousin’s hand. Even so, she was relieved that he had chosen to spare Marcus’ life. She did not want to see him executed. There had been too much blood already shed this day.

Mastarna confused her even more when he offered his hand to Marcus to assist him to stand. The Roman stubbornly refused. Weighed down by his armor, he struggled to sit up, then lumbered to his feet, his forearm bleeding. His face was exposed under the conical helmet but she could not see his expression. His body was tense, though, his hands balled into fists. She could hear his shouts but not his words as he argued with Mastarna.

Vel was also angry. He shoved Marcus on the shoulder, pointing up to her.

Caecilia froze. If only there was no war. If only there had been forgiveness. How gladly she would have welcomed a chance for a reunion. Instead, as Marcus raised his eyes to hers, loathing settled within her as she stared at a loved one who had become a stranger.

In the long moments while Marcus scrutinized her, Caecilia felt time slow. She heard the rise and fall of her breath, noticed the sprinkle of rain upon her cheeks, and her sodden clothes clinging to her. After the din and clamor of men and nature, the intensity of the encounter centered her.

The first to break the stare, Marcus turned to Drusus. Grunting with effort he hefted his friend to standing, but he was unable to lift his deadweight onto the horse. Mastarna nodded to Arruns who helped heave the corpse into place on the bay’s back where it sat slumped forward over the beast’s neck. Marcus did not acknowledge the assistance. He quickly mounted and edged behind his fallen comrade, encircling Drusus’ waist, the gesture almost tender.

The Roman steadied his horse, speaking to Mastarna before looking up to the wall to stare at Caecilia again. Then, holding fast to his dead friend, he twisted his stallion to face the bridge, galloping across the blood-soaked battlefield, hurdling any Veientane corpses in his path.

Glossary

Cast

Leaves and twigs were strewn across the ground. The hail had left a swath of devastation. Swelled by the rain, the stream was running fast, and the ground was slushy from the melt. Many feared the ferocity of the tempest was because Camillus had provoked gods who had not yet been appeased.

The strains of distant fighting had been deadened by the storm. The silence was foreboding. Clothes soaked, hair plastered to their heads, the women clustered at the perimeter, waiting for their men to return.

A reverberation. Hoofbeats. Shouts drawing nearer.

Whooping. Cheering.

Excited, Pinna stretched on tiptoe to see Camillus as the cavalcade erupted through the gate.

Mud- and blood-drenched, the general rode into camp surrounded by horsemen and followed by his exultant troops. A wall of stench exuded from them, soil and ordure and death.

His cheek was bleeding, the pectorals on his corselet spattered and dented. Two hoplites took hold of him as he dismounted, carrying him aloft on their shoulders. Balancing himself between them, Camillus roared with laughter as he progressed through the ranks, calling out the names of men, extolling their deeds.

Pinna stood to the side watching him. Around her the army wives looked for familiar faces. Smiles broke when they found them. Others looked bewildered as column after column marched by. Soon all that was left to search were the wagons bearing the maimed and the dead. Sobbing followed.

Finally carts of plunder and lines of prisoners were driven into the enclosure. The captives’ hands were bound. Bent under the blows of staves, the Veientanes must have thought themselves cursed to have been captured, not slain. Instead of being proud warriors they’d been stripped of their armor, reduced to being part of the spoils. A Roman soldier might not be able to share in the booty but the bravest among them might be granted a slave.

Pinna was ready, her basket packed with medical supplies. Although the casualties did not seem numerous, she knew she’d be busy aiding the worst of the wounded. Those with heads cleaved by axe or stove in by slingshot, those with necks pierced or with broken limbs.

Camillus was surrounded by men wishing to congratulate him or hear words of praise. She wanted to push through the crowd to embrace him and tend to his cut. She dared not do so, though. And she was certain he would put the badly injured before a flesh wound.

She scanned the ranks of horsemen for Marcus. When she found him he was not jubilant but drawn. Drusus sat slumped before him on the stallion, more blood than mud covering one side of his body. His breastplate hung loose by one strap. His head lolled. His helmet was missing.

Pinna called out and Marcus steered his horse through the host. Reaching her, he dismounted, then rolled Drusus onto his shoulder, taking all of his weight as he guided him down. “Help him, please.”

Peeling off Drusus’ damaged corselet like a shell, both of them ripped away his shredded tunic and heavy linen kilt. A laceration extended from collarbone down his chest to groin, the muscle exposed, ribs broken, shoulder dislocated. He was lucky his lungs and other organs had not been punctured. This did not stop Pinna panicking. She thought it a wonder that he was still alive.

She made an effort to calm herself. The thick flow of blood had to be stanched before the man’s life drained away. Grabbing wads of bandages she ordered Marcus to try and pack the huge slice along his friend’s body. The task was near impossible given the length of the rip. The warrior did not balk at obeying her. Until Drusus was treated, she was in charge.

The stink of the two soldiers filled her nostrils: stale sweat, dirt and dampness. For a moment Pinna stiffened, recalling the smell of grime and rain on Drusus’ hand when he tried to smother her. If he died she’d be liberated from at least one threat. Yet she could not let him suffer. She would never wish this end on any man.

There were other odors that made her gag. She glanced at Marcus and saw his beard was speckled with the remnants of enemy brains and his armor was slick with blood. She tried to concentrate on torn flesh instead of gore. “I’ll have to fix his shoulder first.”

Pinna never thought she would feel sorry for the russet-haired patrician, yet she felt only pity when Marcus assisted her to shove the joint back into its socket. Drusus shrieked, his eyes focusing on her briefly, not with hatred but with anguish.

She directed Marcus to lay him down then fetch water so she could wash the hacked and bruised skin. The liquid in the bowl turned pink as she wrung out the bandage. “My lord, it might be kinder if you knocked him out.”

Marcus looked aghast as he knelt beside his friend. The prospect of striking Drusus on the head clearly alarmed him. “He survived hitting his head on the battlefield; I won’t risk killing him now with another blow.”

A pain gripped Pinna’s belly at his refusal. She hoped her nerves would hold when hooking thread through flesh while her patient was awake.

Face tinged green, lips white, Drusus moaned when she poured the strong-smelling castor oil on the slash to clean it. And when she began sewing the long seam with flax thread, his groans made her fingers tremble. She resisted the urge to hurry, anxious that the stitches hold firm as she felt the resistance of jagged skin beneath the needle. As she worked, tears pricked her eyes, aware she was adding to his agony.

Screaming, Drusus crushed his friend’s hand, clenching it to try to ride the waves of pain. Tears ran down his cheeks, forging runnels through streaks of mud. Just before he fainted she heard him whisper in a croaky voice, “Tell Camillus … Mastarna … I smote him.”

Pinna stopped stitching the wound, eyes widening. “Did he actually fight the Veientane?”

Marcus grimaced, sitting behind his friend and resting Drusus’ head against his chest. “I did not see their combat. When the call for retreat sounded I went to find him. There was no sign of his horse. As I was searching the battlefield I recognized Mastarna from his blue crest. Drusus was lying in the mud at his feet. I thought him dead but he was just unconscious.” Marcus held Pinna’s gaze. “Mastarna’s arm was paralyzed. Drusus had crippled him yet somehow the Etruscan had managed to fell him.”