Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(21)

Nerie stirred, calling out. Semni scooped him into her arms and sat down on the chair, offering him her breast. She pondered Lady Caecilia’s story, trying to imagine the terror of being thrust into a threatening world. Their lives were so different and yet there were echoes, too. Semni had also been married against her will. Her father had no qualms about wedding a girl of thirteen to a sixty-year-old man. She also had no links to her family. Her parents were dead, and her siblings had shunned her—although she had brought such exile on herself. And it was clear the folly of youth was not constrained by rank. The queen’s confession was equal in weight with her own.

Yet even though she felt compassion for the princip, Semni could not help feeling sorry for herself. The queen had found happiness with her husband, whereas she was being deprived of love. And she was downhearted her own life had departed so far from the dreams she’d once cherished—to be a famous potter, creating beauty from clay, and fashioning fine red-figured vases or shiny black bucchero.

Nerie reached up and touched her cheek, startling her. She bent and kissed the top of his head, chiding herself for her melancholy. There was another dream that might be more possible. That one day Nerie would have a brother or sister with black hair and amber eyes.





NINE



Pinna, Roman Camp Outside Veii, Autumn, 397 BC

Pausing in washing the general’s tunic, Pinna lifted her head. Across the ravine loomed the gray-and-red tufa cliff upon which perched the citadel of Veii. She was always aware of it as she went about her work in the camp. When she’d first seen it she’d marveled at its sheerness and the Great Temple atop it with its silhouetted statues on the roof ridge. She’d been surprised to learn the sanctuary was sacred to Juno, although the Etruscans called her by another name—Uni. She’d always imagined the foe would have different gods to protect them.

From her vantage point, Pinna could survey the vast double siege works surrounding the plateaued city. They encircled it for miles. The inner lines faced the enemy trapped within. The outer line protected the Roman forces from the might of the entire Etruscan League. The stone lining the trenches was weathered, and the wood of the stockades was as seasoned as the veterans manning them.

The autumn sun was warm upon her back and hair. Hands dripping, she sat back on her heels and examined them, turning them palms up and then down. She remembered when they were engrained with grave dirt and painful from chilblains when she was a tomb whore. She remembered when they were soft and grimy from the sooty air of a brothel. Here she could put her past behind her. The secret she kept from her lover. One for which he would never forgive her.

Behind her the soldiers were performing drills. The camp was always bustling with activity. She glanced back to the white flag that marked the command tent. Her Wolf, Furius Camillus, would be intent on his paperwork there, or consulting with his officers. The first time she’d met him she’d been overcome with wanting—his favor, his body, to possess a small piece of his power. At that time she’d been frail, but she was a survivor. Now she was strong and confident and content. She closed her eyes and let the sun kiss her skin. For she was no longer a prostitute but a concubine. His concubine. She could not ask for more.

She scanned the citadel again. Inside it dwelt the traitoress, Aemiliana Caeciliana. Rumor told she had four half-breed children now. How could she live with the enemy? How could she choose Veii over Rome? Pinna may have once been a “night moth” streetwalker, but she was pious. She offered gifts to Mater Matuta, goddess of the dawn, every day. Pinna may once have been a registered “lupa,” a she wolf in a brothel, but she wasn’t as wicked as Caecilia. She never pretended to be a respectable matron and then opened her legs for a foe.

At first Rome believed Vel Mastarna stole her away. That even as war was declared at the border at Fidenae, the Veientane managed to abduct her. That the siege was to right a travesty. Aemilia Caeciliana was to be recovered, dead or living, and retribution exacted for defiling a Roman woman. But soon all knew this wasn’t true. No man would be rash enough to steal a bone from under the nose of a Roman guard dog. Mastarna’s delegation was outnumbered by an encampment of soldiers. The Veientane had not taken the girl against her will. Caecilia wanted to be with her Etruscan.

“Pinna! Come now. Furius Camillus is asking for you,” one of the general’s aides called to her.

She rose, dragging the wet cloth from the tub and wringing it before placing it in her basket.

Inside the tent, Camillus was talking to the soothsayer, Artile. The Etruscan’s gaze flitted across her in a dismissive manner. She was relieved to be spared his scrutiny. She always found him unnerving. The kohl-rimmed, almond-shaped eyes seemed to read her thoughts. She knew her Wolf had little regard for the priest. He disliked how cagey he was. He also despised Artile as a traitor yet saw him as the key that might bring him fame and glory.

Marcus Aemilius was also in attendance. Seated on a stool, the officer did not acknowledge her other than to scan her, grimace, and look away. It had been the same ever since he’d relinquished her to the general. The rancor between them troubled her. When she’d been Marcus’s army wife, they’d shared their secrets and fears.

Camillus beckoned to her. “Massage me while I talk. I have a headache.”

Pinna did not look at Marcus as she began kneading the knots between the general’s shoulders. It was her skill at massage that had first brought her to her Wolf’s attention, which had resulted in her betraying the Aemilian.