Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(111)
Thick ankled and broad waisted, Hathli had sought refuge when her farmer husband was killed in a Roman raid. Then her sorrow doubled when her baby died in the plague. When the queen heard of her plight, pity filled her.
Mastarna smiled as he headed toward his daughter. He bent down and opened his arms. “Come, my princess.”
The little girl smiled, revealing gummy gaps between a sparse scattering of small white teeth. “Apa,” she chirped. She encircled her father’s neck with chubby arms. There was no sign of the skinny, fretful baby of weeks before. Hathli’s milk had nourished her back to health, although Thia was still smaller than most children nearly one year of age.
Vel planted a kiss on his daughter’s cheek, then blew a raspberry, causing greater mirth and a torrent of garbling. He smiled at his wife. “What’s she saying?” Caecilia shrugged. “I don’t know, but she’s giving you a lot of advice.”
“Just like her mother,” he said, grabbing his wife around the waist. “Ah, there’s nothing quite like holding the two women in my life.”
Caecilia smiled and reached up to smooth Thia’s mop of tight curls. The little girl grasped her fingers, looking between father and mother to continue her conversation with them both.
Arruns approached. “Master, Lady Tanchvil is here to see you.”
Vel frowned at the unexpected visit. “Tell the high priestess I’ll see her in the council chamber.” He handed Thia to Hathli, calling to Tarchon, “Join us, too.”
Tas looked up, disappointed at his lesson being cut short. “May I go with you, Apa?”
“No. Keep reading. Tarchon won’t be long.”
Tarchon tousled the boy’s hair. “Your father is right. And I’ll be testing you when I return.”
As always, Caecilia was struck by Tanchvil’s grace as Arruns escorted the hatrencu into the council chamber. However, the augur was far from composed. She was wringing her hands, each long finger adorned with rings of gold.
Mastarna nodded and gestured for her to sit at the far end of the table. “Why do you seek an audience?”
“I’ve determined the meaning of the prodigy at Lake Albanus, my lord. The codex you brought me from the Sacred College at Velzna has been helpful.”
“And what does the portent signify?”
“The rising of the waters was a warning to Rome that they’d neglected Mater Matuta and Nethuns.”
“And what are the expiation rites for such transgressions?” said Tarchon.
“That’s what concerns me. The waters of the lake must be drawn off so they no longer reach the sea. If this is achieved, then Veii will fall to Rome.”
Tarchon turned to the king. “We heard the Latins have drained their floodplains. I thought it no more than irrigation. But now . . .”
Mastarna grimaced. “It seems they were diverting the water for holy purpose. No wonder the Latin tribes have joined forces with Rome again to hold the Aequians and Volscians in check.”
Caecilia cast an alarmed look at her husband. “But how did Camillus know the answer to placating the gods? The Roman magistrates only have recourse to the three Sibylline Books. Those texts are limited on such matters.”
“That’s true,” said Tanchvil. “But the oracle at Delphi might have been consulted.”
Caecilia rubbed her temple, her head aching. Could it be true Veii might fall? “But why would our gods allow Veii’s destruction, Lady Tanchvil? Why would they favor Rome?”
There was reproach in the hatrencu’s voice. “You most of all must be aware that Queen Uni has been disregarded. The wine god is now revered more than her. Her festival on the kalends was forgotten. Instead the Mysteries of the Pacha Cult took precedence. It’s dangerous to displease her.”
Guilt surged through Caecilia, realizing she’d forgotten to worship Uni in the wake of the Feast of Fufluns.
Images of the initiation rites flashed through her mind. The Mysteries had not been as frightening as she’d feared. The games preceding it had recalled a time when Veii was carefree: a chariot race, a discus contest, jugglers and acrobats. And the procession into the woods to give offerings to Fufluns had been joyful. The masked actors following the high priest were dressed as maenads and satyrs. The nymphs danced and capered while the horse-tailed men stalked them, the leather phalluses tied around their waists jiggling. The pomp wended its way through ravine and woodland, leaving afternoon sun behind and greeting evening shadows. Holding their thyrsus staffs and torches aloft, the worshippers created a moving carpet of light up to the altar. The roasted aroma of the sacrificial goats was mouthwatering as the supplicants sated their hunger.
The wine had been unwatered. Strong and heady. Sweetened with honey. The first sip had tasted like fire. Caecilia refilled the drinking horn many times, seeking intoxication as quickly as possible. Giddy and laughing, her heartbeat was captured by the rhythm of the drums. Music enveloped her. Her senses thrummed with the moan of bullroarers, clash of cymbals, and trill of double pipes. Euphoric, she danced, eyes closed, snapping her head back and forth. Singing and gyrating, the revelers packed tight around her, their faces hidden by the guise of beast or satyr.
Kneeling before the enormous ivy-entwined mask of the wine god, she drank the holy milk that would purify her as she revered the sacred phallus. From the eyeholes of her mask, her vision was restricted, the terra-cotta pressing against her face. She could hear herself breathing. And when she stared into the blank eyes of the divinity’s mask, she was liberated; she was no longer Caecilia.