Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (44 page)

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Caecilia, Rome, Summer, 396 BC

She woke to a yawning sense of darkness, of being blind even though her eyes were open.

Once again, she was aware of the heavy cuffs shackling her wrists. It was a redundant precaution. There was no way she could escape the dungeon in the Carcer. It was known as the Tullanium, a holding cell reserved for enemies of the State.

She gazed up to a rim of light which lit the edges of a hole carved into the stone ceiling. The torchlight from the jail above did not permeate farther than a few inches into the cell below. She used the aperture as a focal point to judge time. Gray gloom in the day; feeble illumination at night.

Mildew coated the rough-hewn rock walls and floor of the chamber. Water seeped through the stone. The Carcer was built next to the Great Drain. She was glad it had not rained. The smell of ordure combined with misery and desperation. The wails of inmates languishing in other levels of the prison sent chills through her.

After a week of imprisonment, she’d grown used to the odor. But her humiliation at having to foul a corner of the cell was constant.

She’d been surprised to find a wellspring in the center of the dungeon. Dehydrated after the long journey from Veii, she’d eagerly slaked her thirst. She was regularly fed as well. A meager mess of porridge lowered on a plank through the hole once a day. There were strict orders for the victim to be kept alive for the triumph.

“Never had a woman here before,” one of the two jailors had commented when she’d been dragged into the central chamber of the Carcer. His hands had roamed over her breasts and bottom, grabbing her crotch. Her cheek was puffy and her lip split from where he’d hit her when she’d protested. She could not suppress a sob when he lowered her by the hands into the void, the pain in her shoulder excruciating.

Unable to fall asleep again, Caecilia sat up and leaned against the wall. Her shoulder was stiff and sore. Her bruises merged with the shadows. The rough woolen weave of the dress Pinna gave her was rank, the fabric damp, and her snood was ruined. She’d plaited her hair into one long, lank braid.

Physical discomfort meant little compared to the anguish that assailed her. Dreams reunited her with Vel and the children, but every time she opened her eyes, sorrow crushed her. With no chance of being reunited with Thia and her sons, she wanted to die. She longed to join Vel. Instead she faced a cruel death and a ghostly existence without him.

She mourned those alive, too, aching afresh when Tarchon had been separated from her. No farewell embrace was allowed. She wondered where they were detaining him.

At least she’d had the chance to kiss Cytheris before the maid was led to auction. With her last touch, the servant still offered comfort as they hugged each other. “You’ll be in my thoughts forever, mistress. I’ll always say a prayer for you and Lord Mastarna.”

There was cycle to her emotions. Grief, torment, and guilt. Hatred, fear, and despair.

The memory of her last moments with Vel haunted her. As did her torment when surrendering Thia. Had her sons survived? Was all their suffering her fault? Was the punishment that awaited her justified?

Her loathing for Camillus and Aemilius gave her strength to endure. Even so, she was afraid. She faced being thrown from the heights. She didn’t want to die in agony. Worse of all, she knew she’d become a specter denied reunion with her husband. She’d ensured Vel would reach Acheron. But who would prevent her body from being desecrated? Even the Atlenta myth offered no consolation. He was right. They would not live together as lions. Nor were they immortal like Fufluns and Areatha.

A flare of light drew her attention to the hole in the ceiling. A man barked at the jailor to rouse him. She was surprised to hear it was Marcus.

She heard the guard yawn. “I’ve got orders she’s not to be moved.”

“You dare question the command of a tribune? Bring her up now!”

The plank and rope hit the side of the hole, then dangled in front of her. She climbed onto the board, clinging to the cable as it jerked upward. She whimpered with pain as Marcus grabbed her under her arms and lifted her onto the floor of the upper prison.

Aghast, he scanned her injuries and deprivation. “Great Mars!”

“Ati, Ati!”

She turned, stunned to see Pinna balancing Thia on her hip. The baby stretched out her arms. Caecilia reached out to take her, but her wrists were restrained by the shackles. She grasped her daughter’s hands, kissing them.

