The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (25 page)

Cytheris placed the torch in the bracket and closed the door. Barely had she turned around when Caecilia threw her arms about her, laying her head upon an expanse of bosom.

The constraints of rank between mistress and servant often loosened. In that first bewildering year in Veii the maid had become a young girl’s guide to the ways of men and marriage. The role had not yet ended. Hadn’t Cytheris rubbed her back during birth pangs and helped deliver all her babies? And soothed her worries over raising those same sons? She was always relieved that the slave chose to remain in service to her as a freedwoman after she had granted both Cytheris and her daughter, Aricia, their freedom. Maid and mistress owed an allegiance to the other. The servant could not stand beside her as an equal but there was love there. There was friendship.

Cytheris held her quietly, the embrace of an older sister Caecilia had never known. The Roman had lacked maternal solace also. The icy bitterness of her patrician mother for her half-caste baby had never thawed. It was a comfort to feel the padding of hips and ample breasts, the soft frizz of the maid’s hair, the aniseed scent of her hushed soothing.

“
He is going then, mistress?”

No longer amazed that the maid could read her mind, Caecilia nodded, unable to form words as she sobbed.

She always resented the fickleness of her emotions when she was pregnant. It irritated her that she could be sensitive to the slightest upset. The virtue of fortitude had been beaten into her by Rome, and she prided herself on having endured bearing children when her husband was absent so many times. The years had matured her as well as her Roman resolve.

She did not cry in front of Mastarna on parting. She’d learned that from the very beginning. Their reunion after she’d chosen Veii over Rome had been brief. A few days together and then he was gone. Since then her tears of farewell remained invisible. Not because his sympathy was lacking but because she sensed his discomfort, his helplessness as to how to console her or cope with the anguish of his leaving their family. Now he was to travel to Velzna. It would be dangerous to move through enemy territory. No quick journey.

Today with Cytheris she was free to weep. Frustration had breached a reservoir of tears. She hoped the brick walls and stalwart wood of the storeroom door would muffle her weeping from the other servants.

The maid stroked her hair, crooning, her pockmarked face concerned. Then she drew away, holding Caecilia at arm’s length so she could study her. “But it’s not like you to cry over the master leaving. There must be more.”

“
He goes to seek the aid of the Twelve. Veii means to march on Rome and destroy it.”

The Greek woman pushed the hair from her mistress’ face, then, lifting the hem of her tunic, wiped Caecilia’s eyes as if she was one of the children. “But, my lady, why should that matter? Rome is no longer your home.”

Hiccuping, throat sore, Caecilia finally ceased her weeping, then, overcome with weariness, she leaned against one of the tall amphora, touching the Aemilian wristlet, remembering Marcus. “I don’t want to see my Roman family die even though they may revile me. And that city is where memories of my childhood and the spirits of my parents reside.”

She placed her hand upon her chest. “Sometimes I think the legacy of my birthplace is like a canker within me. As malignant as the one that lay inside my mother’s breast and killed her. Rome is part of me—as indivisible as flesh and blood. No matter how hard I try, the lessons of my childhood haunt me, the customs of my people echo within me. And even after all this time I can’t help compare the vices of the Rasenna with the virtues of Rome. One day I wish I could wake and be truly Veientane. To have no need to make a choice. To not judge if I should deplore or ignore those things that are still alien to me.”

Cytheris touched the iron amulet on her mistress’ wrist. “You gave me that on the night you went back to Rome so that I could remember you. And I returned it to you when you chose Veii because it had been a gift from your cousin. But mistress, remember why you did not want to stay in Marcus’ world. You did not want to live as a Roman.”

Caecilia fingered the horse head crest on the charm. Did Marcus miss her as she did him? She remembered the moment when he’d slipped the wristband on her arm. It had been on her wedding day as she trembled in her white bridal tunic and orange veil. Even then his earnest assurances that Camillus would save her were unconvincing. Rome needed the corn her marriage secured and was prepared to sacrifice a half-caste bride. There was never any intention of rescuing her. Yet Marcus did not know that when he comforted her. The kindhearted boy ached for her in her plight. When she’d been orphaned, he’d protected her against his mother’s spite and consoled her. Later though, when she’d naively returned to Rome, he’d not understood her need for Mastarna. To him there was no option other than a life limited to spindle and loom—and submission to Drusus, a man she did not love.

“
You are right, I would hate that. Returning to them was as though walls were closing around me, as though I had been shackled. But even so, remnants of my belief in their laws still lurk within me. And I will never forget Marcus.”

Cytheris sighed. “My lady, you know I come from Magna Graecia in the south where women don’t have the freedom that we find in Veii. I would never wish to return there. Why would I hanker for Greek rules? I know there would be nothing there for me. Certainly not my family. And even what I remember fondly would not be the same. Time changes all. The Romans themselves may have altered the customs that you remember. And should Rome fall your sweetest memories won’t be lost or your ancestors forgotten. The rest is only timber and stone.” The Greek woman stroked Caecilia’s cheek with the back of her hand. “And as for your cousin, he is your enemy now, whether you like it or not. Your problem is that you think too much. The question comes down to this—which would you rather see destroyed? Veii or Rome?”

Caecilia blinked, then wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm. Such an absolute made the decision clear but did not remove the agony of choice. “You know my answer.”

Cytheris squeezed the princip’s hand. “Then stop fretting. It has always been the same, city against city, men against men and the women crushed between. Let’s worry about Rome falling when it happens.” She smoothed the fabric over Caecilia’s belly. “What’s more important now is for you to bear another healthy baby, and to hug your sons whenever you can.”

With a small smile, Caecilia brushed off the dust that had transferred from the amphorae to her skirts. As always, sharing her fears had lightened her spirit. “We’d better remember the wine or the cook will grow suspicious.”

