Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(10)
To her dismay, he dropped his forearm from under the pressure of her fingers. The snub startled her.
“I hope Karcuna’s final decision is to reject his suit. I doubt Tarchon’s ability to be anyone’s mentor. He drinks heavily and hasn’t stopped chewing Catha leaves to heighten his senses. And he better keep his word to stay away from Sethre until Karcuna makes up his mind. Otherwise there will be trouble.”
Caecilia only took in half his words, still concerned with his rebuff. “Are you still angry at me?”
They had reached the entrance to the banquet hall. The guests inside slid from their dining couches and bowed.
Vel clasped her fingertips, leading her to their kline, not responding but nevertheless giving her his answer.
She pursed her lips, irritated at his mood. He was the one who’d always encouraged her independence. Now he was resentful she’d publically dispelled any lingering doubts that she supported Rome.
Vel stepped up from the footstool onto the deep cushioned mattress and lay down, propping his back against the headboard, careful not to jar his injured arm. Caecilia climbed up to sit next to him, choosing not to recline, and fuming he wouldn’t speak to her.
Mastarna drained the chalice of wine handed to him by a slave boy. Then he called for another cup and downed it just as quickly. She restrained herself from cautioning him not to drink too much, knowing it would only irk him. And she thought him hypocritical to judge his son for overindulging in wine when he would do the same.
The other diners resumed their positions on their couches. Musicians once again plucked lyres and played their flutes, their melodies an accompaniment to laughter and chatter. Caecilia sipped her wine, enjoying the first mouthful, wondering if she should also welcome inebriation to forget war and politics and duty as well as the moroseness of her husband.
FOUR
Servants were stacking plates on the lower shelves of the repository tables and wheeling them away. A chandelier, its sconces shaped as antlers, was lowered from the ceiling and its many wicks lit. The high ceiling with its supporting single rafter merged into shadow. The feast was over but the drinking continued.
Vel had excused himself from their divan hours ago. Caecilia scanned the chamber. She spied him sitting opposite Lusinies, a gaming table extended across their knees. Mastarna’s face was ashen, fatigue shadowing his features. The long day of ceremony had taken its toll. And she knew his arm would be paining him.
His pile of roundels was low compared to his opponent’s. He was having no luck with his betting tonight. Caecilia considered whether to join him but was reluctant. She was also tired and didn’t have the energy to weather his sullen silence. Losing wagers would do nothing to improve his mood either.
Arruns dogged her steps as she slipped away from the banquet. She gestured for him to remain behind. The Phoenician nodded, but she guessed he would soon be checking she had safely navigated her way to her chamber.
Having only lived a short while in the palace, Caecilia had yet to learn the maze of corridors in the vast building. She soon realized she’d taken a wrong turn when she wandered into an unfamiliar, gloomy hallway. She paused, trying to gain her bearings, when her attention was caught by two figures in a recess between two pillars. Their urgent moans were telltale. She instantly recognized Tarchon’s back as he covered the slave boy, his bare, broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, his kilt hitched up.
Sensing her presence, he pulled back, startled. The servant straightened and turned. Caecilia’s jaw dropped. Sethre Kurvenas bowed his head, face scarlet, as he rearranged his robes.
“Stop gaping, Caecilia,” said Tarchon, clasping her elbow and ushering her into a nearby room lit only by a brazier’s glow. The youth quickly followed.
Anger surged in her. “By the gods, Tarchon. Are you mad? Does your word mean nothing?”
The prince looped his arm around Sethre’s waist in a relaxed manner. She noticed Tarchon’s teeth were stained green. He’d been chewing Catha again, the herb that caused his eyes to glaze and the worries of the world to blur.
“It was to be our last time until Karcuna agrees to appoint me as Sethre’s mentor.” Tarchon placed two fingers under the youth’s chin, then stroked his cheek, not at all embarrassed of caressing him in front of the queen. “Tell her, little chick.”
Sethre was less confident of displaying affection in front of her. “It’s true, my lady,” he mumbled.
Caecilia concentrated on her stepson. “Vel said you wouldn’t be able to stay away from him. You’re just proving Karcuna right in doubting you.”
Tarchon shook his head. “The first offer is always rejected before terms are settled.” He smiled at Sethre. “I’m a prince of Veii. Karcuna won’t refuse me.”
Caecilia grabbed his arm. “I wouldn’t be so sure. And what of your own self-respect? I thought you’d matured. Why do you need the Catha?”
“Don’t worry, Caecilia. Supplies are dwindling. It will cure my addiction.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He peeled her fingers away. “Why do you think I want to dull my senses? I can’t touch Sethre after tonight. It causes me anguish.” He gazed at the youth. “I love him.”
The nineteen-year-old regarded the prince with adoration. Caecilia noticed the down of his sideburns and two spots of high color on his cheeks. She crossed her arms, impatient with their mutual admiration. “I don’t understand either of you. I thought Sethre—”