The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (29 page)

In the morning he was still there, dressed and sitting beside her on the bed. For a brief moment she found herself pleased. Smiling, she pushed herself to sitting, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

His sombreness made her nervous, his words so measured they were frightening. ‘I do not like the taste of pomegranates.’

Caecilia felt the burn along her cheeks as she put one hand to her face.

He did not raise his voice or fists. ‘You are lucky I don’t believe in beating wives. Why did you do this?’

She clutched at the edge of his tunic. ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry! I just wanted the chance to see Rome.’

Mastarna prised her hands from his sleeve and held them, the pressure of his fingers firm but gentle. ‘I thought we’d come to care for each other. Would it be so terrible to bear our child?’

Throat dry, Caecilia swallowed painfully. ‘But what if he is like Seianta’s?’

He dropped her hands, eyes widening. ‘What did you say?’

‘When were you going to tell me about your son?’

He turned away so she couldn’t see his face. ‘I told you there were things I needed to forget. Did you know my wife died giving birth?’

‘Why won’t you say it? I know the boy was cursed.’

For a moment she thought he would break his rule, his eyes like charcoal. ‘Did Cytheris tell you that? I should have her whipped.’

‘No! Punish me only. It was Erene who first told me.’

His eyes flickered in surprise, then his voice hardened, anger flattening its cadence. ‘I don’t know what lies the hetaera has spoken but my son’s only fault was to be born too early and die too soon.’ He stood up abruptly. There was no hint of forgiveness in the stiffening of his shoulders and his rigid stance.

‘If you truly care for your servant’s freedom, Caecilia, you’ll do well to believe me rather than Ulthes’ mistress. Because if you try to do this again, I’ll sell Cytheris at auction.’

When she began crying, he backed towards the curtain wall, his tone tinged with hurt and frustration. ‘Bellatrix, you have been very foolish. I told you that you can’t cheat Fate. Believe me, I have tried.’

*

The room was large, piled high with clay amphorae. One had cracked slightly, a trickle of linseed oil oozing along the tiles, leaving a trail like that of a snail on its evening parade. The air was thick with the aromas of the various contents of the pots; perfumes, oils, preserves.

Servants were bringing the summer furniture into one of the many storerooms. The task should have been done some time ago, for autumn had the world in its grip. Hardier furniture, bronze and timber, was now required. Wicker chairs and outdoor tables were sent to hibernate.

Caecilia hastened to find Cytheris amid the bustle, leading her to the corner of the room. ‘He said he did not like the taste of pomegranates.’

Cytheris’ face paled. ‘Did he hurt you?’

She shook her head.

‘Will I be whipped then?’

‘No, but I have made it worse for you. I am sure he will never free you or Aricia.’

The maid shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, mistress, I never expected to be freed.’

‘Oh, Cytheris, he was so angry! What am I to do?’

‘There is not much you can do. At least he did not beat you for trying to stop the quickening of a child.’

‘He denied his son was disfigured. Why won’t he tell me the truth?’

The maid lowered her voice in reply, nodding her head towards the other servants as they scraped the furniture along the floor, edging them into spaces. ‘You must forget about Seianta’s baby, mistress. You can’t trust the gossip of a courtesan. And besides, there is many a mother who cradles a child who will never hold children of their own.’

Caecilia glanced at Aricia. There were other factors that would prevent Cytheris from embracing a grandchild. As usual the Greek girl did not linger on her own sadness but turned to practicality. ‘Maybe you should just be happy you have a husband who uses his tongue for more than talking. If it was your Roman boy you could have used the fleece without detection.’

Caecilia flushed crimson. ‘But I am not in Rome! And if I had a Roman husband I wouldn’t be worrying about falling with child.’

‘Maybe so, but it seems to me you are not so miserable when it comes to sharing the master’s bed. I’ll wager your Drusus would not make you as content. Romans do not think about a woman’s needs. It is all cut and thrust as though they are on the battlefield.’

Caecilia was sorry she’d ever confided in her about Drusus.

‘Thinking only of themselves and always doing so in the dark,’ continued Cytheris, garrulous with relief at avoiding a whipping.

Caecilia closed her eyes, wishing the slave did not always throw her off balance. Were Roman men such terrible lovers? She had assumed that all men made love like Mastarna. Would Drusus hide from her in darkness and be shocked that she would want the light of wax?

‘You’d think they didn’t like to look at their women,’ said Cytheris, interrupting Caecilia’s thoughts. ‘Although with my face there is reason enough for a man to blow out the candle,’ she chuckled. ‘But Veientanes always make a woman, even an ugly one, feel beautiful.’

Caecilia touched her neck. She, too, had a reason to snuff out the flame, but Mastarna had taught her to forget this.

‘Or perhaps it is not a woman’s face they are wanting.’

‘That’s enough,’ she said, embarrassed by the maid’s crudeness.

Cytheris’ silence was only brief.

Amid the various nightstands and stools was a high-backed wooden chair with the family insignia engraved on the headrest. Made from oak it looked very old, the sallow wood richly polished.

‘This is the family birthing chair, mistress. For centuries each master of the house has been borne through the hole of the crested chair. Trust in the gods and forget your fears. It will be an honour to bear the heir of the House of Mastarna. There are worse things than mothering the child of the richest man in Veii.’ To her surprise, Cytheris then bowed her head. ‘And I will also find joy in caring for your baby.’

Caecilia stared at the chair with its high seat and padded armrests, touched by the servant’s words but feeling suffocated, hemmed in by other people’s hopes.

If she were married to Drusus there would be none of this torment, only a happy anticipation. A fulfilment.

It would be simple.

She would be safe.

*

Mastarna did not speak of her deception again, arrogant in his settling of the matter, but his chilly anger matched that of autumn’s red and orange raining down.

