Etruscan Blood by AM Kirkby

  ***

  "Homer is long dead. It's time for us to move on."

  "That's what he said?"

  "That's what he said."

  Two of the slingers were talking. They'd called themselves Servius' Slingers, before, but now they were the Sons of the Slave, proud of their mongrel accents, their patchwork uniforms, their poverty. Their grammar was bad, their language was bad, their aim on the other hand was getting better; though that was less through the daily drill, than through their practice in knocking down crows, geese, and other people's chickens.

  A youngster, his face still chubby (generic, in a way, as if he hadn't lived quite enough to become an individual), joined in. "No more heroes, eh?"

  "Wait till you've seen a battle," one of the slingers told him.

  "There aren't any heroes," the other said, "but the buggers who think they are, are quite bad enough."

  And then there was, suddenly, shouting. A lot of shouting, and a lot of pushing; indignant noise, angry noise, self-righteous noise.

  "Sod me," said the older slinger, the one who'd repeated Servius' words. "One of our lot."

  The mob was pushing forwards a scrawny man, who held in one hand a limp sling, and in the other a chicken no less scrawny than himself, and which hung just as limply as the sling.

  "Good aim, he's got."

  "Bad luck, though."

  "Bloody fool to try it around here."

  The malefactor was being jostled forwards, and the mood was turning ugly; he might have his neck stretched as quickly as a chicken's, for all they could tell. Then suddenly, silence fell; and one voice spoke, a voice not angry, not self-righteous, but authoritative, demanding to know what was happening, why the noise, why the crowds. Servius had obviously expected to see his Slingers in better order than he found them. He'd expected a regular commanding officer's visit, a quick review, a couple of rounds of practice, a commendation here and a rebuke there, the visit of a soldier who, though he no longer had time to drill with his men, still tried to remember at least some of their names; what he'd found was very nearly a riot.

  "So what were you doing?" he asked the slinger. And when the mob tried to answer, he shushed them, and waited for the noise to die down before he asked him again - "What were you doing?"

  "Target practice, sir."

  There was laughter at that, but a nasty kind of laughter with anger hiding not far beneath it.

  "A hah," Servius said. "Target practice. Hm."

  There was some uneasy laughter at that, as if no one was quite sure whether Servius thought this was a joke, or not.

  "And while you were doing your target practice," Servius said, and paused for a moment, "what was the chicken doing?"

  "Scratching for food, sir."

  "I see," he said, very serious. People laughed again, the edge of anger beginning to dissipate. Well and good; at least while they were laughing they wouldn't lynch him.

  "What were you aiming at, may I ask?"

  "Does it matter?" the man said, and then realising he'd stepped out of line added, questioning – "Sir?"

  "Oh come on. What were you using as a target?"

  "A leather jug, sir. I'd propped it up on the wall."

  "A leather jug. Yours?"

  "Yessir."

  "A leather jug. Leather jug. Chicken. Chicken. Leather jug. Hm."

  The man wriggled; he was chewing, and biting on his jaw, and his face looked hot. Servius nodded his head a few times, looking at the chicken, at the man, back at the chicken. He heard one woman giggle, then a man snort with laughter, which he stifled once he realised no one else was going to join in.

  "So let me get this right," Servius said, very seriously, as if he really didn't understand what was happening at all, and had to get it quite clear, and needed it all explained to him fully and in short sentences, like teaching an idiot how to milk a goat. "You were aiming at a leather jug, and somehow you shot the chicken."

  "Yes," came the unwilling answer. "Sir."

  "So, let me see. You were aiming at a leather jug. And then the chicken came along. And you thought, no doubt, the chicken would make a much more interesting target."

  "Sir?"

  "You thought you might be hungry later?"

  "No, Sir!"

  "You thought the chicken looked good and fat, did you?"

  No answer. Servius waited a moment, and then said; "You must be blind."

  That got everyone's attention; not least the slinger's.

  "Scrawny bloody thing, that chicken. Once you get the feathers off there'd be nothing there, like one of Aglaia's Greek tarts." That got a laugh; everyone knew the madam kept her girls on short rations. This time the laughter was genuine, and widespread, and people seemed to have forgotten their anger about the stolen chicken, the way soldiers, given the right story or the right speech or the right rousing pat on the back before action, forgot their nerves. A lifetime of nights before battle, when a good story was worth a month's wages, and might be worth a man's life, had taught him how to lead a crowd by the nose, and he was doing it now, and enjoying it nearly as much as they were.

  "Let's be serious," he said, and the laughter stopped.

  "So." He looked around. All eyes were on him. Silence. Good.

  "So. You were aiming at a leather jug. Good, good. I'm glad you're practising. I really am. That's what I want to see from all my slingers; diligence. Practice. Hours of practice. Even if you're only shooting a leather jug.

  But well... but... a leather jug. Leather jug. Enemy soldier. Enemy soldier. Leather jug." He let his hands draw a jug, a man, in the air, looked from one to the other, as if confused. "Different. Very different. Leather jug... well, it's a smaller target, I grant you that. How far off were you?"

