Read sample Call to Juno

One

Red paint and small fingers are a dangerous combination. Caecilia’s eyes widened on spying Arnth. Her two-year-old was smearing vermilion across his face then holding up his hands to threaten his older brothers.

“Blood, blood!”

Four-year-old Larce squealed at the threat of his new clothes being dirtied, and took refuge behind his mother’s skirts. Tas, too old at seven to be terrorized, looked disdainful.

Avoiding being branded herself, Caecilia deftly seized Arnth’s wrists and held him at bay. The imp wriggled, indignant. “Let go!”

“Stop this,” she urged. “The paint is for the coronation ceremony, Arnth. Not for you to play with. Do you understand?”

Her admonishment only set the child into full revolt. He squirmed against her and bellowed to be released. She imagined his cheeks would be red even if not covered with crimson dye.

The noise set the baby crying. Caecilia frowned. “See what you’ve done. You’ve woken your sister.”

Her eldest son, Tas, walked to the cradle and peered down to its occupant. “Thia is always whining,” he said, lisping slightly through the gap from his missing two front teeth. “It’s because she’s a girl.”

“Nonsense,” said Semni, the wet nurse, who scooped up Thia. “You boys are just as tearful when you’re irritable. She needs feeding, that’s all.” The girl sat down on a wicker chair and offered her nipple to the babe.

As always, Caecilia felt a mixture of gratitude and regret at Semni’s care for her daughter. She was thankful Thia could gain nourishment, but seeing another woman suckle her baby pained her. It was the first of her four children who she’d not put to her breast.

“What is going on here?”

Vel Mastarna’s deep bass had immediate effect. Arnth ceased his noise and stood still as his father entered the chamber.

Caecilia caught her breath at the sight of her husband, dressed as he was in the robes of a king. The thick fabric of his tunic was deep rich purple, held at his shoulder by a large golden brooch. He was swathed in a purple tebenna cloak embroidered with gold. Three amulets hung from heavy gold chains around his neck. A lump rose in her throat. She knew he would prefer to be in armor, that Vel never wanted to be costumed as a regal lucumo.

His right arm—his sword arm, was in a sling of purple cloth. The memory of seeing his elbow broken and bicep sliced as she watched from the city wall was still vivid. Six weeks only had passed since the Battle of Blood and Hail. Six weeks since the former king had betrayed his people and Mastarna. Every day she prayed to Uni, the great mother goddess, to thank her for sparing her husband’s life.

Caecilia let Arnth go. “Apa, Apa,” the boy called to his father as he scooted across the room. The nobleman hoisted him under his arm, keeping sticky fingers at a distance. He winced in pain when the child accidentally bumped his injury. Sitting down on one of the large bronze armchairs in the private quarters, he settled Arnth on his lap. Every inch of the boy’s face was thick with the pigment. His fringe was stuck high in a cowlick. “You look like a demon,” chuckled Mastarna.

“He was being naughty, Apa,” said Larce, venturing forward from his mother’s protection now his brother’s temper and threats were contained. “You should punish him.”

Mastarna signaled the four year old to come and sit on his other knee. Larce was careful not to bump his father’s arm.

“No need for that. It’s just Arnth’s high spirits. And this is a special day, after all.”

Secure that he’d avoided a spanking, Arnth grinned. Caecilia frowned at her husband’s favoritism of his youngest son. He was as lenient as she was impatient with the boy’s recklessness. The father recognized his own temperament in him. Fearless.

“Be careful, Vel. He’ll dirty your coronation robes.”

“A few red marks won’t show on purple,” said Mastarna. “Besides, as his hands are already colored vermilion, he may as well help paint my face as well for this masquerade. Don’t you agree, little soldier?” Arnth nodded and slid off his knee to head across to the bowl of dye that had caused the commotion in the first place.

“Me too, Apa!” Larce slipped from Mastarna and trotted after his brother, confident now that his father was prepared to condone being messy.

Caecilia was not so obliging. She gestured to her Greek handmaid to help her. “Time for a bath, don’t you think, Cytheris?”

