Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(87)
Her heartbeat spiked, her voice catching. He may not have said the words, but she knew he loved her. “My Wolf, you have already stolen mine.”
THIRTY-NINE
Marcus, Nepete, Spring, 396 BC
A wind was blowing, whipping up swirls of dust from the ditch that surrounded the Roman encampment. The young sentry was nervous as he approached Marcus. “Sir, there is an Etruscan delegation that wants to see the general.”
The tribune frowned and hurried to the gate. Three horsemen were surveying the stakes of the palisade. One dismounted, removing his crested horsehair helmet and tucking it under his arm. He had a satisfied smile upon his lips—far too confident for a man seeking to enter an enemy fort. Marcus ordered the gates to be opened.
“I bring a message from King Vel Mastarna,” the messenger said in crude Latin.
Marcus remained impassive, forcing himself to control both his surprise and curiosity. “You may enter, but the others must remain outside.” He rapped out an order to the sentries to close the gate again, then turned on his heel, striding toward the command tent. The Etruscan took his time to follow despite being confronted by hostile stares.
Marcus was impatient to hear what Mastarna had to say. The last word they’d received about the king’s movements was that he’d traveled to the Etruscan congress. Marcus found it intriguing that Karcuna Tulumnes rode with him. He knew there was ill will between their Houses. Now the descendant of a tyrant and Veii’s new king were allies.
Reaching the command tent, Marcus told the Veientane to remain outside while he informed his father of his arrival.
Aemilius was sitting at his desk, a hunk of cheese and a bowl of figs before him. He held a goblet of watered wine in his hand. The rigors of being on campaign had reduced the senator’s waistline, but he was never one to go without food.
“An emissary from Vel Mastarna seeks to speak to you, Father.”
The general cocked one bushy eyebrow. “Strange.”
Marcus shrugged. “He’s a smug bastard.”
The envoy gave a curt half bow once granted permission to enter. He offered the Roman general a scroll. “From King Mastarna. I’ve been ordered to wait for your reply.”
Aemilius took another swig of wine, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He gestured to the man to place the letter on his desk. “You can wait outside the gates. I’ll give you my answer after I have finished my meal.”
The Etruscan seemed unperturbed at the abrupt dismissal. “Very well, but it may well give you indigestion.”
When the herald had gone, Aemilius pushed his half-eaten meal aside and broke the seal. Color drained from his face as he scanned the words. Marcus had never seen his father so unnerved. “What does it say?”
“The entreaties of the Capenate and Faliscan delegations swayed the confederation. The Etruscan cities have pledged assistance. Their armies will bolster the Veientane forces.”
Marcus was stunned. All Etruria planned to rise. Rome’s greatest fear. “But the League has always left Veii and its allies to fend for themselves. Why the change of heart?”
“Our recent incursion into Nepetan territory must have made them nervous. They fear we may venture farther north and west.”
Marcus pointed to the letter. “What answer does Mastarna seek?”
Aemilius focused on the scroll again as though double-checking its contents. “A similar ultimatum has been sent to Titinius at Capena. He and I either agree to retreat permanently or the combined forces of Etruria will commence their march on Rome—starting with battles tomorrow on the plains outside Nepete and Capena. Karcuna Tulumes and Thefarie Ulthes have united forces with the other Etruscans as well.”
Marcus stared at him, grappling with the enormity of the threat. “What are you going to do?”
Aemilius stood and paced, consumed in thought as his son watched on. There was no time to seek the advice of the Senate. And time was limited to consult with Titinius, too.
Finally the consular general sat down and picked up his stylus. “The northern regiments of the Wolf Legion are the first lines of defense.”
“Do you mean we are to fight? What chance do we have? We’ll face thousands.”
Aemilius’s eyes hardened. “I’ve fought this war for ten years. We’ve gained ground here. I’m not about to run. Mastarna will have his answer. My army fights tomorrow while we send word to Rome. It will gain time for the Senate to decide whether to sue for peace or send reinforcements.”
Marcus took a deep breath, knowing his father had just condemned his regiment to death—nigh on fifteen hundred men. And how would Rome meet the challenge of the Twelve? There were no reserves. Rome risked falling to a sleeping enemy that had woken. “But Rome’s fortifications can’t withstand an assault, Father. Isn’t it better to surrender and seek the best terms in a treaty?”
“Fearing death is for women, Marcus. I never thought to hear you lack courage.”
He bridled, infuriated his father could accuse him of being gutless. “Maybe prudence is what is needed here. Slaughtering one third of the Wolf Legion for the sake of pride deprives Rome of manpower to fight another day.”
The general scratched an answer on the bottom of Mastarna’s missive. “Do you think we Aemilians have any choice but to stand fast given Caecilia has disgraced our clan? Others might choose to relent, but we must prove we’ll never resile from seeking her destruction.”