

# DYING FOR ROME:

Lucretia's Tale

ELISABETH STORRS

Published By Cornelian Press 2014

The moral right of the author has been asserted. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Copyright © Elisabeth Storrs 2014

Smashwords Edition

Cover design copyright © 2014 Cornelian Press

Cover designed by Lance Ganey

Cover artwork: Lucretia and Tarquin by Simon Vouet

File source: Wikimedia Commons. Attribution licence:

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Vouet,_Simon_-_Lucretia_And_Tarquin.jpg

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication-entry

Author: Storrs, Elisabeth

Title: Dying for Rome [electronic resource]: Lucretia's Tale/Elisabeth Storrs

ISBN: 9780987340740 (epub: ebook)

Subjects: Rome—History—Fiction.

Dewey Number: A823.4

# CONTENTS

A Brief Word Before You Begin

Lucretia's Tale

About the Author

Cast

Glossary

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

Tales of Ancient Rome information

Excerpt of The Wedding Shroud

# A Brief Word Before You Begin . . .

For those of you who enjoyed discovering the world of the Etruscans in my Tales of Ancient Rome series, this short retelling of the famous foundation story of the Roman Republic is set in 510 BCE, one hundred years before the hostilities between Rome and Veii described in The Wedding Shroud and The Golden Dice.

There were three Etruscan kings who ruled over the Romans, not through conquest, but through political maneuvering at a time when aristocrats migrating from different city states managed to gain supreme office in Rome. The Romans also elected two kings from the neighboring Sabine tribe in a similar fashion. Nevertheless, a perpetual tug of war for possession of Etruscan, Sabine and Roman territories between these three peoples continued to play out for centuries.

And so begins Lucretia's tale . . .

# LUCRETIA'S TALE

I remember how drunk the master was. He and the prince of Rome. Sextus Tarquinius. Together with that idiot, Brutus, son and nephew of the king. All three burst through the outer door shoving aside the porter. Then they stumbled into the atrium, laughing. The stink of wine and the odor of horse sweat invaded the room, overpowering the aroma of fresh basil drying in bunches by the hearth fire.

They were wearing armor; their breastplates dirty, their tunics grubby, arms and legs thick with the dust of the road. In the half-light of a room lit by a few lamps and the fire, their shadows loomed, voices slurred and jarring, laden with curse words and jokes.

Startled by their sudden arrival, I dropped my spindle as I stood and curtsied. The wooden distaff clattered as it hit the tiled floor. I found my hand shaking as I reached to retrieve it, mindful I was tangling the newly spun yarn. I glanced across to young Manius. The skinny porter was clearly in awe of the soldiers, his mouth agape as he waited to collect the visitors' weapons.

Prince Sextus stood no more than three paces from me. I had never seen him in such close proximity away from the splendor of the royal court. He was known for his cruelty. As was his father, King Tarquin the Proud. I stared at the long ringlets spiraling down his back as he removed his helmet. Despite his coiled locks, there was nothing girlish about him. He was heavy-set and muscled with a short-cropped black beard. His right bicep was marred by a jagged scar. There was no mistaking his heritage. The almond shaped eyes. The straight nose and brow. His thick-lipped Etruscan leer. Arm slung around Brutus' shoulders, he scanned the room before settling on my mistress, raking her with his gaze.

Collatinus did not seem to notice how his guest was ogling his wife. He swayed slightly as he slipped his baldric over his head and handed it and the sword attached to Manius. His face was grimed above his beard. He also had an Etruscan profile for he was from Tarquin stock. But, lanky and lean, he seemed ungainly beside the self-assured Sextus.

Brutus was grinning, a trickle of purple running from the corner of his mouth down his stubbled chin. The neck of his tunic was sodden with wine. It made me wonder if he'd spilled more than he'd imbibed. He was clearly eager to have been included in the others' exploits, giggling at his two cousins' ribaldry. There were fewer traces of an Etruscan heritage in his features. He had his father's Roman eyes, not the sly cat shape of his regal mother.

The sight of the soldiers in high spirits heralded news. The siege of Ardea in the south had lasted for months now. Yet another Latin town must have submitted to the yoke of Rome. I found it hard to welcome the thought. My people, the Sabines of Collatia, had also been subjugated by the Etruscan rulers. I was a slave because of them.

Lucretia rose from her stool. No frown. No sign of surprise that rowdy masculinity had interrupted the quiet industry of women. As always, her posture was poised, her manner formal, although her eyes had brightened at seeing her husband returned. She was careful not to brush against the warp weights as she stepped from behind her loom and moved to Collatinus' side. She drew her palla shawl over her head in modesty as she stood beside him. Next to his bulk, she appeared tiny, her head only level with his chest. "Husband, I was not expecting you," she said. Acknowledging her royal visitors with a bow, she added, "Nor such honored guests." Her voice rose slightly. "Is the siege ended? Is Rome victorious?"

The master pulled off his helmet and felt cap. His short hair was plastered to his head with perspiration. He did not touch her. Never in public. "No, wife. Ardea remains unconquered. We are here to settle a bet." He laughed, turning to his companions and extending his open palm towards them, voice thick with gloating. "Pay up. I told you we would find Lucretia attending to her wifely duties. Night has fallen and yet she is still weaving with her maid, unlike your wives, whom we found tipsy at a banquet."

I gasped, causing the mistress to glare at me. Yet how could she retain composure? I doubt she was pleased to be the subject of a drunken wager even if it appeared she had passed some unknown test.

Sextus pushed Brutus aside, then slapped Collatinus' palm with a laugh before seizing and gripping it tightly. "Fairly won, cousin. I will have my manservant deliver your winnings on the morrow." He spoke over his shoulder to Brutus. "And what say you, dullard?"

Brutus grinned and nodded, his tall frame hunched as if in perpetual obeisance. "I'll pay, too. I'll pay, too. Tomorrow."

The master laughed, disentangling his hand from the Etruscan's and clapping him on the back. "Then it was worth pushing our horses to ride through the dark. Ardea to Rome by dusk, and then here to Collatia before midnight. A lengthy but rewarding journey."

I wondered what the mistress would make of such foolishness. How had these men managed to keep their mounts given their state? And what kind of officers were they, riding off on a lark while their troops were left to hunker down outside an enemy town? A common soldier would be beaten or worse for doing the same.

My lady's expression remained neutral, although her face seemed pale in the lamplight. I always found her Roman aloofness disconcerting, but I admired her now for keeping her temper with these boors. Especially her husband.

Her tone was cool. "Come, my lords. You must be weary. Why not remove your breastplates and take your places in the dining room. I'll arrange for refreshments."

"Excellent," said Collatinus, ushering the soldiers into the adjoining chamber. "I have a taste for olives and some salted fish—something to encourage a thirst. And tell the majordomo to choose some wine from the cellar. The best vintage. He has the keys." He smiled at her with his good-natured grin. One that no doubt always beguiled his mother but clearly did not charm his wife tonight.

Her response was edged with iron. "Of course, husband, I'll send Manius to ask him." She signaled me to come forward. "In the meantime, Alma will see to washing your guests' feet."

Overhearing the exchange between wife and husband, Sextus called to them as he took his position on the dining couch. His eyes were ranging over the mistress in a way that made me draw breath again. "Why, Collatinus, don't you think it fitting that the lady of the house should wash her prince's feet? Especially one who is a paragon among wives?" He turned to Brutus. "Do you agree, dullard?"

The dolt stared at him for a moment, then nodded his head in an exaggerated gesture. I found it unnerving. It was as though he was agreeing with everything yet nothing.

Lucretia hesitated. The first sign of disquiet she'd shown that night. She was expected to wash her husband's feet, but tending to another man's was unseemly. Besides, she was a patrician. Her father, Lucretius, was the prefect of Rome. She may have been married to a Tarquin, but her lineage led back to forebears who'd never bowed to an Etruscan. She turned to the master, her dark eyes troubled.

Collatinus also paused, and I realized he was not too drunk to understand he needed to be wary. The prince's tribute to my lady did not lessen the insolence of his request, or excuse the lewdness of the Etruscan's candid appraisal of her figure. I hoped my lord would have courage enough to remind his superior to show more respect, but I was not surprised when he bade his wife to serve his leader. After all, no one dared offend Sextus or his odious brothers. Not when their father could confiscate a man's property and also deprive him of his head. Too many noblemen had suffered such a fate. Half the senate had either been executed or exiled. King Tarquin was not about to let the elders of Rome halt his power. My mouth felt dry as I scurried to the atrium well to fetch water.

When I returned, Lucretia had regained her poise even though she was kneeling before Sextus as he sat with his legs astride, one hand on each knee.

I felt uncomfortable as I took my place beside her, conscious she was on the same level as a slave. I concentrated on tending to Brutus. The oaf giggled as I removed his greaves and sponged the dirt from his calves. "Ticklish," he murmured, squirming. "Ticklish."

Decimus, the majordomo, appeared with Manius behind him. Both held wine jugs. The bald servant stiffened when he saw my lady reduced in this way. He managed to remain impassive, though, as he served the wine to both visitors.

My lord seized the other jug from Manius and poured himself a large cup, avoiding the sight of his wife unlacing the prince's boots. She was businesslike, trying to get the task over as quickly as possible.

"You have not asked us what the wager was, Lucretia," said Sextus, twisting one of his long spiraling curls around his finger. "Are you not curious?"

"It's not my place to question you, sire." She did not look up but concentrated on bathing his feet. I noticed his legs were smooth-shaved, a peculiar Etruscan custom. I'd heard they stripped the hair from their bodies, too.

He laughed, flicking the ringlet back over his shoulder. "Ah, Collatinus—what a woman you have. My wife is as nosy as she is garrulous. And, as we saw tonight, she has as great a fondness for wine as you or I." He signaled to Decimus to fill his goblet. "And that, Lucretia, is why your husband is now the winner of a basket of bronze weights. He boasted that you would be sober at your loom in this hushed atrium with only your maid for company. Brutus and I, however, could not vouchsafe exactly where our wives were, or whom they were with." He leaned down, his mouth hovering above the mistress' bent head. "Although I had a fair idea what my wife would be doing—drinking at some man's banquet, enjoying music. Maybe even gambling." He leaned back and guffawed. "Certainly not weaving."

I cast a look towards the master as he sat rigid upon his couch. His face was scarlet. And yet he said nothing. Being a cousin of Sextus was no safeguard against retribution. Blood ties meant nothing to the Etruscan tyrants. They were prepared to shed the blood of kinsmen as readily as slit their rivals' throats.

Lucretia also reddened, hastily wiping the prince's feet and then rising. "Husband, if I may be excused. I'll see to it that beds are prepared for our guests. It's best I leave you to your drinking. Alma will bathe your feet."

Collatinus stood and moved to her side. "Yes, I think it would be a good idea." For a moment I thought he would reach out and touch her, but she stepped away from him, maintaining propriety. He turned to Sextus. "Are you content for Lucretia to retire, sire?"

The prince appeared to have grown bored with his taunting. He flicked his fingers in dismissal, not even bidding his hostess goodnight. To her credit, she walked slowly from the chamber. If it had been me, I would have run.

*

After I had washed the master's feet, he excused me. Decimus also. Only young Manius was left to tend to the drunken men. My lord sat pensive, all merriment drained from him. He was drinking steadily, but was lagging behind Sextus. The prince had already drained one wine jug and was calling for another. Brutus lay asleep on his divan, snoring. There would be sore heads on the morrow on the long ride back to camp.

I hurried to the main bedroom off the atrium. My lady was sitting on her bed staring at her iron wedding band, working it up and down between the knuckles of her finger. Absorbed in thought, a frown creased her brow.

"I'll help you to undress, mistress."

At my presence she straightened and her features became guarded. She stood without speaking and let me untie the ribbons of her stola at her shoulders. The wheaten colored overdress slid to the ground. It was the symbol of a Roman matron, denoting respectability. My lady wore it with pride.

Lucretia never lorded over me, but she was always reserved. Such coolness served to remind me that I was a Sabine from a defeated town. Rome had ruled Collatia for years now. The first Tarquinian king had appointed the master's father as its governor. A position granted to the son as well. The title "Collatinus" was to acknowledge his control.

The autumn night was chilly, the bedroom cold after the warmth of the atrium. Lucretia shivered as I lifted her woolen tunic over her head and replaced it quickly with her nightshift. Goose bumps prickled the flesh of her soft white arms. It was the first time I'd ever thought of her as vulnerable. Or considered how young she still was. No more than eighteen. She was yet to bear a baby to full term. Her failure to become a mother was an unspoken concern.

Still without speaking, the mistress sat down on her bed and turned her back to me so I could undress her hair. I slid the bone pins from the braids wrapped around her head and removed the woolen fillets plaited into them. Yet another symbol that she was a citizen of Rome. There was silence as I brushed the length of her dark brown locks, the ends flaring out in static. It was then that I noticed she was trembling. I touched her shoulder. "Mistress, is there something I can do for you?"

She turned. Tears were welling in her eyes. She brushed them away. So close to her, I could see a faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. I could understand, too, why men found her beautiful. There was an evenness to her features; her eyes dark and sensuous. And yet I'd never seen her flirt. Doubted she would know how; doubted she would want to. I'd observed how she was with Collatinus. No moans of pleasure were ever overheard from their chamber. The bed creaked regularly enough, though, when the master was home. And I often caught my lady smiling to herself on the morrow.

"My husband should have said no to him. He should not have made me serve another man. Made me touch him. Touch his loathsome Etruscan skin."

Stunned, I stared at her, realizing her tears were of ire not despair. What should I say? To criticize the prince was treason. I was also confused. Was there now to be confidences shared between us? "It would take a brave man to defy the king's son, my lady."

The contours of her young face hardened. "And it appears my husband is not that man."

My eyes widened. I was shocked her anger cut so deep. And her contempt. I remained silent, uncertain what to say, and busied myself hanging her clothes on a hook on the wall.

She climbed into her bed and drew the covers to her waist, clenching the edge of the sheet. "It did not worry me that I was to live here when my father wed me to Collatinus. It was a relief to reside away from the decadence of the Etruscan court. But now I find my husband has fallen in with the prince. Instead of standing up to the bully, he is drinking with him and making ridiculous wagers. How could he bet on my virtue as if on an outcome of some horserace? How dare he pit me against those pampered Etruscan princesses!"

