The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (43 page)

Caecilia looked across to her daughter, thinking Arnth’s nickname of Thia would suit her well. “Thia sleeps soundly, Cytheris. What a pity it took hunger to tire her out.”

The maid fussed with the divan’s bolster, propping it behind her mistress. Her lack of response stirred her mistress’ suspicions. “Cytheris? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

The servant hesitated, then became matter-of-fact. “The truth is I had Semni feed her. The girl has not yet weaned her son and has milk enough. I could not bear to hear the babe crying.”

Jealousy spiked. No wet nurse had ever suckled her babies.

“
Just until your milk comes in, my lady,” the maid hastened to add.

Caecilia closed her eyes wondering why she should feel such resentment when she herself had been reluctant to even hold her daughter. It made sense that Thia be fed by Semni. Why should the child starve just because her mother’s breasts were slack and empty?

“
Ati, play knucklebones with me.” Tas pulled out five tali from a pouch and handed them to her. Glad for the distraction, Caecilia deftly flipped and caught all of them on the back of her hand.

“
You’re too good,” complained Larce.

“
Then we shall take turns.” She handed the tali to him. The boy laughed as he tried to copy her.

After a time, Caecilia’s attention wandered from the game to admire the blue sky reflected in the pond, and the grapevine and the laurel hedges. She was content lounging amid such beauty. Although the summer had scorched the edges of the leaves there was greenery enough to be pleasing. In the lengthening shadows of the lazy afternoon the dogs lolled in the shade, occasionally snapping at flies. Even Arruns sat relaxed, idly throwing the ball up and down in one hand.

Caecilia studied Mastarna’s shadow, the man who’d once been the Phersu. He had saved her life once when he slew a Gallic marauder who’d attacked their caravan on her journey from Rome. It was the first time she’d seen a man killed. The only time she’d washed the blood of an enemy from her face and clothes. The easy brutality of the guard had scared her then, but her wariness of him had waned. His fealty had been tested many times, and Arruns had never failed. The Phoenician was only a few years older than Tarchon and yet life had molded two very different men. She thought of her stepson. And then of Kurvenas’ threat. Once again, she prayed that Vel would return soon.

The majordomo’s face was unusually drawn and his tone tense as he approached his mistress. “Pardon me, my lady, but you have a visitor.” Caecilia saw the reason for his unease. Artile Mastarna followed close behind the servant.

She sat up, the suddenness of the movement causing her to flinch. Swinging her legs over the side of the divan she stepped from the footstool, pointing to the doorway. “Get out of my house!”

The priest merely smiled. “Now, Sister, that is not the way to greet one of the family. Especially since I have not seen the inside of my home for so many years.”

Larce and Arnth were gawking at the stranger who so resembled their father and yet was no soldier. Tas was transfixed as he slid from the couch to the ground, his recognition of the priest apparent. Caecilia frowned. Until now all her children had been quarantined from their uncle.

Arruns stepped forward, waiting for a command. Conscious of her sons’ presence, Caecilia hesitated to have the guard eject her brother-in-law in front of them. “Aricia, take the boys to their chamber.”

The girl did not obey, instead bowed to the haruspex.

“
Aricia! Do as I say.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Artile nod to the nursemaid. The girl curtsied then lifted the younger boys from the kline, calling for Tas to follow. As Caecilia’s oldest son was led away he kept looking over his shoulder as though reluctant to lose sight of the caller, his tardy steps disturbing her.

Cytheris was gaping at the sudden appearance of the man who had been forbidden to cross the threshold. She stood beside her mistress while Arruns flanked Caecilia’s other side.

The priest smoothed his eyebrow, seemingly unperturbed at a possible eviction. “Sister, I ask for only a moment of your time. My news will be to your advantage.” He scanned Cytheris and Arruns each in turn. “Dismiss your lackeys so we might speak in private.”

The Greek woman did not move, mouth set in a grim line. Caecilia was grateful for her loyalty, knowing how Artile had assaulted the maid in the past. She knew, too, that Arruns would relish the chance to manhandle the soothsayer into the street. And yet, as always, curiosity stirred. Her brother-in-law spoke of favorable news. Was the king no longer asserting her treachery? Was she no longer to be a scapegoat?

Hoping she was not being foolish, she bade both servants leave. Cytheris touched her sleeve. “Are you certain, my lady?”

“
Yes, and take the baby.”

The maid stood firm, standing in front of her mistress with her back to the priest. She lowered her voice. “I’m sure Lord Mastarna would not want you speaking to his brother alone.”

Caecilia hesitated, knowing she spoke the truth. “Don’t worry, Cytheris. I will merely listen to what he has to say and then send him away.”

The maid retreated, carrying Thia in her arms. Her glare was baleful as she walked past the haruspex.

The Phoenician refused to go. “I do not think the master would want me to leave you, my lady. He gave me instructions that I was not to allow you to be harmed.”

Artile was smiling at the interchange between mistress and guard. “I can assure you, Sister, I do not plan to assassinate you.”

The tattooed man did not shift.

“
It’s all right, Arruns. Wait in the atrium. I will summon you if I need you.”

The Phoenician bowed, then backed his way to the arcade, his eyes fixed on the seer. Arms crossed, he stood sentinel under the archway between the garden and the entrance hall. To see apprehension on his usually stony face caused Caecilia to doubt herself.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned against the divan and faced the seer, hoping she had not made a grave mistake.

