Etruscan Blood

by AM Kirkby

  ***

  It took him rather longer to ascertain that Ramtha would certainly be alone; unguarded, unwatched. He was methodical, knowing exactly what pieces of information he needed; the timings of her arrival and departure, the route she would take, the layout of the temple (though that, of course, he knew from long before; but it was necessary to check these things, otherwise unwelcome surprises had a habit of happening). Each single item of knowledge he took from a different source, slipping it easily into a conversation, so that none of his informants would be likely to remember anyone asking questions about the vigil. And the temple he checked himself, taking a flask of wine to pour a libation and a pottery phallus to dedicate to the god, so anyone looking on would think here is a man who wants children, or perhaps a man whose middle age has brought a wavering and uncertain erection with it, and in both cases they'd be wrong, but that wasn't the point.

  As he'd hoped, nothing had been moved since he'd last been in the temple, a couple of years ago now; nothing, practically, since his childhood. The massive black wood Tinia still scowled down at visitors, not a thunderbolt-hurling, angry god like the Greeks', but a darkly brooding god of stillness and great age. The deity was hewn from a single tree and as big as one, like the immemorial oaks in the forest under Amiata; a great crack opened black on one side. Only its two stark staring silver eyes pierced the dimness with the question; are you worthy to live? And few would have dared to answer 'yes'.

  They'd search the temple, of course; he'd found out when. And then it would be closed, and sealed, till Ramtha arrived, and sealed again behind her. Anyone not raised on the General's lessons in strategy would have devoted themselves to finding a way into the temple after the search, or after Ramtha's entrance; but he knew the quality of the guards he was dealing with, and he knew the terrain; there was only one entrance, those huge wooden doors studded with nails driven in every year. In hundreds of years, hundreds of bright-headed bronze nails had stained the dark wood green with verdigris, but the doors were strong as they'd ever been, reinforced with thick bars on the reverse side. There'd be no getting through by force, and fraud he could rule out; even a diversion wouldn't work on the guards he'd trained himself, not unless he burned the whole city down, and even then he thought they'd leave two competent officers (one to guard, one to guard the guard). Besides, if he was right about Ramtha's new lover, there was no way the head of the bodyguard was going to break security.

  That meant only one thing; he was going to have to be hidden in the temple before the searchers came. In all the histories, of course, there'd be a hiding place known only to the initiates, of which he would have secret knowledge and in which he could conceal himself; but no such thing existed in Tinia's shrine, or if it did, he had never heard of it. Hiding behind the statue might work, but only if the searchers were incompetent the same went for hiding behind the tapestries and bright hangings that covered the walls.

  He stood in a dark corner of the temple and looked. A single great door, two leaves that folded back against the wall. He thought of hiding behind one of those, but quickly discarded the thought; even if that wasn't one of the first places the bodyguards would search, it would mean Ramtha discovered his presence too quickly, as she shut herself in the temple, while the guards were still within earshot, before the door was bolted. She might not even recognise him, only an assassin in the dark; the would be a disaster.

  Three great rooms under a single roof. Huge walls dividing them. Nowhere to hide.

  Then he looked again at the roof. Huge beams laid across, massive triangular trusses. Beams wider than a man.

  Beams wider than a man. If he could get up there, he could lie on top of the beam, or better, along the wall dividing the cellae, where the shadows clustered thickest. It was a risk; someone might glance there, though the light would be dimming when they came to search the temple.

  How to get there? The tapestries could be climbed; but he'd leave traces. He couldn't trust them; old cloth ripped too easily. He shrugged. He'd used grapple and rope in sieges; he could do that here. He'd bring a cock and a hen as offerings; he could hide the grapple under the straw in the basket. He'd still need luck; he needed five minutes when one of the side cellae wasn't occupied. If he'd had men with him, he'd have set up a diversion, or posted one near the door – just idling, occuping himself with a libation or tying his sandal thongs, but ready to intercept anyone who came too close. As things were, he had to take the risk; guess the right time, and climb quickly.

  That was yesterday, and luck had been with him, and now he was lying chest and cheek pressed against the huge oak wallplate, lying close as he could to the wood in the hope he'd not be seen. He heard the guards' sandals slap the floor, the slight jingle of sword belts or of sword hilts against metal breastplates. He saw nothing but dust motes in front of his eyes, and a hint of flaming sunset through a cracked tile. A single barked command, quicker sandal-slapping, the low, almost imperceptible sound of great doors turning slowly on their greased pivots, and the echoing sound of their closing softly, tightly. The windowless space darkened; but it was surprising how much light there was, after he'd closed his eyes for a minute or so, and then reopened them. Small cracks between tiles, the gap between the wallplate and the roof, even a thin line between the tops of the doors and the doorway, where the wood must have shrunk or warped after it had been fitted, let in light – not enough to see colour, but enough to see outlines, to see the rope looped loosely under his right hand.

