“The men I led into a massacre. Their souls wander tormented on a battlefield that now lies covered in snow. The maimed would have been stabbed by spears and mutilated by sword, limbs and genitals hacked from them, and heads cut off and spiked on lances to be paraded in mockery. Why wouldn’t my troops haunt me? A commander who survived while they were denied the honor of a funeral, their bodies left to rot instead of being cremated, their path to the world of the Beyond barred. Forever made phantoms.”
Caecilia was stunned. He’d never given her a glimpse into his anguish. She was ashamed she’d not considered he would be assailed by such guilt, thinking him inured.
Until the Battle of Blood and Hail, she’d never witnessed carnage. On that day, she stood on the heights of the wall and watched Vel attacked. As hail rained down, she’d experienced the sight and smells and sounds of warfare. And most horrific of all, the stack of corpses heaped at the double gates, men denied refuge by a king who wanted Mastarna and his tribe massacred. The horror had been vivid and visceral. For weeks she’d constantly relived what she’d witnessed until she’d taught herself to stow the visions in the back of her mind. “I’m so sorry, Vel. I did not realize.”
He lay down again, guiding her to join him, drawing the covers around them. “My fear is not only of death, Bellatrix. It is that I’ll be defeated and disfigured. To be made a specter that never finds peace.”
She stroked his stubbled cheek. It was rare for him to talk of his fears and doubts. “Why are you speaking of this now? It’s not like you to be preoccupied with death.”
He covered her hand. “You defied Nortia. I can’t conquer Rome while confined in this city. What if she punishes us? What if you and our children die because of me?”
The sick feeling returned. The fear she’d caused her family to be doomed had beset her as autumn faded and there was no sign of the siege lifting. She made offerings to Nortia every day: sweet gifts of flowers and honey to woo her. But after a time, she decided not to surrender to melancholy that Fate would not forgive her. She gripped Vel’s fingers. “Nortia will be placated. Uni will protect us. Thefarie will break through enemy lines. You’ll march on Rome. I refuse to give up hope.”
Vel kissed her fingers. “My warrioress.”
She nestled beside him again. “Remember the Atlenta pendant that Thia now wears? You first gave it to me and told me the huntress and her husband were turned into lions by the goddess of love? We will be lions, Vel, together forever.”
He pressed his lips to her hair. “That’s only a story. And those lovers were transformed because they offended the deity. I’d rather hold you for eternity as you are. To believe we will meet again in Acheron is a consolation. And Fufluns will protect us there.”
At his mention of the wine god, a sharp pulse started in her temple, echoing her heartbeat. She was afraid of the violent and wanton ways required to secure Fufluns’s protection. And Artile had taught her a judgment day awaited her in the Rasennan Beyond, where demons and monsters hindered the journey, a peril that threatened a promised haven. She believed in a simpler ending, a merging of her soul with the Good Ones. She whispered, “Do you want me to desert my father’s religion?”
“No, Bellatrix. I promised you I would never do that.”
She placed his hand on her breast, her own upon his chest. “Because I will love you until my heart ceases beating.”
His tone was wistful. “And my love for you will continue after I have taken my last breath.”
His words hung heavy between them.
Vel turned on his side away from her, drawing her arm across him. “Let’s go to sleep.”
After a time she heard the shallow rise and fall of his breath as he slept. But peace was denied her. She lay on her back to stare at the ceiling, the laurel leaf pattern distorted in the wavering light of the braziers. The gloomy talk had reminded her of another ghost, and a danger in not believing in the Afterworld.
Slipping from under the bedclothes, she stepped down from the footstool, feeling the chill floor beneath her feet. She grabbed her mantle from the wall hook and wrapped it around her, padding across to the pedestal table. She lifted the handled lid from the ornate bronze cista and rummaged inside. Her fingers touched the golden dice. She pushed guilt aside and continued searching. At the bottom of the container, she found what she sought: a gold-and-onyx ring. Vel had not worn it for years. It was a gift from Seianta, his first wife.
Her thoughts turned to the Mastarna family tomb outside the sacred boundary. In it lay a sarcophagus with a sculpture of man and wife locked in an everlasting embrace. Mastarna and Seianta. Their terra-cotta image impervious to time. No such casket existed for Vel and herself. The war had prevented the commissioning of such a memorial.
Was Seianta waiting for her husband in Acheron even now? Was the Rasennan couple destined to be reunited?
When Caecilia had first married Vel, she’d shared him with Seianta while the dead girl haunted him. She’d felt her presence in their bed as surely as flesh and blood had lain between them. He claimed his love had ended long before Seianta died. Their affection challenged when their little girl, sickly and weak, had been granted only one year of life—their union broken after the death of their deformed son. The Tarchnan girl hated Vel for denying her what she believed was the chance for their children to become lesser gods through the Calu Death Cult. For each to become one of the Blessed.
Caecilia placed the ring into the cista, covering it with his other jewelry. Shivering, she climbed back into bed, molding herself against him. In reflex, he rolled over, encircling her in his arms without waking.
Caecilia willed sleep to come as the heat of his body transferred to hers. There was one more secret she vowed she would never tell him. Her reticence was fed by a selfish dread. She could not bear to think he might slip the gold-and-onyx ring on his finger, praying he could again embrace Seianta. For if Vel knew what Caecilia kept silent, he might again seek the love of the wife who’d been so cruelly wronged.
NINETEEN
Caecilia opened her eyes to muted light, her head fuzzy from lack of sleep. She reached for Vel, but the bed was empty. He always rose at dawn to train with Arruns.
Reluctant to attend to the beckoning duties of the day, she once again contemplated what had denied her slumber. Vel wanted to meet her in Acheron. But the pathways there frightened her.
As a na?ve bride, she’d found the Rasennan religion seductive, promising life after death. And Artile had been adept at persuading her to worship Aita, god of the dead. The reward was tantalizing—to be one of the Blessed. Then he’d chained her to the rigors of the Calu Cult until she’d discovered the price of reanimating the dead—human sacrifice.
The image of the Phersu setting his hound on a blindfolded man at the funeral games horrified her. Those who followed Aita claimed the Masked One performed a holy rite. To Caecilia, he was merely an executioner. Vel didn’t worship the death god, but he wanted her to gain entry to Acheron. His way to achieve this was no less disturbing. The orgiastic rites of the Pacha Cult, honoring Fufluns, scared her. Tears welled. She rested the back of her hand against her eyes.