The tirade stunned me. The frustrations pent up within this diminutive girl had erupted. Where was the patient and accepting wife? It was as though another woman had taken her place; her veneer peeled away to reveal passion and anger.

Lucretia's voice had risen in her vehemence. I walked to the doorway and peeked through the slit of the curtain, anxious her words might have carried through the expanse of the hall to the dining room beyond. I was relieved to hear the prince's laughter and Brutus' snoring.

When I turned back, her flare of anger had been quenched. She twisted her hair into a loose plait. "Ignore what I said, Alma. I was wrong to complain about Lord Collatinus. It is not the place of a wife to criticize her husband, nor to speak ill of the son of our ruler."

Sliding down under the covers, she pulled the sheet up to her chin. The outline of her body under the cloth was so childlike that I felt compelled to offer comfort. "Mistress, don't be too hard on master for boasting about you. He was proud of you, that's all."

She stared at me and I sensed she was weighing my words, then she frowned, distant again, and turned on her side. "Thank you, Alma, you may go."

*

The statuettes of the household gods sat in niches beside the hearth. I said a prayer to them, comforted that these spirits watched over us. From the dining room, the men's voices had grown slurred and sleepy, the conversation inaudible under the sonorous slumber of the oaf. There would be no need to exchange their divans for beds given their torpor.

I rolled out my sleeping mat on the floor of the atrium, then unpinned and loosened my hair. By firelight its chestnut color was deeper. The russet shade was common among the Sabines. It reminded me to be proud of my ancestors no matter whether governed by Romans or Etruscans, and to have faith that the subjugation of the natives of Collatia would not last forever. After all, Sabine kings had once ruled Rome, too.

I shifted onto my side and stared at the fire. The flicker of flames was hypnotic. Sleep would not come, though, as I mulled over the mistress' words. Was she right to be so determined to bind herself to Roman rules? I did not share her disdain for those Etruscan wives.

I'd seen the princesses when I'd accompanied my lady to visit her father in Rome. It was hard to forget them as they paraded through the forum. Against the homespun clothes of the Romans, their bright-hued dresses made them appear as exotic birds amid a flock of sparrows. I could not take my eyes from them, admiring the jeweled diadems bedecking their brows, and their dainty boots with curlicue toes.

Yet it was not just the women's garb that delighted me. It was their independence. An independence I envied. Neither Sabine nor Roman wives shared their husbands' dining couches or joined in men's conversations. These Etruscan women were not servile, confined to atrium and bedroom. Yet Lucretia viewed such freedom as shocking. To her, seeking to be on the same level as a man was against the natural order. And while my people had no quarrel with women drinking wine, the Romans believed a female sipping liquor led to immorality.

I thought Rome foolish to expect such rectitude. Their citizens were held to ideals that demanded perfection and so guaranteed failure. Poor, somber Lucretia in her woolen stola and palla. She'd been taught the litany of virtues from childhood. Her parents instilled them through discipline and punishment. It was exhausting to remember all the rules let alone observe them: Romans were required to be courteous, industrious and thrifty; truthful, modest and pious. And, of course, matrons were required to be faithful, and maidens to be chaste. I smiled, thinking of how I loved the feel of a man's weight upon me. I was glad I did not have to obey such strictures.

My eyelids grew heavy, and as I fell asleep I imagined I was a princess—golden spirals twined into my long russet curls, attending a banquet, respected and desired by men.

*

Brutus woke early. I was surprised; I thought, after drinking himself into unconsciousness, that he would be slowest. He soon roused the others. Again I was surprised. Bloodshot eyes and headaches did not delay their journey back to Ardea. Perhaps they were warriors after all.

The prince was irascible, bellowing at any of us who approached him. He was dismissive with the mistress also. Forgetting the rules of hospitality. Ungracious and ungrateful. I could see her flinch and color at his curtness. All of us were on edge until Manius pushed the outer door shut behind the departing Tarquinian and fool.

Collatinus did not ride with the others. Having spent the night sleeping in the dining room he now faced his wife. Remembering her acid words, I thought their farewell would be laced with recriminations. Instead, Lucretia was docile, resuming the role of a dutiful wife as she held out his cloak to him. Observing them while I cleaned the grate, I thought them a handsome couple. Armor suited him, the contours of the breastplate mirroring his lean musculature. I'd often seen the kitchen maids cast sideway glances at him, but to my knowledge he was not one to bed slave girls. He also believed in the virtue of fidelity. Or perhaps he only had eyes for his young wife.

At pains to appear indifferent to their conversation, I scolded Manius to hurry up loading fresh charcoal into the coal barrel. The scrawny youth winked at me and took his time, intent on eavesdropping, too.

The master's impressive martial apparel did not match his manner. He stood with a sheepish grin and awkwardly clasped his wife's hand. He spoke in a quiet voice, conscious that his servants were busy at work around him. "Lucretia, I'm sorry. I did not think Sextus would expect you to wait on him."

She edged her fingers from his grasp, her words clipped. "I don't want to talk about last night. I want to talk about our future."

He frowned, dropping his hands to his sides. "I don't understand."

"Why are you now friends with Sextus? I thought you were going to distance yourself from the royal family. Father assured me you were more Roman than Etruscan when I wed you."

He tensed, then swiveled his attention to Manius and me. "Both of you go and find something else to do."

The porter hastened to ask Decimus for other duties, but I was less obedient. Curiosity seduced me. I hovered in a nearby passageway to intrude upon their privacy.

My lord dragged his fingers through his hair. His face was pinched. "What would you have me do, Lucretia? Snub him? I'm the poor relation, remember? As is Brutus. We both need the king's favour to advance. Offending one of his sons is not wise."

Lucretia placed her hand upon his arm. "You have more power than you think, husband. After all, you are the governor of Collatia."

He shook his head, his laugh rueful. "Only by royal command. I could be stripped of office any time. And have you forgotten how King Tarquin maintains power? His edicts go unchecked. No senator dares contradict him lest they be executed. He makes alliances and treaties or declares wars without consultation." He raked his hands through his hair once again. His bloodshot eyes looked pained. "And now he's draining the treasury because of his obsession with finishing public works. Erecting the Great Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. Renovating the Circus Maximus. Digging an enormous sewerage system. And there are not enough laborers to complete them so he's using soldiers. Veterans who bear battles scars now toil all day wielding pickaxes as if they were slaves."

The mistress was unmoved. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Well, do something!"

Her demand was spoken as though it was the sanest of solutions. Shocked, the master ceased pulling at his hair and stared at her. She was always so submissive, acquiescing to him in all things. I think it was the first time she'd ever challenged him.

When he didn't reply, Lucretia's voice rose. "Why not lead such warriors to rebellion?"

Collatinus scanned the atrium as though worried furtive spies might spring out and seize them. I could understand his anxiety. My own heart raced to hear treason spoken aloud. Bending his knees so he stood with his eyes level with hers, he gripped her forearms and shook her. I'd never heard him speak heatedly to her. There was never any need. "Don't speak such words, Lucretia. Don't even think them. Each syllable drips with blood, and is spoken with the ignorance of a woman who does not understand the strength and valor needed to fight a war."

She looked so small against his armored breadth, but she wasn't daunted. The anger and frustration of the night before resurfaced. "True, husband, I am weak in body, but at least I've courage enough to ponder freedom. Don't you see? There will be no liberation without hope. And hope begins with a thought: a thought that forms into an intention, an intention into a purpose, and a purpose into action!"

He released her, his lips set in a grim line as he straightened. "Heed me, Lucretia. We are in a precarious position. My second name may be Tarquinius, but just because I'm kin to King Tarquin the Proud doesn't mean we don't live in danger. This is the man who plotted with his queen, Tullia, to murder his brother and her sister. This is the man who assassinated his father-in-law to ascend to the throne." He lifted his heavy bronze shield, forming a barrier between them. "And you know what happened then, don't you? He condoned Tullia driving her carriage over the corpse of her own father, then denied the dead monarch due burial rites. Do you really think he'd flinch at executing a distant cousin? Have you forgotten that being a blood relation did not save Brutus' father and brother from also being slain? When he was a child, he saw them killed before his own eyes. Being a half-wit does not prevent grief."

At his flare of temper, Lucretia seemed to shrink. She had goaded him too far, stirring fear instead of zeal. Yet his warning was valid. The Etruscan ruler and his sons were ruthless. She fetched his helmet and helped him buckle it under his chin. "Forgive me. It is not my place to tell you what to do."

The tension in his shoulders and back eased. He leaned his shield against a chair and reached for her hand. "Don't fret, Lucretia. One day Rome will be free of the tyrants." He ventured a smile. "Your father was right. I am more Roman than Etruscan. That is why I am so proud you are my wife. That is why I bragged about you."

I winced, knowing how the mistress felt about the wager. She did not reply, refraining from reproaching him, but when he leaned down to kiss her she turned her head so his lips brushed her cheek.

At the gesture he drew back uneasily, hurt in his eyes, "Why are you so angry with me? I don't want to part like this. We might never see each other again."

The mistress' eyes softened. Standing on her toes, she reached up to smooth his cloak across his shoulders. After her churlishness I was pleased to see the tenderness of her touch. Collatinus smiled and wrapped his arms around her waist. Lucretia uttered a little gasp as he lifted her feet off the floor. Then she quickly glanced around to check for any observers. Seeing only an empty hall, she encircled his neck with her arms and kissed him. "Take care, husband," she murmured. "Come back to me."

*

I never thought to see the prince again, but two days later he returned, demanding to see the mistress. Lord Collatinus was not with him. None of his manservants were in attendance either, which I found strange. How was it that he could again go unpenalized for deserting his troops?

This time he wasn't wearing armor but was dressed in a black ankle-length tunic. A rounded cloak was draped across his chest, the ends swept over his shoulders and down his back. Its purple hue declared his regal status. Every finger on his right hand was beringed, his wrists encased in gold bands. Around his neck hung three heavy chains from which amulets dangled; a common fashion among Etruscans, but disdained by Romans.

When he removed his cloak and threw it at Manius, I marveled at the heavy gold belt buckled at his back. Its broad front was studded with lapis and amber. A decorated leather baldric crossed his chest on the diagonal. Suspended from it at his hip was a curved dagger. The blade fitted snugly in its jeweled scabbard, its hilt molded into a lion's head. Sextus may have been dressed in finery as lavish as his wife's, but he exuded power, his thickset body compact, his arms honed.

The porter stood gawking, overwhelmed to be in such company again. He hugged the expanse of cloak to his chest, fumbling to ensure no folds trailed on the floor.

Decimus hurried forward, struggling to bow over his large paunch. "Greetings, sire." He stood waiting for the prince to hand him his weapon. The Etruscan waved him away. Taken aback at the guest's snub, the majordomo dithered. "But sire—your dagger."

The prince ignored the request again. "Don't stand there! See my horse is stabled." The balding servant frowned. The command was as disturbing as the Tarquinian's refusal to disarm. It was midafternoon. Did the nobleman plan to stay the night?

The Etruscan focused his attention on me. I stopped pretending to arrange a vase of flowers and curtsied.

"Fetch your mistress," he growled. "Be quick about it. I don't like to be kept waiting. I want to see her now." His face was flushed, the scent of his perfume overpowering.

I almost tripped as I ran to the garden, where my lady was working. I believed this was the one place she felt truly happy. She would spend hours there tending her herb patch with its neat rows of borage and sweet marjoram, rosemary and rue. She did not hesitate to dirty her fingers as she pulled weeds from among beets and parsnips. Nor did she shy from toiling in the heat.

I found her resting on her heels, her wide-brimmed straw hat removed, face upturned towards the sun; all concern over her fair skin forgotten, and the tracery of freckles explained. It was rare to see her so relaxed. Knowing I would ruin her brief moment of contemplation, I took a deep breath before relaying my news.

She scrambled to her feet, eyes wide with shock. "Is Lord Collatinus with him?"

"The prince is alone. Not even servants accompany him."

She clutched my arm. "Has my husband been slain?"

"He did not give a reason, mistress. He's impatient to see you."

She looked down at her tunic, which was grass-stained and grubby. Her hands were caked with soil. "I can't greet him like this! I need to wash and change."

"Mistress, I don't think you can keep him waiting that long." I hurried to the garden well and fetched a pail of water. She plunged her hands into it and rubbed away the dirt as best she could. "Bring me my palla," she urged, nodding towards the shawl lying on the grass. I draped it around her and drew it over her head. At least her hair was still neatly pinned.

When we returned to the atrium Sextus was standing in front of the fire inspecting the household gods. A shiver ran through me. I prayed the guardians would protect us.

The mistress' voice was edged with apprehension as she approached him. "Sire, has Collatinus been killed?"

He turned, immediately examining her from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her dirtied hem and grimy sandals before returning to meet her eyes. Imperious as always. "Don't tell me you have been gardening, Lucretia? Are your servants so lazy that you must plant your own vegetables?"

She bridled, halting a few steps from him. Then she found composure. Ignoring the jibe, she inclined her head slightly. "Please, sire, do you bring bad news?"

He tossed one of his long ringlets over his shoulder. "Do you think me a messenger? Some sort of herald?"

I hated how he toyed with her. The mistress hesitated. "No, sire. It's just that . . . I'm confused as to the reason for your visit."

Unexpectedly, he smiled, and sat down in one of the chairs beside the fire. "Ah, poor Lucretia. I should stop teasing you, shouldn't I? Rest easy. Your husband was hale enough when I left him in Ardea." He gestured for her to sit down opposite him. The mistress slowly took a seat. "I came because I fear I offended you on my last visit," he continued. "Collatinus is both my friend and kin. I did not show his wife respect. And so, as I was called back to deal with some official business in the town of Gabii, I thought I would pass this way to make amends."

I felt uneasy. There was an oiliness to his smile. It hardly seemed credible that this Etruscan would apologize to a woman for a trivial misdemeanor. Not when there were so many weighty crimes to his name. The aristocracy of Gabii had surrendered sovereignty after Sextus executed half of them on the king's veiled command. And Gabii was miles away. Why would Sextus perform a detour of such distance? And without his retinue accompanying him?

