Read sample The Golden Dice

ONE

He smelled of leather, horse, and beeswax polish, the bronze of his armor cold against her despite her heavy woolen cloak. When he kissed her, though, hard and hungrily, his mouth and tongue were warm despite chill lips and cheeks.

“You need to take this off,” she said, as she always did, pressing against the corselet, needing the feel of his body.

“Don’t worry, I plan to,” he replied, as he always did, then laughed and kissed her.

She could not move away from him, arms tightening around his waist, not trusting that he had returned, that another year had passed and he had not been killed.

For there were only two seasons now: war and winter.

Before this, it had been summer that made Caecilia smile with its lazy heat and languid evenings. But after seven years of conflict, she welcomed the hint of ice in the north wind and the bare stripped branches of trees ready to bear the burden of snow. Short days and long darkness no longer seemed oppressive because, in winter, her husband would come home.

Another long, clear note of the war trumpets sounded. Still holding Mastarna close, Caecilia turned her head to scan the tumult around her, glad the horns did not herald a charge but instead a return, as line after line of soldiers entered through the massive Menerva Gates of the Etruscan city of Veii.

The vast town square and wide avenues seethed with the color of the massed crowd, and timber- and terracotta-clad houses and temples were gaudy with garlands and ribbons. As the army marched into the forum a surge of people breached its formation, military discipline forgotten as wives and children hastened to kiss husbands and fathers while mothers and older men embraced sons.

Amid the throng, fine, long-legged warhorses shifted and whinnied as they were held fast, steam rising from their hides in the coldness of the afternoon, hot breath snorting from their nostrils. Adding to the clamor were laughter and merry tunes from double pipe, castanet, and timbrel, interrupted by snatches of sobbing, the lament of women whose men had not returned: a tragic counterpoint to celebration.

Caecilia could not ignore their sorrow. Even in her happiness a tight knot of apprehension remained, the voice that told her this reunion was due to respite in conflict, not its resolution. She chided herself not to sour the sweetness of Mastarna’s return with the anticipation of his inevitable departure.

There was a rhythm to the fighting.

When the war season began with the lengthening of days and the greening of fields, the Veientanes would ride out to meet the Romans who were assaulting Veii with a dogged vengeance. A vengeance sought in the name of Aemilia Caeciliana. A vengeance sought against her.

For seven years Caecilia had watched the Romans, who were once her people, hew pickets and planks and stakes from Veientane woodland to build stockades and siege engines to surround her adopted city, hindering trade, blocking supplies, and raiding farmlands until, by bright autumn and the falling of leaves, Veii’s patience would falter as it waited for winter and the enemy to retreat. Each city pausing. Licking its wounds. For Roman bellies need to be fed, too. Roman crops need to be sown: barley and pulses and wheat. Roman families need to embrace their men, and Roman generals need to be elected.

Mastarna’s cheek, heavy with bristle, brushed against hers, his own apprehension hinted in his deep, low voice, a voice whose timbre always stirred her. “And the baby?”

Smiling, she broke from him and searched for two women who stood jostled by those celebrating around them. Both were grinning as they observed husband and wife. The stout, wiry- haired maid called Cytheris gripped one hand each of two small boys while the nursemaid, Aricia, stepped forward on command and handed a swaddled bundle to her mistress.

“Another son,” Caecilia said proudly.

Mastarna took the babe with the confidence of a man practiced in such a task. Even so, the mother wondered at the sight of a warrior cradling soft tininess against the hard contours of his corselet.

Exchanging his nurse’s warmth for the cold comfort of his father’s armor didn’t please the child. His protests were loud and strident. Unperturbed, Mastarna chuckled, planting a kiss upon the baby’s head as he hugged Caecilia once again. “Thank you. I could have no better wife.”

“Nor I a better husband.” She reclaimed the bawling baby, who settled immediately at her touch.

“Now where are those other sons of mine?” Mastarna turned to face his older children. Wide-eyed and wary of the scarred, metal-clad giant who had returned into their lives, the boys were speechless.

Mastarna’s thigh-high greaves grated as he crouched down beside them. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me?”

The older boy was solemn, bowing in greeting. “Of course I know who you are, Apa. Hail, General Vel Mastarna!”

“Hail, my son,” said his father with equal seriousness before placing his leather-lined bronze helmet upon the boy, engulfing him. The child pulled it back, tilting his head so he could spy the world through the slits between nose and cheek pieces, both hands held firmly on either side to bear the weight.

