The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (37 page)

The guard nodded and waved the youth away. Yet Arruns didn’t turn to leave immediately, instead leaned over and whispered, “That night meant much to me as well.”

Semni watched him go, then walked to the hand mill, grasping the quern’s handle. The pivot creaked, the stones grating as she tried to gain momentum. Everyone thought Arruns was inscrutable. That he lacked feelings. She had known for a long time now that this was wrong. She’d seen him laugh in the half-light of a battlefield at the birth of Nerie, and had borne the brunt of his anger when she had neglected her son. And there had been a half-smile once. A hint of flirting. Today he’d shown desire. Just like the dye of his tattoo, she had got under his skin after all.

Knowing this only heightened her frustration. She could not understand his sense of duty. Could not fathom why he would choose another family when he could have one of his own. The memory of his skin against hers was still raw. She wanted to run after him and beg him to lie with her even if he would not wed her.

Nerie woke and sat up, his face crumpling when his mother was not beside him. Semni stopped her task and opened her arms, calling to him. As her son lurched towards her, tears pricked her eyes. Arruns was right. That would no longer be enough.

Glossary

Cast

Clustered around the vast cistern at the crossroads of the citadel, the women paused to stare, pitchers balanced on their heads.

Caecilia did not miss their hostility as the driver urged the asses drawing the two-wheeled cart towards them.

The morning was scorching, no breeze. Ramutha sat next to her, chattering. The Veientane was immaculate despite the heat, waving a round fan decorated with spirals to cool her face and neck. Both principes held fringed parasols of bright hues above their heads to prevent their pale complexions turning ruddy. To the peasants they must have seemed like strange birds of gaudy plumage.

The resentment Ramutha felt towards Mastarna for removing Caile from her embrace no longer caused tension between the friends. The noblewoman accepted that Caecilia played no part in that decision. Yet the Roman’s admiration for a woman having power enough to claim an illegitimate child didn’t allay qualms over her being an unfaithful wife. She thought her friend’s life complicated: pining for a youthful lover, caring for a one-year-old daughter and weathering gossip. Yet she could not disapprove of Ramutha’s love for her baby. Metli Tetnies helped soothe her mother’s longing for the young father. Nevertheless, Caecilia secretly hoped the princip’s desire for Caile would disappear now that he was no longer near enough to spark temptation.

The sun was hot but Caecilia’s palms were sweaty from nerves more than the heat. She’d woken to a summons from the king. As she fastened her jewelery, her fingers had trembled. Was today the day she would learn Vel was dead?

Ramutha would not let her see Kurvenas alone. Even though there was not much distance to the palace the princip was determined that they drive there in her carriage. She didn’t believe in mingling with commoners or risking hems and shoes being dirtied. Arruns kept an easy pace walking ahead of the donkeys, keeping a wary eye on people they passed.

Caecilia had not argued. She was overdue by more than a week, and her girth was ponderous and her tread heavy. She could not remember being so tired when carrying her three sons, nor felt her back ache so. She was exhausted, dark smudges beneath her eyes. Warm nights led to sleeplessness, the small cargo within her buffeting her insides. She found it hard to be comfortable despite being propped up with pillows. At twenty-seven she was beginning to wonder if she’d grown too old to bear children.

She was also worn out worrying about Mastarna. There had been no word from him since he’d left Velzna. His promise that he would return in summer was now likely to be broken. There were only a few weeks left until leaf fall. Once again he would not be there to cut the cord or hold a babe slippery from the womb.

One of the women at the well had swung her pitcher from her head to the ground after climbing the stairs that gave access to the depths of the reservoir. Caecilia’s stomach knotted at her glare. Those in the forum had easily spied her even in a carriage without the Mastarna bull’s crest.

It was not the first time she’d encountered hostility. Camillus’ blockades and the tightening of siege lines had threatened grain supplies. And now a brutal season had depleted reserves of water. Suddenly, for the first time, Veii was facing the prospect of thirst.

Caecilia no longer visited the workshop. Traveling through the city had become unsafe. The first time she’d run the gauntlet of catcalls, her heart beat so fiercely she thought it would rupture. Denied the chance to descend from the citadel into the hubbub was frustrating. Before she’d married Mastarna her whole life had been restricted to Rome. Now her physical world had been reduced to the limits of her mansion. The Veientanes viewed her as an alien, her birthplace defining her once again.

“
Roman bitch!” Lowering her pitcher one woman ran towards them, yelling. Arruns halted her progress, seizing her, but the peasant’s spittle sprayed far enough to spatter the sides of the carriage.

Caecilia instinctively put her hand to her belly, protecting her child.

Ramutha half rose in her seat. “How dare you!”

The commoner struggled against the Phoenician’s grasp. And yet, seeing her defiance, Caecilia felt pity rather than anger. This woman and her family would have shivered through the harsh winter and now struggled in the drought. “Arruns, let her go.”

The jug the woman carried was simple earthenware, its surface crazed. No doubt she would have lugged it to and from the public well each day to provide water to cook and clean. Caecilia felt guilty that Mastarna’s house boasted a private water supply, its larder well stocked despite the shortages, and numerous slaves to tend to domestic tasks.

She ordered the driver to stop so that she could alight. “I need to talk to her. I want to tell all of them to come to my door if their children are hungry.”

Ramutha restrained her with a white and dainty hand. “Mele, you’ll end up trying to feed half of Veii if you do that. Besides, you can’t gain their loyalty that way. And I doubt they would be grateful for very long.”

The peasant turned back to her companions. Caecilia glanced over her shoulder to watch them as the driver urged the donkeys to a trot. She wanted to cry out that she was part common, part noble. That she understood their hardship. And yet to do so would be lying. She may have been raised a plebeian but her father had been wealthy, deprived of power, not riches.

