The Tiber Bridge: Seven Kings of Rome Novels

By Sherrie Seibert Goff

The Tiber Bridge tells the story of Ancus Marcius, Romes fourth king, a man of power and ability haunted by the ghosts of his past, and of Vel Prasanai, a cast-out Etruscan who becomes his bridge builder.

Conflict between gods and mortals intensifies over the sacrilege of spanning the Tiber in this spellbinding tale of war, political rivalry, love, and ambition set in the fabled years of early Rome. The many accomplishments of legendary King Ancus remain tarnished and unrewarding, as he faces endless war, endures the enmity of his predecessors son, is thwarted by Romes pontifex, and suffers the cruel suspicions of his wife.

Engineers, priests, vestal virgins, generals, queens, and a family of shepherds all play a part in this sweeping tale of courage and endurance in the shadow of the first bridge built in Rome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532045615

Sherrie Seibert Goff

Sherrie Seibert Goff currently lives in Idaho with her husband Stiofain. She has published four books in a series subtitled Seven Kings of Rome Novels. Her rousing tales set in early Romes regal period are known for their in-depth research and historical imagination. Visit the author at www.sherrieseibertgoff.com.

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Copyright © 2018 Sherrie Seibert Goff.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-4559-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4561-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018903259

iUniverse rev. date: 03/15/2018

Contents

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Part One:     Salt of the Sea

A Faun’s Tale

Part Two:     Ghosts of the Caelian

An Orphan’s Tale

Part Three:   Pons Sublicius

A Builder’s Dream

Part Four:     War

The King’s Onus

Part Five:     Two-Faced Janus

A Mule’s Lot

Part One

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Salt of the Sea

A Faun’s Tale

1

D ivine Selvans, who guards the sheep and the masters of the sheep, dwells in a belt of black fir trees atop the hills near Caere. I still saluted that shaggy god of the thickets, not knowing that he had long since turned his back on me for my faithless dreams.

In my youth, I spent my every day on his mountainside, tending my mixed flock of sheep and goats, dreaming of far journeys and adventure, thinking someday I would take up a trade or go to sea. In the late afternoons, when the nightingales began to whistle, I knew in my heart that I would sooner join the iron smelters in Polonia than remain a shepherd forever.

Alas! The spirit of fields and woodlands was listening.

At home, I had always kept my daydreams to myself to spare my elderly grandfather who was forever critical of foreign influences in our town, even to the point of naming the Greek sailors and tradesmen who swarmed the nearby port as dishonest and tricky to a one, but I took my own notions from my more world-wise father who had served on a Tyrrhenian trade ship and helped build the port at Pyrgi. At an early age, I marked my father as a wise man when he stifled a smile and quietly tolerated my grandfather’s complaints about exotic persons.

One bad day that will haunt me forever, Larth Velthuru, still dressed in his fancy red sandals and Etruscan finery, shouted, By all the Gods! and rushed down upon my blameless flock, throwing stones, intent on hurting their tender legs and noses. He yelled, Thezie! Get those sheep out of here! Have you no respect?

I scrambled up the slope and stumbled on a gnarled root. Stop, Sir! I shall move them.

He flung a pebble at me too and stormed away muttering about filthy peasants. The fancy boy left a whiff of sour wine, bad breath, and cloying perfume in his wake.

I whistled sharply to roust my poor beasts, but they were stubborn, for the grasses grew slender and sweet in the shade of the tombs in the necropolis. They bawled their protest and snatched quickly at the good graze to swallow whole and ruminate over later.

Larth Velthuru had driven my youngest goat to leap off the grassy tumulus that covers the mounded roof of one of the tombs. Goats prefer browse to pasture, cropping bushes and nibbling on branches and tender leaves. The aging buck who sired the kid had been known in his day to climb fences and trees and was a menace to the neighbor’s orchard. No surprise that his agile offspring had climbed to where he ought not have been.

