Sour Grapes

by Marilyn Todd

  Which was why she was here, marching across the precinct of the Temple of Fufluns, just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

  Up close, the forest of columns that fronted the temple was taller, pinker and infinitely denser than she’d imagined when she stood beside Darius at the top of Mount Mercury squinting down over the valley. What she couldn’t see from that distance, either, was that rather than being been built on to the hillside, the shrine had been painstakingly gouged out of it in a series of deep and tortuous terraces, and that the columns were actually remnants of the original rock face. Fufluns, she remembered Lars saying, was one of the gods who lived in the earth.

  As she climbed the steps, haunting music emanated from the very soul of the temple, beautiful tunes made by strings, flute and tambour, soothing yet at the same time uplifting. The further she entered, the more lamps that burned, and wild herbs that had been woven into fragrant ropes garlanded every column, wafting out scents of fennel, oregano and thyme that mingled with the fragrant oils that burned in the lamps: mint, lemon balm and sweet clover. The same rich red paint covered these walls that covered those at Eunice’s house. Lively, energetic frescoes depicting people dancing, eating, bedding one another with wild abandon, reminding all those who came here that Fufluns wasn’t just the Etruscans’ god of wine. He was the embodiment of all earthly pleasures.

  And to prove it, votive offerings hung from every inch of the prayer rails that lined the steep steps, some asking for the return of a child’s health, others put in requests for sophisticated love-making techniques, the majority pleading that the Roman method of watering wine wouldn’t catch on. Bronze tubes dangled from the roof to catch the breeze and chime a gentle message from the gods. Prayer ribbons danced, and other offerings to Fufluns lay scattered seemingly at random. Here a bunch of carved wooden grapes, there a set of clay dolls, elsewhere inscribed tablets, food, candles, or cork masks that had also been painted with smiles.

  ‘May I be of help to you, my lady?’

  Unlike Roman priests, who dazzled their worshippers in white, Etruscan priests clothed themselves in long red robes, painted the exposed parts of their skin red and wore conical mitres upon their heads, which were also, strangely enough, red. Surrounded by so many soaring pink columns darkened by the unnatural light, he had simply blended into the backdrop.

  ‘I was looking for Tarchis the priest, but I guess he’s found me.’

  ‘Truly he has.’ He bent his right knee, rested his elbow upon it and placed a clenched fist against his forehead. ‘Come forth and welcome in the House of Fufluns, Lady Claudia. May He embrace you in His inestimable peace.’

  ‘You know me?’

  Tarchis rose. ‘I was acquainted with your husband,’ he said in a voice that radiated confidence rather than authority, yet could not disguise the crackle of old age. ‘I was a guest at his house many times and was deeply saddened by his passing. Apart from being a good friend, Gaius was instrumental in bringing prosperity to this town.’ He smiled. ‘A mixed blessing,’ he added wryly.

  Indeed. A rabid desire for wine and olive oil throughout a burgeoning Empire had generated wealth for Tuscany and improved standards of living in everything from housing to schooling to health. At the same time, though, as Lars had pointed out, Romanization had taken its toll, and where more noticeably than Etruscan religion? Take that old wooden temple on the Via Tuscana, for example, dedicated to the triumvirate of Uni, Tins and Menvra. Who in Mercurium bothered that, these days, they’d become three temples, not one, made of marble, not wood, linked by an art-lined stone portico? Who honestly cared that it was Juno, Jupiter and Minerva who were invoked? Providing their prayers were answered, that’s all that mattered.

  Unless, of course, you were a priest of the old ways…

  ‘How may I serve you, Lady Claudia?’

  ‘Do you remember my husband’s daughter, Flavia?’

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ he replied warmly. ‘Although I never met the child, I recall Gaius fostering her on to his childless sister shortly after the baby was born. A typically noble, selfless and generous gesture, I always thought, a widower who appreciated only too well how a girl needs a woman to raise her and sacrificed his own happiness… Oh, my dear, what a terrible cough!’

  ‘It’s the incense.’

  Noble, selfless and generous her arse! As head of the household and free to do as he liked, Gaius dumped a child he didn’t want on a sister he didn’t like, whether Julia wanted her or not—and she hadn’t. Her own marriage, which had been going through a bad patch at the time, promptly plunged to rock bottom and had remained there ever since, the damage irrevocably cemented by the whim of an autocrat and an imperial law that allowed him to do it.