Glossary

Cast

Artile surveyed the garden, strolling to the pond, pausing to trail his fingers in the water. He had grown up in this ancestral house but had long been denied entry. He was never destined to possess it. Her three sons and Tarchon barred his way.

The arrogance of his inspection irked her. “What is it you want to tell me?”

The wrinkles around his dark eyes creased in amusement. “You look pale, Sister. I hear the birth was long and difficult. You still look in pain. If you would like I can give you some Zeri. I am sure it would give you relief as it did before.”

She colored, remembering the slow seduction of the joy plant, how each vial she drank of the elixir shackled her to him, granting her bliss when he provided it and misery when he’d deprived her. Remembered, too, how he had laced it with silphion to prevent her from conceiving or to guarantee any child she bore would be deformed. Yet she was no longer that frightened girl, her nails bitten, her mind bewildered by an alien world. “To taste Zeri again would be like drinking gall. Or do you want to poison me again? As you did Seianta. Her children died because of you.”

Artile smirked. “If I recall, you drank the Zeri greedily, and were equally as eager to follow in your predecessor’s other quest. To defer your fate.” He adjusted the fibula on his cloak, kohl-rimmed eyes hard. “To the detriment of your husband.”

As always, the man’s needling was unnerving. Suddenly she regretted dismissing her servants. “Vel and I have put that time behind us. I no longer seek to control my destiny.”

“
If you say so, Sister.” Artile gestured to the empty cradle. “What have you called the child?”

“
Her father will name her.”

“
But he defers to you. Surely you have already chosen one.”

“
Then it is Larthia. I wish to honor your mother.”

She was surprised at the anger that crossed his face. “Then you sully her memory by making a half-caste her namesake. Or is your daughter a bastard like Lady Ramutha’s child?”

“
How dare you! Mastarna is her father.”

He ran his finger along the edge of the crib. “Ah, but he is not here to claim her, is he?”

“
Vel will do so when he returns. There has never been an issue before when he has been delayed.”

Artile nudged the cradle. “But you have not borne a son this time.”

Disquiet spread through her. “We are not in Rome. The Rasenna do not abandon girls.”

He set the crib rocking. “Have you not noticed, Sister, that starvation will soon grip this city if your people are not vanquished? Feeding a future warrior is one thing. Giving succor to a worthless female is another. Your daughter will not be viewed favorably. Especially when she is half Roman.”

So long abed, Caecilia’s legs were unsteady from standing. She put her hands behind her, leaning her weight against the divan. “My husband welcomes the birth of a girl. He claimed his first daughter even though she was a cripple.”

Artile prodded the crib again, maintaining its momentum. “Yes, my brother has a soft spot for children. But as I said before, he isn’t here. Nor do I think he will return before the ninth allotted day elapses. It is only two days away. Who else, I wonder, could claim the child for the House of Mastarna?”

If he had struck her she would have felt no less shock. She sank her fingers into the couch, shoring up support. “So now I am to beg you to establish my daughter’s legitimacy?”

The priest stopped the cradle and smiled. “You have no other choice, Sister. The day after tomorrow I will make the decision whether to let you keep her or expose her to die.”

There was a clawing in her chest. “Then I will claim her myself. As did Ramutha Tetnies with Metli.”

There was a chill in the deepness of his laughter. “You? Claim a child? Your friend is of noble heritage with wealth of her own and her family behind her. You, on the other hand, only have relatives who are among those beleaguering our city or assailing our allies.”

She had been threatened so many times, in so many ways. Panic spiked but she tried to remain calm. “How you must detest me.”

For a moment an emotion flickered across Artile’s face other than smugness. Black and sour and seething. “I ache with hatred for you, Sister.”

“
Because of Tarchon?”

Spittle flew from his mouth. “You turned him against me. He was my all and you took him from me.”

“
Not so. The scales fell from his eyes when he saw your malice. Seianta’s son was born horribly disfigured and weak because of you! And you held her captive with your Zeri. Just as you tried to do with me.”

He pushed the cradle so hard it threatened to topple. “If not for you, Tarchon would have been Mastarna’s heir. And as his lover I would have governed this house.”

“
You are blind. Your plan was flawed. Vel was going to shun Tarchon because you would not give him up. He would have known nothing other than shame as a molles.”

“
I would not have let that happen.”

Caecilia thought of Kurvenas and his fury over Sethre’s corruption. “You declare you love Tarchon and yet you’ve informed on him to the king. Your jealousy has put his life at risk.”

He crossed to her. She could smell his cleanness. “No, Sister. The seeds of his destruction lead back to you. If the lucumo kills him it will be your fault.”

She flinched but was not prepared to cower. “How did you learn about Sethre?”

“
Tarchon has always been careless. A bribed slave is always open to a higher offer.”

“
Get out of my house,” she hissed.

The priest breathed deeply, slowly. She saw the veil descend over his feelings. The brief, sharp spurt of passion dissipating. “Do you want to prevent your daughter being exposed?”

The question caught her off guard. “Of course I do!”

He picked up the tali left on the mattress. “Then I have a suggestion that might appeal to you. Did you know your oldest son has the gift of sight?”