Camillus pulled his friend close. “And you’ll do what you can to keep Calvus in check? Our alliance remains firm?”
Genucius nodded again. “Yes. Our friendship remains strong. If necessary, I will not let Calvus succeed in vetoing any troops—provided you support my ambitions to once again hold power.”
Pinna was astonished. Was it bribery or loyalty she was witnessing? Either way, both men had strengthened their bond. She stooped and handed Genucius his sandals. He regarded her and then Camillus. For a fleeting fraction, she sensed he was going to speak out; instead he thanked her for his shoes.
When the men left, Pinna called to the maid to help her tidy the room. Thoughts spun in her mind about the night’s revelations and altercations. And then, in the clatter of clearing dishes and wine cups, she felt a surge of happiness. Her Wolf had defended her to his brother. And he’d not derided the suggestion that he take her as his lawful wife.
TWENTY-FOUR
Marcus, Falerii, Winter, 397 BC
The icy burn bit into Marcus’s flesh as he dived under the water and resurfaced. He swam with strong, energetic breaststrokes to ward off the cold.
Around him, the men of his brigade griped as they waded into the river, shivering and crossing their arms before they submerged and joined their commander in the exercise.
Drusus dived after his friend, yelling at him to set up a race to the far bank into deeper waters. Marcus eased up to let his competitor draw even. Furious splashing and kicking ensued until both glided to the edge, Marcus’s fingertips touching first. Drusus laughed and cursed, then challenged him again, turning to give himself a head start. He streaked away. Marcus yelled in protest, and a new contest began.
Drusus reached the shallows first and stood, waist deep. Marcus caught up, also standing, and gave him a thump on the back, calling him a cheat. His companion smiled and shrugged, then dived into the river, doing another lap. Marcus noticed Drusus did not seem hampered by his weak shoulder when buoyed by the current. However, the joint was a latent concern. It had been dislocated so many times that another knock could wrench it from its socket. Marcus doubted the knight had strength to wield a shield as a bludgeon if forced into hand-to-hand fighting. Aemilius must have thought the same. He’d promoted Tatius to head decurion instead of the Claudian.
Marcus hated to see his friend’s frustration at being passed over. Pinna claimed Drusus was jealous of him. But it was a friendly rivalry, not based on spite. She did not understand that nobles jockeyed for position. If anything, Drusus had greater chances than he did in the future: His father and uncles were dead. He was the head of an extremely wealthy house. He held the potential to broker deals and buy favors if he could manage to control his moods and temper.
Marcus watched the decurion continue swimming. If Drusus still felt pain from his injuries, he did not show it. Yet even though he strived to keep up in training, his face had been pinched and white at the end of the run this morning. He appeared relieved to rest his shield on the ground and strip off his armor for the swim.
The other knights were less enthusiastic. They hastened to finish, then splashed from the river. Marcus headed for the bank, his feet stirring the mud as he strode from the water.
“You’re a bastard, sir,” called Tatius, his lips tinged blue. “We’re going to ride, not swim, into battle.”
Marcus grinned at him as he drew on his tunic. Despite feeling sorry Drusus had been overlooked for promotion, he was happy for Tatius. “Show some respect, or I’ll make you run up that hill again in full kit.”
“Better than freezing my balls off.” Tatius hacked up a gob of spit, then reached down to pick up his breastplate and buckle it on together with his heavy linen kilt.
“You mean ‘better than freezing my balls off, sir.’” The tribune’s tone grew serious. “You’ll thank me for ensuring your fitness when you find yourself unseated from your horse. You’ll need to stand your ground against some hoplite hefting a huge battle shield.”
Tatius saluted, his bucktoothed smile vanishing. “Yes, sir.”
Marcus dismissed him, then signaled the others to return to camp also. He enjoyed training with the knights of his old turma, not wanting to lose a connection with them. However, he knew he shouldn’t encourage overfamiliarity. In time, gaining higher rank would lead to loneliness. The length of an arm raised in salute was not the only distance that existed between a commander and those who must obey him.
Donning their heavy leather capes, the men trudged back across the field to the rough-hewn timber palisade, its sharp honed pickets standing like a spiky row of teeth. Their gruff voices traveled across the open space between the river and the camp perimeter with its wide ditch. General Aemilius had ordered the woods to be cleared, but the area was still heavily patrolled. He was taking no chances of a surprise Faliscan raid when so deep within enemy territory.
Marcus nodded to the two sentries as they made their pass. He was in no hurry to return to his duties, waiting for Drusus to finish his swim. He surveyed the landscape around him. The yellow-and-red tufa escarpment on the other side of the river rose high above, with the mouths of tombs carved into the rock face. Below was a forest thick with beech and ash. For a moment he envied Falerii its countryside. One day, he hoped he could admire it without assessing it as terrain to be conquered or scenery where danger prowled.
He gazed at a leaf held by the current, sometimes swirling in an eddy, then sailing free. It amazed him that the stream in which they were swimming was the Tiber. Not the sluggish brown river that girded Rome into which the Great Drain emptied shit and piss, but a pure current that was clean and fast flowing, carving its way through peaks and ravines. This waterway was the enemy’s lifeblood as much as Rome’s. His people would not be satisfied until they controlled every township from the lake at its source to the salt pans at its mouth.
Marcus wondered if such a feat would ever be achieved. For months now their regiment had suffered the drudgery of camp life as they lay siege to the fortified hilltop town. Falerii could not boast the size or wealth of Veii, but its fortifications were just as secure and its inhabitants just as stubborn. The Faliscans may have been hemmed in behind their wall, but the Romans were locked outside in the wind and weather, while their foe lay cozy in their beds.