Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(92)
Mastarna’s horse shifted on the spot. “I don’t think it need come to that, tribune. You and your men have fought bravely. I’m prepared to spare you.”
Tatius grunted, glancing sideways at his officer. Marcus ignored him, still refusing to meet the king’s eyes. “I don’t plan on surrendering my spear to you again, Mastarna.”
“It looks like you’ve already dropped your spear.” He smirked. “However, I want neither it nor your sword. It’s enough that I’ve dented your pride.” He turned to his aide. “Sethre, show our Roman captives what we have seized.”
The arrogance of the young horseman grated as he dangled the pole with the wolf’s head banner upside down. Marcus scowled, angered by the disrespect shown. Yet he noticed the youth’s skill in handling his high-stepping stallion with the pressure of his thighs alone. The crest emblazoned on his corselet also caught his eye: the winged lion of the Tulumnes clan. There truly must have been a reconciliation if Vel Mastarna kept a rival at his side.
Mastarna took the ensign from his aide and righted it. “I have your legion’s standard, Marcus Aemilius. Your father was kind enough to abandon it before he and his army turned tail and fled.”
Marcus flinched, hating his derision. He believed Aemilius had beaten a strategic retreat, not run away.
Mastarna handed the standard back to Sethre, then walked his horse around the circle of knights. He returned to stand in front of Marcus. “From the look on your soldiers’ faces, tribune, I think they prefer my offer to being hacked to pieces.”
Tatius murmured from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t believe him, sir. We’ll fight if you give the order.”
Marcus was grateful for his loyalty. But even though he hated ceding, he didn’t see the point in sacrificing men who could fight again in the future. “You’ll let us retain our weapons? You won’t take us prisoner?”
Mastarna barked an order to the phalanx to open a way for the Romans. “We’ll keep your horses. By the time you return to Rome all you’ll have suffered will be sore feet and hurt pride.”
Marcus was reluctant to express gratitude. “Agreed, then.” He sheathed his sword and slung his shield over his shoulder. Then he ordered his cavalrymen to form a line to march back to the camp.
The tumult had subsided. Instead of war chants there were groans and whimpers or the boasts and laughter of Etruscan soldiers. They were stripping armor from the Roman dead. Marcus knew worse awaited—mutilation. Vengeance would be exacted for past defeats.
Mastarna must have read his thoughts. “Are you worried for your fallen and maimed? Camillus didn’t let me bury my clansmen after the Battle of Blood and Hail. Instead he allowed his troops to desecrate their bodies, then leave their flesh to rot and bones to molder.”
Marcus wasn’t about to admit mercy should have been shown to Mastarna’s tribe. And Camillus’s ruthlessness was no different to any other general’s. “You Etruscans do the same.”
“Never under my command.”
Marcus didn’t respond. He couldn’t deny Vel Mastarna was an honorable man. After victory in one battle at Veii years before, he’d burned the enemy dead with due respect.
At his silence, Mastarna leaned forward. “You’ve nothing to say? Well, tell your father this. Tell Camillus, too. I can’t speak for my allied commanders, but I’ll have your slain cremated. I’ll not send them to the afterlife as tortured souls. I believe the valiant in life should remain valiant in death. And I’ll let you retrieve your wounded—that is, of course, if your comrades have not abandoned your camp already.”
Marcus fumed, hating the insinuation that Aemilius was heading a stampede of panicked fugitives.
Mastarna shouted a command. Ten hoplites formed a detail around the equestrians. “These men will escort yours from the field. There’s still danger in traversing a battleground with men wild with blood rage.”
His continued fair treatment rankled. Marcus was determined not to feel appreciation. Nevertheless, he managed a begrudging nod, then gestured his men to move.
“Wait,” called Mastarna. “You stay, Marcus Aemilius.”
The tribune frowned, unable to suppress a tremor of apprehension, even though he doubted the king was likely to double-cross him.
Tatius halted and swung around, not prepared to leave his leader with his foe. “I’ll stay, too, sir.”
Marcus rested a bloodied hand on the decurion’s shoulder. “No, leave. He’s given his word to free me.”
The bucktoothed soldier spat on the ground near the king’s horse. “I don’t trust any of the slant-eyed bastards.”
Vel Mastarna remained cool at the insult. “I see you inspire allegiance in your men. Rest assured I don’t plan to keep you long.”
Tatius joined the others, casting glances over his shoulder as he headed across the field. The squadron plodded with heads bowed, dejection in each step.
When the Romans were out of earshot, Marcus was surprised when Mastarna swung down from his horse to stand beside him. The king handed the reins to his young aide, who also appeared disconcerted at his general’s action.
Up close, Marcus could see the ugly scar marring the Veientane’s face. Unbidden thoughts of Caecilia surfaced. Did she shut her eyes when she lay with her husband to avoid viewing such disfigurement? Or were the power of his physique and the timbre of his voice enough to distract her?