Calvus leaned close, each word deliberate. “I want to see the Senate filled with plebeians. I want to see one elected as consul in the future. So tell your father that if no commoner is chosen as a consular general, there will be ructions. Buying a poor man’s favor can only last so long. Discontent will also return unless the omen is solved. If not, the aristocracy’s status as intermediaries to the gods may fall into question.”
Marcus stepped back, scanning the plebeian’s fine woolen toga. Calvus was as rich as any patrician. His concern for paupers was laughable. Not prepared to respond, Marcus nodded curtly, then turned on his heel. Nevertheless, as he pushed his way through the crowd toward his home, he thought of Artile waiting outside the city. Calvus was skeptical about the words of highborn augurs. What would he think about an Etruscan seer? Marcus swallowed hard. What would his father?
The inner and outer doors of every house Marcus passed on his street were thrown open. Garlands festooned the foyers. Inside he spied people milling around and helping themselves to food piled on tables. He was astounded. It was as if Rome had gone mad with generosity and good will. The rich of the Palatine were sparing no expense. Calvus’s words echoed in Marcus’s mind. Perhaps there was some weight to his claim the patricians were trying to garner votes through largesse.
The thick wooden portals of the House of Aemilius were closed. Marcus paused for a moment, pleased to be home but wondering why his father was not following the new custom. He banged the door clapper. A young porter he’d not met opened it.
“Come back in an hour; Lord Aemilius will offer refreshments then.”
Disconcerted he was not recognized in his own home, Marcus shoved past him, calling for the majordomo. The retainer bustled into view, cuffing the slave boy over the head for his mistake.
“It’s good to see you home, master. Let me take your toga. Your father is in his study with his guests.”
Marcus let the servant unwind the bulky cloak from around his body. It felt strange to wear one again. He’d grown used to the weight of his armor and his army cape. Inside the city, though, he was required to don the clothes of an ordinary citizen.
As he slipped on indoor sandals, he gazed around the atrium. It seemed smaller than he remembered. There was a forlornness to the room despite the table laden with viands. The familiar scent of herbs drying by the hearth fire was absent. The loom was devoid of yarn and warp weights. Masculinity dominated, his father’s panoply displayed on one wall, and the ancestor cupboard containing the death masks of Aemilian warriors opposite. A lump rose in his throat. His mother was dead. He would never see her again.
The sound of male voices floated from the study. Marcus entered the room with its pigeonhole shelves crammed with scrolls. His memories of this chamber were not fond. How many times had he stood here and been birched as a school boy? What would Aemilius do if gossip ever spread that his war-hero son loved another soldier?
The host was seated next to two guests. Marcus was unsurprised to see Scipio, a familiar crony, but the other man was unexpected. Lucius Furius Medullinus sat, leaning to one side on the armrest of his chair. Marcus frowned. His father’s relationship with Camillus’s older brother waxed and waned. They were often rivals in elections. The Furian was a complex man. He was a patrician and yet could not always be relied to act in the interests of the nobility. He’d supported a measure to grant soldiers a salary.
Marcus concentrated on his father. If anything, his clothes were even more rumpled than usual, another reminder the house lacked both a wife and mother.
Aemilius’s bushy gray eyebrows rose in surprise. He stood and placed his cup on the table so he could slap Marcus on the back. “Son! Welcome! But why are you home before winter?”
Medullinus sipped his wine, then drawled, “Don’t tell us my brother has made some headway at Veii after failing to take advantage of his win.”
Marcus resented the disparaging tone. He knew Medullinus was irked he’d missed out on being elected. It must have been galling to be bested by five plebeians—and his younger brother. “Furius Camillus has tightened the siege in a way no other consular general has done before. The Veientanes will starve soon enough, as long as the next general can maintain constant pressure.”
Aemilius glared at him. Marcus realized his mistake. His father had been one of the commanders who’d failed to take Veii in previous years.
Medullinus shifted in his seat, crossing his legs. He was taller and leaner than Camillus, but his hair was thinning. He self-consciously combed strands across his head to hide his bald patch. “You still haven’t told us why you’re here.”
Marcus hesitated, unsure whether to mention Artile in front of the others. “I came to tell you that Vel Mastarna has been made king.”
Scipio whistled. “Then we have a formidable foe. I thought he was badly wounded.”
“Claudius Drusus slashed and broke Mastarna’s sword arm. I doubt he’ll be effective in battle again.”
Medullinus continued his needling. “It’s a pity you did not personally finish him off when you had the chance.”
Marcus bristled. It rankled that he’d been made to surrender his spear. Yet if Mastarna had not spared his life, he would never have been able to rescue Drusus.
Aemilius cut in before Marcus could respond to the barb. “My son was among the warriors that nearly annihilated the Veientane army, Medullinus.”
Marcus was taken aback at his father standing up for him.
Aemilius gestured him to draw up a chair beside him. “It’s strange that Mastarna should have influence without a voting bloc. Stranger still that he was prepared to be crowned. I know he has no love of monarchs.”
“What does it matter whether he’s their chief magistrate or king,” said Medullinus. “We can’t assume he’ll let Veii fall without a struggle.”
“It’s Mastarna’s general, Thefarie Ulthes, we need to worry about,” replied Scipio. “If he and the Faliscans in the north relieve Veii, then all Camillus’s efforts will come to naught. And the zilath from Tarquinia on the coast has also bolstered the Etruscan forces.”
Marcus was irritated none of them mentioned the plebeian general, Genucius. The decurion admired the commander with the eye patch. “Caius Genucius is containing Thefarie’s northern troops, Father. He’s an able leader.”
Scipio snorted. “He is merely consolidating the gains made by Camillus.”
Marcus hid his disgust. The skinny senator had never distinguished himself in battle, although he’d displayed bravery. Marcus glanced at Scipio’s arm. There was a triangular indent in the flesh. The tip of a spear point remained embedded deep within. It was rumored the limb was weak. That he suffered constant pain.
“General Genucius proved himself in the Battle of Blood and Hail. After that he swapped commands to enable Furius Camillus to remain at Veii. He thinks of the glory of Rome, not his own.”