Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (29 page)

Time shifted again. Shortening. He made his first kill, thrusting through the neck of a man with his spear. He had no time to savor it. Instead he began a rotation of slaughtering. Sweat streamed down his face. He didn’t attempt to wipe it away, shaking his head instead, flicking it from his eyes.

An Etruscan tuba blasted three times. Suddenly a nearby group of Veientane hoplites created a small phalanx again and faced Marcus’s men. The horses whinnied and reared backward, terrified by the wall of spears. The tribune turned to scan the rise for his father, but Aemilius was nowhere in sight. No war horn sounded a retreat. He must continue to lead his men into a bloodbath.

Knowing that remaining on horseback was of no use, he called to the brigade, “Dismount and beat them back with shield and sword.”

He vaulted from his horse. The other knights did the same, discarding spears and drawing swords from scabbards as they formed a line. Marcus counted heads. Only twenty cavalrymen remained.

The enemy tuba sounded another tune. An airborne message far more complex than any Roman call sign. To Marcus’s horror, another group of Veientanes formed a phalanx behind his horsemen. Mastarna had closed a net around them.

In the distance, he heard the legion trumpeter’s frenzied notes. Aemilius was ordering all to retreat.

Pandemonium erupted. Turning on their heels, the Roman hoplites lumbered toward camp, but the heavy armor that protected them in the scrum now hampered their speed.

Marcus surveyed the battlefield. Horses were squealing, struggling to rise on broken legs or lying on their sides. The grass was torn up by hundreds of boots and hooves. And everywhere lay a gruesome expanse of the wounded, body parts, and corpses.

Hemmed in by the two Veientane phalanxes, Marcus cursed. The call had come too late.

Next to him, Tatius spat a great gob onto the ground. “No surrender then, sir?”

“No surrender. Let’s take as many as possible to the grave before we’re killed.” Then he yelled. “Form a circle!”

In a paltry imitation of their hoplite brothers, the knights shuffled together to stand shoulder to shoulder. Small, round shields overlapping, their palms slippery with sweat, they gripped the hilts of their weapons. The enemy warriors leveled their spears, ready for the final kill.

Another tuba sounded. He braced himself for the assault. In his last moments, he would understand what it was to be an infantryman, crushed and impaled by a barrage of spears. “Stand fast. Die well. Rome will remember us.”

The enemy remained poised.

There was no advance.

The phalanx in front of Marcus parted to reveal two riders. The Etruscan horsemen trotted toward the circle of Romans with the confident gait of the triumphant. One knight sat astride a great gray horse. A spiral decorated the man’s cuirass, a bull’s head boss upon his shield. He wore a purple tunic and cloak, a blue horsehair crest atop his helmet. His young comrade, one side of his face bleeding, held aloft the standard of the Legion of the Wolf. Marcus felt sick to see the proof of his regiment’s defeat. He clamped his jaw, determined more than ever he would never surrender to Vel Mastarna.

F
ORTY
-O
NE

The Veientane king ordered his hoplites to lower their weapons as he guided his horse to stand in front of the Roman tribune. He said nothing, scrutinizing the circle of men from the height of his stallion, his hard coal-black eyes staring from between the hinged cheek pieces of his helmet.

“We meet again, Marcus Aemilius Mamercus,” Mastarna said in his accented Latin. “Only this time my troops hold the advantage. What do you suggest I do with you?”

Marcus kept his eyes level, not prepared to look up to a foe as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Tatius and the soldier on the other side of him. “We’re prepared to fight until none remain standing.” His throat was hoarse from yelling.

Mastarna’s horse shifted on the spot. “I don’t think it need come to that, tribune. You and your men have fought bravely. I’m prepared to spare you.”

Tatius grunted, glancing sideways at his officer. Marcus ignored him, still refusing to meet the king’s eyes. “I don’t plan on surrendering my spear to you again, Mastarna.”

“It looks like you’ve already dropped your spear.” He smirked. “However, I want neither it nor your sword. It’s enough that I’ve dented your pride.” He turned to his aide. “Sethre, show our Roman captives what we have seized.”

