Etruscan Blood

by AM Kirkby

  ***

  The feast that evening was more pleasurable than the visit to the temple, at least. But still strangers cringed to her like timid dogs, seeking approbation for their flattery. "Tanaquil, who we always knew would do so well," said one, who, she remembered, had told her definitively that she would be thrown out, that she had no talent at all; and another remembered "how wonderful you were, Tanaquil," but when she asked his name and lustrum she knew he had come to Velzna two years after she'd married Tarquinius. There were others, she remembered, who had been distantly polite, as anyone would be to a lauchum's daughter, and used that now as a claim to intimacy.

  She nodded and smiled and put on the benign, calm face of the true noble, like an ancestor's death mask. The smile tightened her skin, and pulled at the corners of her eyes; she held on to that feeling. When you thought of yourself as an actor, things became distant; your emotions held at arm's length, you could think more clearly. A room full of annoyance became a room full of advantage if you knew how and where to look for it; though among these people who licked and snuffled like badly brought up dogs, she couldn't for the moment see what advantage could be gained.

  The feast was worth her attention, though. Velzna's cooking was the one thing that hadn't deteriorated since she was last here. There was a good red wine, with a tannin load that cut through the first rich fruitiness; so good that they drank it unwatered. There were small birds, with the flesh so long and slowly cooked that it fell off the delicate bones at a touch, at a breath almost. There were slivers of rich meat in a sweet white almond sauce; there were walnuts and hazelnuts ground up in a mortar with herbs and oil and spice; there was venison, dark and sumptuous, cooked in a black honeyed gravy spiked with last year's vinegar. Game birds had been stuffed with apples that melted, almost like butter on the tongue; fish swam in pungent oil, with soft, spongy bread set on one side for mopping up the oil; there were soft fruits simmered in mustard and honey, dripping and sticky, and fresh figs with slices of cheese so old it had crystallised and become translucent.

  It would be easy to give in to greed and eat till she was stuffed, though she knew if she did, she would regret it later; sleep never comes easy on a bloated belly, no more than does wit or alertness.

  The flutes were drowning out the chatter, thank the gods, and a few people had started the ring dance, when Tanaquil became aware that someone had sat on the couch next to her. She turned to see better; the woman looked familiar, though it took her a few moments to put a name to the sharp face.

  "Ramtha."

  "Tanaquil."

  Neither knew if the other was friend or enemy. They prodded each other with small questions like cats pawing the air in front of each others' faces, before they decide whether to fight or run. What was she doing in Velzna? Had she visited this temple, that temple? What was happening in Rome while she was here? To which she replied with another question; who was in charge in Velx while Ramtha was here?

  Ramtha took a piece of cheese and nibbled a small piece out of its edge. Tanaquil picked up her cup and took a sip of wine, looking at Ramtha over the rim of the cup, waiting.

  Ramtha smiled, and took another tiny bite out of the cheese. Two could play at this game.

  "I'm not here on Servius' business," Tanaquil said, venturing as little information as possible. She was surprised by the flicker of hatred on Ramtha's face; just a flicker, soon wiped smooth again. Of course: Ramtha must blame Servius for the death of her husband. So even if Ramtha was not a friend, they had a common enemy.

  "He's made enemies in Rome," she said carefully.

  "He has?"

  "People thought they knew what they were getting."

  "People?"

  Damn Ramtha, she was as good at playing this game as anyone. Tanaquil shrugged.

  "He was a good soldier," Ramtha said. "Honest."

  "I don't doubt it. His honesty isn't the problem."

  Ramtha nodded. "My father trained a hound once. A marvellous hunter. We called it the Silent Death. Then one day it turned and bit me."

  "He killed it, I suppose?"

  Ramtha nodded. Then, suddenly bright voiced, she said "We'll be meeting tomorrow, I gather?"

  "We will?"

  "You're going to Turan's shrine?"

  "Oh, yes. Yes, I am."

  "Good," said Ramtha, stretching one palm flat on the couch to push herself up. "Good. I'll see you there." And she left, lost within seconds in the whirl of dancers.