The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (16 page)

There was a mystery, too. The Roman contingent from the main camp in the south did not rally to aid their comrades. General Verginius held his army within the stockades. Never stirring. Letting the slaughter of Sergius’ force continue. Not daring King Kurvenas to attack.

At sundown a clarion call signaled victory. Word spread. The surviving Romans had retreated.

The Veientanes were once again free to leave the city and there was no need to wait until winter and Fufluns’ feast to celebrate. Soon a crush of people bumped against one another in the lock of the double gates as they hastened to be the first to reach the plain. Despite her condition, Semni wanted to share the fervor. Lining up, she seized a brand and dipped it in a bubbling vat of pitch before setting it afire. Then, to the accompaniment of flute and aulos, she joined the throng descending from the walled plateau as they sang a hymn to the god of war. Their torches formed a cascade of light as they streamed into a landscape already burning with color, the sunset’s hues matching the russet and copper of autumn. Wagons followed laden with amphorae of wine and cauldrons of pitch, one to quench thirst, the other to ensure the flames would ignite and incinerate all vestiges of the Romans.

Semni lagged behind, her bulk hindering her. Catching her breath, she slackened her pace as she shuffled through drifts of purple and orange foliage.

A breeze was blowing, setting pockets of yellow leaves swirling before they settled on the ruffled surface of the river. In the light of the setting sun, the water seemed pink as Semni crossed the wooden bridge through the wide ravine. The triumphant beat of drums drew her onwards.

Ahead of her the crowd raced to the level ground where the earthworks and forts lay. Soon, though, Semni found herself bumping into those before her as they slowed, their singing petering out, merriment trailing. Pushing her way to the front she saw why they had halted. Aghast, she stared at the battlefield before her in the sore, bleeding light of dusk.

She had expected the same scenes as had met her every other winter: a deserted camp, sterile except for stinking cesspits and middens of rubbish. A forlorn silence. No foe remaining to confront them. No dead either. The Romans always took the deceased with them. The ashes tamped into urns then crammed into kitbags together with pots and plates and spoons.

Instead Semni stood frozen, heart beating hard, gagging at the stench of blood and ordure hanging in the air. Corpses were sprawled on the ground, their hacked limbs scattered like joints of meat. Brains, bowels and blood, viscous and plentiful, splattered the leafy carpet.

A few of the dead boasted crested bronze Veientane helmets, but the greatest number wore the round oxhide headwear of Rome.

Many had been trampled in the confusion of retreat. And those Romans who’d fled must have abandoned their arms. Neglected battle-axes and spears were strewn among comrades who still bore weapons they’d never again brandish.

Quaking, Semni realized that not all around her were lifeless. The maimed lay groaning, bleeding, forsaken. And the victors, bloodlust still raging within them, were dispatching the wounded to meet their gods. In the distance Semni heard weird death-dealing ululation. She shuddered, realizing the Faliscans were exacting the same retribution at the outer lines.

The urge to punish was infectious. At the sight of the weakened foe, townsfolk were spurred to their own vengeance. It was as though people had lost all sense that the wounded were humans as fists pounded Roman noses and jaws, and feet kicked backs and ribs. Seeing that the civilians would not stop, Semni prayed that quietus would soon end the agony. Unlike the assailants, she felt no hatred. She lacked courage, though, to intervene lest her mercy be mistaken for treason.

Like hunters skinning a beast felled in a hunt the soldiers were claiming the spoils. Some forced stiffened hands from battle-axes. For others the task was easier as they unfurled supple fingers from around hafts, armbands from still-warm flesh, and greaves from just-dead limbs. As greed emerged discipline was forgotten. Fistfights erupted as they squabbled over the plunder.

The commoners knew better than to gather loot earmarked for warriors. There would be pickings for them tomorrow: gold teeth, amulets, even rings if they were lucky. Instead, they sped to the barricades to splash pitch upon the timber and set their torches to it. Their exclamations at the sudden whoosh as the wind god fanned the flames were almost childlike. Amphorae were unplugged, wine goblets passed around, pipe and drums played again.