  No point going down yet. He'd have to go soon, couldn't risk dozing, the long fall that would only take a moment; he'd seen a man fall from the cliff at Velathri once – couldn't remember his name now (eventually the survivors always forgot the dead), but he could remember that scream, and then the silence after the echoes died; echoes that outlasted the soldier's life by a precious few seconds. But he'd wait, wait a bit longer, while the air grew grayer with dusk...

  There was just enough light to see by when he climbed back down. Every sound seemed magnified; the scuff of his feet on the floor, even his breathing. He made his way to the great shrine; there stood the deity, Tinia of the Thunder, a rough god carved from a single tree, and as big as one. Dark wood, darker in the dying light. There were no gods, Master thought furiously; there were no gods. He felt his skin shiver between his shoulderblades even so, as he moved almost silently to the dark corner behind the statue.

  Dark darkened further. It solidified, first in corners, till the whole temple was a block of darkness, and he felt if he'd reached out his hand, it would have repelled his touch. Every old soldier acquires a good sense of time, can tell how much of a night has passed fairly accurately – accurately enough to time an attack or guess how far his century has marched; but such a complete darkness, such a deep silence challenged his ability to guess how long he'd waited. And still Ramtha didn't come.

  After an hour, a week, centuries, he realised the temple was becoming lighter; almost imperceptibly, the solid dark had become fuzzy, bluish. Moonrise, then; it had come more quickly than he'd expected. He listened; could he hear steps? But there was only silence. Still no Ramtha.

  She would have delayed for greater effect, he thought; not approaching the shrine in the half-light of early evening, but waiting till full night, to impress the populace with a torchlit procession. She'd come with the full guard, he thought; never lose a chance to impress the crowds – and that not just for vanity, but to demonstrate the superiority of Etruscan culture, to encourage disaffection with Rome. Perhaps, too, to send a message to the Romans; see, we're not becoming Roman. But with Ramtha, politics and vanity were always intermingled; just as politics and her marriage to Vipiena were always linked, and you never knew quite how she felt about her husband.

  Time passed. He was counting heartbeats now, trying not to lose himself in the stillness of the night, but after a few thousand he lost count, and how long was a heartbeat anyway? (Six were long enough to drain a man's blood, one was long enough to r
ealise you were dying, if you wanted to be philosophical about it; so that a whole long life could be gone in six heartbeats, and no way back.)

  And then there was the slightest whisper of a breeze, and the faintest further lightening of the darkness, and he realised the great doors, or perhaps just one of them, must be swinging open; and against his expectations of ceremony, Ramtha had come alone, in darkness.

  She left the door open, a rectangle of dark blue against the blacker tones of the temple. No sound of sandals even, or the brush of leather against the paving; she must be barefoot, and treading gently. Had she suspected something? He drew back into the shadow of great Tinia.

  She might have left the guards outside. And if she screamed...

  He heard her sigh. An exasperated sigh. So like Ramtha; no time for superstition, no veneration for the gods. This was just another political necessity to be gone through, to be done with. So unlike Tanaquil. But that meant she had no suspicions, at least; she didn't care who heard her.

  She was still too far away. The door was still open. Too many chances for her to scream, or run, or simply walk out leaving him still there. He waited. She had to come closer. Time, he thought, was on his side. For the moment.

  His eyes strained to make out her figure in the light. He could only see the rough outline, not distinguish arms or hands, or see what she was doing; he could only assume this was Ramtha, because it should be Ramtha, and even that sigh could have been someone else, he couldn't recognise the woman from a single exhaled breath. Never make assumptions; that was one of the first things he'd learned from the General. And yet in a situation like this you had to make assumptions, or you'd never move, stuck like a fly in honey at time congealed around you. It must be Ramtha. He'd do better to think of what he was going to say, how to present his case, rather than dwelling on uncertainties, but his mind was not obedient tonight. What could go wrong? Too much could go wrong.

  He waited. She waited. She seemed to turn a couple of times; her outline shimmered, changed. He could hardly be sure. He waited for her, and she was waiting for what; for dawn to come? For nothing. If it had been Tanaquil, she would have been waiting for revelation, she would have been looking at the temple with the eyes of spirit and of fire; but this was Ramtha, and she had nothing to do but wait the night out, and if he knew her at all, she was bored already with hours left to wait.

  He heard another sigh. Exasperated, angry, more a hiss between the teeth than a sigh. That seemed like Ramtha. Wait, he said to himself; keep your mind alert, don't snatch at confirmations. Wait for her to come. She will.

  She did, in the end. She came towards Tinia, her feet still almost silent, though now he could hear the tiny slap and suck of naked flesh on marble. She was slow, stopping from time to time as if she wanted to look at something, or look back, or around, and he wondered whether it was out of boredom or suspicion. She was inside the cella now; a few steps more and he could get between her and the doorway. But he waited longer; waited till she was within arm's length; and then he stepped forward, bringing one arm up, stepping behind her, closing her mouth with his hand, encircling both her arms with his and holding hard with the other hand to her right forearm, hard enough, he thought, to leave a bruise. He felt her body tense against his, but she did not try to scream or kick.

