The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (14 page)

Inside the workshop it was always stifling. The temperature soared from the heat of the kilns in the internal courtyard. The chill of the autumn morning did not permeate the walls. Most of the potters worked bare-chested in loincloths, skin streaked with sweat and clay, feet dusty.

Before Semni had grown large, the men had enjoyed flirting with her, although none were foolish enough to do so when her husband was looking. They would ogle her as she labored, spying through the sides of her apron how the sweat made her thin shift cling to deep cleavage, nipples, curved hips and rounded buttocks. How she hitched the fabric high to reveal firm pliant thighs parted around the wheel. She would flash them sly sloe-eyed smiles and dimples, the warm pink tip of her tongue peeking from a full-lipped mouth, hinting at how it could be put to better use.

And with some she had done more than flirted. Enjoying the power she had to arouse both jealousy and their manhood. She had a body made for lusting but now, gravid and swollen-limbed, she gained no attention. Forbidden territory, no longer alluring. The men who had been prepared to cuckold her husband were not so keen to do so when he was to be a father.

Not that the old goat, Velthur, was likely to be the sire. His sixty years had robbed him of his vigor. She did not complain. At least this limited their coupling. He rarely hardened unless using a switch on her before eventually being able to finish with a different type of rod. She doubted that he was virile enough to seed a child.

Instead, Semni believed that the infant’s father was a stag or boar or ram; perhaps wolf or fox or bear. There had been many masked men she’d lain with on the night of the Winter Feast, drunk on ecstasy and unwatered wine. The child could even be half noble. The high priest had also mounted her as she worshipped. Despite wearing a bull’s mask, his size had been disappointing. She’d expected more from the god’s servant. She even enjoyed imagining that her soul had merged with Fufluns, conceiving a son who would be half divine.

The baby kicked her again, reminding Semni that its holiness was a fantasy. She shifted her weight, trying to get comfortable upon her seat, her bulk hindering her posture.

Of course she had tried to purge it with the aid of laurel and lupin but, unlike other times, it did not slip early from her womb. And yet she did not try to scrape it away. Not when she’d watched one of her sisters die that way. Her lack of courage and the infant’s stubbornness only made resentment grow.

Absorbed in her thoughts it took her some time to notice the other potters were standing. Lady Caecilia had arrived. A ripple of bows tracked the noblewoman’s progress across the floor together with echoes of respectful greeting.

The Roman was accompanied by a small companion who gripped his mother’s hand. The boy called Tas. The princip often brought one of her sons with her, always cautioning them that curious fingers could suffer burns. Aricia followed, grinning as she caught sight of Semni. The surly Arruns walked behind. Semni eyed him, pleased the Phoenician was once again detailed to look after his mistress.

Lady Caecilia was well liked by those in the workshop even if outsiders were wary of her. For she had freed all the potters and sculptors in her employ. Other owners were not so generous. Most of the artisans in the pottery quarter were enslaved. It was no wonder her staff was prepared to forget she was a Roman. They recognized her fairness, and admired her eagerness to inspect their work at the risk of dirtying her finery. They respected her, too, for knowing the names of their families and visiting them to offer medicine and food.

There was another reason Semni was fond of her employer. Lady Caecilia had become her patron. The workshop was renowned for its masterpieces. It was a world of treasure: fine terracotta, shiny bucchero. Most precious of all, though, were the vessels that boasted red figures within polished black. It was these vases that the noblewoman commissioned Semni to produce. A dream the girl had harbored since childhood. An opportunity to rival her father’s fame.

Semni was only fifteen but all her life she’d been surrounded by ornament and beauty as well as noise and smoke and danger. Daughter of a sculptor famed throughout Etruria, she had spent her childhood mopping slurry and sweeping dust, collecting shards and fetching water. Yet the chance of learning how to throw and decorate pots was denied her. And before her father died he married her to Velthur, the workshop foreman, with an expectation she produce grandsons, not artwork.

Her husband was easier to convince than her father. He was prepared to indulge his young wife in gratitude for her tricks in bed. It was a bonus when he discovered Semni was also skillful in another way. Her father may have bequeathed all he owned to her brothers but he’d left his daughter one thing—his talent.

A sudden thread of pain traveled from one buttock down her leg as Semni curtsied to Lady Caecilia. She lurched a little, then, arching, massaged the small of her back.

The mistress gestured to Semni to resume her seat at the flywheel. “Come and sit.”

The girl hesitated before obeying, conscious that it was the noblewoman who should be seated. The little master lingered beside his mother, his amber eyes piercing. Semni found his stare unnerving, thinking it too solemn for one so young.

“
Your aches will end after you have borne your baby,” said the princip. “You must be due any day now.”

“
Yes, my lady.”

“
And then you will know a happiness you can’t imagine.”

Semni nodded politely. She doubted she would feel any elation. The burden of carrying the child would only give way to the load of rearing it. She glanced over to Aricia. Lady Caecilia had servants to care for her children. There would be no such luxury for Semni, just a cycle of suckling and dirty swaddling. She’d seen her mother worn out by the birthing of many children. Only four had survived. And the poor woman and her eighth had died together.

Lady Caecilia moved across to Semni’s worktable. Tas trailed after her like a shadow. The potter stole a glance at the woman. The Roman was tall and slender. It was as though she had not borne three children. Semni doubted it would be the same for her. There would be sagging instead of firmness, padding instead of curves, slackening instead of tautness. Worst of all, Velthur had made it clear there would be no more flawless creations from pure clay. No loveliness from her labors. Semni’s only job would be as a mother.

“
This is very fine.” The mistress examined a vase drying on the table.

