Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (12 page)

“No other army wives, then?”

“My manservant saw to my armor and cooked my meals.”

She summoned up greater nerve. “And whores, my Wolf?”

He snorted. “They are for the weak. Better to keep a concubine than visit those poxy prostitutes who follow the regiment.”

His disgust made her queasy. At least her admission of lying with others hadn’t angered him. “So you don’t hate me for my past? That I’ve known other men?”

He placed his lips against her hair. “My only worry is that you have feelings for Marcus Aemilius.”

She gasped. She’d never thought jealousy would eat at him. “He means nothing to me.”

“And what of him? Does he still have feelings for you?”

“We speak because I tend to his friend. Other than that, he is cold.”

She could tell he was pleased. He sat up, looking down at her as she rolled onto her back and gazed up at him. “I want you to come with me to Rome.”

Disbelief and excitement surged. She’d always pushed aside thoughts of what would happen when his campaign ended. “I would be proud to be your servant, my Wolf.”

He laughed. “You don’t understand. I want you to live as my de facto wife in my house, my official concubine.”

She sat up. “In your house?” Then she bowed her head. “I can’t give you children, my Wolf.”

“I don’t want children. I already have two sons.”

“They might be displeased, my Wolf. They’ll think I’m dishonoring their mother’s memory.”

He stroked her cheek. “They won’t need to deal with that. They live in my country villa. They’ll reach fighting age soon. Besides, knowing you, you would try and cosset them.”

She pushed aside thoughts that his boys would only be a little younger than she was. Yet her Wolf’s age had never worried her. At fifty, Camillus was still virile. And she was attracted to his power. “Didn’t your mother cosset you?”

“There was little time for that. I hadn’t even lost all my milk teeth before I was chosen to be a camillus altar boy to the chief pontiff. My memories of childhood were of rituals, augury—and politics.”

“And that’s why you are known as ‘Camillus’ instead of your family name ‘Medullinus’ like your brothers?”

He nodded. “But enough of my story. Tell me, do you wish to come to Rome with me?”

She scrambled onto her knees beside him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Yes! You’ve made me so happy, my Wolf. I love you.”

He broke from her and grasped both her hands, the pressure firm. “You know what I think of ‘love,’ Pinna. A man is expected to control his emotions. To be in love is to let your soul live inside another’s body. It diminishes a man. I want you in my home and my bed, but don’t expect me to ever whisper those words to you.”

She chided herself. She knew this even though she prayed he might forget his rule. Lifting his hands to her lips, she kissed the back of each of them in turn. “I understand, my Wolf. But I am a woman, and weak, so I can indulge in such an emotion. But I ask nothing more of you than to be your concubine.”

She could feel him relax.

“I need to go back to work. No more distractions.”

She rose and slipped on her tunic, then helped him to dress—buckling his belt, smoothing the tunic across his back, helping to strap on his boots, rewinding the steps of her seduction. He was right. Love enfeebled a man. She saw this with Marcus and Drusus. It could possess, enrage, and overcome reason. It could drive vengeance and inspire passion and courage. She smiled as she lit another lamp and set up her handloom. For, unlike a man, love gave a woman power. A night moth had become a patrician’s mistress. The impossible had been made possible. And in time she felt certain she would hear those three precious words.

F
OURTEEN

Marcus, Fidenae, Autumn, 397 BC

Artile was not at ease on the horse. Marcus Aemilius grew impatient with the need to slow down. The soothsayer clung to the gelding’s mane, his pudgy body joggled by the trotting motion, his face half grimace, half apprehension. The guard of five knights accompanying him found it difficult to hide their smirks.

Marcus was more irritated than amused. He found it hard to credit that a man did not know how to sit a horse; to grip the bare fleshy sides between his thighs, and guide the steed with rein and bit only. As a cavalry officer at the head of a turma of thirty, he’d forgotten a time when he’d not ridden. It was engrained in him to read the shift in an animal’s movements, the eagerness of the beast to charge, the capriciousness of its moods. He leaned down and patted his stallion’s neck. The horse responded with a brief shake of his head, stepping high, impatient as well.

Some way behind them, two donkeys pulled the wagon containing Artile’s sacred texts and baggage. Two foot soldiers walked beside it. Every now and then the haruspex would risk toppling from his horse to glance over his shoulder to check the Holy Books were still stacked in the tray. He’d insisted on bringing the codex with him in case of further need to consult it.

Marcus had refused to let the priest ride in the cart. If the party was attacked by renegades, he needed to ensure Artile could escape quickly. However, given the soothsayer’s incompetent riding skills, the decurion now wondered at his own wisdom. He was keen to sight the Roman garrison at Fidenae and reach the river ferry. It would mark the halfway point to Rome. As always, it struck him how close Veii and Rome were situated. Neighbors and foes, the righteous and the wicked, separated only by a strip of water.

Dark, bruised clouds clustered on the horizon, threatening rain. Marcus hoped some would fall on his city. Artile had revealed how Veii could grow its grain while Rome struggled with drought and famine.

