Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (17 page)

T
WENTY
-O
NE

Semni walked along the barracks’ corridor until she found Arruns’s cell. Crouching in the doorway, she held Nerie around the waist. In the flickering line of wall torches, his blond hair seemed like gold.

Inside the room, Arruns was naked to the waist, wearing an ankle-length kilt. The faint, acrid smell of pitch filled the air. Even with his swarthiness, she could see his untattoed skin was tinged pink. A barber must have stripped the hair from his body only a short time ago. It was as though he wore a cuirass of flesh, the muscles of his pectorals and abdomen defined. As always, the writhing serpent intrigued her as it wrapped around his torso and neck, the jaw open and eating half of his smooth-shaven skull, the forked tongue licking his cheek. Her longing for him was so deep that it hurt.

He frowned when he noticed her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I brought your son to see you.” She crouched and gave Nerie a nudge as she released him. The boy tottered, arms outstretched.

Arruns smiled and lifted the tot over his head and onto his shoulders. “Perhaps you can stay a little while.” Nerie giggled, unconcerned by the gruesome scales marking the man’s skin.

Semni drew the door curtain shut and sat down on the pallet. Arruns lowered himself to sit beside her, taking care to ensure Nerie did not wobble and fall. Usually so inscrutable, Arruns could never hide his delight when in the company of his son. For a moment she felt jealous that his eyes did not light up at the sight of her in the same way.

“I also came to tell you that Aricia visited here today.”

His smile vanished. He lifted Nerie onto his lap.

“Who let her in?”

“She came with Lady Tanchvil. When the mistress wouldn’t see her, she crept into the princes’ chamber.”

“Without being stopped! I’ll see that the lictor who was on shift is punished.”

“Don’t blame him. That witless Perca let her in.”

“What did Aricia want?”

“Forgiveness.”

He grunted. “Then she will be disappointed.”

“She’s repentant. She realizes her mistake.”

He glared at her. “And you would err in giving her consolation. Promise me you won’t try to see her again.”

She nodded, anxious not to displease him. “I promise. And I made it clear she was not welcome to return.”

“And the mistress? You told her?”

“Yes, I told her straightaway. Are you not proud of me?”

He encircled her shoulders. “Yes, I’m proud.”

She shivered, his contact arousing her, surprised the force of her desire could be so strong with a simple gesture.

Mistaking the cause of her trembling, Arruns looked across to the small brazier burning in the corner. “Are you cold?”

“No, it’s you who makes me quake.”

He slid his arm from around her, making her regret that she’d spoken.

“Perhaps you should go.”

Semni slipped off her shoes. “It’s late. Your men are occupied in their quarters. The princes and Thia are abed. Can’t we lie beside each other for a while?” She drew aside the blanket and lay on her side on the pallet. Nerie crawled across and snuggled next to her. “Our son will be the guardian of our chastity.”

Arruns stared at her, temptation grappling with duty. She extended her hand to him. Nerie giggled and copied her, thinking it a game.

He glanced at the door, then back again. “For a short time.”

The cot creaked as he eased his bulk onto the narrow breadth, lying on his side so he would not squash the toddler. He propped his weight on his elbow, his palm against the side of his face. The boy lay on his back, turning his head from one side to the other, regarding his parents and this strange new arrangement. Semni reached into her purse, retrieving a tiny wooden carving of a rabbit. Nerie smiled and fingered his favorite plaything.

She wanted to walk her fingers down the muscles of Arruns’s abdomen, pull aside his kilt, and check whether the markings on his body reached to his groin. She resisted, knowing that to touch him would end this time together. “One day I’ll see if the snake is two headed. We were so rushed that night, we didn’t even take off our clothes.”

“Don’t worry, it will be worth the wait.” Arruns smiled with a flash of chipped teeth, surprising her. It was not like him to joke.

“We’ll need a bigger bed when we’re married,” she continued, unable to rid herself of the image of them lying naked.

“That will take some getting used to. Until I was promoted to head lictor, I slept on a bedroll outside the master’s room.”

“Then this bed is luxury. As is my own.”

He sighed. “I’d prefer a hard floor if it meant I could be a lone bodyguard again.”

“Aren’t you proud to be in charge?”

