Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (37 page)

Vel laid the eagle scepter on the altar and knelt on an embroidered cushion, extending his palm to her. “Come join me, Bellatrix. We will do this together.”

“My lord, you must make the prayers of expiation by yourself first,” cautioned Tanchvil.

“I wish my wife by my side. She’ll prove once and for all she has renounced her birthplace and seeks its destruction. It will be powerful proof to Queen Uni that Aemilia Caeciliana is faithful to her, and to Veii.”

The high priestess bowed her head. “Let it be.”

Caecilia knelt beside him, craning her neck to look up at the goddess.

Tanchvil handed Vel a patera of milk. “Begin, my lord.”

The king of Veii lifted the dish high in offering. His voice was deep, loud, and clear. “O Divine Uni. Queen of queens. Mother of Veii. Hear my prayers. I humbly offer the milk of life in expiation. Forgive me for my neglect. I beseech you to protect your people. And if you are so willing, I implore you to bless my quest to ask Tinia to call down lightning on Rome.”

F
IFTY
-T
HREE

Marcus, Veii, Summer, 396 BC

Lark would soon exchange places with nightingale as Marcus and his cavalry assembled in the quarry under the cover of night. The dark hour before cockcrow was stifling.

All one hundred men knew their orders: Climb the shaft and break into the temple. Make their way to the top and bottom double Gates of Uni and overcome the sentries. Attack the palace and capture the royal family.

Marcus hoped no sentinel on the arx had acute enough eyesight to spy his brigade. They could not risk using torches. Only the light of the quarter moon illuminated the area.

His knights were not the only men waiting in the dark. To the west, north, and east, units of soldiers were assembled in tunnels ready to erupt through the drains into the heart of the city. To further hide the ruse, Camillus had ordered a simultaneous attack to be launched on the wall around the plateau. Marcus imagined bewildered citizens running to defend the gates, puzzled by the reckless assault when not a single Roman soldier had moved from his post for days. The barrage of noise and confusion as hoplites hurled grappling hooks, or thudded ladders against tufa stone, would divert attention from the imminent danger within.

As Marcus waited for the signal, he realized the blood debt claimed by Mastarna would now need to be repaid. Yet it was an impossible request. How could he seek clemency for Caecilia? And he tried not to think what might happen to their doomed sons and daughter. He hoped the general would only consider enslavement.

At least one child would be spared. Artile’s wheedling voice had grated on the tribune’s nerves as the Etruscan once again implored Camillus to give him Mastarna’s firstborn. The uncle had shown no concern for the fate of the other children. He’d also called for the death of the high priestess of Uni. He wanted no rival surviving to convince the goddess to remain in Veii.

The men were growing restless, keyed up with anticipation. Marcus doubted any of them had slept more than a few short hours. The soldiers immediately behind him were the twenty Horse Shield heroes. Marcus had named Drusus as his second-in-command. Tatius showed no rancor at being passed over.

Still no signal. Once again Marcus contemplated the day ahead. Camillus’s voice had been calm and heartless as he’d issued his other commands. No man was to be spared. Women and children were to be captured, or killed if they resisted. The palace, mansions, and public offices could be ransacked but not burned. All other buildings could be torched. Temples were to remain intact so the gods could be appeased before holy treasures were claimed. And most important of all, Juno’s temple must go unscathed.

In the sweltering heat, Marcus grappled with his conscience in the face of such orders. He never thought the day would come when he’d be ordered to commit mass slaughter of unarmed people. There was little comfort knowing he’d bear no responsibility for his actions. He would be obeying orders.

Drusus whispered, “How does it feel to know you’ll wear the mural crown tomorrow?”

Marcus frowned, keeping his voice low, aware he was breaching his own command to be silent. “It’s not an honor I’ll earn. I won’t be scaling the wall of a besieged fortress.”

“Whether over the wall or through a tunnel, you’ll be the first to set foot into the stronghold.”

Marcus’s temper flared. “Now isn’t the time for your envy.”

The Claudian stiffened. “I’m just stating a fact.”

“And I’ve preferred you over Tatius, even though he was more deserving. Now shut up.”

Drusus fell silent. Marcus was sorry for his terseness. Yet for weeks he’d mulled over Mastarna’s accusation. Little by little, he’d come to the conclusion Drusus may well have acted dishonorably. “Remember the general’s orders,” he murmured. “Forget your curse. Take Mastarna alive. Rome will exact retribution, not you.”

