Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (13 page)

Marcus spat at his feet, the spittle spraying onto the Etruscan’s boots. “Don’t ever think we’re on the same side.”

Artile fussed over the stolen Holy Books on the trip across the river, ensuring the scrolls were sealed in their cylinders and the folded linen pages were intact and undamaged.

Marcus stood at the railing, barely aware of the shouts of the ferryman as he loaded the other cargo. Balancing on the swaying deck, the decurion stared at the water, watching the wind riffle its surface. His mind was in turmoil. He doubted Artile would be given credit should he voice such gossip. An enemy turned traitor. A member of the House of Mastarna with a long-held enmity with the Aemilians. And Marcus had committed no crime. Yet dung thrown is difficult to clean. Speculation could spread. It would harm his reputation as well as his political and military ambitions. It was this same fear of exposure that drove him to be coerced by Pinna.

When he was younger, he’d often enjoyed one of the servant boys slightly older than him. No one had thought anything of it. It was a master’s right. The slave was skilled in the art of pleasure. Marcus remembered the surprise and abandon of the first time, the soft moist warmth of the youth’s mouth encasing his hardness. Then how he’d flouted the rules at the promise in the boy’s deep gaze; taking turns, gentle strokes quickening into sweet slickened rutting before waking the next morning, lips bruised from kisses, traces of salt upon his skin, confused and guilty that strictures could be broken in passion, and terrified that the servant would not keep his secret that a noble was prepared to act the bride. Yet he was prepared to disobey them again as he rolled his back to the boy, filled with emptiness it was not his schoolmate nestled behind him.

But it was far more dangerous to indulge in an affair with another freeborn in the same way. Even more so with a fellow warrior. Throughout his career, he’d restrained himself from exchanging glances with the soldiers he guessed were soft. It would have only taken a heartbeat to signal he wanted them. Abstinence brought safety.

He readjusted his wristbands. They hid tiny scars. Pinna had warned him that he might poison his blood if he kept slitting his flesh. Now he’d turned to punishing himself with training. Welcoming the pain. He was so fit that there was little flesh on his body, his muscles corded, his face gaunt. His personal penance reminded him that what he was prepared to do in bed was wrong. There was something broken in him in longing to lie with another knight.

His greatest fear was Drusus’s disgust. Marcus knew his friend despised freeborns who were molles. And he was not interested in taking slave boys himself. In its way, this was unusual for a man. However, he didn’t want to think what Drusus might do to him if he knew he desired him. At least in silence and suppression, Marcus could always be with him. To be denied proximity would be unbearable.

Taking Pinna as his army wife had been a shield. It spared him the pretense of seeking women’s company. Before that, he’d endured visiting fleshpots with Drusus, causing him both thrills and frustration. They’d shared their first whore together. He’d balked at the sight of the bored she wolf with her knees raised to her chest. But watching Drusus excited him, especially when his friend met his eyes in boastful mastery of the woman. In that moment he realized that imagining being taken aroused him enough to perform. He’d rushed to thrust into the hot seed his companion left inside the lupa in case his stiffness failed. He thought his revulsion of the harlot was because of the tawdriness of the brothel, but over time he discovered no woman was alluring. He was always reluctant to join in other visits. But there were only so many excuses not to go whoring when on campaign. He needed to prove he was like any other man.

It was rare that Drusus was not rough with a lupa, saying they were paid to endure it. It had shocked Marcus at first. The youth who’d once protected his mother and sister from the beatings of a brutal father carried a legacy of viciousness in him. No Roman should raise his hand to a woman. Behind closed doors, though, the law was flouted. To see his friend abuse whores was disturbing. Yet he never stopped him. Always excused him. Until Pinna.

Drusus had slapped her thigh, then covered her face with his hand as he took her. She’d lain passive and quiet after an initial struggle. It had troubled Marcus but he didn’t think of it as rape. She was a prostitute. And then she’d transacted her business with him without complaining. It was only when she sought him out later to coerce him that he understood her despair. Devoid of paint, her heart-shaped face had been pale and drawn, her black hair lank, no longer reddened by henna. Her tears were real. She swore she would kill herself rather than remain a she wolf. Desperation coated her threats. He felt pity for her as well as apprehension for himself. There was shame, too, that he’d been stirred by watching Drusus rather than trying to stop him from subduing her.