He pointed to the bundle of rods tied with red bindings that stood propped against the wall. A double axe was strapped to them. “Carrying the ceremonial fasces and wearing a uniform? I’m a simple man, Semni. I liked it best when the master did not need twenty-four men to watch over him. He does not like all the fuss either.”

She stroked Nerie’s cheek as the boy sang to his toy. “And being a warrior? Do you miss that, too?”

Arruns remained silent, listening to Nerie’s garbled tune. She did not press him for an answer, already knowing this man hated war yet longed for battle.

She studied his hooked nose and hooded lids. So close to him, she could see the ink in his pores. “It must have hurt to be tattooed.”

His response distracted him from the child. As always, she was struck by the resinous color of his eyes, the dark rings around the irises. “It was agony.”

“Who did it to you?”

“A Veientane trainer. He liked to gamble. He’d win wagers on me when he pitted me against other wrestlers. Decorating me with a serpent instilled fear into my opponents.” He ran his hand over the coils. “He had the artist work on the pattern over many weeks because the task was so great. Six slaves held me down as the pigment was tapped into my skin by a bone nail. Over and over. Pinpricks of blood welling, then smeared away. They would wash it with saltwater to stop it from being infected. I would recover, and then the hammer and needle would be wielded again. First on my back and then my front, slowly moving upward.”

Semni was surprised at his flood of words. The brooding man who usually spoke little, and observed others silently, was at last speaking.

Arruns touched his neck and ran his hand over his skull and cheek. “The face was the worst. It became so swollen that I couldn’t eat. They fed me liquid through a reed. I kept hoping the ink would wash away. That I would not be marked as some monster. That my mother would not shy from me should I ever see her again. Over time, though, I’ve come to believe the serpent protects me. I’ve lived with him so long. We’ve become old friends.”

Semni traced the line of each scale. She’d always thought Arruns had been the one to seek the tattoo. To hear he had been forced was horrifying.

At her touch, he tensed. He covered her hand with his, his palm engulfing hers. “Don’t. It’s hard enough to have you lying so close to me.”

She removed her hand. “How did the Veientane come to own you?”

“You don’t need to know my past.”

“You’re Nerie’s father. And I’m to be your wife. I want to know all about you, Barekbaal.”

Arruns scanned her face. “I’m no longer that man, Semni. There’s pain in the memories. Sometimes it’s better to forget than try to remember loved ones whom I’ll never see again.”

“Or perhaps it will give you peace to speak of those you’ve lost to one who loves you now.”

“You will not like all that I tell you.”

“I’ve promised to no longer keep secrets from you, Arruns. You must do the same.”

She rested her hand on his chest again. This time he did not stop her. She could smell his maleness. How his stripped skin was smooth beneath her fingers. “Tell me about your family.”

“My father was a trader in purple in Sidon. I grew up with the stink of crushed murex shells. He planned for me to follow him in the business just like my three brothers. He was prosperous, owning a fleet of biremes that plied the crescent coast of Canaan, the land the Greeks call Phoenicia, up to the rich city of Byblos and down to Tyre.

Again she was surprised. She’d always thought Arruns to be from as humble origins as herself. “Biremes?”

“Shallow draft ships with two banks of oars. I made my first voyage when I was sixteen. Soon I was undertaking longer journeys, venturing farther as my father’s business thrived. Rosetta and Alexandria, Cyrene and Carthage, where nobles and kings sought the purple, its rich color denoting power. But I was always restless. Dissatisfied with being a trader’s son.”

He paused. Nerie had fallen asleep, thumb in his mouth, a tiny slumbering barrier between them.

“At times our ship would encounter galleys with three banks of rowers,” he continued. “These triremes boasted bronze battering rams on their prows. They were the warships of the royal navies of the city-states in which we docked. I admired the armor of the warriors who manned them. I wanted to share their glory. The last memory of my father was his anger when I refused to sail with him. Instead I joined the king of Sidon’s navy.”

“How exciting.”

“No, it was the action of a rash youth who deserted his family and obligations. I believe the goddess Astarte punished me. I haven’t seen my family for fifteen years.”

The pain in his voice was difficult to hear. “I’m sorry, Arruns.”

“I fought sea battles for two years. I learned what it was to kill instead of barter. To be cruel when called upon to do so. And then one day we were attacked by a Syracusan war ship and defeated. I was taken prisoner. And my world changed forever.”

He placed his hand over hers, checking her from caressing their son. “You will not like the rest of my story.”