Drusus fingers dug into Marcus’s bicep. “I know my duty.”

“Get your hand off me.”

An owl hooted. The prearranged signal.

Marcus steadied himself. Drusus squeezed his arm again, no anger in his touch. “May Mars be with you, Brother.”

“And with you, Brother. Now convey the order. It’s time to go.”

T
he entrance to the tunnel yawned before him. Marcus willed himself to step into the pitch black, the snaking line of men behind him. Crouching, he moved forward, reaching out to touch the walls on either side of the mine. He felt pick marks hewn into the surface. The smell of stone and dirt was strong. He thought the
air would be suffocating, but the temperature was even. He heard grunts as some of the men hit their heads on the low roof. Sounds were amplified in the enclosed space: shuffling boots, swords knocking against rock. The stink of sweat, rich with apprehension and excitement, soon filled his nostrils.

The passage narrowed, the roof sloping downward. Marcus got down on his hands and knees. There was no turning back now. He was hemmed in by men at his back and the darkness beyond. If one man froze in fear, or lashed out in panic, there would be chaos.

“We’re nearly there,” said Drusus. “The sap narrows before it opens to the drain.”

There was a breeze. Marcus eased forward into the low-roofed overhang at the base of the cliff. He gulped in air, relieved to be free of the tunnel. Stooping, he scanned around him. He could hear the sound of the river beyond and see dim gray light at the entrance. The sun was rising. There was no time to waste. Drusus and Tatius joined him in the rock gallery, the others forced to wait their turn.

Drusus nudged him. “The opening to the temple shaft is here.”

Fresh sweat broke out on Marcus’s brow. He was standing beneath the very citadel itself. He peered up into a small rectangular aperture in the cave roof. Rough wooden rungs were hammered into the rock and disappeared into the gloom above. There was barely enough room to allow for the breadth of a man’s shoulders. He swung his balteus over his neck so his sword dangled down his chest. He could not afford for the weapon to scrape against the side as he ascended. He hauled himself onto the bottom rung, forcing himself to reach his hand upward, then his foot, over and over into the blackness. He prayed he would not get stuck, encased in a vertical tufa tomb.

The climb seemed endless. His hands were dripping with perspiration, his tunic saturated. He was nervous that one of the rungs would break, sending him crashing into the men below. He could hear them panting with exertion, or muttering curses.

Suddenly his hand touched a smooth timber surface. The trap door. His heart thumped, blood pulsing in his temples. “I’ve reached the top. Wait for my command.”

As he shifted his balteus back over his shoulder, Marcus heard muffled conversation above him: the unmistakable bass voice of Vel Mastarna as well as feminine tones. Caecilia.

He froze. He would be the one to capture her. He would be the one to subdue the king.

“What’s happening?” murmured Drusus.

His words cut through Marcus’s shock. He focused again. His plans needed to change. He doubted Mastarna would be armed, given he was in the temple. Still, it would take more than one man to overcome him.

He leaned over and whispered to Drusus and Tatius. “The king and queen are in the temple, so Mastarna’s lictors will be close by. Tatius, you and your men attack the bodyguards and help me detain Mastarna. Drusus, you lead the other knights to the gates as planned. Be as stealthy as possible. Once we have secured the prisoners, Tatius and I will lead our turma to attack the palace. Spread the message. And remind everyone that those in purple must be spared.”

“Let me take Mastarna,” said Drusus.

“Don’t question my orders.”

The shaft buzzed with the murmuring of his commands as the message passed from the lips of one soldier to the next.

Balancing on the last rung, Marcus took a deep breath, then pressed his palms against the trap door and shoved it open.

For a moment he was blinded by light. The back of the statue loomed above him. He blinked, trying to rid his vision of the seared image of the goddess flashing before his eyes. He scrambled into the room and drew his sword, scanning for lictors, especially the tattooed Arruns. No bodyguards were visible. He could not see Mastarna, but he heard his voice coming from in front of the enormous statue.

A scream startled him. He twisted around to see a woman with a long, trailing plait holding a baby. Her eyes were wide in shock.

He was distracted again by the rasping cry of a bird. To his astonishment, an eagle rose above him, flapping its great gold-tipped wings. A tall, gray-haired woman called, trying to calm it. She dropped the bronze patera she was holding when she saw the reason for the raptor’s alarm. Marcus felt a swoosh of air as the eagle beat upward in the high chamber, then swooped through the open doors to freedom.

