Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (14 page)

“General Genucius proved himself in the Battle of Blood and Hail. After that he swapped commands to enable Furius Camillus to remain at Veii. He thinks of the glory of Rome, not his own.”

Aemilius was as withering as Scipio. “Genucius has always been in Camillus’s pocket. He was a toady when he was a people’s tribune. And he’s still a toady. He should have more pride. He leads a regiment of the Legion of the Wolf. He drew the lot to lead at Veii. I would never have handed over such a prize command.”

“Perhaps Genucius thinks Rome would be better served if the best commander is in charge instead of six with different strategies. Veii has always had the advantage of having one leader.”

Medullinus sat upright, unable to contain his contempt. “Oh, so now we come to the nub of the matter. Is that why Camillus sent you? Is he angling to be appointed dictator?”

Marcus checked himself. He did not want to disclose his superior’s reasons. “General Camillus has given me no such direction.”

The atmosphere in the room was tense. Aemilius picked up a goblet, dipping it into the krater mixing bowl on the table. “I think we all need another drink.” He bent close to Marcus’s ear as he handed him the cup. “Have some wine and calm down.”

Marcus drained the chalice, annoyed his father wanted to curb him. “I met Icilius Calvus on my way here,” he continued. “He claims this lectisternium ritual is a sop to the people. He threatened to stir up trouble again if there are no plebeians elected next time.”

Scipio clucked. “He’s sacrilegious. The gods are displeased at high office being vulgarized. Only patricians have the skills to conduct the official auspices. We interpreted the Sibylline Books to find the answer for the correct expiation rites. And we were right. Once the lectisternium started, rain fell and supplies reached us. Clearly the gods were punishing Romans for their foolishness in electing commoners in the first place.”

“I can’t believe Calvus still wants the classes at each other’s throats, even though bondsmen have been given their liberty and the right to vote again,” said Aemilius.

“Icilius Calvus is dangerous,” said Medullinus. “He calls himself a patriot but the Icilian family has long subverted the State.”

“The way to counter him and other hostile plebeian politicians is to ensure the most eminent candidates stand,” said Scipio. “Citizens want generals who are experienced in leading the Legions of the Boar and the Wolf.” He raised his cup to his fellow senators. “To you, my friends. I’m glad we’re allies. May we all be successful in the December elections.”

Medullinus rose after responding to the toast. “I must leave. I have clients waiting to be entertained.” Scipio nodded, also rising. “I must not forget my obligations either.”

Marcus watched the men as they grasped each other’s forearms in farewell. A tight clique. No doubt there were other such meetings occurring in rich men’s homes across the city. And, as he bid good night to the senators, he could not help wondering whether it would be wise for him to be as suspicious as Icilius Calvus.

S
IXTEEN

Marcus’s palms were sweaty as he retrieved Camillus’s letter from his toga. It was time to broach the subject of Artile with his father.

The head of the house appeared fatigued. Marcus noticed how much grayer Aemilius’s hair had become since Mother had died. For the first time, he thought his father might be too old to be a general. The responsibility of being a prefect of a city where unrest simmered must be heavy.

He handed Aemilius the scroll sealed with the Furian crest. “This contains the true reason why General Camillus has sent me. He’s charged me to present his case. He wants you to arrange a special sitting of the Senate, as they are not due to convene until the Ides.”

His father frowned as he read the missive. His face was ashen by the time he’d finished. “Has he gone mad? Why would we listen to a charlatan? A traitor! The brother of the newly elected Veientane king! I know you’re enamored of Furius Camillus, son. But I can see why he’s sent you to be the laughing stock of Rome instead of himself.”

“You are wrong to mock him. Wrong to mock me, Father. I don’t trust this priest but his skill as a seer is renowned. I saw him consult Apollo with my own eyes. He has told us how to placate the gods of Latium. We don’t need to wait until the delegation returns from Delphi. Camillus wants to see the expiation rites completed as soon as possible. That’s why he’s asking that his term as consular general be extended. He wants to personally put the precondition for Veii’s destruction into effect.”

Aemilius was scornful. “Such a request is unprecedented. What Camillus really wants is to be declared dictator with supreme power. But such an appointment is only made if there’s an emergency. And that’s not the case, even though Rome is threatened by enemies on three points of the compass. Besides, Camillus’s youngest brother, Spurius, and his colleagues will return from Delphi soon. They’re expected back before winter. Then the newly appointed consular generals can follow the oracle’s directions.” He scowled. “What this city really needs is to ensure no plebeians are elected again.”

“We need to look beyond such squabbles.”

