Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (11 page)

Drusus lay back on the pallet. The conversation had exhausted him. “Then we are at peace, Pinna?”

She nodded. “Yes, my lord. We are at peace.”

T
WELVE

Pinna hesitated at the entrance to Drusus’s tent on her return with her supplies. Marcus was crouching beside his friend, his hand on the invalid’s shoulder. “How goes it?”

“Pinna will remove the last stitches today. They should have gone weeks ago.” Noticing the concubine, Drusus beckoned to her.

Marcus rose and stepped back so she could reach her patient. She acknowledged him without meeting his eyes. Then she knelt next to the pallet, placing her basket and a bowl of warm water beside her.

“I want to get back to duty,” Drusus said to Marcus, removing the tunic from his lap so Pinna could reach the stitches. The wounded man showed no embarrassment in the company of the other soldier.

Marcus removed his helmet, dragging his fingers through his cowlick. He concentrated on his friend’s face rather than his body. Pinna thought how difficult it must be for him to see Drusus naked when he hankered for him. She hoped Marcus would never cry out in delirium, for it would be the Claudian’s name he would call. A secret she alone knew. One he hated that she possessed. One he did not believe she would keep.

“Pinna is right. You must take things slowly. Even with the sutures removed, you’ll need to build up power. And your collarbone and ribs need to mend as well.”

“I don’t like being a cripple.”

“It’s fortunate the bastard hit bone. At least your spleen, guts, and lungs weren’t pierced. You’ll be well in no time.”

“‘Fortunate’ is not a word I would use.” Drusus winced as Pinna began wiping his skin with garlic juice, shedding his loosened scar tissue and encrusted blood. Then she began the meticulous process of tugging at a knot with the pincers, the flesh resisting before she cut the thread with the honed scalpel, then used the tweezers again to pull it free. As she worked, she was conscious of Marcus’s surreptitious glances along the Claudian’s lean, rawboned body, which was still muscled despite being bedridden for so long.

Drusus also eyed his friend but not with desire. He was scanning Marcus’s thick hide helmet, bronze pectorals, and sword. “You’re wearing full armor. Has the general ordered us to ride out to skirmish at last?”

Marcus shook his head. “He forbids it. We’re hunkering down and letting the Etruscans starve. He’s not wasting time building ramps and towers either. We lose ten men to their one with such tactics.” He screwed up his mouth. “Believe me, you’ve missed no action.”

“Where are you going, then?”

“To Rome. I’ve been ordered to escort the soothsayer there.”

“Artile, the brother of the king?”

“Yes, Camillus believes he may well be able to assist the Senate in determining the expiation rites.”

“What makes the general think they will listen to a Veientane rat?”

Marcus hesitated. Drusus placed his hand over Pinna’s, preventing her from continuing with her ministrations. He raised himself to half sit. “Oh, I see. I’m not worthy to hear the full story. As always, Furius Camillus has chosen you above others.” His stutter returned. There was always tension between the men despite their friendship—a rivalry for her Wolf’s favor. A contest Marcus always won. Drusus was brave but rash. His present injuries attested to this. Marcus had won an oak-leaf crown in his first battle for saving another’s life and returning to the fray. And she knew this galled Drusus—for he was the man who’d needed to be rescued.

Marcus rubbed the scar at the edge of his eye, keeping his tone even. “It’s the influence I might exert over my father which he finds useful.”

“Even so, the general has marked you out for higher promotion, hasn’t he?” Drusus clenched his fists. “While I risk being a civilian forever.”

Marcus crouched down again. Pinna edged back to allow him to draw closer to the injured man. He rested his hand on Drusus’s shoulder.

“Farewell, my friend. I’ll speak to my father about you. If he’s elected as a consular general in December, I’ll make sure he chooses you from the next levy to fight in his regiment.”

Drusus gripped Marcus’s arm, his resentment replaced by uncertainty. “You believe I’ll fully recover?”

“Yes. Then we’ll see Caecilia and her husband destroyed.”

Drusus frowned, hesitating. “You want your cousin dead?”

Pinna was nonplussed. Marcus had always declared publically that he would see Caecilia executed. Pinna knew he didn’t mean it. Yet something had happened to change him in the Battle of Blood and Hail. Both friends had faced Vel Mastarna and failed to slay him. Drusus’s devotion to the traitoress remained, but her kinsman had hardened his heart against her.

