Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (39 page)

F
IFTY
-S
EVEN

Semni, Veii, Summer, 396 BC

Arruns removed his hand from Semni’s mouth and moved into the cellar’s doorway. She hesitated, scared to look inside but needing to check if Nerie was safe.

A Roman was straddling Perca, his back to the door, his hairy rump pale. He grunted with each thrust. The girl was struggling and begging.

Another soldier was raping Hathli, one hand around her throat. She was silent and unresisting. One of her arms appeared crooked and broken. The slap mark on her cheek was crimson.

Semni tore her attention away, scanning the room for the children, expecting them to be cowering in a corner, or worse, lying dead. She was confused to see no sign of them.

Arruns raised his dagger and threw it at the soldier who was holding Hathli down. It pierced the man’s temple, driving into his brain. He slumped over his victim. Before Perca’s assailant could react, the lictor sprinted across the room and stood behind the rapist, jerking and twisting his head until his neck cracked. He wrenched him to the side before the man could fall on the girl.

Semni ran and hugged her. Perca clung to her, unable to speak. Arruns dragged the Roman off Hathli. She lay motionless. Bile surged in Semni’s gorge as she realized the wet nurse was dead, choke marks reddening her throat. The bastard had killed her as he violated her and then kept going.

In a spark of rage, Arruns kicked the dead man on the jaw. Then he focused on Perca, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Where are the children?”

The girl’s chest heaved. “A pithos. Hathli made them hide in one while we waited for you.”

Semni scanned the room of sunken containers. The day of the game of hide-and-seek returned.

Arruns glanced toward the corridor. “Close the door, then find the boys while I break open the hatch.”

She eased the door shut and then raced to the pithos in which the boys had once hidden. Its lid was sealed. Her heart sank. Which one were they in? Then she noticed the ladder propped up next to a container in the back corner. She ran to the pot, rapping on its side, relieved to hear it was empty. “Tas, are you in there?”

A muffled voice replied.

She climbed the ladder and peered inside. Four sets of eyes stared up at her. Nerie stretched his arms and called to her from the depths. At his plaintive cries, the others erupted into a chorus of anxiety.

“Arruns,” she hissed. “I need your help.”

He was levering the first board with the iron bar. The wood splintered, the nails popping and flying outward. The plank thudded to the floor. Hearing her plea, he strode over, stepping onto the ladder, then leaning over to extend his hand down into the pot. One by one, each boy clung to the lictor’s arm like a monkey, then dropped to the floor. Nerie was last. His father pulled him out, then tucked the toddler under his arm before backing down the rungs. The blond child reached for his mother, his grip so fierce around her neck she thought he would strangle her. Larce and Arnth clutched her skirts, eyes brimming with tears. Tas huddled close. He was dry eyed but fretful. Semni placed a hand on his shoulder. “Well done, Tas. That was brave of you.”

He did not reply, his attention straying toward the front of the room where Perca and Hathli lay.

Semni pressed the younger brothers’ faces against her legs, shielding them from the disturbing view. How much had the children heard? How terrified they must have been as they cowered in the dark pithos.

“I heard Hathli trying to stop them hurting Perca,” said Tas.

She stroked his hair. “And now we all have to be as courageous as her, little master.” She herded the boys over to Arruns, pointing at the Medusa’s face that the lictor had now uncovered. Semni had forgotten the blankness of the gorgon’s eyes and her gaping, cruel-lipped mouth.

Arruns hefted the bar again and prized off the second board. Then he raised the metal rod high, ready to smash through the terra-cotta, but Tas stepped forward, releasing the hidden clasp with one finger. The hinge creaked open. The dark void beyond was revealed. Semni shuddered, remembering the vanth.

“I’m scared to go in there,” said Larce. “It’s too dark.”

Arruns pointed to the workbench. “Semni, get the lamp. I’ll get a wall torch from the corridor.”

All of them froze at the sound of footsteps thudding along the passageway. To their relief, no Romans crashed through the cellar door. Arruns darted into the hallway to retrieve a brand.

Lighting the lamp, he handed it and the torch to Tas once the boy had clambered through the hatch. His brothers followed. Arruns lifted Nerie across to them.

Semni looked around, realizing Perca had not moved. She hurried toward her.

The nursemaid sat dumb, staring at Hathli. Virginal blood stained the thirteen-year-old’s lap. A fresh wave of pity surged through Semni. She leaned down and clasped the girl’s elbow. “Come,” she urged. “Hathli has gone to the Beyond. There’s nothing more we can do for her. We need to hurry.”

Perca rose, moaning in pain, and hobbled to the hatch. As Semni turned to follow her, she noticed a sack lying next to the pithos near the dead Romans. She picked it up and opened it, gasping as she recognized a jumble of the queen’s amber beads, pearls, gold earrings, and bangles. Semni stared at the plunder, undecided what to do.