The stout servant grinned, showing her missing dogtooth. “I’ll take these rascals to the nursery, mistress. Extra scrubbing will be needed.”

This time Arnth did not attempt to struggle when Cytheris grabbed him, hoisting him onto her hip. He knew he had met his match. Larce was despondent, imploring his mother. “Please, Ati! I want to see Apa crowned.”

Caecilia bent and kissed him. “The ceremony is not for children, my love. Apa will say goodbye to you before he goes so you can see him in his regalia.”

“So I can touch his eagle scepter?”

She nodded.

“Me too!” Arnth was adamant.

Caecilia kissed the top of his head, avoiding patches of paint. “Yes, both of you, now go and clean yourselves.”

Tas tugged at her sleeve. “I’m already clean, Ati. And I’m old enough to go to the ceremony.”

Caecilia crouched before him. His tawny oval eyes were solemn. “Not quite, Tas. There’ll be a vast crowd, and the rites are long and tiring for a seven-year-old.“

Some of Arnth’s doggedness emerged in the older boy. “I want to see the Great Temple. I want to see Apa crowned.” Caecilia wondered if she was going to have to weather another tantrum. Her sons were becoming too pampered.

Mastarna had less patience with his oldest than his youngest. “Listen to your mother, Tas.”

At the doorway, Larce broke from Cytheris and skipped back to Caecilia. “I want to kiss you, Ati.” He reached up to peck her on the cheek. She nuzzled his hair. “I’ll give you a thousand kisses,” she whispered, “before you go to sleep.”

Caecilia watched the maid lead her sons from the chamber with its high ceiling decorated with rosettes, and its walls with their horizontal stripes of red, green and blue skirting the top and bottom. She was still grappling with living in the palace. She missed their family home. Even though they had lived in a mansion, it could not compare to the luxury of the royal residence.

Caecilia moved across to her husband with the bowl of vermilion dye. “You shouldn’t make light of the custom, Vel. This is a sacred day for you. Veii’s lucumo must color his face red in honor of Tinia, king of the gods.”

Mastarna eyed the dish disdainfully. “I’d prefer it if I was only being declared zilath for one year. I’d still be required to wear the paint but at least I wouldn’t feel like a hypocrite. You know I’ve always protested against electing a king instead of a chief magistrate. And now I’m being crowned one to rule our city until my death.”

She sighed and moved a stool to sit close by him, placing the bowl on a repository table. She clasped his hand. “This is what the people want, Vel. They want a ruler to finish this siege without the need for annual elections. They respect you. Why, even your rivals from the Tulumnes clan have placed aside old enmities to support you when the College of Principes voted. And before that, it was a unanimous decision of the High Council that you were the only candidate. It’s unprecedented.”

He looked down at his sling. “And yet I lost my last battle to General Camillus’s Romans. More than half my army was massacred. The men of my tribe lost. I don’t deserve to be elected Veii’s leader after that.”

Caecilia squeezed his fingers. “Of course you do. You’re Veii’s greatest general. Until the Battle of Blood and Hail, you always managed to keep the supply lines free to the north. If King Kurvenas had sent reinforcements instead of shutting the gates against his own troops, I’m sure the result would have been different.”

He frowned. “I doubt it. His perfidy caused suffering, but two Roman armies had surrounded us.”

“And yet Veii did not fall. The divine Queen Uni sent hail that day to drive our enemies from the battlefield and save you. I pray to the goddess every day she favors our city over Rome.” She smiled. “She’ll favor you as king also, Vel.”

Mastarna scanned her face. “I never thought to hear a Roman condoning a monarch.”

Caecilia tensed, withdrawing her fingers from his. “I’m no longer Roman. You know that.” She rose and crossed the chamber to walk through the tall bronze doors to the tiled terrace with its fountain and rose garden. The autumn air was crisp, the sky cloudless. She drew her mantle around her as she stopped at the wall that enclosed the terrace, its massive ashlar blocks encircling the high citadel upon which the palace stood.