Marcus stood and tightened his belt buckle with its horsehead crest. “I saw her that day. She was on the ramparts clad in yellow. Even from a distance I could see its bright color. There she was . . . staring down at me, dressed like some eastern whore. You should forget her.”

Drusus reddened, a fit of coughing seizing him. Pinna brushed past Marcus, offering her patient a spoon of honey and mint. “Lie down again, my lord. I need to finish with these stitches.” The knight slid down onto the pallet, his spasms easing.

Marcus watched Pinna pick at the knots with the pincers. “That’s right, Pinna. Make sure you take
very
good care of him.”

She flushed, concentrating on the sutures. “Good-bye, my lord,” she murmured. She made sure she kept her head down until the lack of squeaking leather and clanking metal told her that he’d left the tent.

Pinna grew anxious when she saw Marcus waiting for her in the camp square after she’d finished tending to her patient. He barred her way to the command tent.

“Don’t you need to ride to Rome, my lord?” she said, bowing her head. There had been a time when such formalities were unnecessary. He had been simply “Marcus” when she’d shared his tent and his life.

“It’s too late in the day to start the journey now. I’ll leave early tomorrow.” He nodded toward Drusus’s tent. “I see that you have duped him into believing you’re benign. You no longer circle each other like dogs.”

“Being his nurse has changed his feelings toward me. And mine toward him.” She lowered her voice. “I never understood your infatuation with him. But in his agony he’s revealed the side that makes me realize why you love him.”

He glanced around to check if anyone could hear. “It’s not infatuation,” he hissed. “And don’t pretend you wouldn’t expose me to the general if you had the chance.”

As a reflex, she reached out her hand to touch his arm, then dropped it. “I told you I would never do that. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because you’re a conniving lupa. You coerced me into making you my army wife to force me to remain silent about that night in the brothel. I wasn’t prepared to let you harm Drusus. We both know Camillus despises soldiers who go with whores. I don’t want his chance to rise in the ranks hindered by you crying rape.”

His dismissal of her suffering was cruel. She may have forgiven Drusus but she could never forget. And Marcus had been there. He’d watched his friend abuse her and done nothing. And he’d paid for her as well, made potent by imagining it was Drusus, not a woman, he was taking.

She scanned the patrician’s face: his pockmarked cheeks, the puckered tissue near his eye, the mark on the bridge of his nose. His brown eyes could be soft. He hadn’t made her his concubine because of her threats alone. He’d felt sorry for her, too. And guilty for how he’d treated her in the lupanaria. “Please, my lord, I’ve done what you asked. I’ve nursed Drusus to health. Let enmity be finished between us. We were once friends.”

“You were no friend.”

“You know that’s not true. We would talk, you and I, when we shared a bed but not our bodies.” She pointed to his forearm. She knew the flesh under his armband was not marred only by his recent wound. The skin was scored with tiny scars—self-inflicted cuts to punish him for his desire for another freeborn. “I understand your torment.”

He growled. “Spare me your sympathy, Pinna. You’ve done well in saving Drusus’s life, but your job isn’t finished. He needs to be fit enough to fight. You know the way to strengthen men’s muscles. I’ve seen you massage them and teach them exercises. Although rubbing more than the general’s neck has caused you trouble.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t think you’re safe merely because you warm his bed. I should’ve told Camillus about you when you became his mistress. If he knew the baseness of your beginnings, he’d clout you hard enough to send you flying back to Rome.”

She lowered her basket to the ground and faced him squarely. “But you didn’t tell him, did you? And you promised you wouldn’t if I helped Drusus. You allowed the general to unwittingly take a she wolf as a concubine. You claim you’re prepared to be disgraced by admitting this, but do you really want him to be a laughing stock? And, remember, to confess means you would see your closest friend shamed. Both of you should have spoken up. And now both of you have remained silent. I don’t think you’ll risk besmirching either of your characters.”

He scoffed. “Ah, this is the schemer I recognize. Not the loyal nurse.”

She gritted her teeth, wanting to pound his chest and make him understand she was tired of using her wiles. Yet, wasn’t she justified to strive to be free of poverty and oppression? Without the web of intrigue she’d woven, she would never have become her Wolf’s woman. And she had not actually caused Marcus hurt. She’d wounded his pride, not his heart. Being perceived as a cuckold in the eyes of the camp had humiliated him even if she’d never been his lover. She placed her hands on her hips. “Only because you force me to be. I just want to be left alone with the general. I’ve healed the Claudian as you asked. When will I stop being beholden to you?”