Pinna had spoken the truth when she said they’d grown close. It was a relief to be able to talk freely about his feelings without judgment. There was mutual benefit in their arrangement. She pretended she was his woman, while he’d freed her from the brothel. And then she’d humiliated him by making him a cuckold in the eyes of the camp with the general. The sharp point of her ambition had been unsheathed. He didn’t believe her declarations that she’d keep his secret. She would destroy him if Furius Camillus were ever taken from her. Another woman whose lust overruled her integrity. Pinna and Caecilia. Was it any wonder he despised them?

Marcus was jolted from his thoughts as the ferry’s bottom nudged into the shallows. Sounds intruded again: the thud of the gangplank onto the bank, the chatter of the passengers as they disembarked, the grunts of men as they hefted amphorae of olive oil onto their shoulders.

Artile stood looking back toward the road to Veii. His expression was melancholy. Marcus grabbed his arm, wrenching him around and then prodding him in the small of the back toward the waiting cavalrymen. “A little late for regret, priest. The next time you set foot in your city, Veii better belong to Rome.”

F
IFTEEN

The Forum was bathed in soft light, shadows pooling with the chill edge of the afternoon. There was a fresh smell of rain, the roads washed clean of muck. Marcus could hardly believe the drought had broken.

The city roiled with people spilling into the Sacred Way and cramming into the side streets. The plebeians were reveling. It was clear many had been drinking steadily. Marcus marveled at their conviviality. The last time he’d been in Rome they were on the brink of insurrection. He navigated through the crowd, making his way to the steps of the Curia Senate House so he could gain a better view. The festival intrigued him. It was not a day proscribed as a religious holiday.

There were three couches draped lavishly with flowing folds of cloth next to the Comitium assembly area. Two wooden statues, their heads molded from wax, were arranged on each divan, leaning their elbows on elaborate cushions. The garlands around their necks drooped from the recent showers. The circlets of laurel leaves on their brows were wilted and turning brown.

The tables in front of them were laden with food—a bounty in a city that lived on rations. Marcus thought it a waste that ants were creeping through the honey cakes, and flies buzzing over fruit. A young acolyte lethargically shooed away sparrows that alighted to peck at crumbs. He seemed defeated by the task.

Marcus edged into the throng again to inspect the effigies, astonished to see there were two women sharing the banquet. He’d never seen such a thing in the flesh or in sculpture. Matrons did not recline next to men when they dined. They sat on chairs and ate after their husbands, fathers, and sons.

A trumpet sounded. The throng parted to allow three magistrates in striped purple tunics make their way to the couches. Prayers were said. Invocations made. The ceremony identified the statues on the divans as deities. Apollo and his mother, Latona, were asked to heal the city; his sister, Diana, to protect the poor and women; Mercurius to stimulate commerce; and Neptunus to provide fresh water. Lastly, the half-god Herculeus was venerated for his strength. Marcus was struck by the presence of the same gods as lived in the sanctuary outside Veii. Both sides sought their protection.

The timekeeper called the dinner hour. The revelers started to drift home. Marcus pulled aside one man who appeared sober. “What are these rituals?”

“A new festival called a lectisternium. The keepers of the Sibylline Books have proclaimed it. It’s to appease the six gods who are believed to have sent the plague and inclement weather. There’s been a week of devotions. This is the eighth and last day. A banquet has been offered to the gods each afternoon.”

“I thought we were in famine.”

The man grinned. “No longer. Supplies arrived from the south. And rain has been falling steadily ever since the holiday began. Our cisterns are replenished. Our fields will be fertile again.”

“So the rites are not in expiation for Lake Albanus?”

His smile faded. “We still await the delegation from Delphi.”

The man moved on. Marcus turned toward his home on the Palatine, but a hand clasped his elbow. He swung around. Icilius Calvus stood before him.

