Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (8 page)

E
IGHT

The chiton was white with a bright-blue border. Woolen. Expensive. Semni tied the strings at one shoulder, leaving one breast exposed, white fluid seeping from the dusky pink nipple. She left the sleeves hanging on the peg on the wall. She would fasten them on with fibula brooches after she had finished Thia’s feed. She yawned and reached for her shawl, draping it around her shoulders.

In the chilliness of the autumn dawn, she was grateful she’d been spared the fate of shivering in the streets. As wet nurse and chief nursemaid to a king’s daughter, she was privileged. She remembered when it was her job to do the laundry for the upper maids, a servant serving a servant. How she used to resent it. Now she was wearing Aricia’s clothes.

She lit a taper from the firepot and then the wick of a small terra-cotta lamp. She hoped a slave boy would soon appear to replace the nearly extinguished braziers.

Baby Thia was awake and had squirmed loose from her swaddling. Her head moved from side to side as she sucked her fists. Impatient, the infant searched for the teat as Semni offered her breast, which was tight-packed with milk. She winced as the urgent mouth latched on. Both her nipples were sore and cracked, but at least she had not fallen ill with milk fever. She needed to rub on more castor oil to ease the pain.

For so little a child, Thia had a powerful suck. It was a relief to feel the milk let down after the initial pain of the tug and draw. The little girl was intense, guzzling, and greedy, her eyes closed in concentration, her hands gripping the breast. When Semni shifted in her seat to get comfortable, the infant grew irritable, mewling at having to pause in her feed.

This one will be demanding
.
She already knows her own mind. Lady Caecilia would have to be careful her husband did not overly pamper his little princess. Having a strong will was one thing. Being a brat was another. Yet it was good to see the babe feeding so easily. Thia’s first few weeks of life had been one of constant hunger and fretting. After a difficult birth, Lady Caecilia’s milk had dried up. It had taken some effort to convince the mother to relinquish the job of breastfeeding.

Semni glanced across to Nerie as he nestled under the warmth of the bedcovers. He was so different from Thia with his placid and affectionate nature. It worried Semni that she must wean him in order to have enough milk for the princess. Her son had to be satisfied with goat’s milk other than one feed per day. She couldn’t bring herself to lose that time with him. He didn’t complain. Nerie rarely did.

A glow of light from the doorway caught Semni’s attention. The curtain was pushed aside, and Lady Caecilia entered, her path illuminated by a slave boy who held a candelabra. Another wheeled in a freshly stoked brazier. Semni tensed at her approach, anxious after yesterday’s drama in the throne room.

The queen bent and kissed Thia’s head. “Good morning, Semni. How’s my little girl today?”

“Hungry, as always, mistress.”

She smiled and sat down in her armchair.

Semni breathed a little easier. “Thank you, my lady, for persuading Lord Mastarna to show mercy.”

“Thank Arruns. Both of us owe him our lives. It’s only right we acknowledge the blood debt.”

“I’m sorry for what I did.”

Lady Caecilia reached over and stroked Thia’s cheek with the back of her hand. “It’s forgotten now. We need not speak of it. People shouldn’t be condemned for making mistakes for which they atone. You saved Tas. That’s what is important.”

Semni’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, mistress.”

“Tell me, how long have you and Arruns been lovers?”

The girl blushed. “Only once. After the Battle of Blood and Hail. And I promise we’ll wait until Thia is weaned.”

Caecilia paused in caressing her child. “Ah yes, Lord Mastarna’s edict. I’m sorry, Semni. I’m not sure there is much I can do. When it comes to Thia, he’s besotted. Even though I have doubts milk can curdle from lying with a man.” She gave a half smile. “If that were true, my sons have swallowed many a sour mouthful and yet flourished.”

Semni blinked, surprised at the joke. Lady Caecilia was always reserved with all the servants except Cytheris. It didn’t surprise her, though, that Lord Mastarna was ardent. The way he gazed at his wife made it clear he’d not yet tired of her in his bed.

Semni lowered her voice. “Arruns will not marry me until Thia is weaned.”

The queen frowned. “But he has claimed your son?”

“Yes. Nerie now belongs to us both.”

She patted her hand. “Take heart. Lord Mastarna may yet soften his stance. And Arruns is an honorable man. In time, he will marry you. He will make a good husband, too.” She picked up a tortoiseshell lyre from the side table and began plucking the strings with a plectrum, the notes plaintive and sweet.

“My lady, Arruns has never told me in full how he came to save you from the bandits.”

