Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (20 page)

Marcus managed to keep his voice neutral as he acknowledged the news. The thought of what he was about to witness made him feel sick. As he dressed and collected his weapons, he avoided looking at Drusus. He’d already heard him grunt in disgust. He could not bear to see the scorn in his friend’s eyes for a warrior who enjoyed what Marcus himself had with a slave so many years ago.

T
WENTY
-F
IVE

At the fifth blow to his shoulders, the young soldier fell forward to the ground. A centurion dragged him upright onto his knees again and handed the cudgel to the next hoplite.

The infantryman hesitated, glancing at the naked man kneeling in front of him. The victim’s skin was webbed with huge red welts. The reluctant soldier struck a blow, then handed the bludgeon on to another from his unit. The next man had less compunction, striking the victim’s head with a vicious blow. “Pathicus!” He hissed the epithet, spitting on him.

The youth slumped forward again.

“Pick him up!”

Sempronius, Aemilius’s other military tribune, barked the order. The guilty hoplite was one of his men. Marcus suspected the superior officer savored the cruelty.

The centurion righted the convicted soldier and handed the club to the next man.

Marcus watched, his bowels cramping. He did not avert his eyes, knowing he must not show weakness, but he felt sweat trickling down his sides and back. He glanced over to the hoplite who had plowed the miscreant. He was not much older than the beaten man. His face was white, the apple in his throat working. He kept his eyes glued to the punishment, flinching at each blow. He’d been called upon to make the first hit to prove that he knew his duty. His arm had been shaking, but his aim and force was enough for the centurion to pass the cudgel to the next. As the penetrator, he would be spared a clubbing, but Marcus wondered if he’d been lucky not to be the one facing execution. Maybe they took turns. Maybe, like him, neither of them cared who submitted to be the pathicus bride as long as they could share each other. One thing was certain: the lover better choose a different male partner next time—a slave or freedman, not a warrior. He’d have to prove himself with a woman, too, unless he wanted to be shunned as a mollis.

Clenching his fists, Marcus wished the torture of the passive hoplite who had let his masculinity be degraded would end. To his credit the offender did not scream or even whimper. He was brave when facing his penalty.

General Aemilius watched aloofly. His cloak had slipped from one shoulder, his breastplate buckles loose. Marcus wondered whether he feigned dishevelment to catch people off guard. There was nothing messy about Aemilius’s mind. He was sharp and wily and ruthless. No one was going to question his toughness when it came to showing how he treated a pathicus under his command. Yet the condemned man was probably little older than the stable boy Aemilius had brought from Rome for his own pleasure.

What would Marcus’s father do if his son was discovered with another soldier? Deal the death blow in private as a patriarch, or endure the disgrace of his son being publically executed? As an officer, Marcus would be killed for corrupting a subordinate, even if he was the one to act as husband.

He restrained himself from glancing at Drusus. Dreams were one thing but reality was another. And yet he would risk doing whatever was asked if the russet-haired warrior reached out one day to stroke his cheek and tell him that he loved him.

Another thwack. Marcus focused on the beaten soldier again. All the comrades in the unit had taken their turn. The victim lay prostrate, unconscious. The centurion raised his vine-wood staff high and brought it down with practiced force, staving in the victim’s skull. Then he kicked the dead man over onto his back. The youth lay with vacant eyes, blood gushing from his mouth, his tongue bitten in half.

The assembled troops were dismissed. The soldiers were quiet as they scattered to resume their duties. It would not take long, though, before talk of the execution would be on everybody’s lips.

Marcus needed to be alone. He headed toward the animal enclosure to spend time with his stallion. Drusus caught up with him, clapping his hand on his shoulder as he fell into stride with him. His tone was jovial. “The pathicus got what he deserved. One of them should have rammed his gob as well. He was probably a cocksucker, too.”

Marcus walked on. Drusus grabbed his arm. “What’s the matter with you?”

He shrugged him away. “We just saw someone clubbed to death. I don’t think it’s a joking matter.”

Drusus raised his eyebrows. “You feel sorry for him?”

“I think watching a soldier die dishonorably is a miserable thing. He was twenty and made a mistake.”

“A mistake? He was a warrior. Who wants to fight beside a man who lets himself be conquered like a girl? To let his body be abused? If he has no self-control, then how could his men trust him in a battle? A man who can’t govern his own desires is incapable of governing others.”

Marcus walked on, angry at a world of rules and duty. No man could question his valor, but at heart his cravings made him no better than the man who’d been bludgeoned. Would Drusus relish the chance to be the first to raise the cudgel against him? Shout loudest to ridicule him? Spit on his corpse? He stopped, turning around. “So speaks the man who declared his love for my cousin in front of his superiors and was hauled away for his troubles. Did you control yourself when you smeared the ceremonial spear with your blood and hurled it at Mastarna at Fidenae?”