She whispered, “Trust me.”

He held her gaze. “The Syracusans sold me to a Rasennan slaver from Tarchna. The son of a trader became goods to be bought and sold. I struggled against my bonds, so they doubled them and placed a yoke on me. The restraints didn’t constrain me. My strength attracted the attention of a trainer from Veii. He bought me to pit against others in fights.”

“And he was the one who tattooed you?”

“Yes. And that is why I strangled him when I got the chance.”

Semni gasped. “You murdered your master?”

“You wanted to hear my story. I’ve told you before that I was condemned as a criminal. My job was to kill.” The heat in his voice worried her. She was used to a chilling silence when he was angered.

“I killed men in sea battles, and I killed or crippled those whom I wrestled. And I killed that bastard trainer after he’d tortured me and then tried to beat me once too often.”

His revelation disturbed her. Yet why? She’d always known his job required him to be brutal. It did not scare her he’d been the Phersu. “And that is when you became the Masked One?”

“Yes, I was condemned to be sacrificed at the funeral games. Only Lord Mastarna heard I’d been a proud warrior brought to misery. He gave me the choice to be the Phersu and wear the mask of a holy executioner or be a victim blinded by a sack over his head. To either be the instrument of the gods or die like an animal. Your people demand a hooded man’s throat be ripped apart by a hound in an arena so that his blood will reanimate the dead. At least in Canaan, a man is treated with reverence when he’s gifted to the gods. His body is purified and his fear quelled by potions before the priests offer his life to divine Ba’al.”

“Your gods seek human flesh, too?”

“When Ba’al demands it. He’s the lord of the rain, bringer of crops, bringer of life.”

Nerie woke, disturbed by his father’s voice. Arruns patted the boy’s back in awkward strokes. As always, she was struck with his tenderness when it came to his son. The hands that could strangle a man to death could be gentle. He handed Nerie the toy rabbit again and looked across to Semni. “Lord Mastarna used to let me fight in the light infantry but now he only sees me as a lictor.”

“I know. It’s your duty to him that keeps us apart.”

“But I’m still required to be a murderer. Why would you want me?”

Reaching over to touch his cheek, her fingers traced the tattoo to comfort a long-ago hurt. “Because I love you, Barekbaal. You are a warrior to me.”

T
WENTY
-T
WO

Pinna, Rome, Winter, 397 BC

The scent of the violets was sweet, the roses fragrant. Pinna pressed the winter blooms to her nose, then her lips. She crouched beside her mother’s gravestone, laying the flowers upon it. “Forgive me for neglecting you while I was in camp, Mama. Don’t be angry. See, I’ve brought food for you.” She sprinkled some salt and grain, then fed wine and oil through a pipe to the urn below.

Rising, she scanned the cemetery of the Campus, the Tiber curving around it. The river was running fast, no stinking mud today building up around the island of the two bridges. The cattle grazed, finding patches of grass where the snow had melted. They chewed their cud, then dipped their heads to tear up more blades.

The early morning was icy, the winter sun weak. The thick wool of her two tunics kept her warm. Her Wolf ensured that she was well dressed. Pinna rearranged her shawl over her head. The chance to cover herself modestly had been forbidden to her as a lupa, but now an aura of respectability clothed her. As Camillus’s concubine she went unnoticed. Just another woman citizen in appearance. There was no requirement to wear a toga to mark her profession. No hissing or looks of contempt as she walked the streets.

She glanced across to the nearby Claudian tomb adorned with its boar’s head crest. The chance meeting of Drusus there had changed her life. The bronze weights she’d extorted from him paid for Mama’s body to be cremated instead of decaying on the Esquiline Hill. The urn that was now placed underground had been the last luxury Pinna could afford, though. She’d returned home from the funeral to discover she’d been robbed by a pimp. Her life as a whore in his brothel began.

She doubted she would ever forget those times. Fractured images of her mother as a lupa surfaced—body abused, mind lost, not knowing her own daughter at the end. Pinna closed her eyes, willing herself to conjure different glimpses of her—her tar-black hair twisted into a knot, her rough farmwife’s hands, her weathered face, and the softness of her smile. She longed to see her, to feel her embrace. It was hard to think of her milling below the ground with a thousand other Shades indistinguishable from each other. Pinna looked down at the grave. “May your ashes turn to fragrant flowers, Mama. May you forever be at peace among the Good Ones.”

