Etruscan Blood

by AM Kirkby

  ***

  "At least it went well this year," Arathia said. "Last year, the priest forgot where he'd put the nail, and things were held up horribly till they found another one."

  "I never heard that." Arathenas' eyelids drooped, and his voice was drowsy, as if he'd only just woken, though there was something stagey about his sleepiness; he probably slept, like a cat, with one eye half open.

  "Tarquin lost one of his golden hair ornaments," Tullia said.

  "It probably fell off. I shouldn't have worn them; I knew I'd be dancing, and however well you think they're fastened, they never are."

  "No," Arathenas said; "nothing is ever as secure as you think it is."

  But Tarquin couldn't help feeling he had fixed it well, and that a slight man with a limp had a golden lion more in his possession than he'd had last night.

  That was one of his diplomatic silences; and there were excuses, and apologies, half-truths, and outright lies, and the very occasional truth advanced as a pledge or inducement. It was a game he'd seen his mother play, a game he thought he knew; but this was no simple checkerboard, no game of Robbers with black and white pieces set out against each other in lines - there were too many players, too many alliances, so that a zilath from one city was tugged by invisible threads that led to other cities, to other allies or enemies. Tarquin trod warily; he was stuck in a forest, in shifting fog that only sometimes cleared a little to show a path, but at other times thickened, filmed across his eyes.

  "All this eating," Tullia was saying. "I'll get fat."

  "I'll send you out with the troop for exercise when we get back."

  "You wouldn't."

  "Don't try me," he said. "I've never liked fat women."

  He put as much growling bad temper as he could in his voice, but she smiled at him anyway.

  The days passed evenly. It was good enough; it was a life, a life full of good things, fine food and engaging music, intelligent conversation and gentle flirtations. An even tenor of life, in which, after that one horrifying and splendid night of new year, day succeeded easy day, and only the gradually lengthening evenings marked the passing of time. Tarquin wondered how long he could extend his stay in Velzna; no news came from Rome, no summons from Servius.

  Tanaquil had often spoken about Velzna. He remembered her stories of the dark temples, of vigils kept, of days wandering the cliff paths looking for a rare herb, that could be picked only at the waning of the moon; she used to sing him asleep with the qualities of the plants, and he could still remember the names - ratbane, the monarch, butterfly, cloudflower, fox-ivy, chalk-holly, silver-feather, thousand-leaf, augur's staff - though he couldn't recognise a single plant, and had forgotten, if he had ever known, what they were good for. But the Velzna he saw was nothing like her tales; there were no mysteries, there were no prophecies. Instead of being filled with silence and stars, the nights blazed with lamps and resounded with the flute and lyre and the sound of the dance. His Velzna was not his mother's; nothing looked like what he'd expected from those childhood stories, except for the view down to the plain. That, he thought, could never have changed, must be the same for everyone. (But was the city different for everyone, he wondered; would it, even, be different for him, if he came again, in twenty years, or thirty? Would he have forgotten the pattern of the streets, would he be surprised by some view he couldn't remember in the middle of an otherwise familiar scene, would the whole flavour of the place seem different or changed?)

  One night there was a dance in the temple square, a dance of a different kind from what they'd seen before; an entire phalanx of leather-kilted dancers, their heads encased in helms with only slits for their eyes, advancing as one, slowly, seemingly inexorable, with two sideways steps for every forwards one. They came diagonally across the square, stepping out from one corner, fanning out from single file till a broad front almost filled the diagonal; and then, suddenly, a single girl leapt and bounded from the opposite corner, all flounced skirt and flying ribbons in a great blur of dark purple. She jumped high, sweeping the long streamers of ribbon under her feet, riding the flaming cloud of them; the phalanx stopped, each dancer dropping to one knee, raising one hand to his head, palm outwards and upwards, warding off the sight of her.

  On she came, flicking her long ribbons at the phalanx, dancing fast and seemingly with abandon - but her techique was impeccable, split-jumps and pirouettes and side-capers and tiny mouse-like scampering runs, and she kept turning, turning, every time the phalanx pushed forwards or tried to close in on her, wrong-footing them, dancing close and then springing back, and every time she did it, she wound one of her ribbons round one of them, round the ankles or the wrists. The line pushed forwards, but every time, one of them would be hampered, out of line; and then with a single great leap she was over the line, running towards the opposite corner, shouting her victory. (Thinking about it afterwards, Tarquin was sure physically she couldn't have done it; had one of the other dancers stooped, or slid sideways out of her way, or given her a leg-up? But he'd seen nothing, and he wasn't usually fooled by ribbons and sleight of hand.)

