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

He swept the hair from her neck and kissed the tiny curls at the nape. His mouth was warm, his lips gentle. His hand traced the curve of her spine and buttocks beneath the soft, fine wool of her chiton. She felt herself stir. Even after ten years, her husband could make her knees buckle with desire. “I want you, Bellatrix.”

She pressed his forehead to his. “Soon, Vel. The birth of our daughter was hard. I’m not yet healed. Aren’t you happy with what I can do for you in the meantime?”

He kissed her brow. “I’m sorry to be impatient.” Stepping back, he placed his hand on his sling. “And I want to be able to carry you to bed. We both have wounds that need mending.”

Caecilia smiled and clasped his hand. “It’s time to get ready to visit the Great Temple.” Then she laughed. “No more stalling. I must paint your face.”

They moved inside. Semni had finished feeding Thia and was rocking her against her shoulder to burp her. “I’ll go now, mistress.”

“Wait,” said Mastarna. “Let me hold my little princess.”

The nursemaid handed the swaddled baby to the warrior who cradled her in the crook of his uninjured arm, careful the child’s head was supported. The seven-week-old was tiny against the scarred flesh of his forearm. He bent and kissed both of the child’s cheeks, crooning. The tenderness was incongruous in such a hardened man. Caecilia had never seen Vel dote so on his sons.

Thia’s mouth curved upward.

“Look, she’s smiling, Bellatrix.”

Caecilia nodded, glancing to Semni while Mastarna’s head was bent over the babe. The women exchanged a smile. Neither would dare tell him it was more likely to be wind.

He touched the silver amulet fastened around the baby’s neck by a fine chain with the figure of the huntress Atlenta embossed upon it. It had once been Caecilia’s; now her daughter wore the talisman. He kissed Thia’s brow. “May this charm always protect you from the evil eye.”

“Come, Vel, your daughter needs to sleep.”

Reluctantly, he surrendered the infant to Semni. “Take care of my princess.” His deep, resonant voice was soft. The baby stared at him, enrapt.

Caecilia led Mastarna to his chair and sat opposite him. Dipping a brush into the red lead, she smoothed the pigment across his face. His features were rugged and scarred. She’d once thought the almond-shaped eyes of the Rasenna people strange; now all of her children except Arnth were graced with them.

She could hear a familiar clicking noise as she tended to him. He was fiddling with the two golden dice he secreted in the sinus fold of his tebenna cloak. They were his talismans. Old and worn and smooth. He would jiggle them when he was worried, the sound marking his tell. She laid the brush aside and placed her hand on his to still his fidgeting. “What troubles you?”

He stared at her for a moment but did not reply. Then he stood and smoothed his tebenna, ensuring its folds were even. “Do I look sufficiently regal?”

She frowned at his evasion. Nevertheless, she surveyed him in his regalia, thinking he was not above vanity. The purple tunic and cloak with their gold embroidery declared he was king. In Rome, a triumphing general wore such garb. The Rasennan kings who had once ruled there had introduced their subjects to the custom, a stately and elegant apparel the Romans adopted readily from the people they called the Etruscans.

Caecilia had been raised on the tales of oppression of those monarchs. How they were ousted as tyrants, and then the Republic was founded. Until she was eighteen and married into Vel’s society, she’d despised the Etruscans as her enemy. Now she gladly lived among the Rasenna.

She also rose. Smiling, she smoothed the cloth across Vel’s broad shoulders and murmured reassurance. She did not tell him that she was also apprehensive, praying that, one day, he would wear such robes in Rome’s Forum. For the goddess Nortia had given her a sign she kept secret from her husband. Her destiny was to return to her birthplace. And the only safe way to do so was as the wife of a conquering hero.

T
WO

Queen Uni towered ten feet high above Caecilia as she knelt before the goddess she’d once worshiped as the Roman Juno. The sculpted face of the terra-cotta statue was serene in the muted sunlight of the sanctum. There was no indication in the deity’s expression she could be ferocious—a warrioress greater than Caecilia could ever be. But the lightning bolt the sky goddess brandished heralded her power. Only the celestial king, Jupiter, wielded a thunderbolt in Rome.