On the ridge across from her sat the Roman camp, the ravine between razed of woodland, the stark snaking outline of siege works following the contours of the valleys. She knew such trenches bordered Veii for miles.

For a moment, she recalled her first sight of her new home as she travelled along the road where the Roman camp was now situated: the dizzying heights of the ridge, then the plunge to the valley to the juncture of two rivers, then up again to the plateaued city with its high arx beyond.

There were still sparse pockets of green in places. There should have been a scene of dense glades rich with autumnal tints, crowning the hills or clothing the red-and-gray tufa ravines. And beyond there should have been a patchwork of verdant undulating farmlands with flocks and herds sprinkled across meadows. Instead the Romans had felled most of the woods. The hub of roads that surrounded Veii, which led to places and lands Caecilia still hoped to see, were now deserted. Only Roman armies marched upon those trade routes now. And the rivers were bereft of boats. Trade had dwindled to nothing.

Ten years of war. Ten years of bloodshed. Ten years of conflict with the city of her birth. Rome claimed she had started a war when she’d chosen Vel Mastarna and his people. The truth was not so simple but one thing was clear. She had never intended to betray Rome, but knowing that its generals sought her destruction, she was prepared to welcome the role of traitoress now. After ten years of seeking peace, she had hardened her heart.

Mastarna appeared beside her, encircling her waist with his good arm. She faced him. “I’ve renounced my city, Vel. I seek its downfall. I am Veientane.”

He stroked her cheek. “My warrioress. I named you ‘Bellatrix’ after Orion’s star because I thought you brave, but you’ve become as fierce as any of my soldiers. I’m glad you are on Veii’s side.”

She pointed to the enemy camp. “How long before you think assistance will arrive? General Camillus sits on our doorstep. It’s been almost two seasons now since fresh supplies have reached the city. I thought our northern commander, Thefarie Ulthes, would’ve marched from Falerii by now to relieve us.”

He frowned. “I don’t know what’s delaying them. The Roman bastard has squeezed us so tightly that not even spies have made their way through with news. But I will not give up hope. Veii cisterns are full so we will not die of thirst. And it’s clear our wall won't be breached. No enemy has ever done so. Veii is impregnable. This citadel sits astride a high cliff. Two rivers gird us in their embrace.”

“Walls can protect us but without food, what use are stones?” She stared into the distance. “Camillus means to starve us out.”

Mastarna also surveyed the Roman camp. “He’ll be gone in winter. The Romans elect new consular generals each December. Once he’s no longer in office, a different, lesser, commander will be in charge. Perhaps that’s what Thefarie is waiting for. A chance to attack once Furius Camillus no longer holds command. Wait and see. He’ll break through the siege lines in winter. We need to keep our resolve.”

“And if Thefarie reaches us? Will you then consider attacking Rome? Unlike Veii, their wall can be easily stormed.”

He turned to her. “There’s little prospect of that until this siege can be stopped. Let’s pray to Nortia, goddess of Fate, this is what she wants for Veii.”

Caecilia felt a familar sense of guilt rise in her but suppressed it. She knew could not continue keeping secrets from him much longer. “I believe Nortia wants Rome to fall.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “All I know is that I’m grateful the deity brought us together. I believe she did so for a reason. And one day we’ll live in peace together.”

Her stubbornness emerged. “Only when Rome bends its knee to Veii.”

Mastarna searched her face. “Where’s the frightened girl forced by Rome to wed me?”

Caecilia straightened her shoulders. “Long transformed. You and Veii have taught me courage.”

He smiled. “A warrioress indeed. But you never were such a hawk. I thought you only wanted concord.”

She stroked his smooth shaven cheek, enjoying the scent of sandalwood on his skin. “Remember how you once told me Rome and Veii are like two unrequited lovers? Only twelve miles apart across the Tiber River. They’re but a god’s footstep away. Both desire to possess the other, only Rome wishes to be the husband and make Veii submit as the wife.”

He reached over and cupped her chin between his fingers. His touch was tender. “A Roman wife perhaps, but not a Veientane one? You are my equal.”

