The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (49 page)

This morning the wives were subdued, their laughter false. All knew that at the end of the day a blood toll would be paid and some would mourn over their lost men. Conscious of Pinna, their chatter was nervous, too. Rumor had been made certain. Her argument with Marcus had been witnessed and reported. Now there were murmurs that both the commander and his aide should spurn the troublemaker.

The night before battle, unable to bear Marcus’ hostility, she’d placed her mat outside his tent while he remained inside. He’d said nothing when he saw this. And he rested for only a few hours. On the eve of combat there were too many nerves and too much excitement. He was surly when he departed, ignoring her. She was weary from lack of sleep and worry, and felt powerless and humbled. And, despite her brief spurt of malice yesterday, she feared for his safety.

As a child, Pinna would gaze at the night sky and reach up to try and sweep stardust from the constellations, the sparkles so dense that such a theft would surely go unnoticed. Last night, during the long awake hours, she had stared at the dark universe, ruing that the little girl who played with twinkling patterns had become a schemer whom her father would despise.

Turning the dough over and over upon the board, Pinna strewed it with salt and added more water before she kneaded and flattened it with her palms. She had believed the rhythm of the task would empty her mind of cares; instead she found herself pounding and slapping with greater effort than was needed as her feelings revolved: fear to anger, anger to shame. She could not concentrate, going over and over Marcus’ threat. She considered Drusus, too. Strangely, she’d not needed to contend with his bile. In his haste to leave with Genucius he had not approached her. Instead, with the bronze boar’s head on his corselet and shield burnished to gleaming, he’d ridden out with a scowl upon his face. His reticence alarmed her as much as his spite. Yet what did it matter what the Claudian did or thought? It was his friend who had condemned her. Bitterness surged. She was being forced to grieve for Camillus whether or not he was slain.

Her lover’s farewell had been rushed, curtailed by his desire to rally his troops while the dew was fresh upon the grass and the sky rosy with early sun. If not for Marcus, she would have been ecstatic that the general was prepared to break the rules; that with the risk of death he’d wanted to summon her to him.

When she entered his tent she found him keyed up with anticipation, his mind roiling with tactics, pushing through exhaustion. His squire was helping him don his armor, a routine established between them. She wished she could be tightening the buckles on his corselet and handing him his sword. Instead she stood watching, not warranting his attention until he was attired for the charge.

After dismissing his attendants so he could speak to her in private he made it clear he didn’t want to invest time in goodbyes nor listen to whispered warnings of concern. He showed her that he cared, though.

The iron dagger had been heavy in her hand. Blade polished and honed, handle weighted, a wolf’s head crest embossed upon it. He had presented it to her not as a gift but as a precaution.

“
I don’t plan to give the enemy the chance to raid the camp but, should it happen, you must use this.”

Pinna had stared at the knife, afraid to touch it. “I don’t think I could kill someone.”

Pressing the weapon into her palm, he closed her fingers around it. “No, it is to kill yourself.”

Taking two of her fingers he guided them to her throat. “You must cut here.” He pressed against the pulse. “Make sure your stroke is firm enough to slice through muscle and artery, not just flesh.”

The practicality of horror chilled her. “I don’t think I could do it.”

He gripped her hand. “There will be more than one of them, you know. Bloodlust is infectious. And they will not stop at rape.”

It was as though she was standing on a precipice looking downward, her knees weak, her belly churning. And yet she knew he was right. She could expect no mercy. There had been more than soldiers and farmers slain in skirmishes. Wives and daughters had been defiled. The Veientanes would relish the opportunity to redress the balance for their Faliscan ally.

“
Please, Pinna. Seize courage if it is needed. I don’t want to return to find you mutilated and broken, a ghost tormented.”

Before she could respond he kissed her, intense and swift. Then, slipping his arm through the leather strapping of his shield to grasp its handle, he left without a parting glance or reassuring smile.

Now the dagger was hidden in the basket beside her. And as she pressed her knuckles into the dough, she relived the brief glimpse of his emotion. She prayed that Marcus would somehow forgive her and change his mind. Wished also that he was wrong in claiming Camillus would never love her. Pondered whether she should use the knife anyway if the Aemilian did not grant her a pardon.

The sound of a camp mongrel’s frenzied barking broke through her thoughts. The women stood frightened, clasping each other’s hands, anxious as to what was causing the disturbance. Seeing the soldiers at the guard posts had not raised their weapons, Pinna ran to the gate. She was optimistic that it was the footsteps of a victorious army that the dog had sensed.

There were no warriors, only a messenger, flushed and filthy from his ride. Coming from a direction away from the battle. As he swung from his horse he hailed the duty officer and asked to speak to the general. “I come from Rome. Lake Albanus has risen so high it has broken its banks. A deluge sweeps all in its path as it gouges a route to the sea. The plowed fields and plantations of the Latins have been inundated. It is a catastrophe of major import. The Senate thought General Camillus should know.”

Pinna listened, disturbed by the news. The rising of the lake in drought had been a prodigy. Here was a greater omen.

The officer frowned. “But the Roman people have not yet appeased the gods. What are we expected to do?”

“
The Senate counsels caution until they learn what rites must be performed.”

The soldier groaned. “Your message comes too late. The general led his force into battle this morning.”

