Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(7)
“Ten years ago I was held hostage by King Tulumnes, a wicked tyrant. In fear, I escaped to Rome only to find those same generals were ready to sacrifice me, and war had always been their intention. And just as they forced me to marry, they then forced me to divorce my husband.”
Vel touched her forearm. “You need not do this, Bellatrix.”
She ignored his warning. “But then a miracle happened.” She glanced at him and smiled. “Vel Mastarna rescued me. He gave me a chance to marry him again. He gave me a chance to choose Veii.”
She held out her arms. “I’ve felt your distrust as the daughter of a foe living among you. But know this: I was once Roman, but I feel no love for that city. I am Veientane and pledge my loyalty to you. And I say now: It’s not enough that we defend our city. It’s not enough to seek peace. Rome is a wolf who will devour us. It must be killed once and for all.” She stepped back and grasped Vel’s hand and raised it into the air. “I seek Rome’s destruction! Let us conquer the wolf. Let us bring down its wall!”
For a moment she felt sickened at the lack of response. Then she heard clapping, feet stamping in unison, voices joining as one. “Queen Caecilia! King Mastarna! Queen Caecilia! King Mastarna!”
Disbelieving these people were exalting her, tears pricked her eyes. She turned to Vel, smiling. He continued to survey the crowd as he also pivoted on the podium. His look was hard as he gripped her fingers. Above the noise, she heard the anger in his bass voice. “What have you done, Bellatrix?”
She turned back to face the crowd, raising her other hand and waving. She had to shout so Vel could hear her, a current of elation flowing through her. “I’ve done what I should have done ten years ago. I have declared war on Rome.”
THREE
The blood of the white cows had been drained from the runnels into the bolos of the holy altar. There should have been more than a score of beasts sacrificed for the coronation, but in the besieged city there were scant cattle left for such a ceremony. At least the people would feast on the flesh now. The aroma of roast beef filled the air. Those in the sanctuary stood in a circle around the cooking pits, their faces expectant, their mouths watering in anticipation as the carcasses were turned on the spits.
In the city below, sounds of celebration drifted up to the arx. Mastarna had not forgotten the rest of his subjects. An extra grain ration had been offered from the city granary and wine distributed from the private cellars of the palace. His royal predecessors had hoarded the fine vintage for their own use. King Mastarna was more generous, intent on boosting morale.
Mastarna led Caecilia to his chariot. He’d not spoken to her since her declaration. Maintaining his silence, he helped her into the gilded car. The call of their names resounded around them. Aemilia Caeciliana’s was being hailed as loudly as the king’s. Despite her husband’s iciness, she could not help but feel proud. After so many years of hostility, the adulation was as heady as if she’d drunk strong unwatered wine.
Surrounding the chariot were twenty-four lictors. The royal bodyguards were dressed in black and held ceremonial rods and axes. The head lictor walked abreast of the chariot. Arruns was stocky, half his swarthy face tattooed with a fanged snake, its coils twisting around his neck. She knew the serpent continued to encircle his chest and back. Today, dressed in his uniform, the grotesque pattern was hidden. His hooded eyes always veiled his emotions, his tattooed visage and hooked nose inspiring menace. The Phoenician had been Mastarna’s personal protector for fifteen years. Caecilia wondered if he welcomed the presence of twenty-three others. She suspected he doubted they were necessary. If not for him, Vel would have died in the Battle of Blood and Hail. And he’d rescued her from danger more than once. Both of them owed their lives to him.
Smiling to the crowd, Mastarna planted his feet wide, balanced perfectly as he took hold of the reins of the four white horses that pulled the chariot. A retinue of principes followed. These nobles of Veii were richly robed and bejeweled. The women were trying to outdo each other with pectorals of green jasper and lapis and diadems of amber and peridot. The men were no less splendid, dressed in brightly colored tebenna cloaks, their short-cropped hair wreathed.
Vel’s smile disappeared as soon as he entered the palace courtyard. “Get a servant boy to bring water. I want to wash off this vermilion,” he barked to Arruns as he strode toward the throne room. “I only want to see the high councillors. I’ll take audience with the other principes tomorrow.”
Caecilia followed Mastarna to the dais with its golden throne. There was a bull’s head crest emblazoned upon its back, the symbol of the House of Mastarna. Caecilia took her place beside her husband on her own small throne, conscious of her status at his right hand. Prince Tarchon also ascended the platform and sat on a high-backed chair to the left side of his adopted father. She was pleased Vel had agreed to appoint him to his war council. Maybe Mastarna’s coldness toward his son was thawing at last.
The high councillors trailed through the doorway with its tall double bronze doors. General Lusinies approached first. Bald and battered of feature, the warrior knelt to swear fealty. Mastarna acknowledged him with a brief smile.
General Feluske followed. He winced as he bent his knee. Caecilia knew it to be from a worn joint rather than reluctance. He’d long been an ally of her husband.