The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (48 page)

Caecilia woke, heartbeat frenetic, gasping with fright at the vision of her old tormentor. To her relief light was filtering through the vents and slit in the curtains.Then she remembered Artile. She swallowed down a knot of panic, feeling as trapped as she’d been in her nightmare. Nausea returned. She’d vomited twice yesterday from constant nervous churning. The priest’s threat was so huge it was inconceivable. Even now she could not reconcile the menace with reality, the terrifying choice of either delivering her son to evil or her daughter to death.

Her sons were lying asleep beside her. When night had fallen she wasn’t prepared to let any of her children out of her sight. She’d brought them into bed: Arnth and Larce on either side and Thia nestling in the crook of her arm. She found comfort in their body warmth and cuddles. Tas, though, remained sulky and silent, refusing to speak to her after witnessing Aricia’s beating.

The younger boys had thought it a game but soon grew irritable with their sister’s squirming. In the end Caecilia relented and let the babe lie in the cradle next to the bed. Even so, the heat and cramped space still led to disturbed slumber. And sleep evaded her completely, although she must have finally dozed only to be visited by the monster.

Curled beside her, Larce stirred at Caecilia’s abrupt wakening. Drowsy, he snuggled up to her. She stroked his cheek, resisting the urge to wipe sand from the corner of his eyes. “Hush, no need to wake.”

She looked across to Arnth. He was lying on his back, confident as always. No nightmares for this child. He would be a demon slayer.

Caecilia checked on Tas, who had huddled on the edge beyond his brothers. He’d refused to lie beside her even though he was the one she needed to hold nearest. He was awake, his hands clasped on his chest, staring at the ceiling.

“
Tas? Will you talk to me now?”

He didn’t respond, instead turned to study the leopard on the wall.

Easing herself from between her two younger sons, she climbed from the bed and came around to face him. He rolled onto his other side.

She touched his shoulder. “Look at me. I’m sorry you saw Aricia whipped, but she should never have taken you to see Lord Artile. I can’t trust her anymore. That is why she must leave.”

Suddenly he sat up and rounded on her. “You let Cytheris hurt her! And now I won’t see Uncle again! He told me this would happen. He said you would stop me if you found out.”

Caecilia tried to remain calm, disgusted with the priest’s manipulation. How much poison had he poured into her son’s ear? “Apa and I don’t want you to see him because he has been cruel to me in the past. You must believe me, Tas, it’s for the best.”

“
How was he cruel? Did he hit you?”

Once again Caecilia restrained her temper, resentful that the soothsayer had placed her in such a position. She was not about to describe the history of the haruspex’s sins to a child only nearing seven. “No, Tas, he did not strike me, but it’s hard to explain what he did. You must believe me, though, that your uncle is not a good man. And Apa will be very angry when he hears what he has done.”

The amber eyes brimmed with tears. “He was going to make me a seer. Now I will have to be a soldier. That frightens me. I don’t want my chest cut open like Apa.”

Her heart ached for her little boy. He’d known nothing but siege and combat since he was born. And she was as guilty as his father in impressing upon him the expectation he’d be a warrior. Roman or Rasennan—a man was taught to be proud of such a future. There were always doubts, of course. Hadn’t she calmed those felt by Marcus? In the end, though, valor was required.
Tas’ inheritance was of brutality and glory, not prophecy and fame.
Now she saw how he would be drawn to Artile. The prospect of being a sacred messenger was wondrous compared to the danger of gaining scars. She tried to hug him but he wanted no part of her. He climbed from the bed and ran into the arcade.

She let him be, knowing that Arruns was standing vigil.

The thought that she may have already lost her son to the priest infuriated her. Artile’s hold over Tas had to be broken. She was not prepared to surrender the boy. She could no longer afford to sit brooding or rent her clothes and tear out her hair as though already in mourning.

Leaving her other children to sleep, Caecilia sat at her table and put stylus to paper. Then she summoned a slave girl and issued orders. “Fetch the steward. I wish him to deliver an invitation to Lady Ramutha.”

*

Ramutha Tetnies, clever and charming, had been the first of the principes’ wives to welcome Caecilia into her home. Other noblewomen in Veientane society had not been impressed. The princip’s liking for the Roman was as blatant as their disapproval. At first Caecilia thought the aristocrat paid attention to her to annoy the snobbish clique, but it did not take her long to realize her new friend was sincere in her affection. And both women shared two things in common: their lives were grist for other people’s gossip, and they adored their children.

At Caecilia’s call, Ramutha attended upon her immediately, bringing her girls with her. Thefarie’s two daughters were as comely as their mother and as richly dressed, ribbons and tassels trailing, their hair crimped into curls. And it was clear that they loved their little sister as they fussed over her. Metli had yet to walk or speak because her siblings would carry her everywhere and do the talking for her. The toddler only needed to point and her every whim was granted. Larce and Arnth had all three squealing as they chased them around the fountain. Their shrieks and laughter lent a strange counterpoint to the hushed and worried conversation of their mothers. Tas sat watching their play, refusing to join in.

Noticing the boy was listless, Ramutha frowned. “How you must hate Artile for filling your son’s head with such ambitions.”

The sick feeling in Caecilia’s stomach deepened. “It torments me to think he might have touched Tas as he did Tarchon, although he claims he would never taint his nephew.”

Ramutha studied the child, expression grave. “You would be justified in having your brother-in-law killed, Mele. Take matters into your own hands. Mastarna would not hesitate to slay his brother for such wickedness.”

