Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (4 page)

The hatrencu lifted her arm to send Antar skyward. Caecilia felt the swish of air as the eagle rose, his pinions extended, seeking the thermals. Holding her breath, she waited to see to which quadrant of the heavens he would fly. His wings stretched in perfect symmetry; the raptor spiraled higher, gliding over the southeast of the city before heading northeast. Then he hovered for a moment before diving and swooping upward again.

Tanchvil raised her arm and called to the eagle. The priestess’s cry was piercing, mimicking that of the bird. The winged herald circled, then flew with great arcing flaps to thump down once again upon his mistress’s sheathed arm.

“Antar was summoned by Laran, the god of war, but then headed toward Uni’s realm. The war will continue, but Veii’s mother will continue to protect us.”

The throng was quiet. Caecilia knew they’d hoped Uni would decree that Veii would once again be free.

Mastarna’s expression was brooding beneath the crimson paint as he considered his response. Tanchvil once again hooded the bird’s eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Caecilia stepped forward to the edge of the podium. She hoped her voice would be loud enough. She could feel the eyes of the people studying her as they surrounded her. She was used to their scrutiny—sometimes bearing their suspicion and distrust. Sometimes admiring her for bearing the general so many sons. “My people, do not be disheartened there has been no sign our enemy will yield.”

Mastarna encircled her waist with his arm. There was surprise in his voice. “Thank you, Bellatrix, I will speak now.”

“No, I haven’t finished, Vel.” She inhaled deeply again, her nerves settling. People were shifting and jostling to get a better look. Their faces were tired and gaunt.

“Ten years ago the generals of Rome married me to Vel Mastarna against my will. My uncle, Aemilius Mamercus, was numbered among them.”

There were no catcalls. Confidence eased through her. She was amazed her voice carried across the sanctuary. She stepped from Vel and pivoted in a circle, ensuring everyone surrounding the podium could see and hear her.

“Ten years ago I was held hostage by King Tulumnes, a wicked tyrant. In fear, I escaped to Rome only to find those same generals were ready to sacrifice me, and war had always been their intention. And just as they forced me to marry, they then forced me to divorce my husband.”

Vel touched her forearm. “You need not do this, Bellatrix.”

She ignored his warning. “But then a miracle happened.” She glanced at him and smiled. “Vel Mastarna rescued me. He gave me a chance to marry him again. He gave me a chance to choose Veii.”

She held out her arms. “I’ve felt your distrust as the daughter of a foe living among you. But know this: I was once Roman, but I feel no love for that city. I am Veientane and pledge my loyalty to you. And I say now: It’s not enough that we defend our city. It’s not enough to seek peace. Rome is a wolf who will devour us. It must be killed once and for all.” She stepped back and grasped Vel’s hand and raised it into the air. “I seek Rome’s destruction! Let us conquer the wolf. Let us bring down its wall!”

For a moment she felt sickened at the lack of response. Then she heard clapping, feet stamping in unison, voices joining as one. “Queen Caecilia! King Mastarna! Queen Caecilia! King Mastarna!”

Disbelieving these people were exalting her, tears pricked her eyes. She turned to Vel, smiling. He continued to survey the crowd as he also pivoted on the podium. His look was hard as he gripped her fingers. Above the noise, she heard the anger in his bass voice. “What have you done, Bellatrix?”

She turned back to face the crowd, raising her other hand and waving. She had to shout so Vel could hear her, a current of elation flowing through her. “I’ve done what I should have done ten years ago. I have declared war on Rome.”

T
HREE

The blood of the white cows had been drained from the runnels into the bolos of the holy altar. There should have been more than a score of beasts sacrificed for the coronation, but in the besieged city there were scant cattle left for such a ceremony. At least the people would feast on the flesh now. The aroma of roast beef filled the air. Those in the sanctuary stood in a circle around the cooking pits, their faces expectant, their mouths watering in anticipation as the carcasses were turned on the spits.

In the city below, sounds of celebration drifted up to the arx. Mastarna had not forgotten the rest of his subjects. An extra grain ration had been offered from the city granary and wine distributed from the private cellars of the palace. His royal predecessors had hoarded the fine vintage for their own use. King Mastarna was more generous, intent on boosting morale.

Mastarna led Caecilia to his chariot. He’d not spoken to her since her declaration. Maintaining his silence, he helped her into the gilded car. The call of their names resounded around them. Aemilia Caeciliana’s was being hailed as loudly as the king’s. Despite her husband’s iciness, she could not help but feel proud. After so many years of hostility, the adulation was as heady as if she’d drunk strong unwatered wine.

Surrounding the chariot were twenty-four lictors. The royal bodyguards were dressed in black and held ceremonial rods and axes. The head lictor walked abreast of the chariot. Arruns was stocky, half his swarthy face tattooed with a fanged snake, its coils twisting around his neck. She knew the serpent continued to encircle his chest and back. Today, dressed in his uniform, the grotesque pattern was hidden. His hooded eyes always veiled his emotions, his tattooed visage and hooked nose inspiring menace. The Phoenician had been Mastarna’s personal protector for fifteen years. Caecilia wondered if he welcomed the presence of twenty-three others. She suspected he doubted they were necessary. If not for him, Vel would have died in the Battle of Blood and Hail. And he’d rescued her from danger more than once. Both of them owed their lives to him.

