Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(117)

Drusus nudged him. “The opening to the temple shaft is here.”

Fresh sweat broke out on Marcus’s brow. He was standing beneath the very citadel itself. He peered up into a small rectangular aperture in the cave roof. Rough wooden rungs were hammered into the rock and disappeared into the gloom above. There was barely enough room to allow for the breadth of a man’s shoulders. He swung his balteus over his neck so his sword dangled down his chest. He could not afford for the weapon to scrape against the side as he ascended. He hauled himself onto the bottom rung, forcing himself to reach his hand upward, then his foot, over and over into the blackness. He prayed he would not get stuck, encased in a vertical tufa tomb.

The climb seemed endless. His hands were dripping with perspiration, his tunic saturated. He was nervous that one of the rungs would break, sending him crashing into the men below. He could hear them panting with exertion, or muttering curses.

Suddenly his hand touched a smooth timber surface. The trap door. His heart thumped, blood pulsing in his temples. “I’ve reached the top. Wait for my command.”

As he shifted his balteus back over his shoulder, Marcus heard muffled conversation above him: the unmistakable bass voice of Vel Mastarna as well as feminine tones. Caecilia.

He froze. He would be the one to capture her. He would be the one to subdue the king.

“What’s happening?” murmured Drusus.

His words cut through Marcus’s shock. He focused again. His plans needed to change. He doubted Mastarna would be armed, given he was in the temple. Still, it would take more than one man to overcome him.

He leaned over and whispered to Drusus and Tatius. “The king and queen are in the temple, so Mastarna’s lictors will be close by. Tatius, you and your men attack the bodyguards and help me detain Mastarna. Drusus, you lead the other knights to the gates as planned. Be as stealthy as possible. Once we have secured the prisoners, Tatius and I will lead our turma to attack the palace. Spread the message. And remind everyone that those in purple must be spared.”

“Let me take Mastarna,” said Drusus.

“Don’t question my orders.”

The shaft buzzed with the murmuring of his commands as the message passed from the lips of one soldier to the next.

Balancing on the last rung, Marcus took a deep breath, then pressed his palms against the trap door and shoved it open.

For a moment he was blinded by light. The back of the statue loomed above him. He blinked, trying to rid his vision of the seared image of the goddess flashing before his eyes. He scrambled into the room and drew his sword, scanning for lictors, especially the tattooed Arruns. No bodyguards were visible. He could not see Mastarna, but he heard his voice coming from in front of the enormous statue.

A scream startled him. He twisted around to see a woman with a long, trailing plait holding a baby. Her eyes were wide in shock.

He was distracted again by the rasping cry of a bird. To his astonishment, an eagle rose above him, flapping its great gold-tipped wings. A tall, gray-haired woman called, trying to calm it. She dropped the bronze patera she was holding when she saw the reason for the raptor’s alarm. Marcus felt a swoosh of air as the eagle beat upward in the high chamber, then swooped through the open doors to freedom.

Drusus bumped into him. Marcus stood aside, letting the men disgorge from the shaft. One by one the Romans swarmed into the temple.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of purple. Tarchon charged toward him, brandishing a wall torch. Marcus swerved, avoiding the flame. With a roar, the prince raised the brand again, sweeping it in an arc, then stabbed at the Roman, trying to set him alight. Marcus parried the makeshift weapon with his sword, knocking it from the Etruscan’s hand.

Tarchon stared at him, expecting a death blow. Marcus slammed his fist into his stomach instead. As the prince doubled over, the tribune cracked him on the head with the hilt. Tarchon collapsed, his head thudding against the floor. He lay motionless.

Fists pummeled Marcus’s back. He turned to find Sethre Kurvenas. He hesitated, reluctant to harm him. Before he could retaliate, though, a knight stepped behind the young noble and thrust his blade through his back. The youth slumped to the ground beside his lover, eyes vacant, blood pooling around him.

“You didn’t need to kill him,” he barked. “He was unarmed.”

“I thought the order was to spare none other than those in purple.”

Marcus grimaced, then gestured toward Tarchon. “Tie him up. He’ll wake soon enough.”

The baby was shrieking. Marcus glanced across to the woman with the child. She was cowering in a corner, dumb with fear. He frowned when he noticed the purple hue of the infant’s clothes.

“Stop, please stop!”

It was Caecilia’s voice.

Taking a deep breath, Marcus tightened the grip on his sword and headed around the statue, ready to capture the monarchs of Veii.





FIFTY-FOUR



Caecilia, Veii, Summer, 396 BC

Cytheris’s scream was piercing.

Antar spread his wings, rising in raucous alarm.

Startled, Caecilia clutched Vel’s arm, sending his patera clattering to the floor, milk splashing.

Terror overtook confusion. Thudding footsteps. A blur of armored men. It took a moment to realize they were speaking Latin. The eagle flapped overhead. Tarchon yelled. Panic clawed her chest when she heard Thia’s cry, but shock paralyzed her.