Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(88)

“But circumstances have changed. No one in Rome would condemn us for accepting we can’t succeed against the League.”

Aemilius shook his head. “My mind is made up. Let the Senate decide our city’s fate. I’ll face mine tomorrow. Smaller forces than ours have fought against greater odds and succeeded.”

Marcus’s stomach churned. Every time he rode into battle, he knew, with one spear thrust, he could die. He summoned valor every time he did so. To charge into battle with no hope of survival would take a different type of bravery. Yet he’d sworn an oath to his general and to the Roman people. If his father wished to die for the glory of Rome, then he must accept such a destiny, too. He stood to attention. “What are your orders, sir?”

Aemilius handed him the scroll. “Give this to the Etruscan prick, then call Sempronius to me. Claudius Drusus as well. He’s a skilled horseman. I’ll need him to ride to Rome. And choose another to send word to Tititinus of my decision. A third must inform Postumius at Veii.”

Marcus saluted. He was relieved Drusus would be spared from the massacre. As he walked from the tent, he studied the missive. There was a blotch of ink from the force of the stylus, but the handwriting was legible. For a moment he wondered if “No surrender” would be the last two words he’d ever read.



Drusus stormed toward his tent. Marcus shouted to him to wait. The decurion ignored him, instead barked at his groom to pack his kit and ready his horse.

Marcus tried to place his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He batted it away, the blow far from friendly. The tribune stepped back, surprised. “By the gods. What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter? I thought your father wanted to promote me to head decurion. I thought I would lead a turma in combat. Instead, I’m reduced to being a courier.”

Marcus frowned. “He’s asking you to brave enemy territory. It will be a dangerous ride to Rome.”

Drusus flung open the flap to his tent. “No, he thinks I’m not yet battle ready. I can tell.” He ducked inside, letting the flap shut behind him.

Marcus stared at the goatskin, aware there was a grain of truth in what Drusus said. Aemilius often questioned him as to whether he thought the Claudian had regained full strength. Steeling himself, he entered the tent. “You’re the best horseman the regiment has. You’ll need to ride through ravines and thick forest in the dark.”

Head bowed in the low-ceilinged tent, the knight drew on his balteus, checking the attached scabbard and sword were secure. “The best horseman? No, that honor goes to you. Together with all the promotions. It sickens me to see the favor granted to you. Great nephew of the mighty Mamercus Aemilius. Son of a consular general.”

Marcus spoke through gritted teeth. “The Claudians are also an esteemed patrician clan. You lack no opportunity for advancement. You’re the head of your House.”

“What chance do I have to be elected as a tribune or magistrate? I’ve spent ten years fighting away from Rome. You need backers working for you while you’re on campaign. Aemilius pushes your interests every chance he can get. He milks friends for their influence on your behalf. And now you’re one of his senior officers.”

“I’ve earned my rank! And I’ve gained fame through my valor, not my connections.”

“Oh yes, the oak-leaf crown. Won when a lowly cavalryman. You saved your poor friend, Claudius Drusus. Don’t you think I’m fed up with living in your shadow?”

Marcus was incensed. “I thought there would be more gratitude than resentment for saving your life.”

Drusus grabbed his helmet. “I was the man who wounded the great General Mastarna, and yet it’s you who is lauded. My heroism goes unnoticed.”

“Great Mars, Drusus. Camillus awarded you three silver spears for the Battle of Blood and Hail. He reprimanded me for disobeying the call for retreat even though it meant I—”

“Saved my life again. I don’t need to be reminded.” He collected his shield. “And here you are—a military tribune commanding a brigade of knights and a battalion of infantry while I’m still a decurion. Worse, a mere messenger.”

Marcus was stunned. Was this how Drusus always felt? Bitter? Jealous? Had boyhood friendship eroded without him realizing? Had envy hardened into hate? Would Drusus care if he died? “Well, you’ll have a better chance to realize your ambitions after tomorrow. I doubt I’ll survive against a horde of Etruscans. You won’t have to live in my shadow when I become a Shade.”

Drusus’s face suffused red. He lowered his shield to the ground. “I’m so sorry, my friend.” He gripped the tribune’s shoulders. “I’m a fool. Forgive me.”

Both men fell silent. Death had always stalked them, but the moment it would arrive was unknown. Now Marcus knew his allotted time. At least he’d be spared the pain of living without Drusus had their destinies been reversed. He willed himself to speak his feelings but faltered. He didn’t want the last memory of his friend to be Drusus’s disgust.

Suddenly the red-haired soldier hugged him, the metal medallions on their corselets clanging. The embrace was momentary, that of a comrade. “Know that I love you like a brother. I’m proud to have served under you. I’m thankful you saved my life twice over.”

Marcus’s voice caught. “Go, then, Brother. Warn Rome.”