The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (32 page)

She told herself that her subterfuge did not matter, convincing herself that Mastarna would not begrudge her a glimpse of her future. After all, prophecy was a gift given to the Rasenna. The only problem was that the priest giving the prediction was Artile.

The haruspex moved closer. She could feel warmth emanating from him as she shook her head.

‘Sister, I do not think your husband would look kindly on you seeking revelation. Do you wish to continue?’

His voice was the same as Mastarna’s. No different. Mellifluous, compelling, seductive.

Caecilia raised her eyes to his as he beheld her. She could not look away. ‘I wish to know,’ she said, covering her head with her shawl in a sign of piety.

Artile smiled.

*

There was drama to his ministry. When he marked the sacred boundaries with his lituus, and carried the patera of water around the altar, she could almost see the lines that divided holy from profane appear.

Water was offered as a libation to the gods as the priest dipped his hands into an offering bowl to cleanse them, the wetness glistening upon his flesh. No chance of blood lingering in the whorls of his fingertips although his black-painted nails may well have hidden half-moon crusts beneath them.

Both animal and long ritual knife were blessed with wine and flour. The lamb’s head was turned from sky to earth. Then the haruspex calmly called to the Veiled Ones in a clear voice, his foot planted firmly on a ceremonial stone, keeping contact with the earth as he beseeched the heavens for an omen.

After being granted permission to strike, the young cepen delivered a hammer blow to the melancholic strains of the aulos. One blow then another. Music could not muffle the thuds. Unlike the white bull of the temple, though, this victim surrendered silently under a noonday sun that had banished shadows.

After the knife was used with practised hand, the carcass of the lamb lay slackly upon the altar, its silence belying the eloquence that its viscera had produced.

The sun pressed upon Caecilia’s head, inching through the weave of her palla, giving her a headache. The heat made the smell of the offal and blood loiter, the stink of the stained fleece adding to the stench. Flies buzzed lazily over the remains.

The liver lay dissected before Artile, juicy with promises, revealing an unwanted future.

Caecilia sank to the ground, face white. Cytheris harried the novice to fetch a stool. ‘It is good news, mistress. It will please him.’

The high priest washed his hands carefully in a bowl held for him by his acolyte. ‘You are an unusual woman, sister, to bemoan the role of the mother of a healthy heir.’

Bemoan the news indeed. She was a hypocrite to hail herself as virtuous. What daughter of Rome would rail against being a true wife: devoted, subservient, passive—and fecund?

‘Are you sure I am to have a child? I did not hear you ask that question.’

He frowned. ‘A haruspex does not interrogate the god by asking for a yes or a no. He merely proclaims what is revealed by the cosmos. Your magistrates act as your augurs. Wise men, perhaps, but not skilled in divination.’

Caecilia thought of her wedding. The whimsy of an eagle had determined the auspices for her marriage. At that moment she could gladly lace her fingers through the pinions of that bird and fly to Rome.

The cepen placed the liver in a salver, so darkly red as to make Caecilia think it was composed only of blood. A fly landed on it then flitted onto her cheek. She flicked it away in disgust.

‘You see, sister, there is science to prophecy.’ His voice was as gentle as a lullaby. ‘For the liver is a templum divided into quadrants like those in the heavens.’

Caecilia peered at the satiny organ, wondering which god she might offend or even harm by touching it.

‘Today, Uni the liberator, goddess of childbirth and the sky, revealed herself within the lamb’s organ. Her sign was clear and came from the northeast sector, the zone of greatest good fortune. You should be joyful.’

It was true. She should be pleased to learn that her son would beget children of his own. Still, it was hard to thank Artile for swapping one kind of concern for another. His forecast had imprisoned her, confirming that she would never again see her home.

When Caecilia remained silent, Artile lost his patience.

‘Would you rather the organ be disfigured, sister? Would you rather see blood clots in the northwest where the demons dwell?’

Behind her, Cytheris started to speak, but Artile snapped at her. ‘Be gone! You hover over your mistress like Vanth.’

The Greek girl bowed her head but did not budge.

‘Come, let us sit in the shade,’ he said, removing his hat to wipe his brow. Its brim was grimy with perspiration; his kohl-rimmed eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion. Communing with the deities had taken its toll.

*

A cooling breeze played upon her cheeks as Caecilia rested within the precinct of the sanctuary. It was peaceful there with ivy growing profusely along its walls. Ivy. One of Fufluns’ plants. A plenitude of phallic steles also decorated the landscape. Engraved upon them were other symbols of the god: double axe and two handled cantharus, goat and panther. The clan of Mastarna must also revere the lord of fertility, rebirth and wine.

Her husband believed that Fufluns, not Aita, was Lord of Acheron. Mastarna would not be pleased that she was listening to his brother’s beliefs.

Artile settled on a stool beside her, placing his hat at his feet. ‘I can understand your dismay, sister. It would not be easy to bear a child of two cities and so bind yourself to Veii forever.’

Caecilia gasped. He could read minds as well as omens. He understood her plight.

His voice was kind as he continued. ‘It will not be easy either to risk bearing monsters like your husband’s.’

‘Monsters?’ Her question was barely a murmur.

‘Yes, fiends born too early, and a son with no eyes and its mouth cleaved in two.’

‘No eyes?’ Her stomach was churning, sick that Mastarna was hiding the enormity of what he could plant within her.

‘Didn’t my brother tell you?’

She shook her head, concentrating on studying the soft fleece of his cloak, the supple leather of his boots, rather than face him.

‘It was lucky, I suppose, that it died within a few hours of its birth, otherwise my brother would have been obliged to kill it under the law.’

A tear trickled down her cheek, imagining Mastarna’s grief.

‘At least you will bear a healthy son,’ he said, smoothing one eyebrow, ‘but you should also pray to avoid Mastarna’s curse.’

