Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(41)
Marcus sensed his feet being shoved into his father’s shoes and the white toga of a magisterial candidate being draped around him. “Camillus thinks I should stand for election as a military tribune first. He’s prepared to back me. I want to serve in the army, not be stuck in an office worrying about sanitation, grain supplies, and roads.”
His father was irritated at the Furian giving career advice to his son. “You’ve already gained prestige as a warrior. It’s time to become a junior magistrate. Aligning with Camillus is risky. He’s a maverick. Even his brother Medullinus views him warily. Your kin, clan, and our friends are more important. It will be Aemilian money and connections that get you elected.”
“Medullinus is jealous of his brother.”
“He’s an eminent politician and soldier.”
“So is the general.”
Aemilius leaned forward. “I allowed you to pledge your allegiance to Camillus for the last campaign. In winter that service will be over. Don’t forget you owe fealty to me.”
“Don’t deny my serving under Camillus gave you peace of mind, Father,” said Marcus, resentful his father didn’t want him to seek greater glory on the battlefield. “It galled you to think I might have to salute a commoner like Caius Genucius. As I said, I’m going to stand as a military tribune regardless of who my commander is.”
Aemilius’s face was now red with choler. “Show me respect! I would never have spoken to my elders as you do.”
Marcus knew he should restrain his insolence, but he was tired of being submissive. Of being the dutiful son. “And I want you to start seeing me as more than a boy who should bow his head and always accept your opinion as my own.”
Aemilius leaned across and gripped his son’s arm. His grip was like iron, reminding Marcus that this man might look gray and old and tired, but he still possessed strength and a strong will.
“Do you know how hard I’ve worked to overcome the stigma of being the uncle and adopted father of a traitoress? Remember that Medullinus and I brokered the peace treaty that saw Caecilia married. But politics change. And war changes politics most of all. He and I both had to grow talons and sharp beaks after our misjudgment. The House of Aemilius can’t afford to make any more mistakes.” He squeezed harder. “Now you support Camillus in this lunatic scheme to bring an enemy priest before the Senate. What if Artile Mastarna is perfidious? What if the rites he proposes are intended to bring about calamity? Our family will be ruined, as will Rome. Do you want that?”
Marcus eased his arm from under Aemilius’s hand. “What am I supposed to do, Father? I’m honor bound to obey my general. My oath to Camillus does not expire until he leaves office. And he has the right as a consular general to call a meeting of the Senate, even if you don’t agree with the decision he seeks.”
Aemilius slumped in his chair, hand to his brow, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s true. He has that power.” Then he dropped his hand, meeting his son’s gaze. “Where’s the Etruscan now?”
“Waiting on the Campus with my men.”
“Very well. I’ll order the official messenger to call the senators to meet at the Temple of Apollo Medicus. As a foreigner from an enemy city, Artile can’t speak before the Curia inside Rome’s sacred boundary.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Aemilius grimaced, shaking his head. “I will make it clear I don’t agree with Camillus’s plan. Do you understand?” He stood with a slowness that hinted at creaking bones and age-weary muscles. Marcus rose in deference. To his surprise, his father patted his shoulder. “On second thought, a military tribune is a useful first step. We will lobby for votes together, you and I. And when I’m made consular general, I’ll be proud to have you under my command. Father and son. Two Aemilian warriors together.”
SEVENTEEN
Dawn’s light was muted. Gray. A soft rain was falling, the drizzle enough to slowly saturate clothing. There was a breath of winter in the air.
The senators ascended the steps to the portico of the Temple of Apollo Medicus. The god may have been all seeing, but as a foreign Greek deity he was denied residence within the city wall. Nevertheless, the Senate chose his sanctum on the Campus Martius to give audience to enemy emissaries. Rome had claimed the divinity as its own.
The procession took some time. Marcus stood to the side and watched three hundred men pass. The effect was impressive, a moving mass of white and purple.
The doors of the temple remained open once the politicians had taken up their positions inside. The space in front of the doorway was reserved for the ten people’s tribunes. Icilius Calvus stood on the portico sharing the same curious expression as his colleagues—who was the ambassador who was seeking an audience?
There were murmurs when Tatius escorted Artile onto the portico. The priest was wearing a cloak, the hood drawn forward to hide his face.
Inside, Aemilius was making his welcome address. Marcus clenched and unclenched his fists as he listened to the announcement that Furius Camillus had called an extraordinary sitting. He wondered if the deliberations would be thrashed out by nightfall. The Senate could only sit from sunrise to sunset.
His name was called. Taking a deep breath, Marcus signaled Artile to follow him inside. The priest kept his head bowed, his face hidden. Tatius remained beside the doorjamb.