He thought of the last time he’d seen his home: the arid parched land, people scratching for husks, the cattle perishing from thirst. The Romans had borne the harshest of winters and then sweltered under a relentless summer sun. There had been a plague too: the sick dying in the streets, the sky dense with the black smoke of funeral pyres. The Aemilian family had been forced to retreat to the country with other patricians. The escape had been too late for his mother. Marcus pushed aside the memory of her shrunken frame and the pustules on her once-plump face. She could be a bully to others with her sharp slaps and scolding, but never with her only son. Her only child.

In comparison, his relationship with his father was prickly; nevertheless, Marcus would be pleased to see him. Deep down he knew Aemilius was proud of him, although the senator would never show it. It was only when he overheard him with others that Marcus realized his father acknowledged his bravery and achievements. Now he had to convince Aemilius to call a special sitting of the Senate. And to heed the advice of an Etruscan traitor about the meaning of the omen.

As they neared the next bend in the road, the decurion heard the sounds of the Roman outpost near the river: the growling of the sentry dogs, the shouts of a centurion training his hoplites, the hammering of a blacksmith at his anvil, and the grunting of swine in the enclosure. A stockade came into view where civilian traders heckled and bartered with soldiers for fresh vegetables, eggs, and fruit.

Tatius, one of his knights, pointed to the hilltop town rising above them on the far side of the river. Marcus did not plan to waste time scaling the rise. He wanted to reach Rome by midday. And he didn’t want to risk Artile being noticed. No knight would struggle to maintain his seat on a horse. No knight had milk-white skin and soft, blistered fingers.

The barge was on the other side of the stream. A line of traffic was banked along the road. Marcus glanced over his shoulder to check how long he’d have to wait for the cart to catch up with his riders. He frowned when he saw how far it was lagging behind. “We’ll cross our horses at the ford. I want to get you into Roman territory as soon as possible. The wagon driver can cross later.”

“I refuse to risk the sacred texts getting wet. They need to be carried across by boat.” Artile waggled his reins in front of him. “Do you think I can control my horse through water? Please, Marcus Aemilius, let me ride the barge.”

Marcus scowled, annoyed to be further delayed, but he knew the priest was correct. The Veientane was already having problems keeping upright on dry land. The decurion didn’t relish having to fish him out of the river.

Artile dismounted, stumbling a little before regaining his balance. He stepped gingerly as he moved away from the road, before bumping down on his buttocks on the grassy embankment.

Tatius trotted his mount over to his commander. He appeared amused to see the haruspex sitting with his head cradled between his hands, exhausted. Marcus dismounted and handed the knight both horses’ reins. “Lead them across the ford and wait for me on the other side.”

The ruddy-faced soldier grinned, revealing buckteeth. “Is the fat priest causing you trouble, sir?”

Marcus rolled his eyes. Tatius laughed. They had started as raw recruits together. He did not seek to rival Marcus as did Drusus. He acknowledged the Aemilian as his superior without question.

“May Mars give me strength to get through this day,” muttered Marcus, grabbing a goatskin bladder of water from his horse’s pack and gesturing Tatius to go. The soldier saluted before he led the animals farther upstream.

On the far side, the ferryman was taking his time to load cargo. It could be a long wait before he would return. Marcus looked across to Artile, reluctant to go near him despite the general’s orders. He’d been charged to discover the true nature of the enmity between the Mastarna brothers. It was to Camillus’s advantage to understand the motives and passions of all those around him, both friend and foe. Even so, the decurion couldn’t comprehend why his commander placed such faith in the seer.

He sat down beside Artile. The soothsayer glanced up when he realized the Roman had joined him. Marcus squirted a stream of water into his mouth from the bladder, then wiped drips from his beard. The priest eyed the liquid, licking dry lips. The Aemilian ignored him, finding it difficult to reconcile how Artile could be so unlike his warrior brother. There was a marked resemblance, but the priest lacked a honed body and battle scars. Yet Marcus couldn’t deny both brothers’ fame. One was renowned for his valor, the other for his prescience. If in Rome, such a family would be feted.

It was quiet away from the hubbub of the ferry station. The Roman studied the fast-flowing current, wondering how to broach the subject of Vel Mastarna. The water was so clear he could see the pebbles coating the bottom of the stream. It was hard to imagine that these swirling eddies had once been thick with blood. Fidenae was a strategic post over which Veii and Rome had fought for decades. It was the site of massacres and ignominy, triumph and honor. The crossing joined the northern trade routes to the rich salt pans at the mouth of the Tiber. Veii had once controlled all access. Then Rome had thwarted it by capturing the hilltop town nearly thirty years ago. A battle won by his great uncle, Mamercus Aemilius—the dictator.

His thoughts drifted to Caecilia. It was for those trade routes she’d been wed to Vel Mastarna in the first place. There had been
concord for twenty years based on a treaty arising after the bat
tle of Fidenae. And it was his father, Aemilius, and other peacemakers, who had sought to continue the pact by offering Cilla in marriage.
Marcus had ached for her when he’d heard she was to be sacrificed. He clenched his fists. Cilla. He had to stop thinking of
her fondly. Stop using the nickname he’d given her. The glimpse of
her on the wall during the Battle of Blood and Hail was enough to convince him she was Veientane now.