The queen ceased strumming the lyre, placing her hand against the strings to stop their vibrations. “Yes, he’s a man of few words, isn’t he? It happened on the day after I had married Lord Mastarna in Rome. My dowry cattle and goods were being transported to Veii. When the caravan halted outside Fidenae to deal with a lame ox, I wandered down to the river. Gaulish brigands attacked.” She shivered. “It was the first time I’d seen a man killed.”

Semni murmured. “By Arruns?”

She nodded. “Lord Mastarna had sent him to watch over me. And he’s done so ever since.” She bent her head toward Semni in a conspiratorial manner. “I think I was almost as afraid of him as the Gaul. His tattoo and his silence were foreboding.” She straightened again. “I’ve since grown very fond of him. I admire him for his loyalty. I’ll never forget how he leaped twenty feet from the wall to save his master in the battle. How he hurled a spear to knock down my husband’s assailant.”

Semni was intrigued to hear more of this woman’s past. “Mistress, what did you mean when you said you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t believe in redemption?”

The princip laid the lyre and plectrum on the table. “I was foolish when I was a bride of eighteen. I hurt my husband. But, like you, I rued my mistakes. Fear can make one do stupid things.”

“Mistress, I can’t believe you would willingly harm Lord Mastarna.”

The queen’s brow furrowed. “I wounded his heart but he forgave me. I was so frightened when I came here. Surrounded by my enemies and separated from my people. I believed I might never see Rome again. And then Lord Artile lied in telling me I would bear monsters. I used the Fatales Rites to try and defer my destiny to fall with child.”

Semni was shocked at the revelation but not surprised at the priest’s malevolence. “You did not want to bear Lord Mastarna’s sons?”

“I told you I was unwise. Then I learned how truly evil Artile is. I’m fortunate Uni forgave me for my stupidity and blessed me instead with four healthy children. Fortunate also that I chose Veii and its freedoms.”

“What do you mean ‘freedoms’?”

She smiled. “Roman women are the possessions of men. There you can be killed with impunity by your father or husband for drinking wine. And sharing a man’s dining couch is not even contemplated. The Romans think I am decadent and wicked because I chose to live here willingly after war was declared.”

Semni frowned in puzzlement, thinking she would not have lived very long if she’d grown up in Rome. Her father, and her old husband, would have had ample reason to punish her for enjoying a good vintage.

Thia had finished at the breast. Semni shifted her to feed on the other side, but Lady Caecilia placed her hand on the maid’s arm. “She is sated. Leave some for your son.”

She murmured her thanks and carefully lifted Thia into the queen’s arms. The mother placed the infant against her shoulder, rubbing her back, enjoying the feel of the nestling warmth. Semni could not help herself asking more questions. “But why were you married to Lord Mastarna in the first place. Rome and Veii are enemies.”

“My Uncle Aemilius and other Roman consular generals arranged the union to seal a truce. I was at their mercy. I left all whom I knew behind. I was separated from the customs and laws and religion of my people.”

Semni felt a wave of sympathy. “Why didn’t your father protect you, mistress? Why did nobody help you?”

“My father had died. I was my uncle’s chattel to do with as he pleased. General Camillus feigned concern, though. Although, in truth, he’d hoped I’d be made a hostage to give Rome an excuse to declare war.”

“But why you, mistress? Why did the Romans choose you?”

She gave a little laugh although there was no humor in it. “Ah, that’s complicated. My father was a wealthy plebeian and my mother a patrician. After both of them died, my Uncle Aemilius adopted me as his daughter so that I would have status enough to wed Lord Mastarna. And my plebeian roots also satisfied the ordinary people who were always feuding with the rich. I became a symbol of a unified Rome. Aemilia Caeciliana. Half noble, half common. My marriage was to stave off Rome’s hunger. It needed Veii’s grain after many years of drought. And in return, Veii gained access to the southern trade routes at Fidenae that Rome controlled.”

Semni was surprised to hear the elegant woman beside her had the blood of common people running through her veins. She studied her. She was not beautiful with her narrow nose and wide, generous mouth. And without her usual cosmetics, the ugly purple birthmark on her throat was stark against the pallor of her skin, yet the striking hazel color of her eyes drew Semni’s attention more than the blemish. Her flowing robes clung to a lithe frame. Semni was conscious of her own curves, feeling her body coarse compared to the noblewoman’s.

Noticing the wet nurse’s scrutiny, the princip touched her birthmark. “The naevus is ugly, isn’t it? But my husband has taught me not to mind it. To him it’s a sign of a fortunate marriage, while my father claimed it portended my life would have ups and downs. Both have been right.”

Thia let out a burp. Both women smiled.

“Do you miss your Roman family, my lady?”