The butterflies rose to her throat. It was thick with them, her voice nearly smothered. ‘You mean Seianta’s.’

His attempt to hide surprise failed him. ‘I see that someone has been teaching you our family history, but you should understand that the gods did not only punish Seianta. Although it is foretold Mastarna will sire a son who will also bear a son, it will only happen after great anguish.’

Caecilia frowned. ‘Has he not suffered that already?’

‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ he said, eyes narrowing. ‘But how many monsters will you bear before bringing forth an heir?’

Artile watched her calmly as she struggled to take even small gasps of air. He bent near to her. His face was close-shaven, not stippled by the shadow that touched Mastarna’s jaw by afternoon. She closed her eyes, thinking of her husband. Caught between the image and the presence of these two men.

‘Sister,’ he said, his deep voice enticing. ‘Would you like to defer such a fate?’

Caecilia slowly opened her eyes. ‘Mastarna says you cannot cheat Nortia.’

He laughed. ‘For once I must agree with my impious brother. I cannot alter destiny nor indeed would I wish to. But, sister, the gods do not just control the space around us. If we supplicate ourselves, we sometimes succeed in persuading them to speed up or slow down time.’

Caecilia stared at him, finally comprehending. ‘Do you mean the Rasenna can postpone death?’

‘If the rituals of the Book of Fate are devoutly followed.

‘The Book of Fate?’

He nodded. ‘And if you follow my guidance piously I can call down lightning as proof that Nortia has answered your prayers.’

Thunderbolts again. Dangerous and beautiful.

Caecilia felt as if they had risen far above the world, far away from the odour of the liver boiling in a pot of bubbling water near the altar, the sound of the novice scraping dried blood off stone.

Suspended in space. Time slowing.

When Cytheris knelt beside her Caecilia jumped in fright. The maid tugged her arm, whispering urgently not to listen to him.

Grabbing the Greek girl’s plait, Artile yanked it to make her stand. Cytheris whimpered as strands of her hair came away in his hand, her mouth with its missing dogtooth agape in pain.

‘Go,’ he growled. ‘Wait for your mistress outside.’

The servant did not wait for a countermand but ran from them, weeping, while Caecilia anxiously called after her.

The spell was broken. Cytheris’ fright engulfed her. It was as though she had waded into a river and too late found herself struggling for a foothold in sudden depths.

And yet she did not drown. Artile’s calm was as forceful as drawing a deep breath. It made Caecilia think that she could breathe even if the waters rose over her.

‘Forget your slave and listen to me,’ he said firmly. ‘Your people think Rome will exist forever provided they act like soldier ants; single-minded and joyless, building and protecting their nest. Know instead that every person, every city—indeed, even the Rasenna nation itself—has a limited lifespan. Ten sacred saecula is all the time our race has been allotted and it is no different for people.’

‘So what is the length of a postponement?’

‘Seven years of life may be prorogued at a time until a man reaches three score and ten.’

‘And you claim Nortia might delay other parts of your destiny?’

‘Yes, you may pray to delay any element of your fate or indeed of another person’s. Don’t forget, though, that destiny cannot be cancelled or averted.’

The haruspex leaned nearer, mere inches away. She could smell lanolin and sweat seeping from his sheepskin cloak from the heat of the day. ‘Do you want me to call down lightning?’

Caecilia knew now why Cytheris had implored her not to listen. The maid knew the temptation would be overwhelming.

Mastarna had taken hope from her. Artile could return it. Mastarna warned her not to cheat the gods. Artile would procure their favour.

The butterflies spiralled within her belly again. Better butterflies than a baby. ‘Yes, I wish to delay conceiving a child.’

The haruspex smoothed his eyebrow once, twice, three times. ‘If I help you, sister, it must be our secret.’

She hesitated, knowing that as soon as she spoke she was committing herself to his power. She remembered, too, that the Tarquinian girl had not convinced Fortuna. ‘What about Seianta? Why did she fail?’

For a moment Artile’s face gained some of the edges of Mastarna’s. ‘Forget about her. She lacked piety and so failed to defer the death of her daughter. A tragedy but also a lesson. To succeed in the rituals of the Book of Fate you must be dedicated. And so I’ll ask you again—will you keep this secret?’

Doubts rose at placing trust in the brother Mastarna so hated. But it was not the priest she was choosing. It was his magic, his heavenly persuasion.

Noticing her trembling, the priest took her hands to quell her nerves. This time the softness of his touch did not repel her. Instead comfort flowed through her.

She nodded, one conspirator to another.

The seer replaced his hat upon his head, tightening the chinstrap, then barked an order to the acolyte who was setting up a spit to roast the sheep. The cepen scurried to the temple, returning with clean salvers and krateras.

‘As the Veiled Ones have not granted Nortia the power to throw lightning we must call down the one thunderbolt Uni is entitled to hurl. Pray and sacrifice to both goddesses. Uni will then reveal if Nortia has granted your wish.’

Uni, Mother Goddess. Juno Lucina. Bringer of light and life to both nature and humans. Would she not think it strange that Caecilia prayed that the conception of a child be slowed instead of encouraged?

‘How long can I delay conceiving his son?’

The haruspex drew a wad of Catha leaves from his robes and began chewing them. Clearly it was not only the gods that liberated Artile from space and time.

‘No more than seven years.’

Seven years; a lengthy guarantee. Seven years of living with guilt.

Once again she thought of Mastarna’s eyeless son. ‘How long will it be before Uni grants me a sign?’

The priest led her to the altar and directed the novice to light fresh candles. ‘Only when Nortia is satisfied you have been pious and devoted and committed. You will do that by always obeying me, for I am a divine mediator. Seianta did not understand this and therefore tasted failure. Do you understand?’