The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (2 page)

Mastarna laughed and lifted his younger son onto his hip. The boy’s startled expression changed to one of glee as he caught sight of the sword strapped to his father’s side. “Look, Ati,” he shrieked at his mother, gripping the hilt. “Sword! Sword!” Despite struggling to remove the weapon from its sheath it remained secure.

“
Hello, Caecilia.”

A soldier stood beside her with open arms. It took a moment to recognize the bearded man as Tarchon. Mastarna’s other son. Adopted. Little older than she was. The thought was sobering. In spring she would be twenty-six.

There was no sign of the effeminate youth she once knew. He was a man now, boasting battle scars. What warrior did not, after so many years of war? Nevertheless, his fine face was unscathed, its beautiful symmetry incongruous against the blatant masculinity of bronze.

“
Thank the gods you have been spared.” She hugged him.

Tarchon returned the embrace, cautious of the bundle of boy squeezed between them.

“
Thank the gods also that you bore my brother safely.” He touched the baby’s cheek gently with one finger and was rewarded with a smile. It was no surprise. Tarchon pleased everyone—everyone except his father.

“
He has your big, round Roman eyes, but I won’t hold that against him.”

Caecilia frowned, glancing at the sloe-eyed Etruscans around her. She doubted they’d ever forgive her for being a daughter of Rome. “Yes, but others might.”

Tarchon kissed her cheek. “I’m only teasing. Besides, all here respect you now.”

Before she could reply, Mastarna interrupted. “Isn’t it time I named my new son?” He swung Larce to the ground. The boy immediately grasped his leg, demanding to be returned to the heights. Cytheris quickly drew him away.

Caecilia nodded. Ever since her son was born she’d been anxious to perform the ceremony. After all, the child was two months old and rightly should have been claimed within nine days of his birth. There was always an undercurrent of concern within her. What if Mastarna did not return? Would the right of this boy to take his father’s name be questioned? What would become of her, no longer Roman but never Etruscan, if her husband should die?

“
What name have you chosen?”

“
Arnth. After Arnth Ulthes, our great friend.”

Mastarna searched her face. “Are you sure?”

“
Very sure. It is a strong name, given in honor of a noble man.”

“
He would be pleased that you wish to remember him.” He stroked her hair. “Now let me claim him.”

Despite her desire for the rite to be performed, Caecilia hesitated at the thought of placing the child at his father’s feet. The crowd around them was unruly and she was afraid that the horses could trample the baby.

Then she noticed Arruns, Mastarna’s guard—head shaven, the snake tattoo upon his face adding, as always, a rugged menace to him. Without needing an order he cleared a space around the family, holding the reins of his master’s horse tight.

Laying the baby on the cobblestones, Caecilia anxiously watched as Mastarna lifted him above his head.

“
All present here bear witness that this boy is my son. His name shall be Arnth of the House of Mastarna. Child of my loins and that of Aemilia Caeciliana’s—known to all as Caecilia.”

Unlike Larce, the infant did not enjoy being raised in the air, screaming with a fierceness at odds with his size. Mastarna hastily lowered him, holding him close, before taking a gold amulet necklace from Caecilia and placing it around the little boy’s neck.

“
May this bulla protect you forever from the evil eye. May all the great and almighty gods watch over you!”

Caecilia took the sobbing baby from his father, soothing him once again. As she did so, she noticed that the crowd around them had quieted. She tensed, holding her breath, aware their stares were reserved for her, their silence signaling resentment of her as much as respect for Mastarna.

And she knew why that must be.

Seven years ago, in a glade beside a river between two cities, she had made a choice to forsake her home. A choice Rome claimed provoked a war. And she had questioned that decision many times. Not because she did not love her husband but because his people did not love her.

She knew what to do today, though. Had done it before. She slowly held Arnth out to the crowd. “I give my son to this city. Another man-child to bear arms for Veii. Another warrior for you who have become my people.”

There was no response at first, their gaze wavering from her to the baby and then to the warrior.

Then cheering erupted. “Hail, Arnth of the House of Mastarna! Hail, General Vel Mastarna!”

Relief filled her, reassured in that moment to know that, even if the Veientanes hated her, she was safe as long as they revered her husband.

Glossary

Cast

Caecilia signaled the slave boy to draw the heavy red curtain of the bedchamber closed, sorry it was too cold to leave it open so that she could view the garden. Then she ordered him and the other slave who was lighting the candelabras to leave.

Mastarna pulled her to him. She laughed. “You need a bath!”

“
Do you want to wait that long?”

Shaking her head, she began unbuckling the straps of his cuirass, staggering slightly at the weight as she helped him to remove it and its kilt of heavy linen strips. Then faster now, loosening the armbands before kneeling to help him off with his greaves. Both let the armor clatter to the floor. Both stripped with equal haste. Then Mastarna lifted her onto the high, wide bed to kiss her, all of her, cheeks and nose and throat, breasts and belly and toes, before parting her soft white thighs and ending the lovers’ long wait.

Afterwards, they lay nestled together in a room made cozy despite the fug of smoke pooling under the high ceiling above the wall vents. The leopard painted on the wall peered out of its laurel grove, swallows flitting over its head, a constant companion guarding them for all these years.

Caecilia stroked the long scar across Mastarna’s chest and stomach, then the one that ran from nose to lip. His arms were crisscrossed with old wounds also. “I can’t see any fresh ones.”