Drusus bumped into him. Marcus stood aside, letting the men disgorge from the shaft. One by one the Romans swarmed into the temple.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of purple. Tarchon charged toward him, brandishing a wall torch. Marcus swerved, avoiding the flame. With a roar, the prince raised the brand again, sweeping it in an arc, then stabbed at the Roman, trying to set him alight. Marcus parried the makeshift weapon with his sword, knocking it from the Etruscan’s hand.

Tarchon stared at him, expecting a death blow. Marcus slammed his fist into his stomach instead. As the prince doubled over, the tribune cracked him on the head with the hilt. Tarchon collapsed, his head thudding against the floor. He lay motionless.

Fists pummeled Marcus’s back. He turned to find Sethre Kurvenas. He hesitated, reluctant to harm him. Before he could retaliate, though, a knight stepped behind the young noble and thrust his blade through his back. The youth slumped to the ground beside his lover, eyes vacant, blood pooling around him.

“You didn’t need to kill him,” he barked. “He was unarmed.”

“I thought the order was to spare none other than those in purple.”

Marcus grimaced, then gestured toward Tarchon. “Tie him up. He’ll wake soon enough.”

The baby was shrieking. Marcus glanced across to the woman with the child. She was cowering in a corner, dumb with fear. He frowned when he noticed the purple hue of the infant’s clothes.

“Stop, please stop!”

It was Caecilia’s voice.

Taking a deep breath, Marcus tightened the grip on his sword and headed around the statue, ready to capture the monarchs of Veii.

F
IFTY
-F
OUR

Caecilia, Veii, Summer, 396 BC

Cytheris’s scream was piercing.

Antar spread his wings, rising in raucous alarm.

Startled, Caecilia clutched Vel’s arm, sending his patera clattering to the floor, milk splashing.

Terror overtook confusion. Thudding footsteps. A blur of armored men. It took a moment to realize they were speaking Latin. The eagle flapped overhead. Tarchon yelled. Panic clawed her chest when she heard Thia’s cry, but shock paralyzed her.

Then, like some grotesque apparition, mouth wide with his roar, Claudius Drusus rounded the altar, sword held high.

Stunned, Vel took too long to react before beginning to rise. Hampered by his tebenna cloak, he changed his mind, launching himself at Drusus. The crown fell from his head, crashing to the floor and rolling away, as he tackled the Roman around the knees.

Drusus fell backward. Mastarna threw himself on top of him, punching his face. Blood spurted from the Roman’s broken nose but he wasn’t deterred. He grappled with the king, thrashing and bucking until he dislodged him. Then, scrambling to his feet, Drusus kicked Mastarna’s right upper arm as Vel again tried to stand, his heavy cloak tangled around him. Before his rival could rise, the knight gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands and plunged the blade between Mastarna’s neck and shoulder. Vel uttered a soft moan as the point tore through cartilage and muscle into his rib cage to pierce his heart. He toppled to the side, his body thudding on the tiles.

Dumbstruck, Caecilia watched Drusus retract his sword through her husband’s flesh. Blood gushed out, spattering the floor, splattering her skirts. The murderer stood over his victim, his chest heaving.

A dry sob bruised her throat as she crawled over to Vel, trying to prop him up, but his weight was too heavy. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” She shook him, trying to rouse him. Then, more frenzied, she gripped his blood-soaked tebenna, her hands reddening as she clenched the purple cloth.

Drusus grasped her shoulder and wrenched her away. His eyes roved over her, his breath ragged. She’d forgotten how tall and lean he was. Another wolf. She could tell there was something broken inside him. He shook her. “He’s made you into a harlot!”

Suddenly another soldier stopped beside him, shoving him in the back. “You weren’t supposed to kill the king.”

Drusus twisted around. “Lead the men to the gates, Tatius. I’ve unfinished business here.”

As the two knights argued, Caecilia tended to Vel. She cupped his face, kissing him. She said his name over and over, calling him back to her. From the corner of her eye, she saw the soldier called Tatius leave.

Drusus yanked her away and raised his weapon again. “Get off. It’s time for retribution. Your husband will be a headless ghost.”

Risking the downward arc of the sword, she threw herself onto Vel, covering his body with hers, hugging him tight. “No!”

