***
Manius was inconsolable. He had idolised the old man; he'd believed in his civilising mission, the rule of law, the creation of justice and right boundaries. Now he saw Ancus Marcius as merely a murderer; the bright image of hope was tarnished, stained with a father's blood. Tanaquil realised the floppy-haired boy had aged, suddenly; his face was twisted, and his eyes looked empty.
“It's unspeakable,” he said.
“We must never speak of it.”
Manius looked appalled. “His crime!” he nearly shouted; but when his eye caught the bed, where they had laid the old man, he suddenly stopped, as if he'd been caught telling dirty jokes in the temple.
“Yes, that's why we must never speak of it,” she said reasonably. “He killed his father. But he birthed new Rome. And new Rome must survive. We can't allow his crime to imperil that.”
She could see Manius' unease; the words civilising mission, new Rome, imperium against the reality of a man who had seen his father flayed before his eyes. The bridging of the wild river against the lives of the Etruscan princes. She'd never quite got used to the cruelty behind the politics, the cold reason that demanded blood; uncertainty stalked her waking thoughts, her sleeping dreams. But necessity ruled. There was no power in the daylight that did not compromise with the night.
“You must keep silent, Manius.”
He looked unhappy, but nodded. “What do we do with him when he wakes?”
She looked at the frail body on the bed and raised an eyebrow. “He needn't wake.”
“You can't...”
“He's a parricide.”
“Even so... without the law...”
“You're right. We can't. You can't think I would...” His relief was obvious. “We need him to name Tarquinius.”
She went to the door; Egerius was close by. She beckoned him over.
“Get some wine heated for me. We'll need it. He's had a bad turn.”
While they waited for the wine to be brought, she went to stand over the bed. Ancus Marcius was stretched out like a corpse, his hands laid on his chest, his face waxen and immobile; but very faintly, his chest rose and fell. His life seemed tenuous. Strange that such a bull of a man should come to this, his rage and power reduced to a thin breath that would hardly mist a mirror.
She stood at his head and looked down. His features, seen from this angle, seemed hardly human at all. Time had eroded him, had eaten him out from the inside.
“They won't like it, an Etruscan as king,” Manius said. “You're right, you must make him speak. And publicly, too.”
“Rome's kings have always been outsiders,” she said, perhaps more sharply than she'd intended. “It makes them hungry.”
“Even so.” He was right, of course. But it would make her task considerably more difficult.
She turned at the noise of footsteps to see Egerius with the wine, and half a loaf she hadn't asked for, but he'd brought anyway. Sops in wine; that would be the best way, she thought; she wouldn't have to get them to sit Ancus Marcius up to drink, no need for manhandling him. Less risk. With two fingertips she pulled a lump of the bread away; it tore softly, letting crumbs fall to the floor. It absorbed the wine easily; she put it to the old man's lips. A trickle of wine ran down from the corner of his mouth. His jaw moved, and she saw his throat distend as he swallowed; he was so thin now that his shoulderblades were hollow.
A second, and a third sip of wine, and his eyelids began to tremble. A vein in his forehead pulsed.
“Egerius?”
“Tanaquil?”
“Find the curia, those of them that are still in the house.”
“Shall I bring them here?”
“Not yet. No, not yet. I need some time. But make them ready.”
“Is he dying?”
“Perhaps. He's been like this before but... not so weak.” He's never seen ghosts before, she wanted to say, but that was something best kept between herself and Manius.
“Make them ready, and wait till Manius gives you the sign. Have them stand near the door; but not too near.”
Egerius was on his way out when she remembered, and called him softly.
“Make sure you have Faustus. Faustus above all. He must be here.”
Egerius made no sign, but turned and went. He knew what she intended, she was sure.
She looked down again at the king; he was struggling to open his eyelids, stuck together with the glue of drying tears. Retreating to the head of the bed, she bent to put her mouth close to his ear, and whispered. Even Manius, she was sure, could not hear; but the old man must.
“Your father calls you. Do not be long.”
His eyes looked frightened, and his mouth moved convulsively, but no sound came out. She noticed his chest was rising and falling more quickly.
“Who are you? You are not my father.”
“I am Vanth, guardian of the dry lands. I am the green skinned demon that awaits you.”
His jaw was shuddering. The corners of his mouth were grimed with white paste and the stain of the wine.
“Your father wants one thing from you.”
