The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (27 page)

Mastarna fiddled with his goblet, running his finger around the rim, over and over again. There was no fervour left. Nor anger. Exhaustion had put a halter on him. There was bitterness, though, left over like the dregs of wine in his cup. ‘Because, if bribed richly enough, some nobles choose to forget that kings can become despots and that a monarch, once elected, rules until he dies.’

Caecilia pressed her palms against her eyes until flecks of colour burst through the blackness, knowing she was on the verge of either tears or collapse, resentful of being helpless, that her fate was reliant on people in an alien world.

‘Then we must take Tulumnes by force,’ said Tarchon, finding courage to speak.

Mastarna glanced at his son and grimaced. The stained red fingers of the Zilath came to Caecilia’s mind and Mastarna’s covenant with him.

‘Enough talk of deposing tyrants,’ said Larthia, standing. ‘Let us thank the gods for their warning and that Artile can read the signs.’

To Caecilia’s surprise, Mastarna rounded on his mother, knocking his empty cup over as he leaned forward. It clattered onto its side and spun slowly to a stop. ‘Don’t talk to me of Artile’s fortune-telling.’

The silence that fell was short-lived. Tarchon’s chair scraped across the tiles as he stormed from the room with footfalls, no doubt, that would soon echo in the chamber of his priestly lover.

‘You are sacrilegious, my son. Artile is Chief Haruspex. It’s dangerous for you to speak so.’

‘You would say that. You who are always so quick to defend him.’

Caecilia saw the tiny woman brace herself against the table as though too fragile to bear such accusations. She also saw where Mastarna must have obtained at least half his courage, for after only a few seconds Larthia met his gaze steadily and her voice was firm. ‘I defend both of you. I love both of you. I am proud of both of you.’

‘You say that, but each day you reek of his incense and linger at his side for crumbs of sacred comfort.’

Caecilia gasped but Larthia did not even flinch.

‘I gain counsel from him as a priest not a son, just as I look to you to be master of this house.’

‘Then suggest to your priest that he prorogue this prediction. After all, he claims to be an expert at deferring fate.’

Larthia glanced at Caecilia, and the girl sensed that the conversation had left behind lightning strikes and monarchs and had fled back in time to some other premonition, some other dread.

‘Don’t worry, Ati, Caecilia can listen. She can learn that Nortia can be implored to postpone her intentions.’

‘You are being unwise.’ Larthia’s tone was firm, but it did not stop her son.

‘Do you think this threat serious enough to defer Veii’s fate for thirty years?’

‘That is not for me to decide. Only the College of Principes has authority to seek such a prorogation.’

Caecilia held her breath. Defer fate? The thought of such a possibility was astounding.

Further words died upon Mastarna’s lips as he slumped back in his seat. Standing behind him, Larthia put her hands on either shoulder, kissing the top of her son’s head as though there had been no stones thrown. ‘Seianta knew that Nortia could not always be swayed.’

Mastarna leaned back against her and closed his eyes. Caecilia felt as she had when, as a child, she’d eavesdropped behind storage chests or doors only to hear the speakers complaining about her. Tonight she felt the same discomfort, knowing she should not have heard their words, witnessed this scene.

‘I am going to bed,’ said Larthia. ‘Let’s ponder this further tomorrow. Tiredness is no companion to reason.’

The matron bestowed a kiss upon Caecilia who responded in kind, tempted to lay her own cheek gently against the softness of the other’s and linger. To ask the matron to answer her questions: how was it that destiny could be postponed? And what did Seianta ask the goddess to defer?

*

Shoulders stooped, Caecilia sat upon the bed and stared at the fine blue boots that had so delighted her earlier but were now ruined. The blue ribbon had been lost, her hair tangled. Not wishing to be fussed over, she’d dismissed Cytheris but soon wished she hadn’t, finding it an effort to even remove her gown.

