Etruscan Blood

by AM Kirkby

  ***

  She spent most afternoons now sitting with Ancus Marcius, in the damp dark heat of the inner room. Sometimes he dozed, sometimes he dreamed; they were not good dreams. Sometimes when he woke he looked frightened, unable to recognise her till she'd held him and stroked his head for a while. Other days he was well enough to play dice with her, though a game never lasted long and there was rarely a winner; he lost interest long before a result declared itself.

  It was quiet in his room; the palace was full of frightened whispers and fraught silences. The nobles who came to find out the state of the king's health, or to see who was making alliances with whom, conducted their business in low murmurs; everything had slowed, they even walked slowly, careful not to step loudly. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

  Marcius drifted in and out of the present; Tanaquil couldn't always tell whether he was here with her, or back in the Sabine mountains of his youth. His eyes sometimes stared past her, as if she weren't there, and he saw figures waiting in the darkness. It was as if the ghosts were waiting for him, she thought; and when he spoke, his voice was cracked and thin, as if he were already a ghost, sere and bloodless.

  He still hadn't named his heir. It had been a game of hide and seek, earlier in the month, and she knew he was teasing her, willing to name Tarquinius, but not quite yet, trying to make her ask him outright. Perhaps she'd misplayed; he was drifting further over the border into the dead lands. He might never name his successor.

  That afternoon, Marcius was well enough to sit up, a heavy red and black blanket draped over his shoulders. They played dice for a while, and Tanaquil heated a little wine with herbs and honey for him; it was all he could drink. He'd just thrown Venus against her dog; not just a winning throw, a win by the greatest of all possible margins. She thought he'd be triumphant, but his smile was a sad, thin one; then suddenly his eyes seemed to focus on a point far beyond her, and he recoiled in terror.

  “Father!” Something in his voice made her flesh prickle. His hands were scrabbling at the bed, as if he could push himself away from whatever he'd seen, yet his eyes were fixed.

  “Forgive me. I didn't mean to... forgive me, please, forgive me...” He began to whine; she couldn't hear all the words. The skin of his face seemed loose, as if it were falling away. His lips were wet.

  A low cough startled her. It was Manius, standing at the entrance from the outer rooms, clearly uncertain whether to enter, or close the curtain again. She was holding her hand up, palm out, to prevent him, when she thought it might be to her advantage to have him there. Silently, she put a finger to her mouth, and patted the air with her hands; hold back, wait. He nodded, and stood leaning in, with one hand on the doorpost; he'd understood.

  “I didn't mean to do it, you know I didn't mean to do it, I never meant... how was I to know what they would do? I only thought...”

  Manius crept across to stand by Tanaquil. He leant close to her.

  “What's going on?”

  “He thinks his father's ghost has come for him.”

  “Gods, how horrible.” He ran his hand through his fine hair; the corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Father, don't look at me. I can't stand it.” The old man was sobbing now, his beard wet with tears and saliva. He put his hands to his face, Tanaquil thought to hide it from his father's gaze, but instead he began to claw at his cheeks. Tiny droplets of blood welled up in the pallid tracks of his nails.

  Manius bent to put his mouth close to Tanaquil's ear. “There was always a rumour he'd betrayed his father in the Sabine war. I never believed it...”

  “They told me you would be safe... father, believe me, please believe me.” His body jerked back as if flinching from a slap, and he sobbed again. “I saw your flayed face, your naked eyes staring at me through the blood...”

  Manius looked at Tanaquil, appalled. Ancus Marcius' voice was low, but his lips were moving incessantly, as if he were praying in some repetitive way; some words they could hear, others were garbled, gabbled.

  “Your skin hanging in shreds, your eyes, your eyes. Forgive me... forgive me... what do I have to do for you to forgive me?”

  He burst into tears, beating at his own face with his fists, pulling up his knees and curling up as if against a storm of blows, but he was still staring at the same space that had mesmerised him all this time. Tanaquil couldn't have sworn to it, but she had an impression that the focus of his eyes had moved a little closer; that whatever it was he had seen was advancing towards him.

  He screamed once, then, before he fell, and his body lay on the floor stiffly, his robe hiked up around his thin naked legs.