Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(37)
His greatest fear was Drusus’s disgust. Marcus knew his friend despised freeborns who were molles. And he was not interested in taking slave boys himself. In its way, this was unusual for a man. However, he didn’t want to think what Drusus might do to him if he knew he desired him. At least in silence and suppression, Marcus could always be with him. To be denied proximity would be unbearable.
Taking Pinna as his army wife had been a shield. It spared him the pretense of seeking women’s company. Before that, he’d endured visiting fleshpots with Drusus, causing him both thrills and frustration. They’d shared their first whore together. He’d balked at the sight of the bored she wolf with her knees raised to her chest. But watching Drusus excited him, especially when his friend met his eyes in boastful mastery of the woman. In that moment he realized that imagining being taken aroused him enough to perform. He’d rushed to thrust into the hot seed his companion left inside the lupa in case his stiffness failed. He thought his revulsion of the harlot was because of the tawdriness of the brothel, but over time he discovered no woman was alluring. He was always reluctant to join in other visits. But there were only so many excuses not to go whoring when on campaign. He needed to prove he was like any other man.
It was rare that Drusus was not rough with a lupa, saying they were paid to endure it. It had shocked Marcus at first. The youth who’d once protected his mother and sister from the beatings of a brutal father carried a legacy of viciousness in him. No Roman should raise his hand to a woman. Behind closed doors, though, the law was flouted. To see his friend abuse whores was disturbing. Yet he never stopped him. Always excused him. Until Pinna.
Drusus had slapped her thigh, then covered her face with his hand as he took her. She’d lain passive and quiet after an initial struggle. It had troubled Marcus but he didn’t think of it as rape. She was a prostitute. And then she’d transacted her business with him without complaining. It was only when she sought him out later to coerce him that he understood her despair. Devoid of paint, her heart-shaped face had been pale and drawn, her black hair lank, no longer reddened by henna. Her tears were real. She swore she would kill herself rather than remain a she wolf. Desperation coated her threats. He felt pity for her as well as apprehension for himself. There was shame, too, that he’d been stirred by watching Drusus rather than trying to stop him from subduing her.
Pinna had spoken the truth when she said they’d grown close. It was a relief to be able to talk freely about his feelings without judgment. There was mutual benefit in their arrangement. She pretended she was his woman, while he’d freed her from the brothel. And then she’d humiliated him by making him a cuckold in the eyes of the camp with the general. The sharp point of her ambition had been unsheathed. He didn’t believe her declarations that she’d keep his secret. She would destroy him if Furius Camillus were ever taken from her. Another woman whose lust overruled her integrity. Pinna and Caecilia. Was it any wonder he despised them?
Marcus was jolted from his thoughts as the ferry’s bottom nudged into the shallows. Sounds intruded again: the thud of the gangplank onto the bank, the chatter of the passengers as they disembarked, the grunts of men as they hefted amphorae of olive oil onto their shoulders.
Artile stood looking back toward the road to Veii. His expression was melancholy. Marcus grabbed his arm, wrenching him around and then prodding him in the small of the back toward the waiting cavalrymen. “A little late for regret, priest. The next time you set foot in your city, Veii better belong to Rome.”
FIFTEEN
The Forum was bathed in soft light, shadows pooling with the chill edge of the afternoon. There was a fresh smell of rain, the roads washed clean of muck. Marcus could hardly believe the drought had broken.
The city roiled with people spilling into the Sacred Way and cramming into the side streets. The plebeians were reveling. It was clear many had been drinking steadily. Marcus marveled at their conviviality. The last time he’d been in Rome they were on the brink of insurrection. He navigated through the crowd, making his way to the steps of the Curia Senate House so he could gain a better view. The festival intrigued him. It was not a day proscribed as a religious holiday.
There were three couches draped lavishly with flowing folds of cloth next to the Comitium assembly area. Two wooden statues, their heads molded from wax, were arranged on each divan, leaning their elbows on elaborate cushions. The garlands around their necks drooped from the recent showers. The circlets of laurel leaves on their brows were wilted and turning brown.
The tables in front of them were laden with food—a bounty in a city that lived on rations. Marcus thought it a waste that ants were creeping through the honey cakes, and flies buzzing over fruit. A young acolyte lethargically shooed away sparrows that alighted to peck at crumbs. He seemed defeated by the task.
Marcus edged into the throng again to inspect the effigies, astonished to see there were two women sharing the banquet. He’d never seen such a thing in the flesh or in sculpture. Matrons did not recline next to men when they dined. They sat on chairs and ate after their husbands, fathers, and sons.
A trumpet sounded. The throng parted to allow three magistrates in striped purple tunics make their way to the couches. Prayers were said. Invocations made. The ceremony identified the statues on the divans as deities. Apollo and his mother, Latona, were asked to heal the city; his sister, Diana, to protect the poor and women; Mercurius to stimulate commerce; and Neptunus to provide fresh water. Lastly, the half-god Herculeus was venerated for his strength. Marcus was struck by the presence of the same gods as lived in the sanctuary outside Veii. Both sides sought their protection.