Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (2 page)

PROPHECY

O
NE

Caecilia, Veii, Autumn, 397 BC

Red paint and small fingers are a dangerous combination. Caecilia’s eyes widened on spying Arnth. Her two-year-old was smearing vermilion across his face and then holding up his hands to threaten his older brothers.

“Blood, blood!”

Four-year-old Larce squealed at the threat of his new clothes being dirtied and took refuge behind his mother’s skirts. Tas, too old at seven to be terrorized, looked disdainful.

Avoiding being branded herself, Caecilia deftly seized Arnth’s wrists and held him at bay. The imp wriggled, indignant. “Let go!”

“Stop this,” she urged. “The paint is for the coronation ceremony, Arnth. Not for you to play with. Do you understand?”

Her admonishment only set the child into full revolt. He squirmed against her and bellowed to be released. She imagined his cheeks would be red even if not covered with crimson dye.

The noise set the baby crying. Caecilia frowned. “See what you’ve done. You’ve woken your sister.”

Tas walked to the cradle and peered down to its occupant. “Thia is always whining,” he said, lisping through the gap from his missing two front teeth. “It’s because she’s a girl.”

“Nonsense,” said Semni, the wet nurse, who scooped up Thia. “You boys are just as tearful when you’re irritable. She needs feeding, that’s all.” The girl sat down on a wicker chair and offered her nipple to the babe.

As always, Caecilia felt a mixture of gratitude and regret at Semni’s care for her daughter. She was thankful Thia could gain nourishment, but seeing another woman suckle her baby pained her. She was the first of her four children who she’d not put to her breast.

“What is going on here?”

Vel Mastarna’s deep bass had immediate effect. Arnth ceased his noise and stood still as his father entered the chamber.

Caecilia caught her breath at the sight of her husband, dressed as he was in the robes of a king. The thick fabric of his tunic was deep, rich purple, held at his shoulder by a large amethyst brooch. He was swathed in a purple tebenna cloak embroidered with gold. Three amulets hung from heavy chains around his neck. A lump rose in her throat. She knew he would prefer to be in armor, that Vel never wanted to be costumed as a regal lucumo.

His right arm—his sword arm, was in a sling of purple cloth. Caecilia’s memory of seeing his elbow broken and bicep sliced as she watched from the city wall was still vivid. Only six weeks had passed since the Battle of Blood and Hail. Six weeks since the former king had betrayed his people and Mastarna. Every day she prayed to Uni, the great mother goddess, to thank her for sparing her husband’s life.

Caecilia let Arnth go. “Apa, Apa,” the boy called to his father as he scooted across the room. The nobleman hoisted him under his arm, keeping sticky fingers at a distance. He winced in pain when the child accidentally bumped his injury. Sitting down on one of the large bronze armchairs in the private quarters, he settled Arnth on his lap. Every inch of the boy’s face was thick with pigment. His fringe was stuck high in a cowlick. “You look like a demon.” Mastarna chuckled.

“He was being naughty, Apa,” said Larce, venturing forward from his mother’s protection now his brother’s temper and threats were contained. “You should punish him.”

Mastarna signaled the four-year-old to come and sit on his other knee. Larce was careful not to bump his father’s arm.

“No need. It’s just Arnth’s high spirits. And this is a special day, after all.”

Secure that he’d avoided a spanking, Arnth grinned. Caecilia frowned at her husband’s favoritism of his youngest son. He was as lenient as she was impatient with the boy’s recklessness. Mastarna recognized his own temperament in him. Fearlessness.

“Be careful, Vel. He’ll dirty your coronation robes.”

“A few red marks won’t show on purple,” said Mastarna. “Besides, as his hands are already colored vermilion, he may as well help paint my face as well for this masquerade. Don’t you agree, little soldier?” Arnth nodded and slid off his knee to head across to the bowl of dye that had caused the commotion in the first place.

“Me, too, Apa!” Larce slipped from Mastarna and trotted after his brother, confident now his father was prepared to condone being messy.