“When Claudius Drusus can ride into the fray beside me again. When we capture Caecilia and put her husband to the sword.”

She shook her head. “What happened in that battle? You didn’t hate your cousin before. I sensed you felt sorry for her. Now you’re so bitter.”

“Are you blind, Pinna? Drusus may never be a warrior again! Mastarna did that to him, but it’s Caecilia’s fault. Too many men have suffered because of her lust for the Veientane.”

He’d grown loud. Her frown caused him to lower his voice. “Caecilia should never have spurned Drusus. Never have forsaken Rome. And it riles me the Etruscan dog sought to sully his name. He claimed Drusus attacked him from behind. But Drusus’s scar is on his front. He was facing Mastarna when he was wounded.”

Marcus had told her of the accusation. She’d wondered if jealousy had driven the lovesick knight to act dishonorably. Marcus had not seen his friend inscribe the love spell. She alone knew the depth of the Claudian’s obsession. Yet she’d dismissed the slur. Why would anyone believe the account of an enemy? Drusus was reckless, but she’d never thought of him as spineless. She picked up her basket, tucking it into the crook of her arm. “May I go, my lord?”

He stared at her, words hovering on his lips, but instead of berating her further, he strode away.

Pinna was relieved. Marcus was angry but she sensed it was bluster. And she must thank unrequited love for her protection: Drusus’s for Caecilia, and Marcus’s for Drusus. It was cruel to barter in emotions but she had no other choice. No one was going to take her Wolf from her. No man was ever going to reduce her to nothing again.

T
HIRTEEN

It was twilight by the time she had seen to her chores. Camillus had been fed, relishing the fennel-flavored porridge; although he’d shaken his head when she’d told him it was doubly potent for having been plucked from Minerva’s skirts.

She scanned the camp as she unhooked the pot from the cooking tripod to clean it. Spirals of smoke wafted into the air from other campfires. The lowing and bleating of the animals in the enclosure behind the camp reminded her of her childhood, even though her father had never owned more than an ox to pull his plow and one nanny goat to milk.

She could hear the heavy infantrymen warming themselves around the flames, sharing jokes and tales of valor. The hoplites’ morale was always buoyed by Camillus. Every morning, the general would inspect his troops, but in the evenings he would often visit his men informally. He knew each of their names and their histories. What battles they’d fought and what scars they bore. And it was this attention that made them love him. They were commoners who were bitter against the patricians, but Camillus was forgiven his class. When he jested with them, his lineage was forgotten. These men would follow him to their deaths if he asked it.

Her Wolf did not look up as she drew back the tent flap. He sat at his desk, a lamp burning beside him. She loved his face with its aquiline nose and high forehead. As always, he was immaculately groomed. His shoulder-length hair was combed, and his short-cropped beard trimmed. His handsome hands were clean. The gold ring encircling his finger was a trophy from the Volscian who’d speared him. Despite the gravity of Camillus’s position, and the controlled violence within him, the grooves in his weathered cheeks were etched by good humor, as were the creases around his eyes.

She stood behind him, looping her arms around his neck and placing her cheek against his soft bearded one.

“You’re distracting me,” he muttered, placing one scroll to the side and unfurling the next. “I need to finish these reports. My visit to the sanctuary has meant I’m behind with my work.”

She was not deterred. She was familiar with his moods. If he wanted her gone, she would know it in his voice. She nibbled his earlobe. “I want you, my Wolf.”

His tone was firmer. “Don’t tempt me.”

She drew back and placed her hands on his shoulders, massaging the tendons at the base of his skull while he continued to read. She peered over his shoulder as he took a tablet from the pile. His stylus dug into the wax. His script was neat and sure. She wondered what the words meant. Like most girls, she’d never been taught to read or write. “What do the reports say?”

“Nothing that would interest you. Usual army business. Inventories. Sick lists.”

She rested her chin on top of his head. “Everything you do interests me.”

He chuckled. “Then you are easily satisfied.” He turned around to face her. “Tell me, how is Claudius Drusus?”

She smiled, pleased that he didn’t resent her sitting beside the sickbed of another soldier. “His flesh is healing. I removed the final stitches today.”

“You’re a worthy nurse.”

“It will be some time before his shoulder is strong enough to hold a shield.”

