The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (54 page)

“
So did you attack the general also?”

He ignored the question as he pulled off his rounded helmet. The mud and grime on his face did not mask its harsh contours, his mouth set in a grim line. “The Etruscan dog believed he’d killed him. But that wasn’t enough. He also sought to sully his name. He claimed Drusus attacked him from behind.” Marcus bent his head over his friend’s. “I know he is lying,” he said, his hoarse murmur as soft as an endearment. “You are no coward.”

Then, defiant, he raised his head, eyes intense. “Whether he lives or not, I will ensure he is lauded for his courage. Engaging an enemy general in combat and striking such a blow should be rewarded.”

Pinna studied the two men as Marcus returned his gaze to his wounded friend. She was not so quick to believe the Claudian would not launch a sly attack. Had jealousy driven him to cowardice to ensure his curse came true? He had nearly been the instrument of the Etruscan’s destruction. And yet Mastarna had wrought terrible damage. Drusus had been defeated. His foe had been the better man that day. “My lord, I don’t think he will be triumphant that he failed.”

Marcus looked at her sharply. “I suppose you would celebrate his death.”

Pinna regretted her words. She had not meant to rile him. She bent her head to resume her neat stitching. There was a seed of truth in what he said, although it would be relief, not joy, she’d feel if her tormentor died. She tied off her needlework. “I’m helping him now, aren’t I? Now hold him up. I need to bandage him.”

Marcus winced and groaned as he lifted his friend. Absorbed in tending to Drusus, she’d not noticed the bruising that darkened the entire length of the officer’s shield arm and that he’d lost his wristband. His already scarified forearm was bleeding from a gash. She wondered if those wounds he inflicted himself were any less painful than that received in battle. Pinna nodded towards the damaged flesh. “My lord, you’re also hurt.”

Marcus clenched his teeth as he concentrated on bearing his friend’s weight. His face was gray with pain as well as fatigue. Sweat beaded his brow. “I suppose you wished I had not returned either.”

Shame over her brief desire for his death returned. And yet hadn’t she regretted such an idea as swiftly as she’d thought it? “No matter what you think of me, my lord, I do not want you dead.”

Marcus grunted and scanned the crowd of soldiers around them until he found Camillus. “Even if I said I am still duty-bound to tell him?”

The tightness in her chest from yesterday recurred. Rather than replying, she concentrated on winding a bandage over and around Drusus’ shoulder before commencing the immense task of strapping his body.

In the hours of nervous waiting she’d rehearsed different ways of begging in the hope that Marcus might yet relent. Now it seemed he was determined to hurt her. It made her realize she could not surrender without a contest. “I gave my word I would not harm your reputation but I feel no such obligation to your friend. And so, if you speak out against me, I will tell the general what Drusus did to me.”

“
You’re a prostitute,” he growled. “It’s no use crying rape.”

Pinna flinched, not expecting such callousness. “Maybe, but I’m sure he’ll think a man who abuses a woman is pathetic. Even if she is a she wolf. So excessive. So weak. Furius Camillus already doubts the Claudian can control his emotions. The revelation may well affect your friend’s career.”

Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “You bitch. He showed audacity today. He can display these scars proudly.”

“
And he was lucky he didn’t have ones on his back after he retreated under Sergius!”

The same flicker of hesitation passed across Marcus’ features before he wiped the gray flecks from his beard. “I detest you.”

His words were cruel but it hardened her resolve. She nodded towards the unconcious decurion. “Will you keep silent for his sake?”

Marcus arranged his cloak around his friend, chill hatred in his eyes. “For now. But know this, Pinna, should he die, I will speak out.”

Glossary

Cast

The hail stopped. The bank of clouds parted. Ice shards glinted in the sunlight.

The Veientanes ventured from their hiding places. The rush of bodies was strangely hushed as people hastened to discover if any of their loved ones lived.

The outer gates were opened.

Caecilia pushed into the anxious surge of people streaming into the lock. Then she paused, summoning courage to pick her way through the bodies heaped at the entrance of the outer doors. There lay soldiers who’d been deserted by a heartless king. Soldiers who might have been saved if Kurvenas had allowed their rescue.

There were few survivors on the battlefield. Weeping, mothers crouched over sons, wives over husbands, embracing corpses half buried in hailstones and slush.

A paean was being sung. The notes of grief clear and pure compared to the low lament and high-pitched keening.

The ground was white. Like snow in summer. Caecilia stumbled, her sodden skirts hampering her as she crunched over the frozen earth. With each step she sank through the crust of ice to the layer of mud. Pain shot through her but she didn’t care as she lumbered closer and closer to Mastarna.

He wrenched off his helmet when she reached him. His face was bearded, his eyes fervid. She sensed the battle fever had not yet ebbed from him.

Throwing her arms around his neck, she hugged him. His breastplate was hard against her. She ignored his stink. Holding her with his good arm, he rested his injured one on her waist. She lifted her mouth to his. Their kiss was deep, making up for lost time.

They said nothing. Holding each other.

Finally he drew her away, touching the red marks upon her cheek and brow. His scurfed fingers scratched her skin. “You should have sheltered from the hail.” His deep voice was achingly beautiful after not hearing it for so long.

“
I could not leave off watching once I sighted you. I could not believe Marcus tried to kill you.”

Mastarna frowned, searching her face. “Did you expect otherwise? He is our enemy. As was the Claudian.”

“
Yet you spared my cousin.”

“
I don’t believe in killing a man after a battle has ended.”

