Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (32 page)

F
ORTY
-S
IX

Semni, Spring, Veii, 396 BC

The joy at the lifting of the siege had waned. Married life was not as Semni imagined. Constrained by their duties, she and her husband could not reside together. The barracks were no place for Nerie, and Arruns balked at sleeping next to the nursery. They snatched time together when Semni would visit his cell after the boy was asleep. It was a relief to feel no guilt when lying with him, but being denied the chance to wake beside him fostered frustration. She thought more and more of a life where the needs of others were not paramount. She did not want Arruns to be required to die for another man’s family. And so, as the babe grew within her, so did her discontent.

In the few weeks since the king’s return, she’d often steal into the loggia at night before visiting Arruns at the end of his shift. There she would confide her worries to the row of caryatids whose fair, solemn faces never expressed disapproval.

The night was mild, the stars blanketing the sky in a swirling milky mass. The moon was lucent and bright, illuminating the forum and its buildings. Standing at the gallery’s balustrade, Semni wondered if she would see the same constellations if she traveled across the Great Sea to Canaan. Then she chided herself, knowing her dream of seeing distant shores was verging on delusion. She was better served looking forward to spending a short time in her husband’s bed. But as she headed down the stairs, she was startled to find Arruns at the bottom. He clasped her hand. “What are you doing here? I’ve been looking for you.”

Before she could answer, they heard voices in the courtyard: the soft feminine tones of Lady Caecilia, the deep bass of the king, and Prince Tarchon’s, which was light in comparison to his father’s. Twelve lictors followed the royal trio, stationing themselves at intervals at the outer doors and entrances leading from the open-roofed hall.

Arruns signaled Semni to be quiet by placing his finger to his lips, directing her to copy him as he pressed against the wall of the stairwell.

Lady Caecilia’s voice was cheery. “It’s such a beautiful night, Vel. Can’t we sit beneath the stars for our council meeting? I’m tired of the fustiness of the war chamber. It only reminds me of grim times.”

Aware they would be eavesdropping on official business, Semni glanced at Arruns, but he remained inscrutable.

She heard Prince Tarchon laugh, teasing the queen for such an indulgence. The king sounded good humored. “Very well, Bellatrix. If we’re to talk of peace, then let it be under night skies.”

A tremor of excitement buzzed through Semni. Impassive, Arruns gestured her to ascend the stairs. They crept into the loggia, crossing to the opposite side of the gallery to the one facing the forum. From there they could look down on the nobles in the courtyard. They crouched behind the balustrade. Her husband’s stealth reminded her it was his job to merge into the shadows to watch and listen. She clutched his forearm, thrilled by the subterfuge. How much had he overheard in his time in Veii?

Two lictors arranged five bronze armchairs in a circle. Servant boys hastened to serve the king, queen, and prince wine.

General Karcuna was the first to arrive. He frowned at the arrangement, casting a doubtful look at the king when he heard he was pandering to his wife’s whim.

Lord Mastarna raised his goblet to him. “I hear you’re satisfied that Tarchon is eligible to be Sethre’s mentor, Karcuna.”

The tall general paused, inspecting the prince. The younger man met his eyes. Semni was impressed. In the past, the pleasure seeker would have fidgeted at such scrutiny.

“Considering Prince Tarchon has shown wisdom and resolve as regent, I’m prepared to consider a trial period,” Lord Karcuna said. “But if he lapses into old ways . . .”

Lady Caecilia spoke before her stepson. “Those days are behind Tarchon. As is the enmity between our Houses. Campaigning with my husband has mended the rift, has it not?”

The princip bowed his head. “Indeed.”

“Karcuna and I relished routing those Romans,” said Mastarna. “It was good to see the Tulumnes and Mastarna clans fighting together instead of circling each other like hounds.”

“Then Tarchon’s mentorship of Sethre will cement our alliance,” said the queen.

Lord Karcuna’s cheek twitched. Semni found the tic disconcerting. “I’ll be frank,” he said. “Sethre is close to full manhood. The relationship might not last beyond a year. I doubt it’s worth the trouble. I hope Tarchon won’t hesitate to release my cousin from his bed when the time comes.”

Semni blinked, surprised at the aristocrat’s bluntness.

“I have given my word,” said the prince. “I’ll not seek to taint him. I’ll honor any terms you set.”

Lord Mastarna stood and extended his arm to the general. “I believe my son is sincere, Karcuna. I vouchsafe his conduct. We can agree to conditions later but let’s seal the agreement now by hand.” Lord Karcuna hesitated, then gripped the lucumo’s arm. Then he turned and offered his own to Lord Tarchon.

