The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (4 page)

Vipinas put up his hands as though to fend off a blow. “Calm down. We must put those personal enmities behind us for the sake of Veii. I doubt anyone would be foolish enough to rule like Tulumnes.”

“
So who do you suggest should be this lucumo king?” Mastarna stabbed his finger in Kurvenas’ direction again. “Him? His family members have always considered themselves more royal than others. They have no respect for our government. Choose him and you will have a despot, one who will triumph as he tramples over our people.”

Unruffled, Kurvenas brushed off a few stray hairs that had settled upon his cloak, his gaze traversing Caecilia from head to foot. “I think your judgment is clouded.”

His smugness was a goad. Mastarna stepped towards him. “Are you questioning my loyalty to this city?”

Kurvenas continued to smile, unfazed by his opponent’s proximity. “Of course not, it’s just that you might have some qualms about the new strategy I have put to the High Council.”

Mastarna frowned. “And what scheme would that be?”

The aristocrat returned his attention to Caecilia. “Why, to conquer Rome, of course.”

She stiffened, then breathed deeply, trying to control her shock and muster her thoughts. Until now she could abide Veientanes killing Romans to defend themselves. But could she stand by and watch the city of her birth and her family attacked?

Mastarna also tensed. “You’re deluded! The only chance Veii has of assailing Rome is if we gain the support of the League of Twelve Rasennan cities. Support that will never be forthcoming. The congress despises kings. Besides, Tulumnes insulted them and was expelled like a dog as a result. If your plan is to attack Rome’s citadel without such an alliance, you will weaken Veii instead.”

Again Kurvenas remained calm, but moved a step back from Mastarna as a precaution. “See, my Lord Zilath, I told you he would not want to storm her city.”

The argument had caused others to leave the bonfire and gather—a circle of querying faces. One in particular stood ashen-faced. Thefarie Ulthes. Younger brother of the zilath poisoned at Tulumnes’ behest. Normally Thefarie’s wide grin and throaty chuckle infected others, provoking good humor even in the reluctant. Tonight he remained solemn and soundless. His wife, though, could not restrain herself. Ramutha Tetnies quaked as she accosted Vipinas. “How could you? How could you? To elect a sovereign is to dishonor Clan Ulthes!”

Caecilia could see Kurvenas flinch. Most Veientane men esteemed their wives, valuing their opinions. The way he glared at Ramutha showed Caecilia that he was more a Roman than Rasennan husband. His wife was absent tonight. Instead he’d brought his courtesan. Ignoring Ramutha, he addressed the principes around him. “All of you know that I am not like my cousin Tulumnes. And we do not need a woman’s hysteria to distort my motives. I mean no offense to the House of Ulthes but we have had seven years of siege. Rome must be attacked. And a king should lead us.”

Suddenly Thefarie found his voice, volume making up for his earlier silence. And just like his wife, he reserved his anger for Vipinas. “How can you countenance this? I thought you were a friend of my family.”

The old man straightened his shoulders, which set him coughing again. “I am no one’s enemy.” He struggled to gain breath. “Nor are the tribal leaders of the High Council.”

The sick feeling within Caecilia deepened as she realized the matter must have already been decided. How quickly the euphoria of reunion had disappeared. Heady elation replaced by the feeling of life careening out of control.

Mastarna gave a sour laugh. “Oh, now I see. While I’ve been away Kurvenas hasn’t just been campaigning against the Romans.”

Before either man could respond another nobleman interrupted, his head as bald as his beard was thick. Lusinies was grizzled, the tip of his nose missing, his ears fibrous from years of wearing a helmet. “It’s not just Kurvenas who sees the sense in ceasing annual elections, Mastarna. You and Thefarie would be outnumbered in any vote. All four of the six high councillors favor a monarch. And we think that man should be Kurvenas.”

Ramutha’s jaw dropped. “And when was this decided? When was your little conspiracy concocted? Did you sharpen your knives while Thefarie was risking his life defending the north with Mastarna?”

Caecilia marveled at her friend. Ramutha was elegant in her fury. Normally the expression in her kohl-rimmed eyes was of amusement. Now it was harsh, her straight brow furrowed. Her lapis earrings jiggled amid waves of light brown hair as she shook in indignation; her tapered fingers clenched the gold chain baldrics that crossed her breasts. Although diminutive, this woman had a heart as fierce as any of these soldiers.

Thefarie put his hand on her shoulder to calm her as he again faced Vipinas. “Then if there is to be a king, it must be you.”

The zilath shook his head, wheezing. “I’m nearly seventy and I am ill. We must choose a man who can lead us for many years.”

Caecilia studied the old man’s waxen face. He had grown more gaunt over the past year. His false teeth seemed too large in a shrunken mouth.

Ramutha shrugged her husband away to stand closer to the zilath. “You’re not just weak from illness and age.”

Caecilia gasped. Her friend was letting anger overcome prudence. And having learned the hard way the damage that could be wrought through rashness, she knew such emotion needed to be curbed. She moved to Ramutha and placed her arm around her. Her friend’s body thrummed with nerves and rage. “Hush,” she murmured, “before it’s too late.”

For a moment she thought the noblewoman would continue her rant and smash old alliances, but instead Ramutha steadied herself before she spoke again. “Then Mastarna should be elected. He is the greatest general among you.”

Earlier the other aristocrats had been quiet due to surprise; now it was from discomfort.

Mastarna shook his head. “I would never seek such an office.” There was disgust in his voice, his face, his eyes. “We’d be mad to tether ourselves to one man. And what if Rome is conquered? Then our ruler would hold enormous power. We may well be unable to control a king who becomes an oppressor.”