The little goat scooted down the slope, favoring a sprained front leg. I cursed all rich men and caught up with the smelly animal to probe his bony leg for a break. He struggled to escape my grip on his horns, and his mother tried to butt me until I pulled her ear to make her behave. Her kid’s hurt seemed little more than a bruise, but his hooves needed trimming to stave off foot rot, and he was limping, so I picked him up and called softly to his fellow critters to follow me.

Raised to my shepherd ways, I needed only whistle a little traveling tune as I marched along at the head of my flock for them to trail me back to the fold or out to fresh pastures. From the time I was old enough to walk, my proud grandfather had insisted that in our native Etruria a skilled shepherd leads his flock rather than driving them as done in Greece.

That day, my father, Vel Prasanai, looked up from his work in the field and spotted me shutting my bleating flock in the wicker pen. He pulled off his broad-brimmed hat and used his tunic to wipe the dusty sweat from his face. He frowned at me and tossed aside his rake to come see what was afoot.

My grandfather, thinking the animals sick, hobbled out to the pen as well, shading his eyes and scowling like a demon. Blessed Tin, Thezie! You know bad feed makes ’em colicky.

Having suffered enough abuse from Larth, I snapped, They got the best grasses today, if you want to know.

It seemed that all he could do in his old age was to find fault. He said, Didn’t you soak black mulberry leaves in that water trough like I told you?

They won’t touch it. They’d rather drink from the stream, Grandpa.

The old man’s furrowed, weather-beaten face spoke of fifty years’ toil under the Tyrrhenian sun. His thin shoulders were hunched, his eyes runny, and his breath smelled of onions. His piercing, dark eyes glared hard as flint above his large hooked nose, as he eyed the flock to find something else to carp about. He spied the brown-faced goat trembling and threatened me with a gnarled finger. Have you been sleeping in the shade again, Thezie?

I sighed and told him how Larth had driven the goat to his injury and thrown rocks at our sheep. I said, He is a cruel man.

My father entered the pen to comfort the goat. You may have deserved a pebble flung at your butt, Thezie, but abuse of blameless animals is a coward’s act.

My mother, Cilens Prasanai, said, Larth Velthuru is in mourning, Vel. We must overlook his temper today. She took her wheat cakes out of the blackened stone oven. We’ll eat early, since you’re all here.

I followed her to the cookfire where she hung her pot of white bean and farro soup. As she stirred up dormant coals to reheat our fare, she clucked her tongue and scolded me in a low voice, Why must you trespass into the people’s cemetery asking for trouble, son? My sister offered me her best scornful look, and Mother sent her to milk the goats.

I griped, This summer’s been so hot and dry, Mother, I’m forced to take the flock higher on the mountain or farther down the dangerous river ravine to find any good graze at all. I was seeking a new way up the hillside and noticed the sweet grasses growing up around the tombs just going to waste. On this day only, my hungry sheep sought out those tender grass shoots on their own, so I lingered awhile out of mercy for them.

Her eyes widened in dismay. She frowned and turned to cut an onion for her savory, well-seasoned soup. I hurried to stir the cookpot for her and said, I always take care to keep far from tomb painters and funerals.

Father came up behind me. Then how’d you get caught, smart boy?

I shrugged. I thought the necropolis deserted, when Larth rose up out of his family tomb like some evil ghost, carrying a huge gold fibula in one hand and holding a ring up to admire in the sunlight. He was startled and furious at the mere sight of me.

My father’s eyes sparked with interest.

I scratched my neck and mused, He was there alone except for a big mule tied in the side lane out of my sight. His tantrum was so odd, you’d think he’d been caught robbing funeral gifts from his apa’s tomb, or something.

My father grunted with speculation, making my mother hiss and scold. Whatever he was doing is none of our concern. If he was up to no good, no wonder he was furious with Thezie. She turned and squeezed my collar bone. Do not go there again, do you hear me? And do not repeat what you just said about Larth Velthuru to anyone. The alarm in her voice caught my full attention.

