The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (55 page)

“
Tarchon, explain all this.”

The soldier held tight to Sethre, clearly disconcerted that his beloved had not calmed in his arms. “The lictors were holding me in the forum when Kurvenas and his retinue appeared. The villain was returning to the palace as the dead were being carried inside the walls. When Lord Vipinas saw Caile’s body being borne into the city he drew his sword and attacked the king so swiftly there was no time to stop him.”

Sethre’s voice cracked. “My father was no villain. And his murderer should be executed now!”

Wheezing, Vipinas hobbled to Mastarna. With his teeth missing, the nobleman’s speech was muffled. Caecilia cringed at a proud man made pathetic. Her heart ached to see his grief.

“
Kurvenas could have sent reinforcements. Your troops could have retreated inside. Instead he was prepared to sacrifice you and your army. All for personal satisfaction. It was he who committed murder today, Mastarna. And I who meted out justice.”

The king’s son bucked and wriggled, trying to break free. Caecilia could see Tarchon was suffering as he struggled to restrain him, distressed by both his beloved’s resistance and the pain of his wound.

Sethre would not be silenced. “No, my father was protecting this city. The Romans would have overrun us.”

Caecilia stared at him, stunned at how he’d forgotten his qualms about Kurvenas’ decision. Vengeance for his brutal father now consumed him.

Suddenly the people scattered as Lusinies and his officers rode into the forum. The scarred veteran’s expression was one of horror as he took stock of the scene: a slain king, a battered princip and an injured general. He slipped from his mount, examining Mastarna’s wound. “By the gods, what’s happened here? I heard Kurvenas would not open the gates.”

Vel grimaced and held his bandaged arm against his side. The fervor of battle was ebbing. Fatigue and pain were now exacting a toll. “While your army was defending the south of the city chaos ruled here. Kurvenas let my vanguard be slaughtered.”

The bald officer frowned, grappling with the news as he crouched down beside the lucumo’s corpse. “And who killed the king?”

Sethre called out, his chest heaving as he gulped back tears. “Vipinas. He needs to be punished. Mastarna won’t execute him. You must do it, Lord Lusinies.”

The crowd had swelled. Reports of the assassination must have trickled through the jam of bodies to race along avenues, streets and lanes into every house and inn and brothel. More protests were heard. Caecilia feared a riot. The king’s men pushed back those who threatened to break the cordon.

Mastarna put up his hand for quiet. “Silence! There has been enough blood spilled today.”

To Caecilia’s relief the mob settled. She was alarmed, though, to see Vel swaying on his feet. He gripped onto the side of his horse’s mane for support rather than lean on her. The gray neighed and shook its head but held steady. “This is a matter for the High Council. They rule until it is decided who must govern this city.”

Sethre spat towards Vipinas. “No. Justice must be served. He should be put to death this instant. His crime was witnessed. And I accuse him of being the traitor who Lord Artile predicted lives among us.”

The former zilath tore his gaze from his dead grandson. “How dare you!”

Confused, Mastarna scanned the square. “What prediction is this? And just where is my brother?”

In the furor Caecilia had forgotten the priest. Now she remembered his earlier absence. It was not like him to defy his ruler. Nor miss the chance to gloat over Vel’s impending death.

Tarchon’s expression mirrored her own. “It’s strange. I was present this morning when Kurvenas summoned Artile.”

Mastarna snorted. “No doubt he shied away from the danger of an enemy at our gates.”

Caecilia noticed Vel was finding it difficult to remain upright. He tightened his hold on the horse. The fine shawl was saturated, blood dripping from his fingers to spatter the ground. Caecilia could smell it, rich and sickening. She clutched his arm. “Please, Vel. We need to see to your wound.”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Don’t worry.”

Wrinkles furrowed Lusinies’ brow below his bald pate. He ordered an aide to fetch the haruspex. “The king’s death may well be a portent. For certain this is a matter where the gods need to be consulted. The chief priest’s counsel is needed.”

Mastarna grunted. “I don’t need a soothsayer to tell me Veii is in peril.”

Sethre had calmed himself enough to encourage Tarchon to lessen his hold. The soldier still grasped the boy’s forearm though. Sethre held himself stiffly as he wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. “So you are going to do nothing about this betrayer?”

Vipinas crossed to him, a blue vein visible beneath the pale skin at his temple. “Your father was that traitor. A traitor to his people. I was justified in putting him to death.”

Sethre smirked at the princip’s garbled speech. Vipinas flushed and raised his fist. Caecilia could hardly believe how grief had loosened all control in such a dignified man.

Lusinies stepped between the elder and the youth. “Stop it, both of you. I agree with Mastarna. This is a matter for the High Council until another lucumo is elected.”

Bridling at being dismissed, Vipinas moved from Lusinies so he could view the general directly. “And that man must be you, Mastarna. You must be king.”

Vel grimaced and pointed to Kurvenas. “I think we have had enough of monarchs.”

A sheen of sweat coated Lusinies’ skull, trickling down the sides of his face into his beard. The extraordinary circumstances were affecting him as well. “Perhaps I should keep Lord Vipinas under custody in my home until the High Council can convene.”

Sethre jabbed his finger towards Mastarna. “Why? So you will have time to conspire with him to let an enemy of the state go free?”

Lusinies could no longer keep his temper. “You do well to remember to whom you speak, boy. I claim no alliance with either of your houses. And Lord Mastarna and I are generals who have risked our lives for this city countless times. Do not question our loyalty to Veii.”

