Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(112)
Perspiration coated her from dancing too close to the bonfire, her sheer chiton clung to her flesh. Then he found her, wearing his bull’s head mask, his half-naked body also slick with sweat. He’d carried her into the bracken. And there, lying on his goatskin, he taught her to see Fufluns. Her mind and soul merged with the divinity, her body an instrument to channel the god’s spirit. When the elation ebbed, she grew greedy, needing the exquisite rush and heat and ecstasy again. Not satisfied with just one encounter. But the half bull was as possessive as he was potent. In the morning, she could not recall other than his lust as she woke, head aching, naked on his cloak, his arms around her.
Now the memory of the festival caused Caecilia to flush under Tanchvil’s scrutiny. Yet should the followers of the Pacha Cult be ashamed of worshiping the dying god? Was Uni so jealous that she would seek to punish Veii because some sought epiphany? Surely there was room in the heavens for both immortals to be worshiped side by side? “I concede I’ve neglected Queen Uni, but it was with no malice. I still love and revere her.”
“And as the chief priest of Veii,” said Vel, “I seek to honor all deities and cults. However, I regret my failure to observe the mother goddess’s rituals. I’ll declare a holy day on the summer solstice to seek both her forgiveness and her blessing.”
Tanchvil caressed the outstretched wings of the eagle on her torque. “I’m grateful, my lord. As the people will be when they hear. But the news of Lake Albanus is a dire warning. I fear you’ll need to do more than beseech the divine Uni for her pardon. Veii must convince the gods that it’s worthy of being saved.”
“And how do you suggest I do that?”
“Observe the Fatales Rites. Call down lightning on Rome as I suggested before. Let me send my eagle, Antar, to the Veiled Ones to convince Tinia to hurl down his thunderbolt of destruction. Veii’s fate may yet be deferred and disaster averted.”
“I’ve already told you I don’t believe in interfering with Fate. Nortia sets her course. She’s fickle and changeable. We might as well beat our hands against air than attempt to persuade her. And the Veiled Ones seldom arm the king of the gods with lethal lightning.”
Tanchvil rose. “I can only counsel you, my lord. But the Fatales Rites should not be dismissed so swiftly.”
Caecilia thought how complicated Etruscan religion was with its layers of authority. Yet she didn’t wish to discount the priestess’s counsel. “Please, Vel. Consider what she’s saying.”
He clenched one hand into a fist on the table. “I recognize your concern, Lady Tanchvil, but, frankly, I can’t see how Rome can conquer Veii. Appeasing the gods of Latium will not help Camillus break down our walls nor scale the heights of our citadel. And you seem to have forgotten Artile foretold Veii was only vulnerable if it failed to punish the traitor among us. Justice was served when King Kurvenas was killed.”
“Hubris has been the downfall of many a lucumo, my lord. This city came close to surrendering not so very long ago. Catastrophe may yet be rained down upon us if we ignore divine warnings. You might be brave enough to flout the gods, but I don’t see why your people should suffer because of your impiety.”
Mastarna eased back in his chair, staring at the hatrencu, one hand still clenched. Caecilia reached across and placed her own over his. His fingers relaxed. She murmured, “Do this for our people, Vel.”
Tarchon leaned forward. “Father, surely there’s no harm in seeking a celestial guarantee.”
The king’s gaze traversed between queen, prince, and priestess. “Very well, let’s show our enemy that our pantheon is greater than theirs. I will honor Queen Uni. I will placate her. And then, tomorrow, I will beseech the Veiled Ones to convince Tinia.”
Caecilia squeezed his hand in gratitude. Her relief at his acquiescence was tempered with apprehension, though. So much was at stake. Vel would need to be his most persuasive to achieve their desire to destroy their greatest foe.
FIFTY-ONE
Pinna, Outside Veii, Summer, 396 BC
The ram, boar, and bull were garlanded with laurel, a sign divine Mars would bring peace through war. The truculent beasts were tamed by potions, their horns and tusks proving no danger. Having made the circuit of the camp’s perimeter, Artile led the sacrificial beasts through the gate to the ritual space next to the general’s headquarters.
To the west, the sun was sinking, a great half circle of orange-purple clouds cushioning its fall. Tomorrow the solstice would usher in the narrowing of days—and the demise of a people.
A warm breeze played on Pinna’s skin, offering no relief from a day of heat and humidity. She watched the ceremony from in front of the command tent, brazen in her witness of blood sacrifice.
Holding his curved staff, Artile’s kohl-rimmed eyes were trancelike, the pupils dilated. His teeth were flecked with shreds of the bay leaves he was chewing. His serenity was unnerving, his prophetic talent emanating from him, a prince among priests.
The bull was led forward, its horns gripped by two soldiers. Pinna thought it sad to see such an animal made drunken but knew that, should it bellow and try to break free, it would be an ill omen. Nearby, the boar grunted, but the ram was silent.
The priest was practiced in holy slaughter. Calling for Apollo to assist him, he sprinkled flour and wine over the beast’s horns and head. His hammer blow struck the skull squarely. The bull crumpled onto its knees, stunned and helpless. The animal was then hefted onto the killing table by soldiers. Artile slit its throat with the sacrificial knife. Blood gushed into the runnels, draining into the sacred pit below. Then the haruspex carved the victim’s belly open. The reek of the entrails assaulted Pinna’s nostrils as they slithered in a sinuous tangle onto the altar. Hands and sleeves bloodied, the haruspex placed the liver in a patera dish and began his inspection.