Pinna had spoken the truth when she said they’d grown close. It was a relief to be able to talk freely about his feelings without judgment. There was mutual benefit in their arrangement. She pretended she was his woman, while he’d freed her from the brothel. And then she’d humiliated him by making him a cuckold in the eyes of the camp with the general. The sharp point of her ambition had been unsheathed. He didn’t believe her declarations that she’d keep his secret. She would destroy him if Furius Camillus were ever taken from her. Another woman whose lust overruled her integrity. Pinna and Caecilia. Was it any wonder he despised them?
Marcus was jolted from his thoughts as the ferry’s bottom nudged into the shallows. Sounds intruded again: the thud of the gangplank onto the bank, the chatter of the passengers as they disembarked, the grunts of men as they hefted amphorae of olive oil onto their shoulders.
Artile stood looking back toward the road to Veii. His expression was melancholy. Marcus grabbed his arm, wrenching him around and then prodding him in the small of the back toward the waiting cavalrymen. “A little late for regret, priest. The next time you set foot in your city, Veii better belong to Rome.”
FIFTEEN
The Forum was bathed in soft light, shadows pooling with the chill edge of the afternoon. There was a fresh smell of rain, the roads washed clean of muck. Marcus could hardly believe the drought had broken.
The city roiled with people spilling into the Sacred Way and cramming into the side streets. The plebeians were reveling. It was clear many had been drinking steadily. Marcus marveled at their conviviality. The last time he’d been in Rome they were on the brink of insurrection. He navigated through the crowd, making his way to the steps of the Curia Senate House so he could gain a better view. The festival intrigued him. It was not a day proscribed as a religious holiday.
There were three couches draped lavishly with flowing folds of cloth next to the Comitium assembly area. Two wooden statues, their heads molded from wax, were arranged on each divan, leaning their elbows on elaborate cushions. The garlands around their necks drooped from the recent showers. The circlets of laurel leaves on their brows were wilted and turning brown.
The tables in front of them were laden with food—a bounty in a city that lived on rations. Marcus thought it a waste that ants were creeping through the honey cakes, and flies buzzing over fruit. A young acolyte lethargically shooed away sparrows that alighted to peck at crumbs. He seemed defeated by the task.
Marcus edged into the throng again to inspect the effigies, astonished to see there were two women sharing the banquet. He’d never seen such a thing in the flesh or in sculpture. Matrons did not recline next to men when they dined. They sat on chairs and ate after their husbands, fathers, and sons.
A trumpet sounded. The throng parted to allow three magistrates in striped purple tunics make their way to the couches. Prayers were said. Invocations made. The ceremony identified the statues on the divans as deities. Apollo and his mother, Latona, were asked to heal the city; his sister, Diana, to protect the poor and women; Mercurius to stimulate commerce; and Neptunus to provide fresh water. Lastly, the half-god Herculeus was venerated for his strength. Marcus was struck by the presence of the same gods as lived in the sanctuary outside Veii. Both sides sought their protection.
The timekeeper called the dinner hour. The revelers started to drift home. Marcus pulled aside one man who appeared sober. “What are these rituals?”
“A new festival called a lectisternium. The keepers of the Sibylline Books have proclaimed it. It’s to appease the six gods who are believed to have sent the plague and inclement weather. There’s been a week of devotions. This is the eighth and last day. A banquet has been offered to the gods each afternoon.”
“I thought we were in famine.”
The man grinned. “No longer. Supplies arrived from the south. And rain has been falling steadily ever since the holiday began. Our cisterns are replenished. Our fields will be fertile again.”
“So the rites are not in expiation for Lake Albanus?”
His smile faded. “We still await the delegation from Delphi.”
The man moved on. Marcus turned toward his home on the Palatine, but a hand clasped his elbow. He swung around. Icilius Calvus stood before him.
“Marcus Aemilius. What brings you to Rome before the end of the year?”
Marcus shrugged him away. He had little time for the plebeian with the spear-straight back and dour manner. “Furius Camillus ordered me to return.” He could see Calvus waiting for further explanation, but he denied him an account. Awkward seconds passed.
The plebeian scowled. “Spare me your patrician arrogance.” He gestured around him. “Proclaiming another holiday might please some of my fellow Romans, but I know the true motivation for this lectisternium. And it’s only in part to placate the gods.”
Marcus frowned. “Why is that?”
“The Senate claims our city has suffered plague and famine because five plebeians were elected as consular generals instead of patricians. The scaremongering is gaining credence. The lectisternium provides an opportunity to pander to the populace with feasting. There’s also been a decree that bondsmen are now unencumbered of their debts.”
Marcus had heard the complaint about plebeians commanding Rome’s armies before. He focused instead on the man’s last sentence. “Those in bondage have been freed? I thought you’d be pleased to see veterans enfranchised again.”
The grooves around Calvus’s mouth settled into grim lines, etched from long years of disapproval. “True, such men regain the citizenship they forfeited. But they’ll undoubtedly vote in favor of those who granted them liberty. Six patricians will once again lead Rome.”
Marcus was stunned at his cynicism. “I never thought you’d complain that a common soldier could vote.”
“The war tax hasn’t been lifted. Warrior-farmers still fight all year round. How long do you think it will be before such men fall into debt again? It’s the right to keep the spoils they need. And a share of conquered land.”
Marcus shook his head at the well-worn grievance. “Booty needs to go to the treasury for the benefit of all.”
“Is that what Camillus tells you? He was the only noble elected last year. Many believed he would reward his troops. Instead he denied them Faliscan plunder. And he deprived Rome of grain. I’m standing for the position of consular general again. I will not give up my fight for the rights of common soldiers.”
Marcus’s impatience changed to irritation. “Look around you. The people are happy. Do you want to incite them to mutiny again? To ensure our State is riven by internal conflict instead of standing as one against our enemies?”