  He was applauding madly along with the rest of the crowd when Tullia scowled at him.

  "Tactless," she said. "Bloody tactless."

  "Not very realistic," he said; "but it was a marvellous dance."

  "Gods! Do you not see? It was all about Rome. That's why it got such applause; nothing to do with the dancing. The triumph of Etruscan individualism over Roman efficiency. The noble spirit against the spirit of discipline. The Roman threat is vanquished by sheer..."

  "Effrontery?"

  "Flummery. A complete fiction. An insult. And you applaud it."

  He wasn't just applauding; he approved of it. It was everything he'd been saying for so long about what was wrong with Servius' plans; the faceless gloom of Servius's army. And against that, the life and joy of Etruria, a hope like sunlight seen through wine. That's Rome, he thought, not me; not me.

  "That's what they think of us, Tarquin," she said, and there was real anger in her eyes.

  He was glad that Arathia arrived just then, and said smoothly, "You should meet the new head of the League, Tarquin".

  He hadn't realised it was so late in the month already, that they'd elected their new leader; he'd thought things would take longer. "Who is it?"

  "Tarchna's head this year."

  "Not good news for us," Tarquin said.

  "But your mother came from Tarchna. Your name, even."

  "She left. She turned her back on Tarchna, and I don't think they've forgiven her that."

  He wondered, even, if the new man had planned this whole ballet to warn Tarquin off; or perhaps more to the point, to warn off any of the cities which thought they could strike their own private deals with Rome. A suspicion which disappeared as soon as he met Thresu Spurinna.

  Running to fat, a man who waddled slightly, and a bit too fast, rather short, which meant he had to look up a little to look most people in the eye; an ingratiating man, with a ready smile, his head wagging and nodding, and a sheen of sweat on his face even on this cool evening.

  "Laukums," Tarquin started, and saw Thresu looking happy as a fat duck; but Arathenas, who had followed them towards this meeting, interrupted.

  "Never a laukums."

  Tarquin turned to Arathenas. "No?"

  He heard Thresu cough slightly. "It's unusual," Thresu said, his voice low and rich as candied fruit: "it's unusual, though not unprecedented, you understand, for the League to appoint a man who, though he has worked hard for his city, as I have, has yet never been a king, or indeed a war leader, a master of horse; but as you see, sometimes..."

  "Sometimes it happens," Arathenas said.

  "And you are Tarquinius?"

  "Tarquin. They call me Tarquin. Not to confuse me with my father."

  "Oh. I see. Well, Tarquinius, I met your mother. A wonderful woman. Really a wonderful..."

  "You don't invite her back to Tarchna, though."


  Thresu blinked, and sniffed, and then smiled. "Oh, that's what she says. Dear Thanchvil. She'd be welcome if she really wanted to come, of course. What a marvellous woman she is! It's not often you find such beauty and such intelligence matched with such ambition. She was always ambitious, you know, even when we were children together..."

  That was a lie, Tarquin thought, watching him burble, no longer hearing his words; Thresu was ten years younger than Tanaquil; Thresu was a child when Tanaquil was already a woman. Even if they'd been the same age, Thresu would still have been a child to Tanaquil.

  "...but it might not come to war, exactly, though I dare say one needs to prepare for some sort of military, er..."

  War, he thought, are you talking war? A pathetic man like this. Instantly he felt there was no accommodation possible with Thresu; if it came down to Thresu or Servius he knew whose side he was on.

  "But truly, Rome has been a trial to us. Veii, and Velx, were not well played. I'm sure we have our part to play in the League, but Roman ways must change, must..."

  "Oh, this," Tarquin said. "I understand you don't hold with Roman ways. I would have myself you inclined rather to the Greek, at least in one respect."

  Let Thresu rise to that bait if he wanted, and if he did, Tarquin would deny any insult; and since he'd been known to fall for a good-looking slave boy himself, he'd get away with it. But though the sweat beaded on his red forehead, Thresu ignored the remark.

  "Rome will change, anyway, if I have anything to do with it," Tarquin said; and he was about to go further, and explain exactly how he might rule given a chance, when a miraculous being entered the room.

  He was stunned. It was as if his mother had come into the room; only a much younger Tanaquil, hardly twenty. The same disdainful eyes, the same long nose, the same way of holding the chin up and looking down at the world; the same sense of quiet self-command. The same cruel smile, the same eyebrows raised at the world. A Spurinna, he thought; sometimes the blood runs true. A Spurinna, just like his mother; only so much younger. And male.

