The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome

The Golden Dice

A Tale of Ancient Rome

Elisabeth Storrs

Copyright © 2010 by Elisabeth Storrs

Smashwords Edition

Published by Cornelian Press 2013

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Copyright © Elisabeth Storrs 2013

Cover design and image copyright © 2013 Cornelian Press

Cover Design: Lance Ganey

Cover photography: Greenwood Studios

Editor: Catherine Taylor

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication-entry

Author: Storrs, Elisabeth

Title: The golden dice [electronic resource]: a tale of ancient Rome/Elisabeth Storrs

ISBN: 9780987340733 (epub: ebook)

Subjects: Rome—History—Fiction.

Dewey Number: A823.4

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Beth, John and Jacqui

Other Books

in the

Tales of Ancient Rome
series

The Wedding Shroud

Coming Soon

Call to Juno

CONTENTS

Title Page

Imprint Details

Dedication

Other Books

Map

The Promise

The Winter Campaign

The War Season

Portents

Storm

About the Author

Cast

Glossary

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

The Wedding Shroud
information

There is a hyperlink to the cast and glossary at the end of each chapter.

THE PROMISE

He smelled of leather, horse and beeswax polish, the bronze of his armor cold against her despite her heavy woolen cloak. When he kissed her though, hard and hungrily, his mouth and tongue were warm despite chill lips and cheeks.

“
You need to take this off,” she said, as she always did, pressing against the cuirass, needing the feel of his body.

“
Don’t worry, I plan to,” he replied, as he always did, then laughed and kissed her.

She could not move away from him, arms tightening around his waist, not trusting that he had returned, that another year had passed and he had not been killed.

For there were only two seasons now: war and winter.

Before this, it had been summer that made Caecilia smile with its lazy heat and languid evenings. But after seven years of conflict, she welcomed the hint of ice in the north wind and the bare stripped branches of trees ready to bear the burden of snow. Short days and long darkness no longer seemed oppressive because, in winter, her husband would come home.

Another long clear note of the war trumpets sounded. Still holding Mastarna close, Caecilia turned her head to scan the tumult around her, glad the horns did not herald a charge but instead a return, as line after line of soldiers entered through the massive double gates of the Etruscan city of Veii.

The vast town square and wide avenues seethed with the color of the massed crowd, and timber-and-terracotta-clad houses and temples were gaudy with garlands and ribbons. As the army marched into the forum a surge of people breached its formation, military discipline forgotten as wives and children hastened to kiss husbands and fathers while mothers and older men embraced sons.

Amid the throng, fine, long-legged warhorses shifted and whinnied as they were held fast, steam rising from their hides in the coldness of the afternoon, hot breath snorting from their nostrils. Adding to the clamor were laughter and merry tunes from double pipe, castanet and timbrel, interrupted by snatches of sobbing, the lament of women whose men had not returned: a tragic counterpoint to celebration.

Caecilia could not ignore their sorrow. Even in her happiness a tight knot of apprehension remained, the voice that told her this reunion was due to respite in conflict, not its resolution. She chided herself not to sour the sweetness of Mastarna’s return with the anticipation of his inevitable departure.

There was a rhythm to the fighting.

When the war season began with the lengthening of days and the greening of fields, the Veientanes would ride out to meet the Romans, who were assaulting Veii with a dogged vengeance. A vengeance sought in the name of Aemilia Caeciliana. A vengeance sought against her.

For seven years Caecilia had watched the Romans, who were once her people, hew pickets and planks and stakes from Veientane woodland to build stockades and siege engines to surround her adopted city, hindering trade, blocking supplies and raiding farmlands until, by bright autumn and the falling of leaves, Veii’s patience would falter as it waited for winter and the enemy to retreat. Each city pausing. Licking its wounds. For Roman bellies need to be fed, too. Roman crops need to be sown: barley and pulses and wheat. Roman families need to embrace their men, and Roman generals need to be elected.

Mastarna’s cheek, heavy with bristle, brushed against hers, his own apprehension hinted in his deep, low voice, a voice whose timbre always stirred her. “And the baby?”

Smiling, she broke from him and searched for two women who stood jostled by those celebrating around them. Both were grinning as they observed husband and wife. The stout, wiry-haired maid called Cytheris gripped one hand each of two small boys while the nursemaid, Aricia, stepped forward on command and handed a swaddled bundle to her mistress.

“
Another son,” Caecilia said proudly.

Mastarna took the babe with the confidence of a man practiced in such a task. Even so, the mother wondered at the sight of a warrior cradling soft tininess against the hard contours of his cuirass.

Exchanging his nurse’s warmth for the cold comfort of his father’s armor didn’t please the child. His protests were loud and strident. Unperturbed, Mastarna chuckled, planting a kiss upon the baby’s head as he hugged Caecilia once again. “Thank you. I could have no better wife.”

“
Nor I a better husband.” She reclaimed the bawling baby who settled immediately at her touch.

“
Now where are those other sons of mine?” Mastarna turned to face his older children. Wide-eyed and wary of the scarred, metal-clad giant who had returned into their lives, the boys were speechless.

Mastarna’s thigh-high greaves grated as he crouched down beside them. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me?”

The older boy was solemn, bowing in greeting. “Of course I know who you are, Apa. Hail, General Vel Mastarna!”

“
Hail, my son,” said his father with equal seriousness before placing his leather-lined bronze helmet upon the boy, engulfing him. The child pulled it back, tilting his head so he could spy the world through the slits between nose and cheek pieces, both hands held firmly on either side to bear the weight.

Seeing his brother gaining such favor, the two-year-old forgot his awe of the warrior. He hastened from behind Cytheris’ skirts, bounding over to wrest the trophy from the other. “Give me, Tas, give me!”

The five-year-old turned away, raising the bright blue crested helmet firmly out of reach, not prepared to surrender his prize. “Go away, Larce. Apa gave it to me.”