Etruscan Blood

by AM Kirkby

  ***

  And so he'd told the Romans he needed more men. He'd called them into the Forum, near the Black Stone, and talked to them, reasonably, not with Greek eloquence but simply with business-like clarity. He'd not promised them war on the Sabines; with so many half- and quarter-Sabines in Rome, that might not be tactful. Nor had he mentioned the weakness or treachery of the scouts. But he'd won them over, all of them. All bar one.

  When he called the vote, one man stood apart; one man in the conical hat of an augur. Under it, you couldn't see his eyes. Perhaps that was the point. One man, standing alone on the bleak grey pavement.

  “Attus Navius.”

  The augur remained silent. Tarquinius suddenly felt frightened, as if he were six or seven again, standing in front of his father waiting to be punished. There wasn't a sound from the crowd, though out of the corner of his eye he saw a few men shifting away from the augur, putting a clear space between him and themselves.

  “Attus Navius. Say what you have to say.”

  Still the augur stood, and held his tongue. Tarquinius had to bite down his anger; he felt the tension, wondered how long it would take for some of those men in the crowd to feel it was safe to edge back again towards Attus Navius. Still not a sound.

  “Attus Navius. Tell me what you have to say.”

  He saw the edge of the hat lift a bare inch as the man's head came up; but the eyes were still in shadow.

  “Romulus made Rome.”

  Tell me something I don't know, Tarquinius thought. Then he wondered; where is this leading?

  “Romulus made the laws. And the laws say how many centuries there must be. And that is not going to change.”

  “Look, Attus Navius, you are outnumbered. The vote is clear. I'm sorry, but there you are; it's the will of the people.”

  “The will of the people. Not the will of the gods.”

  Tarquinius could hear a couple of people muttering. He looked at the crowd; as his eyes travelled along the front row, the muttering ceased. He was still controlling them, so far; but he'd have to decide this quickly or he'd have lost them completely.

  “Then tell me how the gods express their wishes?”

  “Ignorant Etruscan. Do you not know?”

  “In augury, I suppose?”

  Attus Navius stepped forward angrily. Tarquinius raised his hand to stop him, and was about to step forwards himself when a woman's voice rang out across the forum.

  “You dare talk of augury to man crowned by an eagle!” It was Tanaquil, striding towards Attus Navius from where she had sat, half hidden behind Tarquinius. Her chin was up; her eyes looked dangerous. But as she passed Tarquinius, her eyes slid sidelong towards him, one eyebrow raised; it was as good as a whisper.

  “See that stone?” she said to Navius, pointing her chin towards one of the boulders that still stood just outside the paved space, where they hadn't yet cleared the rough ground.

  “What about it?”

  “Could you cut it?”

  “Of course not. Nor could you.”

  She faced him. One, two, three. Tarquinius knew this trick. Fill the air with silence. Make an emptiness for your opponent to fall into.

  Navius looked again at the stone, looked again at Tanaquil. She noticed a tell-tale crinkling at the corners of his eyes. He thought he'd outsmarted her, of course. They always did.

  “You think you're stronger than the gods? Cut that stone with a razor, then.”

  Tanaquil allowed herself to look anxious.

  “Go on, do your augury.”

  “Isn't it more normal to... oh, I don't know,” though she did, of course, “...to look for birds in the sky, or lightning, that kind of thing?”

  “You wouldn't see lightning if it hit you.” Navius got a laugh for that, but it was uneasy laughter, that fell silent quickly. “Cut that stone.” Another burst of laughter from one quarter of the crowd, soon stilled. The silence was heavy, like the still air before a storm.

  She didn't overplay the dumb Etruscan. It was important to know just how far you could go; and Navius didn't.

  “So it's an augury, then?”

  Navius nodded.

  “You'd better look at the razor,” she said, fumbling in her pouch for the splayed leaf of metal.

  “You carry a razor?”

  Of course she did. All Etruscans shaved their skin smooth. Only the Romans went about hairy as the wolf that had brought up Romulus.

  Navius took the razor. Tried its edge with his thumb, winced as a drop of blood welled up from the tiny cut. He obviously hadn't expected it to be sharp. Turned the razor over, and then over again. At last he handed it back to her.

  She was ready to advance to the stone, but Tarquinius said, “Wait,” and she turned to him, her face composed and blank.

  “Let us be clear,” Tarquinius said. “Attus Navius, you consider this to be an augury. If Tanaquil cuts the stone, she has proven the consent of the gods to my changes? Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The razor,” Tanaquil hissed at him, so low that no one else could have heard it.

  “And you have seen the razor. It is sharp. It is, however, an ordinary razor. Nothing magic about it. Nothing suspicious.”

  “Correct.”

  Tarquinius bowed his head for a moment, then raised it, smiling. “Then let us proceed.”

  Tanaquil went to the boulder. She raised the razor, its edge sparkling with a single star of light as the sun caught it. She brought her arm down.

  The two neat halves of the stone lay rocking where they had fallen.