Grandpa fetched his cooled wine jug from the creek and shambled back over to the bench where Mera sat milking the two stalwart she-goats that kept our family in cheese. He called, My daughter is right, Vel. We best stay clear of Larth Velthuru. I enjoyed good regard from his father for whom I did a good deed once. Old man Velthuru was always openhanded—used to send us a pot of fancy vintage for harvest festival—but his son is spoiled and haughty. We should offer our sympathy to young Larth once his grief eases a bit—take his cook some of your mother’s rosemary and dried herbs. Until then, stay out of his way, Thezie!

I could not help muttering, I for one shall not pay him any respects. Our aging but sturdy farm hut differed vastly from Larth’s painted stone home and the big houses inside the walls of Caere, so I could not help thinking that the Velthuru family had no wish to receive sympathy from the likes of us.

In those untroubled days, we were free and proud Rasenna, simple men of the soil, blessed indeed by Cel. My grandfather’s land lay at the foot of a sunlit mountain slope reached by dusty paths flanked by flowering rockroses and anemones. In Caere we spent most of our lives outdoors, while using our aged house mainly for sleeping and shelter from the rain. On a summer night, fireflies flitted, and the silence was broken only by frogs and tree crickets.

My sister and mother grew leeks and flat beans in the yard and busied themselves with spinning, weaving and dying wool. My father plowed the land and harvested some grain, while my grandfather did a bit of fishing between naps and cultivated the wild olives and grapes that grew naturally nearby. I thought life would never change.

One day a shaded carriage bearing two noblewomen bounced along the narrow road below our farm. The women were dressed in fine tasseled cloaks and jewels, and had on little pointed shoes with upturned toes and golden laces. They wore shiny thick braids down their backs, and double ringlets in front of each ear to frame their dark eyes and rosy cheeks. I stood and admired their beauty until I realized that the man driving them was my nemesis.

I pointed out the tomb owners to my father, who saluted them with a wave of his work hat. My heart leapt when Larth Velthuru actually halted his mules and glared at my father with contempt. Larth swept his wide, fringed mantle away from one shoulder and motioned my father to attend him across the ravine. I trotted down the pathway and back up the slope to listen.

Greetings, young lord. My father smiled pleasantly. May I speak of our sorrow at the loss of your illustrious father? My wife Cilens and her father pray that divine Nortia brings luck and comfort to you and your sister soon.

Larth looked past him straight at me. I told your son to keep his filthy sheep out of Caere’s necropolis. Instead of obeying, he was insolent and rude.

I was not! I yelled. Father, I obeyed him instantly.

My father bristled at Larth’s nastiness. He was never one to back down from a bully, but he did his best to honor my mother’s plea. We wish to remain good neighbors, sir. I vow it won’t happen again.

Then Larth Velthuru informed him that someone had already complained to the magistrate about sheep droppings in the sacred lane. The court might well confiscate your sheep, and I for one would not care.

My father’s eyes widened at that. Peace, young lord. I understand my wife’s father kept a watch for years over your family tomb for your late father, to keep off vandals and thieves.

Yes, well, that hardly entitles you to use the land as yours.

From the trees, a woodpecker scolded. Both young women fidgeted, as though they were embarrassed and eager to move on. I hoped that they felt shame for the worthless boy rising badly in the wake of his father’s superior reputation.

My father gave young Larth a knowing look—one that he often used on me. Then he casually shrugged and said, "Oh well, one would think a man with so much to lose would want the authorities and all his neighbors warned about tomb robbers skulking about in their midst."

Larth’s chubby face flushed with rage at some imagined accusation, that wasn’t an accusation at all, but must have stirred up some guilt in his own heart.

My father plopped his hat back on. Good day, he called and turned his back on them lest he be tempted to say more. As we waded back across the shallow river, I glanced back, filled with glee, for my father had done precisely the sort of thing that I had been warned against.

My amusement was short-lived, however, because my father and grandfather soon were summoned to the court in the town of Caere. On a day full of grief, that I shall forever deem my fault, my once proud grandfather came home a broken man.