Seeing his brother gaining such favor, the two-year-old forgot his awe of the warrior. He hastened from behind Cytheris’s skirts, bounding over to wrest the trophy from the other. “Give me, Tas, give me!”

The five-year-old turned away, raising the bright-blue crested helmet firmly out of reach, not prepared to surrender his prize. “Go away, Larce. Apa gave it to me.”

Mastarna laughed and lifted his younger son onto his hip. The boy’s startled expression changed to one of glee as he caught sight of the curved sword strapped to his father’s side. “Look, Ati,” he shrieked at his mother, gripping the hilt. “Sword! Sword!” Despite his struggling to remove the weapon from its sheath it remained secure.

“Hello, Caecilia.”

A soldier stood beside her with open arms. It took a moment to recognize the bearded man as Tarchon. Mastarna’s other son. Adopted. Little older than she was. The thought was sobering. In spring she would be twenty-six.

There was no sign of the effeminate youth she once knew. He was a man now, boasting battle scars. What warrior did not, after so many years of war? Nevertheless, his fine face was unscathed, its beautiful symmetry incongruous against the blatant masculinity of bronze.

“Thank the gods you have been spared.” She hugged him.

Tarchon returned the embrace, cautious of the bundle of boy squeezed between them.

“Thank the gods also that you bore my brother safely.” He touched the baby’s cheek gently with one finger and was rewarded with a smile. It was no surprise. Tarchon pleased everyone—everyone except his father.

“He has your big, round Roman eyes, but I won’t hold that against him.”

Caecilia frowned, glancing at the sloe-eyed Etruscans around her. She doubted they’d ever forgive her for being a daughter of Rome. “Yes, but others might.”

Tarchon kissed her cheek. “I’m only teasing. Besides, all here respect you now.”

Before she could reply, Mastarna interrupted. “Isn’t it time I named my new son?” He swung Larce to the ground. The boy immediately grasped his leg, demanding to be returned to the heights. Cytheris quickly drew him away.

Caecilia nodded. Ever since her son was born she’d been anxious to perform the ceremony. After all, the child was two months old and rightly should have been claimed within nine days of his birth. There was always an undercurrent of concern within her. What if Mastarna did not return? Would the right of this boy to take his father’s name be questioned? What would become of her, no longer Roman but never Etruscan, if her husband should die?

“What name have you chosen?”

“Arnth. After Arnth Ulthes, our great friend.”

Mastarna searched her face. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure. It is a strong name, given in honor of a noble man.”

“He would be pleased that you wish to remember him.” He stroked her hair. “Now let me claim him.”

Despite her desire for the rite to be performed, Caecilia hesitated at the thought of placing the child at his father’s feet. The crowd around them was unruly and she was afraid that the horses could trample the baby.

Then she noticed Arruns, Mastarna’s guard—head shaven, the snake tattoo upon his face adding, as always, a rugged menace to him. Without needing an order he cleared a space around the family, holding the reins of his master’s horse tight.

Laying the baby on the cobblestones, Caecilia anxiously watched as Mastarna lifted him above his head.

“All present here bear witness that this boy is my son. His name shall be Arnth of the House of Mastarna. Child of my loins and that of Aemilia Caeciliana’s—known to all as Caecilia.”

Unlike Larce, the infant did not enjoy being raised in the air, screaming with a fierceness at odds with his size. Mastarna hastily lowered him, holding him close, before taking a gold amulet necklace from Caecilia and placing it around the little boy’s neck.

“May this bulla protect you forever from the evil eye. May all the great and almighty gods watch over you!”

Caecilia took the sobbing baby from his father, soothing him once again. As she did so, she noticed that the crowd around them had quieted. She tensed, holding her breath, aware their stares were reserved for her, their silence signaling resentment of her as much as respect for Mastarna.

And she knew why that must be.

Seven years ago, in a glade beside a river between two cities, she had made a choice to forsake her home. A choice Rome claimed provoked a war. And she had questioned that decision many times. Not because she did not love her husband but because his people did not love her.

She knew what to do today, though. Had done it before. She slowly held Arnth out to the crowd. “I give my son to this city. Another man-child to bear arms for Veii. Another warrior for you who have become my people.”

There was no response at first, their gaze wavering from her to the baby and then to the warrior.

Then cheering erupted. “Hail, Arnth of the House of Mastarna! Hail, General Vel Mastarna!”

Relief filled her, reassured in that moment to know that, even if the Veientanes hated her, she was safe as long as they revered her husband.

TWO

Caecilia signaled the slave boy to draw the heavy red curtain of the bedchamber closed, sorry it was too cold to leave it open so that she could view the garden. Then she ordered him and the other slave who was lighting the candelabras to leave.