Drusus jerked her shoulder but she clung on. He dug his fingers into her flesh. She felt her muscles tear, but she held fast, ignoring the pain, desperate to protect her husband. “Stop, please stop!”

She shrieked as he increased the pressure on her shoulder. She felt herself giving way. Then he let go as someone barreled into him, sending him sprawling.

“I told you not to kill him!”

She drew back. Marcus was standing over Drusus. The last time she’d seen him had been from the distance of the wall. Now, inches from him, she was struck by his size. A broad-shouldered killer. Once again, she clung to Vel, willing him to be alive. “He’s a coward, Marcus. He’s slain a king while in prayer. Now he seeks to mutilate him.”

Drusus lumbered to his feet. “I swore I’d kill him, and I have.”

Marcus growled. “It’s bad enough you’ve disobeyed orders. Do you want to deliver Mastarna to Camillus in pieces?”

Drusus pointed at Caecilia with his sword. Blood dripped from his nose, mouth, and chin, the neck of his tunic saturated with it, his arms slick with sweat. “Look at her painted face and whorish clothes. He did that to her! I intend to make my curse come true.” He took a step forward, blade poised to hack at Vel. Marcus blocked him.

“Leave him alone!”

“Get out of my way!”

Drusus pointed his weapon at Marcus. “You think you’re better than me. But I won’t be ordered around by you.” He thrust at the tribune with his sword. Marcus grunted in surprise but parried the blow. His skill only enraged Drusus, who charged. Metal clanged and grated. Caecilia stared in bewilderment. She thought they were lifelong friends.

Through her shock, she heard Thia. The baby was hysterical. She looked beyond the edge of the statue to the back corner of the chamber. White faced, Cytheris tried to hold fast the wriggling child whose arms were outstretched to her mother.

Terrified to leave Vel, she called to Thia to stay with Cytheris. The maid nodded, stricken, as she cast glances between the queen and toward the workroom where her own daughter might lie dead. In a fresh rush of panic, Caecilia realized her sons were also in danger at the palace.

She returned her attention to the dueling soldiers. Marcus had gained the advantage, driving his friend back to one of the bronze doors with unrelenting blows. Then he stopped, panting. “By Great Mars, yield. I don’t want to kill you.”

The Claudian’s eyes were manic. He yelled and lunged. Marcus feinted to the side. Then, as his attacker readjusted his aim, Marcus drove his sword into Drusus’s armpit to his heart.

Drusus’s weapon slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor. He crumpled to his knees. Marcus dropped his sword and knelt, hugging him, holding him upright. The dead man’s head flopped forward against his shoulder, his arms limp. Marcus lowered him to the floor. Then he knelt beside him, letting out a moan as agonized as a wounded animal’s.

Caecilia rolled off Vel and sat cross-legged behind him, lifting his head onto her lap. She felt no pity for either her cousin or Drusus. She hissed at Marcus. “I thank the gods you stopped him.”

“You mean ‘killed him.’”

She nodded, defiant. “Yes. For killing him.”

“You destroyed him long before I wielded the death blow.”

She was astounded. “Why? There was nothing between us.”

“For you, yes, but he loved you.”

She was stung. How dare he blame her for the torment of a man who’d killed Vel. “I’m not responsible for his delusion. Nor for his cowardice!”

Marcus opened his mouth to speak but was distracted by the bucktoothed knight who’d accosted Drusus earlier. The soldier’s surprise passed quickly enough at seeing his commander beside his dead friend. He placed his hand on the tribune’s shoulder, his tone deferential. “I saw Claudius Drusus kill the king, sir. He disobeyed orders. Wait until General Camillus hears Mastarna is dead.”

Marcus grimaced. “I shouldn’t have killed Drusus. But he lost his senses. He attacked me.”

“You did him a favor, sir. A cudgeling awaited him.” He glared at Caecilia. “The general made it clear not to kill the king—or
her
.”

Tatius’s insult galvanized Marcus. He stood and scanned the group of soldiers. “Are the lictors dead?”

“Yes. There were only twelve of them, though. The others must be at the palace. All the priests are dead, too.”

“And the two turmae Drusus was supposed to lead to the gates?”

“Every man acted as per your command. I sent them ahead. The infantry should be pouring through the Gates of Uni soon enough. Now we await your orders.”

Caecilia was stunned. “But how? How have you breached our walls?”

