The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (3 page)

Observing this unleashing of hatred, Caecilia leaned the back of her head against Vel’s chest as he stood behind her, the familiar scent of his sandalwood perfume and the circle of his arms making her feel safe. She felt her relief that she was not among the Etruscans, then silently scolded herself for thinking of them by that name. It was what the Romans called them. The people of Veii referred to themselves as the Rasenna, and Veii was only one of many cities in which they dwelt. Rome considered itself mighty, but in truth it was a township compared to such a metropolis as Veii. This did not stop its onslaught. Valor and persistence had brought many of its larger enemies down.

Caecilia shivered a little from both cold and disquiet. Mastarna drew his tebenna cloak around them, its heavy folds covering the yellow of her fine woolen mantle. She had learned not to speak to him of her fears. How she was anxious that the brittle respect paid to her by his people would one day crack.

There was another reason why she did not want to mingle with the Rasenna. She knew that over this long day retaliation had merged with religious fervor. The pyres were raging, the fires hot enough to cause cheeks to flush and muscles to loosen, and the Veientanes were drinking strong, unwatered wine laced with freedom. The Winter Feast of Fufluns had begun.

The beat of drums and the weird rising moan of the bullroarers heralded the commencement of the ceremony. Led by horse-tailed satyrs and wild-eyed maenads, the wine god’s followers donned grotesque masks of stag, boar or goat. Frenzy followed as copious drafts of vinegary wine were consumed. Then, desiring revelation, the believers stripped and rutted before the fires, seeking to attain oneness with the divine, worshipping the potency of the sacred phallus, believing the power of coitus was a challenge to death.

Once, long ago, drugged and despairing, Caecilia had been drawn into such rituals. The visions she saw that night still haunted her, confirming she could never worship Fufluns. She may have forsaken Rome but she could not desert its gods. Yet she did not condemn the Veientanes’ dedication to the deity. With their enemy besieging them for so long, the promise of rebirth and regeneration was compelling. And, over time, familiarity with such rites had beveled the edges of her disapproval.

Hearing the music and ecstatic cries from below the acropolis, she covered Mastarna’s hands with her own as he clasped her waist. Some aristocrats like Tarchon had already descended into the woods to seek epiphany with commoners and slaves alike. At least she was reassured that Vel would not indulge in the revels. He knew she could not bear him seeking rapture with other women, and so he always stayed by her side at these festivals, his devotion to Fufluns remaining private. Both had come to tolerate each other’s beliefs.

The wine god must have been pleased because the night was mild and starlit. Mild enough for the zilath, Vipinas, the chief magistrate of Veii, to order a pavilion with banqueting klines to be set up beside a giant bonfire in front of the palace. The lord and lady principes dined together, draped luxuriantly across the deep-cushioned couches. Ribbons entwined with ivy had been wound around statues and steles in the forum, trailing cheerfulness, encouraging a belief that all was as it should be. Symbols of Fufluns were ever present: pinecones piled as decorations, leopards engraved on footstools and furniture. Musicians wandered between the divans, the strains of cithara and double flute a sweet antidote to the months of privation. With swirling skirts, dancers lifted their arms to the night sky in praise.

Caecilia turned and laid her cheek on Mastarna’s shoulder. Tall as she was, she could watch the banqueting principes while resting there. The feast was well in progress. Naked slave boys, chosen for their beauty, hastened to pour a fine vintage into double-handled goblets. No sour wine would do for the high councillors and their wives when toasting the wine god.

She gazed at the noblewomen, beautiful in their finery, as they shared the divans with their husbands. Robed in vivid chitons, the women had dressed their hair elaborately with amber and glass diadems, and golden torques graced their necks. Caecilia smiled, delighted that she was clothed and adorned in this way too. In many ways she was no longer an outsider. She gave thanks to Juno every day that she had found independence here; giving audience to tenants in the absence of her husband, and acting as patron to artisans famed for their fine ceramics. Observing how the ladies laughed and drank and conversed with the men also lifted her spirits. There would have been no such freedoms if she’d remained in Rome, only the confines of atrium and bedroom, the company of women, and sullen obedience to the men of her family. Rome and Veii only lay twelve miles apart across the Tiber, but they were different worlds.

