The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (42 page)

“
Were you afraid?”

“
You need a seed of fear within you to drive you to survive. It is only when the dread takes root and grows that you can be defeated.”

Lying close, Pinna thought she would never again be afraid as long as she was with him. And it was not just his desire that made her feel that way. Tonight she had possessed a small piece of his power. She was no longer insignificant. No longer puny.

*

She woke. It was still dark. Night on the rim of early morn.

Heart thudding, she sat up, disoriented.

The bed was empty.

Again she was disconcerted. To fall asleep and then wake in a man’s bed was strange.

Camillus was at his desk writing by the feeble light of the lamp. He was fully dressed, hair and beard combed. A general again. No sign of the lover.

The temperature within the tent was warm. Night had done little to dispel heat. Pinna dressed and padded towards him. “My lord, can you not sleep?”

He glanced up at her. “No, I start work each day at this time.”

“
Before cock crow? You have only slept a few hours.”

“
Even so little a time is a waste.”

She hesitated, unsure whether he wanted her to remain. Camillus laid down his stylus. “I need to tell you something.”

The words were ominous. It reminded her of Fusca when she was about to scold her.

“
Pinna, last night should not have happened.”

The girl’s spirits plummeted as fast as she had flown only hours before. Disappointed she’d merely warmed his bed for a time, she resorted to a lie. “But, my lord, I think that Marcus Aemilius is growing tired of me. I don’t think he would be jealous. And I am only his concubine, not his lawful wife. He can’t punish us for committing adultery.”

A frown creased his brow. “That may be so, but I acted dishonorably. Marcus is your patron. I betrayed him and in doing so shamed myself. And you have been unfaithful, too. Do you understand?”

She stared at him, thinking that not even the leno’s beatings hurt as much as this. He had made her feel wanted. He had been tender. All these years she had built up a shell around her feelings. To reveal them only to be spurned was humiliating, as deep as any disgrace he might feel. Like a night moth immolating itself in a flame, she’d been drawn to his power and burned.

Throat dry, she swallowed hard as she turned to put on her shoes. “Yes, my lord.”

“
Wait.” He took her hand. “Believe me, Pinna, you pleased me. If you weren’t another man’s I would tell you to go gather your things and return.”

It took a moment to comprehend. He wanted her to be his woman. Suddenly she resented Marcus for binding her to him. Why couldn’t he believe that she would never betray his secret? Why should he prevent her from being happy? “My lord, if Marcus Aemilius and I agree to part ways, will you make me yours?”

Camillus dropped her hand and picked up the stylus again. “Yes, but until you can resolve this with him, we must not repeat what happened last night.”

She smiled and reached over to kiss him, but he was aloof, already disciplining himself not to further breach his officer’s trust.

“
Then I should go?”

“
Yes, it’s still dark. It’s best no one sees you leaving.”

Collecting her basket, Pinna walked to the tent opening. Camillus was once again preoccupied with his work. As she pushed back the leather flap, though, he called to her. “And, Pinna, you will say nothing about my belt?”

She nodded. “I promise I will not speak of it.”

“
Or how I let you …”

Pinna realized the general was embarrassed. She had discovered yet another man’s weakness. “Don’t worry, my lord. I am very good at keeping secrets.”

*

A rooster was crowing, its clarion call loud and boastful as the sun rose. Pinna watched the dawn goddess sifting light from the darkness, touching the world with color. Soon the heat would build and the camp would wake from a restive sleep to another blue-skied day.

She hurried past the red flags marking the officers’ section, shooing away the chickens blocking her path. The birds flapped away, indignant, squawking. She was determined to convince Marcus that he was safe to release her. For the great Camillus wanted her. Murmuring her thanks to Mater Matuta, she gave a little skip.

Glossary

Cast

Listless, Caecilia lay with her hand shielding her eyes. Her cheeks were tear-streaked. She had dreamed that Vel was with her in the bed. On waking she wept with disappointment.

A week after the birthing she was still melancholy. It had been a long eight days. She could not understand the sadness. After the birth of each son she had been keen to hold them, smiling at the first tentative mouthing of her nipple, the pain forgotten.

This time there had been no raising of the babe to her breast that Caecilia could remember. No kiss upon a small head covered in birth muck. Instead, bleeding profusely, she had fainted. When she awoke Ramutha hugged her and welcomed her back from death. Exhausted, she had closed her eyes again. They let her sleep.

Her daughter was brought to her every day. The sight of her brought no happiness. Instead Caecilia felt empty. As if feeling had left her and at the same time overwhelmed her.

Caecilia could offer only a dry teat. At each failure the infant howled, enraged at being wrenched from cushioned warmth into a world of noise and hunger.

“
Mistress, it’s time for your bath. No excuses.” Cytheris bustled into the bedchamber, bringing fresh robes and ointments. One slave girl followed carrying bedding to replace the blood-encrusted sheets. Two slave boys lugged a tub and set it up beside the bed.

Stripped of her soiled clothes, Caecilia lowered herself into the icy water. Reefing the baby from her had rent her. She gritted her teeth, cursing that she must suffer more pain to ensure the tear was healed.

After the cold bath there was a warm one, this time in the airy, light-filled bath chamber. Cytheris washed Caecilia’s tangled hair and massaged her limbs and body with unguents. Yet sitting for such a time was agonizing. By the time the servant had tied back her mistress’ hair with a ribbon, and dabbed carmine on pallid lips, Caecilia was exhausted.

