Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(47)

He stared at her. “Why?”

“He wanted Tarchon to be your only heir, thinking he could manipulate him. But instead of merely preventing Seianta falling with child, it made her miscarry or bear—”

“Cripples like my daughter.” His voice cracked. “Or misshapen like my son. No eyes. His mouth cleaved in two. As small as my hand. Only two hours alive.”

The rawness of his grief made Caecilia twist inside. The last time she’d seen him so vulnerable was when he’d first told her the story of his children. How Artile lured Seianta into believing she could defer the death of her daughter by the Fatales Rites. Then, when the child had died, the seer convinced her to follow the Calu Cult to ensure the little girl became one of the Blessed. And all the while feeding Seianta poppy juice and poison that would lead to the birth of a grotesque little boy.

“I’m so sorry, Vel.”

He turned, gripping the edge of the footboard of the bed, his arms straight and head bowed. “Seianta blamed me for our daughter’s death because I wouldn’t let her continue the Fatales Rites. I saw her sinking into addiction to Artile’s potion. I forced her to stop. But in the end I relented because I wanted an heir. She could not bear lying with me without the Zeri.” He shook his head in disbelief. “And all the while, she was being poisoned.”

Caecilia took a deep breath. She’d trodden in Seianta’s footsteps when she’d first come to Veii. Artile had fed her fears, then uttered soft promises to quell them. He’d also slipped Zeri into the sacramental wine for the Calu Rites. Under its spell there was respite from apprehension as well as enslavement to a cycle of bliss, withdrawal, and wanting. She remembered Artile’s spiteful triumph when he’d declared the elixir had ensured any seed planted within her would be cursed.

Vel straightened as though reading her thoughts. “You also drank my brother’s potion when you were gulled by him. Was it contaminated? Is that why you didn’t conceive for a year?”

“My fate was to be either barren or sorrowing.”

With a guttural roar he shoved the pedestal washstand crashing to the floor. His cista bounced and rolled against the wall, the jewelry spilling from it. He walked to her table, sweeping aside the silver boxes with nail files and hairpins. Her glass flask of perfume shattered as it hit the floor, the floral scent exploding into the air. Pastes of carmine, albumen, and khol streaked the floor.

“Please, Vel. You’re frightening me.”

He halted, his fingers clenched. “I will find him and kill him.”

Caecilia crossed to him, her palm covering his balled fist. “Can’t you see why I never told you about this? I knew you wouldn’t be able to control your rage. I didn’t want to see you executed for murder.”

He pulled away, cradling the elbow of his injured arm. “Any judge would say I was justified.”

“Perhaps, but I didn’t want to risk it. I’m glad your brother is no longer in Veii.”

“You should have told me. First the dice throw, and now this. How can I trust you, Bellatrix?”

Blood drained from her face. “Please don’t say that. There was another reason I didn’t speak.”

“What?” he growled. “What excuse is there this time?”

“Because . . . because I knew that if you discovered Artile had caused Seianta’s pain, you would forgive her. Maybe even yearn for her again.”

His expression softened as he cupped her face in his hands. “Have you so little faith in me? My love for Seianta lies in ashes; it can’t be rekindled.”

She pressed herself against him, the cold metal of his armor hard against her.

He wrapped his arms around her, his cheek resting on her hair. “Promise me there are no more secrets.”

“None,” she murmured. “Never again.”

They held each other, smashed glass and cosmetics scattered around them, the scent of lilies heavy in the air. Caecilia’s heartbeat slowed, relief flooding through her. Every bittersweet lie at last exposed.





TWENTY



Semni, Veii, Winter, 397 BC

Clasping Nerie’s hand and cradling Thia in the crook of one arm, Semni smiled as she headed to the family chamber. Given the princes’ high-pitched squeals, she suspected the king was visiting them. Her mouth dropped open as she passed through the doorway. Aricia sat on a chair, Larce and Arnth capering around her. Semni scanned the room to find the junior nursemaid, Perca. Timid as always, the thirteen-year-old was standing to the side, whistling softly with a worried look.

Tas was perched on a stool beside the visitor, enrapt. Goose bumps prickled Semni’s skin as she remembered how Aricia had stoked the boy’s fervor before. She didn’t understand why he would be so eager to meet her again; the last time he’d seen his former nursemaid, he’d been scared by her urgent pleas to flee while a battle was raging. The patterns of affection forged from birth under her care must have been hard to erase.

“What are you doing here?” Semni let go of Nerie’s hand and strode over to the boys, pushing Larce behind her to a howl of protest. Then she grasped Arnth’s elbow and dragged him beside her.

“Perca, get over here!” She handed the baby to the maid. “Take the children to the nursery.” She glared at Tas. “You, too.”