Etruscan Blood by AM Kirkby
***
He'd hoped the message he'd so casually dropped might at least have got through from Arathia, that he wanted to talk to the king; but if so, the king evidently didn't want to talk to him. Perhaps Arathia wasn't, after all, as far up in the hierarchy as he'd thought she was; perhaps her cover as a priestess of Menrva was her real calling, and she had nothing to do with the city's governance at all.
It was another of those things that told Tarquin his time in Velzna was coming to an end. He had sounded people about about the League meetings, but no one would tell him anything; not even Teitu, who had talked an unwilling Thresu into taking him to at least some of the meetings as an extra secretary.
"I suspect he only takes me to the boring ones," Teitu had said; "I'm sure when there's anything interesting to discuss, he finds some reason for keeping me out."
But when Tarquin pressed him, Teitu wouldn't tell him what had been discussed even at the meetings he had attended. If Tarquin had been in Velzna officially, he might have pressed to be allowed to observe - though Rome would never have been given a voice on the council, he had just enough friends that it was achievable, even though he would have to grit his teeth when they made patronising comments about "letting the barbarians see how a real government works", and "teaching the Romans about consensus, and gods know, they're not much good at it". But he was here as a private citizen; and there was no more he could achieve.
One last night, then, one last mad night, and they'd start for Rome in the morning. Tullia, of course, was unhappy. She'd wanted to stay, but that, of course, was impossible; he'd be in enough trouble for bringing her here, but as long as he delivered her safely back to Rome, he'd rely on Tanaquil to secure forgiveness, or at least, an absence of punishment for them both.
He'd miss the ease of their relationship here; waking up every morning with Tullia's red hair spread out on the bed covers next to him, the joined warmth of their bodies, watching her comb out and braid her hair. The small things; sharing a last drink at night, her hand reaching out for his in the street, following her in the wild dance. Or when she was in the women's dance, catching sight of her through the crowd, when their eyes met; moments like that punctuated their days and nights with sudden infinitesimal graces. Above all, being alone with her; walking the precipitous paths on the cliff faces surrounding the city, chatting over a simple meal of bannocks and tart cheese, huddled by the brazier on a cold day, or on the infrequent sunny days warming themselves in a sheltered corner of the gardens. Just knowing, even when she stayed out without him, she would be there in the morning. And all this would change once they went back to Rome; back to snatching afternoons at Aglaia's, surrounded by a crowd of friends and slaves, or the odd day they could ride out hunting.
One last night. It would be a good night; the Kaikna had just arrived from Felsina, where both elder and younger Velthur Kaikna were members of the ruling college, and they were opening the Kaikna mansion with a great feast. Teitu had said they were bringing provisions from Felsina - massive hams, and sacks of grain, and all kinds of dried fruits; and their cooking was different from what you got down here, stews with pounded meat, and soft sausages, and sweet-and-sour dishes with the dark and musty vinegars they made there, everything richer and fattier. And there were musicians with them - the pipers of Felsina were renowned; people said there was something in the air, or in the blood, that made them play with a particular wildness, that made the dancers' feet fly faster and the world spin.
Teitu called for them, and they made their way to the Kaikna house, with northern brashness situated right on the main street - it was the house outside which he'd seen the servants sweeping to the sound of the flute, that first day, unless he was mistaken - rather than in the twisting alleys where the southern nobles hid from the public gaze. Outside, two huge fires had been built in the street; on each, an ox was roasting, and one of the pigs that had been spitted there was already being carved up. The two butchers' knives danced, flashed, laying the pig open, splaying it out, slicing flabby petals out of its sides. The entire street smelt of roast, and of fat burned in the embers. Two young children fought over a piece of crackling one of the butchers had doled out; older children were queuing for their rations, while plates of steaming meat were being carried into the house.
They lost Teitu, after a while, in the packed rooms inside; the food was as prolific and as rich as had been promised, and the music as wild as could have been hoped, and the dancing was fast, insanely fast, with long lines of dancers running through the halls, barely managing to hold on to each others' extended arms, to keep up with each others' feet and hold the beat at the same time.