At the end of the storeroom lay the wine cellar, its door locked. Only she, Mastarna and Tarchon possessed the key, the cache of fine wine kept safe from tippling servants. Every time she imbibed she thought how her father and uncle would be shocked. In Veii, though, she did not fear being killed in punishment for what in Rome was a crime.

As she neared the door she was surprised to hear male voices and laughter coming from behind it. Then a click of a key in the lock. The door swung open and Tarchon entered leading someone by the hand. When he lifted the lamp to see who awaited him, his surprise seemed to match her own.

“
Caecilia, you scared me! What are you doing here?”

“
Choosing wine, of course.” She peered over his shoulder to see who was with him, wondering why he would bring a slave boy to this cellar when a comfortable bed awaited them. When she spied his companion, though, she understood. For it was no servant but the son of a king. “By the gods, what is he doing here?”

Tarchon put his arm around the youth’s waist, the gesture affectionate and proprietary.

The last time she’d seen Sethre Kurvenas he was emerging from the murkiness of a prostitutes’ den. How ardent these two must have been to risk being discovered rutting beneath the stand. Today, though, their furtive coupling was well hidden. “You must be mad!”

Discovered in the assignation, Sethre showed none of the arrogance he’d displayed towards her before. He blushed scarlet, instinctively turning to escape, but Tarchon restrained him.

“
You don’t understand, Caecilia. Sethre is my beloved. I am his mentor.”

“
You, his lover? What nonsense! You’re not qualified.”

Behind them, Cytheris tutted. Tarchon bristled. “Get out!”

The maid stood firm.

“
It’s all right, Cytheris, you can go now,” Caecilia bade.

The servant left, mouth pursed, shutting the storeroom door behind her, the light from the wall torch wavering in the draft.

Tarchon was holding Sethre’s hand. “Rules again, Caecilia? Don’t tell me you now condone a Veientane custom you detest.”

“
No, I still don’t believe an aristocrat should take a noble boy in any circumstance. Freeborn with freeborn, it’s immoral. But at least I’ve learned to respect the code that needs to be followed if he does. You broke that before and you are breaking it again. Only this time you are acting like Artile—corrupting a boy, disgracing our family!”

“
This is different. I love Sethre.”

“
Oh? And are you saying you weren’t besotted with the haruspex? If I recall, you saw no wrong in that liaison either before you saw him for what he truly was.”

Tarchon glanced nervously at Sethre. The youth was listening with a confused expression.

“
Enough talk of Artile. He manipulated me, manipulated you—and Seianta.”

Now it was Caecilia who was uncomfortable. The conversation was shifting into territory she never wanted to traverse again.

“
I am not a boy, I’m a man!” Sethre had finally found his voice, with a tone that reminded Caecilia of Tas when he protested his childhood.

She glared at him. “Truly? I don’t see a full beard yet upon your chin, although it will be soon enough. And then what is happening between you and Tarchon would be even worse. Two freeborn men together.”

Again Sethre reddened, making her soften. “Listen to me. I’m guessing you are not stupid, and I’ve seen you have the makings of a warrior. So don’t let Tarchon spoil it for you. Go home and forget this foolishness!”

She was not sure if it was her condescension or her command that offended him, but the disdain the youth had once shown her reappeared. “Do not presume to give me an order, Roman. This is none of your business!”

Caecilia put her hands on her hips. “How dare you! You scuttle around in my wine cellar then question my authority? I’m your elder, wife of a general—and Tarchon’s stepmother. I have a right to speak my mind. Your actions threaten to stir up the feud between our houses. Think on that, and if you still wish to disrespect me, know also that you dishonor your father more.”

Not expecting fierceness, Sethre’s haughtiness vanished. Tarchon pulled the youth close. “Perhaps you should go, little chick,” he murmured, brushing the other’s lips. “I will deal with this.”

Caecilia glanced away, embarrassed to intrude on their intimacy no matter how wrong they were to share it. Then she realized that to leave, Sethre needed to walk through a kitchen full of servants. “How are we going to get him out of here without gossip turning into fact?”

Tarchon pointed to the back of the wine cellar. “I thought you knew there was a tunnel. It leads into the main drainage system. Just like the one we used under the Great Temple when I helped you escape to Rome. Here, I’ll show you.”

Caecilia followed him past the stacked rows of amphorae with their winemaker’s seals. In that tiny room were vintages from distant places, their rich aromas mingling with dust and cobwebs, the wealth of the House of Mastarna patent in the trove of Carthaginian and Sardinian wine. Tarchon led her to the last rack. In all her visits she’d never noticed the slim opening in the shadows.

Managing to ease her bulk into the concealed passageway she was overwhelmed by the dank odor of water steeped in stone. A memory of the narrow vertical shaft gouged into the rock of the high citadel returned. An escape route hidden beneath the terracotta skirts of the mighty goddess Uni herself. Seeking what she believed was freedom, Caecilia had climbed down rusted iron rungs through clinging darkness to find herself in an arched drain at the foot of the cliff.

Why then should she be surprised that such a passageway existed within her own house? And she knew there were other tunnels too. The earth beneath the wide avenues and bustling streets of Veii was riddled with them. A network of drains that were a testament to city engineers. Stone-covered drains ran from each house into the street. Cisterns were filled with water. Wells were full. And hadn’t Tarchon once shown her the marvel of irrigation channels under the very fields themselves? Feeding thirsty crops and creating a fertile landscape that would otherwise lie fallow with swamp and mosquitoes? Rome always envied Veii its corn, little understanding how the Rasenna diverted nature. Melted snow and rain were not wasted. The Veientanes were never going to die from thirst even in a siege.