“I was young and foolish,” he stammered.

“You were twenty, just like that hoplite.”

“Don’t you
ever
compare me to that pathicus.”

Marcus stabbed his finger into Drusus’s chest. “I don’t. But you still hunger for Caecilia. Until you can rid yourself of sentiment, I don’t think you should stand in judgment of anyone.”

“You throw that in my face? After I confided in you?”

Marcus’s spark of fury dampened as swiftly as it had ignited. “I’m sorry, my friend. It’s just that I hate watching executions.”

Drusus nodded, draping his arm around Marcus’s neck as they fell in step toward the horse yard. Marcus was aware of his touch and height, how he leaned his head close to his. It was an agony of nearness, a reminder of futility.

“How long has it been since you’ve had a good fuck, Marcus? That’s your problem. Pinna may have been trouble, but at least your mood was better when she shared your bed. Let’s find one of those Faliscan whores who follow the camp tonight.”

Marcus tensed. The last thing he needed was to pretend he lusted after women. He could not live a false life again. “I don’t think so. Look what happened last time we shared a whore.”

Drusus chuckled. “True. But this time I’ll hold my liquor and not be rough.”

Marcus shook his head. “No, I don’t want the pox.”

“That’s always your excuse.” Drusus slipped his arm from around Marcus’s neck. “Maybe you should find another concubine, then.”

The tribune forced himself to sound light hearted. “Look what happened the last time I did that.”

Drusus laughed. “Then you’d better find a boy.”

Marcus opened the gate to walk into the yard, calling to his horse before replying. “Perhaps. Father always says his does the job but without all the nagging.”

“Well, whoever you decide to screw, just make sure it isn’t another soldier.”

Marcus clenched his teeth. He did not plan to bed anyone again. He’d disciplined himself to control his urges. Self-denial was ingrained in him.

The stallion trotted to him. Marcus raised his hand to pat it and noticed his wristband. The crisscross of tiny scars on his inner wrist had long healed, leaving fine white lines on his skin. He had told himself he did not need to inflict them any longer. He’d convinced himself that grueling exercise and abstinence were atonement enough. But tonight, in solitude, he would take up his dagger and enjoy the sharp, satisfying pain of iron pricking flesh.

T
WENTY
-S
IX

Caecilia, Veii, Winter, 397 BC

Caecilia was keyed up with anticipation. A messenger had arrived from Thefarie. Vel insisted she attend his war council to listen to the envoy. “If we’re to hear the worst, then let’s do so together, Bellatrix.”

There was no doubting that the High Council chamber was the preserve of men. Caecilia felt as though she were an interloper in this room with its masculine aura and symbols of power. An oak table extended the entire length of the room, its legs carved into the shape of claw-foot lions. As son of the king, Tarchon sat at the right-hand side of the monarch’s chair. Caecilia was pleased to see he was clear eyed and alert. The days of drinking, gambling, and chewing Catha were over. He was committed to proving to Karcuna Tulumnes he could be a suitable mentor to Sethre.

The three generals were already present. Karcuna was seated on the opposite side of the table from Tarchon, drumming his fingers on its surface. He did not acknowledge the prince but instead watched Lusinies. The bald general was pacing, his brow wrinkled below the smoothness of his pate. Joints creaking, Feluske winced as he eased himself onto the armchair next to Karcuna.

Caecilia hesitated, not knowing where she should sit. Vel murmured reassurance and escorted her to the far end of the table facing him. She wished she could sit next to Tarchon instead of being flanked by Feluske and Karcuna. The former acknowledged her with a wave of one crooked forefinger; the latter ignored her.

Dressed in purple, his mantle edged in black spirals, Mastarna was the last to take his place. Caecilia sensed he was uneasy, but she felt a rush of excitement to see the messenger. Thefarie must be close at hand. This siege may yet be ended.

Mastarna hunched forward. “Is Thefarie Ulthes sending troops to relieve Veii?”

The herald bowed. “No, my lord. The general’s forces are fully engaged in the north at Falerii and Capena against two regiments of the Legion of the Wolf. There are no reserves to march south.”

Having expected to hear good tidings, Caecilia’s spirits plummeted. There would be no rescue. She looked across to Vel. His eagerness had also vanished, his face resuming somber lines.

The others exchanged worried glances. “What of the Tarchnans?” said Lusinies. “Have they not helped to swell our numbers?”

The courier shook his head again. “Aule Porsenna is dead, my lord. As are all his men.”

Mastarna straightened in his chair. “How did an entire contingent come to be killed?”

“A unit of Romans hiked cross-country and waylaid the Tarchnan zilath and his men as they traveled home. Lord Porsenna did not expect the enemy to intercept his troops in Rasennan territory. They were slaughtered, and all the plunder they’d seized from battles was retrieved by the foe.”

