She smiled, glad that balance had been restored.
A wagon train manned by Lusinies’s men passed them. One cart was laden with produce and barrels of wine. Caecilia was overwhelmed by the rich scents of fruit and vegetables. Tarchon pinched two apples and handed her one. The flavor exploded in her mouth. She never thought a simple fruit would taste like ambrosia.
The prince finished his apple, eating the core and spitting out the pips. “I’ve placed a guard on the Roman camps while I arrange for supplies to be distributed. The wooden forts will be hacked down to provide fuel, too. I don’t want a riot when the people try to recover what they can in a frenzy. There must be some order to our recovery.”
She studied him, impressed with his foresight. The city could not afford to descend into its own type of chaos. “Your father would be proud of you.”
“Do you think so?”
She nodded, looking around her again. “Why do you think the Romans fled?”
“We will know soon enough. In the meantime, let’s enjoy freedom. And if Mastarna has succeeded in the north, trade will once again flow. We’ll be able to feed our people.”
She slipped her arm around his waist. “I pray he and Sethre are safe.”
He grew serious. “I worry for him. He is untested in war . . .”
She squeezed him, forgetting her own fears for her husband. “Let’s not dwell on shadows that are yet to show substance.”
The effort of happiness was tiring. Dizzy, she sagged against him. Tarchon called to one of the wagons to halt and lifted her onto it. She felt better when seated. Gazing across the valley, she breathed in freedom. Above the citadel a flock of starlings swooped and dipped, the formation merging and parting, a winged revel. It had been months since birds had flown over the citadel. It was as though they sensed the danger was over. Caecilia smiled. She did not need Tanchvil’s skill at divination to know it was indeed a good omen.
FORTY-FOUR
Marcus, Rome, Spring, 396 BC
The sight of the sharp-bladed axes bound in the fasces was a reminder of Camillus’s absolute power. The fact his twenty-four lictors carried them within the city also cautioned that the dictator could order executions without trial.
The deserters from Veii were divided into groups of ten. Each soldier cast lots. One was chosen to die. The remaining nine stoned him to death. The decimation was a purification ceremony to purge the regiment of disgrace as much as a terrifying penance.
Grim faced, Camillus watched the sentence carried out in the Forum instead of the Campus. Only a week after the massacres at Nepete and Falerii, the populace of Rome was still reduced to living behind fortified walls. The dictator knew the names of each warrior who was killed, but he didn’t hail them as he would before a battle. No appeal against his verdict could be made either. His declaration to those assembled was chilling. It was a warning to all who served in the legions. “I’ll lead you to victory if you follow me. But no soldier should forget to fear me more than the enemy.”
After the decimation, Marcus followed Camillus into the Curia. The three hundred senators of Rome were absent. Given the state of emergency, the general was using the building as his headquarters.
Slanted shafts of light from slatted windows stippled the gloom of the rectangular chamber. Assured and confident, the dictator sat on a curule chair. The distinctive hinged ivory stool with its crisscrossed legs denoted his supreme authority. His frustration at being denied the chance to lead Rome had disappeared. Clad in breastplate and purple cloak, he was an impressive figure.
As usual, Marcus noticed the tension between the politicians around him. Medullinus was disgruntled. As the presiding consular general in Rome, he’d been required to appoint Camillus once the Senate recommended a dictator be appointed. How maddening it must have been to relinquish power to his fraternal rival. Camillus had never been elected consul, but as sole governor, he trumped him.
Aemilius was injured, his leg heavily bandaged, crutches resting on the floor as he sat on a stool. Before he’d ordered the retreat from Nepete, he’d plunged into the fray. A chunk of his thigh had been sliced away. His face was tinged as gray as his hair and eyebrows. He’d been shaken at the loss of so many of his hoplites. And Sempronius and his brigade had not survived. To add to his woes, Aemilius was mortified to find the error he’d made with the sacred calendar meant he’d been required to stand down from office.
Scipio was in a good mood. Camillus had declared him Master of the Horse. The honor of being appointed as second-in-command was immense. Backing the Furian in the past had proved fruitful.
Spurius was pensive, tapping his upper lip. Marcus had been surprised when Camillus had chosen Scipio over him. The tribune suspected sibling rivalry simmered below the surface after all.
Genucius was hearty, pleased Camillus was in charge. He had a chance for advancement again.
Medullinus’s voice broke through Marcus’s thoughts. “Brother, I don’t relish treating with Veii, but I think you should consider consulting the Senate about the possibility.”
“You want peace with Veii? Why? Rome isn’t on its knees. I don’t plan to grovel to Mastarna.”
“Our people huddle behind our walls,” said Spurius. “We sit in trepidation of being overrun. I’m sure we could broker reasonable terms.”
“I don’t believe there’ll be an invasion. Our spies report that the Etruscans aren’t on the warpath. I think Mastarna was exaggerating. The Veientanes were only bolstered with armies from three Rasennan cities.”
“Nevertheless, three additional city-states are enough to conquer us,” said Aemilius. “We should not be hasty about considering a truce.”
“Are you turning into a dove again? I never thought to hear you give up this conflict. Your son and his men showed extraordinary courage at Nepete. I’m sure Marcus still has the appetite to fight, even if you don’t.”
At the jibe, Aemilius’s beetling eyebrows formed a solid line, but he refrained from replying. Marcus knew his father’s bitterness in losing the wolf standard, even if the retreat was acknowledged as tactical. Titinius’s regiment had also been routed, but before the consular general had been killed, he’d ensured his army retained its pennant. At least Aemilius had been spared Postumius’s ignominy. The coward had opened his veins, his shame bleeding from him together with his life.
Aemilius also had mixed feelings about his son’s achievement compared to his own failure. The tribune and his knights were the only men to retain their spears and swords. The small band of cavalry was now lauded as the Horse Shield heroes.