Aemilius crossed his arms. “And you would do well to heed me. I’m old enough to have seen too many changes in Rome. I’ve watched patrician power being eroded like rust eating at iron. Our divine blood has been polluted by intermarriage. Caecilia is an example of that. There were no people’s tribunes when I was born. Now they hold this city to ransom by vetoing the levying of troops if they’re dissatisfied with our proposals. The rot needs to stop. Nobility must again take control.”

Marcus felt like tearing his hair. “We have a chance to conquer Veii, Father! Let’s focus on defeating our enemies, not our fellow citizens. We should strike before Mastarna rallies his forces again.”

Aemilius leaned back, speaking slowly as though Marcus were a child. It was a familiar lecture—one of expectations and ambition. “You’re of an age to set foot onto the Honored Way. I want to see you elected as a city magistrate, a treasurer, and a judge. One day you may even be consul when that office is restored. Certainly, I expect you to be chosen as a consular general.”

Marcus sensed his feet being shoved into his father’s shoes and the white toga of a magisterial candidate being draped around him. “Camillus thinks I should stand for election as a military tribune first. He’s prepared to back me. I want to serve in the army, not be stuck in an office worrying about sanitation, grain supplies, and roads.”

His father was irritated at the Furian giving career advice to his son. “You’ve already gained prestige as a warrior. It’s time to become a junior magistrate. Aligning with Camillus is risky. He’s a maverick. Even his brother Medullinus views him warily. Your kin, clan, and our friends are more important. It will be Aemilian money and connections that get you elected.”

“Medullinus is jealous of his brother.”

“He’s an eminent politician and soldier.”

“So is the general.”

Aemilius leaned forward. “I allowed you to pledge your allegiance to Camillus for the last campaign. In winter that service will be over. Don’t forget you owe fealty to me.”

“Don’t deny my serving under Camillus gave you peace of mind, Father,” said Marcus, resentful his father didn’t want him to seek greater glory on the battlefield. “It galled you to think I might have to salute a commoner like Caius Genucius. As I said, I’m going to stand as a military tribune regardless of who my commander is.”

Aemilius’s face was now red with choler. “Show me respect! I would never have spoken to my elders as you do.”

Marcus knew he should restrain his insolence, but he was tired of being submissive. Of being the dutiful son. “And I want you to start seeing me as more than a boy who should bow his head and always accept your opinion as my own.”

Aemilius leaned across and gripped his son’s arm. His grip was like iron, reminding Marcus that this man might look gray and old and tired, but he still possessed strength and a strong will.

“Do you know how hard I’ve worked to overcome the stigma of being the uncle and adopted father of a traitoress? Remember that Medullinus and I brokered the peace treaty that saw Caecilia married. But politics change. And war changes politics most of all. He and I both had to grow talons and sharp beaks after our misjudgment. The House of Aemilius can’t afford to make any more mistakes.” He squeezed harder. “Now you support Camillus in this lunatic scheme to bring an enemy priest before the Senate. What if Artile Mastarna is perfidious? What if the rites he proposes are intended to bring about calamity? Our family will be ruined, as will Rome. Do you want that?”

Marcus eased his arm from under Aemilius’s hand. “What am I supposed to do, Father? I’m honor bound to obey my general. My oath to Camillus does not expire until he leaves office. And he has the right as a consular general to call a meeting of the Senate, even if you don’t agree with the decision he seeks.”

Aemilius slumped in his chair, hand to his brow, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s true. He has that power.” Then he dropped his hand, meeting his son’s gaze. “Where’s the Etruscan now?”

“Waiting on the Campus with my men.”

“Very well. I’ll order the official messenger to call the senators to meet at the Temple of Apollo Medicus. As a foreigner from an enemy city, Artile can’t speak before the Curia inside Rome’s sacred boundary.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Aemilius grimaced, shaking his head. “I will make it clear I don’t agree with Camillus’s plan. Do you understand?” He stood with a slowness that hinted at creaking bones and age-weary muscles. Marcus rose in deference. To his surprise, his father patted his shoulder. “On second thought, a military tribune is a useful first step. We will lobby for votes together, you and I. And when I’m made consular general, I’ll be proud to have you under my command. Father and son. Two Aemilian warriors together.”

S
EVENTEEN

Dawn’s light was muted. Gray. A soft rain was falling, the drizzle enough to slowly saturate clothing. There was a breath of winter in the air.

The senators ascended the steps to the portico of the Temple of Apollo Medicus. The god may have been all seeing, but as a foreign Greek deity he was denied residence within the city wall. Nevertheless, the Senate chose his sanctum on the Campus Martius to give audience to enemy emissaries. Rome had claimed the divinity as its own.