Impatient, Arruns joined her. “Take what you can. We’ll need money to pay our way to safety.”

“But they’re Lady Caecilia’s.”

“Do you think she’ll ever have need for them again?”

She flinched at his practicality, ruing that he spoke the truth. Pushing aside thoughts of her thievery, she shoved a handful of necklaces and bangles down the front of her chiton, tightening the sash around her waist to hold them secure.

Arruns ducked his head and stepped inside the secret room, offering his hand to help her through. The catch clicked. The torch and lamp flickered in the blackness. All of them were now in the lair of the vanth.

There were shouts as Romans broke into the storeroom. Their conversation sounded puzzled to find their comrades dead. One stopped outside the portal. Semni prayed he could not hear them breathing through the terra-cotta. She heard the word “Medusa” in a cautious tone, then retreating footsteps. The gorgon had warded off evil after all.

Semni felt the eyes of the vanth staring at her in the darkness. Tas raised the lamp. The demoness loomed, the pile of burned bricks beneath her. As Arruns raised the torch, Semni noticed a flicker of apprehension.

Tas swung around to face the opposite wall. “There’s the passageway to the temple.”

Semni was relieved to see only a few nails were loosely hammered into the second terra-cotta Medusa. The carpenters must have lost their nerve when it came to working in the cursed room. Arruns gave her the torch and began forcing the hatch door open with his dagger.

Suddenly she realized their fate was in an eight-year-old’s hands. Tas’s prior stealth and disobedience were now going to help them. But could the boy navigate the tunnel system to lead them to safety? And what purpose would be served in reaching the temple? The sanctum must be occupied by now. Lord Mastarna would not be in a position to help anyone.

Sharp, loud knocking on the other side of the cover startled her. Perca screamed. The children babbled in terror.

The rapping grew frantic. “It’s me, Aricia! Let me in!”

The door was wrenched open. The acolyte was on her knees in the passageway, her lamp burning low in front of her.

The novitiate crawled into the vanth’s room. “I was trying to come and warn you but the way was barred.”

Tas threw himself at her, hugging her. “Where are Apa and Ati?”

Aricia drew away and clasped Tas’s hand. “I don’t know what happened to your parents, my pet. The Romans climbed into the temple through the shaft beneath Uni’s statue. I was in the workroom. I escaped through the tunnel.”

“Then they are dead.”

“Is Ati dead?” Larce wailed.

“Enough,” said Arruns, cutting off hysteria. “Aricia says she doesn’t know. But your father is a great warrior. He would expect you all to be valiant.” He turned to the girl. “Do you know any other way to escape the citadel?”

Aricia nodded. “Follow me to the Great Gallery. Keep one hand on the shoulder of the one in front of you. Be careful, the floor will slant downward as we move underground.”

The human chain began its journey. Giving the torch to Arruns, Semni murmured a prayer, knowing her own courage was also being tested as she followed in Aricia’s wake. She thought she would have to crawl; instead there was room enough for her to walk with her head bowed. She held Nerie’s shoulder as he toddled in front of her.

The flames wavered, a draft catching them. Semni stepped into a large circular cavern and joined the boys in a semicircle around Aricia. She scanned the rock walls. There were entrances to other tunnels with different symbols above them. Tas pointed to two of them. “That one leads to the temple, and that one to our old house.”

Aricia moved to the far side of the cavern and crouched. Her lantern revealed a rectangular opening in the floor. “This shaft leads to the bottom of the arx on the eastern side. From there we can access the river.”

Semni shivered as she peered into the hole. There were wooden rungs inserted into niches in the sides. She could not see to the bottom. They would have to descend into pitch black by touch of fingers and toes. “How do you know that’s where it leads?”

“Because Lord Artile told me.”

Arruns edged next to her and gazed into the hole. Sweat streamed down his face. “How far down?”

“Perhaps a hundred feet.”

“It’s narrow.”

Aricia studied his broad shoulders. “You’ll fit.”

He was hesitant. “How old is this shaft? Could any of the rungs be rotten? What happens if one breaks because I’m too heavy? ”

Aricia rose, grimacing. “I don’t know its age. And I don’t know if it’s safe. But what choice do we have? We’ll have to risk it.” She placed the lamp on the floor. “I’ll need both my hands free to climb down and check.”

She backed down into the hole. Soon, the black ringleted head vanished. They waited, all peering into the shaft, heads touching. And then they heard a faint voice from below. “The rungs are sturdy.”

Sweat dripping from Arrun’s chin, he hoisted Nerie onto his shoulders. Semni placed her hand on his forearm, aware he was anxious about descending into the maw. “I’ll go before you if you want.”