And there was Lars Porsena, all on his own and dancing madly, whirling his arms and legs about, darting his head in every direction like a heron, or pawing and strutting like a horse or a cockerel, and then spinning around, completely unaware of the rest of the dance. His clothes were dark with sweat, and his hair was wet, stuck to his head and neck in curls that looked almost rigid. It wasn't till the pipers ran out of breath and took themselves outside for a break that he stopped; he stood swaying, as if the world would not stand still enough for him to stay upright, and looking slightly dazed, and shivering a little as the cold air got to him. When Tarquin held his tebenna out to him he took it, without expression, and held it till Tarquin had to tell him to put it on.
"What the hell do you call that kind of dancing?" Tarquin asked. Lars looked at him without seeming to take the words in.
"Is it traditional in Clevsin?" Tullia was trying to be tactful, perhaps.
"Oh, I can't dance," Porsena said.
"What were you doing then?"
"Moving. Living the soul of the music, you might say; strange music it is... I'm lame in one leg, I never learned to dance. Just as well I've never minded being made a fool of. I'm a fourth son, I've got used to it, with three older brothers who take the piss."
He smiled, and rubbed his face with a corner of the tebenna. Tarquin reached for the tebenna, annoyed at seeing it spoiled; then suddenly smiled, liking the artlessness of this strange boy from Clevsin.
"I'm glad you're here," Lars said. "I've been wanting to talk to you."
"This isn't the place..." Tarquin started, but there was no stopping him.
"I wanted to talk about Rome. I need to learn about Rome. It's fascinating, what's happening now, and I want to understand it."
"Why not come to Rome? We're going back tomorrow; come with us."
Porsena looked disappointed. "I can't. I'm here to study; I have to stay. I'm a fourth son, I have limited freedom, but father thinks it's time I … you know the things fathers say; settled down, chose a path in life, I think really he means time I became like everyone else, like my brothers, time he could manage to fix me and nail me down nicely like a dead magpie on a fence. Whereas I live in the whirl of things... as you see." His self-deprecating grin made Tarquin smile in response; Porsena, like Thresu, let himself look like a fool in public, but either he wasn't quite smart enough to keep up the pretence, or else he was clever enough to have worked out that while a pretended foolishness let him talk freely, no one really liked a fool, and no one trusted one, either. Whereas Porsena, for all his strange talk, Tarquin instinctively felt he could trust.
"So learn what you have to learn here," Tarquin said.
"I don't think I can. Velzna doesn't have anything I want. Rome is changing everything; and I am on the side of change."
"Do you speak for Clevsin there?"
Porsena shrugged, and grinned, and shuffled his feet. "A fourth son? Three elder brothers and a father who thinks I'm an idiot? I don't think so. I speak for myself. Charun's ninth hell, but in a world run like Rome it might not even matter being a fourth son."
"But in Clevsin, it matters," Tarquin said. "A pity."
"A pity indeed," said Teitu; "it's so much more fun being an only son. Tarquin, the mimes are starting in the yard - will you come?" And without stopping to excuse himself to
"I'd better follow him," Tarquin said; "I need to speak to him before we go."
"Betting on a change of rule in Tarchna?"
"I'd hardly tell a prince of Clevsin if I were. Not even a fourth son."
"You may come to regret that," Porsena said, very softly. It wasn't a threat, it wasn't bluster; he spoke as if he were just observing, quite impartially, a distant event or a curious story, one of those odd pieces of information he collected.
"I don't think so."
Porsena hummed gently to himself, looking at Tarquin; Tarquin couldn't place the tune for a moment, and then he realised it was what Porsena had been dancing to, but slowed, and twisted somehow into a sadder mode.
"You might regret dealing with him. Thresu looks a bloody fool, but he's not. I wouldn't bet on his remaining ignorant of Teitu's plans."
"Whatever Teitu's plans are," Tarquin said; "I wouldn't know."