The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (14 page)

‘Let me fill your cup again, Caecilia. You will need all your wine for the kottabos game.’

‘Wine?’

‘Yes. Wine.’

Her hand trembled as she realised why she felt dizzy and unsteady. Sweat broke out upon her brow, the queasiness in her belly surging into her throat. It did not smell like her uncle’s wine. It was spicy, delicate. She remembered Aemilius’ routine kiss to check if his wife and niece were sober. Tonight her uncle could easily tell of her crime without a peck upon her lips, and having done so could rightly kill her.

Despite knowing this, Mastarna had still let it be served to her. Once again he’d forgotten his promise to her uncle.

Tarchon was studying her panicked expression. ‘Caecilia, it is but a little drink. In fact, the finest wine in the known world, or so say Rasennan vintners.’ When she did not laugh at his joke, he frowned.

‘Caecilia has much to learn about us,’ said Larthia, moving over to them. ‘She can observe the kottabos if she wishes. You know I have never been fond of the game. It requires no skill, only an ability to drink till you are senseless.’

Tarchon laughed, clasping the matriarch’s hand. ‘Maybe you need to try, find forgetfulness for a while.’

‘Be gone, you are impudence itself,’ she said, slapping his fingers.

Grinning, he tugged at Caecilia to follow him.

In the garden, men and women were standing around a large bronze stand with two discs balanced above each other. The aim of the game was beyond her but Caecilia could see its effect. The ground was awash with wine as the reeling guests threw what they could not drink in one gulp from their cups into the discs. One woman vomited and then signalled for her goblet to be recharged. It was Lord Pesna’s pretty young wife. Finding Caecilia watching, she managed to sneer beneath a smear of sick.

‘Try it,’ Tarchon urged, placing his arm around Caecilia’s waist.

She shrugged him away, finding his familiarity as shocking as his suggestion. ‘No, no!’

‘It’s not so bad, only some sport, a merriment. No need to be so serious.’

‘Be off,’ said Larthia. ‘The girl is tired. She’s had her first taste of wine tonight.’

She rested a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘No need to feel frightened, no one will punish you here for tasting liquor.’

Tarchon looked at her quizzically, filling his goblet. ‘I’ll never understand you Romans.’

A shout distracted their attention. A small group was clustered around the gaming table. Putting down the jug, Tarchon roughly pushed through them, pulling Caecilia after him.

Mastarna was still gambling. Opposite him sat the man he had argued with earlier, except this time he was grinning and fingering a bone roundel from a tall heap in front of him. Caecilia preferred his scowl to his smile.
Mastarna seemed not to register his wife’s presence, but Caecilia was more concerned that Erene was standing behind him, arms encircling his neck.

What was a wife expected to do? Caecilia concentrated on the dice strewn across the table, hoping that ignoring Erene would make her disappear. The courtesan did not do so. At that moment, however, Mastarna prised the woman from him. Unconcerned, she moved across to Ulthes, looping her hand through the crook of his arm while he kissed the top of her head. Caecilia could not forget Cytheris’ talk of Erene’s many men. Was Mastarna one of them?

Larthia placed her hand on her son’s shoulder. ‘What’s the wager?’

‘Three wagons of gold and my two breeding stallions,’ he growled. His pile of roundels was low.

The matron’s face whitened. ‘On a throw of the die? Why not a game of skill?’

‘The risk is higher.’

‘And your opponent, what does he stake?’

‘An apology.’

‘What is the matter with you? There is no need for this.’

Exasperated, Larthia again spoke to him, but when he refused to acknowledge her she walked away. It was clear her mother-in-law had resigned herself to the foolish deeds of this son.

Tarchon also leaned across to his father, urging caution amid wine fumes, but Mastarna waved him away. ‘As if I would heed advice from the likes of you.’ He nodded at his opponent. ‘Besides, an apology from him is rare and so is valuable.’

Caecilia realised her husband was drunker than first imagined. What insult could cause a man to act so?

Despite the slight Tarchon did not leave, impressing her with his concern. Until then she had thought him to be enamoured of only the frivolous and trivial. Suddenly, even in his drunken state, the youth seemed more sober than Mastarna.

‘You tried your best,’ she murmured.

Tarchon smiled ruefully. ‘He is impossible when he’s in one of his moods.’

‘You mean this happens often?’

He rubbed his forehead, watching Mastarna. ‘The tesserae are but one means to satisfy him.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Drawing her away from the others, he tried not to slur his words. ‘The Rasenna like to gamble, to see if the goddess of fate, the divine Nortia, will grace them with good fortune. But Mastarna does more. He hungers for the thrill of facing risk.’

Suddenly Artile was beside Tarchon. He was calm amid the charged atmosphere of the gaming, his tone kindly as he smoothed his fingers along the youth’s arm. Tarchon hesitated whether to go, like a child deciding if he needed the comfort of his father. After a pause, though, he shook off the priest’s hand. Artile frowned but retreated to a place where he could reserve his scrutiny for the youth alone.

A cheer went up. Both turned back to the game. The nobleman’s face had reclaimed its scowl while Mastarna was leaning back, smiling. The angry man sent the table crashing to the ground, scattering the roundels and tesserae across the floor, then pointed at Caecilia. His remark must have been worse than the first insult because all those around her gasped.

Mastarna wrenched his chair away to stand. A tense silence presided. Ulthes pressed himself between the rivals, his wide smile deserting him.

‘It is an offence against the gods to spill blood at a wedding. Mastarna will collect the debt when next you meet.’

The nobleman hurled abuse at the two men then twisted his way through the throng, his body full of swagger.

‘He will have to face Mastarna’s sword if he refuses to apologise,’ said Tarchon.

Caecilia’s eyes widened. ‘What did he say?’

