The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (7 page)

She returned her attention to the conquerors of the Troy Game. From the youths’ exhilaration it was clear that both recruits and horses were now kin. These sons of the tribes of Veii were a brotherhood forged together. She was saddened too. For this test of horsemanship was not the true initiation. In spring, the young Rasennan soldiers would attain manhood through bloodshed: warrior against warrior, warhorse against warhorse.

She turned to Mastarna. He was lost in concentration, ignoring the hubbub around him as he studied Kurvenas. The princip was laughing with the grisled Lord Lusinies, accepting his congratulations over Sethre’s success.

Caecilia touched her husband’s hand. It took a moment to gain his attention. “Imagine if it was one of our sons who rode so well, Vel. You would be boasting, too.”

Mastarna scrutinized Sethre and frowned. “That lad is acting as though he is a clan hero when he is yet to be blooded. His swagger tells me that he thinks himself heir to the crown just as his father believes he was born to be king.”

Caecilia thought her husband unfair. Sethre deserved only praise today. It was not his fault that Kurvenas had sired him. Yet she knew that Mastarna’s mood and mind would not be improved by her challenging him in front of their friends. She hooked her arm through his, trying to cajole him from his gloom. “I hear there is going to be a footrace next. Will you place a wager?”

He shook his head and returned to observing the zilath and high councillors. She heard the click of the golden dice in their box as he fingered it under his cloak.

Caecilia chose to ignore his ill humor and chatted with Ramutha instead. Outwardly calm, inwardly churning. It had been days now and Vel had still not discussed Kurvenas’ coup or Vipinas’ changing loyalties. Each time she broached the subject he would make excuses. Instead he seemed to be avoiding her, gambling heavily each night, the thrill of risking his wealth a way to vent his frustration. There had been no counsel sought as they lay under the plaid quilt of their bed, no confidences shared as they sat at the table.

Another blast of the horn. The new warriors prepared to leave the arena. As she watched the riders form a line, she realized Mastarna was no longer preoccupied with Kurvenas but studying her. She smiled but he remained solemn.

Disconcerted, she reached for his hand. “What is it, Vel? Have I displeased you?”

He turned away and clapped for the departing horsemen. “Of course not,” he said. “Must there be a reason for a man to gaze upon his wife?”

Caecilia joined in the applause, a pulse flickering in one of her temples. A sharp worry was rising within her. His distance reminded her of when they’d first wed. But they had been strangers then. Now love, not diplomacy, united them.

She glanced at him, wishing he’d turn and smile. His attention remained intent on the arena, his expression grave.

Glossary

Cast

When Lord Artile, the chief haruspex, entered the arena, Caecilia knew there would be no more entertainment. No more laughing at acrobats racing to reach the top of greased poles, climbing and sliding in turn. No more delighting at a juggler throwing disks into a vase on the head of a girl wreathed in a sheer skirt, her body goose-pimpled in the cold.

All week Caecilia had enjoyed watching athletes jumping with weights in both hands or hurling javelin or discus. Runners had strived to be the fleetest while wrestlers competed to be champions. Now she steeled herself to watch a different kind of contest. On the final day of the funeral games the welfare of those journeying to the Beyond needed to be addressed. For Aita, god of the Afterworld, demanded satisfaction. Today the dead would be revitalized by the spilling of human blood.

When she first traveled to Veii Caecilia had marveled at the complexity of its religion. Here she found seers who could commune with the deities, foretelling the future by reading the livers of beasts, or deciphering divine will through lightning and thunder. Compared to such science, Roman augury seemed primitive. And while her city expected its people to learn its articles of faith through recitation, the Rasenna boasted a codex of beliefs, a set of sacred books that held the secrets of fate, prophecy and the afterlife.

Fufluns’ promise of rebirth was life-affirming. Caecilia understood why the revelers worshipped that god, even though she did not wish to seek such an epiphany. But the Calu Death Cult of Aita was a dark side of the Veientanes that still shocked her. She could not fathom how a people who valued art, music and beauty could follow a creed that demanded a man be sacrificed.

A hush spread over the crowd as Lord Artile lifted his curved staff. Sweeping the lituus in a circle, he carved a sacred boundary in space. The arena had now become holy.

Caecilia hated him. Hated the sight of his fringed sheepskin cloak and long tunic, and how his peculiar priest’s hat spiraled to a point. She still felt ashamed that she’d once fallen under his influence. When she was a vulnerable and frightened bride plunged into an alien world, it had been easy for Artile to stoke her fears and gull her into seeking salvation through an addiction to a potion. She shivered, remembering her observance of the unrelenting rituals required to convince Aita to favor her.

For the journey to join the ancestors was perilous. Demons guarded the gates of the Beyond, and monsters threatened safe passage. But if enough prayers were chanted, and enough blood was shed, the god of death might transform a devotee into a lesser god. Under Artile’s guidance Caecilia had strived to become one of the Blessed, until she witnessed the terrible offering needed to become immortal.

The crowd had become noisy again, impatient for the rite to begin. Raising his arms, Lord Artile silenced them. When he intoned a prayer, his voice was so deep Caecilia thought it must surely resonate in Aita’s realm as well as in the heavens.

Edging nearer to Mastarna, she closed her eyes, summoning courage to endure the ceremony ahead. He put his arm around her, knowing her reluctance to watch. But she would not fail him. It was a test of her loyalty to Veii. She would hide her abhorrence and show respect.

Necks craned, the audience peered towards the entrance to the ring. In the stillness, the creaking wheels of an approaching cart seemed too loud.