Mastarna pulled her to him. She laughed. “You need a bath!”

“Do you want to wait that long?”

Shaking her head, she began unbuckling the straps of his cuirass, staggering slightly at the weight as she helped him to remove it and its kilt of heavy linen strips. Then, faster now, loosening the armbands before kneeling to help him off with his greaves. Both let the armor clatter to the floor. Both stripped with equal haste. Then Mastarna lifted her onto the high, wide bed to kiss her, all of her, cheeks and nose and throat, breasts and belly and toes, before parting her soft white thighs and ending the lovers’ long wait.

Afterward, they lay nestled together in a room made cozy despite the fug of smoke pooling under the high ceiling above the wall vents. The leopard painted on the wall peered out of its laurel grove, swallows flitting over its head, a constant companion guarding them for all these years.

Caecilia stroked the long scar across Mastarna’s chest and stomach, then the one that ran from nose to lip. His arms were crisscrossed with old wounds also. “I can’t see any fresh ones.”

“Only scrapes and grazes this time. I managed to avoid a Roman sword point. I must be getting careful in my old age.”

“Or maybe you’ve finally learned some skills.”

He laughed and pulled the coverlet of red, green, and blue plaid from her. “Let me see if you have changed.”

Caecilia protested at the rush of cold air and pulled the counterpane up again, but Mastarna stopped her. “Let me look at you,” he repeated, gently running his hand over her hips and belly, tracing the silver web of lines upon her skin.

Caecilia clasped his hand, aware of how she was aging, how bearing her babies, however beloved, had robbed her body of tautness. “Don’t, they’re ugly.”

Mastarna kissed the delicate marks. “You should be proud of them. They are proof you are a mother and have borne more pain than any I might face. Was your labor very terrible?”

This time he let her draw the quilt close around them. She always forgot the agony once it was over. Holding a baby to her breast healed her.

“I wish that one day you’ll be there to see me give birth, Vel. I prayed every day before Arnth was born that you would come home.”

Mastarna was silent for a time. “One day,” he murmured. “One day.”

Caecilia regretted speaking. She knew he wanted to be there, and it was no use wishing for what was not fated. She should be rejoicing that the gods gave Vel the chance to hold their children at all.

And how she loved them, her winter-seeded sons. Loved their touch: the soft dimpled fingers of Arnth reaching up to touch her mouth as she kissed them, or tugging at her earrings; Larce measuring the small span of his two-year-old palm against hers, his thumb and fingers tiny. And then there was her firstborn, Vel Mastarna Junior. So quiet and earnest they had nicknamed him “Tas,” the silent one. Believing himself too grown-up to need his mother, until darkness came and he would clasp her hand, pretending it was she who needed comfort.

Mastarna shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. “Let’s bathe before the feast. I’m looking forward to soaking in hot water.”

Caecilia lingered under the bedclothes, studying him. His nose was battered and his face lined: features of a man who had suffered both inside and outside. And although his dark sloe eyes could be hard, they always softened when he gazed at his family.

Seeing how the skin of his body was smooth compared to the heavy afternoon bristle upon his chin, she smiled. It always surprised her how the Veientanes took their barbers on campaign. Not to mention the enormous retinue of other servants to cater to their every need. As if they could not leave luxury behind for even one moment. Fine clothes and furniture and utensils. Musicians and dancers and poets alongside blacksmiths and bow-makers. And, of course, seers and priests to ensure the gods’ intentions could be divined and their favor secured. “However do you find time to shave or pluck your body while at war?” she teased.

“So you would have me as hairy as a bear like some Roman soldier?” He rubbed his chin. “Although I’m considering growing my beard.”

Kneeling behind him, Caecilia slipped her arms around his waist, laying her cheek against the broadness of his back. “Don’t you dare!”

He laughed. “I suppose you’re right. It’s a rare woman who likes her skin scraped.”

Caecilia was glad he could not see her expression. For there were other kinds of slaves included among the camp followers: concubines and harlots. It always tormented her that Vel might find fidelity too onerous in the long months of fighting. “As long as it’s only my cheek you scratch.”

Smiling, Mastarna turned and pulled her onto his lap. “And have you taken a lover yet? All these young slave boys at your disposal.”

She pushed against him. “How could you even suggest it?”

He was serious now, his dark, almond-shaped eyes somber, an edge to his voice. “Then you should not suspect me either.”

Ashamed, she looked down.

