The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome
Read The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome Online
Authors: Elisabeth Storrs
Words in Praise
What others are saying about
The Wedding Shroud
‘All the drama and sensuality expected of an historical romance, plus a sensitivity to the realities of life in a very different time and world…’
Ursula Le Guin
Runner-up 2012 Sharp Writ Award for General Fiction
‘Elisabeth Storrs gives us a complex heroine, grappling with issues of spirituality and culture in ways that are non-cliché and refreshing.’
Elizabeth Jane, Historical Novels Review
'Storrs should be proud of herself for this gem of a book.'
Ben Kane, Author of
The Forgotten Legion
‘The fear of death but the zest to live - Elisabeth Storrs skillfully recreates the dilemma of a young woman torn between two of Italy's ancient culture's.’
Isolde Martyn, Author of
The Maiden and the Unicorn
The Wedding Shroud
A Tale of Ancient Rome
Elisabeth Storrs
Copyright © 2010 by Elisabeth Storrs
Published by Cornelian Press 2012.
First published in Australia by Pier 9, an imprint of Murdoch Books Australia 2010.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
Cover design copyright © 2012 Cornelian Press
Cover designed by Lisi Schappi
Cover photography by Ilona Wellman/Trevilion Images
Copyright © Elisabeth Storrs 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication-entry
Author: Storrs, Elisabeth
Title: The wedding shroud [electronic resource]: a tale of early Rome/Elisabeth Storrs
ISBN: 9780646579108 (ebook: epub)
Subjects: Rome—History—Fiction.
To David, Andrew and Lucas
There is a hyperlink to the cast of characters and the glossary at the end of each chapter.
Her whole world was orange.
Shifting her head to one side, feeling the weight of the veil, hearing it rustle, her eyes strained to focus through the fine weave.
Orange. The vegetable smell of the dye had been faint when she first donned the wedding veil, but now its scent filled her nostrils and mouth, the cloth pressing against her face as she walked to where the guests were waiting.
The atrium was crowded. So many people. Shaking, legs unsteady, Caecilia found she needed to lean against her aunt Aurelia. Through the haze of the veil she could barely make out the faces of the ten official witnesses or that of the most honoured guest, the Chief Pontiff of Rome.
And she could not see Drusus. Perhaps he could not bear to witness her surrender.
‘Stand straight, you’re too heavy,’ hissed her aunt, pinching the girl’s arm.
Biting her lip, Caecilia was led forward. The groom stood before the wedding altar, ready to make the nuptial offering. Her uncle Aemilius smiled broadly beside him.
Aunt Aurelia, acting as presiding matron, deposited her charge with a flourish, then fussed with the bride’s tunic. She was revelling in the attention and smiled vacuously at her guests, but the girl was aware that, for so crowded a room, silence dominated.
Drawing back her veil, Caecilia gazed upon the stranger who was to become her husband. To her surprise, his black hair was close-cropped and he was beardless. She was used to the long tresses of the men of Rome—and their odour. This man smelled differently; the scent of bathwater mixed with sandalwood clung to his body.
Head bowed, she tried in vain to blot out his existence no more than a hand’s breadth from her side, but she need not have bothered. He made no attempt to study either her face or form.
‘The auspices were taken at sunrise,’ declared Aemilius. ‘The gods confirm the marriage will be blessed.’
Bride and groom sat upon chairs covered with sheepskin and waited while the pontiff offered spelt cake to Jupiter.
There was a pause as they stood and circled the altar, then the priest signalled Aurelia to join the couple’s hands.
Caecilia wished she could stop shaking. She had to be brave. She had to be dignified. But her body would not obey her. She was still quaking when Aurelia seized her right hand roughly and thrust it into the groom’s.
The warmth and strength of his grip surprised her. Her palm was clammy and it occurred to her that her hand would slip from his grasp. Slowly, she turned to face him. He was old; lines of age ploughed his forehead and creased his eyes. He must be nearly two score years. What was he like, this man? Her husband?
Aware that she should be making her vows to him in silence, she instead prayed fervently that the gods would take pity and not make her suffer too long or too hard in his keeping.
His hand still encompassed hers. Before releasing her fingers, he squeezed them slightly, the pressure barely perceptible. She held her breath momentarily, amazed that the only mark of comfort she had received all day had been bestowed upon her by a foe.
She scanned his face. His eyes were dark and almond-shaped, like the hard black olives from her aunt’s pantry. His skin was dark, too, sun dark. A jagged scar ran down one side of his nose to his mouth.
He was far from handsome.
His toga and tunic were of a rich dark blue making all stare at him for a difference other than his race. Yet his shoulders were held in a martial pose, no less a man for his gaudiness, it seemed, than the Roman patricians around him in their simple purple-striped robes. And the bridal wreath upon his head could have been a circlet of laurel leaves, a decoration for bravery not nuptials.
A golden bulla hung around his neck, astounding her. For a man did not wear such amulets once he’d stepped over the threshold to manhood. Only children wore such charms in Rome. He wore many rings, too, but one in particular was striking. Heavy gold set with onyx. No Roman would garland himself with so much jewellery.
There was one other thing that was intriguing, making her wonder if his people found it hard to farewell childhood. His arms and his legs seemed hairless, as if they had been shaven completely.
Perfumed, short-cropped hair, no beard. Caecilia truly beheld a savage.
Once again she steeled herself, repeating silently: ‘I am Aemilia Caeciliana. Today I am Rome. I must endure.’
ONE
All Romans feed on ambition. Like Romulus and Remus nuzzling greedily at the dugs of the she wolf. Lucius Caecilius was no different. Tugging on one teat for personal profit while gorging on another for public gain.
His daughter did not know this.
To Caecilia, her Tata was a champion of the people. One of ten tribunes empowered to veto unjust laws. The highest office a commoner could hold.
In a world riven by a bitter class war he had succeeded in marrying a patrician. His bride did not welcome the marriage, though, forever after hating her brother, Aemilius, for brokering the union.
