The tribune stuttered. “No, sir. If I’d known she was a night moth . . . I would never have protected her.”
His words were painful, but she could see him struggling with bewilderment. She’d not betrayed his love for Drusus. She may have been a she wolf, but she was not dangerous after all.
He dragged his eyes from her and addressed the dictator. “I admit I knew Drusus had damned Mastarna. He was besotted with my cousin. That’s why he lost control when he saw Caecilia in the temple. He disobeyed orders, then attacked me when I tried to stop him from fulfilling every part of his curse.”
Camillus unsheathed his dagger and stabbed it into the surface of the desk in front of him. “Are you also under Caecilia’s spell? Did you pander to her by burning her husband’s body? ”
Marcus’s voice wavered. “I owed Mastarna a blood debt. He spared my life and those of my men at Nepete.”
Camillus yanked out the knife and pointed it at him. “And so she demanded you cremate him.”
“No. That was my idea. I knew I could not help her or her children.” He hesitated, nodding toward Thia. “And I was right.”
The dictator rammed the dagger into the wood so it stood upright. “I can hardly deprive you of the mural crown without this becoming a scandal. So you’ll show your true loyalty to me tomorrow. You’ll be the one who throws Caecilia from the Tarpeian Rock. You’ll be her executioner.”
Pinna’s jaw dropped. He truly had become a monster. Marcus glanced across to her, then back to Camillus. The pockmarks showed clearly on his ashen cheeks, his lips white. It must have taken all his strength to stand to attention and salute. “Yes, sir.” Then he strode from the tent without a backward glance.
Camillus turned to her and straightened his arm, pointing at the tent opening. His eyes were hard, his voice low, once again the composed commander. “Take off the jewelry I gave you. You’ll leave here with only the clothes you’re wearing. And deliver that child to the House of Aemilius immediately. You’re lucky I don’t have you whipped. I want nothing more to do with you.”
Pinna trembled, overwhelmed. She was destitute. Not even possessing enough to pay a lupa’s registration fee to the city magistrate. She had come full circle. The life of a night moth loomed.
Turning her back to the two men, she laid Thia in the cradle. Then she slid the rings from her fingers and unfastened the earrings. Removing them was a relief. She felt purified. Camillus had insisted she wear them. Although she’d drawn the line at wearing the gold coronet while he’d bedded her.
She unclasped the delicate silver pendant that nestled beside her fascinum and Venus shell. The engraved huntress summoned an image of Aemilia Caeciliana to her mind. The kohl around the queen’s honey-colored eyes was smeared from where she’d wiped away tears. Faded powder revealed a purple birthmark on her throat. Camillus had called her a whore, but Pinna saw only nobility as the captive stood defiant in her sheer blood-spattered dress. And the way Caecilia spoke to him had astonished her. Her words were full of contempt and rebellion even though she was wretched. The noblewoman’s courage vanished, though, when she relinquished Thia. Pinna would forever be haunted by the mother’s mournful weeping when she took the baby from her arms.
She tucked the necklace into Thia’s clothes as she wrapped the little girl in the coverlet. As she lifted the child, the golden tesserae tumbled onto the sheet, the only playthings the little girl owned. Pinna palmed them, not prepared to let Thia go without. She knew somehow she would save this child. She’d assured Caecilia she would care for the princess. She was not going to fail her.
Turning, she found Camillus observing her. There was no sign he regretted losing her. A different man stood before her than the man she’d adored. She straightened her shoulders and thrust out her chin, emulating the Veientane queen. “No, Furius Camillus. It’s I who want nothing to do with you. I thought I’d stolen your soul, but it’s clear you have no soul to steal.”
SIXTY-FOUR
Semni, Tarchna, Summer, 396 BC
Feet sunk into sand, Semni watched the rush and spread of water, intrigued by the surge and pull at her ankles. The susurration and rhythm of each wave hypnotized her.
She’d not expected the enormity of the sea. How it stretched to an empty horizon, its color, its sound. How it was living and breathing.
Nerie stood beside her, dancing on the spot, lifting each foot, and laughing as the water rushed in and out. Then he bumped down, scooped up a handful, and watched the wet sand drip onto his legs before the water once again covered them.
The tot was the only one who’d recovered from the events of the last week. His terror had subsided as soon as the refugees arrived in Tarchna, happy enough to be sleeping on a bed between his parents.
Semni wished having a roof over her head, and plenty of food, could heal her as easily. She’d washed off the blood and changed her clothes, but she dreaded nights when bad dreams would assail her, and mornings when she realized, day after day, they were real.
The voyage under the stifling hides took its toll. By the time the barge glided under the last bridge to reach the tributary north, all of them had been dull eyed and dehydrated. There had been moments of tension when they passed each river fort, but as Arruns had predicted, the Romans were too preoccupied with plundering Veii. Free at last to breathe in smokeless air, the fugitives had huddled in the stern of the boat to watch the dark forest silhouettes glide by. Semni had observed the pale twilight sky, trying not to look back at the dark cloud hovering over her home.
They must have made a strange sight. A tattooed Phoenician with a family that bore no resemblance to him. Semni worried they were too conspicuous. When challenged, Arruns said they were migrants heading for the rich lands of the coast. The queen’s jewelry secured safe passage. And clean clothes and supplies. They bought a wagon in a village near Lake Sabatinus, joining the traffic heading west toward the Tolfa Hills.
Sighting Tarchna took her breath away. Acropolis and necropolis stood opposite each other. The living observing their ancestors. The dead protecting their descendants. And beyond, six miles below on the plain, stretched the blue-green Tyrhennian Sea and the bustling docks and emporiums of Port Gravisca.