by Ben Kane
Peering down a steep mountain slope, he saw Caelius ascending with ten legionaries, each face fixed and grim. All the men held drawn swords.
In front of them ran a pack of large hunting dogs.
'Run, Olenus! Run!' Tarquinius cried.
At last the soothsayer turned with a look of recognition. 'Run?' He cackled. 'I'd break my neck out there.'
'Soldiers are coming to kill you! Caelius is guiding them.'
Olenus' eyes held no trace of fear.
'You must flee. Now!'
'It is my time, Tarquinius. I am going to join our ancestors. You are the last haruspex.'
'Me?' Tarquinius was shocked. Through all the years of teaching, it had never occurred to him that he was being groomed to succeed the old man.
Olenus nodded gravely.
'The liver and sword?'
'You have them both already.'
'No! I don't!' Tarquinius gesticulated frantically.
Again Olenus seemed not to hear. He stood up and began walking towards the figures at the mouth of the cave.
Tarquinius felt somebody grab his arm. The cave receded slowly from view as he swam into consciousness. He was desperate to know what had happened to Olenus, but could see no more. The young Etruscan woke with a start. His mother was standing over the bed, looking concerned.
'Tarquinius?'
'It was nothing,' he muttered, his heart racing. 'Go back to sleep, Mother. You need to rest.'
'Your shouts woke me,' she answered reproachfully. 'Father would have woken too, if he wasn't drunk.'
Tarquinius' stomach clenched. Olenus had always said never to mention anything he taught. 'What was I saying?'
'Hard to make out. Something about Olenus and a bronze liver. The last of those was lost years ago.' Fulvia frowned. 'Has the old rascal laid hands on one?'
'He's not said a thing,' Tarquinius replied smoothly. 'Go back to bed.
You have to be up at dawn.'
He helped Fulvia across the room, wincing at her stooped back and at how much effort it took to climb into the low cot. Long years of hard labour had crippled his mother's body.
'My strong, clever Arun.' Fulvia used the sacred term for youngest son. 'You are destined for greatness. I feel it in my bones.'
'Hush now.' Tarquinius glanced around uneasily. Caelius did not like ancient, non-Roman terms being used. 'Get some sleep.'
But Fulvia was undeterred. 'I've known it since I first saw your birthmark — the same one Tarchun bore. We could not have given you any other name but Tarquinius.'
He rubbed self-consciously at the red triangular shape on the side of his neck. It was something he had only seen occasionally in the reflection of a pool and the haruspex often commented on it.
'It was no surprise to me when Olenus took an interest in you. Teaching sacred rituals, pushing you to learn languages from the foreign slaves.' She swelled with pride. 'I kept telling your father. Once upon a time he listened. But since your brother was killed fighting Sulla, he is only interested in his next jug of wine.'
Tarquinius considered the sleeping figure sadly. 'He was once proud to be a warrior of the Rasenna.'
'Deep down he'll always be an Etruscan,' his mother whispered. 'Like you.'
'There are still many reasons to be proud of our race.' He kissed Fulvia's brow and she smiled, closing tired eyes.
The art of haruspicy is alive, Mother. The Etruscans will not be forgotten. But he did not say it out loud. While Sergius talked to no one, Fulvia was prone to gossiping. It was vital that Caelius did not know the truth about his trips to see Olenus.
Tarquinius clambered into his own bed. By the time he fell asleep, the sky was beginning to pale.
There was little chance to hunt wolves or visit Olenus in the days that followed. It was nearly harvest time, the estate 's busiest time of year. The workload for slaves and indentured families like those of Tarquinius had increased fourfold.
Rufus Caelius had returned from Rome to supervise the important task. Most had supposed his trip had been to raise capital to bolster his ailing finances. The redhead was a typical example of the Roman noble class: good at warfare, poor at commerce. Ten years earlier, when the price of grain had begun to plummet due to a large increase in imports from Sicily and Egypt, Caelius had failed to spot the trend. While shrewder neighbours converted entire latifundia to growing more lucrative grapes and olives, the bullish ex-staff officer had persisted with wheat. In only a decade, the profitable estate had been brought to the edge of ruin.