The sun was sinking, a half-orb shimmering in a resinous haze, sliding from the edge of the horizon, dragging the light with it. Coughing from the acrid smoke, eyes stinging, Semni discovered there was worse to witness. The Veientane soldiers were exacting their final reprisal for long-harbored hatreds by sawing through tendons and bone and scything limbs and heads from torsos. Overcome by horror, Semni vomited as they began disembowelling bellies and severing genitals from once proud and virile men.

Suffocating from fear she backed away, but the crowd jostled her, tipping her over so that she fell next to a corpse. She closed her eyes, knowing that she would have to open them again; to fumble and crawl away blindly would only lead to more ghastly encounters.

She peeked at the dead Roman. The soldier’s eyes were vacant, staring at a dusk he would never see. Mouth slack, blood was congealing from a cut in his gullet, the soft vulnerable space above his breastplate. His slayer must have been experienced. He’d not wasted time slashing at bronze when flesh was ready to be sliced.

Finally the girl summoned the nerve to look up. The colors of the battlefield were muted by encroaching darkness. And yet nightfall did not bring respite. A luminous harvest moon was rising, providing more light for the conquerors to continue their desecration.

Exhausted, Semni edged away from the fallen warrior and huddled, knees drawn up, hugging her swollen belly, burying her head, hiding her eyes.

The sound of hoofbeats gained her attention. A group of horsemen galloped through the chaos, their animals rearing, skittish with excitement. It was a unit of the cavalry that had chased the last of Sergius’ men back into Roman territory. Bellowing in fury, their leader leaned down from his mount to heave one of the Veientanes from his grisly task. The rider’s cuirass was embossed with Trojan heroes, the tiny figures engrossed in their own combat. Semni recognized the bull’s head boss on his shield. It was General Mastarna. The girl scanned around for Arruns but there was no sign of him. Then she remembered the guard would have no horse to accompany his master. He would still be returning on foot from the pursuit.

The control over his great gray stallion absolute, the general wheeled around so he could be seen in all quarters. “Cease defiling the dead! Otherwise you will suffer the same fate by my hands!” His bass voice resounded across the plain as he held his sword aloft to smite those who might disobey him. “You have fought bravely here today. But what you do now is cowardly.”

The Veientane hoplites faltered in their butchery, although some appeared reluctant, muttering to themselves and glancing to the far side of the battlefield where they could hear the Faliscans continuing unrestrained. Semni was not sure what riled them more—being denied the right to mutilate their foe or being prevented from claiming plunder. Yet these men were Mastarna’s troops. They knew better than to defy their commander.

Once again a blast of the curved war horns jarred Semni’s nerves. This time it was a fanfare. Another band of horsemen appeared escorting a warrior in a bronze-sheathed chariot. The driver’s balance was perfect despite the jolting caused by flattening corpses beneath bronze wheels and hooves.

Already on her knees, Semni bowed her head before the king while all around her knelt. She had only ever seen the lucumo wearing purple vestments, his face painted vermilion as he presided over holy rites. Now he wore armor. A winged lion was depicted on his muscle cuirass, his helmet adorned with gold-leaf decorations, its horsehair crest purple. Close to his regal presence, she was dazzled. In the moon and firelight it seemed as if Kurvenas was surrounded by an aura, a princip above all others—shining and majestic.

The lucumo drew the chariot beside the warrior. To her astonishment Lord Mastarna did not kneel in fealty after he dismounted but gave a cursory bow. Both men removed their bronze helmets. Sweat plastered the general’s short hair to his skull, his jaw dark with grime and stubble. The king’s face was clean-shaven, his long hair oiled.

The lucumo did not address the princip but turned to call to Mastarna’s soldiers: “You have been courageous. Veii is grateful for your valor!” Despite owing loyalty to the general, the men straightened their shoulders at the monarch’s praise.