My mother sat weeping as he told her, "They called four false witnesses—paid no doubt! They accused me of sacrilege. The zilath has taken our land for the Caerites to expand their cemetery." Grandpa’s face twisted in grief, and the bitterness in his voice reached in to tear out my heart.

Terrified, I sat on my bed with my face in my hands, while my father spoke softly to answer my mother’s questions. "Aule Tarquin is Caere’s new zilath, and he is eager to appear an effective judge and magistrate for the rich men who put him there, so he had to do something—though I think it pained him. Out of mercy, he gave me until spring to make our plans."

Grandpa shouted, "You have lost your birthright and your home, Cilens. The rich men of Caere will not buy my farm to be rid of me. Instead, I must simply give it to them."

With stricken face, Mother put her comforting arms around her father’s shoulders and laid her cheek atop his head. When he broke down into sobs, she told Mera and me to check on her cooking.

Outside I cursed and yelled, But it’s not fair. Filled with remorse, I brandished the big ladle like a weapon and fought the urge to kick the cookpot clear across the yard. I named the family of Larth Velthuru my sworn enemies forever.

My father came to the door and gave me a pained look as if he understood that my regret was more keenly felt than even his own.

As the shorter, bleak days of winter settled upon us, we went about our lives in a subdued mood. My father brought in the wheat, but for the first time failed to plow or sow our grain seed. Mera and I helped our defeated grandfather gather a few olives. We used long sticks to knock the ripest ones down onto a blanket and took them home for him to process. Then we slaughtered some of the flock and salted down the meat. I set out each sunrise to look for food for my reduced flock, armed with sling and shot to fend off the bolder, roving wolves of winter.

Many times, I tried to beg my grandfather’s forgiveness, but he waved me quiet or changed the subject. He treated me the same as ever, but it drove me mad that he never castigated me for losing our home. It would have felt better if he had. Hah! Perhaps he knew that.

On the day of winter solstice, I stepped out into the weak sunshine holding down a feeling of despair at what the Fates had in mind for my family. My breath showed in the cold air, and I walked defiantly down the sunken road that runs through Caere’s mounded burial places, thinking for the first time of all the dead lying within. Slaves and servants who died were cremated and placed in jars near the entrances to the family tombs, while their masters reclined like royalty on stone couches in the carved-rock rooms beyond.

I glanced down the steps at the doorways of the tombs and informed the dead that the zilath of the living had ruled in their favor. Feeling blasphemous, I challenged the mani within. Go ask Leinth, goddess of your infernal world, and winged Vanth, daemon who guides the dead, how many generations my ancestors have watched over your sleep.

I kicked at one of the pathetic phallic rocks adorning the tomb doorsteps and made the horned gesture against evil. "Now an old man must atone to your living relatives for my so-called sacrilege. Is it just, wise mani? Did I anger you so much with my presence here?"

It may have been my imagination, but I thought I felt a great sadness wash over me then. The mani called to me, and I swear I heard them whisper inside my mind, Nothing is forever, faun.

I returned home for a bite to eat about midday and found Mera carding wool. My sister told me, Grandpa went into Caere to trade sheepskins for ducks, eggs and honey to celebrate your name day tomorrow. She grabbed another handful of wool and studied my face with concern. I was supposed to keep it a surprise, but you looked so glum. Even she was treading lightly on me.

Across the river, the town of Caere sits atop the red tufa cliffs overlooking the sea plane. Caere’s fine, old public temples and noble houses are protected by strong walls and massive gates, and many rich merchants and busy tradesmen travel the road from the port and fill the town’s marketplace, day and evening. I had always loved walking there, wearing my best wool cloak, pretending that I was a man of purpose and importance.

When my mother bade me fetch her some more water, I abandoned my notion of running off to town after the old man. If only I had. But then my father came home and set me to more chores. We gathered enough wood to roast the ducks and looked forward to the return of my grandfather who would be bringing honeycomb to sweeten special treats for the morrow.

