Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(131)

There was pain in the tribune’s voice. “Dead, sir. I killed him.”

The general grunted in surprise. Pinna’s pulse quickened.

“Drusus attacked me when I commanded him not to behead the king,” continued Marcus. “So I defended myself. I wish he’d heeded me . . .” His lowered his head, his words trailing away.

Seeing his officer’s distress, Camillus stepped across to him and placed his hand on his shoulder. “I feel for you, Marcus. He was your friend. But what you did was justified. Drusus placed personal feelings above Rome’s.”

Marcus raised his head. “I burned his body, sir.”

“Drusus’s?”

“No, Vel Mastarna’s.”

Camillus shoved the tribune’s shoulder. “What!”

“I killed Drusus to stop him mutilating the king’s body. I couldn’t take the chance others would as well. Mastarna always treated our dead with respect.”

“You’ve denied me the chance to look on him one last time! To display a conquered leader to our people!”

Marcus fell to one knee, head bowed. “I accept my punishment, sir. But there was no direct order concerning Mastarna’s corpse. I burned him in a cooking pit. He deserved better.”

“At least tell me you showed no mercy to your cousin.”

“She’s in the temple with Prince Tarchon.”

Artile interrupted, his voice hopeful. “Then he’s alive?

“He was breathing when I left him. I knocked him unconscious.”

“Then let me go to him.”

Camillus curled his lip. “Your brother lies dead, and your city in ruins—and all you worry about is a lover who spurned you?”

“I don’t weep for my brother. Nor for his bitch. I’m the master of the House of Mastarna now.”

“Have you seen the destruction about you? You’re master of nothing.”

The haruspex stared at him, the hollow look returning. “What about Vel Mastarna Junior?”

The dictator returned to his chair and picked up his helmet. “Your nephews have disappeared. I expect they’ll turn up. There’s no place to hide. Whether they will be alive remains to be seen.”

“There are escape tunnels. Tas knows of them.”

The general spoke sharply. “Tunnels? I thought you’d pointed out all of them.”

“I told you about the main one to the temple. There’s a warren of others on the arx that are too difficult to access.” Artile’s agitation increased. “Tas is only eight. He’ll need help. The Phoenician lictor must have slipped the net with the boys.” He pressed his palms together in supplication. “Please send out a search party. They couldn’t have gone far.”

The general buckled his helmet. “I’m not going to waste time on a manhunt. They could be anywhere by now. The invasion has lasted all day. The princes fled this morning.”

“You’re unwise, general. Boys are little foes who’ll grow into warriors. And girls breed soldiers to wreak vengeance. Mastarna’s children should not go free.”

Camillus hesitated, then was dismissive. “I doubt they’ll make it through the siege lines.” He straightened his cloak. Self-doubt had vanished. “I’ve more important matters to deal with. It’s time to speak to the captive queen.” He offered Pinna his arm. “Come. You must accompany me to the temple as well.”

Pleased her Wolf had not forgotten her, the concubine walked past the officers clustered around the now open doorway. Curiosity trickled through her disquiet. After a decade of wondering, she was about to meet Aemilia Caeciliana.





SIXTY-ONE



Caecilia, Veii, Summer, 396 BC

Caecilia’s tears had dried but her eyes still watered. The chamber was hazy with fine smoke. She’d lost track of time. The light spilling from the portico into the chamber was an eerie orange. The humidity sapped energy from her.

Her wrists were raw from struggling against the rope that bound her hands. Her chest was constricted by the bonds strapping her to one leg of the altar table. A shot of pain pierced her shoulder every time she moved. After a while she recognized the futility of seeking escape. Thia’s weight on her lap numbed her legs. Her throat was parched, and her head ached from the tightness of the coronet. She was surprised that she felt such discomfort when her heart had been torn from her.

Cytheris was also bound. She’d fallen asleep, her head slumped forward. The handmaid, who could always reassure her mistress, had been at a loss to provide consolation.

A lump formed in Caecilia’s throat. She would lose Cytheris, too. She wondered if the servant would consider death preferable to slavery.

Dehydrated, Thia whined, trying everyone’s nerves. The spot of color on her cheek was still visible, her touch feverish.

At least being tied to the far end of the altar meant Caecilia could see Tarchon. At first she thought he’d slipped away, but then she noticed the rise and fall of his chest. He was groggy when he opened his eyes, his words slurred. He was confused, then incredulous, calling out to check on her. His anguished cry when he saw Sethre was tragic. With wrists and ankles tied, he shuffled on his buttocks to his beloved’s body, then lay on his side facing him, stroking the youth’s cheek with his roped hands. After a time, he fell into a torpor.