Caecilia was not so obliging. She gestured to her Greek handmaid to help her. “Time for a bath, don’t you think, Cytheris?”

The stout servant grinned, showing her missing dogtooth. “I’ll take these rascals to the nursery, mistress. Extra scrubbing will be needed.”

This time Arnth did not attempt to struggle when Cytheris grabbed him, hoisting him onto her hip. He knew he had met his match. Larce was despondent, imploring his mother, “Please, Ati! I want to see Apa crowned.”

Caecilia bent and kissed him. “The ceremony is not for children, my love. Apa will say good-bye to you before he goes so you can see him in his regalia.”

“So I can touch his eagle scepter?”

She nodded.

“Me, too!” Arnth was adamant.

Caecilia kissed the top of his head, avoiding patches of paint. “Yes, both of you. Now go and clean yourselves.”

Tas tugged at her sleeve. “I’m already clean, Ati. And I’m old enough to go to the ceremony.”

Caecilia crouched before him. His oval, tawny eyes were solemn. “Not quite, Tas. There’ll be a vast crowd, and the rites are long and tiring.”

Some of Arnth’s doggedness emerged. “I want to see the Great Temple. I want to see Apa crowned.” Caecilia wondered if she was going to have to weather another tantrum. Her sons were becoming too pampered.

Mastarna had less patience with his oldest than his youngest. “Listen to your mother, Tas.”

At the doorway, Larce broke from Cytheris and skipped back to Caecilia. “I want to kiss you, Ati.” He reached up to peck her on the cheek. She nuzzled his hair. “I’ll give you a thousand kisses,” she whispered, “before you go to sleep.”

Caecilia watched the maid lead her sons from the chamber with its high ceiling decorated with rosettes and its walls with their horizontal stripes of red, green, and blue skirting the top and bottom. She was still grappling with living in the palace. She missed their family home. Even though they had lived in a mansion, it could not compare to the luxury of the royal residence.

Caecilia moved across to her husband with the bowl of vermilion dye. “You shouldn’t make light of the custom, Vel. This is a sacred day for you. Veii’s lucumo must color his face red in honor of Tinia, king of the gods.”

Mastarna eyed the dish disdainfully. “I’d prefer it if I was only being declared zilath for one year. I’d still be required to wear the paint, but at least I wouldn’t feel like a hypocrite. You know I’ve always protested against electing a king instead of a chief magistrate. And now I’m being crowned one to rule our city until my death.”

She sighed and moved a stool to sit close by him, placing the bowl on a repository table. She clasped his hand. “This is what the people want, Vel. They want a ruler to finish this siege without the need for annual elections. They respect you. Why, even your rivals from the Tulumnes clan have placed aside old enmities to support you when the College of Principes voted. And before that, the High Council unanimously decided you were the only candidate. It’s unprecedented.”

He glanced down at his sling. “And yet I lost my last battle to General Camillus’s Romans. More than half my army was massacred. The men of my tribe lost. I don’t deserve to be elected Veii’s leader after that.”

Caecilia squeezed his fingers. “Of course you do. You’re Veii’s greatest general. Until the Battle of Blood and Hail, you always managed to keep the supply lines free to the north. If King Kurvenas had sent reinforcements instead of shutting the gates against his own troops, I’m sure the result would have been different.”

He frowned. “I doubt it. His perfidy caused suffering, but two Roman armies had surrounded us.”

“And yet Veii did not fall. The divine Queen Uni sent hail that day to drive our enemies from the battlefield and save you. I pray to the goddess every day to favor our city over Rome.” She smiled. “She’ll favor you as king also, Vel.”

Mastarna scanned her face. “I never thought to hear a Roman condoning a monarch.”

Caecilia tensed, withdrawing her fingers from his. “I’m no longer Roman. You know that.” She rose and crossed the chamber to walk through the tall bronze doors to the tiled terrace with its fountain and rose garden. The autumn air was crisp, the sky cloudless. She drew her mantle around her as she stopped at the wall that enclosed the terrace, its massive ashlar blocks encircling the high citadel upon which the palace stood.

