“No soldier will today. We enter the city as civilians.” He pointed to the bruise on Tarchon’s face. “I see Artile has been punishing you.”
The prisoner touched the contusion. “He thinks he can beat me into loving him again. He’ll end up killing me from frustration.” He sighed. “I hope to spur him to do so. I’ve nothing left to live for.”
Marcus knew he should not feel pity for a foe but failed. The memory of Tarchon caressing his dead beloved with bound hands was scored into his mind. It made him despair, knowing he’d never be allowed to love an equal. Or have the chance of being cherished in that way. “I regret my knight killed Sethre.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Tarchon’s face. “He’s better off dead. I wouldn’t wish him enslaved. He was the son of a king.” He leaned his head back against the tent pole. “And I’d have been required to give him up soon enough. At least I can cherish the memories of the little time we had.”
“What do you mean ‘soon enough’?”
“We Etruscans have rules, too. As soon as Sethre reached manhood, I could no longer be his lover.” He straightened and studied the Roman. “I pity you. I’ve seen your type before. Lonely and frustrated. Self-denial oozes from you. Fear, too . . . of giving in to temptation . . . of being caught.”
Marcus felt his face burning. “You do well to keep silent.”
“Do you think you can hide you’re a mollis from me? Your secret hovers in your lingering glance and your shameful blush.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tarchon shook his head, once again leaning his head against the tent pole. “If you didn’t come here to laud over me, what exactly do you want?”
“I bring word from Caecilia.”
The prince sat up straight. “You’ve seen her? How is she?”
“She’s grieving in the Tullanium. She said to tell you she loves you. That Mastarna would be proud of you.”
“I wish I could tell her the same before she’s murdered.” He searched Marcus’s face. “For a man who claims to hate her, you’ve been kind. Perhaps you’ve found love for her again?”
Uncomfortable, Marcus didn’t reply. Once again he was being drawn back into memories of affection and family ties.
Tarchon persisted. “She loved you until the day you tried to kill Mastarna. It was only then she removed your iron wristlet. Before that, your amulet gave her comfort when she was homesick or frightened. And there was much for her to fear in Veii. She was under constant threat from the Tulumnes clan. And she suffered Artile’s malice. He tried to pervert Prince Tas. And he fed her potions that made her barren.”
Marcus’s revulsion for the priest surged. And once again, cracks deepened in the veneer of his feelings toward Caecilia. But he needed to nurture hatred again. Otherwise, being her killer would destroy him. He squeezed the bridge of his nose to ward off tears. “I’m to be her executioner.”
Tarchon sucked in his breath. “Why you?”
“Camillus has ordered me to prove my loyalty. Cremating Mastarna angered him. But believe me, killing her will be the hardest thing I have ever done.”
“Then do the same for her as you did for my father. Don’t let her be a ghost.”
A trumpet started to signal final muster. Marcus knew he couldn’t delay. What Tarchon was asking was nigh impossible. Denying Rome the body of the traitoress could lead to his own downfall. “I must go. What you ask is too difficult.”
As he opened the tent flap, Marcus heard the chains clank behind him. Tarchon called, “Then if you won’t grant her salvation, at least tell her you forgive her. Let the last human touch she feels be the hand of someone who loves her.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Pinna, Rome, Summer, 396 BC
It was midday. The triumphal parade had not yet reached the Sacred Way. The sky was overcast yet the sun beat down when it broke through the clouds.
At least a thousand were crammed around Pinna in the Forum, straining their necks to catch sight of the dictator. Some had lined up since daybreak to gain the best position. The mood was buoyant. For once they had plenty of money.
Pinna arranged her palla again over her head and around her body. Thia lay hidden in a sling against her, slumbering after being given a draught.
Others had chosen to view the religious ceremony at dawn near the Circus Maximus. A dais had been erected where senators, magistrates, and knights sat on ivory chairs. An array of soldiers had then borne testimony as to the exploits of the vir triumphalis. She wondered if Marcus’s words of praise stuck in his throat now he saw his hero as vain and vindictive. She knew he had qualms about being awarded the mural crown.
In the distance she could hear roars, the sound rolling toward them, as the pomp traveled from the Aventine. The three-beat rhythm of the drums grew louder.
She spied Prince Tarchon. Even though chained, he held himself with dignity, staring ahead, chin raised, shoulders back. He didn’t flinch as the crowd jeered and pelted him with cabbages and onions.
General Lusinies was less composed. His head was bent, his shoulders defeated as refuse rained down on him. His journey would end when he reached the Carcer. The executioners awaited him in the Tullanium, ligatures at the ready.
The slaughter in Veii had deprived Rome of the sight of imprisoned Veientane warriors. The shortfall in military captives was compensated by hundreds of wagons bearing their armor and the rest of Camillus’s treasure. The oohs of the crowd revealed their astonishment. They had scavenged the pickings. Here was the main.
Artile came next. He was beaming, enjoying the adulation of a crowd who no longer saw him as a dangerous false prophet. Pinna touched her fascinum, averting her head. Even though surrounded, she feared those hypnotic eyes would seek her out.
The two garlanded white cows were docile as Medullinus and Spurius led them. The Furian brothers were smiling at sharing in their brother’s glory. Scipio, as Master of the Horse, rode on his stallion beside them. Senators and magistrates followed, as well as Camillus’s two sons on horseback.
Twenty-four lictors bearing fasces appeared. Women threw handfuls of rose petals, the blossoms floating, their scent rich, creating a floral carpet for the approaching hero.
There were gasps as Camillus came into view. It was as though Jupiter rode in front of them. The four white stallions pranced as they pulled the golden quadriga onto the Sacred Way. Pinna thought of Apollo, the other god who was entitled to drive such a conveyance. The deity had aided the dictator to victory. Now Rome must fear divine retribution for forgetting him.