Lucretia's brow creased in puzzlement. "You need not have bothered, sire, I did not take offense," she lied, "but I thank you for your courtesy."

"Then we are on good terms?"

I wondered if she would lie to him again. Knowing how she despised him, it must have been like tasting gall to pander to him. "Of course, sire."

The prince smiled his unnerving smile again. "Excellent. Then all is well."

An awkward silence fell only to be broken by the sound of raindrops smattering against the roof tiles. The fire flared as a strong breeze infiltrated the interior of the hall. Through the roof opening I could see black clouds scudding across the sky. The atrium dimmed to greyness and growing shadows. The mellow afternoon light vanished.

Decimus appeared and ordered Manius to attach the roof covers. However, before the youth reached the door, the rain thickened, teeming through the ceiling hole. I hurried to help the majordomo remove the wellhead so the rain water could be collected. Manius raced outside as thunder rumbled. A flash of lightning lit the hall.

The mistress frowned. The chance that her guest might leave before nightfall was dashed. Rules of hospitality demanded she offer lodgings. She could not let Sextus ride into a storm.

"Sire, you cannot travel in this weather. It will soon be dark and the road to Rome is perilous in the wet. Why not take your place in the dining room. I'll arrange for dinner to be served and a bed to be prepared."

Sextus rose. "You are thoughtful to consider my safety, Lucretia," he said, strolling towards the next chamber, "but I trust that you would have invited me to stay even if there was no tempest. Especially when I have come all this way to see you."

I tensed, feeling edgy. This man knew the mistress would be anxious about entertaining a man in her house without her husband present. And yet that had clearly been his intention all along. He claimed to be seeking to redress his disrespect, but in doing so he was once again compromising her.

Flustered, my lady also stood tensely. I saw her breathe deeply before replying. "My husband's home is yours, sire. You are always welcome to stay."

He paused at the entrance to the next room. "Of course, this time I will not ask you to wash my feet," he said with a sly smile, "but I will expect you to dine with me."

I blinked. Surely he could not be ignorant of Roman custom?

My lady bowed rigidly. "Thank you, sire, but our women do not sup with men. Even when my husband is here, I do not eat until he has been served."

A look of irritation crossed his features. "My wife complains if I exclude her from even one banquet. Yet you respond to my request as though it was an insult.

"I do not mean to anger you, sire. I'm simply observing what I know my husband would expect of me."

He snorted. "Oh yes. How Collatinus bragged about your virtue." He hooked his fingers into the edge of his belt and cocked his head to one side. "But tell me, Lucretia, have you ever wanted to sip wine and share a banqueting divan with him? To talk and give your opinion, and have it heeded? Because that's what my wife can do if she wishes. Or do you believe Etruscan women are sinful because they are able to enjoy the company of men?"

His words were unexpected. I'd thought his demeaning of Lucretia was how he treated all women. I studied the mistress, remembering how she'd urged her husband to rebellion and been dismissed. The prince's offer to converse with her must have been enticing. For the first time I noticed the Etruscan's accent could be appealing with its smooth, rounded lilt.

My lady remained quiet. He grew bolder. Stepped closer. "You're a beautiful woman, Lucretia. You should be wearing fine clothes instead of being dressed so drably." He reached over and ran his hand along one fold of her palla. "Why limit yourself to spinning and weaving? Or soiling your fingers with manure and dirt?"

His encroachment shook the mistress from her silence. She edged back, pulling gently on the edge of her shawl to ease the material from his fingers. "I only hold myself to the standards set by my people."

His eyes narrowed. "And so imply our women are wicked. Is that not true?"

She wrapped her palla about her as though shielding herself. "Sire, I do not seek to judge your wife. I am content with my life. It's simply that I believe in Roman ways."

He glared at her, the bully in him emerging. "I don't believe you. I hear only your disdain."

She took another step back. "Please, sire, I do not mean to offend you."

The Etruscan grunted, eyeing her once again before crossing to one of the divans in the dining room. "Then if you want to be treated as a servant, Lucretia, bring me some wine."

The mistress pursed her lips. "As you wish."

"And I'll excuse you from eating with me." Sextus adjusted his baldric and dagger before lying on the couch. "Given your sanctimony, I doubt your dinner conversation would have interested me anyway."

Lucretia ignored the insult, turning her back on him and walking away.

"See to washing his feet," she said to me. "I'll speak to the cook."

"Are you going to serve him his meal, mistress?"

"No. Manius will attend to him. I am going to retire to my room. Do not disturb me. I want no more of him tonight." She was shaking. Whether from fury or nerves, I could not tell.

*

I woke. It was dark. Very dark. I could hear water sluicing through the gutters and drumming on the tiles. One corner of the atrium's roof cover had come loose, the hide flap gaping open and letting in the rain.

The fire in the hearth was low, and smoke was pooling under the soot-lined rafters. Only a few lamps guttered, their oily flames unsteady with errant gusts of breeze. There was a faint scent of roses, a fragrant offering that now lay wilted before the shrine. I coughed, trying to clear the irritation in my throat.

I was reluctant to rise, cozy under my blanket. I hissed at Manius across the room to wake up and fix the cover. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, though, I realized that he had already risen from his bedroll and gone outside.

Listening to the soughing of the wind, I lay back and closed my eyelids, but then I heard a man's voice, low and urgent, drifting over the sound of the rain. My eyes flew open, realizing the prince was in the mistress' chamber.

Heart pounding, I froze, not sure whether to run to Decimus' cell at the rear of the house. Then I took a deep breath, deciding I could not delay helping the mistress, and padded barefoot to her doorway. The curtain was closed but light crept through the cracks. Nervous, I parted the drapes and peeked through.

Lucretia lay on her bed in her nightshift, her long plait loosened and tousled from sleep. Sextus was bending over her, his hand pressed against her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear as she bucked against him. "Be still, my beauty," he crooned. "I only seek to give you pleasure."

Heat prickled my skin. Without thinking, I tore the curtain aside and raced to him, tugging at the back of his long tunic. "Leave her alone!"

Against his strength I might as well have been a fly. He let go of her and swiveled around to punch me in the ribs and send me reeling to the floor. The blow radiated through me, my breath knocked from me. The pain was excruciating. I curled into a ball, fearful he might kick me.

Lucretia scrambled from the bed and bolted towards the doorway, but Sextus was nimble for so large a man. Before she could escape, he grabbed her and shoved her to the wall. I heard her grunt as her back thumped against the timber. He pinned her beneath his body, then he laid his bearded cheek against hers. She turned her head to the side, stretching away from him as much as possible.

"Hush," he whispered. "Listen to me. I will be tender if you let me. It's desire I feel not lust. Ever since I saw you I have wanted you."

His plaintive tone was at odds with his rough treatment, but it must have given the mistress hope that he could see reason. "Please, sire, don't do this. I am chaste. Your cousin's wife."

He drew back slightly and ran his finger along her cheek. "Do you think that matters? Surely you would prefer a prince?"

She swallowed hard as his hand came to rest on the base of her throat. She squirmed against him. "Let me go!"

He pressed closer. "I don't want to hurt you. Come willingly and I'll reward you. I'll give you jewels and finery. No more ugly clothes."

Disgust crossed her face. She stopped struggling. "Get your filthy Etruscan hands off me."

His back stiffened. No doubt he'd never suffered a rebuff from a woman. Nor encountered one who dared to insult him. In the dimness of the room, I could see him observing her, a frown creasing his brow. Then, to my surprise, he stepped away. Freed of his weight, the mistress pitched forward.

His eyes remained fixed upon her, studying her intently as he ran his hand along the thick leather baldric crossing his chest before coming to rest on the lion's head hilt of his dagger.

I thought the danger had passed but I was wrong. Without warning, he wrenched my lady from the wall, slapping her hard across one cheek and throwing her onto the bed. To my horror, he unsheathed the blade, leaning over her, the point hovering above her heart. "Lie with me or I'll kill you."

I staggered to my feet, holding my ribs. It hurt to take even one step but I forced myself. "Don't hurt her!"

"Get out!" He hissed at me over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from her. "Or I'll take you, too, once I've finished here."

The mistress cast an anguished glance at me, but what could I do? I edged from the chamber. Yet I could not flee. Shaking, I crouched by the doorway like a faithful dog.

Lucretia lay motionless as he loomed over her. Then, summoning strength, she lifted her head and spat in his face.

Sextus drew back in surprise before wiping his cheek to examine the spittle on his palm. He leaned forward over her again. One of his long ringlets brushed her face as he slowly wiped the saliva across her forehead, down her nose to her lips. He pressed the knife against her throat so that a bead of blood welled as he pricked the skin. "Do you truly want to die?"

I bit my lip, forcing myself not to cry out. I should have rushed to her side but I huddled frozen.

"Do it," she hissed.

I stifled a groan, disbelieving that she would taunt him. I would have lifted my hem and prayed that he was quick. Instead, Lucretia lay there, tiny, fierce and brave.

He paused at her defiance, and lowered the blade. Sweat ran down his face, dripping onto hers. The neck of his tunic was stained, perspiration darkening the fabric on his back.

At his hesitation, she propped herself on her elbows. Her eyes were hard with hate, the pitch of her voice rising, a note of madness in it. "Kill me. Or are you a coward, too?"

The force of his blow split her lip. I groaned again, loudly this time, unable to suppress sound. The prince turned, frowning. I ducked back from the doorway and hobbled to the far side of the atrium and hid behind the well. A drop of water splashed on my cheek. I looked up. Manius had fixed the hide cover across the roof but drips were still oozing through the seams.

A movement caught the corner of my eye. Decimus was standing in the passageway to the atrium. His face was ashen, his eyes fearful, a sheen of sweat coating his pate. Then he fled. I could not blame him.

"Where are you, girl!" The prince strode into the hall. The violence of his shout jarred me. I cringed closer to the stone well and waited to be dragged from my hiding place. I could barely breathe from both terror and pain.

Suddenly the outer door opened. A gust of wind swept through the atrium. The flames flared in the hearth. Manius stepped inside quickly and slammed the door closed against the sleeting rain. When he turned, he jumped in fright to see Sextus looming out of the shadows with the dagger in his hand. Dumbstruck and dripping wet, the porter cowered before him.

The Etruscan concentrated all his attention on the slave for a moment and then smiled. "Stand here and don't move," he grunted, clouting Manius across the ear. Turning on his heel, he retreated to the mistress' chamber again.

I felt faint with the reprieve, but then I shivered. The Etruscan had not finished with Lady Lucretia.

He emerged from the bedchamber, yanking the mistress by her long plait. She lurched after him, red staining her nightgown from the nick on her throat. Blood oozed from her lip. Her cheek was livid from his slap. As soon as she regained her balance, though, she straightened, dignity preserved despite her bruises.

He bent and placed the tip of the dagger under her hem, slowly drawing the cloth upwards. "Strip!"

Lucretia's gaze darted across to Manius. Here was a woman who was reluctant to be naked in front of her husband; now this brute was going to force her to bare her flesh to a slave. The porter stood paralyzed.

The mistress squared her shoulders and stepped towards her assailant. "Kill me! You said you would."

Sextus stared at her, nonplussed that a mouse would dare to bite a lion. Then he roared, clenching the neck of her shift with two hands and ripping and wrenching the gown from her. "I said, strip!"

She cried out and staggered at the violence of his handling, then hunched over trying to cover her nakedness with her hands. I glanced away, unable to bear her humiliation. Then I heard Manius whimpering in pain and I found myself watching again.

Sextus had pushed the boy to his knees before the mistress. The slave's eyes were downcast to avoid her nudity, but the prince squeezed the porter's jaw upwards to view her. Then he goaded her. "How does it feel to be naked before a servant? Do you feel shame, Lucretia? Do you feel degraded?"

The mistress crouched down, sweeping her long hair in front of her, head bowed. Sextus released Manius and squatted before her. "Imagine how mortified your husband will feel when he discovers you dead in bed with your arms entwined around this slave." He reached over and placed the flat of the blade under her chin, compelling her to look at him. "Why, Collatinus will thank me," he continued, "I will have spared him the duty of punishing you after I tell him I discovered your crime when I visited here unexpectedly. He will be grateful that I, Sextus Tarquinius, meted out justice by slitting both you and your lover's throats." He laughed. "His reputation, though, will not be spared. Cuckolded by a porter! Rome will feast on the scandal."

A tear slid down her cheek. "Why? Why would you do that to your cousin? Disgrace your kinsman? Why would you do this to me?"

He rose, towering over her, and returned the curved blade to its scabbard. "Why, that is simple. It's because I do not like to lose a wager."

She paled, jaw dropping. "You would debase me for that? Discredit Collatinus for winning a bet? You're mad!"

Sextus dragged her to standing, seizing both her arms so she could not attempt to shield herself. She looked away as he studied her, his eyes roaming over her breasts with their pink, plump nipples, and her rounded hips and buttocks. She may have been a matron but she still had the body of a maiden.

He shook her, forcing her to stand on her toes. "Look at me! You think you're so virtuous. Better than my wife. Well, tomorrow all your righteousness and piety will be forgotten. You will be remembered only for being wanton and unfaithful." He nodded towards Manius who was sniveling, urine trickling down his legs. "The blood of this boy will be on your hands, too."

Manius cast a stricken look at the mistress. She closed her eyes as though unable to bear his silent beseeching. Sextus shook her again so roughly that her head whipped backwards. "Lie with me. It is in your power to save his life, and to save your husband's name."

She opened her eyes. "Do you think Collatinus' shame is going to be any less if I agree? Do you think he would not take action against you for being an adulterer as well?"

He snorted. "Why, lovely Lucretia, you know he'd have to grow a backbone first."

Her shoulders slumped. A lump rose in my throat to see her so helpless.

The Etruscan placed his lips against her ear. "Consent," he urged in a low voice. "And let your husband turn a blind eye."

She was haggard. Winsome no longer. Her voice caught as she nodded. "Then for his sake . . ."