A decade of war had taken its toll. The terra-cotta that clad the columns and roof rafters of the vast temple was cracked, the red-and-black paint fading. Caecilia hoped the immortal would not be displeased the privations of war meant her quarters were no longer pristine.

Despite the neglect of her surroundings the divinity still looked regal. The Veientanes revered her too much to disregard her person. Her goatskin was not tattered, and she wore a diadem and pectoral of gleaming gold. Rings of silver and turquoise bedecked her fingers, and her lapis eyes were deep blue.

Gazing at the divine queen’s apparel made Caecilia conscious of her own. Vel was not the only one who was uncomfortable with donning the purple. Yet she could not deny she enjoyed the feel of her fine woolen chiton, its bodice tight, revealing the curve of her breasts and defining her nipples. Its hem was a solid band of cloth of gold. Beads of amethyst and pearl encrusted her heavy purple mantle. She knew her father would hate to see her this way, dressed flagrantly instead of garbed in the modest stola of a Roman matron, wearing a crown instead of covering her head with a palla shawl.

She touched her tiara. It was exquisite. Finely beaten golden leaves overlapped each other with strands looping down beside her cheeks and ears. Its fragile beauty both captivated her and made her nervous. She did not want to be the first Veientane queen to damage it.

“How much longer are you going to pray?” growled Mastarna. “I want to get this service over and done with.” She frowned and glanced across to him. He was pacing the cell, impatient, as always, with ceremony and ritual.

Caecilia hoped the goddess would forgive him his irreverence. “We must placate and praise Queen Uni first, Vel. You don’t want to incur her disfavor.”

Nearby, Lord Tarchon was watching the king with furrowed brow. Mastarna’s oldest son was also dressed in royal colors. The prince’s good looks were in stark contrast to the craggy features of his adopted father. The bruises suffered in his last battle had healed. His face was unscarred.

In profile, Caecilia could see the straight brow and nose so distinctive of the Rasenna. His dark oval eyes were long lashed, his lips naturally curved upward as though the gods had decreed he should always look contented.

At twenty-seven, Caecilia always thought it odd a man who had just turned thirty could be her stepson. Yet there was a special friendship between them. They were more like brother and sister. And she regretted he and Vel were always at loggerheads. She wished her husband would be more approving of the young cousin he’d taken into his home to raise.

“Caecilia is right, Father. The protectress of our city must be placated before we seek a sign from her.”

Mastarna ceased pacing. “Make your devotions, then. But it’s Lady Tanchvil who must ensure all necessary invocations are made.” He looked toward the portico outside. “Where is she?”

“But I’m here, sire. I was seeing to final preparations.”

A woman emerged from the workroom at the rear of the chamber and stood beside the bronze altar table in front of the statue. She bowed to the royal couple. Caecilia rose and joined her husband.

Tall, with broad shoulders, Lady Tanchvil towered over them. Yet despite her strong frame she did not lack femininity. She wore her iron-gray hair loose to her waist, a diadem of garnets across her brow, its ribbons trailing. Her face was white with albumen, almost ghostly. Her lips were deep red with carmine. And the antimony that darkened her lashes made her black almond eyes appear like coals. “I’m sure with Queen Caecilia’s piety toward divine Uni, our godly sovereign will think favorably upon the royal family.”

The priestess’s words were kind but did not stop Caecilia from being daunted by the woman’s presence. Tanchvil’s confident bearing was born from the heritage of a noble and prestigious family. And unlike the Vestal Virgins in Rome who tended the holy flame, the hatrencu priestess had once been married to a zilath chief magistrate. Now the widow held the most holy of offices. As high priestess of the temple of Veii’s principal deity, she was second only in holiness to the king.