“Remove her fetters!” Marcus growled.

The keeper hesitated. “I got orders . . .”

“She’s going nowhere. Let a mother embrace her child.”

“I’ll get into trouble.”

Marcus drew a purse from the sinus of his toga and handed it to the guard. “This will make it worth your while. I’m paying for your silence, too.”

The jailor drew the hammer from his belt and tapped the bolt to release the cuffs. He disappeared down into the lower level of the Carcer.

Freed of her irons, Caecilia clutched Thia, kissing her. The baby was not revolted by her mother’s stink, burying her face into her neck, but Pinna stood back, gagging at the prison stench. Caecilia was confused. Why was Camillus’s lover being so kind to her? And what had changed her cousin’s contempt into compassion?

“Have you news of my sons?”

“They were never found,” said Marcus.

Caecilia closed her eyes, breathing in Thia’s sweet scent, relieved her boys might yet be alive.

Marcus placed his hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been beaten. Did they . . . ?”

“No. I told them I had the pox. Believing all Etruscan women are whores, they thought it the truth. But tell me, is Tarchon safe?”

“He’s to be spared execution. Artile owns him now.”

She felt nauseous. “Please tell him I love him. Tell him his father would be proud of him. And Lusinies?”

“To be strangled.” Marcus’s voice was clipped as he glanced around. “There’s not much time. I’m not supposed to enter the city until I march in the triumph.”

“And when will that be?”

“Have they not told you? It’s tomorrow.”

Her vision blurred for a moment. Her destiny was hurtling toward her. Thia lifted her head and touched her cheek, garbling to her mother. Caecilia focused again, kissing the babe’s fingers. She turned to Pinna. “You’ll look after my daughter as you promised?”

A troubled look crossed the woman’s face.

Caecilia glanced between her two visitors. “What’s the matter?”

Marcus dragged his fingers through his cowlick. She remembered the anxious gesture. “As patriarch, my father has decreed Thia is to die.”

Her legs buckled. Marcus steadied her. “Don’t worry, Caecilia. Pinna and I aren’t going to let him harm her.”

She was unable to stop quaking. She knew Aemilius loathed her but this was beyond bitterness. “But how?”

“I’ve told him I’ll see to her death after the spectacle. In the meantime, Pinna will take Thia to safety.”

“But he’ll expect to see a body.”

“There will be proof enough to satisfy Father,” said Marcus. “Leave it to us.”

Wary, Caecilia stared at Pinna. “How do I know I can trust you? You’re Camillus’s woman.”

“No longer. I’ve left him.”

Caecilia’s respect for her rose. “Then you are wise.”

Pinna glanced away, and Caecilia guessed there had been heartache in her decision. Then the woman recovered, reaching over to stroke Thia’s curls. “I’ll care for her as my own.”

Caecilia swallowed. It was painful to accept that this woman would be Thia’s new mother. She noticed the Atlenta pendant was tied around the baby’s neck with a short leather thong. Nestled beside it was the bulla Vel had given the baby, the sacred bees. She recalled his brief caress of Thia’s hair at the temple. He did not know it was to be his last. And he’d had no chance to bid his sons good-bye. “Do you still have the golden dice?”

Pinna nodded.

“Don’t lose them. They were her father’s. They brought us together.” Tears pricked her eyes. “For her own protection, never reveal who we were. But please tell her that her parents loved her dearly. And that her father was a great warrior.”

Pinna covered her hand. “I’ll tell her that her mother was courageous, too.”

“Her true name is Larthia,” added Caecilia. “Let her grow up knowing she was her grandmother’s namesake.”

The sound of clinking in the stairwell heralded the return of the jailor.

“We must go now, Cilla,” said Marcus. “Kiss your daughter.”

She was startled by the lilting nickname, one used in a time of confidences and brotherly love. She placed her palm against his chest. “Thank you, Marcus. But why are you doing this? I thought you hated me. You’ve repaid the blood debt twice over already.”

He stepped back at the intimate touch, his tone abrupt. “I’m not doing this for you. I do it because I don’t believe in killing children. And you must thank Pinna for us coming here tonight.”