  And Orbilio dared to suggest marriage of convenience as a means to thwart Darius?

  Claudia cleared her throat. ‘The thing is, Tarchis, I realize this might be an odd request, considering Flavia is a stranger to Fufluns, but…’

  ‘You’d like her to perform the Bridal Dance?’ The mitre nodded. ‘Darius said you might be in contact.’

  Oh, goody. Darius is his new best friend now, and no wonder Tarchis wasn’t exactly overcome with astonishment at seeing her. Sly bastard.

  ‘And did Darius say that before I committed her to such an undertaking, I’d need to know more about it?’ Unable to keep the edge out of her voice, she congratulated herself at stopping short of calling it a primitive pagan rite.

  ‘He suggested that you would probably want to satisfy yourself that this was no vulgar instruction into the art of the bedchamber, yes, and indeed you are right to question the morality of our ways.’

  His glance automatically flew to the walls, which seemed to be covered in art (most of it of the bedchamber), and most of it energetic, as well.

  ‘However, the days of orgies in the Temple of Fufluns are long past. Today we seek only to initiate young women in the awareness of their bodies in the sense of femininity, elegance and grace, and thus every year on the night of the red-headed moon, thirteen virgins perform the Bridal Dance in front of the idol.’

  ‘Which is nonetheless erotic?’

  ‘If dancing helps a few graceless pubescent girls—how can I put this?—familiarize themselves with certain aspects of adult life that they might not otherwise acquire, I don’t see this can harm them. Sexual awareness is an important part of maturity, for when the heart of the bride is fulfilled, then the heart of the bridegroom is glad and the two halves of marriage become one.’ His voice was solemn, but there was a twinkle in his rheumy eye that was no reflection of the flickering lights and Claudia thought that for a man who was forced to juggle two cultures, he was doing a pretty good job.

  ‘Why thirteen?’

  ‘One for each moon of the year, and each has her own costume and characteristics to act out, for self-expression is a very important aspect of the ritual.’

  ‘Which happens to eliminate teenage competition at the same time.’

  ‘Gaius said you were shrewd,’ he laughed. ‘Now considering the red-headed moon waxes to maturity a mere four days hence, Flavia should commence instruction at once. And though she cannot hope to master every nuance in such a short time, Timi ought to be able to choreograph a simple routine for her to memorise.’

  ‘Timi?’

  ‘Our instructress. Come, I’ll introduce you and she can explain what takes place and where, since men aren’t allowed near the Bridal Chamber—’

  ‘Tarchis, this is all very obliging.’ She followed his cracking pace through the lamp lit labyrinth. ‘But don’t you have your full complement of virgins?’

  He stopped so abruptly that she cannoned into him. ‘As it happens, Lady Claudia, we do not. Vorda, who was to be our little harvest moon this year, sacrificed herself to Fraon, the blue-feathered demon.’ He spread his hands. ‘Rivermen noticed her amulets piled on top of her neatly folded shawl next to the demon’s pool at first light yesterday. When they dived in, they discovered her body tied to a
rock.’

  He dropped on to one knee and lowered his head.

  ‘May the prayers of Aita make you strong as you stand before the Mirror of Truth, little Vorda. May the spells of Leinth protect you as you pass through the Halls of Purification, and may Efan ensure no road in the Underworld is blocked to your soul. Let the hearts of your ancestors rejoice at your coming.’ He stood up and straightened a mitre that didn’t need straightening. ‘As death is certain, so is its hour, my lady. The gods allocated Vorda but thirteen summers—’

  ‘You mean someone told her she was destined to die yesterday?’

  ‘Who knows when the Herald of Death appears?’ he replied smoothly.

  Or in what form, Claudia thought as they continued along the vaulted stone corridors. ‘Was she having trouble at home? Anxious, perhaps, about her abilities to perform?’

  ‘Her home life was strict, but not unusually so, and by all accounts Vorda was an accomplished pupil who was very much looking forward to performing the Bridal Dance. Indeed, it was all she chattered about.’

  ‘And you don’t think it peculiar when that same cheerful thirteen-year-old throws herself in the river?’

