The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (59 page)

The general squeezed her hand. “I’m ready for you to do your patchwork.”

“
Patchwork? Why, it will be embroidery.”

He laughed. “Just remember, it is flesh you sew, not fabric.”

She teased him when he flinched at the sting of the castor oil but grew serious as she stitched the gash. He made no sound as she worked. The wine dulled the prick of the needle and tug of the thread. Nevertheless, she noticed how he gripped the armrests with whitened knuckles until she’d tied and broken off the knot.

The rain had not doused the fervor of the men’s drinking party. The mood was rowdy, exhilaration matched by inebriation. Boasting of brave deeds, their heroics were soon inflated. And the stack of empty wine jars confirmed that the journey northwards tomorrow would be with sore heads as well as aching bodies and injured limbs. Camillus had given the order, though, that no man would be punished for drinking unwatered wine that night provided he was sober enough to march at sunrise.

Camillus was animated. As with everything, he led his officers, refilling his cup as soon as he’d drained it. And as usual he outdid them. While others flagged he continued imbibing. He grew cheerful but not drunk. She knew, too, that in the morning he would suffer no headache and would also expect a clear mind and sober stride from those around him.

Some of his staff were not merry. The thrill of battle had disappeared. Exhausted, some drank solemnly while others grew maudlin over fallen comrades. Some were arguing, disputing who was more valiant, who had scored the greatest tally. She hoped there would be no fistfights.

The racket of carousing quieted when two unfamiliar soldiers sought an audience. They were dragging a man between them. All ceased their banter to observe the stranger.

At first Pinna thought the prisoner was crying black tears. On closer inspection, she realized streaks of kohl ran down his rain-wet face. The sight astounded her. The last man she’d seen with eyes rimmed with antimony was a molles creeping through the back streets of Rome.

An odor of lanolin and wet wool was strong about the captive. Hauled up between the two burly guards he looked a soft, pampered creature. His fringed sheepskin coat was drenched, his fine leather boots sodden, laces trailing. He was clean-shaven, the soft curls of his black shoulder-length hair dripping, his hands as white as a noblewoman’s and adorned with gold rings. And yet no patrician lady would wear other than iron jewelery, and nor would she paint her fingernails and darken her lashes.

It was obvious he’d been treated roughly: his clothes were in disarray, his top lip swollen and his cheek bruised. His strange pointed hat was askew, the ties under his chin loosened. And yet there was an air of defiance about him, an aura of a superior condescending to subordinates.

Pinna had seen Etruscans before in Rome. Their sloe eyes and straight nose and brow declared them descendants of a tyrant cast out by her people over a century ago. This one, though, held her attention because of his peculiar almond-shaped eyes. His pupils were large against dark irises, leaving only a rim of white around them. She imagined they could cast a spell. The hair rose on the nape of her neck as his gaze traveled momentarily over her before settling on the consular general.

Both sentries saluted and then one reported. “We caught him trying to pass through a stockade to the north. Our commander said to bring him to you. The priest was driving a cart filled with boxes of scrolls and linen books.”

The other soldier brandished a curved staff. “He was carrying this lituus and claims he is a seer. He was overheard talking to a trader about the prodigy at Lake Albanus. He said Veii will not fall until the Romans learn how to mollify the gods. He claimed to know how to do this.”

Camillus relaxed in his chair, studying the captive for some time in silence before signaling the soldiers to release him. The man stretched his neck and adjusted an elaborate crescent-shaped fibula fastening his cloak. He seemed unconcerned by the general’s scrutiny.

“
So you speak Latin, priest?”

“
I speak many languages, Furius Camillus.” His accent was flawless, his voice deep, as compelling as his gaze. “And the gods speak to me.”

“
You are an augur then.”

“
Not just an augur. I am both haruspex and fulgurator.”

“
Then you are an expert. Expert enough, it seems, to claim you understand the mystery of Lake Albanus.”

The Etruscan smoothed one eyebrow. “I may have done. I can’t remember.”

Camillus tapped his ring, smiling at the man’s caginess. The Etruscan fixed his eyes upon this gesture causing the Roman to cease the movement. Irritated, the general leaned forward. “Not even the Sibylline Books provide an answer to deal with this portent. I think, perhaps, you’re just a braggart.”

The soothsayer touched his torn lip gingerly. “I’m no boaster. Your augury is primitive.”

“
Is that so? I took the auspices this morning, which presaged a great victory. And the Veientane dead that litter the ground prove my expertise in determining divine favor.”

The prisoner straightened his hat and retied the chin straps. “Feeding hungry chickens puls and being satisfied when they peck at it avidly is hardly a skill.”

Pinna blinked. Was he mad? Insulting a consular general? And in the company of his officers? She held her breath waiting for Camillus to erupt. Her lover, though, was unperturbed. Standing up, he moved to the priest and thrust his face an inch from his. The Etruscan flinched and moved back.

“
Tell me, priest, if you’re such a great prophet, why were you scurrying in the dark along the northern road? Surely the king needs the services of such a mighty soothsayer. Or are you just a rogue who deserts his city when it is licking its wounds?”

The man fiddled with the golden brooch again, still haughty. “I can assure you, King Kurvenas values my advice. I was traveling to Velzna to consult the Sacred College on his request.”