Caecilia murmured her gratitude. The tiny woman wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

The time had come to say farewell to Thia forever. Given this second chance, Caecilia decided not to show she was distraught. She wanted her daughter to believe this parting was only for a short time. Heart pounding, she took hold of the baby’s hand, kissing it playfully before tickling her tummy. Thia responded with a gummy grin. “Go with Pinna. Be a good girl. I’ll see you soon.” She kissed the babe on the cheek and tried to hand her to Pinna.

Despite the playful tone, Thia protested. Heartbroken, Caecilia prized her away, coaxing her to let go. Finally Thia released her.

Pinna paused at the heavy wooden entrance doors. Caecilia flattened her palm and blew a kiss, sending the endearment spinning through space to Thia. She forced herself to keep smiling until she caught the last glimpse of her daughter waving good-bye with tiny dimpled fingers.

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Marcus, Rome, Summer, 396 BC

Gulping in the crisp night air was a relief. The reek of the battlefield was nothing compared to the Carcer’s. Marcus leaned back against the stone wall of the prison and closed his eyes. He doubted he’d ever be rid of the image of Caecilia in that grim place.

He felt Pinna’s hand upon his arm. He opened his eyes. She looked pale and forlorn as she rocked the baby against her shoulder. That afternoon, reeling from her revelation, he’d been disconcerted when she’d appeared at his tent seeking help. He was astounded as to how many tiers of deceit she had practiced.

He steered her into an alleyway. “Remember what we agreed. Your past as a tomb whore has proven useful. Leave the corpse of a child from the Esquiline in my tent during the triumph. I’ll show it to my father the next day. I’ll tell him I smothered the princess.”

“But he might see the substitute isn’t Etruscan.”

“He hasn’t even bothered to look at Thia. I doubt he’ll examine her corpse. A glimpse of dark hair, a patch of skin, closed lids. It’s the deed he seeks, not the evidence.”

“Thank you for rescuing her. And for providing me with yet another fresh start. I’ll travel on to Satricum with the money you’ve given me.”

“Let me know where you settle. Then I will send more.”

“For a man who claims to despise Aemilia Caeciliana, you’ve done much to help her.”

He tensed. “I told you. It’s not for her sake but her child’s.”

“I don’t believe you. You called her ‘Cilla.’ It wasn’t a slip of the tongue but a remnant of affection.” She paused. “Why didn’t you tell her you will be her executioner?”

“Because I lack courage. But at least she’ll die knowing I played no part in hurting her daughter.” He placed his hand on Thia’s head. The baby’s hair was soft beneath his palm. He gave a faint smile and raised his eyes to Pinna’s. “It seems we have another secret to share. No one must ever know this child survived.”

“A secret without coercion. I like that.”

“And we share the risk of discovery together. Go safely. Be careful.”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. The contact shocked him. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him tenderly. He caught hold of her hand. “Why didn’t you tell the general about my love for Drusus?”

“Because I promised you I wouldn’t. And once the truth I was a lupa was revealed, my fate was determined anyway. Besides, I now see Camillus was never mine to possess. And, in the end, he was not the man I fell in love with. My desire was as hopeless as yours was for Drusus.”

The pain of loss returned. “I slew him, Pinna.”

She squeezed his fingers hard. “He was deranged. He was a coward. By the gods, he tried to kill you! His obsession was greater than his friendship. Forget him. You were tormented in life because of him. Don’t bind yourself to him in death, too. Don’t let him haunt you.”

He stared at her, knowing he must heed her. He felt relief. A sense of freedom.

She drew her shawl over her head, covering Thia’s as well. “Farewell, Marcus Aemilius Mamercus. I’ll pray for you tomorrow. I’ll pray for you always. I’ll never forget you.”

Marcus thought how beauty could be made haggard in the space of one long day of devastation. The wound that Tarchon suffered at the temple was healing, but there was a fresh bruise darkening the flesh around his eye. Welts marked his arms and legs. His wrists and ankles were fettered. Artile was taking no chances.

