He steadied himself and shrugged her away. “Leave me be, Pinna.” It was clear he was unnerved, taking a moment to recover his composure. Then he straightened his shoulders and smoothed his cloak as he turned to the others with a smile. “My prayer is granted! A slight fall is my atonement for the greatest good fortune.”
The anxious look on the woman’s face remained. As did Artile’s frown. Camillus ignored them. He picked up the scepter and walked around the table to stand in front of Caecilia again.
“The time has come for you to return to Rome.” He signaled two lictors to come forward. “Give the child to Pinna. And bind the queen’s hands again. Lead her and Prince Tarchon to the camp. Take the maidservant, too.”
Caecilia screamed, straining against the ropes around her chest. “No, please, don’t take my baby. Tell me if my sons are alive!”
At her mother’s panic, Thia shrieked. Cytheris started to sob. Tarchon shouted abuse.
Pinna hurried across to Camillus. “Please, my Wolf, let her keep her daughter a little longer.” She touched his arm, coaxing him. “Please.”
His glare softened. “Very well. But don’t feel too sorry for her. Her heartbreak is deserved.”
Caecilia felt a wave of gratitude toward the woman who now approached her. She surrendered Thia to her while the lictor untied the ropes. Her limbs cramping, the queen wobbled as she rose to her feet. The dice fell from her lap. She bent and retrieved them. For a moment, black dots swam before her eyes as she straightened. She felt Pinna clasp her elbow to help her, bending close. “The princes have not been found either dead or alive.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, claiming her daughter and cradling her. She prayed Arruns might yet save her sons.
Pinna stepped back and returned to stand beside Camillus. Caecilia sensed her unease. The woman who’d half tamed a wolf had a conscience.
“Place Aemilia Caeciliana in a covered wagon,” called the dictator to his lictors. “I don’t want her torn to pieces by a mob before I have the chance to display her in my triumph.”
A guard shoved her to start walking. Cytheris and Tarchon fell in behind her, hands tied. All the prisoners shuffled, bodies stiff from their bonds.
As she reached the bronze doors, Caecilia stifled a sob, her throat raw. She didn’t think she could bear to see the fire pit and the evidence Vel was truly gone. All that she now possessed were memories and loss—of her people, her friends, her family, and the man she loved.
TRIUMPH
SIXTY-TWO
Marcus, Rome, Summer, 396 BC
Marcus touched the scars on the inside of his wrist. He lacked the courage to dig deeper, to carve along the vein.
He relived the sword fight with Drusus constantly, shocked his friend would rather kill him than obey him. Thinking how easy it was to defeat a soldier who’d never truly recovered from his injuries. The sad memory of finally kissing the man he loved was soured by the fear he’d been too late to catch Drusus’s soul. He felt the knight’s dishonored ghost would surely haunt him forever. And he doubted the pain of losing him would ever ease.
It did not help that he had too much time to think. Until preparations for Camillus’s triumph were finalized, the troops remained camped on the Field of Mars. The Senate had not quibbled that Camillus deserved the recognition. He’d brought Rome’s greatest foe to its knees.
The sound of horses nickering outside drew Marcus from his tent. Four white stallions were hitched to a bronze chariot in the parade ground. Camillus stood on the platform beside the driver, planting his feet apart to balance himself without gripping the edges. Genucius stood nearby, surprise obvious. Marcus felt uneasy. Only the king of the gods could drive such a quadriga.
He walked to the chariot, but before he reached it, he saw Medullinus striding toward them. Aemilius and Spurius trailed behind. None of them hid their outrage.
“Brother, are you mad? You can’t ride into Rome as though you were Jupiter. Your hubris grows monumental.”
Camillus remained on the platform above them. “I’m honoring Rome’s divine ruler by choosing his sacred conveyance. I’m his mortal representative. I also pay homage to the sun god, Apollo. He and the dawn goddess granted victory to me.”
“Victory to Rome,” growled Medullinus.
The dictator shrugged. “In my triumphal march tomorrow, Rome and I are as one.”
“You’re merely a man, Furius Camillus,” said Aemilius. “And one who may find his popularity disappearing fast.”
The general’s expression darkened. He stepped down from the vehicle, waving the charioteer on. “Don’t tell me the people’s tribunes are arguing about the cost of the triumph? There’ll be four days of thanksgiving and feasting. It’s unprecedented. And I’m paying half the cost from my own plunder. The Senate agreed the State will fund the rest.”
“It’s not the expense,” said Spurius. “Calvus is spreading rumors against you. He says it’s only through his advocacy that citizens were given a share of the spoils.”
Camillus snorted. “Every Roman was given the chance to scavenge their share by decree of the Senate. They swarmed like flies on a putrid carcass the next morning after Veii had fallen. Isn’t that right, Marcus?”
The tribune nodded, remembering his shock at the invasion of civilians clogging the Via Veientana at daybreak, eager to glean their pickings.
“Calvus claims you should have granted booty to all without equivocation,” said Aemilius. “He’s gaining kudos for representing the interests of all Romans.”
Camillus exploded. “I was busy planning an attack!”
“Yet you permitted your soldiers to seize plunder without waiting for confirmation,” muttered Medullinus.
Genucius interrupted. “The general made the right decision to support the veterans.”
“Silence! I am dictator! I don’t need to justify my actions.”
Medullinus pointed to the chariot. “All this is going to your head, Brother. It’s fortunate you must stand down after you announce the date of the new elections. A man who pretends to be a god can easily think he should be a king.”
Camillus strode to his tent. “Let’s discuss this inside.” He then called to a nearby groom, “Fetch Artile.”
Marcus murmured a greeting to his father as he ducked his head and entered the tent. Aemilius smiled. He enjoyed bragging that his son had won the mural crown. His glee that Caecilia had finally been detained made Marcus uncomfortable, though. His cousin’s despair and courage had touched him after all. Hating her was no longer simple. She had been made real again.