As they resumed their seats, General Lusinies entered the courtyard. His battered countenance challenged Arruns’s for menace. After the initial surprise at taking council in starlight, he smiled as he bowed his head to the queen. Sharing months of hardship had led to more than mutual respect.

Semni noticed Lady Caecilia was not cowed by the presence of the warriors. Elegant in her flowing purple mantle, she surveyed each man in turn, asserting her authority. Semni was amazed this woman was at ease talking of battles and treaties as much as dealing with nursery and hearth.

“The time has come to make peace with Rome,” said the king.

“Let them come to us,” said Lord Karcuna. “I don’t see why we should be the first to treat.”

The lucumo shook his head. “We’re in a position of power. Why not take advantage of their chaos?”

General Lusinies grimaced. “But our spies say Camillus is raising a force to march north again. They say he’s also planning to visit the war fronts in the south himself.”

Lord Karcuna leaned forward. “We should not underestimate him. The rumor that all Etruria has joined us is now dispelled.”

“We shall see,” said Lord Mastarna. “Camillus only has six months as dictator. Why would he succeed in half a year when others have failed to do so for ten? However, I do think it’s prudent that we send one of our armies north again.”

“What treaty terms will we seek?” said General Lusinies.

“The same as those of the twenty years’ peace before this war began,” said the king. “Veii will gain access to the southern trade routes via Fidenae. Rome will be provided with our grain.”

Lord Karcuna glanced at Lady Caecilia, then back to the king. “The old truce was predicated on us feeding Rome. But our crops are yet to be reaped. And there is no guarantee Camillus will not try to conquer the fields sown under his direction.”

Lord Mastarna rubbed the scar from nose to mouth. “Camillus has made no move to return to Veii. And the longer he waits, the more daunting it will be to start again when he finds his siege lines stripped of stone and timber. Harvest time is only a few short months away. We should offer Rome what it had before.”

Prince Tarchon stood. “Then let me act as Veii’s ambassador.”

His eagerness was met with awkward silence.

General Lusinies scratched his shiny bald head. “I speak plainly here. Prince Tarchon is hardly a decorated hero. Should we not send a warrior to deal with Camillus?”

“Tarchon has proven himself as a wise regent. And sending the king’s son would show good faith,” said Lady Caecilia, quick to defend him. “And the prince speaks fluent Latin. There’s less chance of deception if an envoy doesn’t need an interpreter.”

“I agree,” said Lord Mastarna. “We need diplomacy, not bluster. My son has never lacked intelligence, only good sense. In fact I think we should reinforce the message that it’s time to put aside old hatreds.” He turned to Lord Karcuna. “Sethre should be sent as well.”

General Lusinies interrupted before the other princip could respond. “Do you want to antagonize Rome, my lord? Karcuna’s father sparked the last Fidenate war.”

“On the contrary,” said the king. “It will show Camillus we’re not afraid to send a relative of King Tulumnes to broker peace.”

Prince Tarchon stared at his father, horrified. “I don’t want to risk Sethre’s life.”

“By the gods, my lord,” said General Lusinies to the lucumo. “Are you prepared to risk your son being taken hostage? Or killed?”

“Do you question my judgment?”

The general raised his hands. “I meant no offense.”

Agitated, Prince Tarchon dragged his fingers through his hair. “Father, I’m willing to take the challenge, but Sethre . . .”

“Will you falter at the first hurdle when proving yourself as a mentor? Sethre Kurvenas is now your pupil. Let the youth learn about diplomacy from you as he has learned warfare from me. Besides, it may well be a guarantee of safety to send you both. It would be a brave act to execute two messengers with royal blood running in their veins. You must leave for Roman territory tomorrow.”

The prince squared his shoulders. “Then I’ll show Sethre what it means to step into a wolves’ den and survive.”

“Good.” The lucumo turned to Lord Karcuna. “What say you? Are you prepared to send your ward to treat with Rome?”

The tic in the general’s cheek flickered, but his voice was firm. “We’ll show the Romans that Clan Tulumnes now breeds men of principle.”

The monarch rose. The others stood to attention, but Lady Caecilia was slower to rise. “We must ensure our ambassadors are protected by our ablest soldiers.”

“Of course they will be accompanied by guards,” said her husband. “And I’ll send Arruns as their personal protector. It would take more than one assassin to get past him should they attempt to kill Tarchon and Sethre in their sleep.”