She wrapped her arms around Vel and squeezed him.

He laughed. “Why the hug?”

“
I’m just glad you are with me again. Glad that I live here.”

He kissed her brow. “So am I. But much as I would love to stay here holding you, Bellatrix, I think it’s time we returned to the feast.”

Caecilia reluctantly agreed, but as she slipped her arms from around him she knocked a small dice box from the sinus fold of his tebenna.

“
You see,” he said, retrieving the golden canister, “I’ve been careful not to lose my luck charms.”

He spilled two golden dice onto her palm from the box. Each had the symbols of numbers carved upon them rather than dots. They were worn around the edges from constant use. Given her husband’s love of gambling this was no surprise. “There will be complaints if you try these old things at the gaming tables tonight,” she teased. “You can barely read the markings.”

Mastarna reclaimed the tesserae. “You know I never play with them anymore. But I keep them as my link to you when I am far from home. Without these, we might never have been reunited.”

Caecilia pressed against him again. The last time she rolled the dice she had asked the goddess of Fate to give her a sign, and she had returned home to Vel. But it worried her that he had suffered because of her return. Her husband would never become the zilath of the Veientanes. Not while he had a Roman for a wife. Instead he was always sent to campaign in the north instead of leading the assault on the main Roman camp. Yet Vel never vented his frustration upon her. Never blamed her for the halter placed upon his ambition. He was resigned to being a great commander who had been given the worst command. She raised her head to meet his gaze. “Do you ever regret marrying me again?”

He cupped her chin with his hand and kissed her. “I sent for you, remember? The divine Nortia brought you back to me for a reason.”

As she hugged him again she noticed they were no longer alone. The zilath, Vipinas, had joined them at the citadel wall.

“
As usual the supplies you have brought are most welcome, Vel Mastarna.”

Breaking from their embrace, her husband bowed. “I think it’s the amphorae of wine that is most appreciated. It’s thirst that’s being sated tonight, not hunger.”

The lean old man smiled, his false gold and ivory front teeth glinting. It was a rare sight. The chief magistrate doled out his mirth as frugally as he did the grain rations. “There is no doubting the people always wait anxiously for your return. Without your success in thwarting the blockades and protecting farmland, the city would be facing famine now.”

She was pleased to hear the compliment. It was good that her husband was acknowledged. Due to his achievements bullock trains had trundled through the gates all day to disgorge their cargoes to a rejoicing population. And tomorrow wagons laden with goods would travel on a network of roads to other cities. Barges would again wend their way along rivers. Soon ships with Veientane cargoes would sail to foreign ports of which Caecilia had only dreamed.

A woman’s mock shriek accompanied by male laughter distracted Caecilia’s attention. The aristocratic principes on the klines were toasting the wine god.

Mastarna ignored the merriment. “Our cause was helped when Camillus failed to draw the lot to lead the campaign against us. How foolish Rome is to waste their best consular general in fighting the Volscians in the south.”

“
Yes, but it’s to our advantage if the Romans send him and their remaining generals to fight their neighbors,” replied Vipinas. “Better to keep most of their forces busy attacking other Latin tribes. At least there are only two of their armies sitting upon our threshold.”

Mastarna pointed to the massive tufa walls below them. “I see that their ramp nearly reached us.”

Vipinas paused, glancing at Caecilia before continuing. “General Aemilius was effective enough. Romans are none too pretty when you see them at close quarters. It reminded us, too, that we can’t be complacent.”

