The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (52 page)

“
Aricia?” Nonplussed, Cytheris peered down the corridor. “But I can’t see her.”

Semni relaxed and let go of Tas’ hand so she could pick up her grizzling son. The young princip stood rigid beside her. “She was going to take Master Tas to Lord Artile. The haruspex planned to take him to the Sacred College.”

The maid’s confusion changed to shock. Semni had always thought her old but now she seemed ancient.

“
Are you sure?”

Tas interrupted. “Yes, Cytheris. And Aricia scared me.”

Sitting on a stool the woman covered her face with her hands. Semni sensed her helplessness to control her daughter. As though she herself had failed in raising such a deceiver.

Alarmed by the drama that had erupted in her kitchen, Cook put her arm around her friend. “She never did deserve a mother like you.”

At her friend’s words, Cytheris straightened, the Gorgon in her emerging. “We have greater concerns than my own.”

Cradling her son’s head against her breast to soothe him, Semni scanned the other servants gathered in the room. They looked gloomy. After her frantic dash from danger, she suddenly noticed it was quiet outside. No sound of traffic. As if the citadel was deserted. “What is it? What has happened?”

One of the grooms spoke up. “Camillus and Genucius are both attacking the general. The king refuses to open the Tinia Gates for those in retreat. The warriors of the Clan Mastarna are being massacred beneath the walls.”

Shocked, Semni glanced down at Tas, dismayed that he was listening. The boy was no longer at her side.

Her search led her to the courtyard. The sky was filled with a translucent light that made the grass and leaves more vivid.

Drenched, Tas was a forlorn figure as he stood in the rain: thin-limbed, all knobbly knees and bony elbows.

On gusts of wind, Semni heard the intermittent sound of distant wailing. The hairs on her neck rose. It was no paean but a discordant din of despair.

She offered him her hand. “Come, little master.”

He shook his head, covering his face. Semni bent down and gently prized his fingers apart. There was no gift of sight in his eyes, only the tearful gaze of a frightened boy. He let her lift him, legs straddling her waist, arms clinging around her neck. He laid his cheek against her shoulder. “I want Ati. I don’t want Apa to die.”

Glossary

Cast

The first thing Caecilia noticed was the wind. In the lee of the tufa blocks there had only been a breeze, but on the heights of the rampart currents tugged at her damp hair.

There was a green tinge to the sky, the light no longer dull but eerie. Spindrifts swirled across the landscape from sudden squalls. Droplets splattered her, smacking onto her face and hands. The wind was capricious, undecided from which direction to blow.

As she perched on the curtain wall, Arruns sat anxiously beside her. His headstrong mistress had ignored his pleading. Now he was resigned to her madness. Holding a shield in front of her, he tried to protect her from any Roman shot. Each time a stray stone thudded against the metal, Caecilia instinctively ducked.

Behind her, the crowd in the forum had already begun keening, weird mournful strains of resignation that their family and friends would lose their lives that day.

Bows at their sides, Kurvenas’ archers were troubled, clearly disturbed at their king’s order. They had become spectators instead of combatants. They were confused, too, to find Mastarna’s wife beside them on the wall.

The rain was heavier. Visible lines of water. Caecilia hooked wet hair behind her ears to prevent the wind whipping it across her face. Water dripped down her neck. The linen of her yellow shawl and embroidered chiton was drenched. At the risk of being hit, she peered out from behind the shield. Looking over the edge, the sense of falling was strong within her, but the desire to find Vel overcame her fear.

Carnage lay before her. Dead men. Dead horses. Hacked limbs and severed heads. The maimed sprawled bleeding. Too much gore. Too much bloodshed.

Caecilia shut her eyes and just as quickly opened them, forcing herself to search for Mastarna again.

Sounds that had been detached from action when hidden by masonry were now connected. She saw, not just heard, men yelling. Shields clashing against shields. The screaming of the wounded and the dying. Horses whinnying and squealing. There must have been two hundred Veientane cavalry trapped in the corridor below.

Some were crowded at the gates. The seasoned wooden barrier was only the thickness of one foot of timber between safety and annihilation. Some tried to climb it, their hands stretched upwards, pleading for the gates’ lock to be opened as the Romans slashed at them from below. Caecilia could not stop thinking they might yet be saved if Kurvenas found a conscience.

Others had been pushed off into the deep ditch next to the road, which was fast becoming a moat as the rain filled it. The earth that had been caked and dry was now thickening. The men floundered in the quagmire, their faces and padded linen corselets spattered, their limbs slick with mud as they tried to wade back onto higher ground.

Some of the townsfolk were lowering ropes and ladders, but the king’s men forced them to drop them. They could not afford for the Romans to use them to scale the walls.

Vel was not among those at the gates.

Caecilia scanned the area where the remaining Rasennan horsemen were fighting, desperate in their last stand. Proud noble warriors of Clan Mastarna to the end.

Then she saw his gray steed. The bright blue horsehair crest of his bronze helmet. The spiraling pattern on his cuirass. The bull’s head upon his shield.

She froze with the shock of finally seeing him. Suddenly she was not thankful to the gods for granting her wish. For now she must truly watch him die.

Arruns must have seen him too. She could feel him tense beside her. At the same time a slinger found his mark as a stone smashed into Vipinas’ borrowed shield. Caecilia ignored the danger, beyond caring, blood coursing through her.

