Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(43)
More murmurs, more shuffling of feet of those standing. Medullinus leaned across to whisper in Aemilius’s ear. The prefect nodded, his voice rising above the undertones. “So why did Lake Albanus rise in time of drought? What does it signify?”
The seer closed his eyes as though listening to a celestial voice. “Rome has neglected Mater Matuta, the ancient goddess of your allies. It has also offended Neptunus who caused the waters to inundate the fields and flow into the sea. Apollo advises that the Romans must drain the floodplains and divert the torrent so that the ash-pale soil of Latium will be fertile again. He states that Mater Matuta once again must be honored. Only then will Veii’s gods desert its walls.”
Artile opened his eyes. They were dark and gleaming. Marcus saw the others were enthralled, drawn to the aura of authority the haruspex exuded.
Medullinus was less spellbound. “The fact remains Furius Camillus is asking us to accept the word of a traitor.” He pointed to the Veientane. “If you are the faithful servant to your gods, why do you now wish to reveal secrets that would lead to the destruction of your own people?”
The Etruscan bowed his head. When he raised it, he appeared humble. “I’ve grappled with my conscience. But who am I to keep secret the will of the divine? It may well be as great a sin to conceal what the deities wish to be known as to speak what should remain concealed. My duty is to the gods, not to men—not even to my own kin and kind.”
Marcus winced at hearing how shifty the seer sounded. His hopes that Camillus’s submission might be considered favorably faded. Artile may have been speaking the truth but his sophistry was suspect.
“I think we’ve heard enough,” said Aemilius, standing and facing the assembly. “Let the debate begin. Shall we grant Camillus’s request?”
There was no discussion. Every senator voted with his feet, moving to the left of the chamber for the negative. Marcus was glad Furius Camillus was not there to see such utter rejection.
The session had concluded. Marcus was ordered from the chamber. He nudged Artile to follow, warning him not to speak again. The priest scowled as he collected his cloak from the floor.
Tatius was waiting at the doorway. Marcus gestured him aside, away from the ears of the people’s tribunes on the portico. “Take him to the general’s country villa. And post a guard. I’ll take no chances others might ignore the haruspex’s diplomatic protection.”
Artile’s voice was choked with anger. “Wisdom is wasted on fools. They’ll regret giving time to allow the Twelve to come to Mastarna’s aid. The expiation rites should be conducted now.”
“Shut up,” barked Marcus, shoving him. “Your arrogance has cost Camillus an opportunity to secure a victory.”
The three men threaded their way through the plebeians. Marcus felt a tap on his shoulder. Calvus’s lips were pressed into a straight line. “Camillus should be ashamed—letting an Etruscan lecture Romans on piety. The Senate made the correct decision.”
Marcus repeated his order to Tatius, denying Calvus access to Artile. Then he brushed past the plebeian, not prepared to engage. All he could think about was Camillus’s reaction to the news. He’d failed the general. There was a twinge of cowardice in his relief that he wasn’t expected to return to camp. Pinna would need all her skills to calm her lover’s rage when the messenger told him Rome had given him a resounding no.
SIEGE
EIGHTEEN
Caecilia, Veii, Winter, 397 BC
Winter had arrived. With the braziers stoked high, the bedchamber was warm once the heavy curtains had been drawn across the doorway. Returned from kissing her children good night, Caecilia drew back the drapes a fraction, hesitating before entering, drawn to watch Vel in his nightly routine.
In the flickering light of the lamps, he stood at a pedestal table of waist height. His movements were ordered and precise. He removed the gold torque from his neck and dropped it into a bronze cista, closing the canister’s lid. Pouring warm water from a pitcher into a ewer, he added a few drops of perfume from a flask. Then he stripped off his heavy woolen chiton. The broad purple scar that sliced his chest in a diagonal was dark against the smoothness of his olive skin. He wrung a cloth and wiped himself down.
Even after long years of marriage, Caecilia never tired of admiring the broadness of his shoulders and chest. There were strands of gray in his dark, curly, cropped hair, but his body showed few signs of aging. It was honed, his buttocks and thighs sturdy and taut, the muscles of chest and abdomen defined. And she loved grazing her lips over the battered contours of his face, the scar from nose to lip, and the dark stubble that stippled his chin.
His brooding anger at her revelation about the dice throw had lessened as the winds from the north grew colder, rattling the pigskin membranes of the windows and whistling through the drafty halls of the palace.
His forgiveness was a blessing. Until then he’d been distant despite holding her before they fell asleep and kissing her lips upon waking. Then the tension had eased. He’d become devout, joining her in appeasing Nortia. His piety should have been reassuring, yet she fretted. Was it because the fragility of their life had been accentuated? After all, she’d defied a goddess.
He did not carry the golden dice any longer. She did not mention them, not wanting to blow upon the coals of an argument that had already cooled.