The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (37 page)

‘Where is this fleece? Or have you only just now been able to rid yourself of the purple dye upon your fingers?’

All in the room were quiet. Caecilia scanned the faces of the principes who were looking anywhere other than at Ulthes. Apercu kept rearranging the folds of his robes and Vipinas rubbed his hand repeatedly along the bronze armrests of his chair as though intent on wearing them away.

Tulumnes bristled. ‘Are you saying you’re not prepared to take the word of a lord of Veii?’

Mastarna snorted. ‘And has my brother, the Great and Holy Haruspex, seen this prodigy? Has he interpreted this so-called wonder?’

The assembled men gasped. Caecilia wished Ulthes would say something to rein in her husband. Once again his ridicule of Artile was dangerous.

His words, however, seemed to make Tulumnes uncertain. ‘Artile did not inspect it but when I described it to him he said there was no doubt it was one of the listed omens.’

Tulumnes’ response turned Mastarna’s sliver of scepticism into a wedge. Doubt crept into the chamber.

‘Where is this fleece now?’

The nobleman was not about to be cowed. Having travelled into his opponent’s territory to prove his case, he did not falter. ‘It was burned, as all prodigies are required to be destroyed under sacred law.’

The silence that fell was different than before—a pause signalling that all in the room shared the same questions rather than the same fears. Mastarna’s possible sacrilege was of less concern now that Tulumnes was unable to provide evidence to verify his claim.

‘Then did someone else other than you witness this?’

A sheen of sweat covered the princip’s face like a cold frost on a metal goblet. He used his wrist to wipe it away. ‘You should not doubt the word of a lord,’ he said again.

‘You are wasting our time,’ said Ulthes.

‘Lord Pesna also saw it!’

Caecilia recalled the stooped-shouldered nobleman. He’d suffered a wound defending her on the road to Veii. The cut had healed but his contempt for her had not.

‘And what did you promise Pesna to bear false witness for you?’ spat Mastarna. ‘The right to rape the people with taxes and tribute once you are king?’

Apercu and Vipinas rose in their seats. Even if the fleece had been destroyed, two of their peers were saying they had seen a marvel. It was no small thing to accuse them of collusion.

‘Forfeit your candidature, Arnth Ulthes,’ said Tulumnes, ignoring Mastarna, ‘and let me lead Veii to glory while we have the chance. For it is not only this prodigy that heralds change. Word has come that the Roman garrison at Verrugo has fallen. The Volscians have slaughtered any Roman soldier they could find.’

Caecilia uttered a cry. All had forgotten her presence except Mastarna who pulled her to his side.

Verrugo had fallen. Rome could be next.

Throughout her marriage she’d feared never returning home, but never that there might be nothing left if she did. Her city was meant to be invincible.

Had Marcus and Drusus been slain? Since leaving home both their lives could only be conjured from memory, but she always convinced herself she would see them again. She always told herself they were alive.

Falling to her knees, Caecilia put her hands to her face, tears hot against her skin, willing herself not to sob, feeling as forlorn as the morning she’d found Tata lying dead. Her cousin had later consoled her. Who then would soothe her over the death of Marcus?

Mastarna helped her to sit down, squeezing her shoulder gently as he stood beside her. ‘Don’t believe him. The defeat might not be as bad as he claims.’

Ulthes waved dismissively at Tulumnes. ‘Veii has no need to start a war and Rome is not yet conquered.’

‘It is best to strike when a foe is weak,’ countered the princip. ‘We may not have such an opportunity again.’

‘We have been through this all before,’ replied the Zilath wearily. ‘Let the college decide these matters in spring.’

Not waiting to be ejected, Tulumnes turned to go. ‘Know then, Arnth Ulthes, that you and Mastarna offend the gods by offending me. Remember that when I have defeated you.’

*

The Zilath sighed, closing his eyes as if he hoped life would look better when he opened them. Vipinas and Apercu sat with heads downcast.

There was nothing more Ulthes could ask of his peers other than faith. No small matter when it involved disbelieving one of their own. For when word got out of the purple fleece many would think that Fate had shown its hand and rumour would outstrip proof.