Darkness fell, and he did not return.

Murky clouds drifted in to cover the moon, hiding the trail in darkness, yet I moved quickly along the river ravine because I knew the way by heart. I startled a doe bedded down near the water, and she jumped up thrashing through the brush to get away. I bade her, Peace, my sister, and paused to listen for any sounds other than the burbling river.

The moon peeked out from its shroud, turning the dark strip of river to a silvery ribbon, but soon vanished again behind black clouds. I called out for Grandpa up and down the gully, hoping he could hear me and answer, then I climbed up to the roadway to search along the tree line. I beat the brush and searched every lumpy shadow halfway to the town.

Reluctantly, I returned home and found my sister sitting out on the bench in the yard, wrapped to the nose in her winter cloak, watching down the dark roadway for our grandfather’s return. Our parents had gone to search the marketplace and alleyways of the town, but they had been gone a very long time.

Mera whispered, I fear he was robbed or lies somewhere injured.

I set my jaw at the thought and wished my sister would be quiet. I saw her wipe her eyes and told her, He is old, Mera. Perhaps he fell ill. Ati and Apa are no doubt with him right now.

She whimpered in distress. He had better have some faultless excuse for worrying us like this.

My mind darted again over the many hazards that might befall an old man, but I could not shake the memory of his terrible sadness and resentment. I sat down on the cutting block, but jumped up at some noise near the animal pens. My bedded-down sheep stirred restlessly, and I took my father’s rake to investigate the shadows of the sheltering rocks behind the fold. Finding nothing amiss, I returned to pace the edges of the yard.

The cold night breeze made my nose run. Sniffling, I said, Perhaps I ought to search the high path through the woods and the necropolis just to be sure, although I fail to see why he would go that way around.

My sister stood up, stared wide-eyed at the darkness surrounding the animal pens, and pulled her cloak tighter around herself. I knew she wanted to go with me, but I handed her the rake. Someone must stay here in case he comes home.

To help me abide my restlessness, I went off to search the necropolis. When I returned later, Mera was standing where I had left her, rake still in hand. She glanced at my face and did not bother to ask whether I had found anything. I just sighed and went over to put another branch on the dying cookfire.

Very late that night, our mother came home to see if Grandpa had turned up. Your father is still searching the town. You two should go to bed now, so we can get an early start at sunrise. I’ll wait up for your father.

Mera and I followed her into the house and watched as she lit the little bedside oil lamp with a twig from the dying yard fire. Mother slumped down exhausted on the end of my grandfather’s bed and hid her face in her hand. My sister put an arm around her, and I expected them to cry together.

I’ll go out and help Apa, I whispered. My mother made no protest, so I pulled down the travel lamp from the shelf and broke off a piece of her flatbread to take out to my father.

I found him sitting on a rock just outside the citadel, not very far from where Mother said she had left him. His face was hidden by the full mantle pulled up over his head, but I could tell it was him. When I lifted my lamp higher, he jumped up.

Thezie, I wish you hadn’t come.

I can help, Apa. Why are you sitting here?

He grimaced, as he placed a hand on my shoulder. Son, … I found your grandfather last night, but did not wish to torment your mother with the sight, so I sent her home. I must wait until sunrise to fetch Grandpa’s body up from the rock quarry.

Horrified, I stared at the open chasm that darkened the land. My father gripped my arm as if to hold me back. It’s too dangerous, Thezie. He is surely dead.

I cried out, and he gave my shoulder a gentle shake. That is why I sent your mother away. She would have scrambled down the cliff herself, or sat here weeping over the edge all night. I need you to be strong and help me, son.

Stunned, I moved to the edge of the sinister hole, and he slowly let go of me. I peered into the murky shadows until my widened eyes made out the ghastly sight of a body below. The stone quarry had been used as a cistern, and my grandpa lay still and lifeless, face down in cold water.