Exhaustion did not seem to hinder Mastarna. Just as he had diligently eaten the supper of lentils, he did not vary from his nightly practice. Pouring hot water from bronze pitcher to ewer, he meticulously wiped his arms, feet, legs and face, a ritual that he’d insisted she adopt, too. She could not do so tonight. Too tired to even seek what she knew would be pleasant.

Next he removed his heavy gold wristbands, then placed them and the little dice box into a cista. Seianta’s signet ring with its onyx stone remained. Also the gold bulla placed around his neck by his mother upon his birth. It was a good luck charm that would be needed more than ever.

Saying nothing, he stripped and slid into the bed, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes, making Caecilia wonder when, with all that had happened between them, they had fallen into domesticity.

When she continued to stare at her boots, he grumbled. ‘Douse the lamp and go to sleep.’

‘I am too tired to sleep,’ she said, aware of her childishness.

‘Before a battle you need to eat and rest when you get a chance.’

‘But what if Tulumnes wins the battle? What if he holds me hostage? Rome will never surrender. Nor could I expect it to.’

‘It will not come to that. I’ve told you already. He won’t win. Apercu and his clan are likely to support the Zilath, but we’ll need to convince Vipinas to be on our side.’

‘But Vipinas hates Romans! They killed his only son. He already disapproves of the treaty.’

‘Stop worrying, Caecilia. You will wear yourself out. In the end Nortia will decide. Now go to sleep.’

‘Can your people really convince Fortuna to defer a city’s fate?’

For once he gave into her badgering. He sat up, the scar on his chest a dark slash in the dimness. ‘Some of the Rasenna believe that both a city and a person’s fate can be deferred, but they are deluded. Lady Nortia must laugh at such entreaties.’

‘So your people are wrong to think they can control her?’

Mastarna rubbed his brow and sighed. ‘Nortia fixes a nail to end our lives at the time and place she alone has chosen. She may let us roll our dice and make small choices, but our destiny cannot be changed. She alone holds the rudder that guides our lives.’

‘Yet you taunt her to reveal your own.’

‘You do not need to know why I bait her,’ he said brusquely. ‘Just remember not to let Artile convince you he is Destiny’s agent.’

Caecilia wanted desperately to ask him about Seianta’s desire to delay fate, but his face was seared by weariness, pale beneath the tan, expression closed. Whatever his first wife sought from the gods would not be disclosed by him tonight, if ever.

‘Go to sleep,’ he growled and slid back under the covers.

Her emotions stirred even higher. She tapped his shoulder. ‘How can I rest when my people are threatened?’

‘Bellatrix, you’ll go mad fighting battles in your mind. Tulumnes will need the support of the Twelve to fight Rome. No easy thing when the league baulks at raising arms for brother cities.’

‘Then Rome is safe?’ The question was a wish.

‘Only the gods know that for sure.’

‘Gods you do not trust.’

He grunted and reached for the lamp. ‘Come. Lay your head on the pillow. The sun will soon rise.’

As he leaned over to blow out the flame, she stayed his hand, not wanting the suffocation of darkness. He was, after all, her protector while she was in Veii, the head of the house, obligated to ensure her safety from Tulumnes and from his people. And yet today his world had been threatened, too. If destroyed, he could no longer help her. Or himself. If Mastarna had no influence, what was she to do?

‘Please take me home.’

In the wavering light of the lamp, he shifted to face her. ‘I expect more of you, Caecilia. If I returned you now your city would be insulted. We might start the war we want to avoid.’

She seized his hand, slightly knocking the lantern so hot oil spat upon his skin. He flinched more from irritation than hurt. ‘Tell me you will honour your promise!’

His surprise was genuine. ‘What promise?’

‘To return me within the year. To let me sleep three days under my uncle’s roof so that I may continue under his authority. To remain a Roman.’

Mastarna frowned. ‘Who told you of such a promise?’

‘My cousin Marcus.’ Tears welled and she rubbed her eyes, fists staving off weariness and weakness.

