Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)
Elisabeth Storrs
PROPHECY
ONE
Caecilia, Veii, Autumn, 397 BC
Red paint and small fingers are a dangerous combination. Caecilia’s eyes widened on spying Arnth. Her two-year-old was smearing vermilion across his face and then holding up his hands to threaten his older brothers.
“Blood, blood!”
Four-year-old Larce squealed at the threat of his new clothes being dirtied and took refuge behind his mother’s skirts. Tas, too old at seven to be terrorized, looked disdainful.
Avoiding being branded herself, Caecilia deftly seized Arnth’s wrists and held him at bay. The imp wriggled, indignant. “Let go!”
“Stop this,” she urged. “The paint is for the coronation ceremony, Arnth. Not for you to play with. Do you understand?”
Her admonishment only set the child into full revolt. He squirmed against her and bellowed to be released. She imagined his cheeks would be red even if not covered with crimson dye.
The noise set the baby crying. Caecilia frowned. “See what you’ve done. You’ve woken your sister.”
Tas walked to the cradle and peered down to its occupant. “Thia is always whining,” he said, lisping through the gap from his missing two front teeth. “It’s because she’s a girl.”
“Nonsense,” said Semni, the wet nurse, who scooped up Thia. “You boys are just as tearful when you’re irritable. She needs feeding, that’s all.” The girl sat down on a wicker chair and offered her nipple to the babe.
As always, Caecilia felt a mixture of gratitude and regret at Semni’s care for her daughter. She was thankful Thia could gain nourishment, but seeing another woman suckle her baby pained her. She was the first of her four children who she’d not put to her breast.
“What is going on here?”
Vel Mastarna’s deep bass had immediate effect. Arnth ceased his noise and stood still as his father entered the chamber.
Caecilia caught her breath at the sight of her husband, dressed as he was in the robes of a king. The thick fabric of his tunic was deep, rich purple, held at his shoulder by a large amethyst brooch. He was swathed in a purple tebenna cloak embroidered with gold. Three amulets hung from heavy chains around his neck. A lump rose in her throat. She knew he would prefer to be in armor, that Vel never wanted to be costumed as a regal lucumo.
His right arm—his sword arm, was in a sling of purple cloth. Caecilia’s memory of seeing his elbow broken and bicep sliced as she watched from the city wall was still vivid. Only six weeks had passed since the Battle of Blood and Hail. Six weeks since the former king had betrayed his people and Mastarna. Every day she prayed to Uni, the great mother goddess, to thank her for sparing her husband’s life.
Caecilia let Arnth go. “Apa, Apa,” the boy called to his father as he scooted across the room. The nobleman hoisted him under his arm, keeping sticky fingers at a distance. He winced in pain when the child accidentally bumped his injury. Sitting down on one of the large bronze armchairs in the private quarters, he settled Arnth on his lap. Every inch of the boy’s face was thick with pigment. His fringe was stuck high in a cowlick. “You look like a demon.” Mastarna chuckled.
“He was being naughty, Apa,” said Larce, venturing forward from his mother’s protection now his brother’s temper and threats were contained. “You should punish him.”
Mastarna signaled the four-year-old to come and sit on his other knee. Larce was careful not to bump his father’s arm.
“No need. It’s just Arnth’s high spirits. And this is a special day, after all.”
Secure that he’d avoided a spanking, Arnth grinned. Caecilia frowned at her husband’s favoritism of his youngest son. He was as lenient as she was impatient with the boy’s recklessness. Mastarna recognized his own temperament in him. Fearlessness.
“Be careful, Vel. He’ll dirty your coronation robes.”
“A few red marks won’t show on purple,” said Mastarna. “Besides, as his hands are already colored vermilion, he may as well help paint my face as well for this masquerade. Don’t you agree, little soldier?” Arnth nodded and slid off his knee to head across to the bowl of dye that had caused the commotion in the first place.
“Me, too, Apa!” Larce slipped from Mastarna and trotted after his brother, confident now his father was prepared to condone being messy.
Caecilia was not so obliging. She gestured to her Greek handmaid to help her. “Time for a bath, don’t you think, Cytheris?”
The stout servant grinned, showing her missing dogtooth. “I’ll take these rascals to the nursery, mistress. Extra scrubbing will be needed.”
This time Arnth did not attempt to struggle when Cytheris grabbed him, hoisting him onto her hip. He knew he had met his match. Larce was despondent, imploring his mother, “Please, Ati! I want to see Apa crowned.”
Caecilia bent and kissed him. “The ceremony is not for children, my love. Apa will say good-bye to you before he goes so you can see him in his regalia.”
“So I can touch his eagle scepter?”
She nodded.
“Me, too!” Arnth was adamant.
Caecilia kissed the top of his head, avoiding patches of paint. “Yes, both of you. Now go and clean yourselves.”