On the ridge across from her sat the Roman camp, the ravine between them razed of woodland, the stark snaking outline of siege works following the contours of the valleys. She knew such trenches bordered Veii for miles.

For a moment, she recalled her first sight of her new home as she traveled along the road where the Roman camp was now situated: the dizzying heights of the ridge, then the plunge to the valley to the juncture of two rivers, then up again to the plateaued city with its high arx beyond.

There were still sparse pockets of green in places. There should have been a scene of rich autumnal tints crowning the hills, or clothing dense glades, and red-and-gray tufa gorges. And beyond there should have been a patchwork of verdant undulating farmlands with flocks and herds sprinkled across meadows. Instead the Romans had felled most of the woods. The hub of roads that surrounded Veii, which led to places and lands Caecilia still hoped to see, were now deserted. Only Roman armies marched upon those trade routes now. And the rivers were bereft of boats. Trade had dwindled to nothing.

Ten years of war. Ten years of bloodshed. Ten years of conflict with the city of her birth. Rome claimed she had started a war when she’d chosen Vel Mastarna and his people. The truth was not so simple, but one thing was clear. She had never intended to betray Rome. But knowing its generals sought her destruction, she was prepared to welcome the role of traitoress now. After ten years of seeking peace, she had hardened her heart.

Mastarna appeared beside her, encircling her waist with his good arm. She faced him. “I’ve renounced my city, Vel. I seek its downfall. I am Veientane.”

He stroked her cheek. “My warrioress. I named you ‘Bellatrix’ after Orion’s star because I thought you brave, but you’ve become as fierce as any of my soldiers. I’m glad you are on Veii’s side.”

She pointed to the enemy camp. “How long before you think assistance will arrive? General Camillus sits on our doorstep. It’s been almost two seasons now since fresh supplies have reached the city. I thought our northern commander, Thefarie Ulthes, would’ve marched from Falerii by now to relieve us.”

He frowned. “I don’t know what’s delaying him. The Roman bastard has squeezed us so tightly that not even spies have made their way through with news. But I will not give up hope. Veii cisterns are full, so we will not die of thirst. And it’s clear our wall won’t be breached. No enemy has ever done so. Veii is impregnable. This citadel sits astride a high cliff. Two rivers gird us in their embrace.”

“Walls can protect us, but without food, what use are stones?” She stared into the distance. “Camillus means to starve us out.”

Mastarna also surveyed the Roman camp. “He’ll be gone in winter. The Romans elect new consular generals each December. Once he’s no longer in office, a different, lesser commander will be in charge. Perhaps that’s what Thefarie is waiting for. A chance to attack once Furius Camillus no longer holds command. Wait and see. He’ll break through the siege lines in winter. We need to keep our resolve.”

“And if Thefarie reaches us? Will you then consider attacking Rome? Unlike Veii, their wall can be easily stormed.”

He turned to her. “There’s little prospect of that until this siege can be stopped. Let’s pray to Nortia, goddess of Fate, this is what she wants for Veii.”

Caecilia felt a familiar sense of guilt rise in her but suppressed it. She knew she could not continue keeping secrets from him much longer. “I believe Nortia wants Rome to fall.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “All I know is that I’m grateful the deity brought us together. I believe she did so for a reason. And one day we’ll live in peace together.”

Her stubbornness emerged. “Only when Rome bends its knee to Veii.”

Mastarna searched her face. “Where’s the frightened girl forced to wed me?”

Caecilia straightened her shoulders. “Long transformed. You and Veii have taught me courage.”

He smiled. “A warrioress indeed. But you never were such a hawk. I thought you only wanted concord.”

She stroked his smooth-shaven cheek, enjoying the scent of sandalwood on his skin. “Remember how you once told me Rome and Veii are like two unrequited lovers? Only twelve miles between them across the Tiber. They’re but a god’s footstep apart. Both desire to possess the other—only Rome wishes to be the husband and make Veii submit as the wife.”

He reached over and cupped her chin between his fingers. His touch was tender. “A Roman wife perhaps but not a Veientane one. You are my equal.”