Scipio added, “All of us here possess skills of augury. Why listen to a treacherous priest?”
Artile’s mellifluous voice echoed in the high vaulted chamber: “I am no fraud.” The effect of his perfect Latin was marked. Medullinus sat down again. The senators remained quiet. “I can read messages from the gods in the livers of sacrificial beasts. I can read the future in the spark and flare of red, white, or black lightning. I spent a decade at the Sacred College at Velzna learning my craft. Roman augurs ask questions to which the gods merely answer yes or no. Rasennan soothsayers listen to complex answers to interpret divine will. If you fail to heed Furius Camillus’s request and ignore my counsel, then you do so at your peril.”
Marcus winced, thinking Artile unwise to denigrate these sages. Yet he could not deny Artile communicated directly with deities in a way that made Roman attempts seem clumsy.
A senator called Titinius called from the second row, “The Sibylline Books are silent on the issue. On what authority do you claim you have greater knowledge?”
“Because Rome only possesses three of the nine Sibylline Books, which only contain obscure Greek verses from Apollo’s oracle regarding certain proscribed rites. My people, on the other hand, possess the Etruscan Discipline, which includes all the branches of our religion in intricate detail: the Book of Thunderbolts reveals the meaning of lightning, and the Book of Acheron instructs how to ensure passage to our Afterlife.” He paused, ensuring he had the attention of all. “And the Book of Fate gives insight on how to prophesy destiny, or even defer it.”
Whispering and rustling filled the chamber. Postumius, a man known for his bluster, called, “This is a trick! Why would we trust an Etruscan? The reason Rome doesn’t possess all nine Sibylline Books is because of one of his race. The tyrant, Tarquinius Superbus, tried to cheat the sibyl and ended up paying full price for only three. She destroyed the other six.”
Artile was unfazed. He smoothed one eyebrow with one black-painted fingernail. “Don’t judge my people by King Tarquinius’s hubris. I’m not lying when I say I know the expiation rites required.”
“And what guarantee do we have you’ll not steer us to disaster?” asked Medullinus. “I prefer to hear what my brother Spurius says. His delegation seeks communion with Apollo at Delphi. They’ll return soon.”
The priest remained condescending. “The journey to Delphi is perilous. It could be months before you are given your answer.”
“Our representatives sailed in summer,” said Scipio. “We expect them to arrive back any time now.”
“You’re na?ve if you think your emissaries will be granted an audience immediately. The crone, Pythia, can only be consulted on the seventh day of each month. The Delphians take precedence, and their leaders choose the representatives of the next city who are to be given the opportunity to speak. They favor their own countrymen before foreigners. Those remaining must draw lots to determine the order. And if the sun sets before a question is put, those unheard must wait until the next month and start the procedure again.” His gaze traveled across the tiers of listeners. “The days are growing shorter. Apollo does not reside in Delphi during winter, and so Pythia retires for the season. If Rome has not queried her by December, your ambassadors must sojourn in her land.” He pointed to the statue of Apollo. “I, on the other hand, have spoken directly to the god of prophecy, and he has confirmed the answer I ascertained from my sacred books.”
More murmurs, more shuffling of feet of those standing. Medullinus leaned across to whisper in Aemilius’s ear. The prefect nodded, his voice rising above the undertones. “So why did Lake Albanus rise in time of drought? What does it signify?”
The seer closed his eyes as though listening to a celestial voice. “Rome has neglected Mater Matuta, the ancient goddess of your allies. It has also offended Neptunus who caused the waters to inundate the fields and flow into the sea. Apollo advises that the Romans must drain the floodplains and divert the torrent so that the ash-pale soil of Latium will be fertile again. He states that Mater Matuta once again must be honored. Only then will Veii’s gods desert its walls.”
Artile opened his eyes. They were dark and gleaming. Marcus saw the others were enthralled, drawn to the aura of authority the haruspex exuded.
Medullinus was less spellbound. “The fact remains Furius Camillus is asking us to accept the word of a traitor.” He pointed to the Veientane. “If you are the faithful servant to your gods, why do you now wish to reveal secrets that would lead to the destruction of your own people?”
The Etruscan bowed his head. When he raised it, he appeared humble. “I’ve grappled with my conscience. But who am I to keep secret the will of the divine? It may well be as great a sin to conceal what the deities wish to be known as to speak what should remain concealed. My duty is to the gods, not to men—not even to my own kin and kind.”
Marcus winced at hearing how shifty the seer sounded. His hopes that Camillus’s submission might be considered favorably faded. Artile may have been speaking the truth but his sophistry was suspect.
“I think we’ve heard enough,” said Aemilius, standing and facing the assembly. “Let the debate begin. Shall we grant Camillus’s request?”
There was no discussion. Every senator voted with his feet, moving to the left of the chamber for the negative. Marcus was glad Furius Camillus was not there to see such utter rejection.
The session had concluded. Marcus was ordered from the chamber. He nudged Artile to follow, warning him not to speak again. The priest scowled as he collected his cloak from the floor.
Tatius was waiting at the doorway. Marcus gestured him aside, away from the ears of the people’s tribunes on the portico. “Take him to the general’s country villa. And post a guard. I’ll take no chances others might ignore the haruspex’s diplomatic protection.”
Artile’s voice was choked with anger. “Wisdom is wasted on fools. They’ll regret giving time to allow the Twelve to come to Mastarna’s aid. The expiation rites should be conducted now.”
“Shut up,” barked Marcus, shoving him. “Your arrogance has cost Camillus an opportunity to secure a victory.”
The three men threaded their way through the plebeians. Marcus felt a tap on his shoulder. Calvus’s lips were pressed into a straight line. “Camillus should be ashamed—letting an Etruscan lecture Romans on piety. The Senate made the correct decision.”
Marcus repeated his order to Tatius, denying Calvus access to Artile. Then he brushed past the plebeian, not prepared to engage. All he could think about was Camillus’s reaction to the news. He’d failed the general. There was a twinge of cowardice in his relief that he wasn’t expected to return to camp. Pinna would need all her skills to calm her lover’s rage when the messenger told him Rome had given him a resounding no.
SIEGE
EIGHTEEN