The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (16 page)

‘Cytheris says you have not been well. I hope it was not some piece of food that upset you.’

Caecilia shook her head and tried to get comfortable on the deep-cushioned divan.

‘No doubt you found the banquet a little overwhelming.’

She hesitated as to whether to offend the matron. ‘When Roman wives dine with guests they do not share feasts as you do.’

Larthia raised her eyebrows and suddenly Caecilia remembered how Aurelia’s slaps could sting. Now she wondered if an elegant blow would smart.

‘You think Veientane wives unvirtuous, Caecilia?’

‘Rome would not call what I saw last night worthy of a wife—nor of a husband either.’

A tremor of pain crossed Larthia’s face, chased by one of irritation. ‘You are far too prickly, my dear. Roman rectitude seems to prevent you gaining pleasure. The Rasenna think differently. We like to celebrate even as we weep at the prospect of death.’

Caecilia frowned at this echo of Mastarna’s excuse for dissipation. ‘I only know I will never act that way, no matter what you ask of me.’

‘We shall see,’ said Larthia, slowly patting her mouth with her napkin. ‘No one here will compel you to enjoy yourself.’

The sarcasm was unsettling.

The matron beckoned to a servant to bring her meal. ‘Let’s forget about yesterday, shall we? Tomorrow is so much more important.’

Larthia took a spoonful of the unappetising pap, grimacing as she did so. As she finished her painful swallowing, she nodded to the girl. ‘I can tell you are wondering about my mouth.’

‘You often seem to be in pain.’

‘I have ulcers that never seem to heal.’

Caecilia forgot her vow to remain aloof. ‘Have you tried oil of clove and salt? Although it will sting and is unpleasant to the taste.’

The Veientane smiled, and this time Caecilia did not feel her condescension. ‘I’m afraid such a remedy has failed in the past. But how is it you know such things? I would not have thought you interested in the healing arts.’

‘I know very little really. Aurelia, my uncle’s wife, is experienced in such skills and knows those plants that cure and those that harm. I would help her sometimes.’

‘You do not like this Aurelia?’

The girl frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You say her name as though spitting out a lemon pip.’

Caecilia coughed to hide her own smile, remembering how Aurelia’s gnawing discontent would disappear for a time when brewing chamomile tea for stomach aches or eyebright for spring fever.

‘Perhaps she talks too often of virtues and too little of life,’ said Larthia.

Caecilia looked away. She did not want to like this woman, a matriarch who presided over dissoluteness, but it was not so easy. How could she resent Larthia for trying to understand her? Resenting graciousness was like beating fists uselessly against the air.

‘Tomorrow you will commence your duties,’ said the matron.

Caecilia sighed. At last she would be revealed for what she truly was. Her inadequacies exposed. Her misery compounded by the drudgery of household chores. ‘I must confess I do not know how to weave garments such as yours.’

Larthia swung her feet to the ground and extended her hand. Caecilia hesitated before taking it. As she did so the matron spied the legacy of the bandit’s bruises still darkening upon the girl’s wrists. Leaning closer, she traced the contusions gently with her fingers. Caecilia winced in surprise as much as pain.

‘Poor thing. Please know that, unlike the robber, none of us means you harm. You are one of our family now. I understand your mother died when you were very young. I hope in time you will come to call me Ati, as do my sons.’

Unfamiliar with the shape and sound of a matriarch’s kindness, Caecilia did not know what to reply.

‘It’s no small thing to travel from your father’s house to that of your husband’s,’ continued the Veientane. ‘To leave the certainty of your world to go to a man’s bed and his dominion. I remember it well when I came from Tarquinia to marry my Mastarna.’

My Mastarna? Caecilia doubted she would ever claim such possession.

‘I, too, was terrified, but I grew to love my husband. I know few are as lucky, but at least you should understand that my son will not dishonour you.’