  "A hundred paces, sir."

  "Ooh," he said, raising his eyebrows. "That's quite a distance." And then he frowned as if he was thinking, and said, eyes narrowing theatrically; "You did hit the jug, did you?"

  "Sometimes, sir."

  "Splendid, splendid! At a hundred paces. That's really pretty good. And let me just ask you another question."

  "Sir?"

  "The jug wasn't moving, was it?"

  The slinger looked confused.

  "It wasn't moving?"

  "No, sir, it wasn't."

  "Well of course it wouldn't be, would it? A jug?"

  "No sir."

  "But an enemy soldier would be, wouldn't he?"

  "Would be what, sir?"

  "Would be moving."

  "I suppose so, sir." Clearly he couldn't see where Servius was heading with this; his voice was hesitant, and he was frowning slightly, his eyes wide. Perhaps he even suspected the laughter was as much directed as his confusion as at Servius' faux-stupid act.

  "So, jug – soldier, soldier – jug. Soldier who moves. Jug which doesn't."

  "Sir?"

  "Well, so a jug isn't very good practice. Too easy to hit something that doesn't move."

  "Yes, sir, but it's all I'd got and …."

  "So when the chicken appeared, you thought it would be a bit more challenging to hit a moving target, didn't you? A bit more like real war. Even though the chicken is, well, a bit smaller than an enemy soldier."

  The man was shaking his head at this. Fool, he couldn't see how this was going to save him, but it was, or Servius didn't know how to manage a crowd. Gods, some people were stupid. Here he was offering the man a way out, and he wouldn't take it. But he was stringing the crowd along, too; maybe that would work, on its own.

  "I can see the point. Moving target. Trickier. And the same size as the jug, so it would have been a bit of a challenge, at a hundred paces. A live target. Well, it was then, anyway."

  A bit of a laugh at that, but not quite enough.

  "You know something? If you can hit a man right on the head, knock his block off at a hundred paces, you're the kind of man I need. I'll have all my slingers aiming at chickens if it makes them so accurate."

  "But I wasn't aimi
ng at the bloody chicken!"

  Servius ignored the swearing, the interruption, the omission of "sir". He put on a sorrowful face, let his mouth slacken, shrugged – "what can you do?" the shrug said.

  "Oh dear. You really weren't?" He turned to one of his men. "I'd better countermand that order."

  "Sir? Which order?"

  "Having everyone practice on chickens. It clearly doesn't work." He turned back to the woeful slinger, now not only confused but feeling put-upon and misunderstood. "So let's see. You were actually aiming at the leather jug. And you hit the chicken. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear."

  The man looked down at the dirt between his feet. Servius waited. Always let your audience wait for the payoff. He frowned. He looked sideways. He shook his head sorrowfully. He looked back at the slinger, sling and chicken still hanging limply in his hands.

  "Well, I shall have to do something about this. Really you disappoint me. Your slinging skills are really rather poor. Gnaeus! Where's Gnaeus when I want him?" He looked around, knowing quite well that Gnaeus was two paces behind him, as he always was, these days; and Gnaeus stepped forward, clearing his throat to let Servius know he was there.

  "Ah, Gnaeus. There you are. Would you have someone check this man's eyesight? Maybe he really can't tell the difference between a jug and a chicken." He waited out the laugh, and as it died down, said, more seriously; "Get him practising."

  "He was practising, sir. That's what all the trouble's about."

  "Well, have him practise a bit more." He turned back to the slinger. "Stand straight, will you? Right. Your punishment. It has to be tough, so I'll make it tough."

  He saw the slinger wince.

  "Five hours practise every day with a moving target. Every day. All this month. Gnaeus will sort it out. There you are. Dismissed. Off you go."

  And that, he hoped, was that, but someone yelled out of the crowd, "What about the chicken?"

  "The chicken? Oh, the chicken. I'd almost forgotten. Whose is it?"

  There were several shouts of 'mine' from different places in the crowd.

  "Well the bloody thing can't belong to everybody. I haven't got time for this."

  He marched up to the slinger and grabbed the chicken.

  "I'll eat the damn thing myself."

  There was a bit of grumbling at that, but a couple of the slingers started a cheer for good old Servius, and someone shouted "There'll be fried chicken for everyone when we win our first battle," and then the shout went up, "Fried chicken for everyone!"

  "Well," said Gnaeus, "It beats 'no aristocrats' for immediate appeal."

  Tanaquil

  "I don't know how Tarquinius ever conquered anywhere," Servius complained.

  "But he did."

  Tanaquil was right, of course. "I don't know how, with that army. It's a mess."

  "Still a mess?"

  "It'll do," he said shortly. "It'll have to do."

  "It did for Tarquinius."

  "He took a few cities. I want the whole of Italy. You can't take that with a couple of individualists in gilded armour."

  She looked up sharply; the reference to young Tarquin was inescapable. But with Mamarke there, she was not going to take the bait.

