Marcus rolled his eyes. Tatius laughed. They had started as raw recruits together. He did not seek to rival Marcus as did Drusus. He acknowledged the Aemilian as his superior without question.
“May Mars give me strength to get through this day,” muttered Marcus, grabbing a goatskin bladder of water from his horse’s pack and gesturing Tatius to go. The soldier saluted before he led the animals farther upstream.
On the far side, the ferryman was taking his time to load cargo. It could be a long wait before he would return. Marcus looked across to Artile, reluctant to go near him despite the general’s orders. He’d been charged to discover the true nature of the enmity between the Mastarna brothers. It was to Camillus’s advantage to understand the motives and passions of all those around him, both friend and foe. Even so, the decurion couldn’t comprehend why his commander placed such faith in the seer.
He sat down beside Artile. The soothsayer glanced up when he realized the Roman had joined him. Marcus squirted a stream of water into his mouth from the bladder, then wiped drips from his beard. The priest eyed the liquid, licking dry lips. The Aemilian ignored him, finding it difficult to reconcile how Artile could be so unlike his warrior brother. There was a marked resemblance, but the priest lacked a honed body and battle scars. Yet Marcus couldn’t deny both brothers’ fame. One was renowned for his valor, the other for his prescience. If in Rome, such a family would be feted.
It was quiet away from the hubbub of the ferry station. The Roman studied the fast-flowing current, wondering how to broach the subject of Vel Mastarna. The water was so clear he could see the pebbles coating the bottom of the stream. It was hard to imagine that these swirling eddies had once been thick with blood. Fidenae was a strategic post over which Veii and Rome had fought for decades. It was the site of massacres and ignominy, triumph and honor. The crossing joined the northern trade routes to the rich salt pans at the mouth of the Tiber. Veii had once controlled all access. Then Rome had thwarted it by capturing the hilltop town nearly thirty years ago. A battle won by his great uncle, Mamercus Aemilius—the dictator.
His thoughts drifted to Caecilia. It was for those trade routes she’d been wed to Vel Mastarna in the first place. There had been concord for twenty years based on a treaty arising after the battle of Fidenae. And it was his father, Aemilius, and other peacemakers, who had sought to continue the pact by offering Cilla in marriage. Marcus had ached for her when he’d heard she was to be sacrificed. He clenched his fists. Cilla. He had to stop thinking of her fondly. Stop using the nickname he’d given her. The glimpse of her on the wall during the Battle of Blood and Hail was enough to convince him she was Veientane now.
“Our pasts are linked more than you can imagine, Marcus Aemilius.”
Artile’s bass voice startled him.
“My father was killed by your great-uncle at this very place.”
Marcus turned to him. He had long felt the burden of living up to the most famous of the Aemilian clan. “Then your father fought for a tyrant. King Laris Tulumnes was a scoundrel who murdered four Roman envoys on the throw of a dice. He deserved to be beheaded when Mamercus Aemilius defeated his army.”
Artile’s bristled. “The Tulumnes family saw his mutilation as a travesty. And his descendants have fared little better. His son was deposed by Mastarna and his cronies. Then his cousin, King Kurvenas, was assassinated. My brother filled his royal shoes despite bleating how much he loathes monarchs. At least Karcuna Tulumnes is still there to oppose him. There’s always been conflict both within and without Veii. Our father would be ashamed of my brother.”
Marcus snorted. “What would he think of his traitorous priestly son?”
Artile looked away.
The Roman was pleased he’d pricked the Etruscan’s conscience. Yet the seer’s declaration that his father had met his death at the hand of Marcus’s own famous ancestor only made the decurion wonder what type of man Vel Mastarna really was. “Your brother chose to put such history aside to marry an Aemilian? Why?”
The haruspex’s laugh was bitter. “A bone of contention between us. He replaced vengeance with diplomacy—and look how that ended.”
“So that’s why you hate him? Because you feel he’s betrayed your family through the marriage?”
The pasty features hardened. “That’s only part of my hatred.”
The soldier leaned back, legs outstretched, his weight resting on his elbows. “The ferryman will take some time. I’m listening.”
The priest scrutinized him as though hesitating whether to reveal more. “He liked to meddle in my private life. He and that treacherous cousin of yours turned my love against me at the time war was declared.”
“Why would they convince your wife to spurn you?”
“I have no use for a wife. It was my beloved, Tarchon, who was persuaded to leave me.”
Marcus scrambled to understand, then recalled the priest’s conversation with Camillus. How he’d claimed Mastarna’s adopted son had shunned him.
He had only met the prince once. Tarchon had accompanied Caecilia to Fidenae when she’d sought to flee Veii ten years ago. He guessed he was the same age as him. Nineteen or twenty. He’d smelled of rose water and worn a turquoise earring and robes of green. Marcus suspected he was a soft one, only having eyes for men. For some time after, he repressed thoughts of kissing those sensual lips; long-lashed eyelids; and the Veientane’s taut, honey-colored body.
Had the prince been seduced, or was he willing? Either way, Marcus was disturbed. What kind of world did Caecilia live in? A woman should never be exposed to such behavior. And yet it seemed that she was involved in a drama between two molles. How could she condone an adult aristocrat bedding the son of another noble? Turning a youth destined to be a warrior into a bride. After all, it was a father’s duty to teach his son how to be a statesman, knight, and head of his family. For a moment, he felt a twinge of sadness. He’d never sire heirs to whom he could show his battle scars.
He stared at the seer, aware that the odious Etruscan possessed none of the qualities suited to teach a boy how to be a man. Yet he was also intrigued whether Tarchon’s relationship with the priest had continued into manhood. Were two equals allowed to be lovers openly in Veii? Imagine such freedom. “I can understand why Mastarna would ensure his son retained his honor. Tarchon was your kin, and was expected to become a soldier, not another man’s wife.”
“Who are you to judge me? I’ve seen how you look at Claudius Drusus. You’d bed him without hesitation if he gave you some encouragement.”
Marcus felt the blood rush of anger and astonishment and fear. He sat up and seized the priest by the throat.
Artile flailed against him, his hands scrabbling at his. “Camillus . . . wants me . . . alive.”
The Roman squeezed the soothsayer’s windpipe, ignoring how the man wheezed, his dark cat eyes bulging, his face scarlet.