“No, I will. You go after Perca and the boys.”

He stepped into the hole. Nerie gripped his forehead, whimpering as he disappeared from her sight.

Arnth pushed forward. “Me first.”

Larce stood silent, not wanting to compete. Tas thrust out his chest. “I’ll go first. I’m heir to the House of Mastarna. Apa would expect it.”

Semni gestured to Perca as soon as all three princes had begun their descent. “Your turn.”

She shook her head, weeping again. “I can’t. I’m scared. I’m hurt.”

Semni placed her hand on her shoulder. “Come, I’ll be right behind you,” she cajoled. “You don’t want to be left here in the dark, do you? Why don’t you whistle?”

Shaking, the girl edged into the shaft, emitting the tremulous, low-pitched noise.

Semni took one last look at the cavern. The torch had gone out; Aricia’s was guttering, the lantern barely illuminating the stone floor. A sense of suffocation surged in her at the thought of being confined in blackness and stone. Then she reminded herself that Nerie was waiting for her. She slowed her breathing and edged her foot down onto the wooden rung, willing herself to reach for the next, and the next, and the next.

F
IFTY
-E
IGHT

Marcus, Veii, Summer, 396 BC

Marcus strode from the portico into the temple precincts past its enormous podium and altar. He avoided checking the fire pit where Vel Mastarna’s body burned. He needed no reminder of what he’d done. He found himself unable to control his trembling hands, rage and bitterness surging in him. He couldn’t believe how Caecilia had caused his world to splinter.

The moment of Drusus’s death was seared into his memory. If not for her, his friend wouldn’t have been consumed with rage; if not for her, Drusus would never have disobeyed orders; if not for her, Drusus wouldn’t have attacked him. And now he was dead. And he was his murderer.

Repaying the blood debt also fueled his anguish. The image of her begging for mercy for her husband wouldn’t leave him. Blood staining her tight-clinging dress, face painted. Arrayed in purple. Decked with gold. A queenly whore.

A voice inside him told him to leave Mastarna to his fate. That he was risking his career for the sake of a cousin who’d caused him to slay his friend. And yet his integrity drove him to honor the pledge. Pity also for her anxiety for her children. Nevertheless, as Marcus bade his knights to open the sanctuary gates, he found himself angry that she’d pricked his conscience. He’d never thought of her sons as his cousins. Yet he didn’t want the blood of innocent kin on his hands. And the threat of them being trapped by fire didn’t concern him as much as soldiers who might forget their orders in their rampage.

As he strode into the forum, he was confronted by Romans dealing death to the defenseless. He was tempted to head to the Gates of Uni and run down the hill to fight the Veientane troops. He wanted to slay soldiers, not civilians. Instead he steeled himself to continue to the palace, knowing he needed to check on the progress of his knights.

Soldiers were swarming through the marketplace and broad avenues, dispersing onto side streets. The Veientanes fled before them, shrieking. The shouting of the Romans added to the din as they felled their victims. Corpses were strewn across the cobbles, blood streaming into the gutters. Despite being inured to the brutality of the battlefield, Marcus felt queasy that none of the dead men wore armor.

Women were dragged into the streets, their fingernails bloody as they scrabbled against the pectorals of their rapists. Soldiers were quarrelling over those who were fairest, impatient to take their turn. Richly appareled ladies were stripped of their jewelry, rings wrenched off their fingers, and gold chains torn from their throats. Children wailed as they watched their mothers being ravaged.

One hoplite pointed his spear at a baby boy crawling in the gutter. Marcus broke into a run, grabbing the butt before the man could stab downward. Then he shoved the man to the ground. The hoplite scrambled to his feet, belligerent, until he saw it was a tribune who’d pushed him.

“Concentrate on the men. There’s no glory in skewering babies.”

The man reddened and moved on. Marcus lifted the child and handed him to the mother, who clutched the boy to her breast and fled into an alleyway. Marcus tried not to think about their fate.

The sound of whinnying horses startled him. He turned to see the animals running loose, their panic adding to the fray.

A missile whizzed past his head. A woman had clambered onto a shop and was throwing tiles. As Marcus moved out of range, he scanned the roof ridges, noticing others doing the same. They were brave but doomed. Their aeries would soon be aflame.

Smarter, more experienced hoplites were concentrating on pillage. They emerged from the houses, bulging sacks thrown over their shoulders. A fight broke out as two of them squabbled over their haul. Marcus wondered how many Romans would be injured today by a comrade’s blade.

The palace dwarfed all other buildings in the forum. Marcus had been stunned at the magnificence of the Great Temple, but it paled in comparison to the regal residence. He ascended the wide steps, trying not to gawk like a country yokel.