He raised her chin between thumb and forefinger to make her face him. “I wish you could see yourself as I do. Then you could never doubt me, Bellatrix.” He traced a line between her breasts, then examined the pendant around her neck. “Remember why I gave this to you? To remind you that you are brave.”

The locket was an amulet he’d given her when they’d first married. It had become a love token that she treasured. The huntress Atlenta was depicted upon it, a mortal who’d also fallen in love with a husband she’d been decreed to wed. Caecilia had only learned of her story after she came to Veii. She fingered the charm. Vel claimed she was like the mythical girl—a warrioress, a bellatrix—but she doubted she deserved such a nickname.

She encircled his neck. “Forgive me for being foolish?”

He laid her back upon the soft mattress, nuzzling her neck. “I already have.”

THREE

The flames ripped along the wood as the torch was set to the pitch, the fire consuming the thick oxhide sides of the siege towers, wooden struts burning, acrid black smoke billowing.

After a long year of deprivation the Veientanes gathered on every side of the city, the sound of their shrieking saturating the air. Escaping the prison of their homes they streamed down the roads sloping from the plateau. Beneath a wintry sun, they traversed woodland and stream to reach the Roman fortifications to set them afire. There they hacked at the vestiges of war left behind by their enemy to fuel the blaze: dismantling wheeled shelters and mantlets, stripping stockades of stakes, and wrenching pickets from trenches.

Now as night fell, Caecilia and Mastarna watched their rampage from the heights of the citadel. A line of bonfires stretched around the walls, a circle of liberation, some mere pinpricks twinkling in the distance, others nearer that were roaring, fierce and bright. Directly across from the acropolis was the greatest conflagration. Like a malignant boil on the skin of the city, the main Roman camp sat on the rise beyond the dark strip of river. In the darkness, its fences and guard posts glowed deep red.

Observing this unleashing of hatred, Caecilia leaned the back of her head against Vel’s chest as he stood behind her, the familiar scent of his sandalwood perfume and the circle of his arms making her feel safe. She felt her relief that she was not among the Etruscans, then silently scolded herself for thinking of them by that name. It was what the Romans called them. The people of Veii referred to themselves as the Rasenna, and Veii was only one of many cities in which they dwelt. Rome considered itself mighty, but in truth it was a township compared to such a metropolis as Veii. This did not stop its onslaught. Valor and persistence had brought many of its larger enemies down.

Caecilia shivered a little from both cold and disquiet. Mastarna drew his tebenna cloak around them, its heavy folds covering the yellow of her fine woolen mantle. She had learned not to speak to him of her fears. How she was anxious that the brittle respect paid to her by his people would one day crack.

There was another reason why she did not want to mingle with the Rasenna. She knew that over this long day retaliation had merged with religious fervor. The pyres were raging, the fires hot enough to cause cheeks to flush and muscles to loosen, and the Veientanes were drinking strong, unwatered wine laced with freedom. The Winter Feast of the god Fufluns had begun.

The beat of drums and the weird rising moan of the bullroarers heralded the commencement of the ceremony. Led by horse-tailed satyrs and wild-eyed maenads, the wine god’s followers donned grotesque masks of stag, boar, or goat. Frenzy followed as copious drafts of vinegary wine were consumed. Then, desiring revelation, the believers stripped and rutted before the fires, seeking to attain oneness with the divine, worshipping the potency of the sacred phallus, believing the power of coitus was a challenge to death.

Once, long ago, drugged and despairing, Caecilia had been drawn into such rituals. The visions she saw that night still haunted her, confirming she could never worship Fufluns. She may have forsaken Rome but she could not desert its gods. Yet she did not condemn the Veientanes’s dedication to the deity. With their enemy besieging them for so long, the promise of rebirth and regeneration was compelling. And, over time, familiarity with such rites had beveled the edges of her disapproval.

Hearing the music and ecstatic cries from below the acropolis, she covered Mastarna’s hands with her own as he clasped her waist. Some aristocrats like Tarchon had already descended into the woods to seek epiphany with commoners and slaves alike. At least she was reassured that Vel would not indulge in the revels. He knew she could not bear him seeking rapture with other women, and so he always stayed by her side at these festivals, his devotion to Fufluns remaining private. Both had come to tolerate each other’s beliefs.