The older woman ignored Caecilia’s silence. ‘If you wish, I will teach you the rituals that guide our lives. We, too, piously honour the gods, even though it does not seem so to you. And remember, you are a strange new thing for us also. If we both learn a little of each other’s ways, perhaps our lives will both be richer.’

Shame filled Caecilia at her churlishness, remembering that Larthia’s Mastarna had been killed by an Aemilian yet she was prepared to welcome one into her home.

‘Thank you. I look forward to learning of your gods, but please remember I won’t ever forget I’m Roman.’

Larthia laughed. ‘I don’t see that happening, do you? Now come with me, I have something to show you.’

Leading Caecilia to the book-lined reception chamber, Larthia pointed to two high-backed wicker chairs and a marble table. ‘Tomorrow we greet our family’s tenants. They will see you and know that you are now Mastarna’s wife and must be respected.’

Caecilia surveyed the bench. What nonsense was this? A woman acting as if she were a patron? ‘I think you are mocking me.’

‘No, it will be your first lesson in Veii. A wife is partner with her husband in both family and business.’

‘But isn’t Tarchon the head of the house while Mastarna is away?’

Larthia nodded. ‘Of course, but my son expects me to deal with all matters. I am afraid that Vel considers Tarchon too feckless to rely upon. I wish it were not so.’

‘But I would not know what to do, what to say.’

‘You will over time. But first you must learn our language. Tarchon is useful in that respect and is a good teacher.’

The girl needed to sit down. ‘Will I also do this when Mastarna returns?’

‘Of course. I always sat beside my husband, even when I was heavy with child.’

Caecilia looked down, fiddling at the quick of her fingernail, reminded again of her other wifely duty.

‘You are no longer a maiden,’ said Larthia, sitting beside her. ‘Don’t be afraid to leave childhood behind and learn the role of wife and mother.’

Caecilia stiffened. ‘I understand my duties.’

‘You must learn to manage the household, too. Supervising slaves can be demanding. You must only beat them when they deserve, not as your temper dictates.’

Caecilia glanced at Cytheris, who seemed unperturbed at being spoken about in such a way.

‘And when you are settled I will show you my workshop.’

‘Workshop?’

The matron nodded as she pointed to one of the vases on the table. It was made of thin-walled black clay decorated with lines and dots. ‘Why yes. I employ artisans to manufacture krateras and rhytons, which I export to Carthage and Phoenicia. Humble bucchero ware like this bowl.’

Caecilia did not know what was more scandalous—the fact that Larthia was given such authority or that nobility was dealing in trade. ‘Do you really speak the truth?’

‘Of course.’

Caecilia reached for the modest earthenware vessel. It was coarse to the touch—plain. She recognised the pattern upon it. It was the same as one she’d seen in Rome—the vase Aurelia used to fill with anemones: blooms with red sore hearts like the scarlet stains upon Aemilia’s skin.

‘There is good here, too, Caecilia,’ said Larthia.

The girl gave a small smile, overwhelmed.

‘Ah,’ said the matron, hiding her rotten teeth behind her hand as she also smiled. ‘That is much better than the melancholy and misery that greeted me at dinner.’

Once her mother-in-law had retired, Caecilia lingered. Sitting on one of the wicker chairs she leaned forward to trace the veins within the marble table. The stone was smooth and cool. She laid her cheek against it, arms outstretched. Exhausted.

What had she expected? Not this. Not independence.

He was her husband. She could tolerate his world, withstand his touch—as long as the price of lying with him was the right to sit beside him at this bench.

*

‘Aricia! Hand it to the mistress!’

The little girl started at her mother’s command, then dutifully presented Caecilia with a brush. It was yet another of the many presents Mastarna had given her.

Caecilia smiled, crouching down beside the child and pointing to the engraving on its back. ‘Who is this?’

There was a huntress carrying a bow. Beside her a youth was holding aloft a boar’s head. Aricia shook her head.

‘She doesn’t understand you, mistress,’ said Cytheris. ‘She might bear the name of a Latin town but she speaks none of its language.’