It had not taken long for the cheap foreign crops to bankrupt thousands of small farmers throughout Italy, Tarquinius' family among them. Big landowners capitalised on the opportunity, increasing their properties' sizes at others' expense. New workers were required quickly and the gap was filled by thousands of slaves, the human prizes of Rome's conquests.
Although they were citizens, Sergius and his family were fortunate enough to get low-paid contract work from Caelius. At least they were paid. Thanks to the slave population, others were not so lucky and cities swelled immeasurably from the influx of starving peasants. Even more grain was thus required for the congiaria, the free distributions to the poor.
If Caelius had been to see moneylenders in the capital, it seemed he had been successful. The noble was in excellent humour organising work parties in the courtyard each morning. Tarquinius was picked for the harvest, as he had been every summer since arriving on the estate eight years previously.
Huge areas of ripe oats and wheat had to be cut and stacked. It was a backbreaking task, lasting from dawn till dusk for a week or more. Already tanned from days on the mountainside, Tarquinius' skin was burnt a deep mahogany colour. To the delight of some female slaves, his long hair grew even blonder. Its length helped conceal the birthmark.
Fulvia was now too infirm for physical labour and ferried food and drink to the fields with the older women. Caelius had tried before to make the men toil all day without pause, but too many had collapsed from de-hydration in the hot summer two years before. One had even died. The noble realised a short daily break was cheaper than dead labourers.
By the fourth day, the sun was beating down with a malicious intensity. Fulvia's arrival in the early afternoon with a mule-drawn cart full of water, bread and root vegetables was most welcome. She parked it in the shade of a large tree and everyone crowded round.
'I've got a bit of cheese here,' Fulvia whispered, patting a cloth-covered package by her side.
Tarquinius winked in reply.
The whole group was stripped down to loincloths and sandals, shorthandled scythes shoved into the leather belts that Caelius provided. To prevent attempts at escape, the slaves among them wore heavy iron manacles round their ankles. Like any big landowner's, Caelius' workers were from all over the Mediterranean. Judaeans, Spaniards and Greeks sweated beside Nubians and Egyptians. Conversation was limited as the famished men ate, and soon each basket of food was empty. Only a few crumbs had fallen for the sparrows pecking hopefully round their feet.
Maurus, one of the Greek slaves, chewed the last of his bread wistfully. 'What I'd give for a piece of meat! Maybe we'll get some at the Vinalia Rustica.'
'Caelius is too stingy! And he 's got real money worries at the moment,' snorted Dexter, the vilicus, a tough ex-legionary from the south. 'But I'd say Olenus eats plenty, eh?'
The others glanced curiously at Tarquinius, whose trips to see the old man were common knowledge.
'Bet that sorcerer feeds him lamb all the time!' said one.
'Is that why you go up there?' There was an envious tinge to Maurus' dark-skinned features.
'No. It's so I can't hear your whining.'
There was a burst of laughter, scaring the birds into flight.
The foreman squinted at Tarquinius, a strange look in his eyes. 'You do spend a lot of time on the mountain. What's the attraction?'
'He wants to escape this damn heat!' remarked Sulinus, a thickset slave.
T
here was a general murmur of agreement. It was fearsomely hot. The uncut wheat shimmered and swayed, baking in the sun.
Tarquinius remained silent, letting the drone of cicadas fill the air.
'So?' Dexter rubbed absentmindedly at an old scar.
'So what?' Alarmed at the foreman's sudden interest, Tarquinius feigned surprise.
'Does that crazy soothsayer eat meat every day?'
'Only if he finds a dead lamb or kid.' Tarquinius' mouth watered. He had eaten freshly roasted meat with Olenus countless times. 'Not otherwise. The master wouldn't allow it.'
'The master!' Dexter scoffed. 'Caelius hasn't a bloody clue how many sheep and goats are up there. He 's often said that eight lambs for every ten ewes per year is enough.'
'That's a poor return,' added Maurus spitefully.
'Olenus is the only one who will herd on the peak.' Sulinus made the sign against evil. 'Too many spirits and wild beasts around those cities of the dead.'
