Marcus didn’t respond. He couldn’t deny Vel Mastarna was an honorable man. After victory in one battle at Veii years before, he’d burned the enemy dead with due respect.
At his silence, Mastarna leaned forward. “You’ve nothing to say? Well, tell your father this. Tell Camillus, too. I can’t speak for my allied commanders, but I’ll have your slain cremated. I’ll not send them to the afterlife as tortured souls. I believe the valiant in life should remain valiant in death. And I’ll let you retrieve your wounded—that is, of course, if your comrades have not abandoned your camp already.”
Marcus fumed, hating the insinuation that Aemilius was heading a stampede of panicked fugitives.
Mastarna shouted a command. Ten hoplites formed a detail around the equestrians. “These men will escort yours from the field. There’s still danger in traversing a battleground with men wild with blood rage.”
His continued fair treatment rankled. Marcus was determined not to feel appreciation. Nevertheless, he managed a begrudging nod, then gestured his men to move.
“Wait,” called Mastarna. “You stay, Marcus Aemilius.”
The tribune frowned, unable to suppress a tremor of apprehension, even though he doubted the king was likely to double-cross him.
Tatius halted and swung around, not prepared to leave his leader with his foe. “I’ll stay, too, sir.”
Marcus rested a bloodied hand on the decurion’s shoulder. “No, leave. He’s given his word to free me.”
The bucktoothed soldier spat on the ground near the king’s horse. “I don’t trust any of the slant-eyed bastards.”
Vel Mastarna remained cool at the insult. “I see you inspire allegiance in your men. Rest assured I don’t plan to keep you long.”
Tatius joined the others, casting glances over his shoulder as he headed across the field. The squadron plodded with heads bowed, dejection in each step.
When the Romans were out of earshot, Marcus was surprised when Mastarna swung down from his horse to stand beside him. The king handed the reins to his young aide, who also appeared disconcerted at his general’s action.
Up close, Marcus could see the ugly scar marring the Veientane’s face. Unbidden thoughts of Caecilia surfaced. Did she shut her eyes when she lay with her husband to avoid viewing such disfigurement? Or were the power of his physique and the timbre of his voice enough to distract her?
“What do you want, Mastarna?”
“To remind you that you owe me a blood debt twice over. I spared your life at the Battle of Blood and Hail. So, too, today. I expect you to repay me should ever the opportunity arise.”
Marcus bristled, resentful of being reminded he was doubly beholden to a foe. “I’d rather you execute me. I’ve sworn an oath to Rome to kill you. It takes precedence over personal vows. If I ever have the chance to meet you in combat, I will not hesitate to follow my orders.”
Mastarna growled. “I understand that. The obligation you owe will be to my wife should she ever demand it.”
Marcus was shocked. “What you ask of me is impossible. I would have no say in her fate. Rome will exact its punishment on her.”
Mastarna’s voice was cold. “So Caecilia is truly dead to you.”
“Yes. She’s a traitoress.”
“She no longer bears any love for you either.”
Marcus felt as though he’d been struck. Then he chided himself at being irrational, disturbed he should care whether splinters of fondness remained in her. “I presumed nothing more.”
“Nevertheless, I expect you to do your utmost to repay the blood debt in whatever way my wife determines.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed, trying to understand Mastarna’s plea. “Do you fear Rome will prevail in the end? We heard all Etruria was rising, but I didn’t see every pennant of the Twelve.”
The monarch stepped closer. The tribune forced himself not to step back, assessing his own chance of survival if forced to fight hand to hand.
“Such bravado from a man who will return home with his tail between his legs. Believe me, Marcus Aemilius, there are enough Rasenna committed to ruling Rome again. This battle is only the beginning.” He paused, eyeing his captive up and down. “At least I know if we do ever meet again, you’ll attack me head on—unlike Claudius Drusus. I hope no awards were bestowed on him in death.”
“He did not need burial. You failed to kill him. And you’re a liar. He is no coward.”
The king’s eyes widened. “He survived? I thought I’d given him due retribution.” Then his expression hardened. He turned and raised his sword arm. “Here is proof of his spinelessness. See this scar? It’s on the back of my arm. I either received it running away like your hoplites did today, or it was a blow from a man who took unfair advantage.”
Marcus stared at the seam of stitched flesh, how it arced around the back of Mastarna’s bicep and elbow. Doubt flickered. What had happened that day? Was Mastarna speaking the truth? It would not be the first time his friend had acted rashly. Yet how could he accept the word of an enemy? Perhaps Mastarna spewed false accusations to cover his humiliation at being felled. “I have nothing to say.”
Mastarna grunted and walked to his stallion. Sethre slipped from his horse, crossing to his commander and lacing his hands together so the monarch could step up to mount. Marcus watched with interest. Mastarna couldn’t vault onto his horse. He smiled, glad Drusus had weakened their enemy.
The king gathered the reins of the gray, once again staring down at Marcus.
“Tell me. My lictor rendered you harmless that day outside Veii’s walls. But if he hadn’t, would you have killed me when I was on my knees?”
Marcus straightened his shoulders, remembering Drusus mired in the mud, his body ripped open by his enemy’s curved blade. “Yes. I would have shown no mercy.”
Mastarna grimaced. “Then this is where we differ. I spared you today because I won’t kill my wife’s kin. I will not have your blood on my hands. For Caecilia’s heart is tender, even though she claims she has toughened it against you.”
Marcus stared at him, nonplussed. This foe was calling upon familial obligations that no longer prevailed. In war, there could only be black or white, love or hate. Yet Mastarna was forcing him to feel grudging respect for his integrity. He was not about to acknowledge it, though. “My answer remains the same.”
The ruler dug his heels into his horse’s blood-splattered flanks, turning its head and leading it toward his soldiers, stopping to congratulate them.
Flanked by two Etruscan hoplites, Marcus picked up his abandoned spear and then trudged across the battlefield. The clouds parted, the sun shining directly above him. Between sunrise and noon, hundreds of Romans had died. He murmured a prayer to Mars in gratitude for sparing him. Once again, his lips had brushed death’s mouth and survived.
FORTY-TWO
Pinna, Rome, Spring, 396 BC