Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (19 page)

Embarrassed by the siblings’ argument, Scipio followed, his head down. Pinna heard the clip-clop of his sandals on the tiled floor as he hurried toward the atrium.

Artile smoothed one eyebrow as he observed the descent of the dinner party into disaster. He seemed vexed rather than amused, though. Once again, his counsel had been ignored. He flinched but said nothing when Camillus barked at him to go to his room.

Genucius glared at Pinna, lips pursed. She turned her head, unable to deal with his silent censure.

Her Wolf placed his hand on the plebeian’s back. “I will not forget your loyalty, Genucius. Together we reduced Mastarna’s army at the Battle of Blood and Hail. I believe there’ll come a time when I’ll be dictator. And when I am, I’ll ensure you’re made a knight.”

Genucius was taken aback. “A knight?”

Camillus smiled. “A dictator can bypass Senate and Assembly. I see no reason why wealthy plebeians who provide their own horses can’t be equestrians. I’ll make sure you lead a regiment.”

The men grasped each other’s forearms. Genucius nodded. “Patrician and plebeian, shoulder to shoulder.”

Camillus pulled his friend close. “And you’ll do what you can to keep Calvus in check? Our alliance remains firm?”

Genucius nodded again. “Yes. Our friendship remains strong. If necessary, I will not let Calvus succeed in vetoing any troops—provided you support my ambitions to once again hold power.”

Pinna was astonished. Was it bribery or loyalty she was witnessing? Either way, both men had strengthened their bond. She stooped and handed Genucius his sandals. He regarded her and then Camillus. For a fleeting fraction, she sensed he was going to speak out; instead he thanked her for his shoes.

When the men left, Pinna called to the maid to help her tidy the room. Thoughts spun in her mind about the night’s revelations and altercations. And then, in the clatter of clearing dishes and wine cups, she felt a surge of happiness. Her Wolf had defended her to his brother. And he’d not derided the suggestion that he take her as his lawful wife.

T
WENTY
-F
OUR

Marcus, Falerii, Winter, 397 BC

The icy burn bit into Marcus’s flesh as he dived under the water and resurfaced. He swam with strong, energetic breaststrokes to ward off the cold.

Around him, the men of his brigade griped as they waded into the river, shivering and crossing their arms before they submerged and joined their commander in the exercise.

Drusus dived after his friend, yelling at him to set up a race to the far bank into deeper waters. Marcus eased up to let his competitor draw even. Furious splashing and kicking ensued until both glided to the edge, Marcus’s fingertips touching first. Drusus laughed and cursed, then challenged him again, turning to give himself a head start. He streaked away. Marcus yelled in protest, and a new contest began.

Drusus reached the shallows first and stood, waist deep. Marcus caught up, also standing, and gave him a thump on the back, calling him a cheat. His companion smiled and shrugged, then dived into the river, doing another lap. Marcus noticed Drusus did not seem hampered by his weak shoulder when buoyed by the current. However, the joint was a latent concern. It had been dislocated so many times that another knock could wrench it from its socket. Marcus doubted the knight had strength to wield a shield as a bludgeon if forced into hand-to-hand fighting. Aemilius must have thought the same. He’d promoted Tatius to head decurion instead of the Claudian.

Marcus hated to see his friend’s frustration at being passed over. Pinna claimed Drusus was jealous of him. But it was a friendly rivalry, not based on spite. She did not understand that nobles jockeyed for position. If anything, Drusus had greater chances than he did in the future: His father and uncles were dead. He was the head of an extremely wealthy house. He held the potential to broker deals and buy favors if he could manage to control his moods and temper.

Marcus watched the decurion continue swimming. If Drusus still felt pain from his injuries, he did not show it. Yet even though he strived to keep up in training, his face had been pinched and white at the end of the run this morning. He appeared relieved to rest his shield on the ground and strip off his armor for the swim.

The other knights were less enthusiastic. They hastened to finish, then splashed from the river. Marcus headed for the bank, his feet stirring the mud as he strode from the water.

“You’re a bastard, sir,” called Tatius, his lips tinged blue. “We’re going to ride, not swim, into battle.”

Marcus grinned at him as he drew on his tunic. Despite feeling sorry Drusus had been overlooked for promotion, he was happy for Tatius. “Show some respect, or I’ll make you run up that hill again in full kit.”

“Better than freezing my balls off.” Tatius hacked up a gob of spit, then reached down to pick up his breastplate and buckle it on together with his heavy linen kilt.