Smiling to the crowd, Mastarna planted his feet wide, balanced perfectly as he took hold of the reins of the four white horses that pulled the chariot. A retinue of principes followed. These nobles of Veii were richly robed and bejeweled. The women were trying to outdo each other with pectorals of green jasper and lapis and diadems of amber and peridot. The men were no less splendid, dressed in brightly colored tebenna cloaks, their short-cropped hair wreathed.

Vel’s smile disappeared as soon as he entered the palace courtyard. “Get a servant boy to bring water. I want to wash off this vermilion,” he barked to Arruns as he strode toward the throne room. “I only want to see the high councillors. I’ll take audience with the other principes tomorrow.”

Caecilia followed Mastarna to the dais with its golden throne. There was a bull’s head crest emblazoned upon its back, the symbol of the House of Mastarna. Caecilia took her place beside her husband on her own small throne, conscious of her status at his right hand. Prince Tarchon also ascended the platform and sat on a high-backed chair to the left side of his adopted father. She was pleased Vel had agreed to appoint him to his war council. Maybe Mastarna’s coldness toward his son was thawing at last.

The high councillors trailed through the doorway with its tall double bronze doors. General Lusinies approached first. Bald and battered of feature, the warrior knelt to swear fealty. Mastarna acknowledged him with a brief smile.

General Feluske followed. He winced as he bent his knee. Caecilia knew it to be from a worn joint rather than reluctance. He’d long been an ally of her husband.

The last princip to approach was Karcuna Tulumnes.

Caecilia tensed. There was no love between the Houses of Mastarna and Tulumnes. Both kings from Karcuna’s bloodline had served Veii badly. His older brother had murdered Mastarna’s greatest friend and had terrorized her. And his cousin Kurvenas had shut the gates against her husband and destroyed his army.

As with all of his family, Karcuna was imposing in his height and haughtiness. His cheek would twitch every now and then in a disconcerting tic. She remembered how his brother had towered over her when he was lucumo, intimidating her both physically and mentally, threatening to mutilate and kill and rape her. She wondered why Vel had appointed Karcuna as one of his advisers given such a villainous lineage. And yet the new leader of the Tulumnes clan had not objected to Mastarna’s election. Today more was being asked of him—to bend his knee and pay respect to a man who’d opposed his kin for decades.

To her surprise, Vel rose and descended the dais to stand before the princip. “There has long been enmity between our families, Karcuna. Your clan believes in monarchy while mine opposes it. And yet I stand before you as a lucumo because our people demand it. I’m reluctant, but I can’t ignore their wishes. For the sake of internal concord, I hope you’ll serve me without rancor.”

Karcuna squared his shoulders. “I’m not like my brother. Nor my cousin Kurvenas, who I acknowledge betrayed Veii. So I’ll not conspire against you, but I won’t deny many of my clan have reservations the leader of the House of Mastarna now rules over them.”

Mastarna frowned. “Then I ask that you convince them such hostility must end for the sake of Veii. I’m a general with no troops of my own. Now I ask all our warriors to fight for Veii’s king. Just as Roman soldiers fight for their state, not their clans.”

The princip hesitated. His powers of persuasion would be tested when called upon to convince his tribe to fight under the royal banner. Then, to Caecilia’s relief, he knelt before Mastarna and bent his head. “I pledge allegiance to you and to Veii.”

Vel’s expression was guarded as he reached down and proffered his forearm to Karcuna. “I won’t forget this. Veii will only grow stronger now we’re allies.”

The councillor rose and gripped his forearm.

General Lusinies moved across to the monarch. Caecilia noticed how his hand was raised as though to clap Mastarna on the shoulder, but he dropped it to his side when Vel turned his attention to him. The laurel wreath crown gracing the king’s head emphasized the men’s newly altered status.

“I hope you now see that agreeing to be lucumo is the best thing for this city, my lord. See how the people welcomed your coronation.”

“There’s good humor among them today as I’m filling their bellies, but it may not last.” Mastarna sat down and accepted a damp cloth from a servant boy to wipe his face clean of the paint. “If I don’t manage to bring this city through the siege, their support may wane when hunger stirs discontentment.”

“You underestimate yourself, my lord,” said Feluske. “And I think Queen Caecilia’s call to arms gives hope we might yet attack Rome instead of merely defending our walls.”

Caecilia flinched, aware Vel would not welcome being reminded of her declaration. There was an edge of irritation in his voice. “My wife’s goal is premature.”

At his words, Feluske and Lusinies exchanged glances. Karcuna’s eyes narrowed. She could feel his scrutiny before he addressed Mastarna. “My family has always believed Rome should be conquered. Rasennan kings should rule there again.”

Vel bristled. “And how do you suggest we do that? Camillus has strengthened the siege lines with stone. And there are few chances for us to engage in skirmishes. The Romans remain secure behind forts and trenches. It’s a stalemate.”

“So we continue to sit here and do nothing?” pressed Karcuna. “Our warriors grow restless.”

