The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (15 page)

Aurelia’s words came back to her. ‘Going to a man’s bed is not as bad as you might imagine.’ She had never heeded her aunt before, but this time she hoped she was right.

For, despite Aurelia’s bullying, Caecilia had more faith in the Roman matron than Larthia. After all, she had just seen how disgraceful Veientane noblewomen could be.

*

Larthia embraced her son when he entered the room, kissing him tenderly upon the forehead. Caecilia sensed his mother’s words were of solace more than encouragement, and the same feeling Caecilia had experienced under the wedding shroud returned—that this man was in mourning, that it was another wife he wished to lie with that night.

Larthia and Cytheris said their goodnights to Caecilia, who lay down, turning onto her side away from him. On the wall in front of her the leopard spied upon her from the laurel grove, eyes dark and oval against his spotted skin—she would have an audience after all.

The sheets tugged across her as he climbed in beside her. There was a pause and then his fingers gently pressed her shoulder. ‘It is what is expected of us.’

When she rolled over to face him she was surprised. His body seemed to be sighing. Perhaps, she thought, her husband did not relish what lay ahead either. He hesitated again, then leaned over and kissed her eyelids closed, but light still crept in around the rims. She squeezed them shut, wanting darkness, wanting to feel nothing. Instead, sound and smell, touch and taste remained.

The scent of wine clung to him. She moved her head away sharply when his mouth brushed hers.

‘It will hurt a little at first,’ he said softly, hands moving over the filmy silk, caressing her breasts, belly and thighs. Then, pulling up her nightrobe to her waist, he gently pushed her onto her side again, his hands firm upon her hips.

The hurt lasted more than a little as he thrust within and against her dryness. She buried her face in the pillow, the bitter odour of the cloth filling her mouth and nostrils. Rigid and silent, she concentrated wholly on obliterating the existence of this man, his body slick with sweat, lying against her, inside her. Then despair settled deep within her like a cold hand rhythmically kneading as steadily as the rocking of his body.

Finally it was over. He pulled away from her. At once the coolness of the evening air rushed over her where only seconds before were muscle and heat. She was wet with his perspiration, her thighs slippery from her blood, his seed.

She opened her eyes and again saw the leopard. He had not averted his gaze.

She heard the beating of her heart but not her breath, her body forgetting to exhale. She was alive, though. She noticed the music drifting in from the garden, the sweet haunting notes of the double flute in a reflective key.

Mastarna also seemed barely to breathe, and when his still silence continued she turned.

He lay on his back; eyes closed but not asleep, not even in repose. A deep groove creased his brow. After a time he raised himself on one elbow, surveying her solemnly. His fingers traced what should have been a line of teardrop from eye to nose and then to her lips. ‘It is good there are no tears.’ She flinched and he jerked his hand away as though scalded.

Her nightgown was still around her waist. She was aware of her bareness, of his also, yet the rawness of this exposure didn’t bother her. She was beyond embarrassment. Even so, she held her breath anxiously when his hand moved downwards, relieved when he merely folded the nightgown over her then rested his hand carefully on her thigh. She could feel the pressure of each finger.

The pendant of Atlenta lay between her breasts. He reached over and traced the embossed figure. ‘Atlenta was a strong woman. You are like her, Bellatrix. Much is expected of you by many people.’

Caecilia snatched the ornament away. ‘I know Atlenta’s tale. She was abandoned, tricked and sacrificed. And you,’ she snapped, ‘are vile and so are your people.’

Mastarna sighed. ‘You are very young and it is hard to understand our ways. Time will solve both predicaments.’

Angry he should dismiss her, she sat up. ‘Time will not erase the insult you inflicted. To serve me wine! To expose me to immorality! To make me dine with a whore.’

Narrowing his eyes, he sat up, too. ‘You need to calm yourself.’

‘Were we expected to provide a spectacle or did I prove to be a disappointment when I did not prostitute myself before your friends?’

Shaking his head impatiently, he pointed to the mural. ‘See the leopard? He is the guardian of the dead and minion of Fufluns. Did you not see that god watching over us as we dined in the banquet hall? My people follow his ways and celebrate life knowing all too well that death stalks us, that in time it will deny us wine to drink, food to eat, lips to kiss.’

She stared at him in disbelief. Was she expected to forgive impiety because the Rasenna were afraid of death?

‘And what of your dead wife? Did she worship Fufluns on her wedding night?’

The sight of him pressing his nails into the palms of his tightened fists made her regret her words. Despite all he had exposed her to this night, she knew he did not deserve her cruelty.

‘You need not worry about Seianta,’ he said coldly. ‘You need not mention her name again.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. The words were not easy. She wanted to hear them from him, too.

He did not speak nor try to touch her again. When he snuffed out the candles and at last blanketed them in thankful darkness, her husband turned his back to her. She sensed he, too, wished to define the channel between them and lie as closely to his edge as she to hers.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

‘Your teeth are chattering, mistress.’

Caecilia did not answer. The painted Atlenta stared down at her. She had done so for hours.

‘Perhaps it would be best you get out of the bath.’

Caecilia noticed goosebumps were prickling her arms, and her fingers and palms were wrinkled. Had he infected her? Was this a disease caused by last night?

‘Look how long you’ve been there,’ said Cytheris, pointing to Caecilia’s hands. ‘You’ll end up a prune.’

‘I am not sick then?’

‘Of course not, mistress,’ said the maid as though talking to a child. ‘The water causes it.’

Caecilia had never refilled a bath, nor for that matter bathed two days in a row, but today she needed to wash. Needed to rid herself of him.

