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.
FIFTY-NINE