He released her, eyes narrowing, suspicious that she had truly conceded. He smirked. Nasty and triumphant. He reached behind his back to unbuckle his gilded belt. It thudded to the floor. Then he drew the baldric and sheathed knife over his head and tossed them onto a chair. Pulling his long tunic over his head, he stood naked and potent in front of her, the skin of his muscled body smooth and hairless, battle scars revealed beneath his waist-length locks. "Such a pity you have made this so difficult," he said, grabbing a handful of her hair. "It's time you learned respect for royalty. Get down on your knees."

*

It was dawn by the time he'd finished. He sauntered from the bedroom where he'd hauled her, not even casting a glance behind him. He was dressed as immaculately as ever. It made me feel sick to think he must have taken his time preening while his victim lay ravaged. Adjusting his cloak so it draped elegantly across his chest and over his shoulders, he strolled through the atrium, pausing at the hearth to knock over the loom. "Porter and maid. Get out here!"

Manius was crouching behind the safe. I shot him a glance from my hiding place beside the well. He was trembling, eyes panicked. I felt a clawing in my chest. It hurt to breathe as I struggled to stand, my ribs still paining me from the punch. Manius also forced himself to rise. Would the prince kill us for what we had seen?

"Forget what you saw here," Sextus snarled. "Do I make myself clear?"

Bile surged in my throat with the relief of being spared. Then I realized there was no need for him to dispense with witnesses. The king would protect him. The Tarquins were above the law.

The prince continued to glower at us as he stood before the wooden outer door with its bronze studs. "Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Open the door, then call the groom to bring me my horse!" Manius stumbled across the room to obey.

The Etruscan strode outside. My legs buckled. I steadied myself against the wellhead. Then I swallowed hard, dreading the prospect of learning what he had done to the mistress. As I hurried to her room, Decimus slunk in from the corridor. The majordomo looked tortured. "I am sorry, Alma. But what could I do?"

I shook my head. All three of us had been powerless yet I felt ashamed. "We are all guilty of failing her."

I found Lucretia on her side, stretching to reach the blood-stained sheet strewn across the end of the bed. Her face was tearstained and her voice hoarse. Her sobbing had not stopped him. She did not have the strength to sit. I doubted she would be able to walk.

"Please, Alma," she begged, "please cover me." Her pleading only heightened my shame. I had shut my eyes so I could not see him rape her, but I had heard her cries. The knowledge that Manius and I had been present at her defilement must have tormented her while suffering at his hands.

I draped her palla over her rather than use the soiled bedding. "Hush, my lady. You are safe now." I tried to remain calm, but the imprint of his fingers bruising her fair skin made my stomach churn. The wound on her throat was caked with dried blood, her face scraped from his beard. Her eye was a slit above her swollen cheek. Even after her flesh had healed, I wondered how she would ever recover.

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Tears trickled from the corner of her eyes into her hair. "I wish he had killed me. I wish I were dead."

I sat on the bed beside her and clasped her hand. It was the first time I had ever done so. Until last night neither of us would have sought such familiarity. I remained silent. Words of comfort were useless.

After a time, Lady Lucretia ceased weeping and squeezed my fingers. I was surprised at the strength of her grip. "Thank you, Alma," she said. "You were brave. He must have hurt you."

Tears pricked my eyes. I had not expected gratitude. "You were the one who was brave, my lady. I wish I could have stopped him."

"Help me up," she murmured. Still holding her hand, I assisted her to sit, plumping the pillow behind her. She winced in pain, trying to get comfortable. Even so small an effort tired her. She let go of me, her reserve returning. Her resilience and composure made me wonder if she might survive the trauma after all.

She touched the cut on her throat, then her lip, before gingerly pressing against the swelling on her cheek. "What use was our womanly courage, Alma? We were powerless against such a man." Her voice hardened. "But now is the time for men to take a stand. Have Decimus send word to my husband and father to come here. Tell them Prince Sextus has committed a crime. Tell them I must be avenged."

*

Lord Collatinus appeared puzzled when he arrived, travel-stained from his ride from Ardea, and his cloak dusty from the gallop. He had not come alone. The dullard, Brutus, was with him. At least the idiot was sober; his foolish grin absent. Valerius, an esteemed senator, had also arrived. Thin, with a receding hairline, he was clearly perturbed, a frown creasing his high forehead.

Lucretius was pacing before the hearth, wringing his hands, his shoulders stooped. He was a man in his prime, the prefect of Rome. Even though he'd brokered a marriage with Collatinus he was disdainful of him, which was two-faced given his son-in-law's royal ties had aided the magistrate to gain high office. The prefect was harsh on his daughter, too. Whenever I'd seen him with Lucretia I understood why she was as she was. Her father demanded perfection, and she always strived to achieve it. Yet finding her raped had aged him. His weathered face was harrowed beneath his shaggy thatch of grey hair.

Lucretia lay asleep on a couch brought from the dining room. She was dressed as though in bereavement, one corner of her mourning cloak thrown over her shoulder. Her face was ashen against the darkness of her clothes, her freckles stark against her pallor. I had aided her to bathe and dress her hair. Such ministrations exhausted her, but she insisted on being impeccably garbed. The disheveled, abused woman had been adamant she would greet her father and husband with dignity and pride.

Collatinus scanned his wife's swollen cheek, black eye, torn lip and the bandage on her neck. "By the gods, what happened?" Shocked, he looked across to Lucretius. "Did Sextus do this?" Grave, his father-in-law nodded. "She would not tell me everything until you arrived, but the majordomo confirmed the prince visited here alone and forced himself on her."

My lord crouched before his wife and gently touched her shoulder to wake her. Startled, her eyes flew open, cringing momentarily until she saw it was her husband. Her face relaxed, but her movements were stiff as she sat up and slid her legs over the side of the divan to sit on the edge. Collatinus tried to help her, but she held up her hand to ward him off. "Please don't touch me." She bowed her head, eyes downcast. "I am stained, husband. I have lost all honor."

Despite her cautioning him, the master cupped her chin and lifted her face to his. "I don't believe that. Tell me what happened."

She steepled her fingers. "Trust me, I did not wish to be unfaithful. I did not encourage him." She gulped back tears as she turned to her father also. "But I was weak." Again she bowed her head, her voice trailing away. "In the end, I consented."

The master frowned and rose from crouching. "What do you mean, 'consented'?"

Lucretia pointed to Manius, who was loitering near the door, his shoulders hunched. The slave still had reason to fear punishment for being an unwitting accomplice to coercion. Unexpectedly, Decimus stood beside him, his hand on the boy's shoulder. For that I was grateful. The poor youth needed support after the grueling ordeal.

"Sextus meant to harm your reputation, husband," continued Lucretia. "He was going to slay Manius and place his dead body next to my own in our bed. Proof of my transgression." She placed her hand against her husband's chest, looking up and searching his face. "Don't you see? I had no choice if I was to spare you disgrace. I could not let him take the boy's life either." There was a catch in her voice as she leaned her forehead against his breastplate. "But only my body was violated, not my heart."

Collatinus groaned. "You did that for me? To protect my name?" He laid his cheek against the top of her head. "My poor Lucretia."

The mistress pulled away and restrained him from further caresses by straightening her arm and pressing her hand against his chest. The brief moment of comfort and confession had ended. She spoke very calmly. "And now I must be punished, husband. The price for infidelity is death."

Stunned, Collatinus stared at her, then shook his head. "Don't be foolish, Lucretia. I am not going to hurt you for being raped by a tyrant. You are innocent." Once again he tried to embrace her, but she held him at bay.

Lucretius moved over to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. "You are not at fault, daughter. No man here will accuse you of adultery. It is that dog, Sextus, who must pay for his crime."

The mistress shrugged her father away and stiffly stood. Then in a dreadful echo of the night before, she pulled a knife from beneath her robes. It was a kitchen blade, plain-handled and honed sharp.

Wrapping Collatinus' hands around its hilt, she guided the point to her breast. "Take my life as is your right, husband, for I am guilty. Let me be an example to all adulterers. But let my death have purpose also. Seek vengeance for me. Take up the cause for revolt. Defeat the Etruscan oppressors who rule Rome. For if I am to die then Sextus must die too."

Collatinus dropped the knife onto the couch as though it was a snake that might bite him. "I'm not going to execute you, Lucretia."

She hooked her fingers in the edge of his breastplate, begging him. "Don't you understand? It will be a mercy, too. I can't live with what he did to me. Please kill me—and then kill him."

The master stared at her, unspeaking. I waited for his hatred for Sextus to explode; instead I saw another emotion. Apprehension. Vengeance was being demanded. Vengeance that required more courage than he possessed.

When he did not respond, she thrust him away and propped herself against the side of the couch. It was as if youth had drained from her. She covered her face with her hands.

Collatinus glanced across to Lucretius, who said nothing. The prefect also appeared wary about heeding his daughter's call to arms. He began pacing. The senator, Valerius, sank into a chair, rubbing his forehead as though he could wear away worry lines. He offered no opinion.

Brutus was regarding the mistress intently. There was something different in the oaf's demeanor. For a man who was usually restless and chattering, his stillness seemed odd.

Finally, Lucretius broke the silence as he paused beside Valerius. "What say you, my friend?"

The senator grimaced. "It is no easy thing to punish the son of the king."

At his words, Lady Lucretia dropped her hands to her sides and balled them into fists. She glared at the men, her scrutiny traveling from her husband to her father, then Brutus, before fixing her eyes on the politician. "Do you hesitate to avenge this?"

Valerius shifted uneasily. "We must not be hasty, my dear."

The mistress grabbed Collatinus' arm. "Will you do nothing to the man who has left the impress of his body in our bed—in your bed?" The master stiffened and once again looked to his companions. My own anger surfaced.

Lucretia left her husband beside the couch and hobbled to the hearth, wincing with each step she took. I marveled at her. Gone was the broken woman. Fury held her upright. She pointed to the statuettes of the household spirits. "Sextus took me in front of these gods, husband. I offered him hospitality and he repaid me with defilement. He has dishonored you and committed sacrilege!"

Next she rounded on Lucretius. "You taught me Roman virtues. I never failed to observe them until I was blackmailed. Our enemy debased me, father! The House of Lucretius must seek vengeance, too."

The prefect gestured to her to lower her voice. "Calm yourself, daughter. There is no doubt the Etruscan must be punished. But we must not act rashly."

Collatinus moved across to her. "Your father is right." He tried to guide her back to the divan. "We must be careful."

Refusing his assistance, she returned to the couch, leaving him by the hearth. She was breathing heavily. Her lip bleeding again. Dark circles beneath her unbruised eye, the other swollen shut. She rested her back against the divan to steady herself as she faced the four men, a muscle in her jaw clenching. "You are warriors and yet you hesitate? Now is your chance to liberate Rome!" When they did not respond to her challenge, her eyes narrowed. "And you call yourself men." Then she turned her back on them.

Valerius grunted, taken aback by her vehemence, while Lucretius stepped towards her, voice raised in admonishment. To my surprise, Brutus held him back. Lord Collatinus sank into a chair and leaned forward, cradling his head between his hands.

The knife still lay upon the couch where the master had dropped it. Lucretia grasped its hilt and touched the tip with her finger. A bead of blood welled. She swallowed hard. Perspiration pricked my scalp as I realised her intention. I started from the far side of the room, distracting her. She shook her head as though forbidding me to rescue her. With one hand she yanked the heavy mourning cloak from her shoulder and positioned the point upwards. She fell forward, her weight driving the blade through her heart.

I cried out. Brutus looked up first. Seeing the mistress' slumped body he shouted and grabbed Lucretius' arm. The father rushed to his daughter, turning her over. Her eyes were vacant. He pressed his fingers against her throat to check for a pulse. "No, no, no!" he moaned, hugging his blood-drenched daughter to him.

The chair grated along the tiled floor as Collatinus rose. Striding forward, he shoved his father-in-law aside to claim possession. Lucretius leaned his back against the divan and slid down its leg to the ground, closing his eyes as though to rid himself of the image of his lifeless child.

The master lifted his wife's limp body and carried her to the chair. He sank down, hugging her, kissing her face, the knife still embedded in her breast. She looked so small and peaceful. Death had returned her youth again; her brow was smooth, her face devoid of pain. I gulped back tears, thinking it tragic that the first time I'd seen the husband embrace his wife in public was when she was a corpse.

Valerius watched in shock, but Brutus remained calm, his expression stern. I had never seen resolution in his features before. He strode over to Collatinus and crouched beside him, reaching over to place his hand on his cousin's shoulder while using his other to ease the knife from Lucretia's flesh. The sodden dark cloth of her stola blackened further as blood seeped from the wound. A sob rose in the master's throat.

Brutus stood, hands bloody, and held the blade out to the bereft man. "Lucretia has showed us how to be righteous. Her body was sullied but not her virtue. She knew fear and yet found courage. She knew shame but now she has shamed us. We must rise up against the Tarquins!"

All of us stared at him, mouths agape. Where was the giggling fool? The half-wit that struggled with words? Brutus seemed to have grown in stature. His tall frame no longer stooped but upright. I had never noticed the breadth of his shoulders.

Brutus looked down at Lucretius as he sat slumped on the floor. "Get up. It's time to free Rome."

Gawking, the older man heaved himself to stand.

Valerius rose from his chair and walked over to Brutus, shoving his shoulder with one hand. "What kind of trick is this? Have you feigned stupidity all these years?"

Brutus smiled. No sign of the idiot grin. "Self-preservation encourages wiliness. I learned that from my childhood when I saw my father and brother murdered. I let my royal uncle strip my family of its riches. Became the butt of jokes. Jabbered nonsense." His smile faded "But all these years, I've been waiting. Waiting for a chance to exact retribution for my family."

For the first time I recognized how haunted this man was. He gestured towards my lady. "Her death will be the spur to revolution. Sextus believes he is above the law. He has ridiculed the gods. Here is our chance to stir rebellion. No true Roman could ignore this outrage." He held up his bloodied palm. "I call the gods to witness my pledge—that, on the pure blood of Lucretia, I swear by sword and fire to hunt down King Tarquin, his evil wife and his cursed children, and never let another tyrant rule Rome again."

