I have perpetrated no falsehood against man.
I have done no wrong in the Place of Truth.
Veive had heard Felix's pledge and was duty bound to obey. It was not his task to question whether the oath was a lie. That was for wolf-headed Aita, who sat on the Throne of Reckoning.
But behind the throne, silver-haired Time sharpened his sickle and the Seraphs measured carefully the thread of one more human life.
Twenty-Four
The day of the Bridal Dance dawned murky and grey, but for the folk of Mercurium this was unimportant. The redheaded moon was the red-headed moon whether she shone brightly or not, and given that so many of their practices had been absorbed by Rome, it was no surprise that this had developed into the single most important date in the Etruscan calendar. It was a day in which to reinforce their national identity. To confirm their proud ancient heritage.
Wandering round the streets, Claudia saw that Romans, too, had become caught up in the excitement. Shops were shuttered, schools had closed, and even the commercial area around the basilica, which was entirely Roman in construction, had been given over to men, women, children, even babies, promenading with red-painted pride. Shoe points were compared, to see whose was the longest and whose curled up most at the tips. Hair fillets were scrutinized for intricacy and innovation, braiding admired round hems, the efficiency of various amulets exchanged in competitive clamour.
'Doesn't it make your blood run that wee bit hotter, seeing our primitive ways at such intimate quarters?' a familiar brogue chuckled.
Under the Etruscan corona, the tunic, the traditional wrap, the only thing to distinguish Lars from the masses was his perpetually smiling face. There was a woman with him, also in national costume, and Claudia remembered that he'd spoken once in passing of a sister. She wondered why he didn't introduce her.
'Seeing isn't necessarily believing,' she retorted. 'I can't understand a word anyone's saying.'
With Latin the principal language these days, her only expe rience of Etruscan was the written language, which, since it looked like Greek, she'd assumed it would sound like Greek. When Lars's old school friend came through the night Candace first walked the winds, they'd jabbered away in Etruscan, but the conversation had been brief, interrupted by Eunice's rather persistent cousin, and of course the boy was only eleven years old when he'd died. Given the shock of that night, Claudia felt she might be forgiven for not taking much notice, plus you'd expect some distortion in sound quality when the poor kid had trekked all the way up from Tartarus!
'I'll tell you something else,' Lars said. 'We write back to front, as well.'
'That goes some way to explaining the gibberish,' she laughed back.
As he linked her arm with his and led her round the square, translating some of the ancient songs that were being sung, reenactments of Etruscan history, she was conscious of his musky scent and firm muscle tone. With his over-long nose and stocky build, you could never accuse Lars of being handsome. Yet sex appeal oozed from every pore. The nickname Red Gigolo should be embraced as a compliment, she thought. Not an insult.
'Over here, you see Tyrrhenos leading his people to this land from the east, to escape famine. Those soldiers in armour are retaking Rome, so don't look, don't look!' He pretended to cover her eyes. 'Watch the priests from the College, instead. They're re-enacting the son of Genius rising out of the soil to give his divine pronouncements for Cosmic Order.'
'What happened to Fufluns? I thought this was supposed to be his festival?'
'When we only have the one day, we cram everything in that we can,' Lars said dryly. 'Fufluns takes centre stage when the sun sinks, though. Then the fires are lit, the idol is brought out, the Brides take their oaths and then they dance through the night.'
'Lucky Fufluns. Thirteen times in one night.'
'Like I said, when you only have the one day, you make the most of it,' he chuckled, and turned to the woman on his other arm. 'Isn't that right, pumpkin?'
Eunice?
'Don't look so shocked, darling. Tonight I'll be the Roman merchant's widow again. Respectable matron attending the festivities as an honoured guest, and I'll be in robe and slippers, tiara and fan, flanked by a zillion dutiful slaves.'
'With a deliberate smudge of red paint on your cheek,' Claudia said.
'You do, you know me too well!' Eunice laughed. 'But why not? I'm married to an Etruscan who is fiercely proud of his ancestry, and the Empire might look down its nose on what I'm doing today, but I don't regret a single moment.'
Lars took his wife's hand in both of his. 'I never asked this of you, Eunice, and I never expected it either,' he said huskily. 'I'm proud of my heritage, mighty proud, but I'm prouder today than any man has the right to be and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the way you've honoured me this morning. And that's true? You've no regrets?'
'All right, one.' She leaned towards Claudia. 'Not only does it take an age to paint this wretched stuff on,' she scratched at her forearm, 'but the dye is one stage down from indelible. By the time I've finished scrubbing, my skin will be just the same colour as when I started, I'll be that bloody sore.'
Lars rolled his eyes. 'And to think we're hanging on to this tradition!' He turned to Claudia. 'You'll be at the Dance?'
'Wild horses wouldn't drag me away,' she assured him. 'This is the moon that's going to launch a thousand pruning shears across my vineyards.'
Their laughter was still ringing in her ears as they moved arm in arm on through the crowd, and she watched long after Eunice had turned and shot her a broad, conspiratorial wink over her shoulder.
Is any man better placed to dose his wife with extra minerals every day?
Claudia thought of Eunice screwing her face up as he forced her to sip the vile brew.
Its no great science. You pulverize herbs, turnips, lettuce and broccoli until you're left with the juice. Oh, don't twist your face, woman. With a pinch of mustard, it's practically palatable.
Would he still be cracking jokes as his rich wife tried to lift her arm and discovered it would not move? That she could no longer swallow? Or speak? Or breathe? Would he still take her hand in both of his as Eunice slowly suffocated to death, her heart and her brain still healthy and fighting and keenly aware of what was happening to her? Would Lars kiss his wife's paralysed eyes and tell her how proud he was then?
As the sun began to push through the clouds, Claudia left the main square and wandered through the twisting narrow streets, where herbs and flowers had been strung between storeys in gaily coloured ropes and pennants flapped in the breeze. On every street corner, musicians thumped drums or clashed cymbals and Claudia thought she would either go deaf or return to the main square, but as she turned the corner by the basilica, well, well, well, guess who?
'That's why they play those percussion instruments,' Larentia said, and once again Claudia was struck by the skilfully dyed hair, the fine golden fillets that had been woven through her exquisitely pinned curls, the pleated and flattering gown. 'To drive away evil spirits.' Larentia sniffed down her long nose. 'Obviously the system is effective.'
'Ren!' Darius chided through a throat full of gravel. 'It's too early in the day to be catty.'
'No, no, that's quite all right,' Claudia breezed. 'Talk to any snake charmer and they'll tell you that they need to squeeze the venom out before they can get any charm.'
Larentia's neck shot forward like a tortoise's out of its shell. 'Did you just call me a…?'