Lady Caecilia did not reply as she laid Thia in her cradle with its embroidered pillows and kissed her cheek. Semni wondered if she’d heard her. But when the queen straightened, the sour note in her voice returned. “The only person whom I loved in Rome was my cousin Marcus. And
he
tried to kill Lord Mastarna. And said I was dead to him. As for my uncle, he’s tried to conquer this city for ten years in order to capture and execute me.” She rearranged her thick woolen mantle around her shoulders. “The only regret I have is that I can’t lay roses on my father’s grave. My prayers for him must be at long distance, although I make sure I honor him steadfastly.”

“And your mother, my lady?”

She did not reply; instead, she stepped back from the cradle and walked to the doorway where, pausing, she drew back the heavy curtain. “My patrician mother hated me, Semni. She died when I was eight years old. I only have memories of her cold voice and even icier touch. I don’t grieve for her.” The brief interlude of shared confidences had ended. “Now it’s time to greet my sons.”

Nerie stirred, calling out. Semni scooped him into her arms and sat down on the chair, offering him her breast. She pondered Lady Caecilia’s story, trying to imagine the terror of being thrust into a threatening world. Their lives were so different and yet there were echoes, too. Semni had also been married against her will.
Her father had no qualms about wedding a girl of thirteen to a six
ty-year-old man. She also had no links to her family. Her parents were dead, and her siblings had shunned her—although she had brought such exile on herself. And it was clear the folly of youth was not constrained by rank. The queen’s confession was equal in weight with her own.

Yet even though she felt compassion for the princip, Semni could not help feeling sorry for herself. The queen had found happiness with her husband, whereas she was being deprived of love. And she was downhearted her own life had departed so far from the dreams she’d once cherished—to be a famous potter, creating beauty from clay, and fashioning fine red-figured vases or shiny black bucchero.

Nerie reached up and touched her cheek, startling her. She bent and kissed the top of his head, chiding herself for her melancholy. There was another dream that might be more possible. That one day Nerie would have a brother or sister with black hair and amber eyes.

N
INE

Pinna, Roman Camp Outside Veii, Autumn, 397 BC

Pausing in washing the general’s tunic, Pinna lifted her head. Across the ravine loomed the gray-and-red tufa cliff upon which perched the citadel of Veii. She was always aware of it as she went about her work in the camp. When she’d first seen it she’d marveled at its sheerness and the Great Temple atop it with its silhouetted statues on the roof ridge. She’d been surprised to learn the sanctuary was sacred to Juno, although the Etruscans called her by another name—Uni. She’d always imagined the foe would have different gods to protect them.

From her vantage point, Pinna could survey the vast double siege works surrounding the plateaued city. They encircled it for miles. The inner lines faced the enemy trapped within. The outer line protected the Roman forces from the might of the entire Etruscan League. The stone lining the trenches was weathered, and the wood of the stockades was as seasoned as the veterans manning them.

The autumn sun was warm upon her back and hair. Hands dripping, she sat back on her heels and examined them, turning them palms up and then down. She remembered when they were engrained with grave dirt and painful from chilblains when she was a tomb whore. She remembered when they were soft and grimy from the sooty air of a brothel. Here she could put her past behind her. The secret she kept from her lover. One for which he would never forgive her.

Behind her the soldiers were performing drills. The camp was always bustling with activity. She glanced back to the white flag that marked the command tent. Her Wolf, Furius Camillus, would be intent on his paperwork there, or consulting with his officers. The first time she’d met him she’d been overcome with wanting—his favor, his body, to possess a small piece of his power. At that time she’d been frail, but she was a survivor. Now she was strong and confident and content. She closed her eyes and let the sun kiss her skin. For she was no longer a prostitute but a concubine. His concubine. She could not ask for more.

She scanned the citadel again. Inside it dwelt the traitoress, Aemiliana Caeciliana. Rumor told she had four half-breed children now. How could she live with the enemy? How could she choose Veii over Rome? Pinna may have once been a “night moth” streetwalker, but she was pious. She offered gifts to Mater Matuta, goddess of the dawn, every day. Pinna may once have been a registered “lupa,” a she wolf in a brothel, but she wasn’t as wicked as Caecilia. She never pretended to be a respectable matron and then opened her legs for a foe.

At first Rome believed Vel Mastarna stole her away. That even as war was declared at the border at Fidenae, the Veientane managed to abduct her. That the siege was to right a travesty. Aemilia Caeciliana was to be recovered, dead or living, and retribution exacted for defiling a Roman woman. But soon all knew this wasn’t true. No man would be rash enough to steal a bone from under the nose of a Roman guard dog. Mastarna’s delegation was outnumbered by an encampment of soldiers. The Veientane had not taken the girl against her will. Caecilia wanted to be with her Etruscan.

