Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(58)
Marcus watched the decurion continue swimming. If Drusus still felt pain from his injuries, he did not show it. Yet even though he strived to keep up in training, his face had been pinched and white at the end of the run this morning. He appeared relieved to rest his shield on the ground and strip off his armor for the swim.
The other knights were less enthusiastic. They hastened to finish, then splashed from the river. Marcus headed for the bank, his feet stirring the mud as he strode from the water.
“You’re a bastard, sir,” called Tatius, his lips tinged blue. “We’re going to ride, not swim, into battle.”
Marcus grinned at him as he drew on his tunic. Despite feeling sorry Drusus had been overlooked for promotion, he was happy for Tatius. “Show some respect, or I’ll make you run up that hill again in full kit.”
“Better than freezing my balls off.” Tatius hacked up a gob of spit, then reached down to pick up his breastplate and buckle it on together with his heavy linen kilt.
“You mean ‘better than freezing my balls off, sir.’” The tribune’s tone grew serious. “You’ll thank me for ensuring your fitness when you find yourself unseated from your horse. You’ll need to stand your ground against some hoplite hefting a huge battle shield.”
Tatius saluted, his bucktoothed smile vanishing. “Yes, sir.”
Marcus dismissed him, then signaled the others to return to camp also. He enjoyed training with the knights of his old turma, not wanting to lose a connection with them. However, he knew he shouldn’t encourage overfamiliarity. In time, gaining higher rank would lead to loneliness. The length of an arm raised in salute was not the only distance that existed between a commander and those who must obey him.
Donning their heavy leather capes, the men trudged back across the field to the rough-hewn timber palisade, its sharp honed pickets standing like a spiky row of teeth. Their gruff voices traveled across the open space between the river and the camp perimeter with its wide ditch. General Aemilius had ordered the woods to be cleared, but the area was still heavily patrolled. He was taking no chances of a surprise Faliscan raid when so deep within enemy territory.
Marcus nodded to the two sentries as they made their pass. He was in no hurry to return to his duties, waiting for Drusus to finish his swim. He surveyed the landscape around him. The yellow-and-red tufa escarpment on the other side of the river rose high above, with the mouths of tombs carved into the rock face. Below was a forest thick with beech and ash. For a moment he envied Falerii its countryside. One day, he hoped he could admire it without assessing it as terrain to be conquered or scenery where danger prowled.
He gazed at a leaf held by the current, sometimes swirling in an eddy, then sailing free. It amazed him that the stream in which they were swimming was the Tiber. Not the sluggish brown river that girded Rome into which the Great Drain emptied shit and piss, but a pure current that was clean and fast flowing, carving its way through peaks and ravines. This waterway was the enemy’s lifeblood as much as Rome’s. His people would not be satisfied until they controlled every township from the lake at its source to the salt pans at its mouth.
Marcus wondered if such a feat would ever be achieved. For months now their regiment had suffered the drudgery of camp life as they lay siege to the fortified hilltop town. Falerii could not boast the size or wealth of Veii, but its fortifications were just as secure and its inhabitants just as stubborn. The Faliscans may have been hemmed in behind their wall, but the Romans were locked outside in the wind and weather, while their foe lay cozy in their beds.
Blockading the trade routes was no less difficult. Inches, feet, and yards were gained and then lost as Veii’s northern troops harried the Roman regiments. At least Thefarie Ulthes had yet to relieve Veii, although some supplies were trickling through.
Marcus now believed it was time for the Romans to abandon a frontal assault on Falerii and Capena. Instead they should concentrate on the Etruscan citadel of Nepete to the west. Nepete was said to be the gateway to all Etruria. Conquering it would give Rome a foothold in the territory. He’d suggested such a strategy to his father, but Aemilius had merely said he’d think on it.
He glanced across to Drusus, who waded toward him, the water dragging against his waist, then his thighs. Water streamed off his back and down his body, his skin stung pink from the cold. He shook his head, droplets flying from his russet hair, then rubbed his beard, flicking water away. Marcus felt his prick stiffen and hurried to don his leather cape, bending his head to hide the flush of embarrassment at failing to control himself.
Drusus sauntered across to his clothes, reaching down and drying himself, taking his time, impervious to the chill air. Marcus looked up again, unable to stop himself from scanning the long scar running along the side of his friend’s chest to his groin. Livid against his pale skin, it would take some time before it faded. He doubted, though, that Drusus would ever forget his flesh being sliced—or who had caused the wound. He imagined trailing his finger along the seam, exploring it and more with his tongue—storing the images for later use to fuel the rhythm of his hand.
“What are you looking at?”
Caught out, Marcus was relieved he didn’t feel his face burn again, although his loins ached. “Your scar. Pinna did a good job.”
Drusus peered down, running his hand along part of the cicatrix. “I have to admit I would have perished if not for her.” He pulled on his tunic and cape, then sat down next to Marcus.