Semni gasped and cast a stricken look to her husband. Once again Arruns placed his finger to his lips. She forced herself to wait until the royal couple and councillors made their way from the courtyard. “I won’t let you go. I can’t let you go. You could be killed.” She clung to him, her world collapsing.

He wrapped his arms around her. Cheek pressed to his chest, she heard his heartbeat matching the frantic thudding of her own. Yet after a time she realized he was excited, not despairing. She pulled away and stared at him. “You want this, don’t you?”

He hesitated, but his zeal was apparent. The last time she’d glimpsed such anticipation was when he’d left for war with Lord Mastarna. But that was before he’d loved her. Before he’d helped her to birth Nerie. Before his child was seeded in her. “Don’t you love me, Arruns?”

“Of course I love you, but I’m a warrior. You think I can become a trader in Canaan again? That man is dead, Semni. I’m like the serpent. I can’t be tamed.”

She covered her face with her hands, gulping back tears. His callused fingers tried to pry hers apart. “Don’t weep. I’m not going to die. The Romans will not risk enraging King Mastarna by attacking his ambassadors.”

“You can’t say that for sure.”

He smoothed her hair with an awkward motion. “Nothing is certain, Semni. I could have died of the plague in my sleep. Let’s not spoil our time together. Come to bed. Stay the night. I’m sure Perca will look after Nerie.”

She wiped her eyes and cheeks with the back of each hand, remembering that Lady Caecilia never cried in front of her husband when he went to war. She took a deep breath, determined to emulate her mistress. “Slowly, then. I want you all night if I’m to bid farewell in the morning.”

He smiled, showing chipped teeth. “Then I’m to be denied sleep before my journey?”

She slipped her hand into his, tugging him to follow her. “Perhaps I’ll let you have some. Enough to ensure you don’t fall off your horse from fatigue. Not enough, though, to let you forget what you’re missing while you’re in Rome.”

F
ORTY
-S
EVEN

Marcus, Outside Rome, Spring, 396 BC

The last time Marcus had seen Tarchon Mastarna, the Veientane had both attracted and disturbed him. On the brink of war, in the camp at Fidenae ten years ago, he’d seemed a soft creature, his dark, sloe-eyed beauty captivating. The sight of Caecilia embracing him was shocking. As her cousin, he’d never dared to be more familiar than hold her hand. In hindsight, he should have seen it as a sign that vice governed her, that she could never return to Roman decorum, that she had already been corrupted.

Today, there was no sign of the effete youth. Tarchon’s stature was martial and proud. It was as though warfare had chiseled his features into even more handsome lines. Acting as regent of Veii in his father’s absence had annealed his character. To walk into an enemy’s home to barter for peace was not for the faint hearted.

The prince had not come alone. Marcus was surprised to see Sethre, the haughty young warrior who’d taunted him at Nepete. If the Veientane king wanted peace, then it was strange to send a representative from the Tulumnes clan brazenly wearing the winged lion crest. He also recognized Arruns, the lictor who’d thwarted him killing Mastarna at the Battle of Blood and Hail. The snake inked into the guard’s face was as intimidating as his cold, hooded gaze.

Taken by surprise by the request to hold peace talks, Camillus had refused to grant Tarchon entry to the Temple of Apollo Medicus on the Campus, directing the delegation to meet at his country home instead.

The residence was modest, more a large farmhouse than a villa. The Furian family did not boast the heritage of the Aemilian family. Marcus had grown up on estates where grain was counted in wagon trains and vineyards stretched to the horizon. His father’s crops, his father’s land, his father’s wine. One day to be his.

Glancing along the corridor leading to the kitchen, he wondered if Pinna was eavesdropping as usual. The fact Camillus brought her everywhere was yet another sign she was gaining too much influence.

There was another person hiding in the house. Artile Mastarna had been ordered to remain in the study while the negotiations were conducted. It worried Marcus that Camillus now consulted the Etruscan on both personal issues and matters of state.

After surrendering their weapons at the door, the emissaries entered the hall with its humble hearth shrine and simple well. The only adornments in the room were the dozens of silver spears and standards awarded to Furius Camillus, his military glory on display. Following the ambassadors were two servants carrying an enormous golden urn, a gift for Rome.

In the close confines of the atrium, the atmosphere was hostile. Tarchon frowned as he inspected the twelve lictors crowded along one stuccoed wooden wall. Arruns scrutinized his adversaries, positioning himself at the door to keep the exit clear. Marcus thought the action futile. None of the visitors would survive if Camillus chose to ignore the custom of treating a diplomat as inviolate.

