A scream startled him. He twisted around to see a woman with a long, trailing plait holding a baby. Her eyes were wide in shock.
He was distracted again by the rasping cry of a bird. To his astonishment, an eagle rose above him, flapping its great gold-tipped wings. A tall, gray-haired woman called, trying to calm it. She dropped the bronze patera she was holding when she saw the reason for the raptor’s alarm. Marcus felt a swoosh of air as the eagle beat upward in the high chamber, then swooped through the open doors to freedom.
Drusus bumped into him. Marcus stood aside, letting the men disgorge from the shaft. One by one the Romans swarmed into the temple.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of purple. Tarchon charged toward him, brandishing a wall torch. Marcus swerved, avoiding the flame. With a roar, the prince raised the brand again, sweeping it in an arc, then stabbed at the Roman, trying to set him alight. Marcus parried the makeshift weapon with his sword, knocking it from the Etruscan’s hand.
Tarchon stared at him, expecting a death blow. Marcus slammed his fist into his stomach instead. As the prince doubled over, the tribune cracked him on the head with the hilt. Tarchon collapsed, his head thudding against the floor. He lay motionless.
Fists pummeled Marcus’s back. He turned to find Sethre Kurvenas. He hesitated, reluctant to harm him. Before he could retaliate, though, a knight stepped behind the young noble and thrust his blade through his back. The youth slumped to the ground beside his lover, eyes vacant, blood pooling around him.
“You didn’t need to kill him,” he barked. “He was unarmed.”
“I thought the order was to spare none other than those in purple.”
Marcus grimaced, then gestured toward Tarchon. “Tie him up. He’ll wake soon enough.”
The baby was shrieking. Marcus glanced across to the woman with the child. She was cowering in a corner, dumb with fear. He frowned when he noticed the purple hue of the infant’s clothes.
“Stop, please stop!”
It was Caecilia’s voice.
Taking a deep breath, Marcus tightened the grip on his sword and headed around the statue, ready to capture the monarchs of Veii.
FIFTY-FOUR
Caecilia, Veii, Summer, 396 BC
Cytheris’s scream was piercing.
Antar spread his wings, rising in raucous alarm.
Startled, Caecilia clutched Vel’s arm, sending his patera clattering to the floor, milk splashing.
Terror overtook confusion. Thudding footsteps. A blur of armored men. It took a moment to realize they were speaking Latin. The eagle flapped overhead. Tarchon yelled. Panic clawed her chest when she heard Thia’s cry, but shock paralyzed her.
Then, like some grotesque apparition, mouth wide with his roar, Claudius Drusus rounded the altar, sword held high.
Stunned, Vel took too long to react before beginning to rise. Hampered by his tebenna cloak, he changed his mind, launching himself at Drusus. The crown fell from his head, crashing to the floor and rolling away, as he tackled the Roman around the knees.
Drusus fell backward. Mastarna threw himself on top of him, punching his face. Blood spurted from the Roman’s broken nose but he wasn’t deterred. He grappled with the king, thrashing and bucking until he dislodged him. Then, scrambling to his feet, Drusus kicked Mastarna’s right upper arm as Vel again tried to stand, his heavy cloak tangled around him. Before his rival could rise, the knight gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands and plunged the blade between Mastarna’s neck and shoulder. Vel uttered a soft moan as the point tore through cartilage and muscle into his rib cage to pierce his heart. He toppled to the side, his body thudding on the tiles.
Dumbstruck, Caecilia watched Drusus retract his sword through her husband’s flesh. Blood gushed out, spattering the floor, splattering her skirts. The murderer stood over his victim, his chest heaving.
A dry sob bruised her throat as she crawled over to Vel, trying to prop him up, but his weight was too heavy. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” She shook him, trying to rouse him. Then, more frenzied, she gripped his blood-soaked tebenna, her hands reddening as she clenched the purple cloth.
Drusus grasped her shoulder and wrenched her away. His eyes roved over her, his breath ragged. She’d forgotten how tall and lean he was. Another wolf. She could tell there was something broken inside him. He shook her. “He’s made you into a harlot!”
Suddenly another soldier stopped beside him, shoving him in the back. “You weren’t supposed to kill the king.”
Drusus twisted around. “Lead the men to the gates, Tatius. I’ve unfinished business here.”
As the two knights argued, Caecilia tended to Vel. She cupped his face, kissing him. She said his name over and over, calling him back to her. From the corner of her eye, she saw the soldier called Tatius leave.
Drusus yanked her away and raised his weapon again. “Get off. It’s time for retribution. Your husband will be a headless ghost.”
Risking the downward arc of the sword, she threw herself onto Vel, covering his body with hers, hugging him tight. “No!”
Drusus jerked her shoulder but she clung on. He dug his fingers into her flesh. She felt her muscles tear, but she held fast, ignoring the pain, desperate to protect her husband. “Stop, please stop!”
She shrieked as he increased the pressure on her shoulder. She felt herself giving way. Then he let go as someone barreled into him, sending him sprawling.
“I told you not to kill him!”
She drew back. Marcus was standing over Drusus. The last time she’d seen him had been from the distance of the wall. Now, inches from him, she was struck by his size. A broad-shouldered killer. Once again, she clung to Vel, willing him to be alive. “He’s a coward, Marcus. He’s slain a king while in prayer. Now he seeks to mutilate him.”
Drusus lumbered to his feet. “I swore I’d kill him, and I have.”
Marcus growled. “It’s bad enough you’ve disobeyed orders. Do you want to deliver Mastarna to Camillus in pieces?”
Drusus pointed at Caecilia with his sword. Blood dripped from his nose, mouth, and chin, the neck of his tunic saturated with it, his arms slick with sweat. “Look at her painted face and whorish clothes. He did that to her! I intend to make my curse come true.” He took a step forward, blade poised to hack at Vel. Marcus blocked him.
“Leave him alone!”
“Get out of my way!”
Drusus pointed his weapon at Marcus. “You think you’re better than me. But I won’t be ordered around by you.” He thrust at the tribune with his sword. Marcus grunted in surprise but parried the blow. His skill only enraged Drusus, who charged. Metal clanged and grated. Caecilia stared in bewilderment. She thought they were lifelong friends.