  "The whole of Italy," she repeated. "Not just Veii."

  "That was your idea," he said. "A wider state. An Etruscan league with Rome at its head."

  She nodded, but there was a question in her eyes.

  "The whole of Italy? That's not just Etruria. You have the Faliscans, the Umbrians; Celts in the north, past the Padan dodecapolis."

  He nodded.

  "And then the Greeks."

  "Yes. That will be difficult, I know. Well, I'll have a more experienced army by then."

  If you have one at all, she thought.

  "And a more disciplined cavalry."

  "Tarquin said you'd had some kind of a run-in with him," Mamarke observed. Still, Tanaquil bit down on her anger. There would be time to discuss this later.

  "He still won't do as he's told. Thinks it's some kind of game. Chasing down a retreating enemy – he said it's 'not fun'. Not fun. As if we go to war for fun. For fuck sake."

  "It's not considered sporting," Mamarke said. "You know that."

  "Not in your little not-serious play-wars, no. But I don't fight for fun. I fight to win."

  "There's more to it than that. You still hope the Etruscan cities will join Rome of their own free will. If you want that to happen, you don't slaughter your opponents out of hand."

  "And if you want to stop them reneging on their treaties the first chance they get, you smash their armies flat. That's what you don't understand. That's what Tarquin doesn't understand."

  Mamarke frowned, but said nothing.

  "Tarquin needs to learn," Tanaquil said smoothly. "I think he is learning. But it takes time."

  "I haven't got time."

  "I was hot-headed at his age," she said.

  Not that Servius believed that. She'd always been chilly. At Tarquin's age she'd already let Tarquinius cart her off to Rome, and he thought that had more to do with the opportunities the half formed city offered than any youthful romance.

  "He's proud," Marmarke said.

  "He's arrogant."

  "Let him have his pride. He'll do what's needed when the dice are thrown. Till then, leave him be."

  "Tarquin the proud," Servius said. "Tarquin the uncontrollable. Tarquin the lecher, who turns up to drill if his whore doesn't keep him in bed that morning. He'll learn, or he'll go."

  "I'll learn what?"

  "Humility," Servius said. "And how long have you been listening?"

  "Long enough."

  "Well, are you going to learn?"

  "Humility? No."

  Tanaquil grabbed his hand, squeezing it, pulling him back, but he twisted out of her grip.

  "You want a slave? Get one."

  "You'll do as you're told."

  "I'll fight on your side. That'll have to do."

  "It won't do."

  They started shouting then; Mamarke tried to stop them, but in the inevitable way of such things, his interventions only added to the noise, each of the men seeing Mamarke as another opponent. And Tanaquil watched, her face studiedly impassive, and her right hand slowly stroking the other, the hand Tarquin had rejected.

  Who started the abuse she could never remember; it might have been Servius, exasperated, who yelled the first insult, though normally she would have expected Tarquin to be the first to break. Did Servius think this was the way to get through to Tarquin, theatrically trying to break him down and bludgeon him? She could have told him (and Mamarke had told him) that wouldn't work. Or had Servius lost his self-control? He was doing that more and more these days, trying to force through his reforms on an unwilling Rome.

  "I'm not sucking your cock," Tarquin shouted.

  Tanaquil stood up, and grabbed his hand again. "That's enough."

  "Tell that cocksucker it's enough."

  She dug her fingers into his wrist. He flexed his arm trying to break her hold, but she had him pinned.

  "I don't care who started it," she said, and winced as she remembered saying the same to Arruns and Tarquin when they were still children, quarrelling over a clay horse or a dripping honey cake.

  "Stupid bitch," Tarquin said.

  For once she had no answer. Her boy, her darling boy, her Etruscan prince, and how it hurt... hurt far more than Servius' rape or the loss of Arruns, or the thought even of her own death.

  "You're a bloody death demon," he said. "Everyone dies around you. My father. Faustus. Ancus Marcius. And you're always there at the death. Don't you tell me what to do. You're worse than him."

  What everyone perhaps had thought, but no one had dared to say. Not even Faustus. How it hurt; hurt all the more for being true. She had no words, not even useless ones, and watched him turn his back and storm out. A marvellous exit; it was flashy, it was trite, but it was still impressive, like so much about Tarquin.

&
nbsp; Yet women, she thought, were always there at the death. It's what we do, she thought. We lay out the bodies. So many, so many.

  She looked at Servius. "He'll kill you, one day."

  "Never. He's not so stupid."

  "Really?"

  Servius exhaled sharply. "Where's his support? What does he gain?"

  "You've humiliated him."

  "I have no sons. All he has to do is wait. He'll be king after me."

  "If the comitia votes for him."

  "And there are ways of fixing that. As you know."

  "He's angry. I saw death in his eyes."

  "Another of your prophecies?"

  "No."

  "Well," Servius said.

  You couldn't warn a man like that. He didn't understand pride; didn't understand nobility. And he thought he did.

  "You might still have children," she said. "Tarquinia..."

  "No," he said. And his look of rage silenced her.