Caecilia expected Vel to be scathing; instead he remained even, recognizing the youth could not rein in his emotions. “I assure you, Sethre, your tribe will be given time to elect a new leader. Until then the High Council will defer determining this matter.” He gestured to Tarchon to release the aggrieved son. “Now it’s time for you to tend to your father’s body. Just as so many of us must wash and anoint our loved ones.”

Lips and nose blotchy, eyes red-rimmed, Sethre crossed to his father and knelt beside him. The rawness of his hurt was painful to watch. Seeing his anguish, Tarchon limped over to him and placed his hand on his shoulder.

Sethre recoiled, elbowing him away. “Leave me be! I want no comfort from Mastarna’s son. Our houses have always been and will remain enemies.”

Caught off guard, Tarchon tripped slightly then righted himself. He walked backwards with slow steps to stand beside Mastarna, his gaze locked on the youth. Caecilia rested her fingers on his wrist in comfort. His hand was shaking.

Ramutha was still weeping, her head upon Caile’s chest. Her sorrowing had lent a sad accompaniment to the shouts and accusations. Seeing the matron still lying across his grandson, Vipinas bent down and jerked her away. “Get away from him! He is not yours to mourn.”

Defiant, Ramutha tried to resume her place at her lover’s side.

Caecilia could understand the grandfather’s disgust despite sympathy for her friend. It was somehow unseemly to see the depth of this married woman’s passion on display. And so she moved to the grieving noblewoman and touched her shoulder. “Hush, let his grandfather hold him.”

Ramutha was dazed. “He is gone, Mele.”

Caecilia clasped her hand and helped her to her feet. “Yes, he is gone. Now come with me. There will be time for you to bid him farewell later.”

Blood crusting around his broken nose and one cheek swollen, Vipinas signaled to four of his men to lift the shield upon which Caile lay. The grandfather brushed hair over the hole in the youth’s head, and closed the staring eyes. He was as quiet in his torment as Ramutha had been noisy. His daughter had died giving birth to this boy, and his wife had passed away together with his son. All of his family but him was now in the Beyond. How terrible it was to have outlived them all.

As Caecilia led Ramutha by the hand she heard the gray stallion whinny as Mastarna sagged to the ground. His face was ghost-white above his black beard, his eyes liquid with pain. Caecilia ran to him while shouting to Tarchon to help her. He tried to support his father around the waist but, weighed down by his armor, Vel was too heavy for either of them to hold.

Without asking permission, Arruns pushed both wife and son aside and heaved his master over one of his shoulders. Caecilia marveled at his strength, thankful for his devotion.

After Vel had been placed on a tray of a wagon, Caecilia stopped his son from climbing in beside her. “You must stay. Represent our house. Make sure Lord Vipinas is not treated harshly.”

Tarchon nodded, pride apparent, then he squeezed her hand. “Don’t despair, Caecilia. Mastarna has survived worse wounds than this. And he has you and your children to live for.”

She ordered Arruns to urge the donkeys on. The Veientanes stood aside to allow the cart to pass, jostling to gain a view of the great general.

Terrified she had already lost Vel so soon after the gods had delivered him to her, Caecilia hunched over him and placed her mouth on his. She was relieved to feel the susurration of his breath. She cradled his head on her lap to prevent it from lolling as the wain jolted over the bumps and ruts of the road. She murmured to him not to die. She wept but chided herself as she did so. She needed to be dry-eyed. Vel did not like to see her cry.

Glossary

Cast

Giggling, the boys had thought the hail a marvel.

It pelted down, causing dollops of water to rebound upon the pond’s surface. And the foliage of the laurel hedges shook with the missiles so that leaves, made brittle from a summer’s scorching, scattered and were buried beneath balls of white.

Cytheris struggled to keep Arnth from running into the open. Larce, more cautious, wriggled and hopped up and down in one spot as he held on to Perca’s hand. Thia’s crying was drowned out by the hammering on the roof as she lay in her crib.

Grave-eyed and pensive, Tas refused to leave Semni’s side. No amount of coaxing could convince him to join his brothers. It had been the same for hours. Bereft of his mother and nursemaid, Semni alone could provide him with solace.

There were no smiles as the servants watched
the younger boys’ antics. No delight to be had in childish pleasure with the deluge of ice. Cut off from the news of the carnage to the north of the city, they could only imagine the worst. Were the gods trying to stone the Veientanes? Semni hoped Arruns was safe. And despite Aricia’s sins, she prayed the girl had not been added to the death toll when she fled with the haruspex.

When the storm passed
, Larce and Arnth slipped the restraining hand of their caretakers and raced to kick or throw fistfuls of hailstones at each other. Despite being taunted as scared, Tas remained glued to Semni’s side.

Despondent after learning of Aricia’s treachery, Cytheris let them play, not scolding them for getting wet as they sloshed about in the melting slush. Perca jogged Thia in her arms, sniffling as she carried the sleeping baby to the nursery. The twelve-year-old was still upset at failing to keep her eye on Tas. Miserable also from being chastened by Cytheris’ hand and tongue.

Outside they heard the timekeeper herald the hour as well as bring tidings.

The enemy had retreated.

Mastarna’s army had been slaughtered.

King Kurvenas had been murdered.

The hail had indeed been an omen.

*

The steward was shouting orders to the porters to open the massive bronze doors to the street.

The
general was carried into the arcade upon a litter, eyes closed, his arm bleeding and maimed. Yet Lady Caecilia’s expression told Semni he was not dead. It was one of worry not sorrow as the princip hobbled beside her husband.

A mud
-drenched Arruns followed. Semni’s stomach lurched thinking that the guard was also wounded, but she soon realized the blood saturating his tunic was not his own but his master’s. Preoccupied with his lord, he did not acknowledge her.