The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (26 page)

Sethre hovered by his lover’s side, face stricken. “I will see you again, won’t I?”

Stroking his beloved’s downy check, Tarchon kissed him again. “All will be well, little chick. Trust me. Now go.”

Once the youth had slid into the gloom, Caecilia tugged Tarchon back into the cellar, disbelief and fury coursing through her. Then, uncertain if one closed door would be enough to shield them from eavesdroppers, she shut the cellar door, leaving only feeble lamplight to illuminate their dispute.

Tarchon raised the lantern. “Why, your eyes are swollen. Have you been crying?”

“
It’s nothing,” she said, taken aback that he had noticed. “It’s you who I’m worried about. How could you! Have you forgotten what happened with Artile? The principes had begun to shun you. Mastarna was about to disown you for continuing to lie with his brother after you had become a man.”

“
Again, that was different. The haruspex should never have become my mentor. He was one of our family. It was not fitting for him to be my lover.”

“
You’re not eligible either. You’re only thirty. You’ve not held high office nor gained battle honors. Sethre’s reputation will suffer more than yours.”

“
I would never harm him. I love him.”

Another memory filled her. The sick transcendent stare of Artile for his beloved. A jealous vigilance and longing that she could still glimpse in the priest’s gaze whenever he was near Tarchon. He had feasted on a little boy’s loneliness and hopes to lure him to his bed. And yet Tarchon had stayed with the haruspex even though it meant ruin. She doubted his passion then was any less than the one he declared for Sethre now. “You loved Artile too, remember?”

Tarchon scowled. “Yes, as much as I hate him now.” He turned away, leaving her in blackness.

She grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t walk away. Promise me this will stop!”

“
I won’t give Sethre up.”

“
That sounds familiar also. Your stubbornness will be his undoing.”

As his hand shook, the oil in the lamp sloshed out of the vessel, the light flaring. “And if I don’t give him up? What then? Are you going to tattle to your husband?”

Caecilia’s breathing quickened, feeling a little nauseous from the oily smoke accumulating in the confines of the cellar. “No, you are going to tell him yourself. If you think you’re so justified to take on this role then that should be no problem. But the very fact you’re skulking around tells me you know you’re trespassing on an unwritten law.”

Tarchon raked his fingers through his curls, the shadows and light emphasizing his clean-skinned, sculpted features. “I’ve tried so hard to please Mastarna, but he will never see me as other than pathetic. But this is a chance for me to be counted. This liaison could heal the rift between the House of Kurvenas and ours. You know such relationships are often used to build alliances.”

Caecilia laughed, her incredulity making him flinch. “You don’t really think that is going to happen, do you? There will only ever be a brittle truce between Mastarna and the king. This would only break it asunder.” She placed her hand upon his arm. “For goodness’ sake, Tarchon, you can have as many slave boys as you like. Why complicate your life?”

He shrugged her off. “Do you think that is an answer? I could lie with a thousand slaves and it would not be enough. And I’m sick of disguising myself so I can visit molles in that quarter of the city.”

Caecilia cocked her head to one side, raising her eyebrows. She’d seen such men in the marketplace. Soft creatures. Males who only lay with males. Their robes colorful, their eyebrows plucked, their lashes colored with antimony and cheeks with rouge. It was said they pampered their skin with bread poultices. If Mastarna knew his son kept them company, he would be furious. Not as livid, though, as when he heard what else Tarchon was doing.

“
Sethre is clever and amusing,” he continued. “We do not just pleasure each other. There is poetry and philosophy and politics between us. We have both read the sacred texts of our people. We are both principes. I could be his mentor if only Veii would let us. I want an aristocratic lover.”

“
Well, Veii won’t, and you can’t,” she hissed. “How on earth did this begin between you? Our houses are estranged.”

“
At the gymnasium.”

Caecilia had visited one. Veientane women were also allowed to exercise there. Even after all this time, it shocked her. Ramutha often urged her to join in but she refrained. No doubt her friend’s passion for Caile began in such surroundings, too. The thought of stripping to run and jump seemed ludicrous. There was laziness within her, too; glad she could remain thin without such exertion. She had to admit, though, that the honed figures of Rasennan women were to be admired.

In the precincts of a palaestra, Caecilia could imagine one such as Tarchon would attract a boy like Sethre. The darkness of his oval eyes, the curved bow of his lips and his comeliness caused all around him to study him, even if, like Mastarna, it was merely to dismiss him for his beauty. With age, Tarchon had only grown more handsome, with his wide, strong shoulders and chest, narrow waist, flat stomach, and lean, muscled limbs.

Sethre must have enjoyed gaining his attention as he watched Tarchon’s sweat-slickened nudity. She imagined the man would make the youth laugh, too, with his good nature, sharp intelligence and quick humor. And how easy it must have been for the soldier to be drawn to the ebullient, graceful and fearless boy when comparing him to the other awkward youths of the Troy Game.

Caecilia thought of Marcus returning from training covered in cuts and bruises. No poultices of milk and bread were used to soften his skin. She’d brewed nettles and stinking elder bark to heal his sprains and contusions. No elegant athletics were needed to harden a Roman soldier. They swam in the freezing Tiber, and practiced with weighted spears and swords on the wide expanse of the Campus Martius. And yet Caecilia had to admit, both types of training produced potent warriors. Mastarna was proof of this.

“
I thought the boys trained separately from men your age,” she paused, “so they cannot be—”

“
Seduced?” Even Tarchon laughed, although he sounded bitter. “True, but the boys are encouraged to watch and learn from their elders. Sethre was like no other of his age. I wanted him as soon as I saw him.”