“You mean ‘better than freezing my balls off,
sir
.’” The tribune’s tone grew serious. “You’ll thank me for ensuring your fitness when you find yourself unseated from your horse. You’ll need to stand your ground against some hoplite hefting a huge battle shield.”

Tatius saluted, his bucktoothed smile vanishing. “Yes, sir.”

Marcus dismissed him, then signaled the others to return to camp also. He enjoyed training with the knights of his old turma, not wanting to lose a connection with them. However, he knew he shouldn’t encourage overfamiliarity. In time, gaining higher rank would lead to loneliness. The length of an arm raised in salute was not the only distance that existed between a commander and those who must obey him.

Donning their heavy leather capes, the men trudged back across the field to the rough-hewn timber palisade, its sharp honed pickets standing like a spiky row of teeth. Their gruff voices traveled across the open space between the river and the camp perimeter with its wide ditch. General Aemilius had ordered the woods to be cleared, but the area was still heavily patrolled. He was taking no chances of a surprise Faliscan raid when so deep within enemy territory.

Marcus nodded to the two sentries as they made their pass. He was in no hurry to return to his duties, waiting for Drusus to finish his swim. He surveyed the landscape around him. The yellow-and-red tufa escarpment on the other side of the river rose high above, with the mouths of tombs carved into the rock face. Below was a forest thick with beech and ash. For a moment he envied Falerii its countryside. One day, he hoped he could admire it without assessing it as terrain to be conquered or scenery where danger prowled.

He gazed at a leaf held by the current, sometimes swirling in an eddy, then sailing free. It amazed him that the stream in which they were swimming was the Tiber. Not the sluggish brown river that girded Rome into which the Great Drain emptied shit and piss, but a pure current that was clean and fast flowing, carving its way through peaks and ravines. This waterway was the enemy’s lifeblood as much as Rome’s. His people would not be satisfied until they controlled every township from the lake at its source to the salt pans at its mouth.

Marcus wondered if such a feat would ever be achieved. For months now their regiment had suffered the drudgery of camp life as they lay siege to the fortified hilltop town. Falerii could not boast the size or wealth of Veii, but its fortifications were just as secure and its inhabitants just as stubborn. The Faliscans may have been hemmed in behind their wall, but the Romans were locked outside in the wind and weather, while their foe lay cozy in their beds.

Blockading the trade routes was no less difficult. Inches, feet, and yards were gained and then lost as Veii’s northern troops harried the Roman regiments. At least Thefarie Ulthes had yet to relieve Veii, although some supplies were trickling through.

Marcus now believed it was time for the Romans to abandon a frontal assault on Falerii and Capena. Instead they should concentrate on the Etruscan citadel of Nepete to the west. Nepete was said to be the gateway to all Etruria. Conquering it would give Rome a foothold in the territory. He’d suggested such a strategy to his father, but Aemilius had merely said he’d think on it.

He glanced across to Drusus, who waded toward him, the water dragging against his waist, then his thighs. Water streamed off his back and down his body, his skin stung pink from the cold. He shook his head, droplets flying from his russet hair, then rubbed his beard, flicking water away. Marcus felt his prick stiffen and hurried to don his leather cape, bending his head to hide the flush of embarrassment at failing to control himself.

Drusus sauntered across to his clothes, reaching down and drying himself, taking his time, impervious to the chill air. Marcus looked up again, unable to stop himself from scanning the long scar running along the side of his friend’s chest to his groin. Livid against his pale skin, it would take some time before it faded. He doubted, though, that Drusus would ever forget his flesh being sliced—or who had caused the wound. He imagined trailing his finger along the seam, exploring it and more with his tongue—storing the images for later use to fuel the rhythm of his hand.

“What are you looking at?”

Caught out, Marcus was relieved he didn’t feel his face burn again, although his loins ached. “Your scar. Pinna did a good job.”

Drusus peered down, running his hand along part of the cicatrix. “I have to admit I would have perished if not for her.” He pulled on his tunic and cape, then sat down next to Marcus.

“Then you don’t hate her anymore?”

“No. I am past that.”

“Still, I wouldn’t trust her if I were you. Do you believe she wouldn’t reveal your secret if it suited her?”

Drusus stammered, “What do you know about my secret?”

Marcus was confused by his friend’s apprehension. “I was there that night, remember? The lupanaria.”

Drusus’s speech returned to normal. “Yes, yes, of course. The night in the brothel. I treated her badly. I’ve tried to make amends.”

Marcus frowned. “Is there something else she holds over you? She has a talent for extortion.”

The decurion straightened, dragging his fingers through his wet hair, his voice terse. “She holds the rape over me, that’s all. What I want to know is what she holds over you? You’ve never said why you really made her your concubine.”