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 linen 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 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 upwards.

“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 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 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 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 the Forum. For the goddess, Nortia, had given her a sign she kept secret from her husband. Her destiny was to return to Rome. And the only safe way to do so was as the wife of a conquering hero.

Two

Queen Uni towered ten feet high above Caecilia as she knelt before the goddess she’d once worshiped as Roman Juno. The sculpted face of the terracotta 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 great sky goddess brandished heralded her power. Only the divine king, Jupiter, wielded a thunderbolt in Rome.

Ten years of war had taken its toll. The terracotta that cladded the columns and roof rafters of the vast temple was cracked, the red and black paint fading. Caecilia hoped the goddess would not be displeased the privations of war meant her quarters were no longer pristine.

Despite the neglect of her surrounds, though, 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 clothed in the modest stola of a Roman matron; wearing a crown instead of covering her head with a palla shawl.

She tentatively 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 Uni would forgive him his irreverence. “We must placate and praise Queen Uni first, Vel. You don’t want to incur her disfavour.”

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 as though the gods had chosen to protect him.

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

At twenty-seven, Caecilia always thought it odd a man who was older than her by two years 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 towards the portico outside. “Where is she?”

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

A tall 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 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 chief priestess to Veii’s principal deity, she was second only in holiness to the king.

The fact the sacred college elected a woman to fill such a position astonished Caecilia. Even after living for ten 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 white pleated chiton with its border of red spirals. Caecilia could smell the faint scent of rosewater. The hatrencu was freshly bathed in readiness for the ceremony. “I’m honored to be able to take the auspices today to determine if the gods will bless your reign, 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 sceptical 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 amongst us was punished. The death of King Kurvenas will have pleased our gods 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 pre-eminent 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 them.”

“All principes are schooled in that codex. There are many copies of the sacred texts,” 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 the spear of destruction, then 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 divine 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 brings 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 about to accost the girl but before she could say anything, Tanchvil gave the acolyte an order. Aricia limped back into the workroom.

Caecilia was about 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 enquiries 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 turning and ripping her face with his beak?

The hatrencu lifted her arm to send Antar skyward. Caecilia felt the swish of air as the eagle rose, his pinions extended, seeking the thermals. Holding her breath, she waited to see to which quadrant of the heavens he would fly. His wings stretched in perfect symmetry, the raptor spiraled higher, gliding over the south east of the city before heading north east. Then he hovered for a moment before diving and swooping upwards again.

Tanchvil raised her arm and called to the eagle. The priestess’s cry was piercing, mimicking that of the bird. The winged herald circled then flew with great arcing flaps to thump down once again upon his mistress’s sheathed arm.

“Antar was summoned by Laran, the god of war, but then headed towards Uni’s realm. The war will continue but Veii’s mother will continue to protect us.”

The throng was quiet. Caecilia knew they’d hoped Uni would decree that Veii would once again be free.

Mastarna’s expression was brooding beneath the crimson paint, considering his response. Tanchvil once again hooded the bird’s eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Caecilia stepped forward to the edge of the podium. She hoped her voice would be loud enough. She could feel the eyes of the people studying her as they surrounded her. She was used to their scrutiny—sometimes bearing their suspicion and distrust. Sometimes admiring her for bearing the general so many sons. “My people, do not be disheartened there has been no sign our enemy will yield.”

Mastarna encircled her waist with his arm. There was surprise in his voice. “Thank you Bellatrix, I will speak now.”

“No, I haven’t finished, Vel.” She inhaled deeply again, her nerves settling. People were shifting and jostling to get a better look. Their faces were tired and gaunt.

“Ten years ago the generals of Rome married me to Vel Mastarna against my will. My uncle, Aemilius Mamercus, was numbered amongst them.”

There were no cat calls. Confidence eased through her. She was amazed her voice carried across the sanctuary. She stepped from Vel, and pivoted in a circle ensuring everyone surrounding the podium could see and hear her.

