She ignored him. “Tell me. Let me know your will. And if it’s to cede defeat, then I’ll ask Prince Tarchon to yield his spear to the enemy on behalf of Veii.”
There was a murmur, glances exchanged, bewilderment that they were being offered a choice. A man with skull-like features raised his fist into the air. “No surrender.” His call was repeated: “No surrender.” The phrase echoed, filling the air where only minutes before there’d been silence. The chanting continued. Caecilia felt relief sweep through her as fiercely as the elation on the day she’d declared war on Rome. Tarchon stood incredulous, surveying the mob before him. Again he spoke to her, but she could not hear his words above the noise. Smiling, she turned to him, expecting him to be buoyant, but instead he was glowering. He offered his forearm, leaning closer than before. “No argument. It’s time to go.”
Caecilia gulped in fresh air, staring down from the ramparts of the arx to the city below. Usually she found peace here, remembering a time when she would study the flight of hawks gliding on the updrafts. Now even the birds did not hover over Veii. Instead she gazed down on the sight of hundreds of black puffs wafting from funeral pyres, grim evidence of the despairing world beneath the vast, cloudless blue realm of the gods.
Tarchon stood beside her, his back to the city below. “You had no right to let them decide. Only the war council can determine whether we should capitulate. What would have happened if the people wanted to yield?”
“But they didn’t. I sensed it would be so.”
He sighed. “What has happened to you, Caecilia? No wonder Mastarna is exasperated with you. You’ve become reckless, whereas before you used to seek to control your fate. You encourage feats that have no surety, first wanting to march on Rome and now asking the people to believe Mastarna will save us.”
“Vel will succeed. This time he will convince the Twelve to bear arms.”
“Wishing won’t make it so.”
“So what do you want to do, Tarchon? Vel appointed you as regent. Are you going to lead Veii into submission?”
His hesitation was alarming. “Lusinies and Feluske are thinking of asking for a truce. We did not foresee a plague. We have no idea how long before help will arrive—or if it will come at all. At this rate, the Romans may force entry into a city full of weakened soldiers and citizens riddled with disease.”
She balled her fists. “You know Rome is not going to treat. Peace will come with subjugation.” Her voice rose. “Vel directed that I sit on any war council. Why wasn’t I consulted? Are you and the generals excluding me?”
He reddened, indignant. “We have not gone behind your back. The matter was raised informally.”
She regretted her accusation. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. It’s just that I’m so fearful. Don’t you think I worry that Vel might already be dead? That I must watch my children waste away? Or that our people will perish? Sometimes I wonder if it might be best that I surrender myself to Rome . . . but I am too much of a coward.”
Tarchon put his arm around her. “You have always been brave, Caecilia. Foolish sometimes, and too stubborn, but definitely brave.”
She pulled away. If anything, his sculpted features were even more beautiful in their gauntness. “And who would have thought you would grow sensible. So sober and wise.”
“It’s easy to be temperate when there’s not enough wine to get drunk, nor Catha leaves to take the edge off my worries.”
“You joke, but what I say is true. Vel would be proud of you. And you are seeing to your duties diligently.”
“There is little work to do. It’s no use trying to extract taxes from a populace who is destitute. And what use is a treasury full of gold and jewels that cannot be eaten?”
“Vel will come. Then the coin in those coffers will once again prove useful.”
“What we need is more grain to ration.” He pointed toward the countryside beyond the plateaued city. “We need our farmland to be harvested.”
Caecilia also studied the greening furrowed fields beyond. It made her bitter knowing the crops that would burgeon there were destined for Roman bellies. They reminded her, too, that the stone walls of Veii had become her prison. One day she’d hoped to visit the sea in Tarchna to understand the life Vel had once led. She’d wished to meet his kin, the Atelinas family of his mother, who were also Tarchon’s cousins. “Do you miss your relatives in Tarchna?”
Tarchon appeared quizzical at the sudden change of topic. “I barely remember my brothers, Caecilia, and my mother and father are dead. Veii has been my home for nearly twenty years. And who wouldn’t welcome living in the house of the richest man in Veii compared to struggling on a meager inheritance as the youngest of seven brothers? Even now Mastarna is earning wealth although he has no way to receive the money. His Tarchnan captains still sail his fleet of ships to trade with Carthage and Athens. And he owns interests in tin and iron mines in the Tolfa Hills. Mastarna adopted me to give me a better life. I don’t regret moving here despite Veii being under siege.”
“He also adopted you to place a barrier between you and Artile. As your uncle, he should never have touched you.”
Tarchon reddened. She regretted speaking. Neither of them wanted to remember the priest who’d manipulated them.
“I don’t want to think about that part of my life. Artile broke all the rules when he took me to his bed when I was a child. I should’ve become the beloved of a warrior statesman when I was fifteen or sixteen.” Tarchon clasped her hand. “Do you think Karcuna might actually agree to let me be Sethre’s mentor?”
She nodded. “I think so. When he sees how you have taken your responsibilities seriously.”
“You once disapproved of such arrangements. What has changed your mind?”
Caecilia smiled. When she’d first come to Veii, she’d been blinkered and ignorant, seeing only faults in its society. Roman virtues were all she knew. But now she understood Vel’s own mentor had taught him to be a great soldier, patron, and statesman. If Tarchon could prove his worth, then he was entitled to the same chance with Sethre. And he was an able teacher. She spoke and read the Rasennan language because of him. And he’d opened her eyes to her own unfounded prejudices. Protected her, too. Rome would demand she despise him but she’d said farewell to that legacy of intolerance. She squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek. “You.”
THIRTY-THREE
The rash appeared on the third day. The inflammation stained Larce’s skin, first behind his ears, then, within hours, spreading over his face and neck, his chest and tummy, until his little body was scarlet.