Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (27 page)

T
HIRTY
-E
IGHT

Lying awake, staring into blackness, Pinna could not forget her Wolf’s brusqueness. She worried he was tiring of her.

After dinner, he’d accompanied the travel-weary Spurius to his home. As yet he’d not returned. He’d been keyed up when he’d left the house, his discontent dispelled now that his faith in Artile had been vindicated. The prospect of holding high office again was within his grasp. He was one step closer to achieving his quest to conquer Veii.

Restless, she rose and lit a lamp and crept through the slumbering household to the storeroom next to the garden. The chickens were settled on their roost, the air redolent with the smell of soil and herbs.

The linen chest was squeezed between amphorae of oil and grain sacks. In the lamplight, Pinna delved inside the box, drawing a palla shawl and stola overdress from it. The garments were the symbols of a female married citizen.

Jealousy surfaced even though Pinna knew it was a dead woman she feared. Camilllus’s wife had been a univira. Honorable. Untainted. She’d lain with only one man, her husband. And if he’d died before her, she may well have shunned marriage for the rest of her life, devoted to him beyond the grave.

Placing the palla shawl on a crate, she donned the stola. The fine wheaten-colored cloth slid over her night shift. The material billowed around her tiny frame and pooled around her feet.

She tied the ribbons at her shoulders, then peered inside the chest again. There was a tunic with a flounce sewn into its hem, emphasizing the patrician’s respectability as well as her flair for fashion. She selected two sashes, cinching the first tight under her breasts and the other around her waist before arranging them so the fabric draped in folds.

Was his wife beautiful? Was she young? Kind or haughty? Her Wolf said theirs had been an arranged marriage. He claimed there was no passion between them.

Again Pinna inspected the contents of the chest, noticing the woolen fillets to braid into her hair. Yet another privilege of a matron. Were her locks lank or lustrous? Thick or thinning? Did he run his fingers through them as he did through hers?

The sound of the door creaking startled her. Camillus stood on the threshold. In the cold of early morning, wisps of his warm breath lingered in the air. “What are you doing, Pinna? I returned to find you missing from our bed.” He stepped inside, raising his lamp higher. His quizzical expression turned to surprise as the light revealed her red-handed in his wife’s clothes.

She froze as he examined her. He placed his lamp next to hers. “She was taller than you. She lacked your curves.”

Stricken with guilt, Pinna fumbled with the drawstrings, but he reached across and stayed her hand.

“Is this what you want? To be able to wear a stola and palla?”

She bowed her head, humiliated to be exposed in her fancy. She waited for his anger but instead his touch was gentle. He brushed her lips with his fingers, his other hand smoothing the pleats of the dress until he rested it on her waist. “Because that is what I want also. I want you to be my wife.”

She was unsure if she’d heard him correctly. Her stunned silence provoked laughter. “Well, what do you say?”

She wanted to forget the sin that stained her. She wanted to say yes. Then she remembered Genucius, the sour aftertaste of his threat spoiling the sweetness of the moment. “I can’t, my Wolf. It wouldn’t be wise. What would your family say? Your sons? Your friends?”

He wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t care what they think.”

She shook her head, drawing back within the circle of his embrace. “Yet you were reluctant to introduce me to your younger brother yesterday.”

He frowned. “Was I? It was not deliberate. I was excited to hear his news. Don’t you see? I will be a general again. No longer powerless.”

She felt ashamed she’d doubted him. She could feel the energy within him even though he’d been awake all night. She was touched that his first thought on returning home was to find her. His request that she tend to Spurius now seemed trivial. He had things of greater import than her feelings on his mind. Nevertheless, the same qualms about the differences in their rank assailed her. “My Wolf, I’m a farmer’s daughter. You’re a nobleman.”

“No, you are Lollia, daughter of Gnaeus Lollius, a soldier of Rome. And now you will be the wife of Marcus Furius Camillus.”

She bowed her head, unable to face him, but he hooked his finger under her chin, guiding her to look at him. “Pinna, don’t be afraid. It’s not against the law for patrician and plebeian to marry anymore.”

She covered his hand with his. Genucius was right. She loved Camillus too much to let him be ridiculed, the great general ruled by his cock instead of his brain. “Please, my Wolf. How could I ask Juno for her blessing? She may grow angry that I dare to wed you. A concubine is impure.”