  "He looks so like you," Tullia whispered.

  "Teitu," the youth said.

  "Thresu's..."

  "Boy?" Teitu laughed. "Hardly. And not his son, either, which perhaps was what you were really asking. You're Tarquin? If so, we're first cousins. Has Thresu upset you already?"

  Tarquin warmed immediately to Teitu's quick, wicked wit, and Tullia was fascinated - not entirely to Tarquin's delight - by his resemblance to her lover, and so when the Spurinna house was thrown open for Thresu's inaugural feast, they went along with Teitu, and ended up, against all the usual rules of ceremony, sitting with the new head of the League and his household, above the rulers of the cities - Cisra, Clevsin, some old woman from Velx, and all the others. They'd be talking about that tomorrow, he thought, and complaining that Thresu had shown a preference for Rome, and the idea of Thresu so neatly trapped amused him, so that he grinned to himself till Tullia dug an elbow into his ribs.

  "I don't know what you're up to tonight," she said; "you upset Thresu, then you sit here grinning like a dog that's just fucked a bitch."

  At least with a hedonist as head of the League, the food was guaranteed to be exquisite, even in this hungry season of the year, when there was little fresh, Thresu's table was well set. A thick dark soup of chestnuts and dried mushrooms, with tiny slivers of onion fried in butter and a dash of dark vinegar to sharpen it up; ham sliced so thin the light shone through it, soft and salty; geese stuffed with apples and wild garlic, so that the sharpness of the stuffing cut through the fattiness of the meat; a slop of lentils cooked with onion and walnuts, hare stewed in wine and its own blood, dried figs in honey, quince paste with sharp cheese, a sweet cake made of nuts and candied fruit, dumplings of muddy fish flesh flaked with breadcrumbs and onion greens, shredded chicken cooked with beet till it was purple; different textures, different tastes, different colours, the luxury of variety and contrast.

  Thresu ate with flamboyant enjoyment and his hands; Arathenas, on the other hand, was neat in everything he did, delicately picking meat off the bones with a small knife, slicing the quince paste thinly, dabbing his fingers or wiping his mouth on a cloth. Thresu did not confine himself to eating the food, but talked about it incessantly; if you had eaten everything on the table, you would get a new appetite listening to his conversation.

  "One always looks forward to the delights of Velzna," Thresu said; "such wonderful cooks they have here, I always think even better than in Tarchna. And the pigeons; wonderful little squabs, plump and soft-fleshed, in dark gravy. A truly succulent dish. I might even say it's fit for a king."

  Which of course, Tarquin thought, you're not.

  "He only likes them because they're the one thing in the place that's as fat as he is," Tullia said; she had lowered her voice, but Thresu still heard, or heard at least part of what she'd said. "Eh, what's that?" he asked.

  "You don't get birds in Rome as fat as these are," she said.

  Arathia seemed slightly shocked by Tullia's joke, but made the mistake of looking at Thresu; it was true, his face had just the pallor and flabbiness of a plucked squab, and she had to stifle a laugh.

  "Is he as much of a fool as he looks?" Tullia asked her.

  "Stupidity doesn't run in the family."

  "I suppose not."

  "It definitely doesn't," said Tarquin, as if he feared they were joking about him; "nor does obesity. Look at him tucking in. That's his fifth cup of wine, too."

  "He didn't get that fat by accident," Tullia said; "he's probably planning to eat Rome up, rather than bother making war."

  Teitu was vastly amused. Uncle Thresu - "well, not an uncle exactly, he's married to my mother's half-sister by my grandfather's third marriage, but he's also related on my father's side; we Spurinnas are an incestuous lot" - had already eaten up two wives, Teitu said, and "the new one's got no meat on her at all."

  "Speaking as a woman," Tullia said, "I'd say at least Thresu has the advantage of being well padded. Not all knees and elbows like some men I could name."

  Inevitably, half way through the evening, the talk turned to politics. It was inevitable; first someone mentioned the recent standoff between Cisra and Tarchna. Like siblings, or like some couples, the two cities never seemed to be able to work out whether they were best friends or natural enemies; currently, Cisra was sulking, and would sulk all the more now that Thresu was heading up the League.

  Then someone (later, Tarquin thought it had been Arathia, but he was never sure) talked about the changes in Veii, the freeing of the slaves.

