When the king’s uncle, Lord Atelinas, found them on his threshold, there was shock, then rejoicing. Vel Mastarna would be mourned, but at least his sons were reunited with kin. And the servants who’d saved the princes were offered refuge in the household. Yet to Semni, being granted asylum did not assuage grief. Her memories of her last day at Veii were constant, drifting through her mind like the shadows of clouds scudding over hillsides on summer breezes.
Taking Nerie by the hand, she helped him to toddle up the beach to where Arnth and Larce knelt digging. Perca sat cross-legged beside them, staring blankly. Semni wondered if the maid would ever recover from her ordeal. Arruns was the only man from whom she did not cringe.
On their flight, rumors were overheard as fellow travelers exchanged news as well as wineskins. Veii was no more. The king had died. The queen was due to be executed in Rome. Semni tried to keep the news from small ears. Nevertheless, the boys sensed that the worst had happened to their parents. Larce cried himself to sleep every night, calling for his mother. Arnth’s tears were less frequent, but at every request, he was defiant and challenging.
Tas sat apart from his brothers on the beach, tracing spirals in the sand with one finger. He did not need to be told. His amber eyes would meet hers, sorrow glazing them even when not brimming with tears.
Semni also agonized over Thia. What had happened to the baby she’d nursed for one year? She could only pray the Romans would show her mercy, even if they had not spared her parents.
Aricia was collecting seashells on the shore, crouching to examine them. Her face was drawn, haunted by not knowing the fates of Cytheris and Lady Tanchvil. Even though word had reached Tarchna that Queen Uni was now Juno Regina in Rome, Aricia still wore the white-and-red robes of a cepen. Uni’s high priest at Gravisca had welcomed her as his acolyte. She wondered how the girl could serve a deity who’d committed immortal treachery.
Semni settled Nerie next to Larce and Arnth, then walked across to sit next to Tas, giving him company but not expecting conversation.
Noticing the pair, Aricia ceased her inspection of the shells and limped over to join them. She slipped her arm around the prince’s shoulders. “You must stop brooding, my pet.”
“Apa and Ati are dead, aren’t they?”
The two girls glanced at each other over his head.
Semni squeezed his hand. “We’ll not lie to you, Tas. Word has come that your father was killed. The Romans are to execute your mother soon. Be brave. You’re the eldest and must be an example to your brothers. It’s up to all of us to honor their memory. And one day you will wreak vengeance.”
Aricia kissed his hair. “Lord Atelinas has told us he’ll hold funeral games for them soon. They won’t be forgotten, my pet. Not while we revere them every year at the festival of our ancestors.”
Tas clenched his fists, his voice choked. “If I was a soothsayer I would have known what my dream meant. The wolves in the cave were the Romans in the tunnel. I should’ve warned Apa.”
“No one expected you to interpret the omen,” said Semni. “And not even Lady Tanchvil understood what it meant. She thought it was a nightmare, not a vision.”
Aricia bent her head close to his. “One day you’ll be trained to be a haruspex and fulgurator, Tas. Then you’ll have the power to interpret divine will. Your fame will spread to every city within the Twelve.”
It was the first time in days Semni had seen his eyes light up. “I will become a great seer?”
Aricia nodded. “I’m sure the high priest will give you tuition.”
Semni glared at her over the boy’s head, then touched Tas’s knee. “Go and play with the others. Enjoy this day in the sunshine and stop worrying about such matters.”
He glanced across to the princes, reluctant to finish the conversation. Aricia had seen Semni’s disapproval, though. She kissed the top of his head again. “Go, my pet. We will talk of this later.”
When he was out of earshot, Semni rounded on her. “Now is not the time to put such ideas into his head!”
“He’s talented. With training . . .”
“He’s just a little boy who has lost his parents. By the gods! Let us finish mourning first!” Frustrated, she marched away.
A lone figure was standing at the water’s edge at the far end of the beach, watching two ships passing in the sea lane beyond the shore. Their sails were full, prows carving the waves, their wash foaming behind them.
Arruns unfastened his belt, letting his long kilt drop, then strode into the water until he stood waist deep before diving beneath the flat green surface.
Thinking he might drown, Semni sprinted toward him, kicking up sand. Reaching his pile of clothes, she waited anxiously for him to resurface.
His head appeared, then he began swimming, gliding through the water with easy strokes.
Her breathing eased when she saw him heading back. Water streamed from his massive shoulders as he waded toward her, the snake revealed.
“I was worried you’d sink.”
He frowned. “I’m a strong swimmer. I was in no danger.” He picked up his kilt, wrapping it around him, and sat on the sand. Bending his knees, he rested his elbows on them, staring at the horizon, squinting against the glare.
Normally taciturn, he’d become morose since arriving in Tarchna. Surliness was his armor. No matter how much she sought his caresses, he was distant. She understood he was grieving but she wanted him to share his sorrow with her.
She sat beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. The biremes sailed farther away, oars dipping. The beat of the drum as the overseer kept the rowers in rhythm grew fainter. She sensed longing in him. “Do you want to return to Sidon?”
He shook his head. “The princes need both of us.” He glanced at her thickening waist. “And our son is yet to be born.”
She was relieved. She couldn’t bear it if he became a sailor and left Nerie and her for months on end. In the terror of the last week, the child growing within her had been a tiny glimmer of hope, a small piece of comfort. “At least he will not be born into war.”
As if on cue, she felt the baby move, heralding his presence. She gasped, pressing her hand to her belly.
Arruns turned around, quizzical.
Another tiny nudge. “I’ve quickened.”
He focused on her stomach. “Can I feel him?”
She smiled, untying her sash, and hiked up her chiton. His roughened palm was cool against her rounded flesh. She prayed their son would once again stretch his limbs.
The baby stirred. And Barekbaal the Canaanite, known as Arruns, the man who had saved the heirs of the House of Mastarna, the warrior with the serpent tattoo and the courage of a lion, raised his head and smiled.
SIXTY-FIVE
Caecilia, Rome, Summer, 396 BC
She woke to a yawning sense of darkness, of being blind even though her eyes were open.
Once again, she was aware of the heavy cuffs shackling her wrists. It was a redundant precaution. There was no way she could escape the dungeon in the Carcer. It was known as the Tullanium, a holding cell reserved for enemies of the State.