“Through the drains. And once inside, our men will open the gates around the city to our comrades outside.”

Her stomach lurched. There would be no place for citizens to retreat. The citadel fortress was no longer a refuge.

Marcus turned back to Tatius. She was chilled by her cousin’s sanguine calm. Drusus was forgotten. His mind was on fresh butchery. “Leave five of the Horse Shield squadron with me to guard the sanctuary. I’ll hold Caecilia here. The rest of your men attack the palace as planned. Make sure you secure the treasury. And find the princes. Now go!”

The clawing within Caecilia’s chest was excruciating. “Please, Marcus! Don’t let them kill my sons!”

He snapped at her. “You heard. There are orders to spare your family.”

Her relief was fleeting. The boys would wake to sunlight and terror. And she was not there to protect them. Then her anxiety peaked again. “Are they only to be saved so Camillus can execute them at his triumph?”

Marcus flinched. “I don’t know what the general has determined for your children. I only know the fate that awaits you.”

She sucked in her breath, his bluntness reminding her how much he hated her. Shaken, she watched Tatius single out five soldiers to remain behind. Then the officer saluted Marcus and led the other knights from the temple.

“I’ll be back,” said Marcus to her. “I’m going to check the precincts.” He signaled his men to go outside to the portico. He delayed following immediately, though, and instead kneeled again beside Drusus, belatedly placing his mouth on the dead man’s in the hope of breathing in his soul. The kiss lasted longer than customary. The gesture puzzled Caecilia, as did Marcus’s expression. There was a look of sorrowful love as well as regret.

Thia’s howling had been reduced to whining. Cytheris held the baby against her shoulder, tears streaming down her face. Caecilia beckoned to her. The maid rose on shaking legs, stumbling over to the queen and sinking down beside her. She handed her the princess. “I’m going to see if Aricia is alive.”

Caecilia clasped Thia, kissing her wet cheeks. Her daughter clung to her for a moment but then reached one hand down toward Vel. Not wanting the babe to be smeared with her father’s blood, Caecilia shifted her higher. A fresh wave of disbelief and loss overwhelmed her. Thia wailed, “Apa, Apa.” Realizing her own bloodied hands had already stained the child, Caecilia lowered the baby to the floor. Thia put her arm around Vel’s neck, her cheek against his. When he did not respond, she chattered to him, tugging one of the bullas on his neck chain.

“Hush. Apa is sleeping.” Caecilia guided Thia to lie down next to her. The baby placed her head on her mother’s thigh, her hand stretched out to touch her father’s hair. Tears welled, but Caecilia fought them back. She needed to draw on hatred until she also held her sons in her arms.

She scanned the chamber. The statue obscured her view of the back of the room. What had happened to Tarchon and Sethre? There was no sign of Tanchvil either. She suspected only the eagle had escaped unscathed.

Cytheris appeared, expression confused. “Aricia is not in the workroom.”

Caecilia gripped Cytheris’s hand. “The secret passageway. She must have used it. Thank the gods, she may yet be safe. But what of Tarchon and Sethre?”

The handmaid sat on the floor next to her. “The prince is unconscious. They’ve tied his hands and feet. Sethre is dead. And I saw Lady Tanchvil run out of the chamber when the eagle flew away.”

Caecilia murmured a prayer that Tarchon was alive, although she wondered if he’d welcome waking to grief. Perhaps Sethre had been the luckier of the lovers to have died first. She gazed down at Vel, thinking the same of him. She felt as though a knife were slicing her insides. She closed his eyelids and kissed them. Then, in an echo of Marcus’s gesture, she placed her mouth upon Vel’s to catch his soul to release it. His lips were soft, no cooler than if she’d greeted him on a winter’s day. She prayed she’d feel his spirit enter and spread through her like a balm. She felt nothing. He was already on his journey to the Beyond.

Her cry was raw and anguished. She closed her eyes, wishing she were dead. Cytheris shuffled close, placing an arm around her shoulders, saying nothing, knowing words were useless.

Thia stood and looped her arms around Caecilia’s neck. Her trembling warmth reminded the mother that she must cease her keening.

The short, frantic blasts of a siren startled her. A pathetic warning signal. Caecilia’s nerves jangled as she heard the Roman war cry and the bloodcurdling screams of women. The hoplites must have reached the forum. The cacophony of slaughter had begun.