Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(103)
Taken by surprise by the request to hold peace talks, Camillus had refused to grant Tarchon entry to the Temple of Apollo Medicus on the Campus, directing the delegation to meet at his country home instead.
The residence was modest, more a large farmhouse than a villa. The Furian family did not boast the heritage of the Aemilian family. Marcus had grown up on estates where grain was counted in wagon trains and vineyards stretched to the horizon. His father’s crops, his father’s land, his father’s wine. One day to be his.
Glancing along the corridor leading to the kitchen, he wondered if Pinna was eavesdropping as usual. The fact Camillus brought her everywhere was yet another sign she was gaining too much influence.
There was another person hiding in the house. Artile Mastarna had been ordered to remain in the study while the negotiations were conducted. It worried Marcus that Camillus now consulted the Etruscan on both personal issues and matters of state.
After surrendering their weapons at the door, the emissaries entered the hall with its humble hearth shrine and simple well. The only adornments in the room were the dozens of silver spears and standards awarded to Furius Camillus, his military glory on display. Following the ambassadors were two servants carrying an enormous golden urn, a gift for Rome.
In the close confines of the atrium, the atmosphere was hostile. Tarchon frowned as he inspected the twelve lictors crowded along one stuccoed wooden wall. Arruns scrutinized his adversaries, positioning himself at the door to keep the exit clear. Marcus thought the action futile. None of the visitors would survive if Camillus chose to ignore the custom of treating a diplomat as inviolate.
Sethre eyed the lictors but remained composed, seemingly undaunted at being surrounded by his foe.
General Camillus remained seated on his curule chair as he observed the envoys enter. Both prince and dictator wore a cloak of purple—Veientane royalty meeting the supreme authority of Rome.
The general’s tone was cordial. “Hail, Tarchon Mastarna.”
The prince did not bow, reminding the Roman of his pedigree. “Hail, Furius Camillus. My father sends his greetings,” he said in Latin.
Marcus had forgotten he spoke their language fluently even though his accent was thick and stilted. They would need to be wary. A man who needed no translator could overhear careless asides.
Tarchon turned to Marcus, his gaze roaming over the tribune’s figure before returning to meet his eyes, staring at him for long moments. “We meet again, Marcus Aemilius.”
Nonplussed by his appraisal, Marcus inwardly berated himself for maintaining eye contact for a fraction too long. He felt his face burn, determined to control the urge to imagine himself with the handsome Etruscan. He nodded. “Prince Tarchon.”
The Veientane signaled the servants to place the huge vase in front of Camillus. “I bring a present as a sign of good faith.”
The dictator glanced at the urn as though accustomed to such opulence. “Rome thanks your king for the gift,” he said, then gestured toward Sethre. “And who is this?”
The prince turned and smiled at the youth, stroking his arm as he urged him to step forward. “This is my pupil, Sethre Kurvenas.”
Marcus was startled, unsure whether he imagined the intimacy of the prince’s touch or the adoration in his young companion’s gaze. Were these two lovers? He remembered his conversation with Artile as they waited for the ferry. How the seer hated his brother for turning his beloved against him. He’d felt disgust that day for the priest’s corruption of Tarchon. Was the prince following the example set by his uncle with an inappropriate relationship of his own?
Camillus’s expression darkened as he studied the pair. “Vel Mastarna has sent the descendant of a king who murdered four Roman envoys? Is this some kind of mockery? I would’ve thought he would try to avoid reminding me of such bloody diplomacy.”
Tarchon raised his hand in pacification. “My father is prepared to risk the lives of the sons of two royal houses. The grandnephew of King Tulumnes comes to treat in good faith, unlike his ancestor. Both Sethre’s and my forebears were slain at the command of Mamercus Aemilius. We put such history aside for the sake of peace. Let’s not tally the list of those who should be avenged on either side. If we do, then this war will be without end.”
Camillus glared at the prince but motioned to the chair opposite him. “Take a seat.”
A servant boy hurried forward to serve wine.
The ambassador sipped his drink. Marcus admired how the Veientane had diffused a fiery start to the conference.
Tarchon scanned the atrium, then turned back to face the two Romans. “You have humble quarters for a dictator.”
“I’m no king. I’ve no need for luxury.”
“Still, I thought a visiting prince would be met in finer surroundings. I was surprised when word was sent that I would not address your Senate.”
“As dictator, I chose to deal with this matter. Tell me, what are Veii’s terms?”
“As before. Grain in return for access to trade routes. And, of course, withdrawal of your troops from Veientane territory.”
The dictator tapped his gold ring. “What makes you think Rome wants your accord?”
Tarchon smiled. “Because the Wolf Legion lost its standard in the north. Because the Boar Legion struggles against enemies in the south and east. And because there is likely to be dissension between your classes as a result. How are you going to feed your people when all its farmers are bearing weapons?”