Silence fell as all in the room struggled to make sense of what they were witnessing. Impatient, Brutus seized one of Collatinus' hands and placed the knife's bloodied hasp against the master's palm, folding his fingers around it and covering them with his own. 'Do you so swear, cousin?"

Collatinus stared at Lucretia as she lay in his arms. I willed him to summon courage; to not fail her. I was not disappointed. He kissed her forehead, then returned his gaze to Brutus. His voice was fervent. "I so swear."

Brutus nodded and faced the others. "Join us," he urged. "Take the oath."

Valerius placed his hand over theirs. "I so swear."

Lucretius hesitated, staring at his child. Brutus called to him. "Do you want your daughter's death to mean nothing? Stop being the despot's puppet! As prefect of Rome you will be heeded when we call for insurrection."

The father raised his eyes to meet the pretender. "Then I so swear," he said, softly. He walked over and placed his hand with the others over the blade. "I so swear," he repeated. He reached down and clasped Lucretia's hand with his other, his voice swelling. "Let us avenge her. I so swear!"

Their fervor was thrilling. For the first time that day, my spirits buoyed, knowing her death had served her purpose. I watched Collatinus rise, his wife in his arms, and bear her to the couch to lay her down. His touch was gentle as he stroked her hair. Then he signaled me to come forward. "See to her, Alma. Bathe and shroud her."

Brutus broke from the others and laid one hand on his cousin's forearm, still holding the bloodied knife. "That must wait. We need to go to the forum to rally support. The citizens of Collatia must view her body. The task of convincing them will be easier if they see the prince's crime with their own eyes."

The master shrugged him away, shaking his head. "No. I can't let her be placed on display."

The soldier seized Collatinus' arm again. "We are beyond observing proprieties, cousin. Don't you see? Lucretia should be remembered as more than a woman who has been wronged. Make her the epitome of Roman virtue. Let's ensure her rape is the catalyst for rebellion."

The master stared at him for long moments. I felt sick that he was weighing the zealot's words. "Then I will open my home to all so that she may be viewed in this atrium in dignity," he finally said. "Meanwhile her body must be prepared for her funeral."

Brutus gripped the master even harder, bringing his face close to his. "There is no time for that, Collatinus. We need to act now. Take her body to the forum. Show them her wounds."

My lord glanced across to his father-in-law. Lucretius grimaced and moved across to gaze down on his daughter. I could scarce believe the prefect was actually considering the idea.

Annoyed, Brutus turned to Valerius. "Don't you agree?"

Unlike the others, the senator did not bother grappling with his conscience. "You're right," he said. "We need to stir the people into action." He pointed to the mistress, and addressed Lucretius. "Old friend, your daughter believed in revolution. We can't fail her now for the sake of ritual."

I fought down a rising panic as I watched the father agree.

Once again the men turned to Collatinus. Once again he studied his wife. He rubbed his temple, and raked his hand through his hair. Then he raised his eyes to meet the gaze of the three conspirators and very slowly nodded his head.

It was as though I had been punched again. How could they demur to Brutus when their fingers were still sticky with her blood? How could a man who was considered an imbecile an hour ago now control all around him?

Brutus barked an order at Decimus. "Arrange for a wagon to be brought to the door." Then he clapped his hand on Collatinus' shoulder. "Let us go, cousin. Bring her corpse. Soon all Collatia will know of this tragedy. And if we are successful in rousing vengeance, we shall march on Rome!"

As the master carried Lucretia to the door I followed him, bent over from the bruising to my ribs. I tugged at his elbow, my heart racing. "Master! Please, don't do this. Please let me tend to her."

The pain in his eyes made me believe he might yet take pity on her. I was wrong. He shook his head. "I am sorry, Alma. She wanted me to avenge her. She would understand." He heaved her body higher in his arms to gain better purchase. "But you must come also. Sit with her in the cart. Look over her."

A pulse beat sharply in my temple. Once again I could not help her. I stepped back, letting Brutus and his followers stride past me into the courtyard. As I waited for Decimus to bring the wagon, Manius moved to my side. Saying nothing, he laced his fingers through mine.

*

It did not take long for a crowd to gather. Curiosity was infectious. Here was the governor of Collatia standing in the forum, his dead wife lying in a soft arc in his arms, her head lolling back, arms drooping. The master's shoulders sagged as he bore her weight and laid her on a trestle so that all could survey her. She looked so fine-boned and fragile and broken. The bruises on her face were livid against her pale skin. Her blood-saturated clothes clung to her. She was bareheaded, denied the chance to retain her modesty by covering her hair with a shawl.

Brutus was dry-eyed and sanguine. I sensed him calculating just how deeply he needed to shock the throng. Then he coolly undid the ties of Lucretia's clothes to bare her breast with its black encrusted wound. It was then I realised that she meant nothing to him. He was prepared to mistreat her body after death as coldly as the prince had abused it when she was alive.

I cried out softly at seeing her exposed. The master flinched on hearing me but made no protest. Instead he averted his eyes. His cousin now held power over him. Brutus had replaced Sextus as his leader.

"Behold the crime of the Etruscan cur," shouted Brutus. "Last night Prince Sextus raped the wife of your governor. He has defiled a virtuous woman in her home. Lady Lucretia has shown courage by taking her own life rather than live in dishonor. Now the citizens of Rome must show their valor, too."

Around me people gasped and gaped. Both at the news and the messenger. Suddenly Brutus was spouting rhetoric instead of fumbling to string sentences together. Those at the back of the crowd jostled and craned to view both the corpse and the speaker. Some women began keening. A murmur of anger swelled.

"It is time for deeds, not tears," continued Brutus. "Lucretia has shown us how a Roman must live—pious and wise, modest and frugal, tenacious but gentle. Her last words exhorted us to vengeance. Let her noble action be an example to us all. Let us seek freedom. Let us demand justice. Rise up against the oppressors. Join with me to march to Ardea and raise an army to reclaim Rome."

When the throng responded with stunned silence, he grew strident. "Citizens! Why do you hesitate? The king has reduced brave soldiers into laborers digging sewers! They have surrendered their swords and now wield shovels and pickaxes. He is bankrupting the city with his excesses. And have you forgotten the Tarquinian murdered our last monarch, or that his hateful wife rode her carriage over her own father's dead body? Do you want to remain ruled by a tyrant? Rise up! Exact revenge! Seek freedom!"

It was strange to hear Brutus give orders. Stranger still to have others heed him. Incited to fury, the mob howled, the men peeling off to fetch weapons while the fool who'd masked his cunning reveled in finally being seen as valiant and strong.

Fired by the passion of Brutus' speech, eagerness had replaced reluctance in Collatinus. He was ready to perform his duty. I could not help feeling bitter. The mistress would have been proud that he was taking a stand—but would she have forgiven him for denying her dignity in death? He signaled me to rearrange the mistress' clothes before he laid her on the tray of the wain again. I fumbled in my haste to fasten the drawstrings on her shoulder, cursing him silently. His final kiss upon his wife's cold lips was brief and rushed.

The enraged citizens soon returned to the square to commence their march. Collatinus and Brutus, the cousins who were prepared to overthrow their family, headed the makeshift force. The wealthy held their spears aloft while the lowly wielded hoes and spades, their humble farm implements now fashioned into weapons of war. Lucretius was commanded to remain in Collatia and keep order, and ensure no news reached the palace of the uprising.

The women were left to wail in the marketplace, rending their clothes and tearing at their cheeks as they gathered around Lucretia. How she would have hated all the attention. I wanted to bid the driver flick his reins and urge the donkey to take us home but I had no authority to give such a direction. Instead, my lady lay in the heat in the half-deserted forum. The faint odor of death oozed from her, competing with ripe fruit smells in the food stalls and the droppings of pack animals polluting the ground.

I waited for Lucretius to give the order for us to return home. Yet he was loath to let his daughter from his sight. He stood beside her, age weary and grief wracked. I wondered if he would ever recover from losing her. Punishing her rapist and ousting the royal family would be little comfort. No doubt his bereavement would last forever. To my surprise he leaned over and kissed her forehead before finally giving the command. The staid prefect who'd taught his daughter to display no affection had disobeyed his own rule.

Sitting beside her, I watched her lifeless body rocked and jolted as the cart passed over the ruts of the road. Memories of Sextus surfaced. I clenched my hands so hard my nails dug into my palms. I hoped the mob would clip his dangling curls before they lopped off his head and rammed it on a spike. I wished they would punish him as they would a common criminal by slicing off his manhood and stuffing it down his throat. I wanted him to wander forever tormented as a ghost. Then, and only then, would I truly believe that Lady Lucretia had been avenged.

*

Tarquin stock still rule Rome. Brutus and Collatinus have taken power, not as kings but as consuls. The monarchy is no more. The Roman Republic has been founded. For months now, Rome has been celebrating. All are heady with hope that the new government will eradicate corruption, and prevent any man from becoming a despot.

As to whether life will be better remains to be seen. The people now hail these men as saviors, but I have my reservations. How can you trust a man who has feigned imbecility in order to save his own skin, or laud another who only gained a spine after his wife shamed him into bravery? And who will be remembered for liberating Rome? Not these men, I pray. It is Lady Lucretia's name that deserves to dwell on the lips of generations yet to be born.

I cannot deny that Lucius Junius Brutus, the half-wit turned hero, was impressive in rallying the citizens of Rome. In less than two days the king and his despicable wife and sons were driven into exile, deprived of luxury and denied power. They were lucky to escape with their lives, such was the wrath of the mob. And there was rejoicing when word came that Sextus had been assassinated. He'd foolishly sought refuge in Gabii. In his arrogance, the prince expected that a people whom he'd terrorized and swindled would harbor rather than harm him.

Public retribution was achieved, but we servants suspected a private one would be meted out, too. Manius had witnessed the degradation of the mistress. To Collatinus, the slave was a party to her forced adultery. And so, as soon as the governor marched to Rome, the porter fled, taking his meager possessions and bidding farewell to no one. Deep into Sabine territory. There I prayed that he would gain protection among his tribesmen. Every now and then I think of him. I hope he found work as a farmhand. Hoisting a plow onto his shoulders and laboring from sun-up to sundown might help him forget the terror of that night.

Collatinus did not take me with him to Rome when he was appointed consul. Instead I remain in the house in Collatia. I am grateful to be spared his presence. I will never forgive him and Lucretius for making a spectacle of the mistress. Besides, I do not have Manius' nerve to escape.

Her rape haunts me. I try to push aside images of her violation but they are always lurking. Sleep eludes me until exhaustion takes over in the small hours before dawn. I sometimes wish I could bring myself to suicide as she did, to be spared a lifetime of nightmares and bad memories.

Yet sometimes, when I am in the garden, I recall her sitting back on her heels amid the scent of fragrant herbs and roses, her hands caked with fresh soil, and her straw hat on her lap. Then I feel some peace that my memories of Lucretia might not always be of a paragon of virtue or a tortured victim, but of a young girl with her face upturned to the sun.

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elisabeth Storrs has long had a passion for the history, myths and legends of the ancient world. She graduated from University of Sydney in Arts Law, having studied Classics. Her curiosity piqued by an Etruscan sarcophagus depicting a couple embracing for eternity, she discovered the little known story of the struggle between Etruscan Veii and Republican Rome and the inspiration to write the Tales of Ancient Rome series.

Endorsed by Ursula Le Guin, _The Wedding Shroud_ , was judged runner-up in the 2012 international Sharp Writ Book Awards for general fiction, and was a finalist in the 2013 _Kindle Book Review_ Best Indie Book of the Year in literary fiction. _The Golden Dice_ was named as one of the top memorable reads of 2013 by Sarah Johnson, the reviews editor for _Historical Novels Review_. The third volume, _Call to Juno_ , is currently being written.

_Dying for Rome: Lucretia's Tale_ opens _Short Tales of Ancient Rome_ , a new Elisabeth Storrs' collection investigating the legends and history of Rome from a fresh perspective.

Elisabeth would love for you to connect with her on  Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest or via her blog, Triclinium. And you are welcome to visit her website for more information on her books. And here's a link to sign up for  news and special offers including notification of new releases such as _Call To Juno,_ as well as interviews with wonderful historical fiction authors such as Kate Quinn, Gillian Bagwell and Kate Forsyth on Elisabeth's blog. Word of mouth is crucial for any author to succeed, therefore, if you enjoyed _Dying for Rome: Lucretia's Tale_ , please consider writing a review at the point of purchase. A line or two can make a big difference and is much appreciated.

# CAST

Lucretia: Roman matron, wife of Collatinus, daughter of Lucretius

Alma: Sabine slavewoman

Lucius Tarquinius _Collatinus_ : Husband of Lucretia, cousin of Sextus

_Sextus_ Tarquinius: Etruscan prince of Rome, son of King Tarquin the Proud

Lucius Junius _Brutus_ : Roman patrician, nephew of King Tarquin the Proud

Spurius _Lucretius_ Tricipitinus: Prefect of Rome, father of Lucretia

Manius: Sabine slaveboy and porter

Decimus: Majordomo of Collatinus' house

Publius _Valerius_ Publicola: Roman senator

Lucius _Tarquinius Superbus_ : King of Rome known as Tarquin the Proud

Tullia: Wife of Tarquin the Proud

Italicized names are used more commonly than full titles.

# GLOSSARY

_Ardea_ : A town of ancient Latium (modern province of Lazio) located 35 kilometers to the south of Rome. It was the capital of the Rutuli people, an indigenous Latin tribe. Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, the third Etruscan king of Rome, laid siege to the town in 510 BCE according to the Roman historian, Livy. This campaign ended when Lucius Junius Brutus rode to Ardea after Lucretia's rape and rallied the Roman army to rebel against the Tarquins.

_Atrium_ : A large central hall with a roof opening which acted as the focal point of a Roman house. A shrine to the household spirits was located beside the hearth fire. In early times, the roof opening sloped outwards to allow water to drain off into gutters and flow into a cistern through pipes. In later times, the roof was designed to slope inwards to allow rain to fall directly into an ornamental trough below the opening.

_Baldric_ : A wide belt worn over the shoulder which crossed the chest diagonally from which a sword was suspended.

