The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (6 page)

As Caecilia waited for these noble sons to perform, she hoped the excitement of the ritual would bring some respite from the grief that had followed from the Winter Feast. Fervid worshippers had turned into anguished mourners trudging to cemeteries outside the city. Lamenting women led funeral processions, their keening loud and poignant. The roads were clogged with two-wheeled wagons as relatives bore their dead loved ones to reopened tombs, resting places of grief and veneration. This time the pall of smoke that hung in the air was not from a fiery ring of celebration but funeral pyres.

For a year the Romans had besieged the city of the dead as well as the living, depriving passage to the necropolises outside the sacred boundary. At last the remains of those who’d fallen both far away and near to home could be reunited with their forebears. Resentment was not buried though. Layers of bitterness had accumulated, crammed as densely as ashes into an urn.

Today was gray-skied but the chill was forgotten as aristocratic clansmen crowded together in wooden stands. Nine days had been laid aside for celebrating funeral games, and another nine for private mourning by families. The dead would be remembered. Ancestral heroes would be honored. Praise and sacrifice would be made.

During the games, athletes would vie for trophies while charioteers sent their teams hurtling around the tracks. On this first day, though, the Troy Game held everyone’s attention.

Caecilia realized that eventually her sons would be impatient to complete this rite of passage. She thought especially of Tas. He was already keen to leave childhood behind while she, a selfish mother, wished all three boys would remain dewy-eyed with plump, dimpled fingers.

As grooms handed each youth their weapons, she noticed how the recruits could not hide their nerves, swallowing hard as they clenched spears with whitened knuckles. Their horses snickered and snorted, pawing the ground.

For some, their breastplates and shields, greaves and armbands bore no dents or marks, the metal shiny in untried newness. Others wore inherited bronze cleansed of battle gore and burnished brightly, the panoply of a fallen father or slaughtered brother who no longer needed its protection. A warrior legacy to be passed from generation to generation.

One youth was composed, lance and shield held steady, his steed calm under soft hands and loose reins. Sethre Kurvenas, the son of the man Mastarna despised. Caecilia could not deny he was handsome, although there was an arrogance about him, a common trait among his family.

Beside Sethre was a youth with ruddy cheeks and red, full lips. Caecilia thought him too sweet-faced to become a soldier as he struggled to balance both massive shield and tasseled reins in one hand. He was Caile, grandson of Vipinas. The zilath doted on him as he was the only family the old man had left.

Caecilia could not help thinking how young these recruits were, their eyes mimicking the fierceness of a warrior without knowing the savagery that nurtured such harshness. Come the war season, they would soon learn.

A horn sounded. A single note, strident and martial. The crowd fell silent at the signal. The grooms assisted each youth to draw on crested helmets.

Sethre commanded his horse forward with the briefest touch of his heels. He had been chosen to lead the rite. The sons of the noble houses of Veii would follow him in a ceremony that would grant them the right to fight for city, tribe and clan.

To the beat of a drum and mellow notes of an aulos, Sethre rode his horse around the ring with a slow, clipped precision. To Caecilia it was as though the animal relished the task, head tucked close to a boastful chest, crest arched, strong legs prancing in time to the music. The rider guided his mount in ever-diminishing circles, each volte tighter, demanding more skill with the shortening of the circuit. Then, at the center, Sethre stopped. Pulling upon the bit gently, he coaxed the stallion to balance itself onto its hocks and then raise its forelegs to display belly to sheath. The horse seemed to revel in the chance to show off its strength, rearing for seconds in the pose.

Caecilia saw that the maneuver had left traces in the sawdust. The hoofprints marked out a perfect spiral, creating the labyrinth called the City of Troy. It was a maze the initiates would enter as boys and emerge from as men.

The crowd erupted in applause.

Caecilia glanced across to where Kurvenas sat gazing upon his only son with total absorption. Although she distrusted the man she could not begrudge him his pleasure. If it were Tas who’d completed the intricate pattern through the poised and silent command of his horse, she too would be sitting puffed with pride.

She clapped loudly. “The boy has talent.”

“
We’ll see,” grunted Mastarna. “Drawing the City of Troy is easy. Weaving one through horseflesh and armor is the true test. Let’s see if the lad can keep his seat while avoiding the others’ spears.”

“
You are harsh.”

Mastarna’s expression and voice remained stony. “Why? At least these cadets have had the chance to practice for hours to prove themselves this day. They’ll face more peril on the battlefield. The enemy won’t tell them in advance which way they are going to charge.”

Caecilia turned her attention back to the ring, conscious of the truth of his words. There was danger in playing the Troy Game. Last year a boy had been killed. And the year before, three were crippled. She scanned the line of riders, nervous for them.

Beside her, Ramutha reached over and twined her fingers through hers. Her palm was sweaty, her face white. “Pray for them. That is all we can do.”

Caecilia frowned when she noticed her friend’s pallor. “Are you ill?”

Ramutha hesitated, then shook her head. “No, Mele, just worried for them.”

Caecilia granted her friend a brief smile on being called “Mele.” The nickname, “honeyed one,” pleased her. It also reminded her that, with this woman’s friendship, the lonely girl from Rome could now gossip and giggle with a peer for the first time in her life. Secrets were shared. Comfort offered. And, with her influence, Ramutha had convinced most of the Veientane ladies to accept Caecilia as well.

Thefarie sat next to his wife. His face was lined with fatigue. Both he and Mastarna had been campaigning over the last few days to convince the other high councillors to change their minds. All had remained firm. And so, after the period of bereavement had ended, an election would be held and Kurvenas would be crowned. Caecilia was steeling herself to cope with Mastarna’s temper once his rival was in power.