Sethre eyed the lictors but remained composed, seemingly undaunted at being surrounded by his foe.

General Camillus remained seated on his curule chair as he observed the envoys enter. Both prince and dictator wore a cloak of purple—Veientane royalty meeting the supreme authority of Rome.

The general’s tone was cordial. “Hail, Tarchon Mastarna.”

The prince did not bow, reminding the Roman of his pedigree. “Hail, Furius Camillus. My father sends his greetings,” he said in Latin.

Marcus had forgotten he spoke their language fluently even though his accent was thick and stilted. They would need to be wary. A man who needed no translator could overhear careless asides.

Tarchon turned to Marcus, his gaze roaming over the tribune’s figure before returning to meet his eyes, staring at him for long moments. “We meet again, Marcus Aemilius.”

Nonplussed by his appraisal, Marcus inwardly berated himself for maintaining eye contact for a fraction too long. He felt his face burn, determined to control the urge to imagine himself with the handsome Etruscan. He nodded. “Prince Tarchon.”

The Veientane signaled the servants to place the huge vase in front of Camillus. “I bring a present as a sign of good faith.”

The dictator glanced at the urn as though accustomed to such opulence. “Rome thanks your king for the gift,” he said, then gestured toward Sethre. “And who is this?”

The prince turned and smiled at the youth, stroking his arm as he urged him to step forward. “This is my pupil, Sethre Kurvenas.”

Marcus was startled, unsure whether he imagined the intimacy of the prince’s touch or the adoration in his young companion’s gaze. Were these two lovers? He remembered his conversation with Artile as they waited for the ferry. How the seer hated his brother for turning his beloved against him. He’d felt disgust that day for the priest’s corruption of Tarchon. Was the prince following the example set by his uncle with an inappropriate relationship of his own?

Camillus’s expression darkened as he studied the pair. “Vel Mastarna has sent the descendant of a king who murdered four Roman envoys? Is this some kind of mockery? I would’ve thought he would try to avoid reminding me of such bloody diplomacy.”

Tarchon raised his hand in pacification. “My father is prepared to risk the lives of the sons of two royal houses. The grandnephew of King Tulumnes comes to treat in good faith, unlike his ancestor. Both Sethre’s and my forebears were slain at the command of Mamercus Aemilius. We put such history aside for the sake of peace. Let’s not tally the list of those who should be avenged on either side. If we do, then this war will be without end.”

Camillus glared at the prince but motioned to the chair opposite him. “Take a seat.”

A servant boy hurried forward to serve wine.

The ambassador sipped his drink. Marcus admired how the Veientane had diffused a fiery start to the conference.

Tarchon scanned the atrium, then turned back to face the two Romans. “You have humble quarters for a dictator.”

“I’m no king. I’ve no need for luxury.”

“Still, I thought a visiting prince would be met in finer surroundings. I was surprised when word was sent that I would not address your Senate.”

“As dictator, I chose to deal with this matter. Tell me, what are Veii’s terms?”

“As before. Grain in return for access to trade routes. And, of course, withdrawal of your troops from Veientane territory.”

The dictator tapped his gold ring. “What makes you think Rome wants your accord?”

Tarchon smiled. “Because the Wolf Legion lost its standard in the north. Because the Boar Legion struggles against enemies in the south and east. And because there is likely to be dissension between your classes as a result. How are you going to feed your people when all its farmers are bearing weapons?”

Camillus shrugged his shoulders. “A hungry belly does not worry Rome. And one defeat does not mean the loss of a war.”

“I saw the flight from Veii myself. It seems Roman soldiers are adept at running backward.” Tarchon’s gaze moved to Marcus, once again assessing him for longer than the tribune found comfortable. “Except for Marcus Aemilius, of course. The Horse Shield hero. Your fame has spread.”

The tribune didn’t respond.

Camillus gestured to a servant to pour more wine. “Marcus is but one of many brave Romans who are prepared to fight. And those who deserted have borne the brunt of my ire. The decimation has provided a lesson to the legions.”

Tarchon exchanged glances with Sethre before responding. “You reduced your army in punishment?”

“Sometimes harsh measures are necessary to remind a man of his duty. But I have no concerns about numbers. I’ve raised an extra levy, and the Latin Pact will provide us with allies. General Scipio has already mustered a force to ride north again.”

“Do you forget that the League is now supporting us?”

“Ah, but I heard your Etruscan brethren have lost interest in Veii’s cause.”

“There are still enough to assist us.”