The wine god must have been pleased because the night was mild and starlit. Mild enough for the zilath, Vipinas, the chief magistrate of Veii, to order a pavilion with banqueting klines to be set up beside a giant bonfire in front of the palace. The lord and lady principes dined together, draped luxuriantly across the deep-cushioned couches. Ribbons entwined with ivy had been wound around statues and steles in the forum, trailing cheerfulness, encouraging a belief that all was as it should be. Symbols of Fufluns were ever present: pinecones piled as decorations, leopards engraved on footstools and furniture. Musicians wandered between the divans, the strains of cithara and double flute a sweet antidote to the months of privation. With swirling skirts, dancers lifted their arms to the night sky in praise.

Caecilia turned and laid her cheek on Mastarna’s shoulder. Tall as she was, she could watch the banqueting principes while resting there. The feast was well in progress. Naked slave boys, chosen for their beauty, hastened to pour a fine vintage into double-handled goblets. No sour wine would do for the high councillors and their wives when toasting the wine god.

She gazed at the noblewomen, beautiful in their finery, as they shared the divans with their husbands. Robed in vivid chitons, the women had dressed their hair elaborately with amber and glass diadems, and golden torques graced their necks. Caecilia smiled, delighted that she was clothed and adorned in this way, too. In many ways she was no longer an outsider. She gave thanks to Juno every day that she had found independence here, giving audience to tenants in the absence of her husband, and acting as patron to artisans famed for their fine ceramics. Observing how the ladies laughed and drank and conversed with the men also lifted her spirits. There would have been no such freedoms if she’d remained in Rome, only the confines of atrium and bedroom, the company of women, and sullen obedience to the men of her family. Rome and Veii lay only twelve miles apart across the Tiber, but they were different worlds.

She wrapped her arms around Vel and squeezed him. He laughed.

“Why the hug?”

“I’m just glad you are with me again. Glad that I live here.”

He kissed her brow. “So am I. But much as I would love to stay here holding you, Bellatrix, I think it’s time we returned to the feast.”

Caecilia reluctantly agreed, but as she slipped her arms from around him she knocked a small dice box from the sinus fold of his tebenna.

“You see,” he said, retrieving the golden canister, “I’ve been careful not to lose my luck charms.”

He spilled two golden dice onto her palm from the box. Each had the symbols of numbers carved upon them rather than dots. They were worn around the edges from constant use. Given her husband’s love of gambling this was no surprise. “There will be complaints if you try these old things at the gaming tables tonight,” she teased. “You can barely read the markings.”

Mastarna reclaimed the tesserae. “You know I never play with them anymore. But I keep them as my link to you when I am far from home. Without these, we might never have been reunited.”

Caecilia pressed against him again. The last time she rolled the dice she had asked the goddess of Fate to give her a sign, and she had returned home to Vel. But it worried her that he had suffered because of her return. Her husband would never become the zilath of the Veientanes. Not while he had a Roman for a wife. Instead he was always sent to campaign in the north instead of leading the assault on the main Roman camp. Yet Vel never vented his frustration upon her. Never blamed her for the halter placed upon his ambition. He was resigned to being a great commander who had been given the worst command. She raised her head to meet his gaze. “Do you ever regret marrying me again?”

He cupped her chin with his hand and kissed her. “I sent for you, remember? The divine Nortia brought you back to me for a reason.”

As she hugged him again she noticed they were no longer alone. The zilath, Vipinas, had joined them at the citadel wall.

“As usual the supplies you have brought are most welcome, Vel Mastarna.”

Breaking from their embrace, her husband bowed. “I think it’s the amphorae of wine that is most appreciated. It’s thirst that’s being sated tonight, not hunger.”

The lean old man smiled, his false gold-and-ivory front teeth glinting. It was a rare sight. The chief magistrate doled out his mirth as frugally as he did the grain rations. “There is no doubting the people always wait anxiously for your return. Without your success in thwarting the blockades and protecting farmland, the city would be facing famine now.”

She was pleased to hear the compliment. It was good that her husband was acknowledged. Due to his achievements, bullock trains had trundled through the gates all day to disgorge their cargoes to a rejoicing population. And tomorrow wagons laden with goods would travel on a network of roads to other cities. Barges would again wend their way along rivers. Soon ships with Veientane cargoes would sail to foreign ports of which Caecilia had only dreamed.

A woman’s mock shriek accompanied by male laughter distracted Caecilia’s attention. The aristocratic principes on the klines were toasting the wine god.

Mastarna ignored the merriment. “Our cause was helped when Camillus failed to draw the lot to lead the campaign against us. How foolish Rome is to waste their best consular general in fighting the Volscians in the south.”

“Yes, but it’s to our advantage if the Romans send him and their remaining generals to fight their neighbors,” replied Vipinas. “Better to keep most of their forces busy attacking other Latin tribes. At least there are only two of their armies sitting upon our threshold.”

