Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(44)

Caecilia pulled the curtains aside and entered the chamber. Vel glanced past her. “Where’s Cytheris and your hot water?”

She placed her mantle onto a wall hook, untied her snood, and shook out her hair. “I had a bath instead.” Stepping close, she trailed her finger in a line down his chest to his navel. “I thought you could help me undress.”

A smile curled on his lips. “With pleasure.” He tried to unfasten one fibula brooch on her shoulder with fumbling soldier’s fingers.

“Do you need some help?”

“Yes.” He concentrated on the easier task of untying the sash at her waist. The blue chiton slid to the floor, revealing a fine woolen slip beneath. He kissed the base of her throat. “Too many layers in winter.”

She hunched her neck, his breath tickling her. “Finish the task.” She laughed, urging him to unlace the shoulder strings so the shift also fell.

Naked, goose bumps rose on her flesh after the warmth of the clothes. She tried to press against him, but he stopped her, turning her around so her back leaned against him. She murmured, “What do you want?”

He covered her hands with his and placed them over her bosom. She felt her nipples harden beneath her touch. A tremor ran through her as he kept her palm steady against one breast and guided the other hand down, caressing the curve of her hips and her belly. “This is what I want,” he said. “Soft skin, firm flesh.”

She sighed, arching her head back against his shoulder, absorbed in the sensation of feeling her own body. He continued to move her hand down until her fingers reached her smooth-shaven mound. She was wet, ready as he was, his erection hard against the small of her back and her buttocks.

“This is what excites me,” he whispered as together they stroked her. She relaxed against him, responding, the anticipation unbearable, until he lifted her in his arms and laid her on the mattress. He edged off her slippers, nuzzling her toes and insoles, then rested her ankles on his shoulders.

“This way first?” he said, leaning forward and easing into her. She stretched her arms over her head, her hair a nimbus around her, not needing to reply.



She loved the time afterward. Once the lamps had been extinguished and there was only the glow of the braziers, she would snuggle next to him under the weight of the plaid blankets. Lying on her side, she would rest her head on his chest. She felt secure, loving how he made her believe she was beautiful even after the birth of four children. And with the rush of the day behind them, they could find comfort in sharing concerns: politics and the people, court intrigues and family dramas, and, of course, the ever-present pressure of an enemy entrenched beyond the perimeter of the city.

Tonight, Mastarna was quiet and pensive. She raised herself on her elbow to look at him. “What is it, Vel? Is your arm aching?”

“It’s nothing.”

She was dubious. The flesh had healed, but she was not so sure the bone had knitted properly. “You can tell me if your arm is hurting. I will not think you less of a man for such an admission.”

He smiled. “It’s strong enough to bear your weight when I carry you to bed.”

She studied the dark circles beneath his eyes. “I’m serious. Do you need some valerian to help you sleep? You barely rest for more than a few hours each night.”

“Don’t fuss. It’s not the physical pain that keeps me from sleeping.”

Caecilia searched his face. “Then what worries you?”

“Do you remember when I once told you that every warrior drags a host of dead men in his wake? In my case, it’s not just my enemies. I dream of my men lying wounded and dead.”

“You must stop blaming yourself for the defeat.”

He sat up, leaning against the beech headboard. “Who else is to blame, Bellatrix? Camillus and Genucius used a strategy that I once used on Roman generals. Luring me to fight head-on against one army while another attacked from the rear.”

She also sat up, slipping her arms around his waist. “You survived, Vel. You will have another chance to square the score.”

He wrapped his arms around her and sighed. “I should never have been made king. We still sit here surrounded. If supplies of food don’t reach us soon, I fear we might be starved into surrender.” His hug tightened. “It’s been months since we’ve been able to conduct funeral rites in the necropolis. The dead are trapped with us. What if I cannot deliver this city? What if there are more ghosts clamoring for vengeance against me for my failures?”

“What do you mean ‘more ghosts’?”

“The men I led into a massacre. Their souls wander tormented on a battlefield that now lies covered in snow. The maimed would have been stabbed by spears and mutilated by sword, limbs and genitals hacked from them, and heads cut off and spiked on lances to be paraded in mockery. Why wouldn’t my troops haunt me? A commander who survived while they were denied the honor of a funeral, their bodies left to rot instead of being cremated, their path to the world of the Beyond barred. Forever made phantoms.”

Caecilia was stunned. He’d never given her a glimpse into his anguish. She was ashamed she’d not considered he would be assailed by such guilt, thinking him inured.

Until the Battle of Blood and Hail, she’d never witnessed carnage. On that day, she stood on the heights of the wall and watched Vel attacked. As hail rained down, she’d experienced the sight and smells and sounds of warfare. And most horrific of all, the stack of corpses heaped at the double gates, men denied refuge by a king who wanted Mastarna and his tribe massacred. The horror had been vivid and visceral. For weeks she’d constantly relived what she’d witnessed until she’d taught herself to stow the visions in the back of her mind. “I’m so sorry, Vel. I did not realize.”