“Ten years ago, I was held hostage by King Tulumnes, a wicked tyrant. In fear, I escaped to Rome only to find those same generals were ready to sacrifice me, and war had always been their intention. And just as they forced me to marry, they then forced me to divorce my husband.”

Vel touched her forearm. “You need not do this, Bellatrix.”

She ignored his warning. “But then a miracle happened.” She glanced at him and smiled. “Vel Mastarna rescued me. He gave me a chance to marry him again. He gave me a chance to choose Veii.”

She held out her arms. “I’ve felt your distrust as the daughter of a foe living amongst you. But know this: I was once Roman but I feel no love for that city. I am Veientane and pledge my loyalty to you. And I say now it’s not enough that we defend our city. It’s not enough to seek peace. Rome is a wolf who will devour us. It must be killed once and for all.” She stepped back and grasped Vel’s hand and raised it into the air. “I seek Rome’s destruction! Let’s conquer the wolf. Let’s bring down its wall!”

For a moment she felt sickened at the lack of response. Then she heard clapping, feet stamping in unison, voices joining as one. “Queen Caecilia! King Mastarna! Queen Caecilia! King Mastarna!”

Disbelieving these people were exalting her, tears pricked her eyes. She turned to Vel, smiling. He continued to survey the crowd as he also pivoted on the podium. His look was hard as he gripped her fingers. Above the noise, she heard the anger in his bass voice. “What have you done, Bellatrix?”

She turned back to face the crowd, raising her other hand and waving. She had to shout so Vel could hear her, a current of elation flowing through her. “I’ve done what I should’ve done ten years ago. I’ve declared war on Rome.”

Three

The blood of the white cows had been drained from the runnels into the bolos of the holy altar. There should have been more than a score of beasts sacrificed for the coronation but, in the besieged city, there were scant cattle left for such a ceremony. At least the people would feast on the flesh now. The aroma of roast beef filled the air. Those in the sanctuary stood in a circle around the cooking pits, their faces expectant, their mouths watering in anticipation as the carcasses were turned on the spits.

In the city below, sounds of celebration drifted up to the arx. Mastarna had not forgotten the rest of his subjects. An extra grain ration had been offered from the city granary, and wine distributed from the private cellars of the palace. His royal predecessors had hoarded the fine vintage for their own use. King Mastarna was more generous, intent on boosting morale.

Mastarna led Caecilia to his chariot. He’d not spoken to her since her declaration. Maintaining his silence, he helped her into the gilded car. The call of their names resounded around them. Aemilia Caeciliana’s was being hailed as loudly as the king’s. Despite her husband’s iciness, she could not help but feel proud. After so many years of hostility, the adulation was as heady as if she’d drunk strong unwatered wine.

Surrounding the chariot were twenty four lictors. The royal body guards were dressed in black, and holding the ceremonial rods and axes. The head lictor walked abreast of the chariot. Arruns was stocky, half his swarthy face tattooed with a fanged snake, its coils twisting around his neck. She knew the serpent continued to encircle his chest and back. Today, dressed in his uniform, the grotesque pattern was hidden. His hooded eyes always veiled his emotions, his tattooed visage and hooked nose inspiring menace. The Phoenician had been Mastarna’s personal protector for fifteen years. Caecilia wondered if he welcomed the presence of twenty three others. She suspected he doubted they were necessary. If not for him, Mastarna would have died in the Battle of Blood and Hail. And he’d rescued her from danger more than once. Both of them owed their lives to him.

Smiling to the crowd, Mastarna planted his feet wide, balanced perfectly as he took hold of the reins of the four white horses that pulled the chariot. A retinue of principes followed. These nobles of Veii were richly robed and bejewelled. The women were trying to outdo each other with pectorals of green jasper and lapis, and diadems of amber and peridot. The men were no less splendid, dressed in brightly colored tebenna cloaks, their short cropped hair wreathed.

Vel’s smile disappeared as soon as he entered the palace courtyard. “Get a servant boy to bring water, I want to wash off this vermilion,” he barked to Arruns and strode towards the throne room. “I only want to see the high councillors. I’ll take audience with the other principes tomorrow.”

