Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (26 page)

T
HIRTY
-S
IX

The perfume of the roses in Semni’s bridal wreath was heady. Veii was not devoid of spring blossoms even though deprived of food. Cytheris and Perca had filled dozens of vases with grape hyacinths and lilies to add an air of gaiety to the day.

The bride and groom sat on bronze stools opposite each other in the palace courtyard. The sumptuous surroundings were fit for the nuptials of the nobility, not the union of a maidservant and lictor. Nevertheless, there was a familial atmosphere. Dressed in their best clothes, the staff had been allowed to attend. Semni could not help a fleeting moment of sadness that Cook was not there. She missed the woman with flour-dusted hands who was always ready to gossip.

The witnesses were not the group of servants before whom Arruns had claimed Nerie. Instead ten royal lictors acted as the official observers. Semni always felt intimidated by these burly men with their weathered faces. Now they were relaxed and grinning, pleased to participate in the marriage of the Phoenician who led them.

Although used to royalty, Semni was daunted at the presence of the aristocratic guests. Lady Caecilia and Lord Tarchon stood resplendent in purple. The queen had insisted the regent preside over the ceremony. Semni was overwhelmed. She never imagined there would come a time when a ruler would officiate at her marriage.

Cytheris and the other handmaids chattered as they waited for the ceremony to begin. The Greek woman held Nerie on her lap. Cross-legged on the floor next to Perca, the three princes also watched the preparation for the rites. Semni noticed the lethargy of the children. She hoped the wedding would distract them from their hunger for a little while.

She touched a brooch fastened to her bodice. Cytheris had given it to her that afternoon when she’d helped her to dress her hair. A tiny Medusa’s head was engraved on it. The frizzy-haired maid had smiled when she’d placed it in Semni’s palm and folded the girl’s fingers around it. “A gorgon from the Gorgon,” she’d said, then patted Semni’s knee. “I give it to you with no malice. She will protect you from the evil eye.”

Semni had kissed Cytheris on both cheeks. “You love Nerie as would a grandmother. The baby I carry will be yours to cherish as well.”

Rearranging the mantle slipping from one shoulder, Semni was grateful Lady Caecilia had given her a chiton of fine linen bordered with blue spirals from her own collection. The gown was cinched at the waist with a girdle studded with tiny glass beads. The girl lacked the elegance of the queen, but she gained the attention of the men around her. Some of the lictors’ glances lingered. But her dimpled smile was reserved for her groom alone.

Her first wedding gown had been of rough weave, homespun on her mother’s loom. How she’d hated her father for marrying her to an old man. She’d dared not complain. She’d been expected to bear many sons to further both bloodlines. And so it was perplexing when her mother gave her a posy of lupins and laurel on her wedding eve. “Here’s the secret to ridding a babe seeded within you. Use flowers like these until you’re fifteen. I don’t want to see another of my daughters die in labor due to narrow hips and too small a womb. I was lucky to survive bearing your brother when I was twelve.”

Semni placed her hand on her stomach, glad Arruns’s baby lay cocooned within. Nevertheless, the shadow of her mother’s fate was sobering. The matron had died in child bed with her eighth. Yet if Lord Mastarna did not send help, Semni might not need a birthing chair. There were six long months remaining for her son to grow within her. Nerie had been born in autumn. Would this child also have the chance to first open his eyes to the season of turning leaves and the harvest moon?

Arruns was dressed in his uniform. He was also wearing a wreath on his brow. The blooms were incongruous above the bared fangs and forked tongue of a serpent. The bodyguard scowled as he fiddled with the garland. Semni smiled at him, but he was too nervous to acknowledge her. A faint sheen of sweat covered his shaven skull. Used to being unobtrusive, he did not like being the center of attention.

Lord Tarchon called all to gather and began the rites. Arruns offered Semni a gilded wooden pomegranate. She, too, offered him the fruit, the symbol of fertility, life, and marriage. Saying a prayer, the prince lifted a sheer wedding mantle and placed it over the couple’s heads. Semni felt the fabric settle upon her hair.