“It will be hard for him if he can’t. He deserved the three silver spears I awarded him.”

Pinna knew such accolades would never be enough for Drusus. He wanted a circlet of oak leaves. Or to be rewarded the mural crown—for being the first to scale the wall of the besieged city. “He’s jealous of Marcus Aemilius even though they are closer than brothers.”

His lips curled in a half smile. “Envy fuels acts of valor.”

“So you like to pit them against each other?”

“Competition is healthy. Roman men thrive on it on the battlefield, and in the law courts, and in politics.”

“But you’re fostering rivalry between two friends.”

“You’re naïve, Pinna. I want my men to excel. I vie to do better than my older brother, Medullinus. He’s resentful that he isn’t in office.”

“And is it the same with your younger brother?”

“Spurius? Not so much. Although he is ambitious enough.” He turned back to his desk.

She was not prepared to let him ignore her. The touch of his skin beneath her fingers had aroused her. Close proximity to him always made her tingle, a shiver of expectation running through her like a breeze caressing water. She slipped off her shoes, then untied the strings of her tunic, stepping from the circle of fabric as it pooled around her feet. Then she loosened the pins from her bun, her fine black hair falling to her waist. She walked around to stand before him, the air chilly on her skin.

He laid his stylus down and pushed back from the desk, his eyes roaming over her tiny frame with its full breasts, rounded hips, and narrow waist. “Come here.”

He pulled her to him, his fingers edging around to cup her buttocks. She bent and kissed him, her tongue prying his lips open, her hair shrouding them. She drew away and knelt before him to untie his boots and unfasten his belt buckle. He stood, lifting his tunic over his head, while she unwound his loin cloth. Finally he was naked except for the broad leather girdle that supported his back. He resented having to wear it and was careful to keep it secret. To reveal such a weakness was the real reason why he would never have bathed in the sanctuary’s pool. She half rose, ready to unlace it, but he stopped her, sitting down on his chair again.

“Leave it on. I want you here.”

Kneeling again, she traced the scar that curved from his shoulder to under his armpit, before trailing her hand along the lump in his clavicle where the bone had never fully mended. She moved downward, running her fingers through his chest hair, feeling the contours of his muscles, the ridges of his abdomen. Then, teasing him, she bent to graze her mouth along the indented scar on his thigh.

He grasped her with strong hands and guided her to stand and then straddle him. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed his hardness. Muscled arms wrapped around her, almost squeezing the breath from her, as he helped her to grind and rock against him.

When they’d finished, he continued to hold her tight, regaining his breath. She laid her cheek on one of his shoulders, her arms encircling his neck. Her own heart was racing. It always amazed her that he would let her mount him. A woman was supposed to be supine, a mere receptacle for a man’s semen. His back injury meant he needed her to do more. She welcomed it. He never failed to satisfy her. Or she him.

He rarely admitted their lovemaking caused him discomfort. More than once she wondered if she should offer him relief by other means, but to do so would only shock him. It was also risky. How would she explain she knew whore’s tricks without revealing she had been a whore? For that is why lupae were paid—to do what good Roman wives wouldn’t. Not that she minded such practices in the brothel or graveyard. Using hand or mouth was better than the thought of a disease that could line her womb.

He stroked her hair. “What am I going to do with you, Pinna? The sun has barely set and you’ve made me forget my duties. Next you’ll have me knowing you in daylight.”

She smiled as she swiveled from his lap and stood, extending her hand to him. “Lie down beside me for a time.” She nodded to the pile of tablets and scrolls. “All this can wait. You sleep little more than a few hours each day. No man would begrudge you a break.”

He hesitated, then, with a small shake of his head, let her lead him to their pallet.

The coolness of the autumn night now intruded after the heat of their lovemaking. She shivered and pulled the wolfskin over them as he slid in beside her. “Let me remove this now,” she said, unlacing the belt. He winced in pain but said nothing, settling on his back next to her.

Lying on her side, she laid her head against his shoulder. She relished these times. Somehow, when holding her in the wavering light of a lamp, he was inclined to talk to her. “Were you surprised to learn that it is Mater Matuta who must be placated?”

“Yes. I never thought it would be the dawn goddess who was angry.”

She placed her hand on his chest. “She brings the power of the sun. You should worship her fervently. She will bring you victory.”

“Are you counseling me in religion and war now, Pinna?”