“
Forget her, Mele. She is ignorant.” Ramutha put her arm around Caecilia’s shoulder and pointed to the palace. “And remember, you have greater concerns.”

Glossary

Cast

Long years of war had led temples, houses and public buildings to be neglected. Not so Kurvenas’ residence and government office. The palace facade was magnificent. No faded paint here. Upon the pediment frieze a procession of warriors drove two-horse chariots depicted in glossy white against red, details picked out in light blue, violet and green. And the scarlet and black pilasters were not chipped, the sculpted acanthus leaves on their capitals intact. Nor were there cracks in the antefixes on the watchtowers that guarded the forum.

The courtyard was packed with people waiting for an audience with the king. Caecilia realized it was the time of the quarter moon, the only chance each month for commoners to plead their cases to the lucumo.

Ramutha was incensed when the chamberlain advised them that they would have to wait their turn. Only one petitioner could enter at a time into the antechamber to the throne room. Caecilia checked her own irritation also. It was clear that Kurvenas was playing a game. Yet Rome had taught her patience when it came to petty men.

Needing protection from the sun, she directed Arruns to find some chairs. Both aristocrats settled in the shade of the overhanging gallery. The warm breeze that had sprung up gave little relief. Sitting there brought back memories of waiting in this palace to hear Artile decipher an omen nearly ten years ago. A portent sheathed in a thunderbolt that had foretold the downfall of a powerful man. Caecilia glanced at her friend. That man had been Ramutha’s brother-in-law, Arnth Ulthes. Poisoned at King Tulumnes’ hand.

Ramutha sat impatient, fiddling with one of the ivory rosettes appliquéd onto her chiton. The Veientane never balked at flaunting her wealth or her flair for fashion. Caecilia marveled at her friend’s clear complexion and the glass-beaded diadem threaded through the soft waves of hair. To see Ramutha so elegant made her feel ungainly. The skin on her face was always mottled when she was with child, her hair lank. She wanted to loosen the laces of her sandals to ease her swollen feet but doubted she could reach them. She felt the babe kick. She smoothed her hand over its movement, the linen of her shift soft and sinuous. The child pulled away and her belly returned to a taut globe.

Tired of Ramutha’s fidgeting, she reached for the princip’s hand. “Thank you for coming with me. It mustn’t be easy to see Kurvenas sitting on the throne.”

The woman smiled. “I do this for you, Mele. Let’s hope I annoy him by my presence.”

Finally the last supplicant was seen. Directing Arruns to remain behind, Caecilia followed the chamberlain, butterflies competing with the baby in her stomach. As she passed through the tall double bronze doors she was struck by the beauty of the lofty checkered throne room. When Vipinas was zilath, the chamber had been austere. He was not one to flaunt luxury while his citizens struggled. Kurvenas had no such scruples. The opulence with which he surrounded himself returned Caecilia to a Veii that existed before the war. Garlands hung from hooks entwined with ribbons, and platters of summer fruit were heaped upon side tables, the promise of sweet juicy flesh making her mouth water. Musicians were performing, the castanet player perspiring from the heavy plaid jerkin he wore over a diaphanous skirt. The cithara player and flautist were stylish in vivid striped tebennas.

Kurvenas had wasted no time stamping his mark. Winged lions had been engraved or painted on furniture and walls. A symbol of royalty and his family’s crest. The largest was embossed upon the massive bronze throne upon which the lucumo sat. The last two kings before him had been his grandfather and cousin. It was clear that the newly appointed ruler intended that the Tulumnes clan would long be remembered.

The man sat upon the throne as if born to do so, his arms relaxed along the rests, his weight leaning to one side, legs crossed. Before he’d been elected, his good-humored camaraderie had endeared him to all. Now that he’d reached the pinnacle, Caecilia suspected he’d dispensed with civility to those who could no longer profit him. The laws he proclaimed and the taxes he levied did not favor the people but instead bought the allegiance of those principes he needed.

Morale may have been low among his subjects but the king appeared buoyant. With his bulk, his jewelery and robes made him impressive. Caecilia had to admit he looked regal. His cloak was embroidered with figures of Heracles performing his labors, and a wreath wrought in gold secured oiled shoulder-length hair. A winged lion was emblazoned on the wide bronze belt around his waist.

There were four others seated in the room. Three men and a youth. Caecilia’s eyes widened when she saw Sethre’s face. Both eyes were blackened, mere slits against swollen cheeks, and he held his body as though it pained him. She wondered if he’d come off second in a fight. For certain his usual cockiness was subdued.

Vipinas was sitting rigid in his chair, his face cadaverous and his cough no better. She wondered if he always attended upon the king when there was a public audience. This man had promised Mastarna he would protect her. Had he instead become a confidant of her husband’s rival? She smiled to the old man who nodded. His greeting granted her some reassurance.

Bored, the warrior Lusinies scratched his mutilated nose as he observed the women. He was wearing a kirtle, his heavyset chest bare, and a gold torque around his neck studded with scarab-shaped garnets. Caecilia never knew where this man’s loyalties lay. He was cagey in declaring either his preferences or prejudices.

She stiffened when she saw the fourth man. For Artile stood behind an enormous bronze table with an ornate inkstand and two candelabras on it. Caecilia recognized the linen book open in front of him as a holy text. As always she thought him an echo of his older brother. Mastarna, with his masculinity and passion, was the first clear call while Artile, with his flabby body and cosmetics, was the fainter, lesser man.

The priest studied her. The honeyed persuasion of his gaze and voice and promises had once entranced her, but now she was strong enough to resist him. Repugnance gave her courage, refusing to be cowed. To her satisfaction it was the haruspex who was the first to look away.