Caecilia offered no comment, having finally learned to think before she spoke. Even though her opinion as a woman would not be disdained, her ancestry was best glossed over. For General Aemilius was both her adopted father and her uncle. The last time she’d seen him he’d been furious at how she’d changed from Roman maiden to Rasennan wife. How humiliated he must be that she remarried Vel after he had formally arranged their divorce. To Aemilius she had forsaken her people, betrayed her clan and shamed her family. Hearing Camillus’ name also stirred feelings. She hated that general as much as he despised her. When she’d first been offered as a treaty bride he’d assured her he would protect her while she lived among the foe. Instead he’d been prepared to sacrifice her in the name of war.

Mastarna squeezed her hand in reassurance. She returned the pressure, grateful that he sensed her unease. Once again she gave silent thanks that he had given her a second chance to leave Rome behind.

“
As long as the Romans keep electing different consular generals every year,” he said, “there’s always a good chance they will make no headway.”

“
Different generals, different strategies,” agreed Vipinas, coughing. “And none of them have succeeded.”

Caecilia nodded, aware that another aristocrat had approached. She glanced at Vel, sensing he would not welcome the intrusion.

Vipinas greeted the nobleman. “Ah, here is Kurvenas. You should congratulate him, Mastarna. It was his troops that repelled Aemilius so ably this year.”

Kurvenas bowed to the chief magistrate, then curtly acknowledged Mastarna and Caecilia.

Caecilia knew how little regard Vel had for this man. He bristled and nodded briefly in return. She heard the click of the dice within the golden box as Mastarna fingered it beneath his cloak. He always did this without thinking when aggravated or uncertain. A tell she alone knew about him.

Kurvenas’ hair, longer than most Rasennan men, gleamed with unguents. He rubbed the scar that creased his short clipped beard. There was a polish to his bulk and height, so different to the rawness that emanated from her husband’s scarred face and powerful body. “Honors should also go to Vel Mastarna,” he said. “Once again, he has valiantly guarded the vulnerable north.”

Mastarna did not acknowledge the praise. Kurvenas’ popularity irked him. Persuasive in his counsel, the aristocrat concentrated on being everybody’s friend. Caecilia suspected, though, that such affability veiled rancor against those who opposed him. Yet she could not deny his prowess as a commander or that he was liked as much as Vel by his men.

Ignoring his rival, Mastarna offered his forearm to her. “Isn’t it time we rejoined the banquet?”

Zilath Vipinas laid his hand upon Mastarna’s shoulder. “I’m afraid we need to discuss the upcoming election first. Our meal can wait.” He turned to Caecilia. “If you wish, you may return to your divan.”

Mastarna slid his arm around her. “Your tone is ominous. I think, perhaps, that she should stay.”

Kurvenas and Vipinas exchanged glances, causing husband and wife to exchange their own. Caecilia had never known these men to be allies.

“
Let’s be frank, then.” Kurvenas’ smile was broad, his tone even. “The time has come to dispense with annual elections. Veii is weakened by them. As is Rome. Winter should be spent planning how we are to defeat our foe, not arguing among us who should lead the city.”

Mastarna’s fingers tightened on Caecilia’s waist. “Our chief magistrates can retain office for more than one year so we don’t face the same problem as the Romans. As a result our defense tactics have remained consistent and successful. So what are you proposing? Elect a lucumo king instead? Be governed by a man until he dies? Has your memory grown so poor that you’ve forgotten what happened last time a monarch was proclaimed? Tulumnes was corrupted by power!”

Skin pale, Vipinas flushed, coughing again. “See reason. I know you must find it strange that I support such a change, but our resources could be put to better use than always voting every winter. Let’s elect a sovereign and concentrate on war alone.”

Mastarna’s bass voice resounded across the square, causing the diners to stop and stare. Turning from Kurvenas, he concentrated solely on the older man. “King Tulumnes had Arnth Ulthes —a zilath just like you—assassinated in order to take control. And Tulumnes insulted you, your clan also.” Mastarna pointed at Kurvenas. “And that tyrant was this man’s cousin. How can you support his kin?”