Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(36)

“Why would they convince your wife to spurn you?”

“I have no use for a wife. It was my beloved, Tarchon, who was persuaded to leave me.”

Marcus scrambled to understand, then recalled the priest’s conversation with Camillus. How he’d claimed Mastarna’s adopted son had shunned him.

He had only met the prince once. Tarchon had accompanied Caecilia to Fidenae when she’d sought to flee Veii ten years ago. He guessed he was the same age as him. Nineteen or twenty. He’d smelled of rose water and worn a turquoise earring and robes of green. Marcus suspected he was a soft one, only having eyes for men. For some time after, he repressed thoughts of kissing those sensual lips; long-lashed eyelids; and the Veientane’s taut, honey-colored body.

Had the prince been seduced, or was he willing? Either way, Marcus was disturbed. What kind of world did Caecilia live in? A woman should never be exposed to such behavior. And yet it seemed that she was involved in a drama between two molles. How could she condone an adult aristocrat bedding the son of another noble? Turning a youth destined to be a warrior into a bride. After all, it was a father’s duty to teach his son how to be a statesman, knight, and head of his family. For a moment, he felt a twinge of sadness. He’d never sire heirs to whom he could show his battle scars.

He stared at the seer, aware that the odious Etruscan possessed none of the qualities suited to teach a boy how to be a man. Yet he was also intrigued whether Tarchon’s relationship with the priest had continued into manhood. Were two equals allowed to be lovers openly in Veii? Imagine such freedom. “I can understand why Mastarna would ensure his son retained his honor. Tarchon was your kin, and was expected to become a soldier, not another man’s wife.”

“Who are you to judge me? I’ve seen how you look at Claudius Drusus. You’d bed him without hesitation if he gave you some encouragement.”

Marcus felt the blood rush of anger and astonishment and fear. He sat up and seized the priest by the throat.

Artile flailed against him, his hands scrabbling at his. “Camillus . . . wants me . . . alive.”

The Roman squeezed the soothsayer’s windpipe, ignoring how the man wheezed, his dark cat eyes bulging, his face scarlet.

It was hard to let go.

The haruspex gulped in air, coughing. He slumped back onto the grass, rubbing his fleshy neck, which was now marked with red fingerprints.

Rattled, Marcus stood, glowering at the Veientane. His heart was thudding. All these years he’d kept his love for his friend secret. What had he done to reveal himself? Only Pinna had guessed. Only Pinna knew. “Speak such lies again, and I’ll kill you once you’ve served your purpose.”

Artile rose, still rubbing his throat. His voice was hoarse. “Don’t worry. You’re good at keeping your lust hidden. There’s a reason for my fame. I observe and take notice of the smallest of tells. It’s the way you avoid looking at Claudius Drusus that made me realize.”

“Keep talking, priest, and I might just forget my orders completely.”

The haruspex kept his distance, eyeing the officer warily. “Then I’ll speak no more. But lost love eats away at your insides. Knowing this, you can understand my bitterness toward my brother. I would see him destroyed along with his bitch. We are as one in that desire.”

Marcus spat at his feet, the spittle spraying onto the Etruscan’s boots. “Don’t ever think we’re on the same side.”



Artile fussed over the stolen Holy Books on the trip across the river, ensuring the scrolls were sealed in their cylinders and the folded linen pages were intact and undamaged.

Marcus stood at the railing, barely aware of the shouts of the ferryman as he loaded the other cargo. Balancing on the swaying deck, the decurion stared at the water, watching the wind riffle its surface. His mind was in turmoil. He doubted Artile would be given credit should he voice such gossip. An enemy turned traitor. A member of the House of Mastarna with a long-held enmity with the Aemilians. And Marcus had committed no crime. Yet dung thrown is difficult to clean. Speculation could spread. It would harm his reputation as well as his political and military ambitions. It was this same fear of exposure that drove him to be coerced by Pinna.

When he was younger, he’d often enjoyed one of the servant boys slightly older than him. No one had thought anything of it. It was a master’s right. The slave was skilled in the art of pleasure. Marcus remembered the surprise and abandon of the first time, the soft moist warmth of the youth’s mouth encasing his hardness. Then how he’d flouted the rules at the promise in the boy’s deep gaze; taking turns, gentle strokes quickening into sweet slickened rutting before waking the next morning, lips bruised from kisses, traces of salt upon his skin, confused and guilty that strictures could be broken in passion, and terrified that the servant would not keep his secret that a noble was prepared to act the bride. Yet he was prepared to disobey them again as he rolled his back to the boy, filled with emptiness it was not his schoolmate nestled behind him.

But it was far more dangerous to indulge in an affair with another freeborn in the same way. Even more so with a fellow warrior. Throughout his career, he’d restrained himself from exchanging glances with the soldiers he guessed were soft. It would have only taken a heartbeat to signal he wanted them. Abstinence brought safety.

He readjusted his wristbands. They hid tiny scars. Pinna had warned him that he might poison his blood if he kept slitting his flesh. Now he’d turned to punishing himself with training. Welcoming the pain. He was so fit that there was little flesh on his body, his muscles corded, his face gaunt. His personal penance reminded him that what he was prepared to do in bed was wrong. There was something broken in him in longing to lie with another knight.