  "Your king was a slave, wasn't he?" Arathenas asked, lazily enough that Tarquin could almost be fooled into thinking he wasn't being deftly filletted for information.

  "Maybe once," Tarquin admitted; "but then he was a commander, too."

  "He knows how to use slaves, though," Arathenas said. "From what I hear, he's giving honey to the plebs, and vinegar to the nobles."

  "Plebeians are not slaves."

  "No? They're worse than slaves. At least a slave knows which family he belongs to."

  "Well, Servius' policy is his own," Tarquin said, and hoped that would put an end to the discussion.

  "You want to be careful," Arathia put in; "you're high-born, and Etruscan. Servius' friends are not yours."

  Which was why he was here. He shrugged. "Servius won't last forever." He waited till he saw their frowns, then added: "and there are other cities, besides Rome."

  "You'd go to Tarchna?"

  He shrugged again. "I've come here."

  "You might stay?"

  "The food is good. And I have that on good authority."

  He winked, and looked in Thresu's direction, and smiled, so as not to laugh at his own joke. Teitu was laughing, with the innocent good humour of a child, while Arathenas allowed himself an exasperated sneer.

  "Anyway," said Tarquin idly, while they were still enjoying his witticism, "suppose Rome were to ask to join the League?"r />
  "They won't," Arathenas said.

  "Suppose?"

  "That would depend," said Arathia.

  "On Thresu?"

  "As long as he leads, he'd be one voice against it."

  "But it's not up to him to decide?"

  Arathia actually looked shocked at that, as if he'd told her he didn't know how babies happened, or that wine got you drunk, if you had enough of it.

  "The head of the League doesn't do the deciding," she said. "He facilitates. Brings opinions together. Ensures order. There might even be some voices in favour, if Rome promised to lay aside its wars."

  "We have noticed, you know," said Arathenas.

  "Noticed? What?"

  "How you play one city against another."

  "Not me," Tarquin said.

  "How Rome plays city against city, then."

  "Well, obviously that wouldn't be the case, in certain circumstances..."

  "Which we needn't discuss here," Arathia said, stern for once; "but if Rome stopped its conquests, there would be some voices in favour of letting it take its place in the League."

  "A thirteenth city?" Arathenas was scathing. "Hardly a lucky number."

  "Even so," she said. "Or a new League. There's been a northern Federation for years now; Spina and Felsina, Hatria - the fenland and the plains cities, facing the eastern sea as we face the western. And the southerners, too - Capna, Irna, Irnthi, Capeva, Anth."

  "That's only four."

  "You never could count, Arathenas; that was five. And you know, in any league of twelve, there are only a handful of cities that count."

  "It wasn't always like that."

  "Maybe not, but that's the way it is now. And now Tarchna..."

  She stopped herself quickly. There must be something she didn't want to say. Was there bad blood between Tarchna and Velzna? Or was Tarchna planning the same strategy as Rome, Tarquin wondered, taking over its smaller rivals one by one? He looked again at Thresu and thought; no, not him. Greedy as he is. Though there might be someone behind him...

  "Anyway, it'll never happen," Arathenas said. "Rome works by conquest. Gold streams into the city from its wars. Servius won't give up conquest, because he can't; he's created a monster that eats cities, and he has to carry on feeding it."

  "There are other battles to fight," Tarquin said. "The Sabine cities. The Umbrians. The Greeks. Gods, give us the backing of the League and we could take on the Celts together."

  Arathia nodded. "That could work."

  "But does Velzna have a deciding voice?"

  Arathia shook her head. "You've been in Rome too long," she said. "You've forgotten how your own people do things. No one 'decides'. Velzna has a voice. A strong one. But only one voice."

  "Anyway, I obviously can't speak for Servius, so..."

  "It's just speculation." Teitu finished his sentence for him. "Because you're certainly not speaking for Servius."

  That was true, but the way Teitu had flattened Tarquin's careful construction of hints and half-truths rankled. Teitu was altogether too clever, and Tarquin had made the mistake of thinking his own cleverness was enough; whereas it had been patently transparent, at least to Teitu, what he was doing, probing tentatively, trying to gain support without giving anything in return. Tarquin found himself pinching the flesh of one thigh through his tebenna, feeling the pain twist in him and comfort him, the way he had when his father found out his childish misbehaviours.

  Damn, this was the great game his mother played, and never showed the slightest strain or effort; and it was a game, he realised, that didn't go by rules, and had more players than expected, and some of them hidden, and in which it was no longer even obvious how you worked out whether you had won.