Semni gasped and cast a stricken look to her husband. Once again Arruns placed his finger to his lips. She forced herself to wait until the royal couple and councillors made their way from the courtyard. “I won’t let you go. I can’t let you go. You could be killed.” She clung to him, her world collapsing.
He wrapped his arms around her. Cheek pressed to his chest, she heard his heartbeat matching the frantic thudding of her own. Yet after a time she realized he was excited, not despairing. She pulled away and stared at him. “You want this, don’t you?”
He hesitated, but his zeal was apparent. The last time she’d glimpsed such anticipation was when he’d left for war with Lord Mastarna. But that was before he’d loved her. Before he’d helped her to birth Nerie. Before his child was seeded in her. “Don’t you love me, Arruns?”
“Of course I love you, but I’m a warrior. You think I can become a trader in Canaan again? That man is dead, Semni. I’m like the serpent. I can’t be tamed.”
She covered her face with her hands, gulping back tears. His callused fingers tried to pry hers apart. “Don’t weep. I’m not going to die. The Romans will not risk enraging King Mastarna by attacking his ambassadors.”
“You can’t say that for sure.”
He smoothed her hair with an awkward motion. “Nothing is certain, Semni. I could have died of the plague in my sleep. Let’s not spoil our time together. Come to bed. Stay the night. I’m sure Perca will look after Nerie.”
She wiped her eyes and cheeks with the back of each hand, remembering that Lady Caecilia never cried in front of her husband when he went to war. She took a deep breath, determined to emulate her mistress. “Slowly, then. I want you all night if I’m to bid farewell in the morning.”
He smiled, showing chipped teeth. “Then I’m to be denied sleep before my journey?”
She slipped her hand into his, tugging him to follow her. “Perhaps I’ll let you have some. Enough to ensure you don’t fall off your horse from fatigue. Not enough, though, to let you forget what you’re missing while you’re in Rome.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Marcus, Outside Rome, Spring, 396 BC
The last time Marcus had seen Tarchon Mastarna, the Veientane had both attracted and disturbed him. On the brink of war, in the camp at Fidenae ten years ago, he’d seemed a soft creature, his dark, sloe-eyed beauty captivating. The sight of Caecilia embracing him was shocking. As her cousin, he’d never dared to be more familiar than hold her hand. In hindsight, he should have seen it as a sign that vice governed her, that she could never return to Roman decorum, that she had already been corrupted.
Today, there was no sign of the effete youth. Tarchon’s stature was martial and proud. It was as though warfare had chiseled his features into even more handsome lines. Acting as regent of Veii in his father’s absence had annealed his character. To walk into an enemy’s home to barter for peace was not for the faint hearted.
The prince had not come alone. Marcus was surprised to see Sethre, the haughty young warrior who’d taunted him at Nepete. If the Veientane king wanted peace, then it was strange to send a representative from the Tulumnes clan brazenly wearing the winged lion crest. He also recognized Arruns, the lictor who’d thwarted him killing Mastarna at the Battle of Blood and Hail. The snake inked into the guard’s face was as intimidating as his cold, hooded gaze.
Taken by surprise by the request to hold peace talks, Camillus had refused to grant Tarchon entry to the Temple of Apollo Medicus on the Campus, directing the delegation to meet at his country home instead.
The residence was modest, more a large farmhouse than a villa. The Furian family did not boast the heritage of the Aemilian family. Marcus had grown up on estates where grain was counted in wagon trains and vineyards stretched to the horizon. His father’s crops, his father’s land, his father’s wine. One day to be his.
Glancing along the corridor leading to the kitchen, he wondered if Pinna was eavesdropping as usual. The fact Camillus brought her everywhere was yet another sign she was gaining too much influence.
There was another person hiding in the house. Artile Mastarna had been ordered to remain in the study while the negotiations were conducted. It worried Marcus that Camillus now consulted the Etruscan on both personal issues and matters of state.
After surrendering their weapons at the door, the emissaries entered the hall with its humble hearth shrine and simple well. The only adornments in the room were the dozens of silver spears and standards awarded to Furius Camillus, his military glory on display. Following the ambassadors were two servants carrying an enormous golden urn, a gift for Rome.
In the close confines of the atrium, the atmosphere was hostile. Tarchon frowned as he inspected the twelve lictors crowded along one stuccoed wooden wall. Arruns scrutinized his adversaries, positioning himself at the door to keep the exit clear. Marcus thought the action futile. None of the visitors would survive if Camillus chose to ignore the custom of treating a diplomat as inviolate.
Sethre eyed the lictors but remained composed, seemingly undaunted at being surrounded by his foe.
General Camillus remained seated on his curule chair as he observed the envoys enter. Both prince and dictator wore a cloak of purple—Veientane royalty meeting the supreme authority of Rome.
The general’s tone was cordial. “Hail, Tarchon Mastarna.”
The prince did not bow, reminding the Roman of his pedigree. “Hail, Furius Camillus. My father sends his greetings,” he said in Latin.
Marcus had forgotten he spoke their language fluently even though his accent was thick and stilted. They would need to be wary. A man who needed no translator could overhear careless asides.
Tarchon turned to Marcus, his gaze roaming over the tribune’s figure before returning to meet his eyes, staring at him for long moments. “We meet again, Marcus Aemilius.”
Nonplussed by his appraisal, Marcus inwardly berated himself for maintaining eye contact for a fraction too long. He felt his face burn, determined to control the urge to imagine himself with the handsome Etruscan. He nodded. “Prince Tarchon.”
The Veientane signaled the servants to place the huge vase in front of Camillus. “I bring a present as a sign of good faith.”
The dictator glanced at the urn as though accustomed to such opulence. “Rome thanks your king for the gift,” he said, then gestured toward Sethre. “And who is this?”
The prince turned and smiled at the youth, stroking his arm as he urged him to step forward. “This is my pupil, Sethre Kurvenas.”