Etruscan Blood

by AM Kirkby

  ***

  Nothing was ever said about it. He assumed Vipienas' compliance; it was common, though most women preferred younger, softer men. (Ramtha's taste was for gamier meat, in this as in all things.) But occasionally, he wondered if he was being set up in some obscure way; or if, simply, Vipienas, so acutely percipient in every other way, was blind as a day old kitten in his own house, his eyes dazzled by the extravagance of Ramtha's personality.

  So any meeting convened outside the normal business of the week, outside regular hours, or on a red day rather than a black, made him anxious; more so when one of his own guards had been sent to fetch him, and hadn't disarmed first. Far more so when the call came close to midnight; when he'd already stripped for his lonely bed, when he'd already drunk far more than he should have the day before a cavalry muster, when he knew most of the household was asleep. He was half asleep when he was called, and worked his mouth a couple of times before he answered, so that his sloppy muscles wouldn't betray sleepiness in his voice; that was a trick he'd learned from the general.

  By the dim glow of a slow burning taper (another of the general's habits; never let the darkness become complete) he pulled his tunic over his shoulders, tugged at the arms to straighten them out and make it hang comfortably, slipped his sandals on. No sense doing more; no sense even looking for a knife. He'd have no chance to use it.

  He followed the guard who'd been sent; out of the silent house, their footsteps echoing in the courtyard, and up the street towards the Vipienas' mansion. The moon lit one side of the street, but the other was in darkness; the whole town was washed pale, as if it weren't quite real. This was what an old man would see, he thought, through filmy eyes; what you might see on the verge of death, all the colour leaching out of the world as it became infinitely thin, intangible. Death wasn't blackness at all, nor green-skinned demons and winged tormentors as they wanted children to believe, but this strange cutting-loose, perhaps. He shivered.

  He shivered again as he passed the huge oak door of the mansion, studded with metal gorgons' heads, and it shut soft and heavy behind him. No way back now.

  A single lamp was lit in Vipienas' study; he could see Vipienas sitting at the desk, one hand on top of the other on the table, but the man's face was in darkness, so that when he spoke, the voice seemed to come from nowhere, or from a long way away.

  "Prophecy," Vipienas said. "Foreseeing. Foretelling. What do you know about it?"

  "Not much. I'm a practical man, you know that. Horses, arms, tactics. Augury's not my forte."

  "I wasn't talking about augury. No, prophecy is a much more mysterious thing."

  "What's the difference?"

  "Augury, in its way, is quite simple. Ask questions, see signs, get answer. But this prophecy thing... I can't grasp it. It's like watching faces in the fire, or seeing landscapes in the clouds. And the worst of it is no one knows quite what it means."

  Vipienas seemed almost to be talking to himself, his voice low. His eyes were still in shadow; it was impossible to tell where he was looking. He lapsed into silence; one finger tapped the table.

  "You haven't heard of Cacus?" he said.

  Oh, that's what it's about, he thought. Said, "The end of the world. That one."

  "Yes. It's an old prophecy, of course; the idea that our Etruscan world will only last so many lustra, that it will die in fire and convulsion, or simply fade into the distance of history, till all that's left is a name, like Troy, or perhaps nothing at all. Everything grows, and changes, and dies; a tree, a flower, a nation."

  "So why are you interested in this Cacus, if it's an old prophecy?"

  "Master, you know you will die?"

  "Yes," he said, and wondered if he'd been right after all about the purpose of this midnight meeting.

  "Yes, in the abstract; you will die, at some time, close or distant, in this place or another. But if you knew you would die tomorrow, would that be different?"

  "Of course!" He wondered how; he felt the wicked slice of iron at his throat, a stabbing pain in his side, the throbbing and roiling of poison in his body, and at the same time his thought raced ahead to how he might leave the city before Vipienas' assassins came after him, if it was indeed, as Vipienas had said, tomorrow, and not now.

  Vipienas was silent for a moment, his hands still on the table. Master felt sweat cooling between his shoulder blades, and his hair rose; he didn't flinch, though, as he would not ever flinch in the face of an enemy's blade or spearpoint.

  "I've alarmed you, have I not?" Vipienas said softly. "With my talk of death, and when it might come. It was only to illustrate, only to illuminate my theme. You see, the old prophecy is like a knowledge of mortality in general; the Etruscans will decline, grow old, and die, but it doesn't set a date, and so while we live, we never know whether we have reached our zenith, or whether we decline already. I sometimes wonder if all we're doing with our days is waiting for death..." His voice tailed off, and he seemed to have difficulty recollecting the thread of his argument; then with a little jerk of his head he started again. "Cacus is different; he says we are dying now, that our successors and killers have arrived already, that in a hundred years we will be gone. And that... that I cannot afford. Cannot allow."

  "So you want him stopped."

  "I don't like this talk of the old world dying and a new world waiting to be born. He won't say where the new world is, but of course people draw their own conclusions; it's Felsina, or Gaul, or even..."

  "Yes?"

  "Some people say it's Rome."

  Master burst out laughing; then when he saw Vipienas' face, stopped suddenly, troubled.

  "A bunch of outlaws, you're thinking? It's unlike you to miss a strategic shift, if I may say so."

  "You think things have changed?"

  "I know so. A new king, new trades, crafts they've learned from us. We have to be careful how we play this; a treaty with Rome might work to our advantage against Tarchna, but it might also destroy the Etruscan confederacy. We need a very delicate touch."

  That was the first Master had heard of it; his eyes narrowed, as they always did when he was considering new information - the only show of emotion that still defied his schooling. Rome would be worth watching. He didn't know how he would make use of the knowledge; but he would watch it.

  "So," he said slowly, teasing out the gist of Vipienas' words, "you want Cacus killed."

  "Maybe. Eventually."

  "And now?"

  "Captured. Taken into our protective hands. I should like to talk to him. His prophecies are so vague, they dissolve into mist whenever you try to make sense of them; but perhaps, by asking the right questions, by leading him gently, I might be able to find the more concrete truth, to find a pathway through the mist. Perhaps."

  "And if you can't?"

  "A tame prophet could always be useful."

  "You think he's real, don't you?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "There's no such thing as a real prophet," Master said stoutly, but he wondered even then who he was trying to convince.