The procession took some time. Marcus stood to the side and watched three hundred men pass. The effect was impressive, a moving mass of white and purple.

The doors of the temple remained open once the politicians had taken up their positions inside. The space in front of the doorway was reserved for the ten people’s tribunes. Icilius Calvus stood on the portico sharing the same curious expression as his colleagues—who was the ambassador who was seeking an audience?

There were murmurs when Tatius escorted Artile onto the portico. The priest was wearing a cloak, the hood drawn forward to hide his face.

Inside, Aemilius was making his welcome address. Marcus clenched and unclenched his fists as he listened to the announcement that Furius Camillus had called an extraordinary sitting. He wondered if the deliberations would be thrashed out by nightfall. The Senate could only sit from sunrise to sunset.

His name was called. Taking a deep breath, Marcus signaled Artile to follow him inside. The priest kept his head bowed, his face hidden. Tatius remained beside the doorjamb.

Sunlight had not yet infiltrated the chamber. The gloom was splintered by torchlight from sconces on the walls. Three large braziers were burning but did little to heat or illuminate the room. A huge statue of Apollo stood inside the entrance, holding a laurel branch in one hand, a lyre in the other. Marcus bowed his head to both the entity and the assembled elders.

Makeshift wooden rows had been erected around three sides of the chamber to mirror the arrangement of the Curia inside Rome. Those who were more notable sat on stools on the lowest level; those lesser in status craned their necks as they stood on the elevated rear tiers.

Aemilius beckoned to his son to speak, then sat down.

Marcus cleared his throat. His voice caught at first, but as he unfurled and read the scroll, his nerves settled.

“I, Marcus Furius Camillus, Consular General, call the Senate of Rome to heed the advice of Artile Mastarna, high priest of the Temple of Uni, the great haruspex and fulgurator of Veii, in the matter of the prodigy of Lake Albanus. This is for the benefit of all Romans, and to ensure the destruction of our foe. It is a matter of urgency. As such, I seek to have my term of office extended until all expiation rites have been conducted.”

A babble of angry voices erupted. Marcus glanced across to Aemilius, who shook his head, the gesture reminiscent of his paternal warning the night before.

Protocol was forgotten. Scipio called out, “How dare you bring an enemy into our midst.”

Artile stepped forward. The senators fell silent. Drawing back his hood, the seer let his cloak slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor. He lifted a tall conical hat he’d been hiding beneath the folds and placed it on his head. He had exchanged ill-fitting armor for the garb of his profession. And with the change of clothes, his confidence had been restored. His long tunic and sheepskin-lined coat protected him more than any breastplate. His soft leather ankle boots seemed hardier than hobnails. And when he tied the straps of the hat, it was as though he was buckling his helmet. He straightened his back and thrust out his chin. Marcus noticed how his shoulder-length locks were now oiled. His face was shaven clean. His eyes rimmed with kohl, his lashes blackened. His hypnotic stare focused on the wisest men in the city.

Medullinus was first to break the silence. His chair grated against the tiled floor as he stood. “My brother insults us in sending this charlatan. It’s timely his term is coming to an end.”

Scipio added, “All of us here possess skills of augury. Why listen to a treacherous priest?”

Artile’s mellifluous voice echoed in the high vaulted chamber: “I am no fraud.” The effect of his perfect Latin was marked. Medullinus sat down again. The senators remained quiet. “I can read messages from the gods in the livers of sacrificial beasts. I can read the future in the spark and flare of red, white, or black lightning. I spent a decade at the Sacred College at Velzna learning my craft. Roman augurs ask questions to which the gods merely answer yes or no. Rasennan soothsayers listen to complex answers to interpret divine will. If you fail to heed Furius Camillus’s request and ignore my counsel, then you do so at your peril.”

Marcus winced, thinking Artile unwise to denigrate these sages. Yet he could not deny Artile communicated directly with deities in a way that made Roman attempts seem clumsy.

A senator called Titinius called from the second row, “The Sibylline Books are silent on the issue. On what authority do you claim you have greater knowledge?”

“Because Rome only possesses three of the nine Sibylline Books, which only contain obscure Greek verses from Apollo’s oracle regarding certain proscribed rites. My people, on the other hand, possess the Etruscan Discipline, which includes all the branches of our religion in intricate detail: the Book of Thunderbolts reveals the meaning of lightning, and the Book of Acheron instructs how to ensure passage to our Afterlife.” He paused, ensuring he had the attention of all. “And the Book of Fate gives insight on how to prophesy destiny, or even defer it.”