‘Then he misinformed you. You have married me under Veientane as well as Roman law. I only agreed to divorce you if the treaty failed.’

Caecilia felt she was falling backwards as she had once done before, after losing balance upon the narrow uneven stone wall that divided her father’s fields. She had merely been winded then but the terror of falling through space, unable to grasp safety, not knowing when she would strike the ground, returned to her.

Aemilius had truly betrayed her. Yet again she had become a misfit as well as a symbol. Neither patrician nor plebeian, neither Roman nor Rasennan.

‘Are you telling me I will never again see my city?’

‘Only if Camillus triumphs over Rome’s peacemakers and the truce is broken.’

‘But if Tulumnes wins the election he’ll be the one to declare war and I will die!’

‘That won’t happen,’ said Mastarna, impatiently. ‘Ulthes will be successful.’

Caecilia clenched her fingers. He was acting like Aemilius, expecting her to believe there was nothing to fear just because he said so. ‘Are you saying there is no chance you will return with me if peace continues?’

Mastarna examined the skin of his hand where the oil had scalded him. ‘It’s my hope that soon you’ll no longer want to be a Roman daughter, Bellatrix.’ He raised his eyes to hers. ‘I hope instead you’ll welcome being a Veientane mother. And I’m afraid if that happens, I can’t let you return at all.’

Her head thudded against the earth, her fall ended, her limbs broken.

‘I don’t understand. When did conceiving a child become a barrier to passing through the Servian Walls?’

‘Because I can’t risk you taking my son. Once returned to Rome, you might persuade your uncle to reclaim you and our child.’

‘But children belong to their father. I would have no case. Aemilius knows this.’

He shook his head. ‘A mother’s pleas might sway him. And I would be on foreign soil and at a disadvantage. I don’t want to lose any more children.’

His words reminded her of the question she’d asked of Erene. Here was a chance to gamble on an answer. ‘The loss of your son must have been dreadful.’

The dice box was not in his hand to reveal his tell, and in the dimness of the chamber she could not read his face. But he hesitated for the smallest moment.

Not even the length of a breath.

Long enough to cause her to doubt him.

‘I think you mean my little daughter.’ His voice had the tone heard whenever she trespassed onto any mention of Seianta. ‘I only have one son, Caecilia, who doesn’t listen to me. Am I to have a wife who does the same?’

This time he blew out the lamp so that blackness engulfed them, the smell of the extinguished flame lingering in the darkness. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said sharply. ‘There is no more to be said. Veii is your home now.’

Caecilia silently undressed. Creeping beneath the covers, she drew her knees to her chest, facing away from her husband. Was it he or the hetaera who was lying?

When she closed her eyes they watered and ached. She felt numb, too tired to be angry, too exhausted to be scared. It was as though she had gone back in time and was being told by Aemilius about her marriage. She had no say in that either.

Mastarna was wrong to dismiss her fears. Wrong to take hope away. She was trapped. If she bore his child he would never let her leave, and when she bore a half-blood Rome would never welcome her home.

Their longings were balanced. Hers for Rome, his for a son.

She thought of Cytheris and Erene. They both claimed she had power but it was one that could only be exercised in captivity. Mastarna might do anything for her if she gave him a child, anything but fulfil her desire to see Rome.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

Mastarna’s hesitation weighed on Caecilia’s mind as much any of the threats that assailed her.

The next day she tried to concentrate on her lessons instead. But practising the exercises Tarchon had set her was not easy. Although she was mastering the Rasennan language she found it difficult to read it. Their alphabet was different—strange marks upon the page that were read from right to left.  After yesterday Caecilia knew that her life, too, was going in the wrong direction.

Cytheris was helping Aricia to card wool, dragging the fibre through the sharp teeth of the paddles to tease out the threads, her frizzy hair oddly similar to the fleece. Knowing the maid knew all the household gossip, Caecilia could not resist trying once more. ‘Did Seianta and Mastarna have a son?’