Enveloped together under the filmy material, there was no sign of the ruthless killer when Arruns smiled. The pair clasped each other’s hands, exchanging their vows. The veil was lifted, the intimacy broken by the applause around them. Barekbaal and Semni were now joined as one.

Husband and wife rose. Semni leaned across to kiss her husband, but aware of an audience, he avoided her mouth and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Lord Tarchon clamped the bodyguard’s shoulder with his hand. “Is that the best you can do? By the gods, kiss her properly!”

Issued the challenge, Arruns handed the prince the pomegranate and grabbed his bride by the hips. Pressing Semni hard against him, he planted his lips on hers for long moments, until, releasing her, she gasped and then caught her breath.

Lord Tarchon called, “That’s better. Now she might have something to look forward to in the nuptial bed!

The room erupted into good-natured laughter, the awkwardness of rank forgotten. Others in the room became bolder, their suggestions growing more ribald. Semni laughed, hugging her husband.

One of the court musicians played his flute, the melody trilling above the hubbub of conversation. The castanet player added percussion, the lyre player strummed in harmony. After hearing only paeans, the jauntiness of the tune reminded Semni of a time when such entertainment was commonplace. Tonight there might be scant provisions for a feast, but at least cares could be forgotten with music.

“May your life together be blessed.” Lady Caecilia stepped across to the couple and kissed Semni on the cheek. She hesitated to extend the same affection to Arruns, her reserve maintained, but her gaze was fond.

After raising a toast to the union of their loyal servants, the prince and queen led the royal children from the courtyard. Arruns sat beside Semni dandling Nerie on his knee in time to the rhythm of the music. He’d removed his wreath and looped it around the boy’s neck. As Nerie plucked the petals, his father pressed his lips to his son’s fair head. The lonely man had been made whole.

The celebration lacked wine to fuel merriment, but soon most of the guests were singing raucously. Some of the lictors even coaxed the maids to dance. One grabbed Semni, giving her bottom a pinch. Glaring, Arruns slipped Nerie from his lap and placed his hand against the man’s chest in warning. The guard backed off, grinning. “You can’t help me for trying.”

Cytheris saw the exchange. She scooped Nerie onto her hip and cleared her throat. “I think it’s time for the bedding. Let bride and groom join as one. We can celebrate well enough without them!”

Taking his wife’s hand, the Phoenician said in his gruff voice, “I have a job to do.”

Laughter followed as he led her away. Semni’s heart was beating fast. Tonight she would lie with him as his wife. Even though she was familiar with his roughness, and the heat and power of his flesh, she wanted their new life together to start with slow caresses and tender embrace.

To her surprise, he did not lead her to the barracks but pulled her toward the stairway to the loggia.

“Why are you taking me here?”

“Because I want to begin afresh.”

Intrigued, she ascended to the gallery and stood beside him next to the caryatid column.

He placed his hand on her stomach. “I’m sorry I didn’t greet the news of our child with joy. I want this baby whether born into peace or war.”

“So you have hope, Arruns?”

“Better to have faith than to surrender to despair.” He looked down at her belly and then met her gaze. “Can you feel him stir within you yet?”

She smiled at his eagerness to touch his child. “No, I have not quickened.”

“Then you must tell me as soon as he moves.”

She slipped her arm around his waist. “The minute he does.”

Both stood quietly, gazing at the forum. Twilight was nearly over, night encroaching in hues of deep blue. The houses and buildings around the forum were dark shapes with pinpricks of candlelight in open windows. She gave him a squeeze. “Do you wish your family could have been here today?”

“I try to rid myself of such ideas. Although it’s harder to ignore them now I have you and Nerie, and the baby.” He gazed at the evening star twinkling beside a thick sliver of moon. “Astarte is gazing down on us. It comforts me she’s also observing my kin across the Great Sea.”

Semni pressed her hand to his chest. “What’s the sea like?”

“An endless stretch of water. It changes color depending on the sea god’s moods—from blue and light green in the sunlight to dark green or black with storms.” He swiveled his head to look at her. “If we survive this war, I might be able to take you and our children to the coast. Lord Mastarna may choose to visit his mother’s people in Tarchna.”