“
There, my lady.” Cytheris fastened the sleeves to the chiton with brooches. “That’s better. Now let us go outside and allow some sun to shine upon you. Your sons are anxious to see you. They have only just returned from their stay at Lady Ramutha’s.”

Aided by the servant, Caecilia hobbled from the chamber into the garden arcade. After the dimness of the bedchamber she blinked in the afternoon sunshine, smiling at the sight of her sons in the garden.

Tas was sitting near the fountain reading a book instead of playing with his brothers. He’d grown even more solitary of late, making her worry that her oldest son had inherited her Roman reserve but none of her laughter.

Larce and Arnth were kicking a ball stuffed with feathers. The house dogs yapped and chased them. She smiled. Arnth was becoming a handful. Nearing two, he was always venturing into small spaces, or climbing the precipice of chairs or stairs. His limbs and forehead were bruised from countless tumbles. Not satisfied to traipse after his brothers, the toddler set out on his own adventures. And Larce, ignored by Tas, had started to follow Arnth instead.

Larce. Here was a mystery. There seemed no Roman in him although he’d once formed inside one. Instead he was wholly Rasennan, with the dark sloe eyes and straight brow of his grandmother, and the curls of his father. She often marveled that two unlovely people such as her and Mastarna could produce such a beauty. Her son’s exuberance did not reside within the characters of his parents either. If Caecilia had not known Vel was the father, she’d have wondered where Larce had come from.

Faces flushed from the heat of the summer’s day, the boys were tussling with one of the dogs. The hound had snatched the ball from them, growling whenever Arnth tried to wrest it from its jaws. Larce was giggling. “Ra at him, Arnth!”

Unexpectedly the dog let go, causing the tot to tumble backwards. The older boy pounced on the prize and kicked it. The ball rolled near the cradle. Running over to retrieve it, Larce peered over the edge at his sister.

Aricia slipped her arm around the boy’s waist. “Not so close lest you wake her.”

Larce wriggled against her. “But I want to kiss her.”

Caecilia stepped from the arcade, opening her arms. “Come, kiss me instead.”

The three boys rushed to her, bumping one another to be the first within the circle of her embrace. Pain prevented Caecilia from crouching to hold them. She bent, kissing six cheeks one after the other. Arnth jumped up and down demanding to be lifted. Larce hugged her legs, burying his face into the folds of her robe, causing her to wince. “I’ve missed you so much. Don’t send me away again.” Caecilia stroked his hair, murmuring reassurance.

Tas had been forced back, denied access by his brothers. Unruffled, he studied the baby. “What are you going to call her, Ati?”

Of course Caecilia had decided on a name. What mother did not daydream over such choices? Tas’ question, though, made her realize that she had not yet thought of her daughter as a person. The little girl was to be given her grandmother’s name. Not the cold distant woman of Caecilia’s childhood but the mother-in-law she’d treasured.

Larthia Mastarna had no daughter of her own but she had loved Caecilia, and Caecilia had loved her. The matron had taught her that Rasennan wives possessed the same fidelity and patience as that expected of Roman women. In quiet moments the loss of her still caused tears to well. More than anything, Caecilia wanted Larthia to be with her now. To feel her arms around her. To be mothered herself.

She gazed at the infant lying snug in her swaddling, face pink from heat. The babe’s eyes were swollen shut and her head elongated from too much time in the birth canal. Caecilia dared not touch her, not wanting to wake her. She couldn’t cope with failing to nurse her again. And yet wasn’t it wrong that she did not hasten to hold little Larthia? Memories of her own ill, bitter mother lurked inside her. The patrician had kept aloof. Could scarcely bear to touch her. Had the Aemilian sewn seeds of detachment within her? Was she destined not to love this baby because she was a girl child?

Lost in her thoughts, Caecilia had forgotten her sons were waiting for an announcement. “She is to be called Larthia after your grandmother.”

The three boys examined the occupant of the crib. Arnth tried to climb in with his sister but Aricia prevented him.

“
I want to play with Thia.” The tot struggled to say the full name.

“
Thia’s ugly.” Larce’s declaration was said without malice.

Caecilia smiled. “Not for long. She will be pretty in no time.”

“
I don’t want any more brothers or sisters.” Tas was scowling at the baby.

Thinking her oldest son jealous, Caecilia indulged him. “Why ever not?”

“
Because Aricia told me that she”—he jabbed his finger in Larthia’s direction— “nearly killed you. She said I must pray for your soul.”

Caecilia tried to control her temper, angered that Aricia should stoke, not douse, her son’s fears. She had sent the boys to stay with Ramutha to avoid them hearing her in childbed. And had asked her friend to keep them longer rather than have them see her in a weakened state.

Cupping Tas’ face in her hands, Caecilia kissed his forehead. “I am here now. You must not blame your sister for my pain.”

Cytheris extracted her mistress from the jumble of boys, swinging Arnth onto her hip. “Come away now, let your mother lie down.”

A canopy had been erected over a divan for shade against the sun, and a slave stood holding an enormous feathered fan to cool the mistress in the sluggish heat. Larce scrambled up to snuggle beside Caecilia on the deep, wide mattress. At Arnth’s insistence, Cytheris let him sit beside his brother.

Caecilia patted the kline. “Tas, there is room for you, too.” The boy climbed up and sat beside Arnth.