She chewed her lip, aware she’d been too forward. Then she noticed his smile, his features half hid in shadow, half in light.

“I have family holdings in Latium,” he said. “It’s in my interest as much as Rome’s to see the land drained. I’ll be happy to see the goddess appeased.”

“My mother came from Satricum,” she said. “The town is sacred to Mater Matuta. Mama taught me to revere her.”

“Tell me about her.”

His query surprised her. She thought of her poor mother, dying of pox and madness. “Why do you ask, my Wolf?”

He stroked her cheek. “Because I wish to know all about you. She’s the one who called you ‘Pinna,’ isn’t she?”

“Yes, she called me ‘feather, her little wing.’”

“And your father’s name?”

“Lollius, Gnaeus Lollius.”

“Then your true name is ‘Lollia’?”

She inwardly cursed herself. Her given name, and her whore’s name, was inscribed on the prostitute’s roll. She wished now that she’d given an alias to the cross-eyed city magistrate when he’d registered her. “Yes, but I’ve not been called that for a long, long time. My father alone used it. ‘Pinna’ is what I like to be called.”

“And your father was forced into bondage when he couldn’t satisfy his creditors.”

“He couldn’t afford to pay the war tax, my Wolf. And most of the year he was away fighting for Rome, so my mother and I tilled the land for him. In the end Father had to sell his animals and small farm. Lastly, his armor. It wasn’t enough to pay his debts. When he was bonded, we were forced to travel to the city and find work.”

“Little citizen, it pains me that good Romans should fall on such hard times.”

She pushed aside her guilt. She didn’t deserve to be called a citizen. She’d forfeited that right when she’d become a prostitute. Yet his sympathy stirred her to challenge him. “The common soldiers are paid a salary but the tariff depletes it. Why not let them take plunder instead of giving it all to the treasury?”

“It’s not so simple. You know that. The State collects loot for the good of all. The war tax is reduced that way.”

“And yet the patricians take their own share of the spoils—treasure and land. It’s like cream added to an already sweetened dish, while booty for veterans would go partway to feed their families.”

“The nobility are liable for a greater share of the tax.”

“Why must soldiers pay anything at all?”

“Because it’s used to fund their salaries.”

“I don’t understand. A tax to pay themselves? They are farmers who must fight all year round. Their women are left to shoulder plows and reap harvests. Debts accrue. And then . . .” Her voice caught in her throat.

He placed his arm around her. “Why do you think I struggle to defeat Veii? You saw the fertile soil of this land. Instead of destroying the crops, I’m forcing the Veientane farmers we’ve captured to work them. I learned my lesson when I razed Faliscan territory when Rome was in famine. This time I’ll feed our people instead of letting them starve.” He placed his fingers beneath her chin, making her look at him. “And Veii is filled with riches. There will be plenty to share.”

“So you plan to let your troops keep the loot? Be granted plots of land?”

He kissed her on the forehead. “That’s not for me to decide. Only the Senate has that power.”

His tone told her she should not pester him further. She hugged him, grateful he’d not silenced her.

“Tell me, how did you come to be a servant in the House of Aemilius?”

She tensed, confused again why he was enquiring about her history. She scrambled to remember what lies she’d told him already. “When my mother died, I went from house to house seeking work. Marcus Aemilius took pity on a daughter of a Roman soldier. I was first his maid and then his concubine.”

“At least you didn’t end up as a slut in a tavern or working in a bakery.”

Pinna felt uneasy. Such women were often expected to provide more services than just pouring wine or grinding grain. If he thought they were base, his contempt for a lupa would be even greater.

He did not seem to notice her lack of response, although his next question panicked her. “Tell me the truth, Pinna. How many men have you lain with?”

She’d lost count. But one thing was true; she’d never had a lover before him, never had a man possess her heart. She pondered whether to name a number. How many would he accept before he rejected her? Or should she feign she was a virgin before she met Marcus? She decided not even the general would expect that. “I will not lie, my Wolf. It was not easy after my father was placed into bondage. Men took advantage more than once of a young country girl.” Suddenly she was curious, too. “And you, my Wolf. How many women have you had?”

He hesitated. She wondered if she’d pressed too hard.

“There were servant girls in my father’s house before I was married, but once I wed I was faithful. My wife bore me two sons of whom I’m proud. By the time she died, my back pained me after I was unseated from my horse in battle.” He kissed her hair. “You make me forget that.”