“Marcus Aemilius. What brings you to Rome before the end of the year?”

Marcus shrugged him away. He had little time for the plebeian with the spear-straight back and dour manner. “Furius Camillus ordered me to return.” He could see Calvus waiting for further explanation, but he denied him an account. Awkward seconds passed.

The plebeian scowled. “Spare me your patrician arrogance.” He gestured around him. “Proclaiming another holiday might please some of my fellow Romans, but I know the true motivation for this lectisternium. And it’s only in part to placate the gods.”

Marcus frowned. “Why is that?”

“The Senate claims our city has suffered plague and famine because five plebeians were elected as consular generals instead of patricians. The scaremongering is gaining credence. The lectisternium provides an opportunity to pander to the populace with feasting. There’s also been a decree that bondsmen are now unencumbered of their debts.”

Marcus had heard the complaint about plebeians commanding Rome’s armies before. He focused instead on the man’s last sentence. “Those in bondage have been freed? I thought you’d be pleased to see veterans enfranchised again.”

The grooves around Calvus’s mouth settled into grim lines, etched from long years of disapproval. “True, such men regain the citizenship they forfeited. But they’ll undoubtedly vote in favor of those who granted them liberty. Six patricians will once again lead Rome.”

Marcus was stunned at his cynicism. “I never thought you’d complain that a common soldier could vote.”

“The war tax hasn’t been lifted. Warrior-farmers still fight all year round. How long do you think it will be before such men fall into debt again? It’s the right to keep the spoils they need. And a share of conquered land.”

Marcus shook his head at the well-worn grievance. “Booty needs to go to the treasury for the benefit of all.”

“Is that what Camillus tells you? He was the only noble elected last year. Many believed he would reward his troops. Instead he denied them Faliscan plunder. And he deprived Rome of grain. I’m standing for the position of consular general again. I will not give up my fight for the rights of common soldiers.”

Marcus’s impatience changed to irritation. “Look around you. The people are happy. Do you want to incite them to mutiny again? To ensure our State is riven by internal conflict instead of standing as one against our enemies?”

Calvus leaned close, each word deliberate. “I want to see the Senate filled with plebeians. I want to see one elected as consul in the future. So tell your father that if no commoner is chosen as a consular general, there will be ructions. Buying a poor man’s favor can only last so long. Discontent will also return unless the omen is solved. If not, the aristocracy’s status as intermediaries to the gods may fall into question.”

Marcus stepped back, scanning the plebeian’s fine woolen toga. Calvus was as rich as any patrician. His concern for paupers was laughable. Not prepared to respond, Marcus nodded curtly, then turned on his heel. Nevertheless, as he pushed his way through the crowd toward his home, he thought of Artile waiting outside the city. Calvus was skeptical about the words of highborn augurs. What would he think about an Etruscan seer? Marcus swallowed hard. What would his father?

The inner and outer doors of every house Marcus passed on his street were thrown open. Garlands festooned the foyers. Inside he spied people milling around and helping themselves to food piled on tables. He was astounded. It was as if Rome had gone mad with generosity and good will. The rich of the Palatine were sparing no expense. Calvus’s words echoed in Marcus’s mind. Perhaps there was some weight to his claim the patricians were trying to garner votes through largesse.

The thick wooden portals of the House of Aemilius were closed. Marcus paused for a moment, pleased to be home but wondering why his father was not following the new custom. He banged the door clapper. A young porter he’d not met opened it.

“Come back in an hour; Lord Aemilius will offer refreshments then.”

Disconcerted he was not recognized in his own home, Marcus shoved past him, calling for the majordomo. The retainer bustled into view, cuffing the slave boy over the head for his mistake.

“It’s good to see you home, master. Let me take your toga. Your father is in his study with his guests.”

Marcus let the servant unwind the bulky cloak from around his body. It felt strange to wear one again. He’d grown used to the weight of his armor and his army cape. Inside the city, though, he was required to don the clothes of an ordinary citizen.

