Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (33 page)

“If you wait until summer, the water courses dry up and the levels lessen. A little mud should not deter a Roman soldier.” Confidence growing, Artile eased back in his chair and crossed his legs. “What’s more, I know a way to access the citadel.”

Camillus leaned forward, a hand on each knee. “How so?”

The haruspex smoothed his eyebrow, his caginess returning. “First I ask that you reward me for revealing the secret.”

The general cocked his head to the side, voice caustic. “And what boon do you wish granted, priest?”

“To allow me to claim two slaves. My nephew, Vel Mastarna Junior—”

“Mastarna’s firstborn? He’s a child. What do you want with him?”

“Tas has the makings of a great seer. I wish to mentor him.”

Marcus felt uneasy, conscious of how the priest had tainted Tarchon. He doubted the uncle would restrict himself to merely being the little boy’s teacher. Camillus frowned but motioned the haruspex to continue.

“And I want Tarchon Mastarna, too.”

The dictator’s upper lip curled. “You’ll need servants to hold him down if you want the prince to be your bedmate again.”

“I want to make him suffer. To remind him every day that he has a master and he chose wrongly to show devotion to Mastarna and his bitch. And for loving
that
boy
.”

“I’m not interested in your petty vengeance,” growled Camillus. “And you’re in no position to make demands. Tell me how I can breach the citadel.”

The Etruscan hesitated. Marcus wondered if he was digesting his last scruple. Then Artile bent his head toward the general, his tone conspiratorial. “There’s a shaft that leads up into the Great Temple from the base of the citadel. I escaped through it on the day of the Battle of Blood and Hail.”

Camillus’s eyes narrowed. “And how do we reach such a passage?”

“By digging a sap to connect to its opening. You’ll need to occupy the quarry in the valley again. From there you can tunnel through to the overhang that hides the shaft entrance. The Veientanes won’t think it unusual that Romans are once again wielding picks to cut stone to line trenches.”

Camillus tapped his ring, absorbing the intelligence. “Our main camp overlooks the pit. It will be amusing to think we’re undermining them beneath their noses.”

Marcus’s own excitement grew. “Once we’ve gained entry to the arx, our soldiers can open the main gates of the city.”

The general thumped his knee. “While our other troops move through the cuniculi on the plateau!”

The priest was watching them, once again sure of himself. His smugness made Marcus want to strike him. This man had just condemned his own people to death, and he was smiling. Artile did not have the strength to wield a weapon but he was deadly.

Camillus stood and gripped the soothsayer’s shoulder to force him to remain seated. “Why didn’t you disclose this to me before?”

Artile winced at the pressure. “Forgive me, Furius Camillus. I didn’t think it necessary to use the tunnels. I believed Rome would starve Veii into submission.”

“Or maybe you were reluctant to see your former lover killed. Is that why you have held out on me all this time?”

The seer tried to rise, but the dictator continued to pin him to his chair.

“It’s true. I did not wish Tarchon harmed. But now it’s clear he’s been beguiled. I want him to truly regret rejecting me.”

Camillus squeezed Artile’s shoulder even harder. He gasped in pain.

“You’re not to keep anything from me again, do you understand?”

The Etruscan nodded. “You have my word.”

The general released him, then patted him on the back. “You’ve done well. And if what you say is true, I’ll reward you.”

The haruspex massaged his shoulder. There was a mix of pain and anticipation in his dark eyes. “So you will give me both princes?”

The creases on Camillus’s cheeks deepened with his smile. “All our dreams will be realized once Veii’s citadel is mine.”

Marcus stared at both men, feeling a twinge of conscience that subterfuge, not daring, would bring the Veientanes to their knees. “Do you feel no qualms, Artile?” the tribune asked.

The traitor stood, squaring his shoulders. He smoothed his eyebrow, composed, conceited, and cold. “My people believe that Fate is fixed. Our race is destined to dwindle away one day. And every man, woman, and child have their time. It’s true for cities, too. And Veii’s time is due.”

A chill ran down the Aemilian’s spine. He wondered if the general was wise to believe in this man. There was an evil about him.

Camillus stood between priest and tribune, slinging his arms around their shoulders. “It’s time to celebrate, Marcus, not question Artile’s soul. He’s provided us with answers to both placate the gods and defeat our mortal enemy. And in summer, both of you will stand beside me at my triumph. In summer, Veii will fall.”

F
ORTY
-E
IGHT

Caecilia, Veii, Spring, 396 BC

The hearth glowed in the darkness. Caecilia stared into the fire. It was the red heart of Mastarna’s house. She wished the sacrifice she planned tonight to be performed in the dwelling she called home, rather than at the fireplace in the lofty palace. The flames jerked and flared, the shadows on the walls mimicking their pattern as she waited in the atrium for Vel to arrive.

Veii was healing. The painful memory of the plague and famine receding. There was fuel to keep homes warm from the nip of spring evenings. Bellies were full. Trade was returning to normal. The markets were noisy with haggling, the streets jammed with traffic.

There was once again a division between the quick and the dead, too. In the weeks after Vel’s return, there’d been many funeral games to preside over. The despair suffered for over a year stoked the need to placate Aita. The Phersu was called upon often to reanimate the dead and appease the spirits.