The arrogance of the young horseman grated as he dangled the pole with the wolf’s head banner upside down. Marcus scowled, angered by the disrespect shown. Yet he noticed the youth’s skill in handling his high-stepping stallion with the pressure of his thighs alone. The crest emblazoned on his corselet also caught his eye: the winged lion of the Tulumnes clan. There truly must have been a reconciliation if Vel Mastarna kept a rival at his side.

Mastarna took the ensign from his aide and righted it. “I have your legion’s standard, Marcus Aemilius. Your father was kind enough to abandon it before he and his army turned tail and fled.”

Marcus flinched, hating his derision. He believed Aemilius had beaten a strategic retreat, not run away.

Mastarna handed the standard back to Sethre, then walked his horse around the circle of knights. He returned to stand in front of Marcus. “From the look on your soldiers’ faces, tribune, I think they prefer my offer to being hacked to pieces.”

Tatius murmured from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t believe him, sir. We’ll fight if you give the order.”

Marcus was grateful for his loyalty. But even though he hated ceding, he didn’t see the point in sacrificing men who could fight again in the future. “You’ll let us retain our weapons? You won’t take us prisoner?”

Mastarna barked an order to the phalanx to open a way for the Romans. “We’ll keep your horses. By the time you return to Rome all you’ll have suffered will be sore feet and hurt pride.”

Marcus was reluctant to express gratitude. “Agreed, then.” He sheathed his sword and slung his shield over his shoulder. Then he ordered his cavalrymen to form a line to march back to the camp.

The tumult had subsided. Instead of war chants there were groans and whimpers or the boasts and laughter of Etruscan soldiers. They were stripping armor from the Roman dead. Marcus knew worse awaited—mutilation. Vengeance would be exacted for past defeats.

Mastarna must have read his thoughts. “Are you worried for your fallen and maimed? Camillus didn’t let me bury my clansmen after the Battle of Blood and Hail. Instead he allowed his troops to desecrate their bodies, then leave their flesh to rot and bones to molder.”

Marcus wasn’t about to admit mercy should have been shown to Mastarna’s tribe. And Camillus’s ruthlessness was no different to any other general’s. “You Etruscans do the same.”

“Never under my command.”

Marcus didn’t respond. He couldn’t deny Vel Mastarna was an honorable man. After victory in one battle at Veii years before, he’d burned the enemy dead with due respect.

At his silence, Mastarna leaned forward. “You’ve nothing to say? Well, tell your father this. Tell Camillus, too. I can’t speak for my allied commanders, but I’ll have your slain cremated. I’ll not send them to the afterlife as tortured souls. I believe the valiant in life should remain valiant in death. And I’ll let you retrieve your wounded—that is, of course, if your comrades have not abandoned your camp already.”

Marcus fumed, hating the insinuation that Aemilius was heading a stampede of panicked fugitives.

Mastarna shouted a command. Ten hoplites formed a detail around the equestrians. “These men will escort yours from the field. There’s still danger in traversing a battleground with men wild with blood rage.”

His continued fair treatment rankled. Marcus was determined not to feel appreciation. Nevertheless, he managed a begrudging nod, then gestured his men to move.

“Wait,” called Mastarna. “You stay, Marcus Aemilius.”

The tribune frowned, unable to suppress a tremor of apprehension, even though he doubted the king was likely to double-cross him.

Tatius halted and swung around, not prepared to leave his leader with his foe. “I’ll stay, too, sir.”

Marcus rested a bloodied hand on the decurion’s shoulder. “No, leave. He’s given his word to free me.”

The bucktoothed soldier spat on the ground near the king’s horse. “I don’t trust any of the slant-eyed bastards.”

Vel Mastarna remained cool at the insult. “I see you inspire allegiance in your men. Rest assured I don’t plan to keep you long.”

Tatius joined the others, casting glances over his shoulder as he headed across the field. The squadron plodded with heads bowed, dejection in each step.

When the Romans were out of earshot, Marcus was surprised when Mastarna swung down from his horse to stand beside him. The king handed the reins to his young aide, who also appeared disconcerted at his general’s action.