Pinna delved into her basket again. She planned to remember Gnaeus Lollius today, too. Her fingers closed around a handful of black beans, food to appease a malevolent spirit—food for her father.

Winter always reminded her of him. Before Rome required men to fight all year, the change in season meant the return of Lollius to dwindling resources and hardship. His cold mood would mirror the weather. Yet, although he was a man of little affection, Pinna knew he loved her.

She and Mama never saw him again after he’d been forced into bondage. Pinna was anguished, wondering how he’d died. Had he been beaten to death when bound in chains? Had he suffered illness? Where had he been buried? In a trench among other paupers? Or had his body been burned and his ashes scattered to the wind? Had anyone kissed his lips to catch his last breath and so release his soul? She feared he was a wandering, vengeful spirit that she must always dread. For a ghost had one purpose—to punish those who’d wronged them or failed to grant succor after death. And so, as she laid the beans next to the flowers, she hoped her piety and prayers were enough to assuage him.

Conscious she still had much to do, she headed to the Aventine, hastening along the road to the fruit market, the night’s snowfall sullied by the ruts of cartwheels and animal droppings.

Someone grasped the edge of her basket. She halted and turned. Cauis Genucius stood there. It was the first time she’d been alone with him for two years. She’d been spared his presence in camp after he’d agreed to lead his army north to Falerii. And when he visited Camillus in Rome, she made sure to keep clear of him.

“What’s your hurry, Lollia?”

She’d forgotten how hairy and florid and heavy he was. His beard was bushy, covering the skin of his neck as well. She tried to dispel an image of him naked, covered with a thick black pelt. She glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “I’m called Pinna now.”

He directed her to the side of the road. “It worries me you’ve duped Furius Camillus into making you his de facto wife. It shows that even a clever man can be made a fool.”

She tried to pull the hamper away, but he held it fast. “I have not fooled him, my lord.” Yet again she tried to break free but he gripped the basket with both hands.

“When I chanced upon you naked in Camillus’s tent before the Battle of Blood and Hail, I was prepared to ignore a passing dalliance. But I respect him too much to let a whore run his household.”

She bridled. “I’m a citizen. Daughter of a soldier. There’s no disgrace in a nobleman having a concubine who once was poor.”

“You forfeited your citizenship the day you opened your legs for money. I’m going to find your name on the prostitutes’ roll and show it to him.”

Her pulse quickened. “Please, don’t tell him. Poverty led me to that life. There was no other choice.”

“Destitution is never an excuse for a freeborn woman to taint herself.”

His lack of sympathy sparked anger. “If you expose me, I’ll tell Lord Camillus the type of services you paid me for.”

He fixed his one eye on her, the socket of the other hidden by his eye patch. “I know he has little time for whoring, but he’s not going to worry about another soldier sleeping with a harlot. Besides, I’m sure he enjoys the fact you’re experienced. Why else would he keep you?”

She flinched. “It’s not the fact you had to pay that will disgust him. He’s nothing like you,
my lord
. I don’t knead his prick with my feet to excite him. And he would never use his tongue like you did—slobbering over me down there.” She lowered her gaze to her crotch, then raised her eyes to meet his. “He might overlook a man fucking a lupa, but a pervert? What kind of man . . . what kind of
soldier
does that to a woman?”

His cheeks flushed red above his beard. He let go of the basket, but thrust his disfigured face close to hers. “Ah, now that’s more like it. The slut from the gutter.” He pulled her shawl from her head. “No use pretending you’re decent, Pinna, with your hair covered and shoes on your feet. You should be bareheaded and barefoot in that lupanaria again.”

She gasped, astounded he would treat her so in public. She glanced around, worried who might see them but passersby seemed uninterested.

“Tell me, what about Appius Claudius Drusus and Marcus Aemilius Mamercus? What fetishes do they have that they keep hidden?”

She pressed her lips together.

Genucius dug his fingers into her forearm. “Tell me!”

She winced. His ability to expose the others alarmed her. She’d promised both officers she would remain silent. And now Marcus had been chosen as a military tribune at the recent elections. She did not want his reputation harmed. Genucius, too, had been successful. He was now one of the ten people’s tribunes. Mud would stick to him also. “All three of you have been tacit about me,” she said. “If you speak out, you’ll not only humiliate yourself but also discredit them. Do you want that on your conscience, my lord?”