Mastarna pointed to the massive tufa walls below them. “I see that their ramp nearly reached us.”

Vipinas paused, glancing at Caecilia before continuing. “General Aemilius was effective enough. Romans are none too pretty when you see them at close quarters. It reminded us, too, that we can’t be complacent.”

Caecilia offered no comment, having finally learned to think before she spoke. Even though her opinion as a woman would not be disdained, her ancestry was best glossed over. For General Aemilius was both her adopted father and her uncle. The last time she’d seen him he’d been furious at how she’d changed from Roman maiden to Rasennan wife. How humiliated he must be that she remarried Vel after he had formally arranged their divorce. To Aemilius she had forsaken her people, betrayed her clan, and shamed her family. Hearing Camillus’s name also stirred feelings. She hated that general as much as he despised her. When she’d first been offered as a treaty bride he’d assured her he would protect her while she lived among the foe. Instead he’d been prepared to sacrifice her in the name of war.

Mastarna squeezed her hand in reassurance. She returned the pressure, grateful that he sensed her unease. Once again she gave silent thanks that he had given her a second chance to leave Rome behind.

“As long as the Romans keep electing different consular generals every year,” he said, “there’s always a good chance they will make no headway.”

“Different generals, different strategies,” agreed Vipinas, coughing. “And none of them have succeeded.”

Caecilia nodded, aware that another aristocrat had approached. She glanced at Vel, sensing he would not welcome the intrusion.

Vipinas greeted the nobleman. “Ah, here is Kurvenas. You should congratulate him, Mastarna. It was his troops that repelled Aemilius so ably this year.”

Kurvenas bowed to the chief magistrate, then curtly acknowledged Mastarna and Caecilia.

Caecilia knew how little regard Vel had for this man. He bristled and nodded briefly in return. She heard the click of the dice within the golden box as Mastarna fingered it beneath his cloak. He always did this without thinking when aggravated or uncertain. A tell she alone knew about him.

Kurvenas’s hair, longer than most Rasennan men, gleamed with unguents. He rubbed the scar that creased his short clipped beard. There was a polish to his bulk and height, so different to the rawness that emanated from her husband’s scarred face and powerful body. “Honors should also go to Vel Mastarna,” he said. “Once again, he has valiantly guarded the vulnerable north.”

Mastarna did not acknowledge the praise. Kurvenas’s popularity irked him. Persuasive in his counsel, the aristocrat concentrated on being everybody’s friend. Caecilia suspected, though, that such affability veiled rancor against those who opposed him. Yet she could not deny his prowess as a commander or that he was liked as much as Vel by his men.

Ignoring his rival, Mastarna offered his forearm to her. “Isn’t it time we rejoined the banquet?”

Zilath Vipinas laid his hand upon Mastarna’s shoulder. “I’m afraid we need to discuss the upcoming election first. Our meal can wait.” He turned to Caecilia. “If you wish, you may return to your divan.”

Mastarna slid his arm around her. “Your tone is ominous. I think, perhaps, that she should stay.”

Kurvenas and Vipinas exchanged glances, causing husband and wife to exchange their own. Caecilia had never known these men to be allies.

“Let’s be frank, then.” Kurvenas’s smile was broad, his tone even. “The time has come to dispense with annual elections. Veii is weakened by them. As is Rome. Winter should be spent planning how we are to defeat our foe, not arguing among us who should lead the city.”

Mastarna’s fingers tightened on Caecilia’s waist. “Our chief magistrates can retain office for more than one year so we don’t face the same problem as the Romans. As a result our defense tactics have remained consistent and successful. So what are you proposing? Elect a lucumo king instead? Be governed by a man until he dies? Has your memory grown so poor that you’ve forgotten what happened last time a monarch was proclaimed? Tulumnes was corrupted by power!”

Skin pale, Vipinas flushed, coughing again. “See reason. I know you must find it strange that I support such a change, but our resources could be put to better use than always voting every winter. Let’s elect a sovereign and concentrate on war alone.”

Mastarna’s bass voice resounded across the square, causing the diners to stop and stare. Turning from Kurvenas, he concentrated solely on the older man. “King Tulumnes had Arnth Ulthes—a zilath just like you—assassinated in order to take control. And Tulumnes insulted you and your clan also.” Mastarna pointed at Kurvenas. “And that tyrant was this man’s cousin. How can you support his kin?”

Vipinas put up his hands as though to fend off a blow. “Calm down. We must put those personal enmities behind us for the sake of Veii. I doubt anyone would be foolish enough to rule like Tulumnes.”