The odor of death was strong. The faint sweet sickness of it. Caecilia fumbled to find a kerchief to hold to her nose but the cloth was scant barrier to the stink. She flinched at the sight of the wagon’s noisome cargo. As many as twenty men were lashed together on its tray. They were naked, smeared with excrement, and their ankles and wrists were chafed from struggling against the ropes binding them. Some were already stiffened corpses, deadweight strapped to their companions. The eyes of the survivors were dark and empty. Roman soldiers.

Her stomach heaved. The presence of the cadavers was a new layer of cruelty. Trying not to inhale, she scanned the row of men to check if her cousin Marcus was among them. Drusus also. The boy who’d once loved her. Relief coursed through her at their absence. And then she prayed she would not recognize anyone else with whom she’d shared meals and thanksgiving. The Roman gods had truly forsaken these warriors.

The living men were cut loose, the dead left in the wagon. The prisoners remained propped against each other, weak from hunger and beatings. It was as though they were reluctant to be separated despite the severing of their bonds.

The baying and barking of hounds could be heard growing nearer and nearer until, snarling and straining, a pack of dogs appeared. They were held in check by a terrible master, their leads wrapped around his wrists and fists. The man was known as the Phersu. As the servant of Aita, the murders he committed today would be sacred.

The crowd rose as one, cheering. Caecilia tensed at the sight of the holy executioner in his high stiffened conical hat. He wore a false black beard attached to a scarlet mask, its mouth frozen in a rictus. His chest, arms and legs were massive. As he pulled the curs away from the captives, she glimpsed his manhood beneath his short black and white kilt.

Lord Artile once again commanded quiet. Obedient, the throng settled. Then, at the haruspex’s order, slaves scurried to pull bags over the victims’ heads before handing them clubs and gingerly backing away.

The last expression Caecilia saw on each Roman’s face varied: some cringed in terror and confusion, others murmured fraught prayers. A few showed boldness, soldiers to the end. They immediately grasped and swung their bludgeons but, blinded by the burlap sacks, their attack was futile. Their weapons swiped through air.

She turned away. “I can’t watch this.”

Mastarna reached for her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Keep looking, Bellatrix. Be brave.”

She swallowed hard, the taste of bile burning her throat. She wished he would relent and let her leave. Or at least let her shut her eyes. And yet she knew he was right. As a child she’d been taught that fortitude was a virtue. Now she needed to heed the lesson. She could not afford to offend the Veientanes.

The crowd, hysterical, zealous, began the familiar chant: “Phersu! Phersu! Phersu!”

Despite the noise of the tumult, Caecilia heard Ramutha moan beside her.

She was hunched over, hand pressed to her mouth, her complexion ashen. Thefarie seemed not to notice his wife’s distress, intent on watching the Phersu hunt down his quarry. Caecilia slipped her hand from Vel’s and leaned over to rub her friend’s back. “What’s the matter?”

“
I don’t think I can stay here.”

Caecilia frowned. Ramutha was an ardent devotee of the Calu Death Cult. Why was she squeamish today? She had never shown discomfort at the slaughter before.

“
The stench,” said the noblewoman, gagging. “I’m going to be sick.”

Thefarie finally dragged his attention from the spectacle. He patted Ramutha on the shoulder halfheartedly. Caecilia sensed he was torn between the need to care for his wife and his desire to watch the sacrifice.

She took Ramutha by the hand and stood. “Come, then.”

Thefarie nodded his thanks, clearly relieved he did not have to miss the performance. Mastarna checked her. “Where are you going?”

“
Ramutha is ill. I need to take her outside.”

The women struggled past the rows of spectators, weathering dark looks for momentarily blocking views. Yet they did not succeed in escaping before the hounds were let loose. The screams of the doomed men rent the air as the dogs leaped upon them. Some of the Romans managed to make contact, their clubs thudding upon the animals’ heads or flanks. Most were felled and mauled quickly, while others dropped their weapons and fled only to be hunted down.

Caecilia quickened her pace, dragging her friend after her. As soon as they reached the open space behind the stands Ramutha sank to her knees to retch. The smell of vomit triggered Caecilia’s own nausea. Bile once again surged into her throat but she controlled the urge to be sick.

Cytheris appeared, Ramutha’s handmaid following close behind. Caecilia bade both to fetch some water as she crouched beside her friend.

Another roar. Caecilia put her hands over her ears. It was of little help. The screams of the prey could not be muffled. She told herself that these Romans were the enemy. After all, if she’d been captured, there would be no mercy. All Rome would relish witnessing her execution. Even so, tears pricked her eyes knowing the carnage the Phersu and his hounds were wreaking.

Ramutha sat back on her haunches and wiped her mouth with the edge of her mantle. “Come, Mele, you should be used to this by now.”

Another shout echoed from the ring but no more cries from the hunted. The killing had been swift. Caecilia thought it a melancholy blessing. In other years, it had taken over an hour for all to succumb: throats torn out, their flesh savaged.

She helped Ramutha to her feet. “I will never get used to it. It’s loathsome. And it was worse today. Twice the usual number of victims. And some were already dead when brought into the arena.”

“
But the sacrifice is sacred.” The Veientane brushed dirt from her skirt, her tone matter-of-fact. “Blood must be shed. Aita demands it.”

Caecilia noticed Ramutha’s face was still white, the red carmine on her lips stark against her paleness. The kohl that rimmed her eyes and darkened her lashes was smudged. “Then why your revulsion today? Was it just the stench of the corpses? Or did you eat some spoiled food that made you queasy?”

To her surprise, Ramutha blushed. “If only it were that simple.”

It took some moments before Caecilia understood, remembering how Ramutha had declined to eat while watching the events each morning, then craved figs and walnuts the rest of the day. And now it made sense why she had taken to wearing flowing robes instead of tight-fitted chitons. “You’re with child? Why, that’s wonderful!”