“I told you, I took pity on her for what we did.”

“But you did nothing wrong. Just fucked a prostitute. Why worry about that? Camillus disdains those who use whores, but it’s hardly something he’d punish you for.”

“True, but I’d gain no respect from him either.”

Drusus scowled. “I agree. Needing to force a whore who’s paid to open her legs seems cowardly. He’d think less of me. He’d probably pass me over for promotion.” His tone was bitter. “Unlike you, who seems to do no wrong in Camillus’s eyes.”

Marcus ignored his resentment. “I took her as my army wife to protect you. I didn’t want to see the little bitch maligning you to the general.”

Drusus scanned Marcus’s face. “That’s it? You let her share your bed because of me? There was no threat to you personally?”

Marcus was perspiring, as though deceit was oozing from his pores. To his relief, Drusus did not press his query but instead slapped him on the back. “You’re a true friend. And I owe my life to you twice over. First against the Volscians and then outside Veii.” He surveyed the river. “Maybe one day I will return the favor.”

There was sincerity in his voice. Wistfulness, too. Marcus knew it worried his friend that he must always be seen as the victim, not the hero. He placed Drusus’s neck in a playful headlock. “You’re the one who cut down Vel Mastarna. I surrendered my spear. How do you think I feel knowing that I owe my life to an enemy?”

Drusus ducked his head from Marcus’s hold. “One day we’ll get the chance to slay that smooth-skinned bastard. Do you remember the defixio?”

“It’s hard not to forget a night spent in a sepulcher in a storm.”

Drusus picked up a pebble and lobbed it into the water. “I recite the curse in my dreams.”

Marcus was glad that he alone knew of his friend’s use of black magic. “The death penalty awaits those who use a defixio to condemn a man.”

The decurion threw another stone with greater force. “I told you, I seek an enemy’s downfall, not another citizen’s.”

The tribune frowned. There may well be a loophole in the law, but it troubled him that his companion placed such store in superstition. Marcus rose, extending his hand. Drusus grasped it and swung himself to standing.

“We won’t need evil spirits to destroy Mastarna,” said Marcus. “One day, we’ll bring him and my cousin home to face judgment.”

Drusus hesitated. “I know we declare such things about Caecilia to Camillus. But do you truly seek her execution?”

“Of course I do. We’ve been through this before.”

“I know, but sometimes I’d like to think . . . I hope . . .”

Marcus was astounded. “Oh, for goodness sake! Do you really believe Mastarna absconded with her? And has forced himself on her all these years to sire their four children? You did not see them on the day my father compelled him to divorce her. They stood apart, but their bodies leaned toward each other as flowers turn their faces to the sun. They whispered together in Etruscan, keeping secrets from us in plain view, while their eyes traced lines of adoration from eyes to cheeks and lips.” He reached across and placed his hand on Drusus’s shoulder, knowing he needed to be harsh. “They were speaking words of love. Believe me, my friend. She’s not pining for you. So why do you persist with this fantasy?”

Drusus flushed scarlet and shrugged him away. His hands balled into fists. “Because she makes me strong! Imagining Caecilia lying with Mastarna gives me the surge that rips through my chest whenever I kill a man in battle. The blood rage. To kill or be killed. No rules to hold me. It’s as great as the flow of pleasure when my seed spurts into a whore. She gives me a reason to fight.”

Marcus stared at him, stunned at the vehemence. Drusus’s aggression was well known. He could be foolhardy in his bravery. But Mastarna’s accusation niggled. Had Drusus attacked the Veientane when his back was turned? Marcus never dared to repeat the slur to him, but now his doubt deepened. Was Drusus’s warped love for Caecilia enough to impel him to cowardice? He pushed the thought aside, ashamed at questioning his friend’s honor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the depth of your pain.”

Drusus said nothing as he bent to pick up his corselet, retreating from the intimacy of confidences. “My groom needs to polish this.”

Marcus heard a shout. To his surprise, he saw Tatius striding toward them from the direction of the palisade. He instinctively scanned the horizon but saw no sign of an attack. “What is it, Tatius? Why your haste?”

“General Aemilius wants you to return immediately, sir. He’s ordered an execution. He wants everyone to be assembled.”

“An execution?” Marcus was shocked. Capital punishment was an extreme measure. As far as he was aware, there’d been no instances of cowardice that would warrant such a measure.

“Who, and what for?” Drusus also sounded stunned.

Tatius could not hide his contempt. “One of the hoplites has been caught taking it from another one.”