Etruscan Blood by AM Kirkby

  ***

  Tanaquil wasn't pleased that old Fabia had come; she was still thinking whether to admit her, or pretend she was indisposed, or not in the palace, or was performing the rites for the house-gods. If Fabia had found out that it was Tanaquil who was behind young Fabia's death, it would be an uncomfortable meeting; and if not, it would still be a miserable one. She seemed to spend all her time killing people she liked, people she loved; it was easier for Servius, easier for Tarquin, killing strangers in the simplicity of war.

  She was surprised when she heard an altercation, and looked up to see Fabia pushing her way past one of the girls into the room. Fabia's eyes were puffy and red, but her face was determined, none of the grandmother about her.

  "You're not going to like this," she said.

  Tanaquil steeled herself. She expected tears, wrath, imprecations. She expected, worse, the question: "Why?"

  She did not expect Fabia to tell her Servius had declared war on Tarchna.

  It was difficult to take it in. She felt stupid; more so when Fabia told her again, as she might explain something to one of her younger students. Had it been so obvious? Should she have seen it coming? Then she realised: Fabia clearly hadn't.

  "I thought I knew... I thought he told me everything," she said, and realised how lame it sounded.

  "Apparently not." The true, acid voice of the Vestal.

  She thought Servius was hers. She thought she'd bound him to her, by prophecy, and flesh, and blood, but he was his own man, and all her plans were crumbling, and Thresu was not ready, not nearly ready, and Tarquin not ready at all, and her own time was running out.

  Nothing to do. Nothing to be done. And so they sat there, the two of them, as the light faded around them, in the first hour of the evening.