She liked that he spoke with confidence. “We are freed, Arruns. We can leave the House of Mastarna if we wish. We could travel to Canaan. And along the way I could see the cities where my vases used to be exported: Rhodes and Athens, even Carthage.”

His expression clouded. “Leave the House of Mastarna?”

“Yes. We aren’t bound to the king and queen forever.”

He shook his head. “My past can’t be recovered, no matter what you say. I would feel a foreigner in my own birthplace. Do you think I could become a trader in purple again when the red of those I’ve killed stains my hands?”

“Your duty is to your family now. Just as there is new life growing within me, there can be a fresh beginning for us if we can survive.”

Brooding, Arruns fell silent, staring across the forum.

She regretted speaking. She didn’t want the happiness of the wedding to dissolve. “I’m sorry. It’s enough that you love me. It’s enough that we’ll be a family together living in peace in Veii.”

He swung around, hugging her like a drowning man grasping for something to keep him afloat. Speaking of possibilities had only heightened the fragility of their existence. It was time to hold each other and defy death through passion. Semni placed her cheek against his untattooed cheek, touching the unmarked skin of Barekbaal, the man from Sidon, who loved the sea. “Husband, let’s go to bed. You have a job to do.”

T
HIRTY
-S
EVEN

Pinna, Rome, Spring, 396 BC

Pinna settled beside the hearth fire and threaded the needle to begin her mending. The atrium was filled with the mellow light of the afternoon. She enjoyed the spring warmth and the routine of the task, her fingers busy but her mind at rest.

When she heard the sound of the outer street door opening, she took no notice. Her Wolf was due to return from his day at the law courts. The majordomo duly hurried to greet the master.

Raised voices caught her attention. Camillus and Medullinus emerged with a third man, whom they supported around the waist. The visitor’s toga was thick with dust, his face sunburned and gaunt as he hobbled between them. Camillus called to her, “Where’s Artile?”

The question was answered as the Etruscan emerged from his cubicle. He hovered in the doorway, curiosity plain upon his features.

Camillus rapped out orders from over his shoulder. “Come into the study. My brother Spurius has returned from Delphi.” Then to the majordomo and Pinna each in turn, “Get some wine,” and, “Bring water to wash his feet.”

For a moment resentment spiked at being commanded as though she were a servant. As his concubine, she’d not expected to tend to another man. Surely the maid was more suitable for such a job. Would Camillus ever have ordered his wife to kneel before any other than him?

By the time she entered the study, she’d suppressed her indignation. At least she had an opportunity to once again listen to the senators in plain view.

Spurius was slumped in an armchair, his toga heaped on the floor. Dark rings of perspiration stained his tunic under his armpits. His face was lined with exhaustion. Medullinus drew up a stool beside him. Camillus also appeared troubled to see his younger brother in such a condition. He poured a goblet of wine to the brim. The traveler drank it in one long gulp, then gave it back to be refilled.

The family resemblance of the three siblings was striking with their aristocratic profiles and compact, lean physiques. Even in his tiredness, Pinna could tell Spurius had the military bearing of a man accustomed to issuing orders and having them obeyed.

Artile lurked next to the bookshelves, scrutinizing the Romans. His expression was apprehensive. His future lay in the hands of the weakened Spurius. Had Apollo given the same advice to the Roman delegation?

Pinna placed the ewer and jug at the guest’s feet. Then she kneeled to unlace his boots which were caked with grime. She wrinkled her nose at his stink but took her time, wanting to linger as long as possible.

Guiding one of Spurius’s feet onto her lap, she wiped his soles and callused heels, then his dirt-spattered calves and ankles. The skin was scratched and bruised. As she wrung out the cloth, the water turned murky.

“We were shipwrecked on our return,” he said. “We’re lucky to be alive. It’s taken over a month to secure passage to Rome.”

Camillus clamped his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Then we must give thanks for your safe return. We were worried when you were away for so long.”

“Our case was not dealt with immediately. We had to wait throughout winter until Apollo returned to Delphi.” Spurius rubbed the back of his neck and winced.