“So who do you suggest should be this lucumo king?” Mastarna stabbed his finger in Kurvenas’s direction again. “Him? His family members have always considered themselves more royal than others. They have no respect for our government. Choose him and you will have a despot, one who will triumph as he tramples over our people.”

Unruffled, Kurvenas brushed off a few stray hairs that had settled upon his cloak, his gaze traversing Caecilia from head to foot. “I think your judgment is clouded.”

His smugness was a goad. Mastarna stepped toward him. “Are you questioning my loyalty to this city?”

Kurvenas continued to smile, unfazed by his opponent’s proximity. “Of course not, it’s just that you might have some qualms about the new strategy I have put to the High Council.”

Mastarna frowned. “And what scheme would that be?”

The aristocrat returned his attention to Caecilia. “Why, to conquer Rome, of course.”

She stiffened, then breathed deeply, trying to control her shock and muster her thoughts. Until now she could abide Veientanes killing Romans to defend themselves. But could she stand by and watch the city of her birth and her family attacked?

Mastarna also tensed. “You’re deluded! The only chance Veii has of assailing Rome is if we gain the support of the League of the Twelve Rasennan cities. Support that will never be forthcoming. The congress despises kings. Besides, Tulumnes insulted them and was expelled like a dog as a result. If your plan is to attack Rome’s citadel without such an alliance, you will weaken Veii instead.”

Again Kurvenas remained calm, but moved a step back from Mastarna as a precaution. “See, my Lord Zilath, I told you he would not want to storm her city.”

The argument had caused others to leave the bonfire and gather—a circle of querying faces. One in particular stood ashenfaced. Thefarie Ulthes. Younger brother of the zilath poisoned at Tulumnes’s behest. Normally Thefarie’s wide grin and throaty chuckle infected others, provoking good humor even in the reluctant. Tonight he remained solemn and soundless. His wife, though, could not restrain herself. Ramutha Tetnies quaked as she accosted Vipinas. “How could you? How could you? To elect a sovereign is to dishonor Clan Ulthes!”

Caecilia could see Kurvenas flinch. Most Veientane men esteemed their wives, valuing their opinions. The way he glared at Ramutha showed Caecilia that he was more a Roman than Rasennan husband. His wife was absent tonight. Instead he’d brought his courtesan. Ignoring Ramutha, he addressed the principes around him. “All of you know that I am not like my cousin Tulumnes. And we do not need a woman’s hysteria to distort my motives. I mean no offense to the House of Ulthes but we have had seven years of siege. Rome must be attacked. And a king should lead us.”

Suddenly Thefarie found his voice, volume making up for his earlier silence. And just like his wife, he reserved his anger for Vipinas. “How can you countenance this? I thought you were a friend of my family.”

The old man straightened his shoulders, which set him coughing again. “I am no one’s enemy.” He struggled to gain breath. “Nor are the tribal leaders of the High Council.”

The sick feeling within Caecilia deepened as she realized the matter must have already been decided. How quickly the euphoria of reunion had disappeared. Heady elation replaced by the feeling of life careening out of control.

Mastarna gave a sour laugh. “Oh, now I see. While I’ve been away Kurvenas hasn’t just been campaigning against the Romans.” Before either man could respond another nobleman interrupted, his head as bald as his beard was thick. Lusinies was grizzled, the tip of his nose missing, his ears fibrous from years of wearing a helmet. “It’s not just Kurvenas who sees the sense in ceasing annual elections, Mastarna. You and Thefarie would be outnumbered in any vote. All four of the six high councillors favor a monarch. And we think that man should be Kurvenas.”

Ramutha’s jaw dropped. “And when was this decided? When was your little conspiracy concocted? Did you sharpen your knives while Thefarie was risking his life defending the north with Mastarna?”

Caecilia marveled at her friend. Ramutha was elegant in her fury. Normally the expression in her kohl-rimmed eyes was of amusement. Now it was harsh, her straight brow furrowed. Her lapis earrings jiggled amid waves of light-brown hair as she shook in indignation; her tapered fingers clenched the gold chain baldrics that crossed her breasts. Although diminutive, this woman had a heart as fierce as any of these soldiers.

Thefarie put his hand on her shoulder to calm her as he again faced Vipinas. “Then if there is to be a king, it must be you.”

The zilath shook his head, wheezing. “I’m nearly seventy and I am ill. We must choose a man who can lead us for many years.”

Caecilia studied the old man’s waxen face. He had grown more gaunt over the past year. His false teeth seemed too large in a shrunken mouth.