Shocked, Mastarna leaned back, shoulders slumped. He and Porsenna had been more than friends. The Tarchnan was his former father-in-law. Mutual grief over his daughter Seianta’s death had cemented their bond. And it was in Porsenna’s navy Vel had fought as a mercenary when he was just a youth. The scar that crossed his chest was the price paid for fighting the Syracusans on the zilath’s behalf. Now his Tarchnan friend was dead because he’d come to Veii’s aid.

Seeing the king speechless, Lusinies continued the interrogation. “But why had Porsenna withdrawn support from Thefarie? Was there some falling out between the two?”

“Rumor reached us that General Aemilius has plans for the Romans to take Nepete. As a result, Porsenna considered Veii’s conflict no longer his priority. He was concerned to return to Tarchna to strengthen its battlements should the gateway to the Rasennan cities fall.”

Caecilia glanced across to Tarchon. His siblings lived in Tarchna. And Vel would also be worried that the House of Atelinas, his mother’s family, would be endangered.

“And you, soldier. How did you come to break through the Roman siege lines?” asked Karcuna.

“Via the cuniculi tunnel network under cover of darkness.”

Feluske scrutinized the travel-worn messenger. “Have you come alone?”

“No, sir. There are ten of us camped outside the outer siege lines beyond the road to the Capena Gates. If I do not return within three days, they have orders to return to Falerii without me.”

To Caecilia’s relief, Vel recovered his composure. “And what is the state of the Roman defenses?”

“The earthworks around the northwest bridge are still strongly reinforced, but farther to the east, the trenches are in disrepair. Postumius’s soldiers are ill disciplined. Some of the forts and stockades are undermanned. You could smell the stink of their shit from the latrines even upwind. There’s been an outbreak of bowel fever. Their manpower is diminished with so many sick.”

Mastarna leaned back in his chair. “Go and clean yourself up, soldier. Eat. Await my orders.”

After the herald left the chamber, the generals erupted into a chorus of concern. Mastarna raised his hands. “One at a time.”

Lusinies sat down. “This is dire news. The only zilath from the Twelve who came to our aid has perished. And Rome threatens Nepete. No other city is going to help us now.”

Feluske shifted his weight on his seat as though to relieve pressure on his hip. “I dread saying this, my lord, but we may have to sue for peace. Supplies are diminishing. If we cede some of our farmland to the Romans, it may well appease them.”

Lusinies nodded. “Feluske is right. Both cities have suffered. A plague ravaged Rome last year. Their soldiers are weary of fighting all year round. I’m sure they would be happy to be home on their farms rather than camping under tents with a griping belly.”

A sharp pulse beat in Caecilia’s temple; she was disturbed to hear talk of capitulation. Didn’t these men know that land alone would not satisfy the Romans? The enemy would expect a reckoning, too. Would these principes require Vel to hand her over in return for supplies? “Do you think Rome would be satisfied with a scrap thrown to them like some morsel fed to a pet dog? We are dealing with a wolf that’ll tear out the throat of its prey and devour its carcass!”

Lusinies halted and stared at her, while Feluske and Karcuna swiveled their heads toward the king. Caecilia realized she’d overstepped herself in voicing her opinion. She’d grown used to independence, but in this room she had no standing. Her presence in the war chamber was on the indulgence of her husband.

Vel ignored their indignation. “You all know Caecilia speaks the truth. A few parcels of land won’t be enough for Rome. Veii would be required to bend its knee. Is that what you want? To be governed by our enemy after all we’ve endured?”

Feluske’s voice hardened in a way Caecilia had never heard before. “Will you let your pride prevent you from providing sustenance to your people, my lord? A truce could be arranged on mutual terms. After all, there was peace for twenty years until you . . .” He faltered.

Karcuna Tulumnes thumped the table. “Say it, Feluske. Until Mastarna married
her
. The descendant of Mamercus Aemilius, who paraded the head of my father on a spear at the battle of Fidenae.”

“Be careful how you refer to your queen, Karcuna,” growled Mastarna. “And Mamercus Aemilius killed my father, too. Veii was forced into a precarious peace after the defeat. I wedded Caecilia to maintain the truce.”

The tic in Karcuna’s cheek flickered. Despite Vel’s admonishment, he thumped the wood again. “But then you married her a second time! This war would never have begun if she’d returned to her people.”

Mastarna stood, his arms straight, his palms flat against the table. “So what do you propose? For me to surrender my wife to her executioners? You know the seeds of conflict were sown long before she escaped. And she would never have fled at all if your brother had not threatened to have her murdered and raped!”