The fact the Sacred College had elected a woman to fill such a position astonished Caecilia. Even after living for years with the Veientanes, their ways could surprise her. Rasennan women were held in high esteem compared to their counterparts in Rome.

Caecilia thought of Tanchvil’s predecessor and wondered where he was. Artile Mastarna, Vel’s younger brother, was the man she hated most in the world. The former chief priest of Uni had tried to abduct Tas. She shivered, thinking how she could have lost her eldest son. The prophet had absconded from the city during the Battle of Blood and Hail. No word had reached them as to his whereabouts. She hoped he’d been set upon by Romans. She hoped he was dead.

The high priestess smoothed the folds of her pleated white chiton with its border of red spirals. Caecilia could smell the faint scent of rose water. The hatrencu was bathed in readiness for the ceremony. “I’m honored to be able to take the auspices today to determine if your reign will be blessed, sire.”

“Then let the omen be favorable,” muttered Mastarna. “I don’t want to start my rule with the populace nervous because the gods decide to be difficult. And I don’t like to be called ‘sire.’ ‘My lord’ will suffice.”

Tanchvil’s face registered shock. She was not familiar with the new king’s ungodliness. Caecilia rested her hand on Vel’s forearm. He was always skeptical of prophecies, a characteristic that made her uneasy.

“You are impious, my lord,” said Tanchvil.

Mastarna glowered. “No, I’m practical. You place a heavy onus on the sky goddess. She’ll need to provide a miracle to end this siege without assistance from the north. If I can’t save my people, then I’m an unworthy king.”

“At least there’s reassurance our city’s sins have been expiated,” said the hatrencu. “The last omen Lord Artile presaged was that Veii would remain safe if the traitor among us was punished. The death of King Kurvenas will have pleased our deities, given he engineered the demise of your army, the largest force in Veii.”

Mastarna raised his hands, palms outward. “If we’re going to speak of portents of doom, Lady Tanchvil, I’d rather you give your opinion about the flooding of Lake Albanus. My priestly brother claimed it was a premonition signifying the gods were unhappy with Rome but gave no reason why. Unless the Romans ascertain the expiation rites to assuage divine displeasure, Veii will never fall.” He stared pointedly at the hatrencu. “Artile said he knew what rituals needed to be performed. You’re our preeminent seer now that he’s no longer here. Have you also deciphered the meaning?”

The priestess seemed undaunted by Vel’s challenge. Caecilia was impressed. The rising of the lake in summer when there’d been no rain had posed a mystery. Especially since the brooks and river around it were dry. Lake Albanus lay in the crater of a volcano, fed by no sources other than its own. And then the water had risen to the top of its surrounding mountains and overflowed. Wreckage was left in its wake as it forged a path to the sea.

“Lord Artile stole the Rasennan Discipline when he left. It will be difficult to decipher the meaning without those sacred texts.”

“All principes are schooled in that codex. There are many copies of the Holy Books,” said Mastarna.

“He stole the only set of special volumes kept by the chief priest of Uni. There are copies in Velzna, the sacred capital. But we’re cut off from other Rasennan city-states. I can’t send for duplicates.”

Caecilia suddenly felt concern Veii no longer had the benefit of Artile’s skills. Despite her loathing for the priest, she had to concede his superior powers. He was a mighty haruspex, reading the intentions of the gods in the livers of beasts, and a fulgurator, master of divination of lightning sent from the heavens. Tanchvil had large shoes to fill.

Tarchon must have been sharing her thoughts. “Then we must pray Rome’s augurs remain ignorant of the portent’s meaning.”

Lady Tanchvil touched the gold torque fashioned as an eagle around her neck. “My Lord Mastarna, perhaps you should consider availing yourself of the protection of Tinia, king of the gods, and call down lightning upon Rome as a surety. As a fulgurator, I’ve the power to summon him.”

Goose bumps pimpled Caecilia’s arms. The thought of calling down lightning was a potent strategy. The practice was intriguing and terrifying. Unlike Roman Jupiter, Tinia could wield three thunderbolts. When he hurled down his spear of destruction, an enemy city would surely fall.