  Their footsteps echoed six fold on the stone floor, and whichever way they turned the music was neither louder nor softer, garlands of herbs drifted out their fragrance wherever they passed and the figures on the wall laughed, danced and feasted, because for all they were supposed to be alive, they were dead, and so was Vorda, and Vorda was nothing to them.

  ‘The will of the gods is unalterable, my child. They speak to the augurs through every aspect of nature, and Their prophesies are absolute.’

  How can you argue with that?

  ‘That was another thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ Claudia said, and at least this was one topic Darius wouldn’t have broached. ‘Vorda’s death seems to be the latest in a string of misfortunes that have occurred recently. In fact, I’ve drawn up a list.’

  It was all there. The paper merchant’s warehouse. The brick-maker’s kilns. The tavern-keeper’s sour wine, his broken axle. She’d written down those couples that had divorced, listed whose livestock had keeled over, the donkey that dropped dead in the harness, the well that was probably poisoned, so-and-so’s financial hardships—the lot. And as Tarchis took the parchment closer to the light in order to read, she noticed that he was a lot older than she’d taken him for. Seventy, eighty, possibly more. It was hard to say under that paint.

  ‘This is very strange.’ He took off his mitre and scratched his head. ‘You say Crantor’s crops failed, yet make no mention of his neighbours’ fields being blighted, and how odd that it was the miller’s donkey that died.’

  ‘Odd how?’

  ‘Crantor is the miller’s brother and his son is the blacksmith, the one whose beehive collapsed and whose wife left him and took their children to Rome. And look, here’s another coincidence. The paper-merchant’s sister is married to the man whose cattle fell sick, and it’s his mother whose well went sour, while his… Holy Horta!’

  For an old man, he took off down the corridor like an Olympic sprinter, his robes flapping like some great red bat’s wings as flung open his office door. Without bothering to take a seat, Tarchis reached for a quill and began scratching away, connecting the names in great inky lines until the whole page became a criss-cross of grids.

  ‘Misfortune be damned, Lady Claudia, this is judgment.’ He thrust the parchment under her nose with the same forceful gesture. ‘Thufltha has been unleashed.’

  ‘Whofltha?’

  ‘Do not mock the gods in my temple,’ he thundered. ‘Once invoked, His wrath is unstoppable. The gods have surely taken vengeance upon the wicked.’

  A small, tight ball began to bounce around in her stomach. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Every bad thing that is listed can be traced to five men, and it is they who suffer the punishment of the gods—’

  ‘Along with their families, it appears.’

  ‘When injustice has been done, the gods wreak revenge, and I suppose the closest thing to Thufltha in your religion is the Furies. Winged avengers, who pursue those guilty of crimes against the family to the four corners of the earth, then punish them.’

  ‘Including the innocent?’

  ‘When Thufltha is summoned, Veive obeys.’

  ‘Veive…?’

  ‘Veive is the God of Revenge, and perhaps you have forgotten the story, my lady? Perhaps you have not heard it?’ Fiery eyes skewered hers as he bade her sit. ‘Twelve years ago, in the fifth year of the Emperor’s reign, the five men listed bore witness at the trial of Felix Musa here in Mercurium. The charge was treason, a charge Felix denied, but since the evidence was incontrovertible, he was denounced as a traitor, stripped of his assets and sentenced to ten years’ hard labour in the silver mines.’

  ‘If the evidence is not in dispute, why would five upstanding pillars of the community need to be punished?’

  ‘Why?’ Tarchis stared at her as though she was simple. ‘Because Felix has obviously stood before the Mirror of Truth—’

  ‘You mean he’s dead?’

  ‘My dear child, how else would the gods know who to avenge?’

  That was the trouble when one leads a zealot’s existence. Tarchis’ vision was as narrow as these corridors hewn out of the rock, and Claudia wondered whether Gaius had genuinely taken to the priest as a friend? Or simply exploited his standing in the local community?

  ‘Your husband told you nothing about Felix’s trial?’

  Claudia was his trophy, not his soul mate. ‘Why would he?’ They rarely met, much less conversed.

  Tarchis leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. ‘Because, my dear, there were six men, not five, who bore witness against Felix.’ He held her gaze for what seemed like eternity. ‘The sixth witness was Gaius.’

  *

  Veive looked down the long shaft of his arrow, then tested the feathered flight with the tip of his finger.

  Beside him, the winged avenger smiled.