When she frowned, he once again turned to go. “You know,” he said, unlatching the door and wrenching it open, “I think I liked you better when you were prickly and ignorant of our ways. Now, with a little bit of knowledge, your self-righteousness sickens me. After all, with what I know of your past indiscretions, you should not be the first to point a finger! Reformed sinners are always the first to decry the faults of others.”

Caecilia flushed, knowing there was truth in what he said. He’d seen her stripped bare of clothes and dignity as he helped her to expel her addiction from Artile’s Zeri potion, an elixir the priest tricked her into craving in her quest for Aita’s salvation.

The baby moved within her. She touched the spot, gaining comfort from the infant’s presence. Legs and back aching from standing for so long, she leaned against the doorjamb as he strode into the storeroom, the torch fire bright after only lamplight.

She wanted all to be well between them. As once it had. They had been strange confidantes when she first came to Veii. He’d helped her when all others wouldn’t. He’d championed her. He’d risked his life to save her. “What has happened to us, Tarchon? When did we grow so far apart?”

Perhaps sensing her sadness, he stopped and turned. His expression revealed a glimpse of the Tarchon of old. “You no longer need me to interpret words and customs and family secrets, Caecilia. You’re no longer the lonely girl in a strange world. You’ve found your way, I can tell. You have become more Rasennan than I expected.”

“
I still need your friendship. You’ve been in the city for over a year now and yet we never talk. You used to share your own worries with me.”

“
I know.” He sighed and nodded towards her belly. “But not just war, time and distance have come between us. I’m an outsider. You must tend to your children and husband, not spend time with me.”

“
I will make time.”

“
There is no need. I have Sethre.”

She searched for his hand. “Oh Tarchon, please heed me. I listened to you when you told me I was mistaken about Mastarna all those years ago. Let me repay that favor by opening your eyes. What you are doing with Sethre is folly.”

Tarchon covered her hand with his. “I’d rather you repay me with your silence. I kept your secrets once, remember?”

Unease stirred. “Yes. Shameful ones. But that is in the past. I do not keep things from my husband anymore.”

He dropped her hand, tone hardening again. “Well that’s a lie. And we both know it.”

Caecilia suddenly felt faint, yet she knew she could not blame the stuffiness of the chamber or the child within her for this dizziness. His words scared her. “It’s for Vel’s protection. He would kill Artile if he knew he tried to prevent me conceiving by slipping silphion into the Zeri potion. I do not want him punished for murdering his brother. You must not tell him! You promised.”

He offered his arm to balance her as she swayed, but he remained unforgiving. “Don’t worry, our little conspiracy will remain just that. I don’t want Artile’s blood on my hands either no matter how much I despise him for what he did to you and Seianta.”

A silence followed broken only when the storeroom door creaked open. Cytheris called out tentatively. “Mistress, the master is asking for you. He’s back from his meeting with Lord Vipinas.”

Pulse quickening, Caecilia strived to remain calm. “Very well, let him know I’ll be with him shortly.” She looked at Tarchon.

Anxiety wreathed his features. “Are you going to tell him?”

Conflicting loyalties assailed her. Then she realized there was an answer. “I might not have to now that you are marching north. Mastarna has agreed to take Caile Vipinas as his squire to remove him from Ramutha’s arms. Perhaps your absence from your beloved will also make you see sense.”

This time it was Tarchon who seemed unsteady on his feet. “Mastarna is leaving the city?”

“
Yes. That’s why I was crying—he goes to seek support from the Twelve to attack Rome. He’s taking as many troops as he can to reinforce the Faliscan army. As his son, you will be expected to ride with him.”

Mouth set into a grim line, brow furrowed, Tarchon pushed past both Caecilia and her maid, storming into the kitchen. As Caecilia hurried after him, she heard him bellowing Mastarna’s name as he ran towards the atrium.

Glossary

Cast

A soft shower of rain was drifting from the atrium roof opening into the shallow impluvium pool sending ripples across the water. The chamber was darkening, too, with the encroaching evening, the sacred fire wavering in spasms of breeze.

Mastarna was standing by the hearth holding Arnth upside down. Face suffused red, the tot squealed, his tunic dangling over his head, his chubby buttocks exposed. Caecilia was not surprised to see her youngest son there. His quest was to explore and conquer all territory around him. His father admired his daring. Favored him, too.

In front of them, Larce was jumping up and down in one spot waiting his turn. The nursemaid, Perca, stood shyly to the side. The laughter of the father and sons dwindled as Tarchon strode towards them calling to Mastarna.

Vel gently flipped Arnth upright and propped him against his hip. The boy clasped the man’s neck and levered himself upwards, glaring at his big brother for spoiling his fun. Larce tugged at his father’s hand. “Apa, why is Tarchon so cross?”

“
I don’t know.” He frowned and swung Arnth to the floor.

Tarchon ignored his little brothers. “Why didn’t you tell me about Velzna?”

Mastarna cast a glance towards Caecilia, who expected him to bark a response. Instead he calmly patted both younger boys on their backs. “Go to Ati.”

She held out her hand. The almost four-year-old ran to her, staring with saucer eyes over his shoulder at the men. Arnth stood his ground as though keeping guard. Mastarna crouched down to him and tousled his hair. “Enough, my young soldier. Now do as you’re told.”

The mother shepherded her sons towards their room, followed by the nursemaid. Behind them, the sound of Mastarna’s booming voice signaled he was no longer composed. Arnth was still determined to be with his father, though, and Perca had to drag him. The twelve-year-old girl was timid at the best of times; now she almost tripped over in her haste to put distance between her and the quarrel.