Etruscan Blood by AM Kirkby

  ***

  They left Curtun the next morning, early, heading along the higher ground above the marshy valley floor. The four of them; Master and Larth in front, Marce with the prisoner behind.

  The views across the marshland were extensive and clear; but even so, he thought it would be easy to miss one man on his own. They didn't even know what Cacus looked like. Different people gave different accounts, Master knew that; some said he was bearded, others that he was clean shaven apart from a sharp point of trimmed hair outlining his chin. He was old; he was young; he was tall; he was fat. The only thing people knew of him was that he preached the end of the age, the end of the Etruscans; fire and flood, burning and drowning. That, they remembered, but forgot the man who had foretold it.

  "What does he look like?" he asked the captive.

  "A man."

  "Yes. But what like?"

  "Just... ordinary. Just an ordinary man."

  Master held his patience. "How tall?"

  "Like an ordinary man, not tall, not short."

  "Fat? Thin?"

  "No. Not specially. Just ... normal."

  "What colour eyes?" Normal drill, though he knew it wouldn't help him identify Cacus from a distance.

  "Blue, I think. I wasn't that close. Blue... no, more green."

  "Green eyes."

  "I'm not sure. Not really. Or blue. Might have been."

  "So, a very ordinary man. A man you wouldn't notice."

  "Yes."

  "But you might be lying. He might be a giant, for all I know. Or a dwarf."

  "He isn't."

  "But he might be." Master barked out a laugh. "You could tell us anything. We'd be none the wiser."

  "I'm not..."

  They kept on, following the ridge. From time to time the path dipped down into the fields, but it always rose back up the slope to the scanty woods and heath above the valley. It was an easy walk, though they would have gone faster without the captive, unused to the rough paths; deprived of his balance by the rope that tied his arms behind him, he stumbled on small stones or tree roots, and had to be helped down the rougher scrambles.

  That night they bivouacked on the edge of the woods, above the fogs of the valley. Before they turned in, Master bound the captive's feet together; he probably couldn't make a run for it, with his hands tied and in the darkness of a moonless night, but it was as well to be sure. Larth tugged the rope on the man's hands to ensure the knots were tight, and smiled when he gasped with sudden pain.

  "Leave him be," Marce said.

  "Just checking."

  "Leave him."

  Larth came over to the fire, still only a flicker of light that gave little heat. Marce had laid roughly formed flatbreads over the larger sticks. They wouldn't cook, Master thought, not on this tenuous flame; the outside would char, solid black and burned, and the inside would be flour paste, uncooked, sticking to your teeth like a bad lie. He'd eaten worse; or gone hungry, on night patrols.

  "We'll let you go once we've got Cacus, you know." The captive showed no sign of having heard Marce; he was staring into the darkness, hunched as if dreading a blow. (Which he might have been, Master thought.)

  "Unless you're lying."

  "Give over, Larth. Look, we're not going to harm you. All we want is Cacus. That's absolutely all we want."

  Nothing.

  "What's your name, anyway?"

  "Don't tell him. We don't want to know." Larth's voice was suddenly loud. Master looked up from the fire. The stars were cold in the silence; a patch of deeper darkness resolved itself into the figure of Larth, standing apart from the fire.

  "Enough." Master forced himself to breathe evenly, to keep his voice relaxed. "Leave him, Marce. Larth, come to the fire; you'll get chilled."

  The men were sullen; neither dared to start a conversation. The bannocks were burnt, as Master had known they would be. The night was cold. No one slept much. They set off before dawn, as soon as the mountain ridges were visible against the sky.

  The captive was stumbling badly, whether with cramp from being tied all night, or inability to see his footing in the dim light. Marce fell back to help him. He didn't ask for the man's hands to be untied; yesterday, he might have, Master thought.

  Once Marce was far back enough not to hear, Master spoke.

  "What was all that about last night?"

  "All what?"

  "You shouting at Marce. He was only trying to befriend the captive. If we want him to give us good information, it would be just as well to keep him on side."

  "I don't want to know his fucking name."

  "It's only a name."

  "I don't give a fuck. If I'm going to kill him, it's easier if he doesn't have a name. You know?"

  He didn't.

  "We had a tame lamb once. It used to follow me around. My mother called it Agnas."

  "Ah."

  "We'd had lambs before, and they grew up, and went for the slaughter, and we'd eat lamb for a couple of weeks and enjoy it. But this one had a name. You see?"

  "Yes."

  "I didn't even get to kill it myself."