Camillus sat down in a chair opposite him. “What’s the matter?”

Spurius grimaced at another spasm of pain. “It’s nothing. I was thrown when the ship struck ground. My neck was jarred.”

“Then Pinna will help you. She’s skilled at massage.”

The guest glanced down at her, as though first noticing her.

Medullinus snorted. “Yes, I can imagine just how skilled she is.”

Spurius looked first at one brother and then the other, confused at their exchange.

She waited for her Wolf to introduce her as his concubine. Or at least put Medullinus in his place. Instead he ignored the jibe and signaled to her to attend to Spurius. “Rub his neck.”

Hurt that he would ask her to perform so intimate a task, Pinna sat back on her heels. Medullinus smirked. Determined not to show she was humiliated, she rose, keeping her expression blank, and stepped behind the emissary. Pressing her fingers into the base of his neck, she tested whether it was bone as well as muscle that was damaged. He tensed as she touched a sore spot, then his shoulders relaxed as she eased into the massage. He said nothing to her, prepared to accept the ministrations without further acknowledging her.

Camillus dragged his armchair closer. He sat with legs apart, hands on each knee, leaning forward. “What did the oracle say about Lake Albanus?”

“As always, the Pythia spoke in a trance, the fumes of the great chasm enveloping her. But Apollo’s priests interpreted her words. They said that the dawn goddess, Mater Matuta, had been neglected. That Rome had offended the gods of Latium by the wrongful observance of the rites.”

Astounded, Pinna twisted her head to look at Artile. The smile on his face was triumphant. Camillus also grinned, beckoning to him to come forward. The priest sauntered across.

Medullinus couldn’t hide his shock. He also leaned forward, gripping Spurius’s forearms. “And the expiation rites? What were prescribed?”

“That the waters of Lake Albanus must be dispersed so they no longer mingle with the sea. Only then will the gods be appeased, and Rome will conquer Veii.”

The consular general leaned back as though he’d received a blow.

Camillus cocked his head to one side and laughed. “Well, it seems Artile has been right all along, Medullinus.”

Spurius scanned the soothsayer from head to toe, taking in the features of the foe with his unbearded chin, oval eyes, and long ankle-length tunic. “You’re Artile Mastarna? The Veientane seer?”

Unperturbed at such scrutiny, the Etruscan met the Roman’s gaze.

Medullinus smoothed his hair over his bald patch. “There’s much for you to catch up on, Spurius. Our brother here decided to value the word of a traitor.”

Camillus crossed his arms. “One who has proved his reputation was not exaggerated.”

Pinna stopped massaging Spurius’s neck as he swiveled to look at his older brothers in turn, then turned his gaze back to the haruspex. “What’s going on here?”

Camillus stood. “I’ll tell you what’s happening. I captured Artile back in late summer after the Battle of Blood and Hail. It’s now spring, almost a year later. The answer to Lake Albanus has been known all this time. Instead of heeding me, the Senate shunned the seer and ignored my advice. The precondition for victory over Veii could have been fulfilled by now.”

Medullinus pressed his lips into a straight line and muttered, “He was a traitor.”

“That’s right. He was betraying
Veii
. Why not take advantage of it?”

“You think Veii would be conquered by now? You think you should’ve been made dictator? There was no crisis to demand such an appointment. Only your ambition.”

“I warned you the date of the Votive Games had been wrongly proclaimed. I advised you to court our allies and drain the floodplains.” He thumped the desk beside him. “It’s time someone competent was governing Rome.”

Medullinus stood, balling his hands. “Be careful who you call incompetent, Brother. The Senate and I acted prudently. I make no apologies for that.”

“Will you concede now that new elections must be held? That those in power who declared the wrong date for the games must stand down?”

“We don’t need to vacate office. We can make reparations to Latium and begin the irrigation of Lake Albanus.”

Spurius gingerly rose and pushed between them, a hand against each of their chests. “Stop it. The Furian brothers should stand shoulder to shoulder, not pitted against each other like dogs. Let us look ahead now. Rome has the chance to grasp victory at last.”