“Our pasts are linked more than you can imagine, Marcus Aemilius.”

Artile’s bass voice startled him.

“My father was killed by your great-uncle at this very place.”

Marcus turned to him. He had long felt the burden of living up to the most famous of the Aemilian clan. “Then your father fought for a tyrant. King Laris Tulumnes was a scoundrel who murdered four Roman envoys on the throw of a dice. He deserved to be beheaded when Mamercus Aemilius defeated his army.”

Artile’s bristled. “The Tulumnes family saw his mutilation as a travesty. And his descendants have fared little better. His son was deposed by Mastarna and his cronies. Then his cousin, King Kurvenas, was assassinated. My brother filled his royal shoes despite bleating how much he loathes monarchs. At least Karcuna Tulumnes is still there to oppose him. There’s always been conflict both within and without Veii. Our father would be ashamed of my brother.”

Marcus snorted. “What would he think of his traitorous priestly son?”

Artile looked away.

The Roman was pleased he’d pricked the Etruscan’s conscience. Yet the seer’s declaration that his father had met his death at the hand of Marcus’s own famous ancestor only made the decurion wonder what type of man Vel Mastarna really was. “Your brother chose to put such history aside to marry an Aemilian? Why?”

The haruspex’s laugh was bitter. “A bone of contention between us. He replaced vengeance with diplomacy—and look how that ended.”

“So that’s why you hate him? Because you feel he’s betrayed your family through the marriage?”

The pasty features hardened. “That’s only part of my hatred.”

The soldier leaned back, legs outstretched, his weight resting on his elbows. “The ferryman will take some time. I’m listening.”

The priest scrutinized him as though hesitating whether to reveal more. “He liked to meddle in my private life. He and that treacherous cousin of yours turned my love against me at the time war was declared.”

“Why would they convince your wife to spurn you?”

“I have no use for a wife. It was my beloved, Tarchon, who was persuaded to leave me.”

Marcus scrambled to understand, then recalled the priest’s conversation with Camillus. How he’d claimed Mastarna’s adopted son had shunned him.

He had only met the prince once. Tarchon had accompanied Caecilia to Fidenae when she’d sought to flee Veii ten years ago. He guessed he was the same age as him. Nineteen or twenty. He’d smelled of rose water and worn a turquoise earring and robes of green. Marcus suspected he was a soft one, only having eyes for men. For some time after, he repressed thoughts of kissing those sensual lips; long-lashed eyelids; and the Veientane’s taut, honey-colored body.

Had the prince been seduced, or was he willing? Either way, Marcus was disturbed. What kind of world did Caecilia live in? A woman should never be exposed to such behavior. And yet it seemed that she was involved in a drama between two molles. How could she condone an adult aristocrat bedding the son of another noble? Turning a youth destined to be a warrior into a bride. After all, it was a father’s duty to teach his son how to be a
statesman, knight, and head of his family. For a moment, he felt a
twinge of sadness. He’d never sire heirs to whom he could show his battle scars.

He stared at the seer, aware that the odious Etruscan possessed none of the qualities suited to teach a boy how to be a man. Yet he was also intrigued whether Tarchon’s relationship with the priest had continued into manhood. Were two equals allowed to be lovers openly in Veii? Imagine such freedom. “I can understand why Mastarna would ensure his son retained his honor. Tarchon was your kin, and was expected to become a soldier, not another man’s wife.”

“Who are you to judge me? I’ve seen how you look at Claudius Drusus. You’d bed him without hesitation if he gave you some encouragement.”

Marcus felt the blood rush of anger and astonishment and fear. He sat up and seized the priest by the throat.

Artile flailed against him, his hands scrabbling at his. “Camillus . . . wants me . . . alive.”

The Roman squeezed the soothsayer’s windpipe, ignoring how the man wheezed, his dark cat eyes bulging, his face scarlet.

It was hard to let go.

The haruspex gulped in air, coughing. He slumped back onto the grass, rubbing his fleshy neck, which was now marked with red fingerprints.

Rattled, Marcus stood, glowering at the Veientane. His heart was thudding. All these years he’d kept his love for his friend secret. What had he done to reveal himself? Only Pinna had guessed. Only Pinna knew. “Speak such lies again, and I’ll kill you once you’ve served your purpose.”

Artile rose, still rubbing his throat. His voice was hoarse. “Don’t worry. You’re good at keeping your lust hidden. There’s a reason for my fame. I observe and take notice of the smallest of tells. It’s the way you avoid looking at Claudius Drusus that made me realize.”

“Keep talking, priest, and I might just forget my orders completely.”

The haruspex kept his distance, eyeing the officer warily. “Then I’ll speak no more. But lost love eats away at your insides. Knowing this, you can understand my bitterness toward my brother. I would see him destroyed along with his bitch. We are as one in that desire.”