Tarchon gave a soft whistle. “Such a tactic is rarely employed. It takes great piety and discipline to coax Tinia’s approval. One must first induce the Veiled Ones to convince him.”

Vel remained silent. He glanced at Caecilia. Despite his disdain for those who sought celestial intervention, he was perturbed by the suggestion. “My time would be better spent planning the practicalities of breaking this siege,” he said, “rather than praying to a host of unseen deities. Rome will only fall with strategy and bloodshed. I’ve no time to rely on holy whim.”

Tanchvil’s eyes widened. “Again, you’re sacrilegious, my lord.”

“Perhaps, but I’d rather pray Commander Thefarie Ulthes bring relief to a starving city than hope the king of the gods might choose to strike our enemy’s wall.”

Tanchvil drew herself erect. Mastarna did not seem fazed at having to look up at a woman.

“Do you also wish to dispense with the auspices for your coronation?”

Caecilia tensed, frightened Vel would continue to act rashly. She squeezed his arm to warn him to temper his words. He frowned at his wife’s surreptitious warning.

“No, the people would fret if such a ceremony was not conducted.”

Tanchvil pursed her lips. “Then I’ll direct my acolytes to prepare. We’ll sacrifice six white cows to Uni, and I’ll determine the will of the gods.”

Tarchon walked across to the altar table and examined the ceremonial paterae dishes and pitchers of wine, the bowls of flour and sharp sacrificial knives. “I’m looking forward to seeing your skill as a haruspex, Lady Tanchvil.”

“I don’t examine the livers of animals for divination, Lord Tarchon. I’m an augur who reads patterns of flight, or listens to the call of birds.”

She clapped her strong sinewy hands. A young cepen priest entered the chamber from the workroom. Caecilia gasped to see an enormous golden eagle on his arm, head hooded, legs tethered. He settled the bird onto a stand. Tanchvil moved across to the creature, murmuring to it and stroking its wings.

“Antar is the instrument of my augury. He’s wondrous.”

The sight of the raptor, so wild and yet so docile, intrigued Caecilia. She could not wait to see how this woman would predict the future from the journey of this most majestic of birds.

Absorbed in studying the eagle, it took a moment for the queen to notice the female acolyte who had entered the room carrying a shallow patera of oil. There was something familiar about her, with her ringlets of black hair. The girl kept her head lowered, avoiding her gaze. Caecilia blinked as she recognized her. It was Aricia, her maid Cytheris’s daughter. She’d tried to help Artile abduct Tas. All believed she’d escaped with the priest. Clearly she’d suffered her own type of betrayal. Caecilia stiffened, anger welling in her, her hands shaking. She was about to accost the girl, but before she could say anything Tanchvil gave the acolyte an order. Aricia limped back into the workroom.

Caecilia wanted to challenge the high priestess about her novice, but Mastarna extended his arm to her, distracting her. “It’s time to meet our people.”

The queen nodded. There would be time later to make inquiries about Aricia. Swallowing her nerves, she walked to the portico and down into the sanctuary. A crowd had assembled around the podium and altar. A crowd who’d always resented her.

The eagle rested on the gauntlet covering Tanchvil’s forearm. Caecilia sensed the creature’s power—how his talons gripped the leather, the cruel curved beak, and the potential of his folded wings. It was the bird of Tinia, king of the gods. In Rome, Jupiter held it dear. The raptor could ascend above the storm and carry the soul of the mighty into the presence of the divine. Today, the priestess would send him forth to become the messenger of the gods.

Antar shifted, causing the holy woman to brace herself to bear his weight. The bells on his hood jingled. He was impatient to be free.

Tanchvil carefully removed the hood. The eagle’s head and breast were flecked with gold, his dark plumage shiny. If he chose to flap his enormous wings he could break free even before his mistress had loosened the leather restraints. And what was to prevent him from turning and ripping her face with his beak?