Marcus had watched the haruspex leave his tent shortly after sunrise. The auspices needed to be taken. And he was to preside over the ceremony on the Capitoline. The procession was due to start within the hour.

Tarchon sat on the ground surrounded by the loot Artile had claimed. Chalices, paterae, and candelabras. There were sacks of coins as well. The soothsayer was now a wealthy man.

The prince raised his hands, the chains clinking. “Have you come to gloat?”

Marcus frowned, glancing over his shoulder to the tent flap, wary of being interrupted. “I don’t have much time. You’ll be loaded into one of the wagons soon.”

“To be displayed with the rest of the spoils.” Tarchon lowered his hands into his lap. “I would have thought you’d be mustering with the other officers.” He scanned the tribune’s toga and tunic. “You’re not wearing armor.”

“No soldier will today. We enter the city as civilians.” He pointed to the bruise on Tarchon’s face. “I see Artile has been punishing you.”

The prisoner touched the contusion. “He thinks he can beat me into loving him again. He’ll end up killing me from frustration.” He sighed. “I hope to spur him to do so. I’ve nothing left to live for.”

Marcus knew he should not feel pity for a foe but failed. The memory of Tarchon caressing his dead beloved with bound hands was scored into his mind. It made him despair, knowing he’d never be allowed to love an equal. Or have the chance of being cherished in that way. “I regret my knight killed Sethre.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Tarchon’s face. “He’s better off dead. I wouldn’t wish him enslaved. He was the son of a king.” He leaned his head back against the tent pole. “And I’d have been required to give him up soon enough. At least I can cherish the memories of the little time we had.”

“What do you mean ‘soon enough’?”

“We Etruscans have rules, too. As soon as Sethre reached manhood, I could no longer be his lover.” He straightened and studied the Roman. “I pity you. I’ve seen your type before. Lonely and frustrated. Self-denial oozes from you. Fear, too . . . of giving in to temptation . . . of being caught.”

Marcus felt his face burning. “You do well to keep silent.”

“Do you think you can hide you’re a mollis from me? Your secret hovers in your lingering glance and your shameful blush.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tarchon shook his head, once again leaning his head against the tent pole. “If you didn’t come here to laud over me, what exactly do you want?”

“I bring word from Caecilia.”

The prince sat up straight. “You’ve seen her? How is she?”

“She’s grieving in the Tullanium. She said to tell you she loves you. That Mastarna would be proud of you.”

“I wish I could tell her the same before she’s murdered.” He searched Marcus’s face. “For a man who claims to hate her, you’ve been kind. Perhaps you’ve found love for her again?”

Uncomfortable, Marcus didn’t reply. Once again he was being drawn back into memories of affection and family ties.

Tarchon persisted. “She loved you until the day you tried to kill Mastarna. It was only then she removed your iron wristlet. Before that, your amulet gave her comfort when she was homesick or frightened. And there was much for her to fear in Veii. She was under constant threat from the Tulumnes clan. And she suffered Artile’s malice. He tried to pervert Prince Tas. And he fed her potions that made her barren.”

Marcus’s revulsion for the priest surged. And once again, cracks deepened in the veneer of his feelings toward Caecilia. But he needed to nurture hatred again. Otherwise, being her killer would destroy him. He squeezed the bridge of his nose to ward off tears. “I’m to be her executioner.”

Tarchon sucked in his breath. “Why you?”

“Camillus has ordered me to prove my loyalty. Cremating Mastarna angered him. But believe me, killing her will be the hardest thing I have ever done.”

“Then do the same for her as you did for my father. Don’t let her be a ghost.”

A trumpet started to signal final muster. Marcus knew he couldn’t delay. What Tarchon was asking was nigh impossible. Denying Rome the body of the traitoress could lead to his own downfall. “I must go. What you ask is too difficult.”

As he opened the tent flap, Marcus heard the chains clank behind him. Tarchon called, “Then if you won’t grant her salvation, at least tell her you forgive her. Let the last human touch she feels be the hand of someone who loves her.”