The blood of the white cows had been drained from the runnels into the bolos of the holy altar. There should have been more than a score of beasts sacrificed for the coronation, but in the besieged city there were scant cattle left for such a ceremony. At least the people would feast on the flesh now. The aroma of roast beef filled the air. Those in the sanctuary stood in a circle around the cooking pits, their faces expectant, their mouths watering in anticipation as the carcasses were turned on the spits.
In the city below, sounds of celebration drifted up to the arx. Mastarna had not forgotten the rest of his subjects. An extra grain ration had been offered from the city granary and wine distributed from the private cellars of the palace. His royal predecessors had hoarded the fine vintage for their own use. King Mastarna was more generous, intent on boosting morale.
Mastarna led Caecilia to his chariot. He’d not spoken to her since her declaration. Maintaining his silence, he helped her into the gilded car. The call of their names resounded around them. Aemilia Caeciliana’s was being hailed as loudly as the king’s. Despite her husband’s iciness, she could not help but feel proud. After so many years of hostility, the adulation was as heady as if she’d drunk strong unwatered wine.
Surrounding the chariot were twenty-four lictors. The royal bodyguards were dressed in black and held ceremonial rods and axes. The head lictor walked abreast of the chariot. Arruns was stocky, half his swarthy face tattooed with a fanged snake, its coils twisting around his neck. She knew the serpent continued to encircle his chest and back. Today, dressed in his uniform, the grotesque pattern was hidden. His hooded eyes always veiled his emotions, his tattooed visage and hooked nose inspiring menace. The Phoenician had been Mastarna’s personal protector for fifteen years. Caecilia wondered if he welcomed the presence of twenty-three others. She suspected he doubted they were necessary. If not for him, Vel would have died in the Battle of Blood and Hail. And he’d rescued her from danger more than once. Both of them owed their lives to him.
Smiling to the crowd, Mastarna planted his feet wide, balanced perfectly as he took hold of the reins of the four white horses that pulled the chariot. A retinue of principes followed. These nobles of Veii were richly robed and bejeweled. The women were trying to outdo each other with pectorals of green jasper and lapis and diadems of amber and peridot. The men were no less splendid, dressed in brightly colored tebenna cloaks, their short-cropped hair wreathed.
Vel’s smile disappeared as soon as he entered the palace courtyard. “Get a servant boy to bring water. I want to wash off this vermilion,” he barked to Arruns as he strode toward the throne room. “I only want to see the high councillors. I’ll take audience with the other principes tomorrow.”
Caecilia followed Mastarna to the dais with its golden throne. There was a bull’s head crest emblazoned upon its back, the symbol of the House of Mastarna. Caecilia took her place beside her husband on her own small throne, conscious of her status at his right hand. Prince Tarchon also ascended the platform and sat on a high-backed chair to the left side of his adopted father. She was pleased Vel had agreed to appoint him to his war council. Maybe Mastarna’s coldness toward his son was thawing at last.
The high councillors trailed through the doorway with its tall double bronze doors. General Lusinies approached first. Bald and battered of feature, the warrior knelt to swear fealty. Mastarna acknowledged him with a brief smile.
General Feluske followed. He winced as he bent his knee. Caecilia knew it to be from a worn joint rather than reluctance. He’d long been an ally of her husband.
The last princip to approach was Karcuna Tulumnes.
Caecilia tensed. There was no love between the Houses of Mastarna and Tulumnes. Both kings from Karcuna’s bloodline had served Veii badly. His older brother had murdered Mastarna’s greatest friend and had terrorized her. And his cousin Kurvenas had shut the gates against her husband and destroyed his army.
As with all of his family, Karcuna was imposing in his height and haughtiness. His cheek would twitch every now and then in a disconcerting tic. She remembered how his brother had towered over her when he was lucumo, intimidating her both physically and mentally, threatening to mutilate and kill and rape her. She wondered why Vel had appointed Karcuna as one of his advisers given such a villainous lineage. And yet the new leader of the Tulumnes clan had not objected to Mastarna’s election. Today more was being asked of him—to bend his knee and pay respect to a man who’d opposed his kin for decades.
To her surprise, Vel rose and descended the dais to stand before the princip. “There has long been enmity between our families, Karcuna. Your clan believes in monarchy while mine opposes it. And yet I stand before you as a lucumo because our people demand it. I’m reluctant, but I can’t ignore their wishes. For the sake of internal concord, I hope you’ll serve me without rancor.”
Karcuna squared his shoulders. “I’m not like my brother. Nor my cousin Kurvenas, who I acknowledge betrayed Veii. So I’ll not conspire against you, but I won’t deny many of my clan have reservations the leader of the House of Mastarna now rules over them.”
Mastarna frowned. “Then I ask that you convince them such hostility must end for the sake of Veii. I’m a general with no troops of my own. Now I ask all our warriors to fight for Veii’s king. Just as Roman soldiers fight for their state, not their clans.”
The princip hesitated. His powers of persuasion would be tested when called upon to convince his tribe to fight under the royal banner. Then, to Caecilia’s relief, he knelt before Mastarna and bent his head. “I pledge allegiance to you and to Veii.”
Vel’s expression was guarded as he reached down and proffered his forearm to Karcuna. “I won’t forget this. Veii will only grow stronger now we’re allies.”
The councillor rose and gripped his forearm.
General Lusinies moved across to the monarch. Caecilia noticed how his hand was raised as though to clap Mastarna on the shoulder, but he dropped it to his side when Vel turned his attention to him. The laurel wreath crown gracing the king’s head emphasized the men’s newly altered status.
“I hope you now see that agreeing to be lucumo is the best thing for this city, my lord. See how the people welcomed your coronation.”
“There’s good humor among them today as I’m filling their bellies, but it may not last.” Mastarna sat down and accepted a damp cloth from a servant boy to wipe his face clean of the paint. “If I don’t manage to bring this city through the siege, their support may wane when hunger stirs discontentment.”