Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(4)
He stared at her for a moment but did not reply. Then he stood and smoothed his tebenna, ensuring its folds were even. “Do I look sufficiently regal?”
She frowned at his evasion. Nevertheless, she surveyed him in his regalia, thinking he was not above vanity. The purple tunic and cloak with their gold embroidery declared he was king. In Rome, a triumphing general wore such garb. The Rasennan kings who had once ruled there had introduced their subjects to the custom, a stately and elegant apparel the Romans adopted readily from the people they called the Etruscans.
Caecilia had been raised on the tales of oppression of those monarchs. How they were ousted as tyrants, and then the Republic was founded. Until she was eighteen and married into Vel’s society, she’d despised the Etruscans as her enemy. Now she gladly lived among the Rasenna.
She also rose. Smiling, she smoothed the cloth across Vel’s broad shoulders and murmured reassurance. She did not tell him that she was also apprehensive, praying that, one day, he would wear such robes in Rome’s Forum. For the goddess Nortia had given her a sign she kept secret from her husband. Her destiny was to return to her birthplace. And the only safe way to do so was as the wife of a conquering hero.
TWO
Queen Uni towered ten feet high above Caecilia as she knelt before the goddess she’d once worshiped as the Roman Juno. The sculpted face of the terra-cotta statue was serene in the muted sunlight of the sanctum. There was no indication in the deity’s expression she could be ferocious—a warrioress greater than Caecilia could ever be. But the lightning bolt the sky goddess brandished heralded her power. Only the celestial king, Jupiter, wielded a thunderbolt in Rome.
A decade of war had taken its toll. The terra-cotta that clad the columns and roof rafters of the vast temple was cracked, the red-and-black paint fading. Caecilia hoped the immortal would not be displeased the privations of war meant her quarters were no longer pristine.
Despite the neglect of her surroundings the divinity still looked regal. The Veientanes revered her too much to disregard her person. Her goatskin was not tattered, and she wore a diadem and pectoral of gleaming gold. Rings of silver and turquoise bedecked her fingers, and her lapis eyes were deep blue.
Gazing at the divine queen’s apparel made Caecilia conscious of her own. Vel was not the only one who was uncomfortable with donning the purple. Yet she could not deny she enjoyed the feel of her fine woolen chiton, its bodice tight, revealing the curve of her breasts and defining her nipples. Its hem was a solid band of cloth of gold. Beads of amethyst and pearl encrusted her heavy purple mantle. She knew her father would hate to see her this way, dressed flagrantly instead of garbed in the modest stola of a Roman matron, wearing a crown instead of covering her head with a palla shawl.
She touched her tiara. It was exquisite. Finely beaten golden leaves overlapped each other with strands looping down beside her cheeks and ears. Its fragile beauty both captivated her and made her nervous. She did not want to be the first Veientane queen to damage it.
“How much longer are you going to pray?” growled Mastarna. “I want to get this service over and done with.” She frowned and glanced across to him. He was pacing the cell, impatient, as always, with ceremony and ritual.
Caecilia hoped the goddess would forgive him his irreverence. “We must placate and praise Queen Uni first, Vel. You don’t want to incur her disfavor.”
Nearby, Lord Tarchon was watching the king with furrowed brow. Mastarna’s oldest son was also dressed in royal colors. The prince’s good looks were in stark contrast to the craggy features of his adopted father. The bruises suffered in his last battle had healed. His face was unscarred.
In profile, Caecilia could see the straight brow and nose so distinctive of the Rasenna. His dark oval eyes were long lashed, his lips naturally curved upward as though the gods had decreed he should always look contented.
At twenty-seven, Caecilia always thought it odd a man who had just turned thirty could be her stepson. Yet there was a special friendship between them. They were more like brother and sister. And she regretted he and Vel were always at loggerheads. She wished her husband would be more approving of the young cousin he’d taken into his home to raise.
“Caecilia is right, Father. The protectress of our city must be placated before we seek a sign from her.”
Mastarna ceased pacing. “Make your devotions, then. But it’s Lady Tanchvil who must ensure all necessary invocations are made.” He looked toward the portico outside. “Where is she?”
“But I’m here, sire. I was seeing to final preparations.”
A woman emerged from the workroom at the rear of the chamber and stood beside the bronze altar table in front of the statue. She bowed to the royal couple. Caecilia rose and joined her husband.
Tall, with broad shoulders, Lady Tanchvil towered over them. Yet despite her strong frame she did not lack femininity. She wore her iron-gray hair loose to her waist, a diadem of garnets across her brow, its ribbons trailing. Her face was white with albumen, almost ghostly. Her lips were deep red with carmine. And the antimony that darkened her lashes made her black almond eyes appear like coals. “I’m sure with Queen Caecilia’s piety toward divine Uni, our godly sovereign will think favorably upon the royal family.”
The priestess’s words were kind but did not stop Caecilia from being daunted by the woman’s presence. Tanchvil’s confident bearing was born from the heritage of a noble and prestigious family. And unlike the Vestal Virgins in Rome who tended the holy flame, the hatrencu priestess had once been married to a zilath chief magistrate. Now the widow held the most holy of offices. As high priestess of the temple of Veii’s principal deity, she was second only in holiness to the king.