Fear filled the men's eyes.
Streets of tombs in the graveyards near the ruins of Falerii were a powerful reminder of the area's history and few on the latifundium dared go near them, even in daylight. The whole mountain had a name for freak storms, packs of wolves and harsh weather, a place where the Etruscan gods still lingered.
'That's why Caelius leaves him be.' Tarquinius wanted to change the focus of conversation, the nightmare fresh in his mind. 'This section is nearly finished.' He pointed at the field. 'We could have it stacked by sunset.'
Dexter was surprised. Normally it took threats to get the men moving after a break. He sank another beaker of water. 'Back to work, boys. Don't make me use this,' he growled, tapping the whip on his belt.
The workers trudged across short stubble towards the remaining wheat, some casting resentful glances at Tarquinius. But none dared to resist the overseer's iron will. Or his whip. Dexter had been hired to keep everyone in line and he did so with brutal force.
Fulvia waited until the others had walked some distance before she handed over the cloth bundle with a sly smile.
'My thanks, Mother.' He planted a kiss on her brow.
'The gods bless you,' Fulvia said proudly.
'Dexter?' The moment his mother had turned the cart, Tarquinius hurried after the burly vilicus. 'Some tasty goat's cheese for you.'
'Show it here!' Dexter reached out with eager hands. He tasted a piece and smiled. 'My compliments to Fulvia. Where did she get this?'
'She has her ways.' Everyone knew kitchen workers were able to obtain foods that others could only dream of. 'I was hoping. '
'To finish early today?' Dexter guffawed. 'That'd take more than a lump of cheese. Caelius would have my balls if he caught you skiving again.'
'It's not that.' Tarquinius was risking a beating by speaking out of turn, but the look he had seen on Dexter's face was worrying him. 'I was hoping you might tell me if the master was planning anything. For Olenus.'
Dexter's eyes narrowed.
The haruspex had long existed on the periphery of estate life, tolerated only because of his skills with animals and his isolated lifestyle. Like most Romans, Caelius strongly disapproved of anyone practising ancient Etruscan rituals and Dexter was no different.
Tarquinius sensed the foreman knew something.
Neither spoke for several moments.
'Get me some meat and I'll consider it,' Dexter replied. 'Now get back to work.'
Tarquinius did as he was told. As soon as the wheat was harvested, he would offer to hunt some wolves. Knowing that predators had been decimating flocks on the lower slopes this summer, Caelius might just let him off before the olives and grapes were taken in.
And once up the mountain, he could easily kill a lamb for Dexter. It was a gamble whether the overseer would keep his side of the bargain, but he had no other way of discovering what Caelius might have planned. After years of Olenus' tutoring, Tarquinius' senses were extremely sharp. His dream had been followed by Dexter's interrogation and he felt sure something was about to happen to the haruspex.
'Put some energy into it!' Dexter cracked his whip. 'You're the one who wanted to get back to work early.'
Tarquinius took hold of a bundle of wheat in his left hand, holding it steady for the scythe. In one smooth movement, he stooped and cut the ripe stalks close to the ground, placed them behind him, turned back and grabbed another bunch. On either side, the men were performing the same rhythmic movement, moving steadily forward into the crop. It was a task Etruscans had been doing here at harvest time for hundreds of years and the knowledge calmed Tarquinius as he worked, imagining his ancestors before the Roman invaders had come.
Chapter II: Velvinna
Rome, 70 BC
Not far from the Forum, seven young nobles picked their way along a dusty side street. Expensive white togas were stained with wine, the result of a prolonged drinking bout. Half the taverns across the seven hills had been visited that day. The men talked in loud, arrogant tones, uncaring who might hear. Slaves armed with cudgels and knives paced behind, torches in hand.
There was a loud curse as a burly figure at the rear stumbled and fell against the wall of a house. He doubled over and was sick, narrowly missing his leather sandals.
'Come on!' A thin, clean-shaven man with an aquiline nose and short haircut barked with amusement. 'We have hours more drinking to do!'
A shutter banged open above. 'Do that somewhere else, you bastard!'
