Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(93)

“What do you want, Mastarna?”

“To remind you that you owe me a blood debt twice over. I spared your life at the Battle of Blood and Hail. So, too, today. I expect you to repay me should ever the opportunity arise.”

Marcus bristled, resentful of being reminded he was doubly beholden to a foe. “I’d rather you execute me. I’ve sworn an oath to Rome to kill you. It takes precedence over personal vows. If I ever have the chance to meet you in combat, I will not hesitate to follow my orders.”

Mastarna growled. “I understand that. The obligation you owe will be to my wife should she ever demand it.”

Marcus was shocked. “What you ask of me is impossible. I would have no say in her fate. Rome will exact its punishment on her.”

Mastarna’s voice was cold. “So Caecilia is truly dead to you.”

“Yes. She’s a traitoress.”

“She no longer bears any love for you either.”

Marcus felt as though he’d been struck. Then he chided himself at being irrational, disturbed he should care whether splinters of fondness remained in her. “I presumed nothing more.”

“Nevertheless, I expect you to do your utmost to repay the blood debt in whatever way my wife determines.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed, trying to understand Mastarna’s plea. “Do you fear Rome will prevail in the end? We heard all Etruria was rising, but I didn’t see every pennant of the Twelve.”

The monarch stepped closer. The tribune forced himself not to step back, assessing his own chance of survival if forced to fight hand to hand.

“Such bravado from a man who will return home with his tail between his legs. Believe me, Marcus Aemilius, there are enough Rasenna committed to ruling Rome again. This battle is only the beginning.” He paused, eyeing his captive up and down. “At least I know if we do ever meet again, you’ll attack me head on—unlike Claudius Drusus. I hope no awards were bestowed on him in death.”

“He did not need burial. You failed to kill him. And you’re a liar. He is no coward.”

The king’s eyes widened. “He survived? I thought I’d given him due retribution.” Then his expression hardened. He turned and raised his sword arm. “Here is proof of his spinelessness. See this scar? It’s on the back of my arm. I either received it running away like your hoplites did today, or it was a blow from a man who took unfair advantage.”

Marcus stared at the seam of stitched flesh, how it arced around the back of Mastarna’s bicep and elbow. Doubt flickered. What had happened that day? Was Mastarna speaking the truth? It would not be the first time his friend had acted rashly. Yet how could he accept the word of an enemy? Perhaps Mastarna spewed false accusations to cover his humiliation at being felled. “I have nothing to say.”

Mastarna grunted and walked to his stallion. Sethre slipped from his horse, crossing to his commander and lacing his hands together so the monarch could step up to mount. Marcus watched with interest. Mastarna couldn’t vault onto his horse. He smiled, glad Drusus had weakened their enemy.

The king gathered the reins of the gray, once again staring down at Marcus.

“Tell me. My lictor rendered you harmless that day outside Veii’s walls. But if he hadn’t, would you have killed me when I was on my knees?”

Marcus straightened his shoulders, remembering Drusus mired in the mud, his body ripped open by his enemy’s curved blade. “Yes. I would have shown no mercy.”

Mastarna grimaced. “Then this is where we differ. I spared you today because I won’t kill my wife’s kin. I will not have your blood on my hands. For Caecilia’s heart is tender, even though she claims she has toughened it against you.”

Marcus stared at him, nonplussed. This foe was calling upon familial obligations that no longer prevailed. In war, there could only be black or white, love or hate. Yet Mastarna was forcing him to feel grudging respect for his integrity. He was not about to acknowledge it, though. “My answer remains the same.”

The ruler dug his heels into his horse’s blood-splattered flanks, turning its head and leading it toward his soldiers, stopping to congratulate them.

Flanked by two Etruscan hoplites, Marcus picked up his abandoned spear and then trudged across the battlefield. The clouds parted, the sun shining directly above him. Between sunrise and noon, hundreds of Romans had died. He murmured a prayer to Mars in gratitude for sparing him. Once again, his lips had brushed death’s mouth and survived.





FORTY-TWO



Pinna, Rome, Spring, 396 BC

The market was congested, its air laden with aromas of basil, chives, and dill. Barrows were bright with the colors of asparagus and radish. An array of geese and partridges hung from their feet, heads dangling, while salted fish lay heaped in baskets.

Pinna walked through streets clogged with traffic. The calls of vendors were noisy and insistent. There was a feeling of good humor among the shoppers. News that the riddle of Lake Albanus had been answered was on everyone’s lips. The key to placating the gods was known. Veii was destined to fall.

She listened to snippets of conversations that made her swell with pride.

“With Camillus now an interrex, Rome will soon be back on course.”

“Why didn’t the Senate listen to him before?”

“We need him to be a consular general again.”