Caecilia tried to remain calm. “Lord Tulumnes, you pledged allegiance to my husband to heal the rift between your Houses. Is your word worth so little? Would you see Veii weakened again by internal strife when it’s facing its greatest crisis?”

Karcuna opened his mouth to speak, but Lusinies strode across to him and placed his hand on the princip’s shoulder. “We can’t begin fighting among ourselves again. Caecilia has declared her fealty. It’s time for the Tulumnes clan to stop threatening her.”

Feluske nodded. “She’s our queen and should be shown respect. There’s no way I would ever condone her being harmed.”

The words of support sent a rush of gratitude through her.

“Show me the vow you swore to me was not false,” said Mastarna. “Apologize!”

Hands balled, Karcuna bowed his head with unwilling deference. The rancor of two generations was engrained in him. “I seek your pardon, my lady.”

Despite the princip’s grudging tone, Caecilia decided to be gracious. “Your apology is accepted.”

Seconds passed as though time was dragging its heels. The belligerent mood eased. Mastarna sat down, gesturing Karcuna and Lusinies to do the same. Feluske turned to the king. “Then what are we to do, my lord? If you will not treat, what are our alternatives? We cannot sit here trapped and starving.”

Mastarna hunched forward. “Postumius is unpopular with his troops. Unhappy soldiers lack self-restraint and determination. The security of the fortifications to the northeast of the city has grown lax. There may yet be an opportunity for us.”

Tarchon found the nerve to speak after listening to his elders arguing. “An opportunity to do what, Father? Force a breach?”

“Not a frontal assault but a night attack. I want to break through the northeast siege lines. The unit waiting for Thefarie’s messenger outside the Capena Gate can set the stockades and forts to the flame as a distraction while we launch an assault. Take the Romans by surprise while they’re sleeping and their sentinels are bored and dozing.”

Caecilia was pleased to hear his fervor, seeing the energy rise in him. And yet there was a nub of anxiety within her at the danger Vel craved.

Lusinies smiled. “After that, our troops will ensure no blockade is reinstated by continuing to ride out and skirmish.”

Mastarna raised his hand. “Yes, the armies stationed in the city can do that. But the force that breaches the Roman lines will march to defend Nepete. From there we rally the Twelve to attack Rome when the League meets at the sacred fountain at Velzna in mid spring.”

Lusinies scratched one of his thickened earlobes. His laugh was nervous. “My lord, I hardly think we can launch an invasion. And the Brotherhood will be concerned with shoring up its own defenses if General Aemilius does attack Nepete.”

“That’s the very reason why the League must take a stand,” said Mastarna. “Nepete is the key. It opens the way for Rome to stalk the northern cities as well. We need to destroy the wolves’ den, not just pursue the packs that raid our territories.” He rose, opening his palm and extending it toward his wife. “We need to heed Aemilia Caeciliana’s call to conquer Rome.”

Karcuna’s attention fixed on the queen. She felt the heaviness of his stare. He’d sworn fealty to Vel, but was there a residue of rebellion? The keenness in his voice took her by surprise. “There is risk in the scheme, my lord, but perhaps it’s what is required. We can’t remain defensive any longer. And I have always wanted to see Rome occupied. Which of us do you propose should march north to put the plan in train?”

“I will lead the force. Their leaders trust me.”

Caecilia stifled the impulse to cry out. Vel could die in her quest to destroy Rome.

“But your army has been decimated, my lord,” said Feluske. “Surely it’s more prudent for you to remain here.”

Vel did not respond, instead walked the length of the table to stand between Karcuna and Caecilia. The princip rose, towering over both king and queen.

“I have said before that it’s time for all Veientane soldiers to marshal under the royal banner,” said the lucumo. “Those remaining men of my clan will join with Tulumnes’s tribe. Karcuna and I will fight as one for Veii, not with our own armies. We will forge a true allegiance when we ride into battle together.”

Karcuna hesitated, then bowed his head. “I’m honored to be given the opportunity to bring the fight to the Romans.” He glanced at Tarchon and back to Mastarna. “My ward, Sethre, is yet to be blooded. I ask that you take him with you as your aide, my lord. It will guarantee there’ll be no temptation on the part of the prince in my absence.”

Tarchon stood, about to object, but Vel’s glare stopped him.

“Very well. Sethre will ride with me to learn the skills of war. He has proved himself to be a talented horseman. Let’s see if he can keep his seat in a battle.”

Tarchon frowned. “Why are you depriving me of the chance to be a warrior again, Father?”

“Because I wish to give you a greater opportunity. You’ll govern Veii in my stead. Lusinies and Feluske will act as your advisers.”

“You trust me to act as regent?” Tarchon was incredulous.

“A man from the House of Mastarna must stand in my place. You’ve proven you can restrain yourself from excesses over the last few months. Now everyone can judge if you have the ability to be a statesman.”