Whispering and rustling filled the chamber. Postumius, a man known for his bluster, called, “This is a trick! Why would we trust an Etruscan? The reason Rome doesn’t possess all nine Sibylline Books is because of one of his race. The tyrant, Tarquinius Superbus, tried to cheat the sibyl and ended up paying full price for only three. She destroyed the other six.”

Artile was unfazed. He smoothed one eyebrow with one black-painted fingernail. “Don’t judge my people by King Tarquinius’s hubris. I’m not lying when I say I know the expiation rites required.”

“And what guarantee do we have you’ll not steer us to disaster?” asked Medullinus. “I prefer to hear what my brother Spurius says. His delegation seeks communion with Apollo at Delphi. They’ll return soon.”

The priest remained condescending. “The journey to Delphi is perilous. It could be months before you are given your answer.”

“Our representatives sailed in summer,” said Scipio. “We expect them to arrive back any time now.”

“You’re naïve if you think your emissaries will be granted an audience immediately. The crone, Pythia, can only be consulted on the seventh day of each month. The Delphians take precedence, and their leaders choose the representatives of the next city who are to be given the opportunity to speak. They favor their own countrymen before foreigners. Those remaining must draw lots to determine the order. And if the sun sets before a question is put, those unheard must wait until the next month and start the procedure again.” His gaze traveled across the tiers of listeners. “The days are growing shorter. Apollo does not reside in Delphi during winter, and so Pythia retires for the season. If Rome has not queried her by December, your ambassadors must sojourn in her land.” He pointed to the statue of Apollo. “I, on the other hand, have spoken directly to the god of prophecy, and he has confirmed the answer I ascertained from my sacred books.”

More murmurs, more shuffling of feet of those standing. Medullinus leaned across to whisper in Aemilius’s ear. The prefect nodded, his voice rising above the undertones. “So why did Lake Albanus rise in time of drought? What does it signify?”

The seer closed his eyes as though listening to a celestial voice. “Rome has neglected Mater Matuta, the ancient goddess of your allies. It has also offended Neptunus who caused the waters to inundate the fields and flow into the sea. Apollo advises that the Romans must drain the floodplains and divert the torrent so that the ash-pale soil of Latium will be fertile again. He states that Mater Matuta once again must be honored. Only then will Veii’s gods desert its walls.”

Artile opened his eyes. They were dark and gleaming. Marcus saw the others were enthralled, drawn to the aura of authority the haruspex exuded.

Medullinus was less spellbound. “The fact remains Furius Camillus is asking us to accept the word of a traitor.” He pointed to the Veientane. “If you are the faithful servant to your gods, why do you now wish to reveal secrets that would lead to the destruction of your own people?”

The Etruscan bowed his head. When he raised it, he appeared humble. “I’ve grappled with my conscience. But who am I to keep secret the will of the divine? It may well be as great a sin to conceal what the deities wish to be known as to speak what should remain concealed. My duty is to the gods, not to men—not even to my own kin and kind.”

Marcus winced at hearing how shifty the seer sounded. His hopes that Camillus’s submission might be considered favorably faded. Artile may have been speaking the truth but his sophistry was suspect.

“I think we’ve heard enough,” said Aemilius, standing and facing the assembly. “Let the debate begin. Shall we grant Camillus’s request?”

There was no discussion. Every senator voted with his feet, moving to the left of the chamber for the negative. Marcus was glad Furius Camillus was not there to see such utter rejection.

The session had concluded. Marcus was ordered from the chamber. He nudged Artile to follow, warning him not to speak again. The priest scowled as he collected his cloak from the floor.

Tatius was waiting at the doorway. Marcus gestured him aside, away from the ears of the people’s tribunes on the portico. “Take him to the general’s country villa. And post a guard. I’ll take no chances others might ignore the haruspex’s diplomatic protection.”

Artile’s voice was choked with anger. “Wisdom is wasted on fools. They’ll regret giving time to allow the Twelve to come to Mastarna’s aid. The expiation rites should be conducted now.”

“Shut up,” barked Marcus, shoving him. “Your arrogance has cost Camillus an opportunity to secure a victory.”

The three men threaded their way through the plebeians. Marcus felt a tap on his shoulder. Calvus’s lips were pressed into a straight line. “Camillus should be ashamed—letting an Etruscan lecture Romans on piety. The Senate made the correct decision.”

Marcus repeated his order to Tatius, denying Calvus access to Artile. Then he brushed past the plebeian, not prepared to engage. All he could think about was Camillus’s reaction to the news. He’d failed the general. There was a twinge of cowardice in his relief that he wasn’t expected to return to camp. Pinna would need all her skills to calm her lover’s rage when the messenger told him Rome had given him a resounding no.