Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(140)

Normally taciturn, he’d become morose since arriving in Tarchna. Surliness was his armor. No matter how much she sought his caresses, he was distant. She understood he was grieving but she wanted him to share his sorrow with her.

She sat beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. The biremes sailed farther away, oars dipping. The beat of the drum as the overseer kept the rowers in rhythm grew fainter. She sensed longing in him. “Do you want to return to Sidon?”

He shook his head. “The princes need both of us.” He glanced at her thickening waist. “And our son is yet to be born.”

She was relieved. She couldn’t bear it if he became a sailor and left Nerie and her for months on end. In the terror of the last week, the child growing within her had been a tiny glimmer of hope, a small piece of comfort. “At least he will not be born into war.”

As if on cue, she felt the baby move, heralding his presence. She gasped, pressing her hand to her belly.

Arruns turned around, quizzical.

Another tiny nudge. “I’ve quickened.”

He focused on her stomach. “Can I feel him?”

She smiled, untying her sash, and hiked up her chiton. His roughened palm was cool against her rounded flesh. She prayed their son would once again stretch his limbs.

The baby stirred. And Barekbaal the Canaanite, known as Arruns, the man who had saved the heirs of the House of Mastarna, the warrior with the serpent tattoo and the courage of a lion, raised his head and smiled.





SIXTY-FIVE



Caecilia, Rome, Summer, 396 BC

She woke to a yawning sense of darkness, of being blind even though her eyes were open.

Once again, she was aware of the heavy cuffs shackling her wrists. It was a redundant precaution. There was no way she could escape the dungeon in the Carcer. It was known as the Tullanium, a holding cell reserved for enemies of the State.

She gazed up to a rim of light which lit the edges of a hole carved into the stone ceiling. The torchlight from the jail above did not permeate farther than a few inches into the cell below. She used the aperture as a focal point to judge time. Gray gloom in the day; feeble illumination at night.

Mildew coated the rough-hewn rock walls and floor of the chamber. Water seeped through the stone. The Carcer was built next to the Great Drain. She was glad it had not rained. The smell of ordure combined with misery and desperation. The wails of inmates languishing in other levels of the prison sent chills through her.

After a week of imprisonment, she’d grown used to the odor. But her humiliation at having to foul a corner of the cell was constant.

She’d been surprised to find a wellspring in the center of the dungeon. Dehydrated after the long journey from Veii, she’d eagerly slaked her thirst. She was regularly fed as well. A meager mess of porridge lowered on a plank through the hole once a day. There were strict orders for the victim to be kept alive for the triumph.

“Never had a woman here before,” one of the two jailors had commented when she’d been dragged into the central chamber of the Carcer. His hands had roamed over her breasts and bottom, grabbing her crotch. Her cheek was puffy and her lip split from where he’d hit her when she’d protested. She could not suppress a sob when he lowered her by the hands into the void, the pain in her shoulder excruciating.

Unable to fall asleep again, Caecilia sat up and leaned against the wall. Her shoulder was stiff and sore. Her bruises merged with the shadows. The rough woolen weave of the dress Pinna gave her was rank, the fabric damp, and her snood was ruined. She’d plaited her hair into one long, lank braid.

Physical discomfort meant little compared to the anguish that assailed her. Dreams reunited her with Vel and the children, but every time she opened her eyes, sorrow crushed her. With no chance of being reunited with Thia and her sons, she wanted to die. She longed to join Vel. Instead she faced a cruel death and a ghostly existence without him.

She mourned those alive, too, aching afresh when Tarchon had been separated from her. No farewell embrace was allowed. She wondered where they were detaining him.

At least she’d had the chance to kiss Cytheris before the maid was led to auction. With her last touch, the servant still offered comfort as they hugged each other. “You’ll be in my thoughts forever, mistress. I’ll always say a prayer for you and Lord Mastarna.”

There was cycle to her emotions. Grief, torment, and guilt. Hatred, fear, and despair.

The memory of her last moments with Vel haunted her. As did her torment when surrendering Thia. Had her sons survived? Was all their suffering her fault? Was the punishment that awaited her justified?

Her loathing for Camillus and Aemilius gave her strength to endure. Even so, she was afraid. She faced being thrown from the heights. She didn’t want to die in agony. Worse of all, she knew she’d become a specter denied reunion with her husband. She’d ensured Vel would reach Acheron. But who would prevent her body from being desecrated? Even the Atlenta myth offered no consolation. He was right. They would not live together as lions. Nor were they immortal like Fufluns and Areatha.

A flare of light drew her attention to the hole in the ceiling. A man barked at the jailor to rouse him. She was surprised to hear it was Marcus.

She heard the guard yawn. “I’ve got orders she’s not to be moved.”

“You dare question the command of a tribune? Bring her up now!”