“Nonsense. You will loosen your hair and sacrifice a lamb to cleanse yourself before her altar. And then, when I wed you, such a rite will never be needed again. You’ll no longer be tainted as an unmarried woman who has lain with me.”

Pinna wished it were true. She reached up and touched the scar on his cheek, tracing the line of the grooves that defined his mouth, the laughter creases around his eyes. “I must say no, my Wolf. I will not be the one to weaken you.”

Camillus stepped back, grappling with rejection. Confused as to why she would refuse his proposal when it was clear that was what she hungered for. “No one will dare challenge my strength.” He turned toward the door. “But I can’t command you.”

She grabbed his arm. “Wait! Please don’t be angry.”

He turned back to her.

She untied the ribbons and sashes so that the stola rippled to the floor, then she stepped from the crumpled circle of cloth, shivering in her night shift. “I’m content to be your concubine, my Wolf. I already have all that I could wish for.”

The loud, boastful crow of a rooster was piercing. They glanced around. A shaft of light, rosy and bright, shone through the doorway. Pinna smiled. Her goddess had once again fought back the night to ride her chariot across the sky. She held out her hand to him. “See, my Wolf, Mater Matuta is pleased with us. We can witness the start of a new day together.”

He locked his fingers through hers, watching the room fill with light.

“You’re like the sun to me, my Wolf. Fierce and bright and hot. You should worship the dawn goddess. She will bring you victory.”

“I will take all steps to placate her and the Latins.”

She looped her arms around his neck. “Her temple is derelict in Rome, my Wolf.”

He laughed, stroking her hair. “You’re persistent on her behalf.”

“I want her to protect you.”

“Perhaps she already has. My victory against the Volscians was at daybreak. It gave us an advantage of surprise. They didn’t expect the enemy to spring from the verge of darkness.”

She lowered one hand, stroking his thigh. “When you received this wound? When you fought with a spear still embedded in your flesh?”

He grasped her hand. “There is no time for that. It’s daylight.”

Pinna blocked the thought that even whores end their shift at sunrise. She walked across the room and shut the door, once again plunging them into a gloom lit only by the wavering flames of the oil lamps. She was prepared to break taboos, prepared to risk offending her deity.

Even in the half shadows, she could see his surprise as she shut the chest’s lid, then clutched two handfuls of his tunic, pulling him around. Yet he didn’t resist, smiling as she pushed him down to sit. She straddled him, knowing her influence over him would always be as a lover, not a wife.

Camillus rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t know what to do with you, Pinna. You’re stealing my soul from me.”

Her heartbeat spiked, her voice catching. He may not have said the words, but she knew he loved her. “My Wolf, you have already stolen mine.”

T
HIRTY
-N
INE

Marcus, Nepete, Spring, 396 BC

A wind was blowing, whipping up swirls of dust from the ditch that surrounded the Roman encampment. The young sentry was nervous as he approached Marcus. “Sir, there is an Etruscan delegation that wants to see the general.”

The tribune frowned and hurried to the gate. Three horsemen were surveying the stakes of the palisade. One dismounted, removing his crested horsehair helmet and tucking it under his arm. He had a satisfied smile upon his lips—far too confident for a man seeking to enter an enemy fort. Marcus ordered the gates to be opened.

“I bring a message from King Vel Mastarna,” the messenger said in crude Latin.

Marcus remained impassive, forcing himself to control both his surprise and curiosity. “You may enter, but the others must remain outside.” He rapped out an order to the sentries to close the gate again, then turned on his heel, striding toward the command tent. The Etruscan took his time to follow despite being confronted by hostile stares.

Marcus was impatient to hear what Mastarna had to say. The last word they’d received about the king’s movements was that he’d traveled to the Etruscan congress. Marcus found it intriguing that Karcuna Tulumnes rode with him. He knew there was ill will between their Houses. Now the descendant of a tyrant and Veii’s new king were allies.

Reaching the command tent, Marcus told the Veientane to remain outside while he informed his father of his arrival.

Aemilius was sitting at his desk, a hunk of cheese and a bowl of figs before him. He held a goblet of watered wine in his hand. The rigors of being on campaign had reduced the senator’s waistline, but he was never one to go without food.

“An emissary from Vel Mastarna seeks to speak to you, Father.”

The general cocked one bushy eyebrow. “Strange.”

Marcus shrugged. “He’s a smug bastard.”