As he slipped on indoor sandals, he gazed around the atrium. It seemed smaller than he remembered. There was a forlornness to the room despite the table laden with viands. The familiar scent of herbs drying by the hearth fire was absent. The loom was devoid of yarn and warp weights. Masculinity dominated, his father’s panoply displayed on one wall, and the ancestor cupboard containing the death masks of Aemilian warriors opposite. A lump rose in his throat. His mother was dead. He would never see her again.

The sound of male voices floated from the study. Marcus entered the room with its pigeonhole shelves crammed with scrolls. His memories of this chamber were not fond. How many times had he stood here and been birched as a school boy? What would Aemilius do if gossip ever spread that his war-hero son loved another soldier?

The host was seated next to two guests. Marcus was unsurprised to see Scipio, a familiar crony, but the other man was unexpected. Lucius Furius Medullinus sat, leaning to one side on the armrest of his chair. Marcus frowned. His father’s relationship with Camillus’s older brother waxed and waned. They were often rivals in elections. The Furian was a complex man. He was a patrician and yet could not always be relied to act in the interests of the nobility. He’d supported a measure to grant soldiers a salary.

Marcus concentrated on his father. If anything, his clothes were even more rumpled than usual, another reminder the house lacked both a wife and mother.

Aemilius’s bushy gray eyebrows rose in surprise. He stood and placed his cup on the table so he could slap Marcus on the back. “Son! Welcome! But why are you home before winter?”

Medullinus sipped his wine, then drawled, “Don’t tell us my brother has made some headway at Veii after failing to take advantage of his win.”

Marcus resented the disparaging tone. He knew Medullinus was irked he’d missed out on being elected. It must have been galling to be bested by five plebeians—and his younger brother. “Furius Camillus has tightened the siege in a way no other consular general has done before. The Veientanes will starve soon enough, as long as the next general can maintain constant pressure.”

Aemilius glared at him. Marcus realized his mistake. His father had been one of the commanders who’d failed to take Veii in previous years.

Medullinus shifted in his seat, crossing his legs. He was taller and leaner than Camillus, but his hair was thinning. He self-consciously combed strands across his head to hide his bald patch. “You still haven’t told us why you’re here.”

Marcus hesitated, unsure whether to mention Artile in front of the others. “I came to tell you that Vel Mastarna has been made king.”

Scipio whistled. “Then we have a formidable foe. I thought he was badly wounded.”

“Claudius Drusus slashed and broke Mastarna’s sword arm. I doubt he’ll be effective in battle again.”

Medullinus continued his needling. “It’s a pity you did not personally finish him off when you had the chance.”

Marcus bristled. It rankled that he’d been made to surrender his spear. Yet if Mastarna had not spared his life, he would never have been able to rescue Drusus.

Aemilius cut in before Marcus could respond to the barb. “My son was among the warriors that nearly annihilated the Veientane army, Medullinus.”

Marcus was taken aback at his father standing up for him.

Aemilius gestured him to draw up a chair beside him. “It’s strange that Mastarna should have influence without a voting bloc. Stranger still that he was prepared to be crowned. I know he has no love of monarchs.”

“What does it matter whether he’s their chief magistrate or king,” said Medullinus. “We can’t assume he’ll let Veii fall without a struggle.”

“It’s Mastarna’s general, Thefarie Ulthes, we need to worry about,” replied Scipio. “If he and the Faliscans in the north relieve Veii, then all Camillus’s efforts will come to naught. And the zilath from Tarquinia on the coast has also bolstered the Etruscan forces.”

Marcus was irritated none of them mentioned the plebeian general, Genucius. The decurion admired the commander with the eye patch. “Caius Genucius is containing Thefarie’s northern troops, Father. He’s an able leader.”

Scipio snorted. “He is merely consolidating the gains made by Camillus.”

Marcus hid his disgust. The skinny senator had never distinguished himself in battle, although he’d displayed bravery. Marcus glanced at Scipio’s arm. There was a triangular indent in the flesh. The tip of a spear point remained embedded deep within. It was rumored the limb was weak. That he suffered constant pain.