‘Then you tell me. What is the name of this beautiful maiden?’

‘Lenta,’ said the little one very quietly after all. Cytheris cuffed her. ‘Go and see if Cook needs help!’

Caecilia frowned as the child slave left the room. ‘Why were you so short with her?’

The maid took up the brush and started to rapidly stroke Caecilia’s hair. ‘It is best to teach them young not to expect kind words.’

‘Oh, and is that what it was like for you? Did your mother scold you for no reason?’

‘Of course, mistress. For as long as I lived with her. Didn’t yours?’

Caecilia smiled, acknowledging that Greek and Roman mothers shared the same temperaments and tempers. ‘Who was Lenta?’

‘Atlenta. It’s the same girl that adorns your pendant.’

‘So the man is the suitor from the race?’

‘No, it’s Meleager, whose love for the huntress led to his doom.’

Caecilia touched the engraving, amazed this woman had more than one lover.

‘The Tyrrhenians love myths as much as Greeks do,’ continued Cytheris. ‘They tell stories of immortals and heroes, and call them names similar to those of my people. They have gods of their own, though, powerful and unseen.’

Amazed, Caecilia studied the burnished metal. Larthia had shown her Turan and her handmaid, now she beheld two ill-fated human lovers. How could she have been so ignorant of the legends of the gods, not known what they looked like, been so unaware of their joys and woes? Somehow the histories of Roman ancestors and heroes seemed stilted and stolid compared to this fantastic glimpse into the heavens, this revelation of the emotions of the divine.

‘What, then, is Atlenta’s other story?’

‘It’s the tale of the Chalcydonian boar, a favourite of my people. Meleager killed the beast to prove his love for her, then angered his family by giving it to her as a trophy. When the youth killed his uncles to stop them claiming it, he was cursed by his own mother and doomed to die.’

Her words made Caecilia shiver. The brave reckless youth reminded her of Drusus. He had been prepared to spurn his family to marry her, and his father would have been entitled to kill him for dishonouring their family.

‘You see, mistress, even before these two lovers joined in that hunt,’ continued Cytheris, ‘the inexorable Nortia had already decided their fate. She had already raised her hammer to drive a nail to mark the end of Meleager’s time.’

Suddenly Caecilia wanted no more of the story. Wanted no more gloom. Nortia and the Roman Fortuna were one and the same, and could be capricious and spiteful. The deity had already cut short her time with Drusus. Caecilia did not want to think what else the goddess might have in store.

Cytheris sniffed and continued brushing Caecilia’s hair. ‘So you are glad, mistress, to sit with Lady Larthia tomorrow?’

‘Indeed.’

‘It has taken away the sadness of this morning?’

Caecilia thought of Mastarna again. No, not entirely.

‘Of course, many women are envious of you, mistress. I don’t think you realise that. Most of the maidens in Veii have had their eye on the master. And some of the matrons as well.’ Cytheris chortled at her own wit.

Caecilia stood up. ‘I think you can stop brushing now.’

The servant helped her to disrobe but Cytheris was not finished talking. ‘They say he is as fair in bed as he is ugly in face. You are very fortunate to have such a husband.’

Caecilia pushed the girl’s hands away, tears pricking her eyes. ‘If he is the best in this city, then I pity all Veientane women. ‘Drusus would have been a better husband—’ Checking herself from revealing her heart to a servant, she broke off into sobs.

Cytheris briefly raised her eyebrows then busied herself working Caecilia’s hair into a loose plait. ‘It is time to cease crying, mistress,’ she said softly.

Surprised at the maid’s boldness, Caecilia glared at her.

‘I don’t know what happened last night,’ continued the maid, undeterred, ‘but the master is not a cruel man, just a troubled one. In the end, you know,’ she said, bending close, ‘all men are the same. You just need to use that to your benefit. And in doing so, you can find pleasure.’

Intrigued, Caecilia wiped her tears. ‘What do you mean?’