Cries from the revelers in the city below edged into the quiet that followed. Their joy was at odds with the gloom that had fallen over the principes. When one of the logs in the bonfire collapsed and crashed within the flames, everyone was startled.

From the darkness a man wearing a sheepskin cloak and pointed hat emerged, a curved staff in one hand. It was Lord Artile, chief priest of Veii—the man Caecilia loathed most in the world. To see him was to feel afresh the sting of his spite.

Mastarna grimaced. “Don’t tell me you have consulted my charlatan brother for guidance?”

Lusinies spoke before Vipinas. “You are unwise to denigrate him, Mastarna. Your brother is the greatest seer in Veii. Lord Artile has asked the gods what path we should follow. As our most skilled haruspex, he has divined the future from the liver of a ram.”

The sense of her world unraveling spread as Caecilia remembered another prophecy. Artile had confirmed that the gods favored a monarch then also. Tulumnes. A ruler who threatened her with death and mutilation, prompting her to flee back to Rome.

The haruspex smoothed the arch of one eyebrow slowly. “The portent was clear. The gods wish Veii to choose a lucumo.”

Caecilia tugged Mastarna’s cloak, trying to warn him not to be reckless. He ignored her, slowly and deliberately turning his back on his brother. A dangerous insult. “Very well, place your faith in this priest. Elect your king. But know that I will never swear loyalty to him.”

The defiance finally provoked Kurvenas to temper. “That is treason!”

Vipinas sighed. “There isn’t time for this, Mastarna. It will be you who will cause our people to suffer if you plunge us into internal conflict. Do you think anyone would be prepared to follow you if you incite clansmen to fight one another as well as the Romans?”

Mastarna hesitated, and Caecilia knew the zilath’s words stirred memories of a promise made to his murdered friend. Arnth Ulthes had also warned her husband never to risk civil war. She touched Vel’s arm, making him glance down at her. For the second time that night she counseled caution. “It’s no use. Remember Ulthes’ advice. He would not want Rasenna to fight Rasenna.”

He scanned her face, weighing her words, then sighed. “Very well. For the sake of concord I will lead my army in the name of a sovereign. But without the League of the Twelve’s support I won’t help Veii attack Rome.”

Kurvenas snorted and once again eyed Caecilia up and down as if ogling a whore. “So speaks a man who keeps a Roman in his bed.”

Mastarna took a step towards him again, but before he could seize his opponent she moved between the men, her heart thumping, restraint forgotten.

Facing the aristocrats, she once again took a deep breath to quell her nerves. Even so, she was surprised to find her voice was calm. “All know here that there is no going back for me. And I risk death as surely as you do should the enemy breach our walls. So if anyone here doubts my allegiance I will return to Rome tomorrow and meet a traitor’s death.”

All avoided her gaze. No one spoke.

Trying not to show she was trembling, Caecilia held out her hand for Mastarna to escort her from the square. Thefarie and Ramutha followed. After a few steps Mastarna bent and growled: “That was foolish! What if someone had challenged you?”

Her own temper flared, not needing a reminder she’d been rash. “I don’t know, but you’re the one who taught me to gamble.”

Mastarna halted briefly as though to rebuke her again. Then he grunted acknowledgment and placed his arm around her shoulders.

Caecilia glanced back at the gathering as they walked away. Kurvenas, rather than Vipinas, was calling to the others to resume their feasting. At such cajoling, Lusinies slapped the future monarch on the back. The assembled principes drifted after them, their sober mood growing lighter.

The flames of the ring of fires around the city seared the darkness. The song of the Veientanes caressed the air.

Glossary

Cast

In the dark chill before daybreak she woke before she heard the baby crying, her breasts tight, the sheet crusted from leaking milk.

Mastarna reached for her in the cocoon of their bed but Aricia was already calling for permission to enter, holding a squawking Arnth. A slave boy followed wheeling a freshly stoked brazier.

The infant settled quickly at the teat, noisy in his guzzling. Caecilia loosened the clean swaddling so that she could feel the baby’s skin next to hers. Mastarna lay on his side, propping his head against one hand as he studied his wife and son. “He is greedy, Bellatrix.”

“
Just like his father.”

He smiled, offering his fingers to the child. Arnth ignored him until, hunger easing, he clasped the calloused thumb with a tiny fist, smiling around his mother’s breast.

“
You should retain a wet nurse.” He broke from the boy’s grasp to run his hand along his wife’s arm. “Then you might quicken before I leave again.”

Caecilia frowned, drawing her woolen shawl about her, knowing that a woman who holds a babe to her breast rarely falls with child. Her chances of conceiving were always limited to those winters when she was not suckling. Yet she did not want another woman to feed her son. It was unbearable to think of surrendering the tenderness, the gentle tug at her nipple, the drowsy warmth nestled against her. A nearness that her own mother had denied her. And Arnth was not yet one season old. Her body needed respite. “Aren’t three healthy sons enough?”

Mastarna bent over and blew noisily on Arnth’s back. The infant gurgled. “But if we let this chance go by there might not be a next time, Bellatrix.” He sat up and put his arm around her, Arnth content between them. “Besides, what better place to brave the cold than under the bedcovers.”

“
Don’t joke. I could not bear it if you were killed.”

“
I don’t need to leave Veii to be knifed.”

She scanned his face. Dark circles under his eyes. When they had returned home from the Winter Feast he had remained silent, brooding. She knew better than to probe the wound. Both had slept fitfully.

“
Ati! Ati!”

The edge of the bedchamber’s curtain was thrown back and Larce rushed in. He clambered onto the footstool, eager to greet them.

Mastarna reached down and placed his hand under his son’s bottom, scooping him up so that the boy landed with a thump onto the deep mattress. There was a rush of giggles. Regaining his balance, Larce scrambled down onto the footstool. “Again, Apa! Again!”