Caecilia shook her head. Arruns had offered to assassinate the priest. Until yesterday the thought she might commission a murder would have repulsed her. Now, in her desperation, it seemed a possibility. Yet even though Artile was prepared to spill her daughter’s blood she could not bring herself to have his on her hands. And she could not condemn the Phoenician to a death sentence for following her orders.

Instead she had come to a different solution. What if Thia was claimed by another princip? Then the priest would be thwarted. To forfeit her daughter to another house would be heartbreaking, but the price paid was small compared to the toll the seer sought to exact. “I have another idea. One over which I have thought long and hard. Lord Vipinas has vowed to protect us. Do you think he would adopt Thia?”

The Veientane raised her eyebrows before growing serious. “Ah, Mele, that is inspired, but I doubt he would intervene. His pledge was to ensure Kurvenas did not harm you not to interfere in family matters. He would consider that the high priest is the head of the House of Mastarna in his brother’s absence. I’m afraid he would respect Artile’s wishes.”

Caecilia covered her face with her palms. Her scheme had kindled hope, now Ramutha had doused it.

The noblewoman gently pulled Caecilia’s hands away. “But Mele, I will claim Thia myself.”

The plan was bold. Wide-eyed at the simplicity of the suggestion, Caecilia felt her spirits lift. Once she had condemned the freedoms of Rasennan women as licentious. Now she was grateful for such independence. She thanked the gods she lived in Mastarna’s world. Never would she have been allowed to claim a child in the name of the Caecilian clan in Rome.

Ramutha picked up Thia. Her daughters clustered around her, jostling to hold the baby. Metli shuffled over to them on her bottom and held up her arms, indignant she’d been deserted by her sisters. One of the older girls once again obliged her. Arnth and Larce scampered over, not prepared to be left out.

Ramutha laughed. “Don’t look so astounded, Mele. I have already claimed Caile’s child for the House of Tetnies. Of course I would do the same to save Thia’s life.”

“
But what about Thefarie? Would he mind you claiming her?”

“
He would do the same, Mele, if he were here. As your husband’s friend he would not want to see your daughter harmed. And when Mastarna returns, I will relinquish her. In the meantime she will still be known as Larthia Mastarna. I would not seek to deprive her of her heritage.”

Caecilia kissed her on both cheeks in gratitude and yet her mention of Vel stirred anxiety as well. “I wish he was here. I fear he will never come back.”

The princip returned Thia to her. “Come, you must not think that. The great general is not going to let any Roman dog savage him.”

Caecilia pressed her lips to her daughter’s forehead, aware that her friend was trying to jockey her. She told herself she should concentrate on those things in her control, not what was in the lap of the gods. She must cast aside her worry over Vel. Rejoice instead that her quandary had been solved.

Metli had become fractious. Her older sister handed her to Ramutha, who sat the tot on her lap and began retying the child’s hair ribbons. Watching her friend with Caile’s child Caecilia remembered how Ramutha thought Mastarna justified in removing Sethre from Tarchon’s arms. And yet the princip had been furious with Vel for granting Vipinas the favor of keeping her young lover far from her. Did the noblewoman still pine for the youth every time she gazed upon his daughter? Or had absence and distance finally dampened her passion? And what about Thefarie? Did the wife even spare a thought for her husband?

“
Do you miss Thefarie at all?”

Ramutha kept her head bowed, prinking her daughter. “Of course. He has long been at Capena.”

Caecilia placed her hand over her friend’s, trying to gain her attention.

“
And Caile? Have you forgotten him?”

The Veientane stroked Metli’s head before looking up at her. “No, Mele. He is in my thoughts always. My heart still aches.”

Glossary

Cast

If there had been no danger, Pinna would have thought the ravine beautiful. Red and yellow tufa walls rose beyond a stream dappled with sunlight while beech and oak provided welcome shade. Before she had become an army wife she would have found no menace in this landscape. She knew now that a camp set within a valley could be surrounded, that a forest could hide a lurking foe. Pinna prayed the palisade stakes were tall and sharp enough, the ditch deep and wide enough, to offer protection.

Camillus would not normally have chosen such a vulnerable site, but he needed to be close to Veii yet hidden from Mastarna. He did not plan to stay long. He sought victory by sunset.

Around her, the place was eerily quiet, devoid of almost all soldiers except those few left to act as defenders. Warriors resentful at being denied battle to protect women, workers, and sick and wounded soldiers.

At sunrise, after lustration had been made and the auspices taken, Camillus had moved into position to wait for the signal to ambush the foe. Companies of hoplites marched past with the clank of armor and thud of boots while cavalry reined in high-stepping horses. Leves followed, equipped with only shields and spears, then the low-classed axemen together with slingers. Last of all came the units of trumpeters. Their horns were silent but soon would add to the din of war cries and fighting.

An undercurrent of dread had been left in their wake, a tremor of fear at any motion or sound outside the picket. Hours had gone by, but the animals in the enclosure remained restive, shuffling and snorting at the sound of combat in the distance, the trumpet calls tinny, the shouting faint.

The only break in the tension was the sight of a cloudy sky, a gray expanse that promised rain. The chance the drought might be broken raised morale.

Pinna sat baking a fresh batch of bread with the other women, cook pots in the fire, lids covered with embers. When she’d first joined the camp she’d been reluctant to seek their company. She was not practiced in making friendships, having known only the disdain of the she wolves and the solitary life of a tomb whore. And her status as a knight’s concubine also created a barrier until they saw she did not want to lord over them. In time, though, she enjoyed gossiping with them as they sat mending clothes or swapping recipes as to how to sweeten the bland porridge of puls with raisin and honey, or make it savory with vinegar, beans and salt. There were no children to fuss over. The general would not let any woman remain who had borne an infant. He did not want his camp to become a nursery or schoolyard.