Caecilia followed Mastarna to the dais with its golden throne. There was a bull’s head crest emblazoned upon its back, the symbol of the House of Mastarna. Caecilia took her place beside her husband on her own small throne, conscious of her status at his right hand. Prince Tarchon also ascended the platform and sat on high backed chair to the left side of his adopted father. She was pleased Vel had agreed to appoint him to his war council. Maybe Mastarna’s coldness was thawing toward his son at last.

The high councillors trailed through the doorway with its high double bronze doors. General Lusinies approached first. Bald and battered of feature, the warrior knelt to swear fealty. Mastarna acknowledged him with a brief smile.

General Feluske followed. He winced as he bent his knee. Caecilia knew it to be from a worn joint rather than reluctance. He’d long been an ally of her husband.

The last princip to approach was Karcuna Tulumnes.

Caecilia tensed. There was no love between the Houses of Mastarna and Tulumnes. Both kings from Karcuna’s bloodline had served Veii badly. His older brother had murdered Mastarna’s greatest friend, and terrorized her. And his cousin, Kurvenas, had shut the gates against her husband and destroyed his army.

As with all of his family, Karcuna was imposing in his height and haughtiness. His cheek would twitch every now and then in a disconcerting tic. She remembered how his brother had towered over her when he was lucumo, intimidating her both physically and mentally, threatening to mutilate and kill and rape her. She wondered why Vel had appointed Karcuna as one of his advisers given such a villainous history. And yet the new leader of the Tulumnes clan had not objected to Mastarna’s election. Today more was being asked of him—to bend his knee and pay respect to a man who’d opposed his kin for decades.

To her surprise, Mastarna rose and descended the dais to stand before the princip. “There has long been enmity between our families, Karcuna. Your clan believe in monarchy while mine opposes it. And yet I stand before you as a lucumo because our people demand it. I’m reluctant but I can’t ignore their wishes. For the sake of internal concord, I hope you’ll serve me without rancor.”

Karcuna squared his shoulders. “I’m not like my brother. Nor my cousin, Kurvenas, whom I acknowledge betrayed Veii. So I’ll not conspire against you but I won’t deny many of my clan have reservations the leader of the House of Mastarna now rules over them.”

Mastarna frowned. “Then I ask that you convince them such hostility must end for the sake of Veii. I’m a general with no troops of my own. Now I ask all our warriors must fight for Veii’s king. Just as Roman soldiers fight for the state, not their clans.”

The princip hesitated. His powers of persuasion would be tested when called upon to convince his tribe to fight under the royal banner. Then, to Caecilia’s relief, he knelt before Mastarna, and bent his head, “I pledge allegiance to you and to Veii.”

Mastarna’s expression was guarded as he reached down and proffered his forearm to Karcuna. “I won’t forget this. Veii will only grow stronger now we’re allies.”

The councillor rose and gripped his forearm.

General Lusinies moved across to the lucumo. Caecilia noticed how his hand was raised as though to clap Mastarna on the shoulder but he dropped it to his side when Vel turned his attention to him. The laurel wreath crown gracing the king’s head emphasized the men’s newly altered status.

“I hope you now see that agreeing to be lucumo is the best thing for this city, my lord. See how the people welcomed your coronation.”

“There’s good humor amongst them today as I’m filling their bellies but it may not last long.” Mastarna sat down and accepted a damp cloth from a servant boy to wipe his face clean of the paint. “If I don’t manage to bring this city through the siege, their support may wane when hunger stirs discontentment.”

“You underestimate yourself, my lord,” said Feluske. “And I think Queen Caecilia’s call to arms gives hope we might yet attack Rome instead of merely defending our walls.”

Caecilia flinched, aware Vel would not welcome being reminded of her declaration. There was an edge of irritation in his voice. “My wife’s goal is premature.”