She cupped his face between her palms, his beard wiry beneath her fingers. “Marcus did not observe such a rule.”

Vel’s face was harrowed, his weathered skin pale beneath the tan. “That was different, Bellatrix. I had killed his friend. Rage blinded him.”

Caecilia pressed against him, laying her cheek against the embossed Trojan figures on his cuirass. “At least he fought you fairly, unlike Drusus. He was a coward to attack you from behind.”

“
Still, he meant something to you once.”

She shook her head. Her infatuation had been for an awkward youth, not a malicious warrior. “It was horrible to see him die, but I will not weep for him.”

Vel kissed her and held her close again. She wished she could feel his body, not bronze.

“
Master, mistress. The general is losing much blood. We need to stop the flow.” Arruns stood impatient beside them. He had caught Mastarna’s horse, which snorted and shook its head at finding its master after galloping off during the battle.

Caecilia plucked up courage to look closely at Vel’s wound. Color drained from her face, queasy at the sight. The arm appeared broken as well as slashed. Tearing the patterned border from her chiton she handed it to the guard who tied it tightly above the wound. Her rain-drenched shawl was then bound around the damaged flesh, blood staining the yellow fabric. Mastarna groaned, finally connecting injury with hurt.

The Phoenician assisted Mastarna to mount his horse then lifted Caecilia so she could sit sideways in front of her husband. Always nervous with horses, she clung to Vel, scared of falling as the steed shifted impatiently.

She could not contain her curiosity about her cousin. “What did you say to Marcus?”

“
That his friend lacked valor in not facing his opponent. He did not believe me. It angered him. Also that it would sorrow you if either of us had been killed in front of you.”

Caecilia hesitated, steeling herself to hear all Marcus had said. “And what did he say?”

She sensed Vel’s reticence as he flicked the reins with one hand, urging the horse to move.

“
Please, tell me.”

“
He said that you were dead to him.”

A flush of heat spread through her from belly to scalp. She clung tighter to Vel, wishing he could hold her with both arms.

There were other warhorses amid the carnage. Some wandering lost and aimless, some nudging masters who were lifeless. Other animals lay dead or squealing in their death throes.

Mastarna carefully led the gray through the battlefield to avoid treading on the maimed or corpses. Caecilia could not bear to look at the torsos, limbs and heads around them; how the white was sullied with crimson and dirtied with sludge as soldiers and townsfolk dragged the wounded onto litters or laid the deceased out for their relatives to collect. Gagging at the sight and stench of the butchery, she fought her nausea, hiding her face against Mastarna’s neck. “Kurvenas wanted you dead, Vel. He refused to open the gates even though Lord Vipinas’ clan was prepared to assist you.”

She could feel the spurt of energy as the anger rose in him.

*

Caecilia thought the worst was behind them. And yet, as the stallion trotted along the road to the forum, she heard commotion, people yelling and the clash of weapons.

Mastarna urged his mount to a gallop. The crowd parted at the threat of being trampled.

Before them some of Vipinas’ men were attacking the king’s officers and lictors. One royal bodyguard clutched the old nobleman’s arms behind his back while another beat him with his rod. The princip’s nose was broken. His false teeth had been knocked from his mouth and lay smashed on the ground.

Caecilia noticed a man collapsed nearby, blood pooling in the grooves of the cobblestones. Kurvenas. His throat was cut, a fine spray of scarlet splattering his armor.

To her surprise Tarchon was holding Sethre down. He winced as the youth thrashed against him, the bandage on the wounded soldier’s thigh bright with fresh blood.

Ramutha knelt next to Caile who was lying on his shield. It had been used as a bier for the young warrior. Rocking and wailing, she smothered his face with kisses. The youth’s eyes were open but unseeing. His had not been a glorious death. His skull was fractured. Not pierced by a hoplite’s spear but brought down by a lowly slinger. Caecilia remembered his lack of skill in the Troy Game. The soft bristles on his jaw reminded her how a beard could falsely proclaim a boy was a man. She glanced across to Sethre. Like Caile, this youth had been thrust into the world of men. One had fallen, the other was overwhelmed.

“
Cease fighting!” At Mastarna’s bellow, both groups separated, although some still stood close to their rivals, keeping fists and weapons poised to strike.

“
Unhand Lord Vipinas!”

The lictor obeyed by shoving the princip to the ground. Coughing, the beaten man lurched to his feet, trying to regain his breath.

“
Tarchon, let Sethre go.”

On release the youth lunged at the aged princip, causing Tarchon to grab him again. The boy screeched. “He murdered my father. Let me kill him! I want retribution.”

“
And Kurvenas killed my grandson!” Vipinas pointed to Caile’s crumpled body over whom Ramutha remained prostrate, oblivious to all around her.

Astounded, Caecilia glanced at her husband. Shock registered as he took in the mayhem.

“
All of you, quiet!”

Refusing Arruns’ proffered assistance, he dismounted. Sweat beaded his forehead at the effort, but he drew himself erect, not prepared to show weakness even though his arm dangled by his side. The Phoenician helped Caecilia down so she could stand beside her husband.

The people who’d gathered in the forum craned their necks to see how the general would control the situation. Veii’s lucumo had been murdered and its greatest general defeated. The fabric of the world was in tatters. The gods had visited both wrath and mercy upon the city in equal measure. The mood wavered between outrage and disbelief. Catcalls were heard—either howling disapproval at Kurvenas’ tactics or demanding Vipinas be punished.