  "Ramtha. I've been sent by Vipienas."

  She relaxed a little in his hold. So it was Ramtha, thank the gods for that.

  "You'll agree not to call the guards?"

  She nodded. He unclamped his hand from her mouth, but kept it close; he didn't let her go. Not yet.

  "He's in the north, trying to get an army together. We've got Felsina and Spina, Arretium, Velathri; but we still haven't got Rome outmatched. If we knew, though, that we could draw the Roman armies out, and we knew Velx was with us, and could hit them from behind... well, things would be different."

  "You haven't got Arretium, though."

  "Near as makes no difference," he said, and hoped it wasn't a lie.

  "You know I'm proscribed by Rome."

  She probably didn't, but she came straight back at him: "So is my husband."

  "He's in the north. I'm here. You call your guards, I'm a dead man."

  "Why would I call them?"

  "You're in charge here, now."

  "More or less. Less, to be honest."

  "The Romans?"

  "The Romans."

  "And you wouldn't call the guards?"

  A hiss of breath escaped her. Obviously he was being stupid. "Proving that I'm a traitor?"

  "Not if you call them."

  "I wouldn't be too sure. Everything I do has to be careful. No processions. No speeches. Nothing to provoke the Romans, and they're easy to provoke, if you're a woman."

  "So you come alone and barefoot to the temple?"

  "Are you going to let me go?"

  "If you promise..."

  "You're beginning to hurt."

  "You used to like that," he was about to say; then thought better of it, and loosed his grip. She turned, but he could still hardly make out her face; in the dimness, it was the sound of her voice that told him her emotions – the degree of breathiness, the rise and fall of its pitch, the speed of her breathing. Difficult to negotiate when darkness masked your opponent's face and thoughts.

  "You're with the Romans."

  "No!"

  "But you were. In Rome. With Tarquin."

  "Not now. He's betrayed too many people too often."

  "And Tanaquil."

  "And her, too."

  "What's she up to now?"

  "Gone. Retired. Quit."

  "No."

  "She says she's weaving death. She's old."

  "Not that old."

  "Old enough. Spends her time weaving. Sleeping. Dreaming, maybe."

  "All day weaving. She's become a real Roman woman at last, then."

  "Her time is past, and she knows it."

  "So I should trust you?"

  "I never lied to you. I went to Rome. I've changed my mind. What they're doing; I thought they were making something new. They're not. It's just power games."

  "I never thought you were an idealist."

  "Nor did I."

  "So you're with my husband."

  "Yes."

  She was silent a long time. He couldn't be sure whether she'd trust him or not. But then, that wasn't the question, really. The question was whether he could trust her. He broke the silence.

  "No procession? Barefoot?"

  "They would have let me have four torches."

  "This is better?"

  "Pity is potent. Let them see my bleeding feet; it does more good than men on horses, or torches lit in the night."

  "You're with us, then."

  "I'm not with the Romans."

  He was silent then; not sure of her.

  "I've tried to keep the city from harm. If that's meant working with the Romans, I've done it."

  There was a note of defensiveness in her voice that had never been there before. When you ruled, you never needed to defend your actions. Well, the world was changing.

  "So everyone's happy with Roman rule, then? No one's suffered. No proscriptions, no executions."

  "I'm smarter than that. You know it. Every little chafe and pinch and rub of the shoe, I've chafed and pinched and rubbed it in some more. People notice. They're not ruined, but they're uncomfortable. They won't rebel uselessly. But when the time comes, if the time comes, that they see we have a decent chance..."

  "Ah."

  "Till when, we wait."

  "Not much longer."

  He told her then what he needed her to do; told her the signals, passwords, all she needed to know, and only what she needed to know. The northerners, with or without Arretium (and with or without Velathri, he made the mental reservation), would march on Rome, draw the Romans away from their city, aiming to meet them somewhere north of Velx; and then Velx would hit them from behind, with whatever allies Velx had.


  "It won't be easy drawing them so far from their base," she said. "You're not the only man in Rome who understands strategy."

  "Leave that to us," he said. She sniffed, but said nothing more.

  "Well. Till then," he said. There was no more to say.

  Dawn was a long time coming. She sat, after a while, and he suspected she was dozing, not keeping vigil at all, though her breathing never became heavy, as sleepers' breath usually did. After a while, the moon sank, and the temple darkened again, and the two of them were left each in their own smothering darkness.

  He'd expected her to leave as soon as the darkness began to waver and pale, but she stayed till dawn was nearly complete, the sun not yet visible, but a thin line of liquid, burning gold on the horizon testifying to the imminence of its rising. She'd never asked how her husband was. And she'd never said goodbye.