Caecilia frowned. The general may have sworn fealty, but he was not above challenging his ruler.

“Camillus will soon relinquish command,” said Mastarna. “In the changeover period with his successor, the cordon will slacken, and food will be able to be bartered through the stockades.”

Lusinies nodded his head. “And we shouldn’t forget Rome has many enemies. Multiple war fronts may well prove too much with their resources stretched thin.”

Karcuna crossed his arms. “But that situation has been the same now for years. It doesn’t stop the Romans besieging us. They covet Veii’s land most. And instead of his usual tactic of razing crops, Camillus is now coercing Veientane farmers to till their land. Daughters and wives are raped if the men resist. The grain grown will feed Rome, not us.” The princip turned to Feluske and Lusinies as though expecting them to also challenge the lucumo. “Meanwhile we sit here starving.”

The older men avoided his gaze. Caecilia was pleased they still sided with their king. Yet she sensed Vel’s anger growing at his strategy being questioned. “We must survive until December. It’s time all the principes share their reserves of food just as I do. Let them distribute it to the needier among us.”

The three councillors stared at him, saying nothing.

Karcuna turned his attention back to Caecilia. “And what does our queen say? Your wife wants us to march on Rome, my lord. She shows more iron than most.”

Caecilia bit the inside of her lip, aware of the princip’s implied criticism of Mastarna. It was never her intention to cause Vel embarrassment. She was also surprised Karcuna sought her opinion. She was used to the men of the Tulumnes family spitting venom at her. “My exhortation was to boost morale. I agree with my husband that Veii must be relieved first.”

Karcuna smiled slyly. “Then you don’t believe Rome should fall as you declared.”

This time it was she who bridled. His words echoed his predecessors’ distrust for her. In the past, the Tulumnes clan asserted she was a traitor because she wouldn’t vow to destroy Rome. She’d often wondered how she could be doubly treasonous when both foes accused her of perfidy.

Having remained quiet throughout the discussion, Tarchon now stood. “I’m sick of Caecilia’s loyalty being questioned.”

“Enough!” Mastarna cut across his son’s defense. “All this talk of conquest is futile. You’re forgetting we need the support of the League of the Twelve Rasennan cities. Without extra forces, Veii won’t succeed. All the Rasenna must rise. And that’s unlikely. Our pleas for support have fallen on deaf ears for a decade now.”

Caecilia leaned across to Vel. “Perhaps it’s time to adjourn to the banquet,” she said loud enough for the others to hear.

He glanced at her, then nodded and rose. “My wife is right. Enough talk of war. Let’s enjoy the feast.”

The councillors bowed and headed toward the door, but Tarchon called out unexpectedly, “Lord Karcuna, could you stay behind?”

The tall man turned, a look of surprise on his face.

“What’s this about, Tarchon?” Mastarna growled.

“I wish to make a formal application to become Sethre Kurvenas’s mentor. Lord Karcuna is his guardian now King Kurvenas is dead.”

Caecilia took a deep breath, wishing her stepson had not opened himself up for humiliation. This was not the time to make a case to become the lover of the grieving son of the murdered lucumo.

Karcuna stiffened, addressing Mastarna instead of the prince. “King Kurvenas didn’t approve of Sethre becoming the beloved of your adopted son. I must honor his wishes as a father.”

Caecilia thought Mastarna would concur. Instead, to her surprise, he gave his son his support. “I believe Prince Tarchon’s desire to foster links between our Houses has merit.”

The councillor cocked his head to the side, his tone less than deferential. “It’s enough that I bend my knee to you, my lord. I don’t think my young cousin need be tainted by Tarchon’s reputation.”

“Oh, and what would that be?”

Karcuna’s eyes traveled along Tarchon’s figure, treating him as though he was some specimen who could neither speak nor feel. “Why hasn’t he married? Where are his children? He’s a soft one. I can’t risk Sethre’s reputation.”

Mastarna stood. “We’ve made gains here tonight, Karcuna. Don’t lose them by denigrating my son.”

The princip’s cheek twitched. “I merely speak what all know. You were about to shun him yourself when Lord Artile took him as his beloved. And Tarchon is far from eligible to act as a mentor. He fails to meet the required standards. He’s only thirty. He’s never held high office. He isn’t married. His war record is patchy. And there’s no guarantee he would relinquish his role when the boy has grown a beard.”

Caecilia’s winced to hear Tarchon’s shortcomings so brutally listed.

Mastarna tensed beside her at the litany.

Tarchon descended the dais to stand opposite the princip, hands on his hips. “I’m a prince of Veii, and I sit on the king’s council. Isn’t that status enough?” He placed his hand on his thigh. “And beneath these robes my leg has only just healed from the wound I suffered in the Battle of Blood and Hail. No man has ever questioned my courage.”

Karcuna stepped back, running a hand through his hair. He continued to eye Tarchon, unable to control a spasm in his cheek. “Sethre is not fifteen years old as is the usual age for a pupil. He is nineteen.”

“I understand Sethre will cease to be my pupil when required,” Tarchon added.

The councillor continued to study him, then nodded. “I will think on it, then. But in the meantime you must stay away from my ward.”