“Pinna! Come now. Furius Camillus is asking for you,” one of the general’s aides called to her.

She rose, dragging the wet cloth from the tub and wringing it before placing it in her basket.

Inside the tent, Camillus was talking to the soothsayer, Artile. The Etruscan’s gaze flitted across her in a dismissive manner. She was relieved to be spared his scrutiny. She always found him unnerving. The kohl-rimmed, almond-shaped eyes seemed to read her thoughts. She knew her Wolf had little regard for the priest. He disliked how cagey he was. He also despised Artile as a traitor yet saw him as the key that might bring him fame and glory.

Marcus Aemilius was also in attendance. Seated on a stool, the officer did not acknowledge her other than to scan her, grimace, and look away. It had been the same ever since he’d relinquished her to the general. The rancor between them troubled her. When she’d been Marcus’s army wife, they’d shared their secrets and fears.

Camillus beckoned to her. “Massage me while I talk. I have a headache.”

Pinna did not look at Marcus as she began kneading the knots between the general’s shoulders. It was her skill at massage that had first brought her to her Wolf’s attention, which had resulted in her betraying the Aemilian.

Artile was eyeing Marcus surreptitiously. Pinna suspected the Etruscan was a mollis, a soft one who loved only men, never women. She thought how ironic it was that the junior officer also hungered for male touch alone. Yet Marcus had never been caught in the bed of another freeborn soldier. Threat of execution was sanction enough to make him wary.

Camillus thumped his desk. “I’m running out of time, priest! Do you understand? It will soon be winter, and I must resign my command. It’s been six weeks since you claimed you could tell me the secret of Lake Albanus. And yet you prevaricate.”

Artile remained unruffled. “It takes time to consult the gods on a matter of such importance.”

Camillus snorted. “What about those sacred books of yours you hauled away in your wagon? You said you already possessed the key to the correct expiation rites. I think you’re a fraud.”

The Veientane bristled. “You do well to treat me with respect, Furius Camillus.”

“And you do well to remember I can surrender you to a brother who hates you!”

Artile stiffened. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Convince me why not. You’re little use to me at the moment!” The Roman thumped his desk again, forcing Pinna to stop massaging him.

The priest smoothed his arched eyebrow with one finger. “Because Veii needs to placate the gods by punishing the traitor among them.”

Camillus leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his palms flat against its surface. “And you are that traitor.”

The priest’s shoulders relaxed, his smile arrogant, his tone oily. “Yes, I am that traitor.”

“So it’s against my interests to hand you back to your brother for execution?”

“Precisely.”

The general gestured Pinna to continue her ministrations. “You’ve yet to tell me why there’s enmity between you and Vel Mastarna.”

“It’s a family matter.”

Camillus’s eyes narrowed. “I need to understand your motives for deserting Veii. If there’s no candor between us, how do I know you won’t double-cross me?”

The priest settled himself on a stool. “Believe me, Furius Camillus. I don’t take treason lightly. My brother is a hypocrite. He’s been crowned even though he sought the downfall of the last two kings. The Veientane people should be cautious of him.”

“Sounds like jealousy is talking.”

The haruspex flinched. “I have reasons enough to hate my brother, but it’s not because I covet his position.”

“Yet the king is the high priest of Veii, isn’t he? Godhead, general, and monarch all in one.”

“My brother is far from holy.”

Camillus smiled. “Or maybe he doubted you were. Did he question your powers as a seer?”

The soothsayer pressed his lips into a straight line. “He’s irreligious. And he’s high priest in name only. It was I, Artile, the chief priest of the Great Temple of Uni, who was revered. Servant to our city’s divine guardian. For that you should be grateful. The goddess is unlikely to favor my brother over me.”

“And yet haven’t you also deserted Juno? I think that makes your position precarious, don’t you?”

The Etruscan fell silent, his arrogance wavering. Camillus continued to press him. “Tell me why you hate Mastarna. And why you’re prepared to see your kin and people fall because of your ‘family matter.’”

Artile paused, his gaze moving between the general and Marcus before deciding to give his explanation. “My brother accused me of leading his wife astray. And he forbade me to mentor his adopted son to be a priest.” His deep voice rose in pitch. “That bitch persuaded Prince Tarchon to alienate me.”

Camillus appeared bemused. “You led Aemilia Caeciliana astray? What does that even mean?”

The priest hesitated, fiddling with one of his many rings. “A matter of religious instruction. I discovered that Caecilia is pious albeit misguided. Mastarna didn’t approve when he learned she wanted to convert to Rasennan beliefs.”