At his words, Feluske and Lusinies exchanged glances. Karcuna’s eyes narrowed. She could feel his scrutiny before he addressed Mastarna. “My family has always believed Rome should be conquered. Rasennan kings should rule there again.”

Vel bristled. “And how do you suggest we do that? Camillus has strengthened the siege lines with stone. And there are few chances for us to engage in skirmishes. The Romans remain secure behind forts and trenches. It’s a stalemate.”

“So we continue to sit here and do nothing?” pressed Karcuna. “Our warriors grow restless.”

Caecilia frowned. The magistrate may have sworn fealty but he was not above challenging his ruler.

“Camillus will soon relinquish command. In the changeover period with his successor, the cordon will slacken, and food will be able to be bartered through the stockades.”

Lusinies nodded his head. “And we shouldn’t forget Rome has many enemies. Multiple war fronts may well prove too much with their resources stretched thin.”

Karcuna crossed his arms. “But that situation has been the same now for years. It doesn’t stop the Romans besieging us. They covet Veii’s land most. And instead of his usual tactic of razing crops, Camillus is now coercing Veientane farmers to till their land. Daughters and wives are raped if the men resist. The corn grown will feed Rome not us.” The princip turned to Feluske and Lusinies as though expecting them to also challenge the lucumo. “Meanwhile we sit here starving.”

The older men avoided his gaze. Caecilia was pleased they still sided with their king. Yet she sensed Vel’s anger growing at his strategy being questioned. “We must survive until December. It’s time all the principes share their reserves of food just as I do. Let them distribute it to the needier amongst us.”

The three councillors stared at him, saying nothing.

Karcuna turned his attention back to her. “And what does our queen say? Your wife wants us to march on Rome, my lord. She shows more iron than most.”

Caecilia bit the inside of her lip, aware of the princip’s implied criticism. It was never her intention to cause Vel embarrassment. She was also surprised Karcuna sought her opinion. She was used to the men of the Tulumnes family spitting venom at her. “My exhortation was to boost morale. I agree with my husband that Veii must be relieved first.”

Karcuna smiled slyly. “Then you don’t believe Rome should fall as you declared.”

This time it was she who bridled. His words echoed his predecessors’ distrust for her. In the past, the Tulumnes clan asserted she was a traitor because she wouldn’t vow to destroy Rome. She’d often wondered how she could be doubly treasonous when both foes accused her of perfidy.

Having remained quiet throughout the discussion, Tarchon now stood. “I’m sick of Caecilia’s loyalty being questioned.”

“Enough!” Mastarna cut across his son’s defence. “All this talk of conquest is futile. You’re forgetting we need the support of the League of the Twelve Rasennan cities. Without extra forces, Veii won’t succeed. All the Rasenna must rise. And that’s unlikely. Our pleas for support have fallen on deaf ears for ten years now.”

Caecilia leaned across to Vel. “Perhaps it’s time to adjourn to the banquet,” she said loud enough for the others to hear.

He glanced at her, then nodded and rose. “My wife is right. Enough talk of war. Let’s enjoy the feast.”

The councillors bowed, and headed towards the door but Tarchon called out unexpectedly. “Lord Karcuna, could you stay behind?”

The tall man turned; a look of surprise on his face.

“What’s this about, Tarchon?” Mastarna growled.

“I wish to make a formal application to become Sethre Kurvenas’s mentor. Lord Karcuna is his guardian now King Kurvenas is dead.”

Caecilia took a deep breath, wishing her stepson had not opened himself up for humiliation. This was not the time for him to make a case to become the lover of the grieving son of Kurvenas, the murdered lucumo.

Karcuna stiffened, addressing Mastarna instead of the prince. “King Kurvenas didn’t approve of Sethre becoming the beloved of your adopted son. I must honor his wishes as a father.”

Caecilia thought Mastarna would concur. Instead, to her surprise, he gave his son his support. “I believe Prince Tarchon’s desire to foster links between our houses has merit.”

The councillor cocked his head to the side, his tone less than deferential. “It’s enough that I bend my knee to you, my Lord. I don’t think my young cousin need be tainted by Tarchon’s reputation.”