Had she slept? She didn’t think so, but she must have found dreamlessness because she woke from it to a vacant bed. Relief had filled her. Then emptiness. Salt had dried on her eyelashes, her tears leaving traces. Crusts of melancholy.

His smell permeated the bed; his sweat and scent pervaded her, too. She rose, pulling off the sheets and stripping herself of her nightrobe, unconcerned with Cytheris’ scrutiny. Such modesty seemed pathetic after he had lain against her, closer than anyone had before, body meeting body, limb against limb, skin rubbing skin, and within her as hard and thick as the stone phallus of the bridal chamber’s god he had scraped her womb.

Nothing was the same. And yet she looked no different. In the mirror she saw the same Caecilia: large round anxious eyes set in a solemn face. She ran her hands over her body, wondering if there should be some permanent mark upon her, some tattoo like Arruns bore, to remind her every day of what it meant to be a wife. She found evidence. His seed, powdery upon her thighs, and a patch of blood—residue that could be washed away.

Inside her, though, it was not the same. He remained. No water would remove him.

What had she expected? Why did she feel this loss? As though he had robbed her of that part she wanted safe and hidden. Safe for Drusus. Would it have been different with the Roman because she sought his caresses and ached for his touch? Or was this how all brides were taken? She could not believe that Drusus would hurt her. She was certain he would not have shamed her.

Sinking beneath the water, she stared through ripples to the distorted face of the painted Atlenta. She knew now how Lucretia must have felt—her womb sore, her spirit dirtied. The legendary matron would surely scorn Caecilia for failing to take her life.

Water streamed from her as she finally surfaced. The bath had lost its heat but she still lingered.

‘It is not always easy the first time, mistress,’ said the Greek girl, holding the drying cloth ready.

Caecilia glared at her. ‘Cytheris!’

The maid’s mouth set into a hard line and her eyes failed to mask impatience. Immediately, Caecilia was sorry she’d spoken so curtly. This girl knew things, things that Aurelia had or would not mention.

An image of the Roman servant girl and the bondsman came to her. Caecilia realised now that the maid’s groans were not of hurt. She’d felt pain last night but had remained silent. And then it occurred to her that perhaps she was not like other women. That even Aurelia had assured her that there were worse things than going to a man’s bed. Aurelia had said to submit. And she had. Aurelia had said she would not make a good wife. Perhaps that did not only mean she was inept with household obligations. Perhaps her aunt had meant more.

‘The women last night who lay beneath the reeds—were they wives?’

Cytheris sniffed. ‘A few. Courtesans, too. Slaves are brought in also.’

The Roman wondered how she was supposed to tell the difference. She had thought Erene to be a wife at first. It was hard to know which were nobles and which were base, hard to tell if it was their own husbands with whom they laid.

‘Don’t worry, mistress. I was shocked when I first saw such a scene. Greek wives do not even eat in the same room with men. Nor drink wine at all. That is what courtesans are for. Although I turn a blind eye to most Tyrrhenian ways, such wantonness still troubles me.’

Caecilia finally stepped out of the bath and the maid wrapped the sheet around her. ‘So, are all wives expected to act so?’

‘Only if they wish. When the Feast of Fufluns is held, though, no restraint is shown.’

‘The god in the banquet hall mural?’

‘Yes. My people call him Dionysus.’

The emptiness inside Caecilia seemed to grow, spreading its hand from the pain in her belly and gripping fast her bowels. Mastarna had shown her the leopard last night and told her he believed in his master. What lay in store for her if he forced her to worship this god?

‘And the boys? The youths?’

The Greek girl rubbed Caecilia’s hair dry. ‘The Veientanes are particularly fond of beautiful boys, just like Greek men. And Romans.’

Caecilia wanted to protest but she couldn’t disagree. The servants often gossiped about Aemilius’ infatuation for stable boys. It was not until last night, however, that she understood why their laughter was so loud when comparing his riding of grooms to geldings.

‘Did she lie beneath the reed?’

The maid combed Caecilia’s hair with her fingers. ‘You mean Mistress Seianta?’

‘Yes, Seianta.’

Cytheris continued her ministrations, causing Caecilia to frown as she teased loose a knot. ‘Yes, my lady. The master and she sometimes lay beneath the reed, but they wanted no others.’

Caecilia began chewing her fingernail, uncomfortable at hearing of Mastarna’s intimacy with his first wife. Would he also expect her to prove some sort of marital devotion after a banquet’s fruit had been eaten, and with only the rind of darkness left, shadows merged behind an unsteady flimsy screen?

Cytheris drew the sheet tightly around her shivering mistress, briskly massaging Caecilia’s back and arms. The Roman closed her eyes and let the maid comfort her like a little girl.

‘It is time for the evening meal. Mistress Larthia will wonder where you are.’

‘What about the master?’

‘Oh, he has gone to the country. Some problem with his tenants, I think.’

Caecilia’s relief at the news was brief. He would return and the same routine would be repeated. If not tomorrow then the next day or the next.

 What did she expect of him on their wedding night? She could not exactly say. He had caused her loss, though. And hurt. Something else, too, which she could not understand.

Disappointment.

*

Nothing was the same.

Last night the people at the feast had shocked her, but the little things about Veii were unsettling, too. The air was rich with aromas, so thick with scent she parted it like a curtain. Even the water tasted different, as though she was drinking the smell of stone.

Waiting for Larthia in the dining room, Caecilia yearned for familiarity, wanted just one thing to be the same as what she had grown up with. But most of all she wanted to be home.

As Larthia approached she noticed the older woman was once again dressed gracefully, her hair immaculate, yet her face was drawn and a spasm of pain shadowed her features as she dabbed her mouth with her kerchief.

As both women lay upon dining couches, Caecilia wished she could return to her room and be spared the effort of civility.