Keen to show off her workmanship, Semni rose and stood beside her. A faint scent of lilies clung to the aristocrat making Semni conscious that she must stink of sweat and clay.

Two lovers were etched onto the surface of the vessel. Fufluns and Areatha. The sheer robes swathing their nakedness seemed almost real as they embraced: faces close, lips almost touching, gazing rapt into each other’s eyes. “See, my lady? I’ve incised the figures in readiness for painting.”

Lady Caecilia examined the tracery with a bejeweled finger. “It’s beautiful. Lord Mastarna is very fond of the wine god and his wife.”

Semni was sure she caught sight of a fleeting frown at odds with the compliment.

Lady Caecilia carefully returned the vase to the artisan. “Such a pity it will be your last commission. I’ve come to tell all of you that the workshop must now only produce terracottas.”

It took a moment for the girl to digest the news, her surprise momentarily overcoming deference. “But why?”

The princip raised her eyebrows. “Why? Because of the blockades, of course. The king has ordered that we must supply the army with essentials. It’s no use creating goods that cannot be traded beyond our city.”

Semni still struggled to understand. “Do you really think the Romans won’t go home this winter?”

Lady Caecilia shook her head. “Rome means to besiege us until we starve, even if its soldiers must suffer hunger and sickness. Surely you must know that. Remember how they returned before the spring thaw this year? Now fall is upon us and they are still camped outside our walls.”

Hearing the soft criticism in the princip’s voice made Semni feel foolish. Then annoyed. She was not a child needing to be chided. Her memory of the enemy returning to dig new siege lines in the snow was vivid. Unease had filled her at how the Romans were breaking the rules, displaying gritty menace in the breach.

Then Lord Kurvenas had been elected as lucumo. Old Velthur worried taxes would increase and corruption spread as it had under King Tulumnes. To Semni, though, there seemed little dissimilarity between the reign of magistrate and monarch. War flourished under both.

Yet over the months, cocooned in the workshop, Semni could allow herself to forget the city was encircled. Her days were much the same as in other, more peaceful years, except for less food on the table. She let others worry. Even in a siege everyday life continued. Merchants still bartered, blacksmiths shod horses and weavers cut cloth even as troops sallied forth from Veii’s gates or showered arrows from its walls. Yet now Lady Caecilia was saying the workshop must become a factory manufacturing basics: bowls and beakers for the army, amphorae to store provisions, cauldrons for boiling oil or water. And, hearing this, Semni suddenly understood why others resented this woman.

Looking momentarily discomforted, the mistress drew her son to stand in front of her. “Believe me, Semni, I want peace as much as you do. Now, I must speak to the others. But perhaps Tas could stay and watch you.”

Semni glanced at the boy. His small quietness throughout the conversation had made her forget him. She nodded, fond of children as long as they weren’t hers.

Lady Caecilia patted the girl’s hand. “Don’t be too disappointed. I’m sure the time will come when you’ll make beautiful things again. But for now simple terracottas must suffice.”

Semni watched the princip greet the next artisan and break the news. It was kind of the mistress to take the time to speak to each one of them in turn.

Once his mother had gone, Tas ventured nearer to observe the potter prepare her brushes for painting. Aricia hastened to fetch a stool for the boy. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Semni. I was so pleased when the mistress decided to bring the little master.”

Semni nodded. She always enjoyed talking to the Greek girl when she visited the workshop. It bemused her, though, as to why the nursemaid was so effusive at such meetings.

“
Sit here, my pet,” said Aricia, hovering behind Tas.

Concentrating on stirring the paint, Semni said absently, “Where are his brothers?”

“
With Perca, the junior nursemaid. I wanted to accompany the mistress so I could see you again.”

Semni smiled but wondered whether Aricia had any friends. The girl seemed lonely.

Unused to the heat, Tas took off his woolen cap and laid it on his lap. Semni wondered if shyness hindered speech yet he seemed confident enough as his strange golden eyes followed each of her movements.

Aricia peered over Semni’s shoulder. Noticing the faint scent of violets, the potter envied the maid’s good fortune to wear such perfume. There were benefits to being a princip’s servant. She looked up from her task. “How is the Gorgon?”

The nursemaid glanced at Tas, reminding Semni that little children had big ears. She doubted, though, that he would understand that the Gorgon was Aricia’s mother, Cytheris. Risking the chance the boy could report their gossip, she continued. “Is she still as mean as you say?”

Aricia nodded. “I’m sick of her slaps and pinches. She might be happy to remain in service but I’m a freedwoman and have other plans.”

Semni frowned. “And what would you do?”

“
Be a priestess.”

The potter snorted. “Don’t be silly. Only noblewomen can be ordained. Besides, you should be thankful for living in a mansion, plump with food and wearing Aegyptian linen and Milesian wool.”

Arica flicked black curls away from her face. “You sound just like her. She doesn’t understand me either. And now she wants me to marry Arruns.”

Semni turned her attention to the Phoenician who stood guard at the doorway. Swarthy, shaven head, hooded eyes, hooked nose. All knew him for the blue tattooed snake slithering around his torso and neck, its fangs biting into his face. Arruns did not frighten her, though. Semni imagined him to be a potent lover. She was sure she’d forget his grimness when squeezed beneath the expanse of his chest and between the strong thews of his thighs. “Why are you complaining? You have to marry sometime. You’re already fifteen.” She snuck a look at the guard again. “Don’t you think Arruns is worth bedding?”

“
It’s not always about men!” Aricia snapped. “I don’t want to be confined to the square of any man’s home. I just told you. I want to be a priestess of the Calu Cult. I want to serve Aita.”