“
Only scrapes and grazes this time. I managed to avoid a Roman sword point. I must be getting careful in my old age.”

“
Or maybe you’ve finally learned some skills.”

He laughed and pulled the coverlet of red, green and blue plaid from her. “Let me see if you have changed.”

Caecilia protested at the rush of cold air and pulled the counterpane up again, but Mastarna stopped her. “Let me look at you,” he repeated, gently running his hand over her hips and belly, tracing the silver web of lines upon her skin.

Caecilia clasped his hand, aware of how she was aging, how bearing her babies, however beloved, had robbed her body of tautness. “Don’t, they’re ugly.”

Mastarna kissed the delicate marks. “You should be proud of them. They are proof you are a mother and have borne more pain than any I might face. Was your labor very terrible?”

This time he let her draw the quilt close around them. She always forgot the agony once it was over. Holding a baby to her breast healed her.

“
I wish that one day you’ll be there to see me give birth, Vel. I prayed every day before Arnth was born that you would come home.”

Mastarna was silent for a time. “One day,” he murmured. “One day.”

Caecilia regretted speaking. She knew he wanted to be there, and it was no use wishing for what was not fated. She should be rejoicing that the gods gave Vel the chance to hold their children at all.

And how she loved them, her winter-seeded sons. Loved their touch: the soft dimpled fingers of Arnth reaching up to touch her mouth as she kissed them, or tugging at her earrings; Larce measuring the small span of his two-year-old palm against hers, his thumb and fingers tiny. And then there was her firstborn, Vel Mastarna Junior. So quiet and earnest they had nicknamed him “Tas,” the silent one. Believing himself too grown up to need his mother, until darkness came and he would clasp her hand pretending it was she who needed comfort.

Mastarna shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. “Let’s bathe before the feast. I’m looking forward to soaking in hot water.”

Caecilia lingered under the bedclothes, studying him. His nose was battered and his face lined: features of a man who had suffered both inside and outside. And although his dark sloe eyes could be hard, they always softened when he gazed at his family.

Seeing how the skin of his body was smooth compared to the heavy afternoon bristle upon his chin, she smiled. It always surprised her how the Veientanes took their barbers on campaign. Not to mention the enormous retinue of other servants to cater to their every need. As if they could not leave luxury behind for even one moment. Fine clothes and furniture and utensils. Musicians and dancers and poets alongside blacksmiths and bow-makers. And, of course, seers and priests to ensure the gods’ intentions could be divined and their favor secured. “However do you find time to shave or pluck your body while at war?” she teased.

“
So you would have me as hairy as a bear like some Roman soldier?” He rubbed his chin. “Although I’m considering growing my beard.”

Kneeling behind him, Caecilia slipped her arms around his waist, laying her cheek against the broadness of his back. “Don’t you dare!”

He laughed. “I suppose you’re right. It’s a rare woman who likes her skin scraped.”

Caecilia was glad he could not see her expression. For there were other kinds of slaves included among the camp followers: concubines and harlots. It always tormented her that Vel might find fidelity too onerous in the long months of fighting. “As long as it’s only my cheek you scratch.”

Smiling, Mastarna turned and pulled her onto his lap. “And have you taken a lover yet? All these young slave boys at your disposal.”

She pushed against him. “How could you even suggest it?”

He was serious now, his dark, almond-shaped eyes somber, an edge to his voice. “Then you should not suspect me either.”

Ashamed, she looked down.

He raised her chin between thumb and forefinger to make her face him. “I wish you could see yourself as I do. Then you could never doubt me, Bellatrix.” He traced a line between her breasts, then examined the pendant around her neck. “Remember why I gave this to you? To remind you that you are brave.”

The locket was an amulet he’d given her when they’d first married. It had become a love token that she treasured. The huntress Atlenta was depicted upon it, a mortal who’d also fallen in love with a husband she’d been decreed to wed. Caecilia had only learned of her story after she came to Veii. She fingered the charm. Vel claimed she was like the mythical girl—a warrioress, a bellatrix—but she doubted she deserved such a nickname.

She encircled his neck. “Forgive me for being foolish?”

He laid her back upon the soft mattress, nuzzling her neck. “I already have.”

Glossary

Cast

The flames ripped along the wood as the torch was set to the pitch, the fire consuming the thick oxhide sides of the siege towers, wooden struts burning, acrid black smoke billowing.

After a long year of deprivation the Veientanes gathered on every side of the city, the sound of their shrieking saturating the air. Escaping the prison of their homes they streamed down the roads sloping from the plateau. Beneath a wintry sun, they traversed woodland and stream to reach the Roman fortifications to set them afire. There they hacked at the vestiges of war left behind by their enemy to fuel the blaze: dismantling wheeled shelters and mantlets, stripping stockades of stakes, and wrenching pickets from trenches.

Now as night fell, Caecilia and Mastarna watched their rampage from the heights of the citadel. A line of bonfires stretched around the walls, a circle of liberation, some mere pinpricks twinkling in the distance, others nearer that were roaring, fierce and bright. Directly across from the acropolis was the greatest conflagration. Like a malignant boil on the skin of the city, the main Roman camp sat on the rise beyond the dark strip of river. In the darkness, its fences and guard posts glowed deep red.