The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (33 page)

Caecilia knelt before him. She was different to Seianta. She was pious, devout, committed. She would not fail.

When he extended his hand over her head the gap between palm and crown might not have existed. Her skin prickled, charged. If he touched her the spark would make him flinch.

‘Sister, will you obey me?’

She met his gaze. His pupils were wide in his dark eyes. Promising her.

*

She was exhausted. Her instruction was detailed and had taken a long time: lustration, placation and thanksgiving, all performed to the music of the aulos and the chanting of Artile.

She realised she had not eaten for hours, but her stomach rumbled quietly enough not to attract attention. The lazy hues and shadows of afternoon spread around her. The autumn warmth of the midday sun had been subdued, cold now easing its way from the earth, numbing her legs as she knelt upon stone. Her throat was hoarse from praying, but the pain was worth it. Surely such pleas could not go unheard. The aroma of roasted meat wafted to her. The lamb was ready to be consumed. She would feast gratefully, in celebration and thanks.

In her hand lay an unexpected boon. Artile’s gift. A tiny alabastron. Its contents would help her converse with the god and give her joy. It was not Alpan. A love philtre would serve no purpose in her quest. Artile called it Zeri. It was made from poppies called the joyplant. ‘Obey me and this will be your reward,’ Artile had said. ‘Obey me and I will bring you happiness.’

Tomorrow her devotions would continue by making offerings every day, offerings containing life: spelt or fruit, honey or milk.

And blood. The goddesses would be thirsty.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

Larthia was dying.

It was cruel to see the older woman constantly drooling, the faint scent of urine dwelling in the folds of her gown as she took the sacraments of the Calu Death Cult. Seeing her this way made Caecilia consider whether Larthia’s decline was from attending too often to her nourishment in the afterlife instead of struggling to eat in her own world.

Exhausted, the widow would lie while Caecilia stroked the inside of her wrist, the skin translucent, blue veins like rivulets snaking beneath. The girl’s hands were firm and smooth and steady. She would compare them to Larthia’s skeletal fingers, rings swivelling upon them and bangles clattering upon emaciated arms, while thinking of her own death, the abyss that yawned before her. Would she disintegrate as Larthia? Would she die like her mother, suffering from a loathsome canker? The fear of death was ever present, and the dismay of worrying that her parents were indeed suffering in Acheron was constant.

There was an urgency to Larthia’s worship, too, that infused the girl with panic. ‘You must begin your prayers early, Caecilia,’ the matron rasped, anxious to gain immortality for both her husband and herself, ‘lest you run out of time.’

And so, although at first resistant to abandoning Roman beliefs, Caecilia finally heeded Artile’s promise of becoming a lesser god. The solace the priest offered to his mother was both powerful and poignant. He could smooth the pain from Ati’s face with both his words and his caresses. Finding the priest could give her comfort, too, Caecilia chose to kneel before Aita.

Every day Ati would grip the edges of the litter on her way to the family sanctuary with Caecilia at her side. Mastarna saw her accompanying his mother but did not stop her.  How could he criticise her for providing the devotion of a daughter? Indeed Caecilia was slowly taking over Larthia’s role in all household matters: organising the house, managing the slaves, telling the steward how to deal with land agents and merchants.

But Mastarna did not like his wife following the Calu Cult. ‘I thought you’d never worship any gods but Rome’s.’

‘And I thought you’d be pleased I was following your religion.’

‘I meant believing in Fufluns’ rebirth, not the torments of Acheron. Ever since the Syracusans gained control of our sea the Rasenna worry that the end of our civilisation is drawing closer. Priests like Artile take advantage of this, peddling death and spreading fear. You should not listen to them.’

Caecilia did not follow his advice, instead remained intent on following the haruspex. She was careful nonetheless to finish her devotions by the time Mastarna returned from training.

There was a bigger secret, though. One she kept from Larthia, Tarchon and her husband. On the eighth day of the Etruscan week she would draw her cloak over her head and visit Artile in secret to perform the rituals, coaxing Nortia to defer fate and imploring Uni to hurl her thunderbolt to show that no child would quicken within her.

Procuring a deferral was arduous. There were so many prayers, so many hymns, so many rites. All prescribed in the Book of Fate, all scheduled precisely in the Holy Calendar. Hard to remember, hard to recite correctly every time. Artile made her kneel until her knees and back were aching and she had recited without error. He made her weep with tiredness and cruelty. He chided her. He mocked her for mistakes. He taunted her with failure. And, when she thought she had learned the words, he required a different liturgy to be sung to ensure balance within the cosmos.

He could be inspiring, too. Sometimes when her voice was hoarse and her body paining she would look at him and see hope. He would touch her with those soft, sure hands, stroke her hair, wipe sweat from her brow, and she knew that this man, and this man alone, had the knowledge to save her. To lead her home and to reward her with a prize for which she had become too eager.

*

Artile’s Zeri made the gruelling rites bearable. Far more potent than the potion from Mastarna’s blue vial, a few drops could summon paradise. And so she needed to deceive Mastarna for another purpose: so she could sip ambrosia.

Soon she was neglecting the household, using Mastarna’s absence with Ulthes’ in the afternoons to make her escape, her reveries limited between the time taken for shadows to progress around the sundial from zenith to meal time.

As she journeyed into the world of visions and freedom, Cytheris would stand guard over her, a mortal angel, making excuses should anyone come near. Upon awakening, though, her mistress noticed the maid’s mouth was rigid with disapproval and her eyes full of concern, warning her that Artile had also given the Zeri to Seianta.

Caecilia chose to ignore her, believing that she would not fail like her predecessor; that she would not waver from kneeling an extra hour everyday, then another. She had survived the journey to an alien land, been subjected to debauchery and endured. She would be stronger than Seianta.

