Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(145)
With Marcus’s patronage she could live comfortably. She would slide into obscurity. Thia’s identity as a Veientane princess had to remain hidden although the child’s features might betray her race. At least the Latins did not hate the Etruscans.
There would be no more men. Nor did she want one. She knew she could not replace him, no matter how much she scoured away the vestiges of feeling for him.
Behind her, the shouts peaked into frenzied anticipation of the final push from the rock. She said a prayer for Caecilia, her heart saddened. She kissed Thia’s head, settling her into the sling. The seed of love for this babe had already flowered. A new life lay ahead of them. Neither of them would be alone or unloved. The night moth’s soul was free. She had a daughter.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Caecilia, Rome, Summer, 396 BC
The light was blinding. Caecilia blinked; flashes of color disoriented her as she emerged on the threshold of the Carcer. The baying of the crowd rang in her ears, a city frenzied with rage. A venting of ten years of war, plague, and famine centered on her.
Shaking, she raised her shackled hands to cover her eyes as she was pushed onto the steps leading to the Arx. She stumbled, then righted herself, her eyes adjusting to the sunlight. She closed them again as she skirted Lusinies’s body, murmuring a prayer for him, the horror of his strangled death throes in the Tullanium still vivid. The soldier assigned to accompany her gave her a nudge.
Her tread was heavy. She wondered how many others had made this climb. The stone steps must be impregnated with the sighs of the condemned. She clenched her teeth, determined not to reveal her despair.
There were more guards at the top of the stairs. They cordoned her off from the mob that flanked the road leading to the Capitoline sanctuary. Despite the escort, some people managed to lob rotten fruit. She winced at the blows, crooking her arm to protect her face. At least they were not stones.
A trickle of sweat slid between her breasts, a sheen coating her brow. As she approached the precinct, her gaze was drawn to the graceful lines of Jupiter’s temple which nearly rivaled Queen Uni’s. Now the traitor goddess was biding her time until her new home was built. Caecilia wondered if the Veientane divinity regretted taking a footstep across the Tiber. She would reside in a sanctuary lesser in grandeur than her temple in Veii. Camillus had dubbed her Juno Regina, but the deity was now merely Jupiter’s consort. She would be relegated to the Aventine instead of residing in resplendence with him. Or would the divine Roman king feel threatened that the foreign goddess might usurp him?
Caecilia walked past the long line of wagons containing treasure to be consecrated to the great and mighty god. She swallowed hard, seeing the heaped panoplies of the Rasennan warriors who’d been felled by a stealthy attack.
And then she saw Tarchon. He stood up in the tray of a cart, raising his chained wrists to wave to her. She could see his mouth moving but couldn’t hear him above the yells of abuse. His eye was blackened. Artile was already punishing him. She shouted that she loved him. Told him to remain strong. The words were engulfed by the tumult.
One guard shoved her, not prepared to let her dally. Her eyes widened as she spied the gold quadriga and four white stallions next to the temple steps. And there on the portico Camillus sat in his curule chair, flanked by a group of politicians.
Seeing his red-painted face and purple robes sent a shiver through her. Apart from the laurel wreath, it could have been a Rasennan king. Tears welled as she thought of how Vel hated the vermilion, and how little fingers could make a mess with the dye.
She scanned the men around him. Scipio. Genucius. Aemilius. The Furian brothers. Marcus also, wearing the mural crown. He glanced away when he saw her scrutiny. In broad daylight he wasn’t as brave as he had been in the darkness of a jail.
Her gaze returned to Camillus and the man on his right-hand side. Not a soldier or senator but a soothsayer. Loathing rose in her to see Artile’s smugness.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her trembling, then drew her shoulders erect, imagining herself in her favorite chiton of yellow with fine leather boots and decked in jewels.
At the dictator’s signal, a trumpet sounded. Camillus stood, lifting his arms to command quiet. Silence rippled across the crowd.
His eyes raked over her. “Did you see the fate of Lusinies, Aemilia Caeciliana? It’s a shame I can’t display your husband’s body. The true enemy commander in chief.”
“He’s safe from your reach. He’s been spared dishonor. And Lusinies died knowing he was subdued by an enemy who feared facing him in battle.”
Camillus sat down and leaned his weight on one arm of his backless ivory chair. “No matter how many times you accuse me of cowardice, one thing is certain. The gods chose us. And I have the satisfaction of seeing Veii’s queen executed, even if I was denied the chance to strangle its king.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the quadriga, her cuffs clanking as she gestured toward Camillus’s head. “Do you plan to replace the laurel wreath with a crown? After all, you emulate Mighty Jupiter himself.”
He flinched. “I have no wish to be a monarch.”
From the corner of her eye, she could see the patricians stiffen or murmur into another’s ear.
“I thought a stint in the Tullanium would have taught you some humility, Caecilia.”
Her stubbornness emerged. Anger also quelled some of her nerves. She turned to Aemilius, the man who’d washed his hands of her so he could grasp power. “You’ve grown long in the tooth, Uncle. Do you still consider yourself a warrior? How does it feel to murder a kinswoman?”