Attending so many funerals made Caecilia even more grateful her children had been spared. She worried, though, that Larce was anxious when she was not near, careful to remain in her circumference. Always resilient, Arnth seemed unaffected by his encounter with death. He delighted in the return of Vel, clipping his heels whenever his father visited the family quarters. Tas was even more withdrawn. Now when Caecilia gazed into his tawny eyes, she recognized his thoughts: “I am mortal. When will I die?”

Thia did not recognize her father at first. She’d screamed when an armor-clad man loomed over her cradle, eager to kiss her. Composed when facing an enemy, the warrior was flustered by a baby. But the cadence of his voice quieted her. Since then, Vel’s little princess would always burble and chirp when her Apa drew near.

There was now a buzz of excitement in the city. Vel had decreed the Spring Festival to be held. Once again, Veientanes could descend into the ravines and hills to revel in the new growth of the forest. The grapevines entwined on staked rows were blooming and would fruit in autumn. In winter, farmers would lay down the vintage. And in spring, Veientane wine would be consumed instead of liquor from distant cities. The cycle of the vine would continue. Once again the people would observe the death and resurrection of Fufluns throughout the seasons.

Loosening the strings of her purse, Caecilia drew out a tiny wooden figurine that her father had given her when she was born. Her guardian spirit. Her little juno. The talisman was a symbol of her Roman essence. When she’d first come to Veii, she’d prayed the spirit would protect her. Then she’d learned that Rasennan angels hovered unseen among humans, winged sentinels who served the gods and protected mortals. Such power made her little juno seem paltry. Even so, she always kept the idol beside her bed, reluctant to relinquish the safeguard. For a moment, she wondered what her father would think if he were alive. His one resolve was that Rome should conquer Veii. If he’d lived, she would never have been married to Vel. Should she be thankful, then, that he’d died so that she found love?

She clenched the juno in her fingers. There’d once been another amulet she’d used to protect her. Marcus’s iron wristlet with the Aemilian horsehead crest. After the Battle of Blood and Hail she’d wrenched it off and buried it like the proof of an evil omen, her love for Marcus buried, too.

She took a deep breath. It was time to exorcise the Roman within her. The chains of belief that once bound her were now rusted. Tonight she would snap those brittle fetters forever. And tomorrow, she would submit to Fufluns.

She cast the little juno into the hottest part of the fire. For a moment she panicked, thinking she should fish it out with the rake, but then, as the blue-edged flames caught its smooth, polished surface, she found herself hypnotized. The chance to rescue it passed. If she retrieved it, the remnant would be misshapen.

She heard the murmur of voices at the outer door. Vel and Arruns. Her husband emerged into the dimness of the room, the firelight revealing his curiosity. “Why have you called me here? And what are you doing in the dark?”

She beckoned to him. “Come and see. I’m ridding myself of Rome.” She pointed at the hearth.

He frowned as he peered into the fire. “What am I looking at?”

“My little juno. She’s almost in ashes.”

He could not hide his shock. “Why would you do that? She’s the emblem of your spirit.”

“So that I can be wholly Veientane. So that nothing will hold me in check at the Spring Festival.”

He searched her face. “I know I asked this of you before I left. It was unfair. I don’t expect you to surrender your beliefs.”

“I do so gladly.”

“What has changed your mind?”

“I nearly lost Larce and Arnth to the scourge. I also nearly died. I knew then I could not bear to be parted from any of you.” She kissed him. “I want to be with you in Acheron.”

He turned his attention to the burning talisman that was indistinguishable now from any lump of coal. He appeared pensive, shadow and light playing across the planes and curves of his craggy face. She slipped her hand into his. “I thought you’d be happy.”

He laid his hand on her throat, stroking her birthmark with one finger. “Seeing you sitting before the hearth reminds me of when you were a bride. You’re as thin as you were when I first wed you. You were so earnest, urging me to conduct the rites of fire and water. A Roman and a Rasennan. As opposite as those two elements. United under law but divided in mind and belief.”

She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of his caress. “That girl is no more. There’s nothing left of her within me.”

Vel kissed her hand, then examined her fingernails. “These were bitten to the quick, your eyelids swollen from weeping, your fair skin mottled. You were terrified that night, as though you viewed me as some monster.”

She smiled. “I prayed that I would not suffer at your hands.” She placed his palm against her cheek. “Now I long for their touch, both when waking and in my dreams.”

He clasped her hand and brought it to his lips, sucking each of her fingers in turn. The sensation of his warm mouth as it enclosed each tip was intense.

“Tomorrow we will seek epiphany as one, Bellatrix. Sharing the same beliefs in life and the same destiny after we die.”

“So that we can love each other even after our hearts cease beating?”

“Forever.” He kissed her throat. “Like Fufluns and Areatha.”

“Wait,” she said, breaking from him. She picked up one of the lamps, then tugged him to follow her through to the arcade with its trellised grapevine, past the moonlit garden and its bubbling fountain. Reaching their bedroom, she drew aside the heavy curtain, raising the lamp high so it illuminated one wall.

The painted leopard peered from its laurel grove, swallows flitting above its head. It had been their companion all their married life. Fuflun’s beast. A guardian that would protect them on the journey to the Beyond.

The chamber was more shadow than light. She pulled Vel toward their bed with its plaid coverlet and placed the lamp on the side table. He smiled, grasping her waist and lifting her to sit on the edge of the thick mattress. She laced her hands around the back of his neck and brushed her lips against his. “Tonight, though, we are just Vel and Caecilia. Husband and wife. Our fidelity proven before the spirits of the House of Mastarna.”

EVOCATIO