“Oh, and what would that be?”

Karcuna’s eyes travelled along Tarchon’s figure, treating him as though he was some specimen who could neither speak nor feel. “Why hasn’t he married? Where are his children? He’s a soft one. I can’t risk Sethre’s reputation.”

Mastarna stood. “We’ve made gains here tonight, Karcuna. Don’t lose them by denigrating my son.”

The princip’s cheek twitched. “I merely speak what all know. You were about to shun him yourself when Lord Artile took him as his lover. And Tarchon is far from eligible to act as a mentor. He fails to meet the required standards. He’s only nearing thirty. He’s never held high office. He isn’t married. His war record is patchy. And there’s no guarantee he would relinquish his role when the boy has grown a beard.”

Caecilia’s winced to hear Tarchon’s shortcomings so brutally listed.

Mastarna tensed beside her at the litany.

Tarchon descended the dais to stand opposite the princip, hands on his hips. “I’m a prince of Veii, and sit on the king’s council. Isn’t that status enough?” He placed his hand on his thigh. “And beneath these robes my leg has only just healed from the wound I suffered in the Battle of Blood and Hail. No man has ever questioned my courage.”

Karcuna stepped back, running a hand through his hair. He continued to eye Tarchon, unable to control a spasm in his cheek.

“I understand Sethre will cease to be my pupil when required,” Tarchon added.

The councillor continued to study him, then nodded. “I will think on it then. But in the meantime you must stay away from my ward.”

Tarchon was deferential instead of defiant. “I’ll accept any terms you set, Lord Karcuna. I’m grateful to be considered.” He cast a look over his shoulder to Caecilia, wanting her to share his success. She smiled at him although she was worried. She knew him too well. It would be hard for him to surrender Sethre when the boy reached full manhood. He was in love with the youth.

Mastarna raised his hand, signaling the end of the matter. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.” He placed Caecilia’s hand on his forearm to escort her from the chamber.

Lord Karcuna bowed, waiting for the king and queen to walk ahead of him. He deferred to the prince, who followed immediately after the royal couple.

“You surprise me, Vel,” whispered Caecilia. “Defending him like that. I’m pleased.”

His voice was gruff. “Karcuna’s concerns are valid but I will not have him thinking I condone one of my family being slandered.”

She squeezed his forearm. “But you’ll support Tarchon in this, won’t you? It might just be the making of him.”

To her dismay, he dropped his forearm from under the pressure of her fingers. The snub startled her.

“I hope Karcuna’s final decision is to reject his suit. I doubt Tarchon’s ability to be anyone’s mentor. He drinks heavily, and hasn’t stopped chewing catha leaves to heighten his senses. And he better keep his word to stay away from Sethre until Karcuna makes up his mind. Otherwise there’ll be trouble.”

Caecilia only took in half his words, still concerned with his rebuff. “Are you still angry at me?”

They had reached the entrance to the banqueting hall. The guests inside slid from their dining couches and bowed.

Vel clasped her fingertips, leading her to their kline, not responding but nevertheless giving her his answer.

She pursed her lips, irritated at his mood. He was the one who’d always encouraged her independence. Now he was resentful of her publically dispelling any lingering doubts that she supported Rome.

Vel stepped up from the footstool onto the deep cushioned mattress and lay down, propping his back against the headboard, careful not to jar his injured arm. Caecilia climbed up to sit next to him, choosing not to recline, and fuming he wouldn’t speak to her.

Mastarna drained the chalice of wine handed to him by a slave boy. Then he called for another cup and downed it just as quickly. She restrained herself from cautioning him not to drink too much, knowing it would only irk him. And she thought him hypocritical to judge his son for over indulging in wine when he would do the same.

The other diners resumed their positions on their dining couches. Musicians once again plucked lyres and played their flutes, their melodies an accompaniment to laughter and chatter. Caecilia sipped her wine, enjoying the first mouthful, wondering if she should also welcome inebriation to forget war and politics and duty as well as the moroseness of her husband.