Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(123)

Marcus carried Mastarna’s body over to one of the fire pits. Kicking the metal spit aside, he dumped the dead monarch on the pile of timber. Caecilia bit her lip, thinking how Vel should have been borne on a bier and lowered with reverence onto his pyre. She thought, too, that she should have bathed and anointed him, wrapping him in a shroud; instead her husband was swathed in bloodied purple and would be burned on a cooking fire.

She stepped down into the pit and crouched next to Vel. The stink of the pitch-covered logs burned her throat. She arranged the tebenna around him as best she could to hide his wound, trying to ignore how the cloth was stiff with blood. She clasped his hand and kissed his fingers before pressing his palm against her cheek. His battered features were relaxed. There was no sign he had suffered.

“There is no time for this,” said Marcus, grabbing one of the torches that flared beside the pit.

She ignored him. She was not going to be rushed in saying her farewell. “I’ll see you soon enough, my love,” she murmured, kissing Vel’s lips. “I look forward to your embrace.”

Marcus stepped into the pit beside her and grabbed her forearm, holding the brand aloft in his other hand. “Enough.” His voice was edgy as he glanced toward the Romans at the gates. It dawned on her he was disobeying orders.

“What are you going to tell Camillus?”

He pulled her to standing. “Do you want me to help you or not?”

She glanced across to the guards. “What about your men?”

“They’re loyal to me. And your husband spared their lives at Nepete as well.”

Caecilia was distracted by the sight of tendrils of smoke threading their way through the humid air of the sanctuary. She looked across to the precinct gates again. Flames were eating through a roof of a tavern in the forum. Her heartbeat spiked. It wouldn’t take long for the fire to spread to the palace.

Now it was her turn to grip him. “Please, you must find my sons.”

“How much more do you expect of me, Caecilia? I told you Camillus has said to spare them.”

“Fires are being set. They may yet be in peril. Please, bring them to me.”

He yanked his arm away. “I’ve repaid the debt. And the general gave orders not to burn the palace.”

She cast another stricken look toward the inn. “By the gods! My children are your kin! Aemilian blood flows in them. Fire is fickle. Do you want the innocent to die? You saw Thia. She is but a babe. And Arnth is only nearing three, and Larce five. Tas is eight. They will be in our private quarters next to the terrace. They each wear golden bullas.”

He hesitated. “Very well, I’ll do what I can once I’ve finished here, but I give no guarantee.” He stepped from the pit. “Now come on.”

She gazed down at Vel. He appeared peaceful for a man robbed of life. She gulped, fighting to control her tears. “Fufluns, protect him. Guard him on his journey.”

“Come, Caecilia.” Marcus leaned down, offering her his hand. She stared at his extended fingers for a moment, then accepted his assistance. The act of kindness was brief. As though scalded, the cousins dropped each other’s hands as soon as she’d clambered out of the pit.

“Better not watch.” He put the torch to the timber.

For years she’d prepared herself to bid her last good-bye to her husband on his pyre. But when she saw the flames take hold, she lost courage. She would never be ready. She could not stand to see and smell Vel burn. She turned her back and walked away, unable to bear witness.

On the portico again, she rediscovered her nerve. She turned to face the precinct. The fire in the pit was raging. From a distance she could see the outline of Vel’s body in the blaze. Suddenly, through her grief and shock, she felt satisfaction and pride. Her lover would be whole when he dined at the banquet with his ancestors. He would not be a ghost haunting the razed ruins of his city. He would be a king when Aita greeted him in Acheron. He was saved.





FIFTY-SEVEN



Semni, Veii, Summer, 396 BC

Arruns removed his hand from Semni’s mouth and moved into the cellar’s doorway. She hesitated, scared to look inside but needing to check if Nerie was safe.

A Roman was straddling Perca, his back to the door, his hairy rump pale. He grunted with each thrust. The girl was struggling and begging.

Another soldier was raping Hathli, one hand around her throat. She was silent and unresisting. One of her arms appeared crooked and broken. The slap mark on her cheek was crimson.

Semni tore her attention away, scanning the room for the children, expecting them to be cowering in a corner, or worse, lying dead. She was confused to see no sign of them.

Arruns raised his dagger and threw it at the soldier who was holding Hathli down. It pierced the man’s temple, driving into his brain. He slumped over his victim. Before Perca’s assailant could react, the lictor sprinted across the room and stood behind the rapist, jerking and twisting his head until his neck cracked. He wrenched him to the side before the man could fall on the girl.

Semni ran and hugged her. Perca clung to her, unable to speak. Arruns dragged the Roman off Hathli. She lay motionless. Bile surged in Semni’s gorge as she realized the wet nurse was dead, choke marks reddening her throat. The bastard had killed her as he violated her and then kept going.

In a spark of rage, Arruns kicked the dead man on the jaw. Then he focused on Perca, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Where are the children?”