The envoy gave a curt half bow once granted permission to enter. He offered the Roman general a scroll. “From King Mastarna. I’ve been ordered to wait for your reply.”

Aemilius took another swig of wine, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He gestured to the man to place the letter on his desk. “You can wait outside the gates. I’ll give you my answer after I have finished my meal.”

The Etruscan seemed unperturbed at the abrupt dismissal. “Very well, but it may well give you indigestion.”

When the herald had gone, Aemilius pushed his half-eaten meal aside and broke the seal. Color drained from his face as he scanned the words. Marcus had never seen his father so unnerved. “What does it say?”

“The entreaties of the Capenate and Faliscan delegations swayed the confederation. The Etruscan cities have pledged assistance. Their armies will bolster the Veientane forces.”

Marcus was stunned. All Etruria planned to rise. Rome’s greatest fear. “But the League has always left Veii and its allies to fend for themselves. Why the change of heart?”

“Our recent incursion into Nepetan territory must have made them nervous. They fear we may venture farther north and west.”

Marcus pointed to the letter. “What answer does Mastarna seek?”

Aemilius focused on the scroll again as though double-checking its contents. “A similar ultimatum has been sent to Titinius at Capena. He and I either agree to retreat permanently or the combined forces of Etruria will commence their march on Rome—starting with battles tomorrow on the plains outside Nepete and Capena. Karcuna Tulumes and Thefarie Ulthes have united forces with the other Etruscans as well.”

Marcus stared at him, grappling with the enormity of the threat. “What are you going to do?”

Aemilius stood and paced, consumed in thought as his son watched on. There was no time to seek the advice of the Senate. And time was limited to consult with Titinius, too.

Finally the consular general sat down and picked up his stylus. “The northern regiments of the Wolf Legion are the first lines of defense.”

“Do you mean we are to fight? What chance do we have? We’ll face thousands.”

Aemilius’s eyes hardened. “I’ve fought this war for ten years. We’ve gained ground here. I’m not about to run. Mastarna will have his answer. My army fights tomorrow while we send word to Rome. It will gain time for the Senate to decide whether to sue for peace or send reinforcements.”

Marcus took a deep breath, knowing his father had just condemned his regiment to death—nigh on fifteen hundred men. And how would Rome meet the challenge of the Twelve? There were no reserves. Rome risked falling to a sleeping enemy that had woken. “But Rome’s fortifications can’t withstand an assault, Father. Isn’t it better to surrender and seek the best terms in a treaty?”

“Fearing death is for women, Marcus. I never thought to hear you lack courage.”

He bridled, infuriated his father could accuse him of being gutless. “Maybe prudence is what is needed here. Slaughtering one third of the Wolf Legion for the sake of pride deprives Rome of manpower to fight another day.”

The general scratched an answer on the bottom of Mastarna’s missive. “Do you think we Aemilians have any choice but to stand fast given Caecilia has disgraced our clan? Others might choose to relent, but we must prove we’ll never resile from seeking her destruction.”

“But circumstances have changed. No one in Rome would condemn us for accepting we can’t succeed against the League.”

Aemilius shook his head. “My mind is made up. Let the Senate decide our city’s fate. I’ll face mine tomorrow. Smaller forces than ours have fought against greater odds and succeeded.”

Marcus’s stomach churned. Every time he rode into battle, he knew, with one spear thrust, he could die. He summoned valor every time he did so. To charge into battle with no hope of survival would take a different type of bravery. Yet he’d sworn an oath to his general and to the Roman people. If his father wished to die for the glory of Rome, then he must accept such a destiny, too. He stood to attention. “What are your orders, sir?”

Aemilius handed him the scroll. “Give this to the Etruscan prick, then call Sempronius to me. Claudius Drusus as well. He’s a skilled horseman. I’ll need him to ride to Rome. And choose another to send word to Tititinus of my decision. A third must inform Postumius at Veii.”

Marcus saluted. He was relieved Drusus would be spared from the massacre. As he walked from the tent, he studied the missive. There was a blotch of ink from the force of the stylus, but the handwriting was legible. For a moment he wondered if “No surrender” would be the last two words he’d ever read.

Drusus stormed toward his tent. Marcus shouted to him to wait. The decurion ignored him, instead barked at his groom to pack his kit and ready his horse.

Marcus tried to place his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He batted it away, the blow far from friendly. The tribune stepped back, surprised. “By the gods. What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter? I thought your father wanted to promote me to head decurion. I thought I would lead a turma in combat. Instead, I’m reduced to being a courier.”