Then King Kurvenas gestured towards Mastarna. “Why then does your leader deny you the chance to wreak vengeance? To right old scores?”

The girl lumbered to stand, wanting to see the general’s reaction. Mastarna was staring at his ruler, clearly annoyed that Kurvenas was challenging him. “Why shame men who’ve already suffered humiliation in battle,” Mastarna countered.

The king’s contempt matched his. “And yet the Romans have sent too many of our forebears to the Beyond with the same marks of disgrace. They would have shown no pity to our fallen. They deserve to have their souls relegated to eternal torment!”

Mastarna pointed to a slain soldier. “If we respect Rome’s dead, then Rome may show mercy to our fallen if needed. These bodies should be sent back to their families so they can cremate them with due honors.”

Stepping down from his chariot, the king walked over to a decapitated corpse, blood spreading in a halo where the head should have been. “You talk of honor? My great-uncle suffered the same fate as this man more than twenty years ago. Only his head was spiked on a lance and paraded for all to ridicule. My ancestor was denied solemn burial. His ghost wanders in ignominy. Why should we not act as ruthlessly to the descendants of his defilers?”

Semni glanced around her. Both commoners and warriors stood transfixed by the argument between monarch and princip. Lord Mastarna still showed no deference to the lucumo. “Because my father died at the hand of the same general who ordered that desecration,” he countered. “Yet I do not see how mutilating a dead Roman can assuage my loss.”

Throwing his purple cloak over his shoulder, Kurvenas returned to his chariot. “Then you are weak,” he said, as he stepped up onto the vehicle. “Or maybe you are squeamish at the thought of dishonoring your wife’s people?”

Lord Mastarna strode over to the chariot. Semni thought him fearless. It looked as though he wanted to drag the monarch to the ground; instead he checked himself by seizing the bridle of one of the two horses. “Are you questioning my allegiance to Veii?”

To Semni’s surprise the challenge seemed to calm the lucumo, not incite him to anger. Ignoring his rival, he opened his arms wide to the troops. “Soldiers of Veii, because of you Sergius and his army are running back to Rome bleeding from wounds upon their backs. And now Verginius has been recalled by his city for not sending reinforcements. So there will be no claiming of their dead. No sacrifices made to their memory. Instead Rome is prepared to let the carcasses of their warriors be picked clean by crows.” He smoothed back his hair as he looked across to Mastarna. “And yet your general wants you to respect a foe that has deserted its fallen.”

The faces of the assembled soldiers registered shock, the announcement answered by the shifting and snorting of horses and the crackle of the fire.

General Mastarna’s disbelief was clear as his gaze traversed the battlefield and the slaughtered hoplites. Yet to Semni’s surprise he reached down and seized a shield from a corpse, then lifted the dead man’s spear and laid it over the weapon. “Then let us pay them more deference than their own,” he called to his men. “Let us take their possessions but keep their souls intact!” He added the helmet to the other armor. “Now stack all booty into this pile!”

Confused, his men glanced at one another before sullen expressions settled on their faces. Semni was also confused as she watched the general mount the great gray, guiding the restless horse to pass by the nearest of his soldiers. “And tomorrow,” his voice boomed, “after you have stoked the funeral pyres with the Roman dead you will be rewarded—for I will not claim my right as your lord to the greatest part of the spoils. Instead you will all share equally with me.”

There was quiet as his army weighed the incentive to gain booty against the desire to avenge. Then murmuring spread: those who had already gathered a hoard, resentful, and those with slim pickings, grateful. One by one they began stacking the loot upon the pile. Soon enthusiasm mounted, the pace of collection faster, the heap growing higher.

Semni looked over to the lucumo. Seeing his influence over Mastarna’s army had diminished, he flicked the reins to signal his horses to draw his chariot away. He did not speak but the hatred in his expression made words unnecessary. Lord Mastarna smiled and bowed low.