He did not reply, instead slumped into a chair.

Aware that all around her people were staring, her stomach churned. The hatred of these men for each other filled the room. There was a menace also. For it was clear the man’s spite was not just directed at her people but was reserved especially for her.

*

The long summer evening was drawing to a close, the rosy glow from the setting sun that had touched the golden goblets, salvers and lamps now settled into twilight, subduing the day with shadows and silhouettes.

She expected to see the servants clearing away, for the guests to begin leaving as darkness bid them to bed, but instead the slaves were setting up candelabras which teetered with candles three levels high.

A servant boy, holding a tall reed screen, addressed her. Not understanding him, she waved him away. Then she noticed that slaves were erecting these partitions around many of the feasting couches. Noticed, too, why the people had asked for them.

The women were entwining their arms around men’s necks and kissing them as though drinking in nectar. Their caresses deepened into guttural moans, limbs entangled, as the couples sank into the generous cushioning of the divans, barely waiting for the fragile shields of reed.

The servants continued to surround the couches with panels and then throw flimsy covers over the top. Lurid seclusion on display.

And those comely boys she’d thought were sons were embraced by men who drew them behind the screens and into the boundaries of Caecilia’s limited and shocked imagination. She closed her eyes, resisting the urge to hide her face, knowing that her fingers would be seared by the burn of her blush.

Did he expect her to lie openly beside him?

She wiped her hands along the sides of her gown, palms clammy. Her mouth was dry. It hurt to swallow.

She felt like the mouse she’d found in her uncle’s rain well, scrabbling at the brick sides of its prison, sinking momentarily beneath the water before scraping at the sides again until she was finally able to fish it out.

Around her, those who did not lie beneath the reeds looked slyly at her.

Endure, she thought, endure, but when she tried to breathe deeply she found herself choking on air.

‘Caecilia, come and stand by me.’ Mastarna had finally removed himself from his betting.

At first she did not respond, too engrossed in dreadfulness.

He extended his arm. ‘It is time for us to retire.’

The guests erupted with hoots and catcalls, the ribaldry that had been missing from their Roman nuptials.

She stared at him and knew that only he could rescue her. It took all her strength not to fall to her knees before him. ‘Please, please, don’t make me do this.’

He frowned. ‘It is just the way of my people.’

This time, Caecilia truly thought she would suffocate. Clutching a fold of his kirtle, prepared to tear the cloth, she tugged at him to come closer. ‘Please, Mastarna.’

‘Take a deep breath,’ he said, prising her fingers away. ‘It is time to go.’

He was going to spare her. It was hard not to cry. It was hard not to be grateful until she realised he might not spare her greater shame in private.

Eyes downcast, she let him guide her away to bid the Zilath goodnight. She barely had energy to speak.

‘Your wife is tired,’ said Ulthes kindly. ‘You should put her to bed.’

Mastarna did not reply, exhaustion tracing lines upon his face as well.

Erene smugly clutched Ulthes’ arm making Caecilia doubt the concubine would ever be weary. And here was more disgrace. Caecilia tried but could not keep from thinking this woman may have acted as wife to her husband.

‘I look forward to talking with you again, Caecilia,’ continued Ulthes.

Meeting his eyes, Caecilia bowed briefly to the Zilath, straightening her shoulders to summon dignity, trying not to lean upon Mastarna’s arm for balance, desperately wishing that Drusus could be here to save her.

*

The long curtain to their chamber had been drawn against the prying eyes of those guests drinking by the fountain. The garden, which had seemed beyond delight that afternoon, was now invaded and sullied in the moonlight. Caecilia only hoped that the ripple of double pipe and click of castanets would drown any cries she made. It was enough for her to be scared, but it would be humiliating if these degenerates were to know her fear and laugh at it.

Mastarna drew back the curtain and ushered her inside. He did not follow, though.

‘Make ready,’ he said. ‘I must speak further to Ulthes.’

Caecilia sank to the ground unable to take one more step.

When Larthia entered and saw her, she hurried across the room, signalling Cytheris to fetch a cloth and pitcher of water. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Please, I can’t do this.’

‘Nonsense. Nothing terrible is going to happen to you. The gods made man and woman to fit together. And soon there will be children to tumble upon the bed that once had only borne the weight of two.’

The Roman girl closed her eyes, embarrassed that this woman should speak to her thus. ‘How could you let such things happen in your home?’

The matron laid her hand upon the girl’s forearm. ‘Children and fools only see half the whole. One day you will not just glimpse our people’s joy but want to possess it, too.’

Caecilia shook her hand away.

‘Come,’ said the older woman, ignoring the rebuff. ‘You will feel better once you are bathed.’

‘Would you have let him shame me in front of them?’

Her mother-in-law faced her calmly. ‘That was not my decision to make, Caecilia. It was yours.’

Cytheris placed a pot of warm water on the table while tthe girl climbed the footstool to sit upon the bed. Caecilia clutched her stola to her chest, once again conscious of being naked in front of others. Yet with Cytheris’ kindly reassurances she eventually relented, the fabric eased from between her fingers.

The maid’s ministrations were gentle but did little to soothe Caecilia’s tension. She did not want anyone to touch her. She had lived without such comfort since her father died and did not want such intimacy now. Not even when the Greek girl wiped Caecilia’s body with the warm cloth, pressing softly along her back, did the Roman’s muscles ease.

‘Lift your arms,’ said Larthia, and slipped a nightrobe over Caecilia’s head, so soft and silken it was as though weaved from gossamer. She did not refuse it. There was no excuse to resist wearing sheerness in her husband’s bed.

As Cytheris untied and brushed her hair, Caecilia recited her prayers, tightening her grip around the little wooden juno, her guardian angel. And all the while Larthia persuaded her to trust her assurances about the unknown.