The haruspex stared at him, the hollow look returning. “What about Vel Mastarna Junior?”
The dictator returned to his chair and picked up his helmet. “Your nephews have disappeared. I expect they’ll turn up. There’s no place to hide. Whether they will be alive remains to be seen.”
“There are escape tunnels. Tas knows of them.”
The general spoke sharply. “Tunnels? I thought you’d pointed out all of them.”
“I told you about the main one to the temple. There’s a warren of others on the arx that are too difficult to access.” Artile’s agitation increased. “Tas is only eight. He’ll need help. The Phoenician lictor must have slipped the net with the boys.” He pressed his palms together in supplication. “Please send out a search party. They couldn’t have gone far.”
The general buckled his helmet. “I’m not going to waste time on a manhunt. They could be anywhere by now. The invasion has lasted all day. The princes fled this morning.”
“You’re unwise, general. Boys are little foes who’ll grow into warriors. And girls breed soldiers to wreak vengeance. Mastarna’s children should not go free.”
Camillus hesitated, then was dismissive. “I doubt they’ll make it through the siege lines.” He straightened his cloak. Self-doubt had vanished. “I’ve more important matters to deal with. It’s time to speak to the captive queen.” He offered Pinna his arm. “Come. You must accompany me to the temple as well.”
Pleased her Wolf had not forgotten her, the concubine walked past the officers clustered around the now open doorway. Curiosity trickled through her disquiet. After a decade of wondering, she was about to meet Aemilia Caeciliana.
SIXTY-ONE
Caecilia, Veii, Summer, 396 BC
Caecilia’s tears had dried but her eyes still watered. The chamber was hazy with fine smoke. She’d lost track of time. The light spilling from the portico into the chamber was an eerie orange. The humidity sapped energy from her.
Her wrists were raw from struggling against the rope that bound her hands. Her chest was constricted by the bonds strapping her to one leg of the altar table. A shot of pain pierced her shoulder every time she moved. After a while she recognized the futility of seeking escape. Thia’s weight on her lap numbed her legs. Her throat was parched, and her head ached from the tightness of the coronet. She was surprised that she felt such discomfort when her heart had been torn from her.
Cytheris was also bound. She’d fallen asleep, her head slumped forward. The handmaid, who could always reassure her mistress, had been at a loss to provide consolation.
A lump formed in Caecilia’s throat. She would lose Cytheris, too. She wondered if the servant would consider death preferable to slavery.
Dehydrated, Thia whined, trying everyone’s nerves. The spot of color on her cheek was still visible, her touch feverish.
At least being tied to the far end of the altar meant Caecilia could see Tarchon. At first she thought he’d slipped away, but then she noticed the rise and fall of his chest. He was groggy when he opened his eyes, his words slurred. He was confused, then incredulous, calling out to check on her. His anguished cry when he saw Sethre was tragic. With wrists and ankles tied, he shuffled on his buttocks to his beloved’s body, then lay on his side facing him, stroking the youth’s cheek with his roped hands. After a time, he fell into a torpor.
She also dozed, exhausted by weeping and worry. Each time she woke, she was disbelieving. Her anxiety for her sons thrummed inside her.
The presence of Drusus’s body in front of her was a goad. Her thoughts vacillated between hate for him and shock and sorrow over Vel. Each wave of grief was agony.
The Romans deputized to remain at the temple wandered in and out of the portico. She could see they were restless, bored with standing guard to prevent their fellow soldiers raiding the treasures in the sanctuary. One remained in the chamber ogling her, making her conscious of her clinging dress. She prayed he would obey Marcus’s order not to rape the women, remembering her horror that her cousin needed to issue the command.
When the guard’s eyes weren’t roving over her breasts, he studied the rich trappings of the sanctum, in particular, Queen Uni’s diadem, gold pectoral, and rings. She wondered if he would lever out the gems and hide them, hoping his superiors wouldn’t notice. “Pity the gold is destined for the treasury,” she murmured.
He glared at her. “Not this time; the general promised us a share.”
She was surprised, then felt nauseous, thinking of the race to collect the loot. “Then you’re missing your chance to steal your own.”
“Shut up, bitch. You’ve already caused enough trouble.”
Thia woke in fright and bawled.
“Shut her up,” he said, nudging the baby with his toe.
Caecilia cried out, helpless to hold her daughter, sorry she’d taunted him. She crooned to the baby with a hoarse, wavering voice. To her relief, Thia quieted, standing on her mother’s lap and clutching her neck, watching the guard.
She heard the scrape of boots as the guards stood to attention outside. Startled from sleep, Cytheris uttered a small cry as twenty-four Roman lictors marched into the chamber. Caecilia craned her neck to catch sight of her sons, heart thudding afresh when they did not appear.
Camillus was just as she remembered him. The lean wolf of Tas’s dreams. She’d been waiting for him all day. In a strange way she longed to see him. To finally meet the man who’d stalked her so she could confront him.
Even after a day of overseeing slaughter, he stood immaculate in his armor, breastplate, and leather kilt. He had removed his helmet, his long hair oiled, beard clipped. As she watched him stride to the head of his entourage, she noticed his limp was barely detectable. He frowned as he passed Drusus’s corpse, then his pace slowed when he saw Uni’s statue, his eyes widening in awe. He bowed in reverence.
Marcus was at the dictator’s side. Camillus must have forgiven him for burning Vel’s body. He cast a furtive look toward the Claudian’s body, the apple in his throat working, but his expression remained impassive.
A woman crept through the doorway and stood behind the general. Her pretty heart-shaped face was pale, the high arched eyebrows furrowed in a line as she took in the death around her. Caecilia was surprised to see a female amid warriors. Who was she?
The woman also gazed upward in wonder at Uni. But as she turned her attention to Caecilia, the queen saw pity in her eyes, the first she’d seen from a Roman. Even when Marcus had helped her, he’d done so with resentment.
Camillus regarded the queen coolly as he picked up the eagle scepter from the altar table. He snapped his fingers to signal one of his lictors to set up his ivory chair. The dictator took his seat.
Caecilia forced herself to revert to Latin, her mother tongue, which she now considered an enemy’s language. “I want to see my sons.”