“Perhaps, but not enough to stoke Rome’s fears that it will be invaded.”

The prince frowned. “So you’re prepared to let this war continue? You Romans must grow weary of running on the spot! Ten years of combat and hundreds of your men killed for no gain.”

Camillus stood. “I fear you have made a fruitless journey.”

Tarchon stared up at him, surprise in his sloe eyes. “But it’s the Senate that determines if Rome is to be at war or peace.”

“A dictator has extraordinary powers. And I’ve been given a mission”—the general crossed his arms—“to conquer Veii.”

Tarchon rose. “You’ll never breach our walls. Your efforts will be wasted.”

“Your city was on the brink of capitulation not long ago.”

“Only after more than a year of deprivation. You have less than six months to succeed. We’ve supplies enough to see us through. And summer is upon us. Hot months without rain will take its toll on your people. You will soon beg for our wheat.”

“There’s little point in us continuing. I see now that Vel Mastarna was never sincere. He’s insulted me by sending two emissaries who are molles—and one of them the relative of a murderous king!”

Tarchon clenched his jaw. “You’ve squandered our time. You should’ve advised us that I couldn’t address the Senate.”

Camillus pointed to the urn. “Take your gift. I’ll collect it when I ride into your citadel. Why should I be satisfied with one vase when there is a palace of riches to fill our treasury?”

The prince glared at the dictator, then turned on his heel, barking at his servants to collect the tribute. Sethre hastened after him. Stony eyed, Arruns retrieved the envoys’ helmets and swords from the lictors and handed them to his masters.

Astounded at how the negotiations had descended into vitriol, Marcus watched Tarchon strap on his helmet and help Sethre adjust his balteus and sword. Then the ambassadors stormed out into the encroaching night to commence the dangerous journey home.

After dismissing his lictors, Camillus dragged back the curtain to the study. “Lord Artile, come join us.”

The priest hovered at the threshold, his shoulders slumped. The arrogance in his dark, liquid eyes had been replaced by dismay. Marcus was surprised at the extent of his despondency as the seer sank into the seat left vacant by the prince. Marcus drew up a chair beside him.

Camillus scowled at the haruspex. “What’s the matter with you? Are you perturbed to see the man you corrupted has taken a beloved of his own?”

Artile looked up. “You know Tarchon and I were lovers?”

“I make it my business to glean all I can about the motives of a traitor. Marcus told me how you resent your brother and Caecilia for encouraging Tarchon to spurn you. I found it distasteful that you could betray a city because of a lover’s quarrel, but I ignored your depravity because of your talents.” He paused. “Or has your treachery always been predicated on some sordid love triangle? Did you know about the prince’s passion for Sethre Kurvenas before you deserted Veii?”

The priest sighed. “I’d hoped it was an infatuation that would pass. I see today the boy has bewitched him.”

Camillus snorted. “See, Marcus, I told you love makes a man weak. And a mollis even weaker.”

His jibe jolted Artile from his mood. “It would pay you not to insult me. Especially since I can tell you how to destroy Veii without waiting to muster a force of six thousand men.”

It took a moment for Marcus to register his words. So, too, the general. Then Camillus erupted. He stood and seized Artile by the scruff of his sheepskin cloak, dragging the priest to stand. “Are you saying you’ve only been half a traitor but now are willing to assume the entire role? Tell me what you know!”

Artile blanched, frozen under the dictator’s grip. “I will, I will, just let me go.”

Camillus released him and sat down. The seer rearranged his clothes, his hand shaking as he fumbled with the crescent fibula.

The dictator barked. “Stop fidgeting! How do I conquer Veii without storming its gates?”

“By tunneling under them.”

Camillus grunted in frustration. “Is that all? I considered such a tactic years ago. The tufa blocks are three feet thick, and the ramparts are compacted with eleven feet of earth. What you say is worthless! I should send you back to your brother!”

Artile raised his black-tipped fingers in supplication. “No! What I say is possible. Remember the channel I showed you near the sanctuary?”

“A drain? Am I going to conquer Veii by using a sewer?”

Artile glanced between both dictator and tribune. “In a way, yes. That conduit is just one of many underground cuniculi around Veii. As I’ve mentioned before, there are huge galleries extending for miles beneath the surface that form a complex network of pipes, locks, and dams. More importantly, some caves provide direct access to the city drainage system on the plateau. How do you think Veientane spies managed to gain access to the city during the siege?”

Intrigued, Marcus edged forward on his seat. Camillus no longer glowered. “But my troops would need to wade waist deep through water to traverse such passages.”