Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(61)

Marcus walked on, angry at a world of rules and duty. No man could question his valor, but at heart his cravings made him no better than the man who’d been bludgeoned. Would Drusus relish the chance to be the first to raise the cudgel against him? Shout loudest to ridicule him? Spit on his corpse? He stopped, turning around. “So speaks the man who declared his love for my cousin in front of his superiors and was hauled away for his troubles. Did you control yourself when you smeared the ceremonial spear with your blood and hurled it at Mastarna at Fidenae?”

“I was young and foolish,” he stammered.

“You were twenty, just like that hoplite.”

“Don’t you ever compare me to that pathicus.”

Marcus stabbed his finger into Drusus’s chest. “I don’t. But you still hunger for Caecilia. Until you can rid yourself of sentiment, I don’t think you should stand in judgment of anyone.”

“You throw that in my face? After I confided in you?”

Marcus’s spark of fury dampened as swiftly as it had ignited. “I’m sorry, my friend. It’s just that I hate watching executions.”

Drusus nodded, draping his arm around Marcus’s neck as they fell in step toward the horse yard. Marcus was aware of his touch and height, how he leaned his head close to his. It was an agony of nearness, a reminder of futility.

“How long has it been since you’ve had a good f*ck, Marcus? That’s your problem. Pinna may have been trouble, but at least your mood was better when she shared your bed. Let’s find one of those Faliscan whores who follow the camp tonight.”

Marcus tensed. The last thing he needed was to pretend he lusted after women. He could not live a false life again. “I don’t think so. Look what happened last time we shared a whore.”

Drusus chuckled. “True. But this time I’ll hold my liquor and not be rough.”

Marcus shook his head. “No, I don’t want the pox.”

“That’s always your excuse.” Drusus slipped his arm from around Marcus’s neck. “Maybe you should find another concubine, then.”

The tribune forced himself to sound light hearted. “Look what happened the last time I did that.”

Drusus laughed. “Then you’d better find a boy.”

Marcus opened the gate to walk into the yard, calling to his horse before replying. “Perhaps. Father always says his does the job but without all the nagging.”

“Well, whoever you decide to screw, just make sure it isn’t another soldier.”

Marcus clenched his teeth. He did not plan to bed anyone again. He’d disciplined himself to control his urges. Self-denial was ingrained in him.

The stallion trotted to him. Marcus raised his hand to pat it and noticed his wristband. The crisscross of tiny scars on his inner wrist had long healed, leaving fine white lines on his skin. He had told himself he did not need to inflict them any longer. He’d convinced himself that grueling exercise and abstinence were atonement enough. But tonight, in solitude, he would take up his dagger and enjoy the sharp, satisfying pain of iron pricking flesh.





TWENTY-SIX



Caecilia, Veii, Winter, 397 BC

Caecilia was keyed up with anticipation. A messenger had arrived from Thefarie. Vel insisted she attend his war council to listen to the envoy. “If we’re to hear the worst, then let’s do so together, Bellatrix.”

There was no doubting that the High Council chamber was the preserve of men. Caecilia felt as though she were an interloper in this room with its masculine aura and symbols of power. An oak table extended the entire length of the room, its legs carved into the shape of claw-foot lions. As son of the king, Tarchon sat at the right-hand side of the monarch’s chair. Caecilia was pleased to see he was clear eyed and alert. The days of drinking, gambling, and chewing Catha were over. He was committed to proving to Karcuna Tulumnes he could be a suitable mentor to Sethre.

The three generals were already present. Karcuna was seated on the opposite side of the table from Tarchon, drumming his fingers on its surface. He did not acknowledge the prince but instead watched Lusinies. The bald general was pacing, his brow wrinkled below the smoothness of his pate. Joints creaking, Feluske winced as he eased himself onto the armchair next to Karcuna.

Caecilia hesitated, not knowing where she should sit. Vel murmured reassurance and escorted her to the far end of the table facing him. She wished she could sit next to Tarchon instead of being flanked by Feluske and Karcuna. The former acknowledged her with a wave of one crooked forefinger; the latter ignored her.

Dressed in purple, his mantle edged in black spirals, Mastarna was the last to take his place. Caecilia sensed he was uneasy, but she felt a rush of excitement to see the messenger. Thefarie must be close at hand. This siege may yet be ended.

Mastarna hunched forward. “Is Thefarie Ulthes sending troops to relieve Veii?”

The herald bowed. “No, my lord. The general’s forces are fully engaged in the north at Falerii and Capena against two regiments of the Legion of the Wolf. There are no reserves to march south.”

Having expected to hear good tidings, Caecilia’s spirits plummeted. There would be no rescue. She looked across to Vel. His eagerness had also vanished, his face resuming somber lines.

The others exchanged worried glances. “What of the Tarchnans?” said Lusinies. “Have they not helped to swell our numbers?”