Up close, Marcus could see the ugly scar marring the Veientane’s face. Unbidden thoughts of Caecilia surfaced. Did she shut her eyes when she lay with her husband to avoid viewing such disfigurement? Or were the power of his physique and the timbre of his voice enough to distract her?

“What do you want, Mastarna?”

“To remind you that you owe me a blood debt twice over. I spared your life at the Battle of Blood and Hail. So, too, today. I expect you to repay me should ever the opportunity arise.”

Marcus bristled, resentful of being reminded he was doubly beholden to a foe. “I’d rather you execute me. I’ve sworn an oath to Rome to kill you. It takes precedence over personal vows. If I ever have the chance to meet you in combat, I will not hesitate to follow my orders.”

Mastarna growled. “I understand that. The obligation you owe will be to my wife should she ever demand it.”

Marcus was shocked. “What you ask of me is impossible. I would have no say in her fate. Rome will exact its punishment on her.”

Mastarna’s voice was cold. “So Caecilia is truly dead to you.”

“Yes. She’s a traitoress.”

“She no longer bears any love for you either.”

Marcus felt as though he’d been struck. Then he chided himself at being irrational, disturbed he should care whether splinters of fondness remained in her. “I presumed nothing more.”

“Nevertheless, I expect you to do your utmost to repay the blood debt in whatever way my wife determines.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed, trying to understand Mastarna’s plea. “Do you fear Rome will prevail in the end? We heard all Etruria was rising, but I didn’t see every pennant of the Twelve.”

The monarch stepped closer. The tribune forced himself not to step back, assessing his own chance of survival if forced to fight hand to hand.

“Such bravado from a man who will return home with his tail between his legs. Believe me, Marcus Aemilius, there are enough Rasenna committed to ruling Rome again. This battle is only the beginning.” He paused, eyeing his captive up and down. “At least I know if we do ever meet again, you’ll attack me head on—unlike Claudius Drusus. I hope no awards were bestowed on him in death.”

“He did not need burial. You failed to kill him. And you’re a liar. He is no coward.”

The king’s eyes widened. “He survived? I thought I’d given him due retribution.” Then his expression hardened. He turned and raised his sword arm. “Here is proof of his spinelessness. See this scar? It’s on the back of my arm. I either received it running away like your hoplites did today, or it was a blow from a man who took unfair advantage.”

Marcus stared at the seam of stitched flesh, how it arced around the back of Mastarna’s bicep and elbow. Doubt flickered. What had happened that day? Was Mastarna speaking the truth? It would not be the first time his friend had acted rashly. Yet how could he accept the word of an enemy? Perhaps Mastarna spewed false accusations to cover his humiliation at being felled. “I have nothing to say.”

Mastarna grunted and walked to his stallion. Sethre slipped from his horse, crossing to his commander and lacing his hands together so the monarch could step up to mount. Marcus watched with interest. Mastarna couldn’t vault onto his horse. He smiled, glad Drusus had weakened their enemy.

The king gathered the reins of the gray, once again staring down at Marcus.

“Tell me. My lictor rendered you harmless that day outside Veii’s walls. But if he hadn’t, would you have killed me when I was on my knees?”

Marcus straightened his shoulders, remembering Drusus mired in the mud, his body ripped open by his enemy’s curved blade. “Yes. I would have shown no mercy.”

Mastarna grimaced. “Then this is where we differ. I spared you today because I won’t kill my wife’s kin. I will not have your blood on my hands. For Caecilia’s heart is tender, even though she claims she has toughened it against you.”

Marcus stared at him, nonplussed. This foe was calling upon familial obligations that no longer prevailed. In war, there could only be black or white, love or hate. Yet Mastarna was forcing him to feel grudging respect for his integrity. He was not about to acknowledge it, though. “My answer remains the same.”

The ruler dug his heels into his horse’s blood-splattered flanks, turning its head and leading it toward his soldiers, stopping to congratulate them.

Flanked by two Etruscan hoplites, Marcus picked up his abandoned spear and then trudged across the battlefield. The clouds parted, the sun shining directly above him. Between sunrise and noon, hundreds of Romans had died. He murmured a prayer to Mars in gratitude for sparing him. Once again, his lips had brushed death’s mouth and survived.