_Breastplate_ : Body armor covering the front and back of the upper torso made from metal, leather or stiffened linen.

_Circus Maximus_ : A vast chariot racing stadium located in the valley between the Aventine and Palatine Hills in Rome. The first Etruscan king of Rome, Lucius Tarquinius Priscus, was reputed to have commenced its construction with its completion occurring during the reign of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus.

_Collatia_ : A town in ancient Latium located 15 kilometers to the north east of Rome. Livy reports the town was occupied by the Sabines but was later conquered by Lucius Tarquinius Priscus. The king placed his nephew, Egerius, to control the garrison there. Egerius' son, Collatinus (Lucretia's husband), continued in that position.

_Distaff_ : A tool used in spinning designed to hold the unspun fibers so as to avoid them tangling. Fiber is wrapped around the distaff and tied in place with a piece string.

_Etruscans_ : There is debate as to the origins of the Etruscan people. Some modern historians contend they were indigenous to Italy while others give credence to the claim of the Greek historian, Herodatus, that the Etruscans migrated from Asia Minor (modern day Turkey). The Etruscan people populated cities throughout the modern regions of Umbria, Emilia-Romagna, Tuscany, Lazio and part of Campania. At its height, the Etruscan trading empire extended across the Mediterranean and also dominated routes stretching from the Black Sea to northern Africa (see Author's Note).

_Fillet:_ Bands of wool that a Roman matron would plait into her hair. They were a symbol of a female married Roman citizen as was the _stola_.

_Forum_ : A centrally located open area in a town or city that served as a public gathering place or market. In Rome, the forum was the flat area between the Capitoline and Palatine Hills where large public meetings and religious ceremonies were held.

_Gabii_ : An ancient city of Latium located 18 kilometers due east of Rome. There is dispute as to whether its inhabitants were an indigenous Latin tribe or from an earlier Italic people. Lucius Tarquinius Superbus brought Gabii under his jurisdiction. Later, after that town reneged on a treaty, Superbus sent his son, Sextus, to infiltrate the ranks of the political and military leadership and gain control (see Author's Note).

_Great Temple of Jupiter_ : This temple was the most important temple in Rome, located on the Capitoline Hill. It was dedicated to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the best and greatest god in the Roman pantheon.

_Greaves_ : Armor that could protect either the shins only or the entire leg to the thigh depending on the wealth of the soldier.

_Majordomo_ : The most senior person of a household staff of a large Roman residence.

_Palla_ : A long, rectangular-shaped cloak worn by Roman women. It could be wrapped around the body and thrown over one shoulder or drawn over the head and was associated with Roman matrons.

_Patrician/s_ : Wealthy landowners of noble birth who traced their ancestry to the original founders of Rome and claimed to have "divine" blood.

_Prefect_ : In the early Roman Republic, a prefect was a magistrate or official of the city who was appointed by the consuls to act in their absence. Livy states Lucretius (Lucretia's father) was the prefect of Rome but it is unlikely such an official would have similar authority during the regal period.

_Sabines_ : There is debate as to the origins of the Sabines, a tribe situated in the north east of Latium. Some claim they were an indigenous Italic tribe while others postulate they migrated from Greece. Legend tells that the Sabines of the Quirinal Hill and the Romans from the Palatine Hill united to populate the nascent city of Rome after the rift caused by the abduction of the Sabine women was settled. Thereafter Titus Tatius, the leader of the Sabines, ruled jointly with Romulus, the first king of Rome. There were also two Sabine kings elected to rule Rome: Numa Pompilius and Ancus Marcius. Despite the union of the adjacent Sabine tribe with the Romans, there were other Sabine towns in Latium that remained resistant to Roman subjugation.

_Senate_ : An advisory council consisting of ex-magistrates in Rome.

_Senator_ : A member of the Roman Senate.

_Spindle_ : A tapered rod on which fibers are spun by hand into thread.

_Stola_ : A long, sleeveless, pleated dress worn over a tunic. It was fastened at the shoulders with brooches and worn with two belts, one beneath the breasts, and the other around the waist. The stola and woolen hair fillets were the symbols of a married female Roman citizen.

_Warp weights_ : Small weights made of clay or stone that are attached to the ends of the warp threads on a loom so that the spun threads don't untwist.

# AUTHOR'S NOTE

The legends of Rome's early history are brutal, troubled and dark. Some are also inspirational. Lucretia's tale is an illustration of this.

The fable of the doomed matron has been handed down to us through Roman and Greek historians such as Livy, Plutarch and Dionysius of Halicarnassus. In relating Lucretia's tale, I chose to adapt Livy's version as set out in _The Early History of Rome_ , Book 5, translated by A. de Selincourt, Penguin Books, London, 1971, with some variations and twists of my own. However, it should be noted that Livy wrote his _History of Rome_ centuries after the events he describes, and without access to primary sources. Accordingly, readers should recognize that the romantic exploits of the characters in Book 5 do not reflect the true history of that city.

Having said this, the dramatic stories of dark deeds, love and power are hard to resist. What intrigues me further about the foundation stories is that significant political change against oppressive rulers often eventuated as the response to the unjust death of a woman. As such, the ravaged and self-sacrificing Lucretia is depicted by Livy as being the catalyst for revolution rather than an instigator of reform in her own right. Nevertheless, I have chosen to depict her as exhorting both insurrection as well as personal vengeance based on her challenge to her father and husband: "He [Sextus] . . . came as my enemy disguised as my guest, and took his pleasure of me. That pleasure will be my death—and his, too, if you are men" (Livy, 1.59, p. 99). Those four words, "if you are men", are telling. Rape was a capital crime. As such, Lucretius and Collatinus had the right to lawfully take retribution against Sextus. Killing a prince of the Tarquinian royal house, however, was far more problematic, and required considerable courage. Given no Roman man had been brave enough to rebel against the Etruscan tyrants, Lucretia's taunt was powerful and defiant.

A woman choosing to take her own life after being forced into adultery through rape seems strange to a modern reader. To understand Lucretia's motive, it is necessary to understand the concept of a 'blood taint' in Roman customary laws. A woman was expected to be chaste if she was a maiden, and faithful if she was a wife. In theory, a husband or father was entitled to kill their wife or daughter if she had an affair. They could also kill them if they deemed a woman's honor had been sullied regardless of whether she was innocent or guilty of the act that may have constituted her 'corruption'. This covered the spectrum from a girl being discovered alone with a man without a chaperone to the commission of a rape. Once a woman's sexual purity had been compromised her blood became 'tainted'. However, it is my understanding that occurrences where a father or husband exacted such punishment were rare. Lucretia's belief in observing Roman morality was so fervid she was prepared to ignore the mercy and forgiveness granted by Collatinus and Lucretius. In her own words, her purpose for suicide was to "provide a precedent for unchaste women [never] to escape what they deserve" (Livy, 1.5, p. 99).

Those who have read the _Tales of Ancient Rome_ series will be aware of my passion for the Etruscans. When ancient Italy is mentioned most think of Rome as the dominant culture. Yet the Etruscans had built a sophisticated and extensive civilization well before the insular Romans were fighting turf wars with other Latin tribes such as the Sabines. In fact, at its height, Etruria and its settlements extended throughout the modern regions of Umbria, Emilia-Romagna, Tuscany, Lazio and parts of Campania, and also dominated trade routes stretching from the Black Sea to northern Africa.

The Etruscans were enlightened and cosmopolitan, and their women were afforded education, high status and independence. As a result, their society was often described as wicked by Greek and Roman historians, whose cultures repressed women. Etruscan wives dined with their husbands at banquets and drank wine. In such commentators' eyes, this liberal behavior may well have equated with depravity. Hence we have Livy's disdain for the "wives of the royal princes . . . enjoying themselves with a group of young friends at a dinner-party, in the greatest luxury" (Livy, 1.57, p. 98), whereas Lucretia was found late at night "in the hall of her house, surrounded by her busy maid-servants . . . hard at work by lamplight upon her spinning" (Livy, 1.57, p. 98).

The Etruscans did not conquer Rome in order to rule there. In fact, one of the reasons for Rome's eventual domination of Etruria was because of a failure of the individual Etruscan city states to make a concerted effort to stand together to defeat their enemy. As such there was no independent Etruscan nation (even though the territory in which the cities were situated was called Etruria), but a number of cities who independently sued for peace with, or waged war against, Rome. Historical evidence suggests, however, that small groups of Etruscans from different cities migrated to Rome during the regal period and became integrated. Accordingly, the Etruscan kings from Tarquinia gained power due to an apparent ability for influential men from alien cities to acquire the favor of Roman senatorial factions in royal elections. A similar election of foreigners to the monarchy had already occurred earlier in Roman history. There were two Sabine kings chosen after a nearby hill settlement amalgamated with Rome following the infamous "rape of the Sabine women". Despite this union of adjacent Roman and Sabine tribes, there were other Sabine towns situated in the mountainous country north east of Rome that continued to defy the Romans until all were finally annexed in 290 BCE.

The adverse reputation of the Etruscan kings is due in part to the fact there is no extant body of Etruscan literature that enables us to judge the other side of the story. In effect, the conquerors of Etruria wrote about Etruscan history with all the prejudices of the victor over the vanquished. Additionally, elements of Greek myths about oppressors were fashioned to fit the lives of the Tarquins as a way to discredit them. As a result, the first king, Lucius Tarquinius Priscus, is depicted as an opportunist who, through trickery, denied the sons of the Sabine King Ancus Marcius the chance to be elected. Livy does praise Priscus, however, for introducing considerable senatorial and military reforms while conducting successful wars against other Latin tribes (it was under his reign that Collatia was subjugated). He also commenced public works that were to transform Rome from a township of mud huts into a city of considerable splendor.

The second Etruscan king, Servius Tullius, is treated well by Livy even though his ascension to the throne was accompanied by some chicanery and magic. Servius Tullius was popular, fair and far-sighted. His greatest achievement was to instigate reforms that established a political and military class structure based on wealth, including the introduction of a census. Unfortunately, his relatively peaceful reign was to end in bloodshed and ignominy with the machinations of the ambitious Lucius Tarquinius Superbus (the Proud) and Servius' own daughter, Tullia. The account of their ascension to the throne is labyrinthine and contains further borrowings from Greek myths. Hungry for power, these two were reputed to have committed fratricide and sororicide in order to marry each other. Tarquin later flung the hapless King Servius Tullius down the steps of the Senate House where assassins waited to murder him. Tullia then proceeded to drive her carriage over her father's dead body and deny him funeral rites. Their deeds were not to go unpunished, though, as Livy presages: "Blood from the corpse stained her clothes and spattered the carriage, so that a grim relic of the murdered man was brought by those gory wheels to the house where she and her husband lived. The guardian gods of that house did not forget; they were to see to it, in their anger at the bad beginning of the reign, that as bad an end should follow" (Livy, 1.48, p. 88).

We will never know the true nature of the last king of Rome, but King Tarquin the Proud and his sons are destined to be painted as villains for the foreseeable future. On more than one occasion, Livy claims Superbus used subterfuge to gain control of other Latin settlements. These ploys echo tales of similar perfidy employed by Greek autocrats. One such ruse was when Tarquin sent Sextus to Gabii, a Sabine town, on the pretense that his son had fallen out with his father and sought refuge from paternal cruelty. Sextus then inveigled his way into power within the Gabii political council and eventually led its army. Ultimately, he sent a messenger to Superbus asking for advice as to what further action he should take. The king did not utter a single word to the herald; instead he walked into the garden and began lopping off poppyheads with a stick. Sextus took this to be a signal that he should execute the most prominent men in Gabii—a drastic and murderous instance of "tall poppy syndrome".

According to Livy, Superbus also decimated the senatorial ranks in Rome through execution or exile. Nevertheless, the historian is prepared to attest that Tarquin was an effective general who captured and reorganized the Latin League (archeological evidence points to a period of regional consolidation as well). Superbus is also reputed to have completed the public works commenced under Priscus such as the Great Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill, and the Circus Maximus. This achievement is undermined by Livy in his assertion that the king's use of veterans to labor on buildings, sewers and drains aroused discontent, as did Tarquin's excessive spending, thereby sowing the seeds of revolution. The ejection of the Etruscan kings from Rome by way of a single act of rebellion is unlikely, though. Modern historians are more inclined to conjecture that the rising influence of the Roman citizen-army led to increased pressure on the monarchy to change to a more democratic form of government.

The "heroes" of the Republican revolution are also fascinating to examine. Again, there are no extant sources to confirm the true circumstances of the manner in which Lucius Junius Brutus and Lucius Tarquinius Collatinus were elected as the inaugural consuls of Rome (their names appear at the top of a "List of Consuls" preserved by Roman annalists from early times). I find it extremely interesting that these men were not pure-bred Romans but from Etruscan stock. According to the legend, they were close blood relations to Tarquin the Proud: Brutus was Tarquin's nephew on the maternal side while Collatinus was his cousin on the paternal side. Lacking the surname "Tarquinius" was to prove advantageous to the wily and ambitious Brutus (meaning "dullard"). After he and Collatinus had established the Republic, Brutus ruthlessly turned on his cousin by spreading a fear campaign that the threat of tyranny remained while a leader of Rome still bore the royal Tarquinian name. Poor Tarquinius Collatinus was forced to resign. Among those who turned against him was none other than his father-in-law, Lucretius. Fearful that he would be publically disgraced, and his property confiscated, Lucretia's ill-fated husband went into voluntary exile, with Valerius being elected consul in his place. All others who bore the Tarquin name were also banished.

Brutus' unflinching belief in the Republic was no more chillingly evident than when he condemned his two sons to death for being party to a conspiracy to restore Superbus to the throne. As consul, Brutus had the power to reduce their sentences, but instead he ordered their execution then presided over their punishment: the youths were stripped, tied to a stake, flogged and then beheaded. This action has been both lauded and censured by ancient commentators. Livy sees him as a man prepared to place the good of the state over duty to his own family, whereas the Greek historian Plutarch is more critical of such an excessive act. "But that ancient Brutus was of a severe and inflexible nature, like steel of too hard a temper, and having never had his character softened by study and thought, he let himself be so far transported with his rage and hatred against tyrants, that, for conspiring with them, he proceeded to the execution even of his own sons" (Plutarch, _The Parallel Lives_ , Vol. VI, Loeb Classical Library edition, Cambridge, MA and London, translated by Bernadotte Perrin, 1918).

