Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(102)

“I agree,” said Lord Mastarna. “We need diplomacy, not bluster. My son has never lacked intelligence, only good sense. In fact I think we should reinforce the message that it’s time to put aside old hatreds.” He turned to Lord Karcuna. “Sethre should be sent as well.”

General Lusinies interrupted before the other princip could respond. “Do you want to antagonize Rome, my lord? Karcuna’s father sparked the last Fidenate war.”

“On the contrary,” said the king. “It will show Camillus we’re not afraid to send a relative of King Tulumnes to broker peace.”

Prince Tarchon stared at his father, horrified. “I don’t want to risk Sethre’s life.”

“By the gods, my lord,” said General Lusinies to the lucumo. “Are you prepared to risk your son being taken hostage? Or killed?”

“Do you question my judgment?”

The general raised his hands. “I meant no offense.”

Agitated, Prince Tarchon dragged his fingers through his hair. “Father, I’m willing to take the challenge, but Sethre . . .”

“Will you falter at the first hurdle when proving yourself as a mentor? Sethre Kurvenas is now your pupil. Let the youth learn about diplomacy from you as he has learned warfare from me. Besides, it may well be a guarantee of safety to send you both. It would be a brave act to execute two messengers with royal blood running in their veins. You must leave for Roman territory tomorrow.”

The prince squared his shoulders. “Then I’ll show Sethre what it means to step into a wolves’ den and survive.”

“Good.” The lucumo turned to Lord Karcuna. “What say you? Are you prepared to send your ward to treat with Rome?”

The tic in the general’s cheek flickered, but his voice was firm. “We’ll show the Romans that Clan Tulumnes now breeds men of principle.”

The monarch rose. The others stood to attention, but Lady Caecilia was slower to rise. “We must ensure our ambassadors are protected by our ablest soldiers.”

“Of course they will be accompanied by guards,” said her husband. “And I’ll send Arruns as their personal protector. It would take more than one assassin to get past him should they attempt to kill Tarchon and Sethre in their sleep.”

Semni gasped and cast a stricken look to her husband. Once again Arruns placed his finger to his lips. She forced herself to wait until the royal couple and councillors made their way from the courtyard. “I won’t let you go. I can’t let you go. You could be killed.” She clung to him, her world collapsing.

He wrapped his arms around her. Cheek pressed to his chest, she heard his heartbeat matching the frantic thudding of her own. Yet after a time she realized he was excited, not despairing. She pulled away and stared at him. “You want this, don’t you?”

He hesitated, but his zeal was apparent. The last time she’d glimpsed such anticipation was when he’d left for war with Lord Mastarna. But that was before he’d loved her. Before he’d helped her to birth Nerie. Before his child was seeded in her. “Don’t you love me, Arruns?”

“Of course I love you, but I’m a warrior. You think I can become a trader in Canaan again? That man is dead, Semni. I’m like the serpent. I can’t be tamed.”

She covered her face with her hands, gulping back tears. His callused fingers tried to pry hers apart. “Don’t weep. I’m not going to die. The Romans will not risk enraging King Mastarna by attacking his ambassadors.”

“You can’t say that for sure.”

He smoothed her hair with an awkward motion. “Nothing is certain, Semni. I could have died of the plague in my sleep. Let’s not spoil our time together. Come to bed. Stay the night. I’m sure Perca will look after Nerie.”

She wiped her eyes and cheeks with the back of each hand, remembering that Lady Caecilia never cried in front of her husband when he went to war. She took a deep breath, determined to emulate her mistress. “Slowly, then. I want you all night if I’m to bid farewell in the morning.”

He smiled, showing chipped teeth. “Then I’m to be denied sleep before my journey?”

She slipped her hand into his, tugging him to follow her. “Perhaps I’ll let you have some. Enough to ensure you don’t fall off your horse from fatigue. Not enough, though, to let you forget what you’re missing while you’re in Rome.”





FORTY-SEVEN



Marcus, Outside Rome, Spring, 396 BC

The last time Marcus had seen Tarchon Mastarna, the Veientane had both attracted and disturbed him. On the brink of war, in the camp at Fidenae ten years ago, he’d seemed a soft creature, his dark, sloe-eyed beauty captivating. The sight of Caecilia embracing him was shocking. As her cousin, he’d never dared to be more familiar than hold her hand. In hindsight, he should have seen it as a sign that vice governed her, that she could never return to Roman decorum, that she had already been corrupted.

Today, there was no sign of the effete youth. Tarchon’s stature was martial and proud. It was as though warfare had chiseled his features into even more handsome lines. Acting as regent of Veii in his father’s absence had annealed his character. To walk into an enemy’s home to barter for peace was not for the faint hearted.

The prince had not come alone. Marcus was surprised to see Sethre, the haughty young warrior who’d taunted him at Nepete. If the Veientane king wanted peace, then it was strange to send a representative from the Tulumnes clan brazenly wearing the winged lion crest. He also recognized Arruns, the lictor who’d thwarted him killing Mastarna at the Battle of Blood and Hail. The snake inked into the guard’s face was as intimidating as his cold, hooded gaze.