Wiping vomit from his lips, the big noble stared up into the darkness. 'I am an equestrian of the Republic. Puke where I want. Now piss off unless you want a good beating!'
Intimidated by the speaker's rank and his bodyguards, the householder quickly withdrew.
There were roars of laughter from the drunken men.
It was a foolish person who took on a group of the nobility. All citizens were supposedly equal, but Rome was really ruled by an elite of senators, equestrians or equites, and the richest landowners. Together the families that made up the aristocracy formed a clique that was virtually impossible to join, except with great wealth. A few individuals from this small class controlled the Republic's fate.
The burly man retched again. 'Bloody plebeians,' he said, placing a meaty hand on his companion's shoulder. 'Take it easy, old friend. My legs aren't working too well.'
'Plebs are good for little,' agreed his companion. 'Except manual labour and the army.'
Most of his companions smiled, but the stocky redhead at the front spoke impatiently. 'Get a move on! Still got to reach the Lupanar!'
The nobles perked up at the mention of Rome's most famous brothel.
Its specialities were known throughout Italy. Even the drunkest ones looked interested.
'Never happy unless you have a screw, eh Caelius?' the lean man replied, a slight edge to his voice.
'Best whorehouse in the city. You should try it some time.' Caelius rubbed his hands together in anticipation. 'Nowhere better for beautiful women after a skinful.'
'Just had a new delivery of slaves from Germania, apparently.' The big noble cleared his throat. 'But I need more wine first!'
'Then the whorehouse!' Caelius clapped him on the arm.
'If I can still get it up!'
'And me!' The oldest of the group, who was forty-five, laughed.
'Coming? Or does your wife need you at home?'
The lean man smiled without rancour. He 'd heard the taunt many times before. It stemmed partly from jealousy of his wife 's proud lineage and partly from his devotion to her. But no drunken comment could come close to upsetting him. The whole group knew the noble for his restraint and composure and he wasn't about to spoil that impression.
'If the women are really so good looking, I might be tempted. But they're more likely to be pox-ridden hags!'
The others laughed, eager to please their powerful friend. This was a politician who had survived the bloody purges by Sulla, the successor to the first co-dictators of Rome, Cinna and Marius. Despite many th
reats, he had refused to divorce his wife, the daughter of an enemy of Sulla's. After months of pleading by the lean man's family and its supporters, Sulla had reversed his death sentence. The dictator's prediction that Rome's nobility would eventually be overthrown by him had been forgotten, and the ambitious equestrian was now one of the most prominent young men in the public eye.
'Bugger one of the boys then,' Caelius snapped. 'Leave the women to us.'
The noble rubbed his aquiline nose. 'Thought they were all at your house.'
Caelius' fists clenched.
'Leave it, you two. We are all friends here,' said Aufidius, his normally jovial face serious. A stout figure, he was popular with everyone for his good nature.
Always the politician, the lean man shrugged. 'I have no wish to quarrel further.'
'What do you say, Caelius? Shall we leave this bad feeling behind?'
Biting his lip with fury, the redhead nodded. 'Very well.'
The tone was insincere, but it was enough for Aufidius, who turned to the group. 'Where 's the nearest hostelry?'
'Opposite side of the Forum. Behind the temple of Castor.' The burly equestrian weaved to the front. 'Follow me.'
A short time later they were all seated at a table in a stone-walled tavern, its air reeking of cheap wine and sweat. Rush torches guttered from brackets, blackening the walls and casting long, dancing shadows. The inn was typical, with one room on the ground floor and three- or four-storey tenement flats above. Loud conversation filled the air. On some tables games of dice were being played, at others men arm-wrestled for money.
Despite their retinue of bodyguards, most of the newcomers felt uneasy. This was a far cry from their usual watering holes. Unused to mixing with nobles, many customers were also casting wary glances in their direction.
'What are you staring at?' Caelius snarled.
The nearest drinkers quickly looked away.
With a malicious smile, Caelius jerked his head and the biggest slaves instantly moved to stand behind the curious citizens. When he nodded again, they hauled two outside while the remainder stood guard by the entrance. The men's friends sat helplessly as screams carried inside. Even the huge doorman kept his mouth shut.