Aemilius leaned forward. “I allowed you to pledge your allegiance to Camillus for the last campaign. In winter that service will be over. Don’t forget you owe fealty to me.”
“Don’t deny my serving under Camillus gave you peace of mind, Father,” said Marcus, resentful his father didn’t want him to seek greater glory on the battlefield. “It galled you to think I might have to salute a commoner like Caius Genucius. As I said, I’m going to stand as a military tribune regardless of who my commander is.”
Aemilius’s face was now red with choler. “Show me respect! I would never have spoken to my elders as you do.”
Marcus knew he should restrain his insolence, but he was tired of being submissive. Of being the dutiful son. “And I want you to start seeing me as more than a boy who should bow his head and always accept your opinion as my own.”
Aemilius leaned across and gripped his son’s arm. His grip was like iron, reminding Marcus that this man might look gray and old and tired, but he still possessed strength and a strong will.
“Do you know how hard I’ve worked to overcome the stigma of being the uncle and adopted father of a traitoress? Remember that Medullinus and I brokered the peace treaty that saw Caecilia married. But politics change. And war changes politics most of all. He and I both had to grow talons and sharp beaks after our misjudgment. The House of Aemilius can’t afford to make any more mistakes.” He squeezed harder. “Now you support Camillus in this lunatic scheme to bring an enemy priest before the Senate. What if Artile Mastarna is perfidious? What if the rites he proposes are intended to bring about calamity? Our family will be ruined, as will Rome. Do you want that?”
Marcus eased his arm from under Aemilius’s hand. “What am I supposed to do, Father? I’m honor bound to obey my general. My oath to Camillus does not expire until he leaves office. And he has the right as a consular general to call a meeting of the Senate, even if you don’t agree with the decision he seeks.”
Aemilius slumped in his chair, hand to his brow, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s true. He has that power.” Then he dropped his hand, meeting his son’s gaze. “Where’s the Etruscan now?”
“Waiting on the Campus with my men.”
“Very well. I’ll order the official messenger to call the senators to meet at the Temple of Apollo Medicus. As a foreigner from an enemy city, Artile can’t speak before the Curia inside Rome’s sacred boundary.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Aemilius grimaced, shaking his head. “I will make it clear I don’t agree with Camillus’s plan. Do you understand?” He stood with a slowness that hinted at creaking bones and age-weary muscles. Marcus rose in deference. To his surprise, his father patted his shoulder. “On second thought, a military tribune is a useful first step. We will lobby for votes together, you and I. And when I’m made consular general, I’ll be proud to have you under my command. Father and son. Two Aemilian warriors together.”
SEVENTEEN
Dawn’s light was muted. Gray. A soft rain was falling, the drizzle enough to slowly saturate clothing. There was a breath of winter in the air.
The senators ascended the steps to the portico of the Temple of Apollo Medicus. The god may have been all seeing, but as a foreign Greek deity he was denied residence within the city wall. Nevertheless, the Senate chose his sanctum on the Campus Martius to give audience to enemy emissaries. Rome had claimed the divinity as its own.
The procession took some time. Marcus stood to the side and watched three hundred men pass. The effect was impressive, a moving mass of white and purple.
The doors of the temple remained open once the politicians had taken up their positions inside. The space in front of the doorway was reserved for the ten people’s tribunes. Icilius Calvus stood on the portico sharing the same curious expression as his colleagues—who was the ambassador who was seeking an audience?
There were murmurs when Tatius escorted Artile onto the portico. The priest was wearing a cloak, the hood drawn forward to hide his face.
Inside, Aemilius was making his welcome address. Marcus clenched and unclenched his fists as he listened to the announcement that Furius Camillus had called an extraordinary sitting. He wondered if the deliberations would be thrashed out by nightfall. The Senate could only sit from sunrise to sunset.
His name was called. Taking a deep breath, Marcus signaled Artile to follow him inside. The priest kept his head bowed, his face hidden. Tatius remained beside the doorjamb.
Sunlight had not yet infiltrated the chamber. The gloom was splintered by torchlight from sconces on the walls. Three large braziers were burning but did little to heat or illuminate the room. A huge statue of Apollo stood inside the entrance, holding a laurel branch in one hand, a lyre in the other. Marcus bowed his head to both the entity and the assembled elders.
Makeshift wooden rows had been erected around three sides of the chamber to mirror the arrangement of the Curia inside Rome. Those who were more notable sat on stools on the lowest level; those lesser in status craned their necks as they stood on the elevated rear tiers.
Aemilius beckoned to his son to speak, then sat down.
Marcus cleared his throat. His voice caught at first, but as he unfurled and read the scroll, his nerves settled.
“I, Marcus Furius Camillus, Consular General, call the Senate of Rome to heed the advice of Artile Mastarna, high priest of the Temple of Uni, the great haruspex and fulgurator of Veii, in the matter of the prodigy of Lake Albanus. This is for the benefit of all Romans, and to ensure the destruction of our foe. It is a matter of urgency. As such, I seek to have my term of office extended until all expiation rites have been conducted.”
A babble of angry voices erupted. Marcus glanced across to Aemilius, who shook his head, the gesture reminiscent of his paternal warning the night before.
Protocol was forgotten. Scipio called out, “How dare you bring an enemy into our midst.”
Artile stepped forward. The senators fell silent. Drawing back his hood, the seer let his cloak slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor. He lifted a tall conical hat he’d been hiding beneath the folds and placed it on his head. He had exchanged ill-fitting armor for the garb of his profession. And with the change of clothes, his confidence had been restored. His long tunic and sheepskin-lined coat protected him more than any breastplate. His soft leather ankle boots seemed hardier than hobnails. And when he tied the straps of the hat, it was as though he was buckling his helmet. He straightened his back and thrust out his chin. Marcus noticed how his shoulder-length locks were now oiled. His face was shaven clean. His eyes rimmed with kohl, his lashes blackened. His hypnotic stare focused on the wisest men in the city.
Medullinus was first to break the silence. His chair grated against the tiled floor as he stood. “My brother insults us in sending this charlatan. It’s timely his term is coming to an end.”