Pinna was shocked, her fingers digging into the general’s flesh so he turned to frown at her. She relaxed and continued to stroke his neck. Caecilia was worse than the concubine imagined. She had not only abandoned Rome but forsaken its faith. The woman deserved condemnation.

The general’s voice also revealed his disgust. “She’d already been led astray—by a guilty passion. But now it appears her corruption is absolute.”

Artile glowered. “You’re not the only one who despises her. She’s now caught between Rome and Veii. My people are suspicious of her motives.”

Camillus signaled Pinna to stop her massage and rose. Marcus also stood in deference. The haruspex remained seated. Pinna wondered how the Etruscan could deign to consider himself of equal or higher status to his captor.

With his coiffed, shoulder-length hair, Artile was a far cry from the bedraggled prisoner hauled into the general’s tent after being caught fleeing the battle. Face and lip bruised, he’d been drenched with rain, kohl streaking his face as though he were weeping soot. However, today he was no longer wearing the sheepskin-lined cloak or the peculiar twisted hat she’d learned marked his profession. Nor was he allowed to carry his crooked staff. Camillus insisted the seer be inconspicuous when in sight of Veii. The general did not want Vel Mastarna to know his brother was under Rome’s control should any spies manage to infiltrate the blockade. The priest’s chin was now covered with a beard instead of clean shaven. And he was dressed in the humble tunic worn by leves, although no Roman light infantryman would be soft skinned and pudgy.

Her Wolf was not impressed at Artile’s lack of respect. “Get up! No more wasting time. I want the answer now. It might be imprudent to hand you to Mastarna, but it won’t stop me from putting a collar around your neck and making you my slave.”

Artile knocked his stool over in his haste to stand. “I need to consult Aplu, the god known to you as Apollo,” he stuttered.

Marcus sounded impatient. “General, Rome has already sent a delegation to Delphi to Apollo’s oracle. Our own brother Spurius is one of them. This man is wasting our time. It’s best to trust our ambassadors rather than him.”

“There’s a sanctuary only a short distance away from here, Furius Camillus,” continued Artile. “It’s an oracular place. Aplu dwells there alongside other gods. Let me visit it tomorrow. I’ll be able to make the necessary sacrifices there. You’ll have the solution faster than waiting for the emissaries to return.”

Camillus grabbed the neck of Artile’s tunic. “That’s what you said six weeks ago!”

The priest rushed his reply. “Tomorrow. You’ll have the answer tomorrow. I want to ensure I have not incurred Uni’s wrath. To be sure she understands that I betrayed my city but not her. I must seek Aplu’s guidance.”

Camillus dragged the seer closer so they stood only inches apart. “Are you telling me your qualms have been delaying me, priest?”

“Tomorrow. I promise you. Visit the sanctuary with me. I’ll give sacrifice and read the victim’s liver to determine Aplu’s will.”

Marcus once again interrupted. “General, that sanctuary lies flush by the city wall. It’s dangerous territory even though we’ve secured it with a fort. It might be a trap.”

Artile shook his head. “It will be worth the risk, you’ll see.”

Camillus released the haruspex, who stepped back, rubbing his neck where the tunic had cut into his flesh. “Very well, I’ll chance it. Marcus, send orders to double the guard along that part of the lines. And make arrangements for the excursion.” He sat down again at his desk, rubbing his temple, his headache still present. Pinna placed her hands on his shoulders, knowing he needed her comfort.

The Aemilian saluted, scowling at her before he left. Artile scurried toward the tent flap, halting when he heard the general growl. “This is your last chance, priest.”

He bowed his head. “Aplu will reveal all.”

Camillus watched him depart, shaking his head. “I don’t trust him.”

“Then why do you rely on him, my Wolf?”

“Because his reputation as a prophet is widespread. I can’t discount it. It’s his conscience that is making him reluctant, not his lack of skill.” He tapped his gold ring, a nervous habit.

She nodded toward his fingers. “You are granted more protection if you tap it three times.”

He sat astride, pulling her to stand between his legs, his hands resting on her hips. “You and your superstitions.”

She looped her hands around his neck, lacing her fingers together. She was pleased he hadn’t resumed working.

He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Would you like to come with me to see this sanctuary?”

“Yes. Yes!”

“Then it shall be so.”

Pinna felt happiness well. To be asked to accompany him on such a trip was extraordinary. Before the Battle of Blood and Hail, they’d been forced to keep their liaison secret. Her position as his concubine was now taken for granted. All the times of sneaking and subterfuge had ended. “My Wolf, why do you want me to go?”