A rapid drumbeat signaled the horsemen to begin. Caecilia watched in anticipation.

The sons of the principes rode their horses with a rhythmic gait around the outline of the spiral, then formed a line beside Sethre. Their backs were straight, their thighs gripping their steeds’ sides to give greater purchase to bear the weight of their spear and shield. Yet their lower legs swung loose and their torsos were supple, their posture flexible.

The horses had been chosen for their spirit and noble bearing: tall withers, fleshy double-backs and rounded barrels to aid riders to remain mounted in combat. High necks and crests, small ears, gleaming eyes and flaring nostrils—for beauty and for fierceness. All were stallions, unpredictable and prideful, biting and kicking at each other as they jostled for position.

Although the youths had broken in their horses, their control over them was still precarious. A sudden lowering of a maned head or unexpected bucking and rearing could unseat them just as swiftly as an enemy lance. Today, though, the heirs of Veii must prove they were the masters.

Sethre had already established this. The smooth bit in his horse’s mouth proclaimed that he had tamed it completely. Both beast and boy understood each other without pain and pulling. No spurring on, no whipping was needed—just touch and voice and balance—and the desire of both to show their skill.

Vipinas’ grandson struggled to steady his stallion, yanking at a cruel bit fashioned with heavy disk and spikes. Caecilia felt sorry for the beast. It whinnied with hurt, straining at the reins.

Caecilia glanced at the zilath. His brow was furrowed as he watched the youth’s awkward handling of the horse. She prayed that if Caile fell all he would suffer was bruises rather than a broken neck.

Sethre’s shout startled her back to watching as he ordered his colleagues to commence.

The pace of the horses grew faster as they once again circled the spiral: trot to canter, canter to gallop until suddenly, with an ear-splitting yell from their leader, half the boys wheeled around and, with lances leveled, charged.

The Troy Game had begun.

Missing by a hairsbreadth, both teams pulled up, turned, then charged again. Hooves thudded in rhythm, spraying sawdust. The crowd hooted and shouted, urging them on.

Crisscrossing and whirling, the cadets wound between each other. Each nimble turn and pelting stride demanded perfection lest bodies of both beast and boy clash, fall and be trampled, the mock skirmish ending in bloodshed instead of triumph.

Sitting forward, Caecilia clutched Vel’s arm, her heartbeat sharp. Watching the surge and retreat she held her breath at the speed and nearness of their passes. And yet she soon became mesmerized, absorbed in the conquering of a maze of motion and danger, the defiance of the god of death.

Dynamic yet agile, Sethre took command with the demeanor of one who had the makings of an officer. Caecilia found it difficult to drag her attention from him.

Vipinas’ grandson had managed to handle his horse throughout, but as he wheeled his stallion around for the next pass, he clipped his leader’s horse. Sethre steadied his mount, swerving to avoid another collision while retaining a grip on spear and shield. Caile’s steed shied and reared. Unbalanced, the youth slid to the side and dropped both his weapons so he could cling to the horse’s mane.

Caecilia half rose in her seat, her cry of concern added to the crowd’s. Mastarna edged forward in his seat, expression tense. “Come on, boy, come on,” she heard him murmur.

Ramutha covered her face with one hand and clutched Caecilia’s sleeve with the other. “Grant mercy,” she repeated over and over.

Vipinas was standing, working his false teeth against his gums, bright spots of color on his pale cheeks.

The spectators yelled encouragement to Caile. Summoning a strength and tenacity that surprised her, he finally dragged himself back onto the animal’s back, then rejoined his team. Caecilia touched Ramutha. “You can look now. He has righted himself.”

Her friend continued to hold her hand over her eyes. “I’m not watching again until this has ended.”

Caecilia frowned, wondering why Ramutha was so anxious. It was not as though Caile was one of her family.

The riders slowed, completing a final maneuver. The rhythm returned to steady hoofbeats until, re-forming into one line, the youths held their stallions trotting on the spot.

Then stillness.

The cheering was deafening. Caecilia joined the clamor, rejoicing that these young men had survived and that life had vanquished death. The boys who had conquered the labyrinth of the City of Troy were now reborn as men.

Helmets removed, sweat streaming down flushed faces, chests heaving with exertion, the new warriors let out a whoop of joy. Then, raising their spears, they turned and saluted the zilath.

Vipinas returned their greeting, his relief patent, a glint of gold in his ivory-toothed smile. His grandson had faltered, recovered and survived. The shield and spear that remained scattered across the sawdust was a reminder, though, of how narrowly Caile had escaped both death and shame.

Laughing now, Ramutha stood and applauded. Thefarie remained seated, smiling at his wife’s exuberance.

Some of the spectators began chanting Sethre’s name. Enjoying the adulation, the youth rode a lap round the arena. Caecilia thought him haughty as he hailed his admirers. And yet when he halted his horse before Kurvenas, his look was uncertain, as though seeking paternal approval. There was no doubt that he had received it. The father grinned at his son with adoration.

Kurvenas’ smile reminded her of those her Uncle Aemilius bestowed upon her cousin Marcus. With it came a heavy expectation. Fame and glory in combat. Ambition and success in politics. She guessed Sethre would feel a similar pressure. The acclaim he’d gained today was yet a beginning.

She wondered if Marcus had begun his steady progression up the Honored Way to high office. He was now of an age to become a lesser magistrate in Rome. Last time she’d seen him he’d won an oak leaf crown in battle—a high honor for one so young. Had he won other awards? As a war hero he was bound to be elected. And yet she remembered a time when he was wrought with doubts that he could be so courageous. She was his confidante then. His enemy now. It was painful to think about the rift.