Pinna stared at the peacemaker. Had it always been thus? Had he pulled apart his squabbling siblings in a time of skinned knees and tree climbing? He could not claim the same glory as his older brothers, but he was both an esteemed augur and politician.

Artile broke through their argument. “Tell me, Spurius Furius Medullinus, did the oracle give the delegation any more advice?”

Spurius stared at him. “Why, yes.”

“A tithe for Apollo, perhaps.”

The ambassador’s jaw dropped. “You’re right, one tenth of the spoils taken at Veii must be sent back to Delphi in tribute.”

Once again, Medullinus appeared startled, then his expression changed. There was grudging respect in his voice. “You are indeed prescient, Artile Mastarna.”

The haruspex caressed the crescent fibula at his throat. His despondency and resentment had vanished. “I think the Curia should acknowledge my powers.”

Medullinus grimaced as though tasting gall. “Don’t expect us to grovel to you.”

Camillus picked up a fresh scroll and stylus from his desk. “I think Artile should be afforded due respect once Spurius and the other envoys formally confirm that he was correct.” He offered the papyrus sheet to Medullinus. “Call a special meeting of the Senate. And this time, I will address it with the greatest seer that Rome has ever known at my side. I plan to propose that an interregnum be established so that fresh elections can be held. I will ask that the irrigation of Lake Albanus be commissioned without delay.”

Medullinus stared at the scroll. “The other consular generals will be incensed when they are recalled from the field. Especially Aemilius, given his success in ambushing Aule Porsenna. He’s poised to attack Nepete. We’ll lose momentum in the north.”

“Better to weather the displeasure of six men than the wrath of the divine,” murmured Artile. “And General Aemilius may well have roused a sleeping giant. The Twelve will not be pleased the gateway to Etruria is being menaced. It would be unwise to launch an attack until the religious issue has been resolved.”

Pinna glimpsed Medullinus’s uncertainty at the priest’s warning about Nepete. Was it yet another example of Artile’s prescience? Spirits had been buoyed when word came that Aemilius’s men had ambushed Porsenna’s troops. The zilath had deserted Thefarie Ulthes’s forces as swiftly as he’d come to their aid once he feared Tarquinia might be threatened.

“Better not to court disaster, then,” said Camillus, turning to face his brothers. “I trust you’ll both agree to nominate me as one of the three interreges? And support my candidature for consular general.”

Spurius sank into his chair again, fatigue overcoming him. “Of course, I’ll support you.” He turned to Medullinus. “I know this is a blow to you, but at least we’ll have one of our family in power.”

Pinna saw loathing in the oldest brother’s gaze as he glared at her Wolf. He had been bested. Pinna doubted he would either forgive or forget. He snatched the scroll from Camillus’s fingers. “You will only be interrex for five days, remember, and then you must pass on authority to the next of the two interreges until the elections are held.” He remained sullen. “But know I’ll never support you being made a dictator.”

Spurius rubbed his neck. “Why do you carp on this? Camillus knows there’s no crisis, only a way forward.”

Medullinus bent and placed the papyrus on the table, dipping the stylus into the inkwell. For a time, the only sound in the room was the scratching of his pen. Pinna thought the point might break with the force of his strokes. He handed it to Camillus who waved it at Pinna. “Get this delivered.”

She bridled, stung by his peremptory manner. Walking across to him, she curtsied in an exaggerated way. “Yes, master.” At her obeisance, he paused, finally aware how he was treating her. He clasped her wrist before she could move away. She waited, thinking that at last he would introduce her to Spurius as his de facto wife. Instead he smiled and let go of her. “Thank you, Pinna. That will be all.”

Swallowing hard, she hastened into the atrium to find the majordomo. She had thought her Wolf was proud of her. She’d heard him challenge Medullinus for insulting her before. Tonight he’d made her feel worthless. No more than a maid who had a talent for soothing a man’s pain. She had grown prideful. She was deluded to think the society in which her Wolf lived would ever accept her. Boundaries of rank were set in stone. Peasant and patrician. Concubine and master.