Through the night, the dark clouds had sailed inland on the sea breezes, leaving behind a dim moon-glow with which to see one’s path, enough for me to recognize Grandfather’s blue cloak and hat. I squatted down and began to sob softly. Father put a comforting arm around my shoulders and we grieved together.

Soon rosy dawn cast a soft blush across the inland hilltops, and we were able to make out several rough-hewn steps cut into the rock wall that appeared to be the best way down to my grandfather. While my father clambered down the steep chiseled steps, I went for help to the nearby houses.

Men came out carrying flax ropes, worried about the condition of their water supply. Someone was angry enough to summon a local official to question us, and Father explained how he had come across my grandfather’s rucksack sitting neatly beside the lip of the quarry, with its contents of eggs, honeycomb and a duck still intact. The reed and bramble fence that guarded the quarry’s edge was broken down along that spot.

Solemn men milled about like a herd of cattle, gawking as others lowered a tarp to lift my grandfather’s body to the rim.

When the local headman deemed it a sad mishap and ordered the fence rebuilt, my father fumed. This was no mishap. The old man spent his lifetime in Caere. He knew the path home blindfolded. This should be reported to the Zilath.

The official looked mildly alarmed. If he was robbed or met with treachery, I see no attack wounds, no blood on his clothing.

I said, Look at him! His face is bruised.

The official made noises of commiseration and assured me that the bruises were due to the fall, then he made off down the road as quickly as he could. My father waved his arm in frustration and called after him, demanding to know whose job it was to maintain the safety fence and whether he was going to report the incident to town authorities.

Alas, both men were wrong.

Whether my grandfather was pushed or just stumbled off the trail by accident, his rucksack would have been snatched by thieves or gone over the edge with him. I was certain that he had chosen his own death—and that I was to blame. My terrible guilt shone for all the gods and men to see, if they would but look.

I sat down in the dirt and gripped my grandfather’s cold, lifeless arm and beheld through a blur of tears his ancient face. The old man stared past me out of dark eye sockets, and his clouded gaze was empty. His mouth hung open as though striving for breath, and his blue cloak was sodden with cold water, his frozen hands stiff, his once ruddy face turned gray. Anguish and—to my shame—resentment assailed me as I looked upon the familiar wrinkles and baggy eyelids and jowls of my mother’s sire.

A kind workman came out from a hut down the road and offered us the loan of a grime-covered farm cart to carry our kinsman home. He sent his dim-witted son along with us to bring the cart back.

We prepared Grandpa’s body and dressed him in the new wool tunic my mother had woven for me to wear on my name day. We gazed one last time upon his familiar face and placed his favorite drinking cup, staff and sling in his grave. I laid my great-grandfather’s burnished flute beside him and whispered, "Go with the manes, Grandpa."

Rather than be driven from Caere, he could join Grandma in the afterworld and rest buried near her in his home soil. For some reason, I felt comforted that he had joined the company of the departed, for I now understood their admonition that nothing is forever.

2

A s expected, the investigation into my grandfather’s accident came to naught, and my mother grieved terribly at being forced from the farm where she had lived all her life. Many days she wept, waiting to be cast out by Larth Velthuru and the noble folk of Caere. My father assured her that if our wealthy neighbors prodded us too soon or unfairly, he would appeal to the zi lath .

I offered to come with him and witness to Larth’s stealing of his father’s grave goods, prepared even to lie to Aule Tarquin if it would buy us more time, but my father refused to let me testify to something I was not sure happened.

When my father was even younger than I, he already had spent three years as a tyro to the builders of the port of Pyrgi. His parents were dead, and his sister and her husband were not eager to take him in, so he went to sea and traveled with a fleet of Tyrrhenian trade ships. He met a Greek merchantman who captained a trade ship and valued my father’s young eagerness to learn.

Within a year, the Greek was slain in a dispute, but he was taken in by the captain’s rich friend who owned a copper mine. My father soon ran away from mining to help build the great temple shrine at Pyrgi—where he met my fine-looking mother and her family at the market sanctuary.