Ramutha shrugged her husband away to stand closer to the zilath. “You’re not just weak from illness and age.”

Caecilia gasped. Her friend was letting anger overcome prudence. And having learned the hard way the damage that could be wrought through rashness, she knew such emotion needed to be curbed. She moved to Ramutha and placed her arm around her. Her friend’s body thrummed with nerves and rage. “Hush,” she murmured, “before it’s too late.”

For a moment she thought the noblewoman would continue her rant and smash old alliances, but instead Ramutha steadied herself before she spoke again. “Then Mastarna should be elected. He is the greatest general among you.”

Earlier the other aristocrats had been quiet due to surprise; now it was from discomfort.

Mastarna shook his head. “I would never seek such an office.” There was disgust in his voice, his face, his eyes. “We’d be mad to tether ourselves to one man. And what if Rome is conquered? Then our ruler would hold enormous power. We may well be unable to control a king who becomes an oppressor.”

Cries from the revelers in the city below edged into the quiet that followed. Their joy was at odds with the gloom that had fallen over the principes. When one of the logs in the bonfire collapsed and crashed within the flames, everyone was startled.

From the darkness a man wearing a sheepskin cloak and pointed hat emerged, a curved staff in one hand. It was Lord Artile, chief priest of Veii—the man Caecilia loathed most in the world. To see him was to feel afresh the sting of his spite.

Mastarna grimaced. “Don’t tell me you have consulted my charlatan brother for guidance?”

Before Vipinas opened his mouth, Lusinies spoke. “You are unwise to denigrate him, Mastarna. Your brother is the greatest seer in Veii. Lord Artile has asked the gods what path we should follow. As our most skilled haruspex, he has divined the future from the liver of a ram.”

The sense of her world unraveling spread as Caecilia remembered another prophecy. Artile had confirmed that the gods favored a monarch then also. Tulumnes. A ruler who threatened her with death and mutilation, prompting her to flee back to Rome.

The haruspex smoothed the arch of one eyebrow slowly. “The portent was clear. The gods wish Veii to choose a lucumo.”

Caecilia tugged Mastarna’s cloak, trying to warn him not to be reckless. He ignored her, slowly and deliberately turning his back on his brother. A dangerous insult. “Very well, place your faith in this priest. Elect your king. But know that I will never swear loyalty to him.”

The defiance finally provoked Kurvenas to temper. “That is treason!”

Vipinas sighed. “There isn’t time for this, Mastarna. It will be you who will cause our people to suffer if you plunge us into internal conflict. Do you think anyone would be prepared to follow you if you incite clansmen to fight one another as well as the Romans?” Mastarna hesitated, and Caecilia knew the zilath’s words stirred memories of a promise made to his murdered friend. Arnth Ulthes had also warned her husband never to risk civil war. She touched Vel’s arm, making him glance down at her. For the second time that night she counseled caution. “It’s no use. Remember Ulthes’s advice. He would not want Rasenna to fight Rasenna.”

He scanned her face, weighing her words, then sighed. “Very well. For the sake of concord I will lead my army in the name of a sovereign. But without the League of the Twelve’s support I won’t help Veii attack Rome.”

Kurvenas snorted and once again eyed Caecilia up and down as if ogling a whore. “So speaks a man who keeps a Roman in his bed.”

Mastarna took a step toward him again, but before he could seize his opponent, she moved between the men, her heart thumping, restraint forgotten.

Facing the aristocrats, she once again took a deep breath to quell her nerves. Even so, she was surprised to find her voice was calm. “All know here that there is no going back for me. And I risk death as surely as you do should the enemy breach our walls. So if anyone here doubts my allegiance I will return to Rome tomorrow and meet a traitor’s death.”

All avoided her gaze. No one spoke.

Trying not to show she was trembling, Caecilia held out her hand for Mastarna to escort her from the square. Thefarie and Ramutha followed. After a few steps Mastarna bent and growled, “That was foolish! What if someone had challenged you?”

Her own temper flared, not needing a reminder she’d been rash. “I don’t know, but you’re the one who taught me to gamble.”

Mastarna halted briefly as though to rebuke her again. Then he grunted acknowledgment and placed his arm around her shoulders.

Caecilia glanced back at the gathering as they walked away. Kurvenas, rather than Vipinas, was calling to the others to resume their feasting. At such cajoling, Lusinies slapped the future monarch on the back. The assembled principes drifted after them, their sober mood growing lighter.

The flames of the ring of fires around the city seared the darkness. The song of the Veientanes caressed the air.