Etruscan Blood
Page 55
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“All things have their time.”
Tarquinius was talking philosophy again. It was interesting, up to a point, she thought. At least it was more interesting than Roman conversation; men talking about their latest military exercise, women about their babies and their weaving. But if she had to choose between those two Greek disciplines, philosophy and politics, she knew which she'd choose. And anyway, the lustrum was an Etruscan concept.
“Their time is given by the gods, you know that.”
“I'm not talking about religion,” he said tetchily. “It's more about...” he seemed to be searching for the right words. “It's more to do with natural rhythm; as if we were all part of a sea that surges and retreats. A wave rises, but then it must break.”
“And its crest is highest just before it breaks.”
He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. “That may be true. I was thinking more of ... that this is the right moment for Rome. To become a civilised city. An Etruscan city.”
“With you as its lucumo.”
“Each king has his time.”
“So you do,” she said. “Ancus Marcius had his time, and now you. But who can tell how long your time will last?”
He laughed. “It lasts as long as it lasts. I'm not going to worry about it.”
She frowned. It was getting cold; one of those evenings when the light turns cold long before the sun has set. “You've never thought that the Rasenna themselves might fail?”
“How could we? It is our time. And Rome will be ours. That I'm sure of.”
“But the wave has to break.”
“I wonder. Sometimes I think it need never happen; if there were an endless sea, without a shore, then the wave would never break.” Then his face darkened, and he looked down at his hands, then up at her.
“My father told me once he'd seen, somewhere in Greece, gigantic walls, walls made of huge polygonal blocks fitted together without mortar. It had been a city, once, he was sure, but now these huge walls, and the massive gate in them, guarded nothing but a dusty plain. I wondered if it had been the city of Agamemnon, perhaps, or of one of the great heroes; but he said no, he thought it was older than that. And no one could make that masonry now, so precisely fitted, no two rocks the same, and every block massive, so that five men together couldn't lift it. That, he said, was what frightened him; the fact that we had so forgotten the technique, that as fine as our buildings are, we'll never approach that hugeness and that precision again. So long ago. And no one knows their names or the name of the city.”
“It's chilly,” she said, and called the dog over to sit by her. “Best not to brood on those things. We're young enough, and this city is young. We should enjoy our sunlight while we can.”
“But the sun is setting.” And it was, now. Sometimes, she thought, it was best not to believe in omens.
“Oh by the way,” Tarquinius said rather too casually, “Faustus claims you nearly ran him over with your chariot.”
“So I did. Nearly; but I avoided it. Narrowly.”
“He says your horses bolted.”
She smiled, and said nothing.
“I find it hard to believe.” His eyes showed his amusement.
“I suppose his view is that no woman could possibly control a chariot pair?”
“Well, yes.”
“I thought he might think so.” She'd got away with it, then.
“You weren't trying to run him over, for Tinia's sake?”
“Of course not! You know I control my horses better than that. I just thought I might scare him a little. It was a close run thing, though. Closer than I'd necessarily wanted; after all, I do have a motive for keeping the bastard alive.”
“You do?”
“Never forget; he may hate you, but he heard Ancus Marcius name you his successor. And his damned Roman virtue will never let anyone challenge you, not now. Much as I hate Faustus, he may yet be our best friend.”