The enormity of Tulumnes’ news affected Caecilia also. Before today she had come to believe Ulthes and Mastarna to be stronger than their rival. Now it was not altogether clear. The promise Ulthes had extracted from Mastarna not to start a civil war took on greater meaning. She understood her husband’s frustration. If Tulumnes succeeded she would want Mastarna to fight, to stop the threat to her city and to his.

Slumped upon the chair, Caecilia pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to hold back the headache that encircled her skull and hammered the back of her eyelids. She murmured a prayer that the two Roman youths had somehow survived, conscious also that the consequences of being made hostage were more frightening than ever.

A voice inside her told her to endure, told her that Rome must endure also, but it was drowned out. Instead of a Roman hymn to fortitude, all she could hear was Artile’s liturgy urging her to sup on fear and revere dread.

*

In the stillness that followed Tulumnes’ departure, the sounds of servants bustling about in preparation for the tournament filled the hush, the abrasive voice of the steward rising above the din.

The tension within the room was broken when Arruns returned from escorting Tulumnes to the door. The servant hovered cautiously beside his master, wishing to speak but unsure how to deal with Mastarna’s mood. ‘Our chosen wrestler is ill, master,’ he said finally, ‘with stricken bowels and a rebellious stomach.’

In the drama all had forgotten the entertainment. Mastarna scowled and swore as though nothing would be right that day. ‘Then tell the Greeks I will fight instead.’

Ulthes growled impatiently. ‘Let another man fight. Greater things concern us than indulging in a pankration.’

Arruns scratched his chin. ‘Their champion is much younger than you, master.’

The comment merely goaded Mastarna. He roared at the Phoenician to tell the Greeks of the change.

Caecilia hoped Ulthes would compel her husband to see sense, but she knew it would be unlikely he’d succeed. Both had heard the familiar note in Mastarna’s voice. Her husband was being given the chance to combat frustration by wrestling flesh and pummelling bone. It was easier than grappling with Tulumnes’ miracle and his quest to be the king.

*

As the guests waited for the bout to begin, Caecilia sought comfort by Tarchon’s side. He was bright-eyed and jittery, his encounter with the princip pushing him to chew Catha leaves. ‘Here, take some,’ he urged. Caecilia shook her head and once again cursed Artile for depriving her of enough Zeri.

The room was crowded and hot, everyone jostling for position around the small circle. The guests did not touch her, but whether it was because she was Mastarna’s wife or a Roman she could not tell. She felt oddly disconnected, events moving too fast.

Word of Tulumnes’ claim had not yet leaked to the various clansmen assembled there. The mood was buoyant and boisterous, sombreness restricted to those few who’d met with Ulthes. Instead of his normal cheeriness Apercu looked as though he was suffering from indigestion. Vipinas’ face bore the impatience of a schoolmaster, disdainful of Mastarna’s stunt as one is with a tiresome child. Ulthes was pensive, irritated by the rashness of his friend.

Caecilia tugged at Tarchon’s sleeve. ‘Why doesn’t Mastarna make Arruns fight the Athenian?’

‘Pankration is for freeborn warriors to train them for war. Mastarna would insult Amyntor and the other Greeks if he offered a freedman as an opponent.’

*

The Greek’s hair hung in ringlets to his shoulderblades. Caecilia thought it odd on such a man, this vanity, so used was she to unkempt Romans or short-cropped Etruscans. Picturing how his lovers would plait the long curls into their own after lovemaking, she knew from gossip and Tarchon’s admiration that it was not only women who could coil the tendrils around their fingers.

His hair was fair, not the brassy dye of Erene or the blond of the slave boys from the north, but the light brown of leaves when tired of their vividness. His eyes were a strange grey above a nose broken so often it had forgotten it was ever straight. Twisting his hair into a knot, she noticed how his hands were bruised and cut in places. He did not smile, concentrating on what lay ahead as his trainer bound swollen knuckles, calloused palms and scratched wrists with leather thongs, a meagre protection.

But it was his soft, full-lipped mouth that made her wonder. Just as all who watched him were wondering, imagining, as he stripped and called for the oil, smoothing the sleekness across his sturdy thighs, arms and calves, the triangle of his shoulders, chest and waist, across the fine fair hair of his body, untouched by pitch or tweezers.