“What...” he said, and sighed, and it seemed all his breath was being sighed out leaving him empty as a dead wineskin. Not yet, she thought, not yet, and made the sign of propitiation with one hand behind her back, sticking her thumb between forefinger and middle finger, squeezing tight.
“Name Tarquinius king.”
“I meant to... I meant to do it... I ...”
“Name him.”
He was struggling, and his eyes were fixed again the same way they had been when he'd seen his father standing before him. Death was not far; she felt its presence in the room like a chill. She signalled to Manius with her hand; out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand pass the sign to Egerius.
“Name him, I command you.”
She heard feet shuffling, the soft whisper of robes. The heads of the curiate assembly were here. The old man's breathing was shallow, fast.
“Name him.”
Darkness was falling.
“Father...” His voice was harsh. The breath grated in his throat.
She struggled to keep her voice even and low, to prevent her despair and rage from bleeding into it. It was the last dice throw in a game that was nearly over.
“Name Tarquinius.”
“Tarq...” he coughed. It was like listening to a drowning man snatching his last breath.
“Name him.”
And suddenly light flared in his eyes, and he said clearly, as if before a tribunal; “Tarquinius,” and sighed once, deeply. His face relaxed; his head fell a little to one side. His mouth was open.
She let herself relax for a single moment, crouched as she was at his ear. Then she rose, standing as tall as she could, her back stretched, her head high.
“He is gone,” she said.
“He named Tarquinius,” Manius said, and she was glad it was Manius who said it, and not her or Egerius, who were under suspicion of partiality.
“He named Tarquinius. But not as his heir.” Faustus' voice sounded bitter. Had he really wanted the throne for himself? she wondered; or was it just a growing feeling that old Rome had gone, that the world had changed and left him behind, that made him so crabbed?
“What else could he have meant?” That was a Faliscan voice; two or three men nodded, and one murmured in agreement.
“He might have meant anything,” Faustus said doggedly; but his words fell into silence. She knew, and she was sure he knew by now, that he was on his own.
In that moment of silence you might have heard Vanth's great wings sweeping the air, she thought; the stillness was almost tangible. But as they stood uneasily in the presence of death, she heard angry shouting outside. Five men rushed into the room; in front, Marcus Robur, with behind him, two of his men that she recognised, and two of the lictors, caught off guard without their ceremonial axes, trying without success to pull him back.
“What the hell is th
is?” he yelled. “I can't see my own father?”
Then he noticed the strange stillness; the way every man in the room faced the bed, silently. He frowned; he looked towards the bed, saw Tanaquil standing proudly, queen-like already.
“Get that whore out of here,” he commanded. No one moved.
“Get the conniving bitch away from him.”
Manius had stepped up close to him. “Your father's dead, Marcus,” he said, with a softness unjustified by his behaviour.
Marcus turned brusquely, pushing Manius away. Manius stumbled, and nearly fell; he looked appalled. Marcus stood alone in the centre of the room, angrily looking round; some of the curiates looked down, others looked steadily at the body on the bed. Even Faustus wouldn't meet his eyes.
“What have you done, bitch?”
Tanaquil felt her face aflame, but she stood and stared him down, without speaking. He didn't deserve her words. It was too late for him now; it had been too late, ever since his father had spoken the name.
He advanced to the foot of the bed; he could see his father's body laid out, the open sightless eyes, the wine soaked beard.
“Did you kill him, bitch?”
Yes, she thought; yes, I probably did. I invoked Vanth, I invoked his father's ghost, and they took him, as I'd intended. At the end, I could have made his passing easy, as I'd wanted to do, but instead I called the ghosts he feared. But still she said nothing, only stood there, and realised with surprise that her cheeks were wet with tears.
Then Marcus Robur came towards her, and bent forwards, and she wondered for a moment if he were going to hit her. But he wrenched his father's head up in his hands, like a lover taking a last kiss, and held it, for a moment, close to him. Only Tanaquil heard the words he said; only Tanaquil saw how violently he let the aged head drop.
“Old leech, you should have died years ago.”
Then Marcus strode out, all drama and flying cloak like a demon in a pantomime. And as children do when a pantomime demon leaves the stage, the curiates exhaled, and started shuffling about and clearing their throats and shooting sideways looks at each other, to see who had been rattled, who was trying hard to look unafraid. And Tanaquil smiled.