Once inside, he took stock. There were no hysterical shrieks or shouts echoing through the massive courtyard, only the sound of misery. The wounded sat groaning. Women sobbed as they cradled the dead. A girl huddled naked in a corner, rocking and blubbering, while a group of soldiers argued over a slave boy with a sweet face. The floor was littered with dead courtiers and servants. Palace guards and lictors also lay killed, their livery torn and bloodied, hapless protectors who’d never imagined fighting a foe in the luxury of the royal halls. Marcus scanned for children, relieved when he saw none.

He peered into a chamber flanked by two tall bronze doors, amazed to find an even larger room beyond. His eyes widened at the sight of a golden throne with a bull’s head crest. Tatius emerged and saluted. “I’ve assigned one unit to secure the treasury, sir. All the palace guards are dead. We’ve killed eleven lictors, too.”

“No need to guess. The tattooed henchman is missing?”

Tatius nodded. “No sign of him.”

“And the princes?”

“Not found as yet, but some of my men are still searching. What are your orders?”

“Head down the hill. There are armies stationed in this city. Veii won’t be conquered until they are vanquished.”

Tatius grimaced. “There’ll be complaints that they’ll miss out on the best pickings. The infantry have flooded this place now.”

Marcus glowered at him. “I’m sure the general won’t let any patrician knight suffer who puts duty above his greed.”

“I’ll make it clear to them, sir.” Then he screwed his mouth to the side. “You should see the treasury. It beggars belief.”

Marcus studied the throne again. The ease of seizing a glut of riches would be euphoric for some. “The coffers better remain untouched. Double the guard there and here. And close these doors.” He paused. “Tell one of your riders to capture a horse and ride into the city. Inform General Camillus the king is dead and the traitoress is in custody.”

“Are you coming, sir?”

“No, I’m going to check the private quarters first. I want to report personally that all attempts were made to find the princes.”

Marcus headed into an internal corridor to find the living area. His temper flared when he noticed the air was hazy from smoke. Camillus would be unhappy if he had to sift molten gold from a charred building.

Coughing, he held his forearm to his nose and hurried along the passageway until he reached the entrance to a large chamber with a terrace beyond. He was relieved to see the area was deserted, the floor devoid of corpses, especially tiny ones.

Laughter distracted him. A group of hoplites were tearing apart the royal bed chamber. His bellow startled them. “Go and find some water to douse the fire. The general wants the palace intact. And start securing prisoners.”

For a moment, he thought avarice would make them forget discipline. They glared at him. Camillus had given them a right to the spoils. Who was this tribune to deny them?

“Others have already been here, sir. It’s our turn now.”

Marcus held himself rigid, his stare icy. The men saluted and then backed out of the chamber. He could hear them protesting to each other at being deprived of their swag.

Marcus ventured into the bedroom. Smoke had not yet penetrated inside. He surveyed the patterned ceiling of tiny flowers and walls with heavy horizontal lines of red, green, and blue. Chests of expensive wood were flung open, clothes strewn across the floor. Robes had been ripped from wall pegs. A lyre fashioned from amber lay with broken strings. Caskets of silver and bronze had been tossed aside, their lids scattered. All of them were intricately engraved, with clawed feet. He peered inside. Any jewelry had long been stolen. There were boxes of cosmetics, too, proof of the whorish appearance of Caecilia.

The bed was tall and wide with a plush mattress. The plaid cover had been ripped, the pillows scattered. The footstools pushed over. This is where his cousin had lain with her Veientane. Marcus felt the awkwardness of intruding on a place of intimacy as well as passion.

He crouched and searched under the bed, thinking it unlikely he would find a frightened prince. He spied an ornate silver mirror that must have slid across the floor. A man and woman embraced each other, gazes locked, lips almost touching. Their names were incised beside them in strange Etruscan script.

Marcus moved through to the terrace. There were no small persons huddling amid the garden or behind the fountain. He stood at the wall to look at the Roman camp opposite. How many times had Caecilia gazed at the people who had become her enemy?

He returned to the main chamber and headed into the corridor again. The cradle in the nursery was vacant except for a tiny doll. He glanced inside other rooms that had been abandoned, their occupants roused from sleep and fleeing. He felt a surge of relief there was no blood on the sheets. He smoothed his hand along the cloth. It was cold. Warm bodies had risen to leave some time ago.

Where had the princes gone? Havoc awaited them outside. Even with the Phoenician to protect them, he doubted they could be saved. At least if they were hiding in the palace, they could be identified as royal.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. He couldn’t waste any more time combing through the residence. He owed nothing more to Vel Mastarna or his cousin.

Adjusting his balteus, and with hand on hilt, he turned back to the courtyard. Now his duty was solely to Rome. He broke into a run. A city waited below to be conquered. It was time to find some warriors to kill.