Camillus returned to the repository table and drank some more wine. “It sounds to me that you’re just a lowly priest sent to seek advice from his betters.” He gestured to the sentries to secure the stranger again. “Take him to the compound and place him with the other prisoners. It will amuse me to keep a holy man as a slave.”

At his command all arrogance disappeared from the Etruscan’s face. Gulping in air like a landed fish, he struggled against the guards. “Stop. You cannot make me your servant. I am no ordinary cepen. I am Artile Mastarna, high priest of the Temple of Uni and the chief haruspex of Veii.”

Pinna gasped and the officers around her broke into chatter. What had been a distraction from their drinking had now become intriguing. Camillus, too, was surprised. He roared at his men to be quiet.

“
Artile Mastarna? Brother of the great general? Why, your fame has spread as far as Rome.”

The priest drew himself to full height. His eerie gleaming eyes shed their look of fear, his stature once again proud.

Pacing, Camillus examined him. His great rival’s sibling was now in his power. A hostage. There was leverage to be gained in such a capture. “Your brother was defeated today. Is that why you fled? Because you fear your city will fall now that his army has been destroyed?”

The soothsayer smoothed his eyebrow. “No, I chose to leave because Mastarna has returned.”

Camillus frowned. “So there’s enmity between you. Why?”

“
You need not know the reason, only that my hatred equals his.”

The general circled the Etruscan. Pinna could see him calculating, assessing.

“
And you claim to know the required rituals to placate the gods? Appeasement which, if completed correctly, will mean that Veii will fall?”

Smoothing his eyebrow again, once, twice, three times, the seer remained silent, keeping his gaze straight ahead. Camillus leaned close. “How much do you hate your brother?”

The priest’s silence continued.

“
Enough to want him dead?”

The cat’s eyes flickered.

“
Enough to help me destroy him?”

Moments passed. The haruspex slowly turned. His voice was mellifluous, conceited again. “Perhaps, Furius Camillus, I might be persuaded.”

Artile Mastarna’s smile made Pinna shiver. She touched her amulets. She murmured a prayer.

Glossary

Cast

Caecilia called for a ewer and jug of warm water with sandalwood to scent it. The perfume was a comfort, so faint and fragrant compared to the stink of resin.

With the servants’ help she cut off Mastarna’s drenched tunic and changed the bedding. Then she asked them to leave. She wanted to tend to her husband alone.

It was a shock to see Vel’s chest covered with a fine layer of hair. There had been no time for a barber in his haste to return to Veii. She ran her fingers along the raised skin of the cicatrice that slashed his torso, reacquainting herself with its contours. His other scars, too. The geography of battles carved into his flesh. At least their existence reminded her that he had suffered and survived before.

In the mellow light of the candelabras she could see the sun had burned his legs and arms dark enough that bruises barely showed. Yet the olive skin of his abdomen and thighs was dappled. She brushed her lips across the contusions as if such caresses could help.

Squeezing the perfumed water from the dripping sponge, she washed him, taking care not to press too hard on the abrasion where the cuirass had irritated the scar along his hip bone. The wet grain of fabric had rubbed the skin raw. She was gentle, too, as she bathed the grime from his battered face, leaving Arruns to shave the beard on the morrow.

Once she’d scrubbed the black blood from beneath his nails and the whorls of his finger pads, she laid his hand against her cheek, remembering how in lovemaking he would do so. And she thanked Juno that there was heat in his limbs instead of a corpse’s coldness; that it was a sheet she drew over him, not a shroud.

She sat beside him when she’d finished. The bed was a rectangle that harbored love and life. Their children had been conceived and born here. It could be a place where death visited also. Only days earlier she had nearly died upon its mattress. She did not want it to be Vel’s last resting place either.

She watched the rise and fall of his breath as he lay sleeping. A peaceful rhythm after trauma. His life could have ended today. Attacked by a coward and threatened by her cousin—one with calculated fury, the other with unrestrained rage.

Marcus had told Vel
that she was dead to him. She said the words aloud. In the quiet of the room, the shock of their meaning was powerful and deep.

Over the years she’d pondered the effect her leaving might have had on
her cousin. She prayed he still loved her even if he detested what she’d done. Now it was clear that forgiveness had been forfeited long ago. Why couldn’t he see that Rome had betrayed her? That he had no justification to despise her? That although he was her enemy she’d never desired his demise?

Today
they had stared at each other across a battlefield. The distance between them was now measured by more than miles. The loss of him was like a ball of pain. She felt a sob rising in her throat but she stifled her lament. Tears pricked her eyes but she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

The iron bracelet with its Aemilian crest touched her skin. Suddenly anger erupted in her,
replacing grief. She wrenched the amulet over her wrist and dropped it to the floor, then kicked it away. Tomorrow she would bury it. It was the last tangible connection to the cousin she’d once known. Marcus had given it to her to shelter her from the evil she might find in Veii. Now she and her family needed protection from him and it would be Rasennan gods who’d provide it.

She remembered the promise she’d been so desperate to extract from Vel
, to not attack Rome and restrict himself to defending Veii. Now she felt ashamed she’d been so angry when he’d broken the pledge. For he was right. Romans were like soldier ants, devouring all in their way. She could no longer remain passive, hoping the threat would disappear. The links to her birthplace were those ties that bound her to her cousin. Her love for Marcus had always hindered her from wanting to see Rome fall. Now he wished her dead and she had hardened her heart against him. No longer would she agonize that her kin and the Roman people could be slain.