Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(52)

“Your gods seek human flesh, too?”

“When Ba’al demands it. He’s the lord of the rain, bringer of crops, bringer of life.”

Nerie woke, disturbed by his father’s voice. Arruns patted the boy’s back in awkward strokes. As always, she was struck with his tenderness when it came to his son. The hands that could strangle a man to death could be gentle. He handed Nerie the toy rabbit again and looked across to Semni. “Lord Mastarna used to let me fight in the light infantry but now he only sees me as a lictor.”

“I know. It’s your duty to him that keeps us apart.”

“But I’m still required to be a murderer. Why would you want me?”

Reaching over to touch his cheek, her fingers traced the tattoo to comfort a long-ago hurt. “Because I love you, Barekbaal. You are a warrior to me.”





TWENTY-TWO



Pinna, Rome, Winter, 397 BC

The scent of the violets was sweet, the roses fragrant. Pinna pressed the winter blooms to her nose, then her lips. She crouched beside her mother’s gravestone, laying the flowers upon it. “Forgive me for neglecting you while I was in camp, Mama. Don’t be angry. See, I’ve brought food for you.” She sprinkled some salt and grain, then fed wine and oil through a pipe to the urn below.

Rising, she scanned the cemetery of the Campus, the Tiber curving around it. The river was running fast, no stinking mud today building up around the island of the two bridges. The cattle grazed, finding patches of grass where the snow had melted. They chewed their cud, then dipped their heads to tear up more blades.

The early morning was icy, the winter sun weak. The thick wool of her two tunics kept her warm. Her Wolf ensured that she was well dressed. Pinna rearranged her shawl over her head. The chance to cover herself modestly had been forbidden to her as a lupa, but now an aura of respectability clothed her. As Camillus’s concubine she went unnoticed. Just another woman citizen in appearance. There was no requirement to wear a toga to mark her profession. No hissing or looks of contempt as she walked the streets.

She glanced across to the nearby Claudian tomb adorned with its boar’s head crest. The chance meeting of Drusus there had changed her life. The bronze weights she’d extorted from him paid for Mama’s body to be cremated instead of decaying on the Esquiline Hill. The urn that was now placed underground had been the last luxury Pinna could afford, though. She’d returned home from the funeral to discover she’d been robbed by a pimp. Her life as a whore in his brothel began.

She doubted she would ever forget those times. Fractured images of her mother as a lupa surfaced—body abused, mind lost, not knowing her own daughter at the end. Pinna closed her eyes, willing herself to conjure different glimpses of her—her tar-black hair twisted into a knot, her rough farmwife’s hands, her weathered face, and the softness of her smile. She longed to see her, to feel her embrace. It was hard to think of her milling below the ground with a thousand other Shades indistinguishable from each other. Pinna looked down at the grave. “May your ashes turn to fragrant flowers, Mama. May you forever be at peace among the Good Ones.”

Pinna delved into her basket again. She planned to remember Gnaeus Lollius today, too. Her fingers closed around a handful of black beans, food to appease a malevolent spirit—food for her father.

Winter always reminded her of him. Before Rome required men to fight all year, the change in season meant the return of Lollius to dwindling resources and hardship. His cold mood would mirror the weather. Yet, although he was a man of little affection, Pinna knew he loved her.

She and Mama never saw him again after he’d been forced into bondage. Pinna was anguished, wondering how he’d died. Had he been beaten to death when bound in chains? Had he suffered illness? Where had he been buried? In a trench among other paupers? Or had his body been burned and his ashes scattered to the wind? Had anyone kissed his lips to catch his last breath and so release his soul? She feared he was a wandering, vengeful spirit that she must always dread. For a ghost had one purpose—to punish those who’d wronged them or failed to grant succor after death. And so, as she laid the beans next to the flowers, she hoped her piety and prayers were enough to assuage him.

Conscious she still had much to do, she headed to the Aventine, hastening along the road to the fruit market, the night’s snowfall sullied by the ruts of cartwheels and animal droppings.

Someone grasped the edge of her basket. She halted and turned. Cauis Genucius stood there. It was the first time she’d been alone with him for two years. She’d been spared his presence in camp after he’d agreed to lead his army north to Falerii. And when he visited Camillus in Rome, she made sure to keep clear of him.

“What’s your hurry, Lollia?”

She’d forgotten how hairy and florid and heavy he was. His beard was bushy, covering the skin of his neck as well. She tried to dispel an image of him naked, covered with a thick black pelt. She glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “I’m called Pinna now.”

He directed her to the side of the road. “It worries me you’ve duped Furius Camillus into making you his de facto wife. It shows that even a clever man can be made a fool.”

She tried to pull the hamper away, but he held it fast. “I have not fooled him, my lord.” Yet again she tried to break free but he gripped the basket with both hands.