  Fifteen

  Midnight, and rain lashed the hillsides of Tuscany, swelling the rivers and nourishing the roots of the vines and the olives. There was no lightning, no thunder, thus the Augurs of Tins had no need to be summoned from their beds and continued to snore soundly, oblivious to the drumming volley. For the Priests of the Auspices, however, there was no such luxury. As the clouds discharged their watery cargo, they interpreted the secret language of the sky, musing how the shapes of the puddles related to the Order of the Cosmos and whether the swirls of the rain would maintain Divine Harmony. Around them, drenched acolytes made the sign of the cross for the four sacred quadrants, chanting, ‘This is my front, my back, my left and my right’, while sodden altar boys laid bowls of bulls’ blood on beds of laurel and poplar to propitiate Aplu the Weather God.

  *

  In her humble cottage on the Mount of Mercury, surrounded by relatives yet never more alone, Vorda’s mother shed a torrent of her own. Life was predestined, she understood that, but to cut Vorda’s thread before she’d danced was an act of unspeakable cruelty. The Priest of Uni insisted the rain was the tears of the Queen of the Cosmos falling in sympathy. The Priest of Fufluns told her the rain was swelling the grapes, ensuring little Vorda would live on in the vintage. The priests of the river gods consoled her by reminding her that Fraon the demon had been denied Vorda’s soul, and that her daughter would walk the Everlasting Meadows with a heart as pure as her body. For the first time in her life, Vorda’s mother found no comfort in the priests’ words. Her baby, her baby, her beautiful baby was dead. Lying cold on the rough wooden table that served as her bier, Vorda’s laughter would echo no more round this cottage. There’d be no more scolding her for not cleaning her teeth, no more decking the door with gorse together on the spring equinox, no more hugs before bed. Clutching her daughter’s cold hand to her breast, Vorda’s mother howled like a wounded beast.

  *

  In her room at th
e hot springs, the rain drummed down on the terracotta roof tiles as Candace studied her perfect, unlined reflection in the mirror. Kushites, she was assured, were the handsomest race in the world. They were tall, graceful and naturally slender, they lived to six score years without a day’s illness, and their bows were so strong that no non-Kushite could pull them. She had also been assured that the grasslands of Kush were populated by spotted beasts with necks so long that they could browse the tops of the trees, that there was a lake where not even a petal would float but sank to the bottom like stone, and that gold oozed out of the rocks along the Nile. These things Candace had been assured for the simple reason that the only personal recollections she had of her homeland were memories that left her with nightmares more than two decades on. But, as everyone knows, hearsay is unreliable. One needs hard facts, not rumour, truth rather than fiction, and she dismissed the tittle-tattle with a shake of her closely cropped head. There were far more important issues to concern a sorceress, and if she was to walk the winds that blew over the Elysian Fields and open gateways to the next world, then this summoner of spirits had to live up to her reputation of belonging to the handsomest race in the world. Carefully Candace tweaked her eyebrows into an arch.

  *

  Four doors along, Orbilio listened to the rain swirling down the gutter spouts and splashing into the butts below. He hadn’t bothered undressing, for how could he sleep after he’d caught Claudia in his arms beneath the cascade and felt electricity surge through his whole being? He’d thought of nothing else since. His interview with Hadrian he’d had to write down, he kept forgetting what had been said. That report on a local girl’s suicide he must have read a dozen times, yet the details still failed to register. Claudia. It was all he could think of—Claudia, Claudia, Claudia—and he was as powerless to harness his emotions any more than he could harness the wind. Or harness her, for that matter. She was untamed and untameable, unprincipled and unpredictable, a forest fire out of control. She could not, would not, trust anyone as a result of her past, and he would not, could not, risk harming her further. What she needed was time—lots of time—and if she married him as a matter of expediency to prevent Darius taking control of her business, he’d give her as much time as she needed. As for sex…as much as he yearned for her, any move there would have to come from her, and the reason he was happy to wait was because after yesterday he realized at long last why she persisted on keeping him at arm’s length. Not because she wasn’t interested. Hell, no. He saw—oh gods, how he saw—how her eyes darkened to pools when he gripped her. Felt the tremble that ran through her body. Claudia, he realized, was scared. Not scared of what happens when two bodies unite. But what happens when two souls fuse together. For the second night in succession, Orbilio sat at his desk, poring over his case files, and tried not to think about being turned down.