He thrust her away. “You will never escape your past, Lollia. I wasn’t your only customer. There might be others who’ll recognize you, even though you no longer paint your face and your nipples.”

She tensed. It was true; she’d been fortunate not to have been detected since returning to Rome. Yet she now resided among the rich. Her customers had mainly been the lowlifes of the city. “We all must hope that doesn’t happen, musn’t we?”

Pinna lifted her shawl to cover her head again. Genucius did not move. “You think me weak. But some believe it’s best to satisfy bodily cravings with a whore. One thing I’ll never do is fall in love with a lupa.” He glanced around him, his voice taking on a different tone. “Furius Camillus is my friend. If you love him, Lollia, spare him. He’s destined for greatness—he can’t risk a scandal.”

She froze. His pleading distressed her more than his bullying.

He strode away, not waiting for her to reply.

Pinna stared after him. His concern for Camillus shamed her. Genucius had once been one of her favorites, a good-natured talker who liked to complain about his wife after his lust had been satisfied. Now she had made him hate her. As she had Marcus. And once done to Drusus. She was like poison in a well.

She pressed her hand to her breast, her heartbeat so strong she could feel it through her bones. Would her Wolf hate her one day as well? Was it better to hurt his feelings and leave him now than expose him to public humiliation later?

Yet where would she go if not to his home? Retrace her steps to the brothel? Return to degradation? The thought of losing him terrified her. She could not live without him. She drew the shawl across to shield her face and continued to the Aventine Hill.

Her Wolf’s atrium was spacious and warm. No wind whistled through cracks in its timbers. At night, the roof hole’s cover was bound tight against the cold. The cistern was filled with clean water. She’d never lived in such comfort. Her father’s hut was humble with its earthen floors, thatch roof, and mud walls.

Camillus had bestowed all the duties of a wife upon her. She stoked the hearth fire until it burned brightly and placed the boyish statuette of the Lar on the table at meal times. Yet Pinna worried she was committing sacrilege every time she touched the effigy of the spirit who guarded her Wolf’s home. She did not wish to bring misfortune on her lover. And so she baked more salt cakes than necessary to throw into the fire to thank the Lar and the goddess of the hearth. She also did not forget honey cakes and wine for the other many household spirits. As a further precaution she hid amulets in crevices. She even hung bells in the garden to ward off evil influences.

Camillus grew impatient with her. “You know how I feel about your superstitions. The spirits are not displeased at me taking you as my concubine.”

At least she was spared living with his sons. They remained in his country villa. She’d met them briefly on the journey back to Rome. Two youths on the verge of war. It was clear they doted on their father, basking in the radiance of his smile while darting looks at her behind his back. Their hostility toward the usurper of their mother’s memory was palpable.

The majordomo and housemaid would eye her when she asked them to attend to tasks. Even the porter was snobbish. Yet she told herself she’d never been a slave. Her rough peasant vowels may have jarred after their mistress’s refined accent, but if their widower master did not look down on her, why should they?

Most disturbing, she sensed his wife all around her. The matron’s touch was present in the furnishings of the house and the routine to which her servants adhered. She could not stop herself imagining her Wolf lying with the patrician woman. And she was jealous of the pride in his voice whenever he mentioned the mother of his sons.

Still shaken by her meeting with Genucius, Pinna tried to calm herself by burnishing Camillus’s armor, polishing the bronze and leather with oil and beeswax. His prowess as a warrior was always on display. His panoply dominated one side of the atrium, together with the array of silver spears, wreaths, and enemy trophies.

Today she was nervous about making a good impression. It was the first dinner party that Camillus had held since returning to the city. There had been plenty of consultations in his study at the beginning of winter. Nobles and commoners canvassed for his vote before the elections. Pinna suspected that, beneath their pure white togas, some candidates hid dirty tactics. In the end, the aristocracy succeeded. Six patricians had been elected as consular generals, among them Medullinus and Aemilius. Her Wolf’s headaches lasted for days at hearing the result.

Taught to cook simple fare by her mother, Pinna was daunted by the prospect of organizing a banquet. She’d chosen the best cuts of meat herself and scoured the market to find fresh winter fruit. She’d also directed the porter to scrub soot from the walls, and the maid to clean the hearthstone.