I realize now that my father, being a man of the world, had been thinking for some time about where we could go, and how we would live, but he had not upset my mother by talking about it.

As promised, the town of Caere left us unmolested until spring, by which time we had sold off our ewes with lambs and two nanny goats with kids to neighbors. My father hoped to gather enough bronze nuggets to buy two mules to pull grandpa’s old farm cart, which Mera and I had loaded full of the farm tools and father’s building hammers, chisels, and saw, as well as our bedding, mother’s cooking pots, and two sacks of grain. Our careful and wise trading of our animals and remaining seed, grain and olives fell short of the price of mules, however, and we thought we would have to leave many of our possessions behind.

In one last bid for justice, my father went into Caere to petition the zilath for mercy and reconsideration. I imagined he would cite grandfather’s death and the unjust ruling over our ancestral land, perhaps even Larth Velthuru’s unsavory doings. He was gone all day, and my mother paced, desperate for good news, praying for last moment salvation.

Late that afternoon, just before the sun sank into the sea, Father came home grinning and driving a pair of white Tyrrhenian oxen, replete with yoke and harness, pulling a large wagon that rumbled along on two sturdy wooden wheels—donated to us by Aule Tarquin himself. My mother showed her disappointment at receiving no reprieve, and my father, piqued at her ingratitude, refused to answer her questions when she pestered him about how he managed to wrangle such a gift from the zilath.

I vowed to wheedle the story out of him later.

Such powerful draft animals would enable us to take more than we originally planned, so Mera and I began loading this bigger wagon with the disassembled parts of Mother’s loom and her two storage chests, which made her cry again. Father hid his finest tools and a bag of bronze nuggets under the sacks of grain. He packed the rest of the cart with salted food, more supplies, and a few family keepsakes he knew my mother loved, then covered the whole with our bedding and a useful tent.

When my father mentioned to the local oracle that we were heading south, Mother came away arguing. We must go north, Vel. We have no choice but to go where we know the land and people, the language. Your sister and her husband can help you find work among their neighbors or with local builders.

My sister lives hand-to-mouth herself. She didn’t marry any better than you did, Cilens.

Mother put her fingers to his mouth and declared that she had married well indeed.

He reasoned with her. Building at Caere’s port has reached its limits, and the sanctuary there was completed the year I met you. I would find no job at Pyrgi save in the warehouses and portage trade.

Mother said, Your wonderful oxen would come in handy for portage.

I could see my father losing his patience. Trade and commerce at Pyrgi are controlled by rich men and their guilds. We’d be forced to continue farther north to Polonia or Tarquinia, seeking word of building projects along the way, with no guarantees or prospects.

My mother brightened and said, At Tarqinia, pure white animals are highly prized by the temple priests. The thought of our superb bulls being sacrificed to feed cunning priests made me sit up and glare at her.

Father warned, The farther north we go, the colder are the nights, and you may see me ending up in the copper mines. In my youth I was lucky, for an ignorant tyro, to be calling myself an overseer, but my master and mentor is dead now, and our chances are slim. I don’t want my son smelting copper or working the mines.

Me neither, I said.

Later that day one of our neighbors, who had come to profit from our leavings, advised, If you are looking for building projects, head south. Rome has a new king, and he will want to build to show off his own greatness and make his legacy, as all such men do.

Thanks. South it will be, if only because of the mild weather, our being homeless for an unknown time.

The neighbor was full of gossip. Rome’s regia burned down. I hear it was struck by thunderbolts hurled in wrath by their sky god. The new king fears a curse on that site and has settled into his grandfather’s old house, a place he knows to be blessed by Rome’s holy virgins and all the gods.

My father’s eyes sparkled with interest, but he sighed and glanced over at my mother. Ideally, we should look for another little farm here in southern Etruria, where the weather is mild and we can replant and rebuild our flock. Do you know of a welcoming place?