His rage over Tulumnes led him once again to vie with peril, this time betting a cargo of silver lying in a distant harbour on winning a chariot race—and losing.

She could not forget the screams of six steeds colliding head on with Mastarna’s rig in a circuit with no centre rail. Or how the horses’ brushed, silken chests and heads thudded and cracked together. And then the heaving cruelty of watching their dispatch.

Mastarna’s chariot had exploded into fragments of bronze and wood, hubs and spokes. And he, thrown clear by the mercy of the gods for which he seemed so ungrateful, lay unconscious with several broken ribs and a shower of large splinters embedded in his arms and back.

Soon after, he made good his losses after betting on how speedily his hounds could run down a hind, making Caecilia wonder if it was more than recklessness that fuelled his gambling, whether it was also a kind of sickness.

Politics consumed him. He and Ulthes kept jealous counsel, unsure of whom to trust. They were often away garnering support. They needed to be. Her safety and the peace within the city were resting with them.

She wondered if she’d ever been in control at all in her brief life. Her one puny attempt had led her to being even more under her husband’s thrall. What right had he to play the aggrieved when he was holding her captive to his wants? When he had deceived her, too?

Both shared the same space in bed but retreated more than ever to the furthest confines. But she knew it would not be long before his desire to have a child would overcome his anger.

Fortitude was a curse. Railing against Fate had become a daily prayer.

*

The bowl shattered against the wall, shards clattering onto the tiles, but the mixture of beans and fish remained glued until it slowly smeared its way down to the floor. Caecilia glanced at the mess, then leaned forward over the dining table and laid her head upon her arms and wept. Her mood swung from remorse to anger and back again. Melancholy consumed her, entwined with frustration.

Her gown was grubby and her hair unwashed, finding comfort in childish dishevelment. Cytheris had begged to dress her hair and tend to her clothes but Caecilia refused. Had done so for some weeks.

And every time she sought respite in sleep the night demon would visit.

Lack of rest made her body thrum with nerves and she had taken to chewing her nails again, tearing at the quicks till satisfied she had drawn blood.

She had lost her appetite for food also. In Veii nothing was plain. Cheese was not cheese without being covered in fragrant ashes and olive oil. Instead of tempting her, the smell of cooking assaulted her. She had taken to picking at simple meals like lentil porridge, but no matter how often she instructed the cook to add no spice the dish was not the same as at home; the repast was aromatic with rosemary and garlic.

Her curiosity and awe over the grandeur of Veii and its people had waned. The opulence was like a cloying aftertaste from gorging on sweets for too long. She wanted a long drink of water from a Roman well.

She wanted, once again, to walk the boundaries of Tata’s farm and its corn rows, praying that, if she returned, Aemilius would let her live there safely instead of with him; a humble shrine containing small statues of the the household spirits declaring it was, once again, her home.

Most of all she wanted to see Marcus. To talk to him and gain his comfort. But such thoughts only led to more worries. How was he? And what of Drusus? Both had boasted of being posted to Verrugo but her cousin had still not sent word of how they were faring. Although hurt by such neglect she excused him, blaming youthful thoughtlessness or the onus of fighting, but in the back of her mind she always wondered if she was resenting a dead man for not putting pen to scroll. Had the garrison the two young soldiers were protecting fallen and Aemilius not told her? How terrible if they had died and she did not know. The twelve miles between them was a chasm.

Taking off Marcus’ wristlet, she weighed it in her hand. What would he make of her now?  She already knew the answer and was ashamed. She was lying to herself, too. She talked of austerity but was still tempted, unable to remove the new gold rings upon her fingers. Letting amber and silver bracelets compliment Marcus’ amulet upon her arm.

‘You were not at the morning audience, Caecilia. You are making it a habit.’ Larthia stood at the doorway, leaning upon the jamb for support.

Respect for her mother–in-law made Caecilia stop chewing her thumbnail and take notice. ‘There is no point.’

The older woman directed a slave to bring a chair. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘You seemed to welcome such responsibility before. Why do you wish to shirk it now?’

‘No one is going to heed the counsel of a Roman.’

‘Not if she acts like a drab and fails in her obligations.’

The girl lowered her head, but before she could respond Larthia pointed at the food smeared across the wall. ‘Is this what Roman women do when they lose their tempers? Why not pull out your hair and stamp your feet as well?’

The rebuke had none of Aurelia’s venom, but its effect was just as severe as a cuff across the ear. And more deserved.

‘Come,’ said Larthia, her tone matter of fact. ‘I can tell Vel has done something to annoy you. This tantrum smacks of domestic drama, but it is no excuse to act this way
.
You should be more concerned with supporting him than with throwing food and refusing to bathe. And you will do that by managing his affairs while he is absent from the city. I expect you to take audience with Tarchon tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Caecilia, solemnly. ‘You’re right. No Roman matron should act so.’

To the girl’s surprise the Veientane smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Caecilia. I would never accuse you of not knowing your duty—or of lacking courage.’

Caecilia raised her head. Words of praise were always savoured. Memories of those spoken by her father and Marcus were treasured. They would be worn thin if they were clothes. Mastarna had praised her, too. Each word a surprise and a gift. She was thirsty for admiration. Hungry for approval. Yet she doubted Larthia’s words. ‘I merely try to endure what the gods have decided.’

The widow raised her eyebrows. ‘Do you truly think so? If you sought only to endure you would have hidden from us after your wedding night and refused to tolerate our ways. No, there is a difference between enduring and surviving, of choosing to persist instead of suffering. And despite the terror of leaving your world I think that secretly you were proud to be selected. And relieved to escape, too. For here you are neither patrician or of the people.’