Mastarna’s face was hidden by his helmet’s cheek pieces. She longed to view his dark eyes, battered nose and scar. Wanted to call out to him also, but she doubted he would hear her above the din. He was leaning down from his stallion, fending off an axeman who was trying to drag him from his mount. Caecilia watched riveted, heart pounding.

The ground was becoming treacherous. Skidding on the slippery surface, Vel’s horse lost its footing and fell on its side, unseating its rider. Mastarna lay stunned, his spear jerked from his hand by the impact and landing a yard away. Axe raised, the Roman skirmisher advanced on the fallen man.

Recovering, Vel drew his sword and staved off the attack while still lying on his back. Then, scrambling to his feet, he rammed the foe with his shield before using it as a club. His enemy felled, he stepped over him to meet another.

As Caecilia watched him she overcame horror, concentrating instead on his survival. She needed him to be brutal. Death-dealing. Smiting all who attacked him.

Roman knights were riding through the strife, horses’ hooves spraying mud as they chased down Veientanes and trampled them. Others rode parallel to the fleeing soldiers before piercing them with spears.

Arruns touched her shoulder and pointed to the horizon through the rain. Her shoulders tightened and her neck muscles strained as she saw a Roman cavalryman riding at full pelt towards Vel, his horse churning through the boggy ground.

Mastarna had his back turned, dealing with two leves. Armed with only javelin and shield, the men were game to take on the hardened warrior. Vel booted one in the stomach, sending him sprawling. Then, shouldering the other aside, he unsheathed his sword and dispatched his assailant with one swift, lethal stroke to the throat.

The knight was drawing closer. Caecilia screamed, trying to warn her husband, but her cries were lost in the rain and wind and clamor.

As Mastarna thrust his blade through the second levis’ chest, he was unaware that the horseman was racing toward him, spear raised high to make the blow as powerful as possible on his unsuspecting prey.

She steeled herself to watch, determined to remember the coward who attacked her husband from behind. The Roman’s face was exposed under his conical helmet, his mouth a bleak line. His corselet was emblazoned with the boar’s head crest of the Claudian clan.

Caecilia gasped, disbelieving.

It was Appius Claudius Drusus. The man she’d once adored.

Glossary

Cast

Drusus’ spear swung downwards in a deadly arc.

Sensing danger, Mastarna swiveled around, elbow raised. Enough to avoid the lance piercing his neck. Too late, though, to prevent the iron tip slicing through his upper arm. He staggered a little with the impact but regained his footing, twisting around to face his foe.

The Roman readied his horse to make another pass.

Roaring in rage, Mastarna stepped in front of the stallion and raised his shield to startle it. Hooves flailing, the animal reared, unseating its rider.

Drusus crashed, his shield and spear sent flying. Yet he recovered quickly, scrambling to his feet, years of training ingrained in him. Mastarna was faster though. As Drusus drew his sword, Vel barged him, using his colossal shield to drive the soldier backwards. Then, chest heaving, and with his right arm bleeding, the general dropped his shield and gripped his sword in both hands to slam it down upon his foe. The force of the blow cleaved through the leather of the knight’s corselet. The breastplate gaped open. Tunic and flesh was sliced from shoulder to groin. Drusus crumpled, his helmet knocked off as his head thudded against the ground.

Watching from the walls, Caecilia’s breath exploded after being held throughout the attack. The assault seemed to last forever and yet was so speedy it stunned her.

Drusus lay unmoving. Dead by her husband’s hand.

Emotions raced through her, as swift as Mastarna’s attack. Relief for Vel’s survival. Horror at his savagery. Concern for his wound. How was he to fight on with his arm injured? The vestiges of his energy had been expended by dealing the blow. His arm now dangled by his side as he sank to his knees. Blood dripped from the laceration to be soaked up by the mud. His instinct to survive was strong, though. A battle was still in progress. With his good arm, he dragged his shield to him and lodged it upright in the soft soil. Then, leaning his weight on it, he levered himself to stand over Drusus. Caecilia glanced at the corpse, feeling only disgust for the coward.

Arruns stiffened beside her, scanning the battleground, checking for other Romans who might harm his master.

A stone whistled past. The Phoenician once again protected Caecilia with his shield.

Another missile struck the metal. She frowned. It sounded smaller than a slingshot.

Then something hard hit her cheek, stinging her. Hail.

Tiny at first, the icicles grew larger. Harder. More frequent. Smashing against the stone wall, pinging against the metal of the shield. Hurting those parts of her that were exposed.

Caecilia cursed as she was again forced to shelter in the lee, unable to check how Vel was faring.

A command was shouted to Kurvenas’ archers to fall back. She glanced around. The line of people stationed along the curtain had disappeared, bolting down the rampart to seek cover. They crowded into shops and houses and temples as they waited for the storm to pass.

Abandoning the protection of bronze, Caecilia ventured to peek over the wall, flinching as the ice hammered her.

Mastarna stood bearing the brunt of the hail pounding him. She was glad his armor offered him some protection as the sky rained down dozens of blows upon him and the Romans he’d slain.

Ice coated the ground. The balls, some the size of fists, rained down so violently they bounced as they hit the earth. All around, other combatants crouched under their shields, peering up at the heavens, wondering which city’s gods were angry.

Trumpets blasted, their sound as eerie as the weird glowing green sky. Their notes competing with the noise of frozen rain against metal and stone and earth.