He enjoyed their scrutiny, expected it, did not acknowledge it. There was time enough later to make his choice. Liquid in his movements, Amyntor, Champion of Olympia, rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck from side to side. Ready for the greatest contest of all. Brutal and bone-cracking. A fight without limits, without rules, without mercy.

Pankration.

*

Larthia had introduced Caecilia to attic vases with their tiny redlined figures jumping and fighting, singing and dancing upon shiny black surfaces, captured forever in static movement.

Wearing only corselets of flesh, Mastarna and Amyntor looked as though they had leapt from such glazing into the ring, but unlike the painted figures they could struggle and tumble and kick their way through to victory or defeat, feet upon sawdust not within clay, explosive in motion.

The Greek was taller and younger than Mastarna, but the bulk of the Veientane’s shoulders revealed how battles fought and men slain can build sinews and thews. There was knowledge and cunning within him, too. Caecilia prayed the wiliness that had helped him live as long as he had would see him victorious today.

The boxing ring was small, guaranteed to keep the fighters confined. Erene stood beside Ulthes, shrugging her shoulders as if to say she had seen too much of Mastarna’s impetuosity to feel concern, or perhaps giving an assurance of sorts to the Roman.

A burly man from Thrace was the referee. He wielded a stout switch with which he could beat the competitors should they infringe the rules. Likewise, any spectator who edged too close would also receive a rap.

‘Some fighters prefer to cheat and receive a thrashing from the referee rather than succumb to serious injury from their opponent,’ said Tarchon. ‘It could be a dirty fight.’

*

Amyntor was sweating. The moisture beaded upon his oiled skin. Caecilia could feel his heat as he circled past her, eyes never leaving Mastarna’s, as though besotted, wanting to enjoy violent embrace.

The Athenian was known to break his rival’s fingers if given a chance. Mastarna did not wait for the younger man to strike, punching him with short hooking blows to his head. Blood erupted from the champion’s nose, but the Greek only paused briefly to wipe it away and spit out a tooth.

Caecilia instinctively retreated, but the Veientanes jeered at Amyntor who was levelling kicks at Mastarna’s thighs and groin which her husband dodged deftly. Each time the wrestlers shook their heads to clear their eyes of sweat or blood, droplets were flung in an arc across the crowd. And each time the people roared, seemingly oblivious to the spray, others licking it from their fingers. No matter how often it happened, Caecilia flinched.

Soon her neighbours forgot any reserve, shoving Caecilia aside to get a better view. Strangely, she found herself standing her ground by elbowing them in return. Her face was hot from the closeness of the room, smoke from the braziers looming above her. The stink of her neighbours assaulted her as they exhaled the remnants of their last meals: fish or pork mingled with wine. The reek of hair wax, perfume and grease-streaked robes was nauseating, but most overpowering of all was the smell of sweat and excitement trickling from their pores. She was perspiring, too, realising what was at stake; that Mastarna could be thrashed before her eyes, or maimed and crippled and beaten.

More than an hour passed. Neither wrestler seemed to be tiring. Both men tried to grapple the other to the ground, the oil upon their skin making it hard for either to gain an advantage.

Caecilia shifted from foot to foot to ease the soreness in her legs and back. She was grateful that Tarchon stood beside her, one hand holding her arm, guarding her from being shoved into the ring. ‘He could win,’ he said, ‘if he’d just get him in a choke hold.’

Mastarna’s right eye was bruised and his face cut. Every time he was pinned down or struck Caecilia felt a fist within her chest squeeze tight and then ease when he recovered. When the Greek grabbed her husband’s hair, pulling his head down and hitting his throat and face, she found herself yelling with the others for Mastarna to break loose, urging him to do the same to his rival. Although repulsed by the sound of fists and feet thudding against muscle and bone, the stench of fighting, the viciousness of punching and the twisting of limbs, she could not stop watching. She wanted Mastarna to win even if this meant Amyntor must suffer pain. There was only one other time she had felt close to such a feeling—when the bandit attacked her and then was killed.