Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(51)

Semni was surprised at his flood of words. The brooding man who usually spoke little, and observed others silently, was at last speaking.

Arruns touched his neck and ran his hand over his skull and cheek. “The face was the worst. It became so swollen that I couldn’t eat. They fed me liquid through a reed. I kept hoping the ink would wash away. That I would not be marked as some monster. That my mother would not shy from me should I ever see her again. Over time, though, I’ve come to believe the serpent protects me. I’ve lived with him so long. We’ve become old friends.”

Semni traced the line of each scale. She’d always thought Arruns had been the one to seek the tattoo. To hear he had been forced was horrifying.

At her touch, he tensed. He covered her hand with his, his palm engulfing hers. “Don’t. It’s hard enough to have you lying so close to me.”

She removed her hand. “How did the Veientane come to own you?”

“You don’t need to know my past.”

“You’re Nerie’s father. And I’m to be your wife. I want to know all about you, Barekbaal.”

Arruns scanned her face. “I’m no longer that man, Semni. There’s pain in the memories. Sometimes it’s better to forget than try to remember loved ones whom I’ll never see again.”

“Or perhaps it will give you peace to speak of those you’ve lost to one who loves you now.”

“You will not like all that I tell you.”

“I’ve promised to no longer keep secrets from you, Arruns. You must do the same.”

She rested her hand on his chest again. This time he did not stop her. She could smell his maleness. How his stripped skin was smooth beneath her fingers. “Tell me about your family.”

“My father was a trader in purple in Sidon. I grew up with the stink of crushed murex shells. He planned for me to follow him in the business just like my three brothers. He was prosperous, owning a fleet of biremes that plied the crescent coast of Canaan, the land the Greeks call Phoenicia, up to the rich city of Byblos and down to Tyre.

Again she was surprised. She’d always thought Arruns to be from as humble origins as herself. “Biremes?”

“Shallow draft ships with two banks of oars. I made my first voyage when I was sixteen. Soon I was undertaking longer journeys, venturing farther as my father’s business thrived. Rosetta and Alexandria, Cyrene and Carthage, where nobles and kings sought the purple, its rich color denoting power. But I was always restless. Dissatisfied with being a trader’s son.”

He paused. Nerie had fallen asleep, thumb in his mouth, a tiny slumbering barrier between them.

“At times our ship would encounter galleys with three banks of rowers,” he continued. “These triremes boasted bronze battering rams on their prows. They were the warships of the royal navies of the city-states in which we docked. I admired the armor of the warriors who manned them. I wanted to share their glory. The last memory of my father was his anger when I refused to sail with him. Instead I joined the king of Sidon’s navy.”

“How exciting.”

“No, it was the action of a rash youth who deserted his family and obligations. I believe the goddess Astarte punished me. I haven’t seen my family for fifteen years.”

The pain in his voice was difficult to hear. “I’m sorry, Arruns.”

“I fought sea battles for two years. I learned what it was to kill instead of barter. To be cruel when called upon to do so. And then one day we were attacked by a Syracusan war ship and defeated. I was taken prisoner. And my world changed forever.”

He placed his hand over hers, checking her from caressing their son. “You will not like the rest of my story.”

She whispered, “Trust me.”

He held her gaze. “The Syracusans sold me to a Rasennan slaver from Tarchna. The son of a trader became goods to be bought and sold. I struggled against my bonds, so they doubled them and placed a yoke on me. The restraints didn’t constrain me. My strength attracted the attention of a trainer from Veii. He bought me to pit against others in fights.”

“And he was the one who tattooed you?”

“Yes. And that is why I strangled him when I got the chance.”

Semni gasped. “You murdered your master?”

“You wanted to hear my story. I’ve told you before that I was condemned as a criminal. My job was to kill.” The heat in his voice worried her. She was used to a chilling silence when he was angered.

“I killed men in sea battles, and I killed or crippled those whom I wrestled. And I killed that bastard trainer after he’d tortured me and then tried to beat me once too often.”

His revelation disturbed her. Yet why? She’d always known his job required him to be brutal. It did not scare her he’d been the Phersu. “And that is when you became the Masked One?”

“Yes, I was condemned to be sacrificed at the funeral games. Only Lord Mastarna heard I’d been a proud warrior brought to misery. He gave me the choice to be the Phersu and wear the mask of a holy executioner or be a victim blinded by a sack over his head. To either be the instrument of the gods or die like an animal. Your people demand a hooded man’s throat be ripped apart by a hound in an arena so that his blood will reanimate the dead. At least in Canaan, a man is treated with reverence when he’s gifted to the gods. His body is purified and his fear quelled by potions before the priests offer his life to divine Ba’al.”