Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(126)
Repaying the blood debt also fueled his anguish. The image of her begging for mercy for her husband wouldn’t leave him. Blood staining her tight-clinging dress, face painted. Arrayed in purple. Decked with gold. A queenly whore.
A voice inside him told him to leave Mastarna to his fate. That he was risking his career for the sake of a cousin who’d caused him to slay his friend. And yet his integrity drove him to honor the pledge. Pity also for her anxiety for her children. Nevertheless, as Marcus bade his knights to open the sanctuary gates, he found himself angry that she’d pricked his conscience. He’d never thought of her sons as his cousins. Yet he didn’t want the blood of innocent kin on his hands. And the threat of them being trapped by fire didn’t concern him as much as soldiers who might forget their orders in their rampage.
As he strode into the forum, he was confronted by Romans dealing death to the defenseless. He was tempted to head to the Gates of Uni and run down the hill to fight the Veientane troops. He wanted to slay soldiers, not civilians. Instead he steeled himself to continue to the palace, knowing he needed to check on the progress of his knights.
Soldiers were swarming through the marketplace and broad avenues, dispersing onto side streets. The Veientanes fled before them, shrieking. The shouting of the Romans added to the din as they felled their victims. Corpses were strewn across the cobbles, blood streaming into the gutters. Despite being inured to the brutality of the battlefield, Marcus felt queasy that none of the dead men wore armor.
Women were dragged into the streets, their fingernails bloody as they scrabbled against the pectorals of their rapists. Soldiers were quarrelling over those who were fairest, impatient to take their turn. Richly appareled ladies were stripped of their jewelry, rings wrenched off their fingers, and gold chains torn from their throats. Children wailed as they watched their mothers being ravaged.
One hoplite pointed his spear at a baby boy crawling in the gutter. Marcus broke into a run, grabbing the butt before the man could stab downward. Then he shoved the man to the ground. The hoplite scrambled to his feet, belligerent, until he saw it was a tribune who’d pushed him.
“Concentrate on the men. There’s no glory in skewering babies.”
The man reddened and moved on. Marcus lifted the child and handed him to the mother, who clutched the boy to her breast and fled into an alleyway. Marcus tried not to think about their fate.
The sound of whinnying horses startled him. He turned to see the animals running loose, their panic adding to the fray.
A missile whizzed past his head. A woman had clambered onto a shop and was throwing tiles. As Marcus moved out of range, he scanned the roof ridges, noticing others doing the same. They were brave but doomed. Their aeries would soon be aflame.
Smarter, more experienced hoplites were concentrating on pillage. They emerged from the houses, bulging sacks thrown over their shoulders. A fight broke out as two of them squabbled over their haul. Marcus wondered how many Romans would be injured today by a comrade’s blade.
The palace dwarfed all other buildings in the forum. Marcus had been stunned at the magnificence of the Great Temple, but it paled in comparison to the regal residence. He ascended the wide steps, trying not to gawk like a country yokel.
Once inside, he took stock. There were no hysterical shrieks or shouts echoing through the massive courtyard, only the sound of misery. The wounded sat groaning. Women sobbed as they cradled the dead. A girl huddled naked in a corner, rocking and blubbering, while a group of soldiers argued over a slave boy with a sweet face. The floor was littered with dead courtiers and servants. Palace guards and lictors also lay killed, their livery torn and bloodied, hapless protectors who’d never imagined fighting a foe in the luxury of the royal halls. Marcus scanned for children, relieved when he saw none.
He peered into a chamber flanked by two tall bronze doors, amazed to find an even larger room beyond. His eyes widened at the sight of a golden throne with a bull’s head crest. Tatius emerged and saluted. “I’ve assigned one unit to secure the treasury, sir. All the palace guards are dead. We’ve killed eleven lictors, too.”
“No need to guess. The tattooed henchman is missing?”
Tatius nodded. “No sign of him.”
“And the princes?”
“Not found as yet, but some of my men are still searching. What are your orders?”
“Head down the hill. There are armies stationed in this city. Veii won’t be conquered until they are vanquished.”
Tatius grimaced. “There’ll be complaints that they’ll miss out on the best pickings. The infantry have flooded this place now.”
Marcus glowered at him. “I’m sure the general won’t let any patrician knight suffer who puts duty above his greed.”
“I’ll make it clear to them, sir.” Then he screwed his mouth to the side. “You should see the treasury. It beggars belief.”
Marcus studied the throne again. The ease of seizing a glut of riches would be euphoric for some. “The coffers better remain untouched. Double the guard there and here. And close these doors.” He paused. “Tell one of your riders to capture a horse and ride into the city. Inform General Camillus the king is dead and the traitoress is in custody.”
“Are you coming, sir?”
“No, I’m going to check the private quarters first. I want to report personally that all attempts were made to find the princes.”