As for the fate of Tarquinius Superbus, he and his remaining two sons, Titus and Arruns, (Sextus was assassinated by the Gabii) fled to the Etruscan city of Caere (modern day Cerveteri), and there gained allies to raise a force to march on Rome. One such army was from Veii, an Etruscan city situated only twelve miles across the Tiber from Rome. The see-sawing hostilities between Veii and Rome are too lengthy to set out here, but the war to reinstate Tarquin (unsuccessfully) was to kindle an enmity between Veii and Rome that would last another hundred years.

My _Tales of Ancient Rome_ series explores a ten-year siege that finally erupts between those cities in 406 BCE. I was inspired to write _The Wedding Shroud_ and _The Golden Dice_ after I found a photo of a 6th-century BCE sarcophagus upon which a husband and wife were sculpted in a pose of affection. The image of the lovers, known as "The Married Couple", intrigued me. What ancient culture acknowledged women as equals to their husbands? Or exalted marital fidelity with such open sensuality? Discovering the answer led me to the decadent and mystical Etruscans, and gave me the idea of creating a couple from opposing worlds whose love must transcend not only war between their cities but withstand the pressures of conflicting moralities, allegiances and beliefs.

So who is remembered more? The virtuous Lucretia or the cunning but courageous Brutus? After all, both gave their lives for Rome. Brutus was killed in battle fighting Prince Arruns Tarquinius when "the two met with extreme violence . . . intent only to strike his enemy down . . . the spear of each [driving] clean through his adversary's shield deep into his body, and both fell dying to the ground" (Livy, 2.6, p. 112). As a result of this sacrifice, a statue was erected on the Capitoline Hill depicting Brutus the Liberator standing with his sword unsheathed. Alas, no mention is made of a monument to Lucretia. Yet it gives me satisfaction to know that her name is perhaps more famous than the men who avenged her. The tragic matron has not been forgotten. Her name lives on in literature, poetry and art.

# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks and much love to my husband, David, for supporting me in my writing; and to my wonderful sons, Andrew and Lucas, who ground me in my family life.

A big thank you to Catherine Taylor, for agreeing to edit yet another of my works; and for the talented Lance Ganey for designing the beautiful cover. Once again I appreciate the feedback of the patient members of my writing group: Cecilia Rice, Marilyn Harris, Katherine Delaney and Margaret Rice. Thanks also to Mary Louisa Locke and Rebecca Lochlann for acting as beta readers and wonderful advisers.

# TALES OF ANCIENT ROME

If you enjoyed Dying for Rome: Lucretia's Tale, you might like to read _The Wedding Shroud_ and _The Golden Dice,_ the first and second books in the Tales of Ancient Rome series.

Researched and written over a period of fifteen years, _The Wedding Shroud_ and its sequel, _The Golden Dice_ , vividly describe the world of Etruria, a fantastic civilization ultimately destroyed by Rome but which heavily influenced its conqueror's culture from republican into imperial times. The third volume, _Call To Juno_ , is currently being written.

_The Wedding Shroud_ was judged runner-up in the 2012 international Sharp Writ Book Awards for general fiction, and was a finalist in the 2013 _Kindle Book Review_ Best Indie Book of the Year in literary fiction. _The Golden Dice_ was named as one of the top memorable reads of 2013 by Sarah Johnson, the reviews editor for _Historical Novels Review_.

There is an excerpt from _The Wedding Shroud_ at the end of _Dying for Rome: Lucretia's Tale_.

# The Wedding Shroud

"All the drama and sensuality expected of an historical romance, plus a sensitivity to the realities of life in a very different time and world . . ."

Ursula Le Guin

"Elisabeth Storrs gives us a complex heroine, grappling with issues of spirituality and culture in ways that are non-cliché and refreshing."

Elizabeth Jane, _Historical Novels Review_

In 406 BC, to seal a tenuous truce, the young Roman Caecilia is wedded to Vel Mastarna, an Etruscan nobleman from the city of Veii. The fledgling Republic lies only twelve miles across the Tiber from its neighbor, but the cities are from opposing worlds so different are their customs and beliefs. Leaving behind a righteous Rome, Caecilia is determined to remain true to Roman virtues while living among the sinful Etruscans. Instead she finds herself tempted by a hedonistic culture which offers pleasure and independence to women as well as an ancient religion that gives her a chance to delay her destiny. Yet Mastarna and his people also hold dark secrets and, as war looms, Caecilia discovers that Fate is not so easy to control and that she must finally choose where her allegiance lies.

Exploring themes of sexuality, destiny versus self-determination and tolerance versus prejudice, The Wedding Shroud is historical fiction at its best which vividly brings Ancient Rome and Etruria to life while accenting the lives of women in ancient history.

# The Golden Dice

"Skillfully plotted and with vividly drawn characters, The Golden Dice is a suspenseful, romantic, exciting drama . . ."

Sherry Jones, Author, _Four Sisters, All Queens_

"The novel interweaves scenes of domesticity with those of politics, war, religious observances, and love and brings them all to life beautifully; none of these elements overwhelms the others."

Sarah Johnson. _Historical Novels Review_ reviews editor

During a ten year siege between two age-old enemies, three women follow very different paths to survive:

Caecilia forsakes Rome to return to the Etruscan Vel Mastarna, exposing herself to the enmity of his people and the hatred of the Romans who consider her a traitoress . . .

Semni, a reckless Etruscan girl, becomes a servant in the House of Mastarna, embroiling herself in schemes that threaten Caecilia's children and her own chance for romance . . .

Pinna, a tomb whore, uses blackmail to escape her grim life and gain the attention of Rome's greatest general, choosing between her love for him and her loyalty to another . . .

In this second volume in the _Tales of Ancient Rome_ series, the lives of women in war are explored together with the sexuality and politics of Roman and Etruscan cultures, two great civilizations of ancient history.

# THE WEDDING SHROUD

# BY

# ELISABETH STORRS

# EXCERPT

# PROLOGUE

Her whole world was orange.

Shifting her head to one side, feeling the weight of the veil, hearing it rustle, her eyes strained to focus through the fine weave.

Orange. The vegetable smell of the dye had been faint when she first donned the wedding veil, but now its scent filled her nostrils and mouth, the cloth pressing against her face as she walked to where the guests were waiting.

The atrium was crowded. So many people. Shaking, legs unsteady, Caecilia found she needed to lean against her Aunt Aurelia. Through the haze of the veil she could barely make out the faces of the ten official witnesses or that of the most honored guest, the chief pontiff of Rome.

And she could not see Drusus. Perhaps he could not bear to witness her surrender.

"Stand straight, you're too heavy," hissed her aunt, pinching the girl's arm.

Biting her lip, Caecilia was led forward. The groom stood before the wedding altar, ready to make the nuptial offering. Her Uncle Aemilius smiled broadly beside him.

Aunt Aurelia, acting as presiding matron, deposited her charge with a flourish, then fussed with the bride's tunic. She was reveling in the attention and smiled vacuously at her guests, but the girl was aware that, for so crowded a room, silence dominated.

Drawing back her veil, Caecilia gazed upon the stranger who was to become her husband. To her surprise, his black hair was close-cropped and he was beardless. She was used to the long tresses of the men of Rome—and their odor. This man smelled differently; the scent of bathwater mixed with sandalwood clung to his body.

Head bowed, she tried in vain to blot out his existence no more than a handbreadth from her side, but she need not have bothered. He made no attempt to study either her face or form.

"The auspices were taken at sunrise," declared Aemilius. "The gods confirm the marriage will be blessed."

Bride and groom sat upon chairs covered with sheepskin and waited while the pontiff offered spelt cake to Jupiter.

There was a pause as they stood and circled the altar, then the priest signaled Aurelia to join the couple's hands.

Caecilia wished she could stop shaking. She had to be brave. She had to be dignified. But her body would not obey her. She was still quaking when Aurelia seized her right hand roughly and thrust it into the groom's.

The warmth and strength of his grip surprised her. Her palm was clammy and it occurred to her that her hand would slip from his grasp. Slowly, she turned to face him. He was old; lines of age plowed his forehead and creased his eyes. He must be nearly two score years. What was he like, this man? Her husband?

Aware that she should be making her vows to him in silence, she instead prayed fervently that the gods would take pity and not make her suffer too long or too hard in his keeping.

His hand still encompassed hers. Before releasing her fingers, he squeezed them slightly, the pressure barely perceptible. She held her breath momentarily, amazed that the only mark of comfort she had received all day had been bestowed upon her by a foe.

She scanned his face. His eyes were dark and almond-shaped, like the hard black olives from her aunt's pantry. His skin was dark, too, sun dark. A jagged scar ran down one side of his nose to his mouth.

He was far from handsome.

His toga and tunic were of a rich dark blue making all stare at him for a difference other than his race. Yet his shoulders were held in a martial pose, no less a man for his gaudiness, it seemed, than the Roman patricians around him in their simple purple-striped robes. And the bridal wreath upon his head could have been a circlet of laurel leaves, a decoration for bravery, not nuptials.

A golden bulla hung around his neck, astounding her. For a man did not wear such amulets once he'd stepped over the threshold to manhood. Only children wore such charms in Rome. He wore many rings, too, but one in particular was striking. Heavy gold set with onyx. No Roman would garland himself with so much jewelry.

There was one other thing that was intriguing, making her wonder if his people found it hard to bid farewell childhood. His arms and his legs seemed hairless, as if they had been shaven completely.

Perfumed, short-cropped hair, no beard. Caecilia truly beheld a savage.

Once again she steeled herself, repeating silently: "I am Aemilia Caeciliana. Today I am Rome. I must endure."

# CHAPTER ONE

# 407 BC

All Romans feed on ambition. Like Romulus and Remus nuzzling greedily at the dugs of the she wolf. Lucius Caecilius was no different. Tugging on one teat for personal profit while gorging on another for public gain.

His daughter did not know this.

To Caecilia, her Tata was a champion of the people. One of ten tribunes empowered to veto unjust laws. The highest office a commoner could hold.

In a world riven by a bitter class war he had succeeded in marrying a patrician. His bride did not welcome the marriage, though, forever after hating her brother, Aemilius, for brokering the union.

Living on her husband's estate, away from the city of Rome, Aemilia bore the shame of her marriage in seclusion by refusing to greet other matrons who sought to visit.

Caecilia's memories of her mother were distant for the patrician woman cloistered herself within the rambling country house, and when confronted with her child looked disappointed, almost perturbed, that the proof of Aemilius' betrayal still lived and breathed and had taken form as a little girl.

Humiliation formed a canker both within and upon Aemilia's breast, and she lay in a darkened chamber brimming with stuttering coughs, rasping breaths and resentment. The air was heavy with the bittersweet scent of the hypericum oil she rubbed upon her sores that left a bright red stain as if to declare she could never be cured. To Caecilia, even the slightest hint of such an odor would forever more return her to that fetid room, assaulting all her senses. All except for one. All except for touch.

One day, though, Aemilia pressed a fascinum into her daughter's hand, a tiny phallus crafted from bone and tipped in iron. "To keep away the evil eye," she whispered. "You, most of all, will need it."

Such a gesture of concern caused confusion in the child as to whether her mother wished to protect her or thought she was already cursed.

While Aemilia lived, Lucius resided in the city, visiting rarely, always anxious to escape his wife's chilly reserve. And so, knowing nothing else than her mother's disdain and her father's diffidence, the young Caecilia learned to hide in shadowy corners away from the servants. For she soon understood from listening to their gossip that they saw her neither as a patrician nor even a plebeian but only as a brat.

Lonely and silent, she became invisible, only finding happiness when she could slip from dimness into sunlight to trace on foot the limits of her father's land, tying woolen puppets to the boundary stones to remind the spirits to remember and protect her.

*

When Aemilia died there was relief. An observation of duty. Nothing more. No tears. Tata hired mourners for that. Ashes caking their faces and hair. Keening.

Freed of the gloom of that oppressive household, the little girl ran wild, dressed in dark blue mourning clothes but not grieving, using only oil and the scrape of iron strigil to keep clean, hair uncombed, chores left unattended, and wondering now and then whether she should weep.

Seeing Tata's reaction to his wife's death did not help her uncertainty. On the day her mother died, Lucius hesitated before placing his lips over Aemilia's, as though uncomfortable that he should inhale her dying soul with such a kiss.

*

Not long after the funeral, Caecilia ran into Tata's study to escape the rain leaking from under the atrium roof covers. Discovering in her father's domain a feast long denied her, the ten-year-old raided its secrets as hungrily as she plundered his beehives for honey, intrigued by scrolls that slithered and curled into rolls when she played with them, or wax tablets upon which words or numbers could be etched.

Summoned by his steward, Lucius was startled to find his wayward daughter guiltily handling his books as though she were a thief caught in his wine cellar.

To her surprise he did not chide her. Instead, father and daughter came to an understanding. Lucius' fingers were crippled by an affliction that made his joints gnarled and his flesh frozen with pain. It had become hard for him to hold a stylus without splattering ink or digging unwanted strokes onto a fresh page. And so he taught Caecilia to read and write, telling her the laws of their people and reciting unwritten customs in long, worn sentences. And in time she wrote his letters and read aloud to him when eyesight and candlelight were both failing.

Amid the tablets and scrolls, bills and invoices, inventories and manuals, Caecilia gained an education that would have been reserved for a son: religion and law, arithmetic and history.

She gained his love as well.

Each night, after she'd ground a salve of calendula by mortar and pestle, she'd massage his gnarled and tortured knuckles, smoothing the pungent ointment into his skin. And always, while she did so, he'd lace his crippled fingers between hers and murmur: "My honey-eyed child, what would I do without you?"

*

Tata was wealthy. Being plebeian did not preclude riches. Riches built upon salt.