*

One afternoon Caecilia had retired to her chamber to drink the potion when Mastarna unexpectedly appeared in the doorway. Arruns was not at his side.

For a moment she panicked, glancing at the little cista in which she hid the elixir. Had he found out about her deception? She glanced over to Cytheris guiltily. There would be no escaping punishment this time.

Mastarna’s aloofness towards her had vanished. ‘Bellatrix, why are you here? Are you ill?’

‘No, it’s nothing. I’m just a little tired.’

As he stepped forward he signalled Cytheris to leave. ‘I have missed you,’ he said, touching her cheek. ‘I no longer want us to be apart.’

Any desire for the Zeri disappeared. She encircled his neck with her arms. ‘I’ve missed you, too.’

He began untying the knot of her belt.

‘But it’s daytime!’

‘It’s not forbidden, you know,’ he said, laughing.

Caecilia glanced out into the garden through the open drapes of the chamber thinking it was a luxury to steal working hours for this type of pleasure; such theft a scandal.

The day was fine and fresh and sharp. Winter nipping at the heels of autumn. Anyone passing along the garden arcade would see them if they looked into the bedroom. ‘Wait,’ she said, running to draw the curtain. The room was suffused with soft clear light.

Mastarna sat on the bed, pulling off his tunic. ‘Maybe one day I’ll convince you to lie with me in bright sunshine.’ He stood and deftly loosened the ties of her gown, slipping it from her shoulders. ‘Let’s make a child from light.’

He must have sensed her hesitation. ‘Please, Caecilia, forget about little Vel. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I had a son, but you mustn’t worry. I’ve been told I’m destined to sire a healthy heir.’ He kissed her throat. ‘And you will be the mother of that son.’

She waited for him to say the rest of the prediction, the sting in the tail, the anguish. It did not come.

Yet disappointment did not stop her wanting to see his face and body defined by daylight instead of candle shadow. ‘Is that the only reason you have sought me?’

He frowned. ‘I’ll show you why I want you,’ he said, lifting her to straddle him. ‘Stop talking, let’s not waste time.’

Needing to believe him, Caecilia smiled, raising her hands to her head, unpinning her hair.

*

Afterwards she watched him dressing from the warmth of bedclothes, wistful that he did not wish to linger. If he’d not come to her, it would have been a different type of languor, a different reason for robbing time. She did not begrudge him, though, for preventing her drinking the Zeri.

‘Won’t Ulthes wonder why you aren’t at council?’

‘No, it was he who chided me for neglecting you.’

Afternoon chill was encroaching into the chamber and she drew the coverlet close around her. She had missed more than his being in their bed. It had been hard to forgo his company on the divan, excluded from conversations with Ulthes and other nobles, resenting not being able to share politics and intrigue.

‘You know, you wouldn’t have to deal with Tulumnes’ threat if Veii was a republic. No Roman citizen would vote for a king. The power of our consuls is checked by the people and the Senate.’

Mastarna adjusted the fibula that fastened his cloak. ‘You know best of all that the elections are weighted towards the nobles. After all, your father was prevented from being a senator by the so-called founding fathers.’

‘Are you saying I am not patrician enough to be your wife?’

‘Believe me,’ he said, bending to kiss her goodbye, ‘being Roman is more than enough.’

After he’d gone, Caecilia lay in the room that was darkening with shadows, a kernel of happiness growing within her, pushing through the layers of anxiety, homesickness and fear; reminding her, too, that if she were in Rome, such conversations would be denied her and that, strangely enough, it was Drusus who had made this clear.

Young men long to be blooded. They are impatient. Once she’d listened to the eagerness of her cousin and Drusus for battle, thinking them brave and fierce for seeking war against Veii; sharing their hope that Camillus would be successful in gaining support to pay the troops.

Sitting in her usual place beside the atrium well, she’d been wide-eyed to hear of such things, thinking that for the first time she would be included in their talk about the Assembly and the Senate, elated not merely to listen but also to be able to speak of such matters. She had been nervous but found courage enough to speak. ‘Tell me, does Camillus still demand a tax to raise funds to pay the soldiers?’

Marcus frowned, silently chiding her, but Drusus reddened. ‘I am thirsty, Caecilia,’ he’d said very slowly, very coldly. ‘Fetch me some water.’

She’d not been sure whether he was chastening her or merely cautioning her not to forget her position, yet his words were as hurtful as any rap from Aurelia’s hand.

There was a dipper on the edge of the well. She’d shakily scooped the liquid into a cup and then hastened away thinking he would never speak to her again, wishing that the curiosity that dwelt within her could, once and for all, be quelled. For if every day women were content to brush the hearth and bake spelt cakes to make offerings to the household gods, why couldn’t she?

Drusus’ admonishment seemed long ago and yet only two seasons had passed since then. How strange it was that she’d been contrite at upsetting him, regretting that she’d spoken, that she’d even dared to question him. Now she realised she should have been angry at his rebuke, should not have been concerned at offending him, that instead it had been he who had insulted her.

For Mastarna may have scolded her, been exasperated and annoyed by her, but he never dismissed her for being a mere woman, never forbade her denouncing his aristocratic beliefs. There was no longer the need to perch on the edge of a well and let men tell her what to think and bid her not to speak. In Veii, she owned her opinions and her arguments. In Veii, she did not need permission, either, to share them with men.

*

The next evening Ulthes held a banquet. With the end of their estrangement, the dull worry returned that Mastarna might ask her to lie with him when the reed screens were arrayed.

But, as usual, her husband did not compromise her. Instead, by way of perversely honouring his promise to her uncle, they indulged in a lesser vice.