Pinna gripped her fascinum and shell so tightly the cords bit into her neck. She ran to the altar in front of the command tent. Shortly after dawn Camillus had sought confirmation that he would succeed. The sacred chickens had pecked at the proffered puls, eager to eat it. The greedy sound of the grains dropping from beak to ground revealed divine favor, not malice. Was the result of the auspices faulty?

Until now Pinna had felt the peril Camillus was facing unreal. There was always an aura of invincibility around him. One he aroused within his soldiers, too. Hadn’t he once defeated an enemy with a spear dragging in his thigh? The gods had spared his life on that occasion. It must have been for a reason. She could not imagine an Etruscan killing him just as she could not believe she could slit her own throat. The danger he faced now terrified her.

She knelt and prayed. Soon she was joined by all the women and camp workers. And as they made supplication gray fists of cloud gathered, the air cooling. After so many months of arid summer it took Pinna a moment to realize it was showering. She closed her eyes and let the rain drift down upon her.

The pleasure of wet cheeks, lips and brow soon faded. The darkening skies could bode ill. If the drops grew heavier dust would turn to mud. The battlefield could become treacherous. Horses would stagger through mud, their speed slowed. And warriors would struggle in the downpour, their footholds and handgrips slippery as they fought their foe.Pinna cradled her head in her hands, no longer anxious about her own troubles. Once again the deities were bending nature to their will. Were they truly angry with Rome or could it be possible they wished Mastarna to fall? Fraught with worry, Pinna repeated one prayer to Mater Matuta: “Bring him back to me. Don’t let him die.”

Glossary

Cast

The sound of the war horns was faint, drifting on breezes from the north.

Caecilia ignored it as Arruns drove her carriage along the main street of the citadel. The clarion call was common. There were often skirmishes launched from that part of the city to protect its most vulnerable side. She noticed, though, that there seemed to be more people about, and more carts heading down from the arx. The mood was buoyant. For the first time in months the sky was gray. The prospect of rain was welcome.

Caecilia was light of heart, too. The ninth day had passed. She wanted to confront Artile rather than wait for him to visit her. Whom did he think she would sacrifice? Son or daughter? The thought of depriving him of both filled her with satisfaction.

She held Ramutha’s hand. Her friend had insisted on accompanying her. The thought of thwarting the priest pleased the noblewoman as well.

Since the war began Caecilia had not set foot inside the Great Temple of Uni in case she met her brother-in-law, and so it concerned her that Juno might be offended. Yet it seemed the deity had forgiven her for such neglect. Hadn’t she given her succor on many occasions? And now the goddess had saved the children against her chief priest’s wishes.

Caecilia expected the haruspex to be presiding over the daily sacrifice. He was not there.

The women ventured inside, where the statue of Uni stared down upon them from her chamber. Kneeling, Caecilia covered her head with her yellow shawl and laid a terracotta figurine of a baby at the feet of the statue. A thanksgiving for Thia being rescued and Tas saved.

Noticing a cepen was lighting bowls of incense she called for him to advise his master that she and Lady Ramutha had arrived.

The novice shook his head. “But King Kurvenas summoned my lord this morning. Have you not heard? Your husband is fighting Genucius at the northwest bridge.”

Caecilia ran, pain ripping through her at the sudden movement.

Calling to Ramutha to hurry, she cursed that she must rely on donkeys instead of horses to pull her the miles to the Tinia Gates.

Flicking the reins, Arruns urged the animals to a trot. They skidded on the cobblestones of the steep single road from the arx but regained their footing once driven onto the wide, straight avenue dissecting the city.

And then, as they neared the north of the city, they slowed.

Traffic was clogging the artery, crowds streaming along the pavements. The mood was cheerful. General Mastarna was always victorious. At last they would be able to escape the city. There would be revelry more joyous than when Sergius’ army had been defeated. The siege lines would be destroyed. Trade would flow again. Hunger assuaged.

To Caecilia’s relief there were no catcalls when people spied her, instead encouragement. Her husband was returning. And his wife, no longer seen only as Roman, was hastening to meet him. Her own excitement was intertwined with apprehension, though. Vel was so near and yet in danger. The thought churned inside her that she could lose him while he was within reach.

The sea of carts and litters, wains and wagons serried the vast boulevard, a spectacle of color and racket. The odor of animal dung was strong as oxen and asses left droppings where they stood. Soon drivers were shouting at each other in the crush, their progress delayed by having to take turns passing between stepping-stones laid at intervals along the street.

Aggravated by the slowness, Caecilia rose in her seat, ready to step down and push her way through, but Ramutha stopped her. “Don’t be foolish, Mele. You could be trampled.”

They waited.

It started to sprinkle, the temperature cooling. A thousand upturned faces gazed at the darkening sky, spirits lifted by the feel of the mist. A cheer rocked the air.

Finally they reached the northern forum only to find the carnival air dissipated, voices querulous, chatter anxious. Caecilia heard snatches of conversations.

“
Camillus has joined Genucius.”

“
Mastarna’s army is surrounded.”

“
The general has called for reinforcements.”

“
The king is refusing to open the Tinia Gates.”

This time Caecilia almost tripped in her haste to leave the carriage. Arruns climbed down and stood in front of her. “It’s too dangerous, mistress.”

She was impatient. “Stand aside. I have to find out whether it’s true. Whether Vel is trapped.”

To her surprise he lifted her into his arms. She held on tightly to his neck, her cheek inches away from the snake, conscious of the hardness of his chest, the ease with which he held her as she bumped up and down with each step he took.