Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(34)

He broke from her and grasped both her hands, the pressure firm. “You know what I think of ‘love,’ Pinna. A man is expected to control his emotions. To be in love is to let your soul live inside another’s body. It diminishes a man. I want you in my home and my bed, but don’t expect me to ever whisper those words to you.”

She chided herself. She knew this even though she prayed he might forget his rule. Lifting his hands to her lips, she kissed the back of each of them in turn. “I understand, my Wolf. But I am a woman, and weak, so I can indulge in such an emotion. But I ask nothing more of you than to be your concubine.”

She could feel him relax.

“I need to go back to work. No more distractions.”

She rose and slipped on her tunic, then helped him to dress—buckling his belt, smoothing the tunic across his back, helping to strap on his boots, rewinding the steps of her seduction. He was right. Love enfeebled a man. She saw this with Marcus and Drusus. It could possess, enrage, and overcome reason. It could drive vengeance and inspire passion and courage. She smiled as she lit another lamp and set up her handloom. For, unlike a man, love gave a woman power. A night moth had become a patrician’s mistress. The impossible had been made possible. And in time she felt certain she would hear those three precious words.





FOURTEEN



Marcus, Fidenae, Autumn, 397 BC

Artile was not at ease on the horse. Marcus Aemilius grew impatient with the need to slow down. The soothsayer clung to the gelding’s mane, his pudgy body joggled by the trotting motion, his face half grimace, half apprehension. The guard of five knights accompanying him found it difficult to hide their smirks.

Marcus was more irritated than amused. He found it hard to credit that a man did not know how to sit a horse; to grip the bare fleshy sides between his thighs, and guide the steed with rein and bit only. As a cavalry officer at the head of a turma of thirty, he’d forgotten a time when he’d not ridden. It was engrained in him to read the shift in an animal’s movements, the eagerness of the beast to charge, the capriciousness of its moods. He leaned down and patted his stallion’s neck. The horse responded with a brief shake of his head, stepping high, impatient as well.

Some way behind them, two donkeys pulled the wagon containing Artile’s sacred texts and baggage. Two foot soldiers walked beside it. Every now and then the haruspex would risk toppling from his horse to glance over his shoulder to check the Holy Books were still stacked in the tray. He’d insisted on bringing the codex with him in case of further need to consult it.

Marcus had refused to let the priest ride in the cart. If the party was attacked by renegades, he needed to ensure Artile could escape quickly. However, given the soothsayer’s incompetent riding skills, the decurion now wondered at his own wisdom. He was keen to sight the Roman garrison at Fidenae and reach the river ferry. It would mark the halfway point to Rome. As always, it struck him how close Veii and Rome were situated. Neighbors and foes, the righteous and the wicked, separated only by a strip of water.

Dark, bruised clouds clustered on the horizon, threatening rain. Marcus hoped some would fall on his city. Artile had revealed how Veii could grow its grain while Rome struggled with drought and famine.

He thought of the last time he’d seen his home: the arid parched land, people scratching for husks, the cattle perishing from thirst. The Romans had borne the harshest of winters and then sweltered under a relentless summer sun. There had been a plague too: the sick dying in the streets, the sky dense with the black smoke of funeral pyres. The Aemilian family had been forced to retreat to the country with other patricians. The escape had been too late for his mother. Marcus pushed aside the memory of her shrunken frame and the pustules on her once-plump face. She could be a bully to others with her sharp slaps and scolding, but never with her only son. Her only child.

In comparison, his relationship with his father was prickly; nevertheless, Marcus would be pleased to see him. Deep down he knew Aemilius was proud of him, although the senator would never show it. It was only when he overheard him with others that Marcus realized his father acknowledged his bravery and achievements. Now he had to convince Aemilius to call a special sitting of the Senate. And to heed the advice of an Etruscan traitor about the meaning of the omen.

As they neared the next bend in the road, the decurion heard the sounds of the Roman outpost near the river: the growling of the sentry dogs, the shouts of a centurion training his hoplites, the hammering of a blacksmith at his anvil, and the grunting of swine in the enclosure. A stockade came into view where civilian traders heckled and bartered with soldiers for fresh vegetables, eggs, and fruit.

Tatius, one of his knights, pointed to the hilltop town rising above them on the far side of the river. Marcus did not plan to waste time scaling the rise. He wanted to reach Rome by midday. And he didn’t want to risk Artile being noticed. No knight would struggle to maintain his seat on a horse. No knight had milk-white skin and soft, blistered fingers.

The barge was on the other side of the stream. A line of traffic was banked along the road. Marcus glanced over his shoulder to check how long he’d have to wait for the cart to catch up with his riders. He frowned when he saw how far it was lagging behind. “We’ll cross our horses at the ford. I want to get you into Roman territory as soon as possible. The wagon driver can cross later.”

“I refuse to risk the sacred texts getting wet. They need to be carried across by boat.” Artile waggled his reins in front of him. “Do you think I can control my horse through water? Please, Marcus Aemilius, let me ride the barge.”