Marcus frowned. “He’s asking you to brave enemy territory. It will be a dangerous ride to Rome.”

Drusus flung open the flap to his tent. “No, he thinks I’m not yet battle ready. I can tell.” He ducked inside, letting the flap shut behind him.

Marcus stared at the goatskin, aware there was a grain of truth in what Drusus said. Aemilius often questioned him as to whether he thought the Claudian had regained full strength. Steeling himself, he entered the tent. “You’re the best horseman the regiment has. You’ll need to ride through ravines and thick forest in the dark.”

Head bowed in the low-ceilinged tent, the knight drew on his balteus, checking the attached scabbard and sword were secure. “The best horseman? No, that honor goes to you. Together with all the promotions. It sickens me to see the favor granted to you. Great nephew of the mighty Mamercus Aemilius. Son of a consular general.”

Marcus spoke through gritted teeth. “The Claudians are also an esteemed patrician clan. You lack no opportunity for advancement. You’re the head of your House.”

“What chance do I have to be elected as a tribune or magistrate? I’ve spent ten years fighting away from Rome. You need backers working for you while you’re on campaign. Aemilius pushes your interests every chance he can get. He milks friends for their influence on your behalf. And now you’re one of his senior officers.”

“I’ve earned my rank! And I’ve gained fame through my valor, not my connections.”

“Oh yes, the oak-leaf crown. Won when a lowly cavalryman. You saved your poor friend, Claudius Drusus. Don’t you think I’m fed up with living in your shadow?”

Marcus was incensed. “I thought there would be more gratitude than resentment for saving your life.”

Drusus grabbed his helmet. “I was the man who wounded the great General Mastarna, and yet it’s you who is lauded. My heroism goes unnoticed.”

“Great Mars, Drusus. Camillus awarded you three silver spears for the Battle of Blood and Hail. He reprimanded me for disobeying the call for retreat even though it meant I—”

“Saved my life again. I don’t need to be reminded.” He collected his shield. “And here you are—a military tribune commanding a brigade of knights and a battalion of infantry while I’m still a decurion. Worse, a mere messenger.”

Marcus was stunned. Was this how Drusus always felt? Bitter?
Jealous? Had boyhood friendship eroded without him realizing? Had envy hardened into hate? Would Drusus care if he died? “Well, you’ll have a better chance to realize your ambitions after tomorrow. I doubt I’ll survive against a horde of Etruscans. You won’t have to live in my shadow when I become a Shade.”

Drusus’s face suffused red. He lowered his shield to the ground. “I’m so sorry, my friend.” He gripped the tribune’s shoulders. “I’m a fool. Forgive me.”

Both men fell silent. Death had always stalked them, but the moment it would arrive was unknown. Now Marcus knew his allotted time. At least he’d be spared the pain of living without Drusus had their destinies been reversed. He willed himself to speak his feelings but faltered. He didn’t want the last memory of his friend to be Drusus’s disgust.

Suddenly the red-haired soldier hugged him, the metal medallions on their corselets clanging. The embrace was momentary, that of a comrade. “Know that I love you like a brother. I’m proud to have served under you. I’m thankful you saved my life twice over.”

Marcus’s voice caught. “Go, then, Brother. Warn Rome.”

Drusus picked up his shield and spear. “I’ll ride swiftly. I’ll bring reinforcements. Better Rome fights than concede to Etruria.”

Marcus placed his hand on his friend’s leather armband. “No, I hope the Senate decides this conflict with Veii must end. Ten years is enough. Better to swallow pride than let Mastarna rule Rome. And with peace, Caecilia will be spared. Isn’t that what you want?”

“What I want is for
him
to die! I want his head on a spear. I want him to suffer.”

“Then pray I meet him tomorrow. Pray he may yet fall, even if his army wins.”

“And I’ll pray that the smaller can defeat the greater. But if not, know I’ll not let your death go unavenged.”

After Drusus had left, Marcus took a moment to compose himself. He could hear the shouts of the centurions outside as they marshaled their companies. He knew that, as soon as he emerged, he would be swept into the turmoil of preparation. He breathed deeply, rueful he’d resisted the urge to pull his friend close and bid farewell with a kiss. He had courage to kill a foe but was too cowardly to declare his love to a man he would never see again.