The neighbor shrugged. Finding arable land around here is easier said than done. They walked off together to look at the fencing and water troughs that could be salvaged and used by old friends after we left; we all agreed that the less we left for Larth Velthuru the better. When the two men came back to the house, the neighbor admired the costly pair of work animals we had been awarded and voiced his amazement that a nobleman had given them out of sympathy.

He caught my father’s eye for an explanation, but father made no reply and turned away to pour grain from a sack into a trough for the bulls to munch on. I knew my father’s reticence was an attempt to halt gossip, which he hated and claimed was the source of infinite troubles. I suppose he owed Aule Tarquin his silence as well.

I butted in. They are a wonderful pair, well trained for work.

Our neighbor patted the neck of the nearest ox and examined the beast. The startled bull rolled his eye at the man. "With such fine animals, you could rake up a bit of salt along the coastal flats before heading upriver to Rome. Perhaps a salinator at the big salt-works at Tiber’s mouth would pay you to haul some of his valuable wares inland to Rome or on to Cures, he advised. Salt is costly and dear to inland dwellers."

The morning that we left our home forever, I felt giddy excitement in my gut, and even Mera was smiling. We both stepped out at a lively pace. Our parents walked behind with the wagon, looking stoic and resigned, until we lost sight of Caere’s vineyards and fields. We passed by tall cypress and olive trees and came to a spot of dense pine woods where Mother faltered.

Father stopped and held her for a moment, and comforted her with a gentle lie: Cheer up, Cilens. If I find good work in the south, perhaps we can return to Etruria with enough to buy a fine grain field and vineyard, and rebuild our flock.

I was not sure I wanted to be a shepherd anymore. Like a released bird, my heart had flown. Still I was a little sorry to let my animals go to another; I loved them, and they trusted me. The only flock animals my father had allowed to burden us on our trek to a new home were a sweet little she-goat and a playful young ram, both tethered, to their annoyance, in the back of our farm cart. I planned to take them out to walk and graze with the oxen later, but the sun was shining, so Mera and I ran ahead to explore.

Our parents walked with solemn faces beside the huge castrated bulls that hauled our household possessions. The white oxen had been carefully broken and well trained as working animals to pull plows, wagons, and farm carts. Most of the time they moved obediently and placidly along, but father grew impatient if they strayed to the roadside, and he used a stick with a pointed end as a prod that did little but cause them to strain forward restively. Noticing this, I returned from my wanderings and took the prod from my father’s hand.

I needed only to touch the animals gently with the side of the stick to get them to step out bravely, hauling their load toward an unknown destination, transporting a whole family and its effects to a new home. I have always felt a closeness to animals, something that I could never achieve with men. My father shook his head at my skill and made some jibe to my mother who pretended not to notice.

We left the pine woods and emerged to follow the sea road until it angled inland toward Rome. Our cart rumbled along on two solid wooden wheels, looking a little lopsided with its cargo of household belongings. We stopped for a light lunch and watered our animals in a stream beside the road, while our parents debated whether to go on to Rome by the good road, or to investigate the salt-works on advice of our neighbor.

To my sister and me, it was an adventure either way. We munched on our bread and gazed at the dull gray sea. Viewed from the low coastal plain, the Tyrrhenian sea seemed curiously flat and still. Mera asked how far it was to Rome, and Father said he thought it might take four or five days at our slow pace, if we stopped to eat and rest or to explore the local environs for work.

When she asked how far to the salt marshes at the mouth of the Tiber, he shrugged. Nearly as far, but a lot more mosquitoes, I suppose. He scratched at a bite on his arm.

My mother opined that no Etruscan would find welcome in Rome. We are foreigners in a hostile land, without knowing the language. Save for a pair of fine oxen, we have little to trade, nothing with which to bribe the locals. We dare not go inland just begging for work.

A city full of sights and opportunities was more alluring to me than toiling in salt marshes, so I argued ardently: "Ati, we’ll find work quicker and easier if we go straight to Rome. We should stay on the good road