When given the chance, Caecilia would hungrily savor the grains sprinkled from the heavy saltcellar upon the table, sometimes pouring the precious particles onto the oak and making finger trails. And a supply was always certain because Tata owned a concession to a salt mine, a treasure trove at the mouth of the Tiber seized from the enemy city of Veii many years ago.

Despite possessing a fortune, Lucius lived humbly and was generous to the people, never forgetting it was they he represented in the forum. Yet he could not always help them.

On the few occasions when Tata took Caecilia to the village she would sit safely within the confines of his carriage while he went about his business. For he treated her as a patrician virgin, forbidding her to drink wine and vigilantly guarding her virtue. By thirteen she was old enough to wed; her potential to marry an aristocrat valuable. Tata did not want such a chance threatened by a plebeian suitor. He wanted a grandchild that would be three-quarters patrician. Nobility by degrees.

One day, when peeping through the gap in the carriage curtains, Caecilia saw a man in the square fettered in chains. Filth was spattered across his tunic, remnants of missiles lobbed at him by village urchins. The skin of his face and arms was burned, blisters forming, hair and beard caked with dirt. He looked hungry and thirsty and defeated, his humiliation heavier than his bonds.

A young girl stood beside him. It was not his daughter, wearing as she was the stola overdress of a matron. She carried a baby in her belly and one upon her hip. The little boy was screaming; cheeks red, his mouth so wide with sound it seemed he'd forgotten to take a breath. His mother, face lined and eyes weary, ignored him. She was too busy feeding her husband a watery gruel. He gulped it down, almost choking in his haste to take a mouthful.

Caecilia tugged at Tata's sleeve. "Who is he?"

"A soldier who has fallen into debt. He's been chained there for nearly two months waiting for the magistrate to pass final judgment."

Caecilia stared at the veteran. "He is a citizen?"

Lucius frowned and sighed. "Rome has many enemies, Cilla. Volscians in the south, Aequians in the east and the sleeping threat of the Veientanes in the north. And so to defend our city our citizens march out to war in spring and only return in winter to plow and sow their land. While they are away their wives and children must see to the harvest which grows ever meager with each passing year of drought. Debts accrue. Men return to impatient creditors. And so warriors who have not already sacrificed their lives return to forfeit their liberty instead."

"And if he cannot pay his debts?"

Lucius carefully closed the curtains. "He will become a bondsman, Cilla. Or his new master could do as the Laws of the Twelve Tables permit and sell him across the Tiber to become a slave."

"And his wife and children?"

"I will do what I can but the girl must hope her family will support her."

"And if you were a judge, could you help him?"

She felt him tense. "I'm afraid only patricians can be magistrate, judge or consul. To take office you need to light a sacred flame. A man must have holy blood to do that. And so, because no plebeian can claim a lineage to the gods, no plebeian will ever sit upon a magistrate's ivory chair or thereafter don the purple-bordered toga of a senator in the Curia."

Caecilia leaned against him so that her cheek was warmed by the soft wool of his cloak, bewildered by such injustice. "So a commoner will never govern Rome?"

Tata gently grasped her fingers. "Cilla, don't you understand? That is why you are the future of this city, my own little patrician, proof that holy and mundane can merge. When there are more born like you all of Rome will feel the trickle of the divine within their veins and then no one can claim greater rights to power than another."

Caecilia smiled, puffed with pride at hearing she had such purpose. Then uncertainty filled her. Just what part of her was godly? Her toes or elbows? Chin or shoulders? Some awkward part, no doubt. Gracefulness did not seem to have been ordained. And if indeed she possessed such blood, how was it that the servants scowled at her and even the cat would not heed what she said? Whatever doubts she had about herself, though, did not stop her believing in her father.

Yet over time, as gossip drifted on city breezes from the forum, it slowly dawned on her that Tata no longer held office as a tribune of the people, and that his world had shriveled, like his once-strong hands, to the confines of his farm.

*

Years later, on a night so cold the wind howled through the atrium's blackened rafters, Caecilia learned of Tata's true ambitions.

On that night, when Marcus Furius Camillus came to call, wearing a thick woolen toga edged in purple, the charcoal and flame flared within the hearth, making her wonder if he would douse the fire or fan it with his fervor.

"What brings you to the country on such a night, senator," asked Lucius, drawing aside the curtain to the doorway of his study, "when you could be warming yourself in the Curia's heated debate?"

Caecilia followed closely behind Tata and the patrician. She could smell the faint odor of urine and sulfur used to clean his robes. His hands were strong and handsome compared to her father's, and he wore a gold signet ring, a touch of flamboyance for a society used to wearing iron.

Scanning the pile of books that lay scattered on the floor of the study, Camillus turned his attention briefly to her. "Your daughter should be married, Lucius, not straining her eyes on reading."

Tata nodded to Caecilia in dismissal as he led the senator to his study. The gesture was gentle but it was as though she had been slapped, reminding her of what a woman's place should be—would be—if not for his indulgence. She made a show of gathering up the scrolls to delay a moment longer.

"I came here to speak of war," Camillus said.

Lucius seemed puzzled. "Which war? Against the Volscians or the Aequians?"

"Why, against Veii, of course," he said, glaring at Caecilia for still loitering. "The murderers of our kinsmen and the coveters of Rome's salt mines."

Caecilia's eyes widened. The ruthlessness and treachery of the Veientanes could never be forgotten. They had killed Tata's brothers and many other Romans before the present treaty was signed. Knowing this she frowned as she left the study wondering if the Etruscans planned to steal the salt mines that were prized as though the white stuff were gold.

Pausing behind the bronze safe beside the doorway, she glanced back inside. Camillus was limping slightly as he paced the room, legacy of a Volscian spear thrust in his thigh, proof also of glory gained when very young.

"You talk of war with Veii," said Lucius, "and yet this wretched truce is still on foot."

The senator loomed closer to the door causing the girl to shrink away. "Wretched truce, indeed. Nearly twenty years has passed with those pampered Veientanes doling out corn to us while we let go the chance to cross the Tiber and seize their land. And all because peacemakers like your brother-in-law hold power."

The tirade startled her. She was used to Tata teaching his tenets, together with grammar and dictation, with a gentle zeal. This man spoke not just the language of hatred but of passion for Rome.

"I don't disagree," said Tata. "I, too, would see Veii crushed, but our soldiers are already fighting the Volscians at Anxur and Verrugo while the Aequians stalk our borders. Resources are low, as is morale. Aemilius has good cause to counsel caution."

Camillus scraped a chair along the floor to sit close by the plebeian, his body tensed upon the edge of the seat. "Haven't you heard? Martial law has been proclaimed. Rome fights on so many war fronts it needs more generals. While the city is under military rule, four consular generals will be elected instead of two ordained consuls. Do you know what that means, my friend? Commoners will not be precluded from holding such a position. It is possible that a plebeian could lead a legion of Rome."

Caecilia's heart beat faster. How pleased Tata would be that his prayers had been answered and that his counsel was being sought.

Lucius did not reply. The senator's startling news had caused him to cough. It was a racking cough that had persisted all winter; hoarse and painful, deep and wheezy. "Your words bring hope to the people," he eventually said, gaining breath, "but it does not explain how our soldiers will be convinced to fight another war."

The politician leaned forward and gripped the armrests of Tata's chair. "Pay them a wage," he said loudly, as if Lucius needed greater volume to understand him. "Pay them a wage and then their spirits will rise enough to fight ten foes!"

Caecilia thought of the soldier whose valor had been rewarded by bondage. Thought, too, of all those Roman dead who called to be avenged.

And yet instead of approval, Tata fell silent, his hesitation mirrored in the tapping of his cane. "The idea has merit," he finally said. "But why come to me? It's your patrician friends you should be approaching."

"I already have support from those who do not shrink from conflict. But we can do nothing if one of the peoples' tribunes blocks the bill. All I ask is that you speak to your colleagues. Convince them that this would be in all our interests."

Again Tata hesitated. "But will the treasury fund it?"

Camillus shifted in his seat. "No, there would have to be a tax. The people would have to be reasonable and pay their share."

It was Tata's turn to pace, rapping the bookshelves and the table with his cane to punctuate his words. "A tax? Don't waste my time! If you promised booty or land as well it might be different, or if the patricians said they'd pay the lion's share. I can hear the tribunes now, standing in the forum, faces flushed with fervor. They'd choose some grizzled veteran in the crowd and make him display his scars. They'd shout, 'Tell us, can this soldier afford to shed any more blood? Lose any more flesh? Does he have anything left to meet a tax to pay himself!'"

"Ah, Lucius," said Camillus, smiling. "I've missed your orations."

Tata eased back into his chair, rubbing his knuckles, his voice low. "You know I am no longer welcomed by the Assembly. The people will surely claim I am still a patrician's puppet. There is no way they will listen to me."

"You have more support than you imagine. All you need do is return to Rome and stand up for what you believe." Camillus leaned over and touched the other's sleeve. "You never acted dishonorably, only reasonably, unlike the current tribunes who take every chance to veto a levy of troops. Just one of them can hinder us proclaiming war. It is they who misuse their power whereas you always exercised good judgment."

Tata continued to massage his crooked fingers. "You mean I never opposed Aemilius and his friends. You mean I was 'reasonable' enough not to veto laws that the patricians wanted passed."

Camillus casually rearranged his robes. "You are too harsh upon yourself," he said. "You've kept your promises to Aemilius, but has he? You funded his elections from your bulging purse yet here you are in this backwater, not one step closer to being consul than when you first met him. Since the censors have been consecrated to light the sacred flame for plebeians, there have been others given the opportunity to step into magisterial shoes. What has Aemilius actually done besides let you lie with his sister and father a half-caste child?"

In her hiding place, Caecilia flinched at hearing such truths, not wanting to believe them.

Her father's chair scraped along the floor. "I think you should leave," he said softly, firmly. "What you say may be true but, for better or worse, I am tied to Aemilius. I will not break my word."

Trembling, the girl chanced one more peek into the room. Camillus stood with open palms.

"Come, Lucius, don't be angry. We are both hawks, my friend, and well suited. And so I offer you this last chance. You can still attain your dreams if you are loyal to me. All I ask is that you campaign for a veteran's salary and war with Veii. In return I'll help you stand beside me as a consular general. Think of it, Lucius Caecilius, imagine! You could be the first plebeian in the city to share supreme office in Rome."

Holding her breath, Caecilia waited for Tata's reply, thinking he would be elated. Instead his voice sounded despairing.

"I am afraid you are too late," he finally said as he stretched out his twisted feeble hands. "Look at them! Look at them! Do you really think I could command either state or army? I have no more power to sway my people than I have strength to hold a sword."

*

Lucius knew his daughter well. After Camillus had gone in a whirl of arrogance and disappointment, Tata called her to him, his words squeezed out in the gaps between his wheezing. "How much did you overhear?"

Caecilia was shaking as much from the betrayal as from summoning courage to confront the man who owned her. "Was I always the residue, not the essence, of your vision, Tata? Am I just the tailings left after you had mined my mother's family for their value?"

Lucius slumped against the doorjamb in another fit of coughing. Despite her anger, Caecilia rushed to lead him to his chair.

"Cilla, you must never think that! Never! My dream was always to unite the classes, but there will never be concord unless the plebeians share power. And so my marriage to your mother served another purpose. It was supposed to help me walk upon the Honored Way—step by step up the political ladder to the governorship of Rome."

"Yes," she said, voice trembling at defying him, "through the currency of bronze weights and collusion!"

Tata leaned back, exhausted, face ashen, voice quiet. "There was honor in my dream."

"But you heard Camillus! I am just a half-caste to them. While you see me as half of what could make Rome great, my mother's people see me as half of what would destroy it. The patricians will never let go of their rule."

"I can't believe that. You are the future."

She sank to her knees beside him. "Is that all you see in me?"

Laboring for breath, Lucius put his hand upon her head and stroked her hair. "How can you doubt I love you? Haven't you wondered why you are nearly eighteen and still unwed? I could have given you to a patrician groom by now but I could not bear to be without you."

Bending down, he swept her plait from her neck to reveal a purplish blemish. "This birthmark is a sign of changing fortune, Cilla, ups and downs. The gods have signaled your life will not be easy. But you must believe me when I say that you and your children will make a difference to Rome, even if I have failed you."

*

The cold of that winter's day extended into weeks of ice and months of snow. Tata, lungs choked, hacking and hawking up green phlegm, ribs cracked from coughing, retreated to his bed nursing his humiliation.

Caecilia tended him with devotion, forgiving his corruption and complicity, reluctant to forgo the touch of the only one who'd loved her. And the revelation had some benefit, for she at last understood why Tata hated Aemilius, and why, in turn, her mother hated her.

"Stay with me," rasped Lucius, too weak to grasp his daughter's hand. "Catch my last breath."

When he died, Caecilia placed her mouth upon his still-warm lips, inhaling his soul, proud to possess part of him forever and glad that no brother existed to claim that right instead of her.

There was no need to hire mourners. Abandoned and alone, she grieved and sorrowed.

His bier was plain, adorned by garlands. It bore the insignia of a people's tribune, the highest office he had held. Washed and anointed, he lay within his atrium, feet pointed towards the door. Outside, an evergreen bough was hung to announce to passersby that death had already visited.

He had been cremated at night so that his daughter's farewell, spoken three times, was uttered through the choking taste and smell of burning flesh and cypress. The shock of watching him consumed upon his pyre raised the hairs on Caecilia's skin and summoned a night demon to her dreams. Every time she fell asleep, it sat upon her chest, weighing the same as a small dog, with snakes growing like horns from its head and wings sprouting from its back, its eyes black slits in yellow.

And no matter how loud she screamed, nobody heard her cries.

*

It was spring when Caecilia left her home.

At the Liberalia festival people drank from the paltry vintage, singing and praying that the earth's new growth would burgeon instead of wither.

Before she left, the hearth fire was extinguished and not relit. There was no master to perform the rites to reignite it. The flames were quenched with sand, a silent smothering, leaving her with only the memory of a blackened hearthstone in a cheerless room.

It was March, the month of her birthday. The start of a new year.

It was also the month of Mars, the warrior god.

And so, as the girl began her journey, Rome prepared once again to go to war.

