The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (39 page)

Coming closer still, Caecilia began to feel uneasy, the comparison with plebeian celebrations fading. Some of the villagers were wearing masks; goat or wolf or ram, grotesque and frightful. The fire’s heat was like a wall around them. Some people had stripped, figures were merging, thrusting, shuddering; man with woman, man with man and, most appalling of all, unspeakable and forbidden, women entwined around each other.

Fleeing to the courtyard, Caecilia huddled amid frostbitten date palms and other exotics, shaking with shock as much as with cold.

*

After swallowing all the Zeri from the alabastron, Caecilia hurled it against the bedroom wall, frustrated that her supply was now empty.

Tiny glass shards spun across the tiled floor. She told herself to stop thinking, to wait until the Zeri’s magic found purchase, to let the mess of emotions settle so she could make sense of them tomorrow. Yet it was not so easy.

Lying down upon the bed, she sobbed. Not with the despairing melancholy of her wedding but choking and furious, as though rage had found voice, cadence and rhythm.

Threats had stabbed at her all day—of war and monarchy, of death and grief—but it was Mastarna’s behaviour which distressed her most.

Cytheris and Erene were telling her she must no longer be embarrassed and disgusted, that it was a blessing that Mastarna wanted her to act as a Veientane. The struggle of feelings was so tiring; this pull towards him that only her Romanness restrained; this pull to which another Caecilia, deep within her, wanted to yield.

Mastarna had become more than a lover. He offered solace in the utter darkness, a guarantee that, should dreams bring demons or ghosts, flesh and blood lay within reach together with steady breathing and the scent of sandalwood. It was hard then to understand the way in which he had finally chosen to show he cared. Why he’d asked her to lie beneath the reed instead of drawing her close that morning, the planes and curves of their bodies moulded together until dawn.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

Saturnalia.

When the earth lay ploughed, seeded and dormant, and spring was chiding its chilly brother to surrender the world to her.

Saturnalia. When both patricians and the people feasted on suckling pig, and slaves were feted by their masters, relieved of toils and troubles for a day. All joyous for the return of light after the winter solstice.

It was Caecilia’s favourite festival: where a woman could join in the rites not just observe them, where children could sit and feast with the grown-ups, and where Tata would let her join in the parties with family friends.

After witnessing the debauchery of the Winter Feast, Caecilia was determined to show how a festival could be observed in the Roman way. And with Mastarna away helping Ulthes, the nonsense of the celebrations distracted her from her worries, giving her a chance to forget how he had hurt her.

With her efforts to share her people’s customs, Caecilia’s thoughts strayed to what would be happening in Rome. Not in the stuffy House of Aemilius but in the countryside where, with rustic merrymaking, sacrifices would be made to the dark and brooding Saturn, god of sowing, and Juno Lucina, bringer of light.

As befitting the custom, she gave the servants their freedom for a day. Doing so for Cytheris was of little consequence compared to freeing the slave forever. The maid could have made the most of her brief power by ordering Caecilia to serve her wine or fetch her slippers, but she refused. Instead, Cytheris had resumed doling out doses of wisdom in all matters but one. She avoided warning her mistress about Seianta and the Book of Fate.

Aricia was soon sick from eating too many currants, and cake crumbs trailed from hidden morsels stashed in her pockets. Despite constraints of rank, Caecilia had begun to spoil the little girl, secretly replacing Cytheris’ harsh words with kind ones. The Saturnalia custom gave her the excuse she’d been looking for to embrace her. Lifting Aricia into her arms, heavy-limbed and weary against her shoulder, Caecilia felt the child’s curls brush her throat. And as she laid the little one to bed, she stole a kiss, relieved to know that, unlike Aemilia, she could love a child after all.

As she returned to the dining room, Caecilia noted Artile was absent but Tarchon was good naturedly serving wine to a slave boy, keen to participate in her party. And, watching him, she was once again reminded of Marcus. If he was no longer alive, should she enjoy the feast?

No word had come from Aemilius since the Roman defeat. In fact, all official communication had ceased. An ominous silence.

Rumour had spread, though. A plague was raging through her city, a pox with scabrous sores and mange spread from cats and dogs. The world twelve miles from here would be a sad sight.

Yet she still wished to see it, wanted to know again how it felt to wake, every day, to a world that was honourable and pious.

*

When it became clear that Larthia was failing, any enjoyment in the household waned. Tarchon called Artile who hastened to his mother’s side and filled her chamber with candle scent and comfort, the air thick with silken chants and soothing prayers. Gone was the foreboding haruspex, and in his place stood a man who could lay hands upon the dying matron both as sorrowing son and consoling priest.

Caecilia and Tarchon would wait upon Larthia, dismissing her maids and tending to her needs, but the only solace Ati wanted, the only sustenance left to crave, was Artile’s gift. Tarchon would trickle drops upon her swollen tongue, waiting for the painful swallowing to finish before administering more. Caecilia knew a dribble would never be enough to banish Larthia’s pain or nourish her dreams. She knew because she, too, was finding Artile’s Zeri to be lacking of late, that her dreams were growing shorter, her bliss less.

In the half-world between living and dying, Larthia would call to her Mastarna, requesting that she, like him, be buried not burned so that she might again hold him. Eternally faithful to this one man through life and in death—a univir. It was a Roman standard that Caecilia had not thought a Rasennan woman would desire to attain, let alone possess.

Yet Larthia’s fidelity should not have surprised her, for the Veientane matron was more Roman than the girl expected. Stoic and proud and pious, the matriarch had shown how even a Veientane could choose restraint; loving feasts but not getting drunk, tolerating decadence but not partaking of it. Ati had given her a glimpse of how it might be possible to live with dignity in Veii.

And so, as she watched the matron suffer, Caecilia found herself retracing the steps of grief her father taught her to tread, wondering how she’d come to love this woman in so short a time. Saddened to know that even if Aemilia had lived, no such love would have been forthcoming.

When the men were absent she’d curl Larthia’s fingers around her own. ‘Winter will soon be over, Ati. Sunlight grows and the shadows begin to shorten. It is not time for you to shut off the light.’

Ati. Mother.

A different word for a different mother.

A similar death but a sweeter farewell.

The Roman girl’s goodbye to Aemilia had been dutiful and brief, a small girl’s lips brushing a cold dead brow. This time she was no longer a child; this time she understood the desperate need to ensure last kisses were bestowed upon still warm flesh, to have the dying whisper out her name, to be called daughter.

*

After the pankration, Artile had welcomed Caecilia without chastisement for her country sojourn, greeting her as a father would a favoured child who’s become frightened of what is out of her control.

If Caecilia expected him to be eager to discuss the message behind Tulumnes’ portent she was disappointed. Yet it did seem that her brother-in-law enjoyed watching the impact of his role in the princip’s tale, like a cook who sips soup after adding salt, gauging whether his addition has made his supper tastier or not.

‘Is it true what they say? Does the purple fleece truly presage fortune for its owner?’

Artile’s tone was weary. ‘I’ve already told you that all miracles have been noted and recorded. A fact my brother fails to understand.’ There was a taint of bitterness in his voice, his animosity, as always, muted compared to Mastarna’s open contempt. Of late, though, his rancour sometimes seeped through his reserve, especially after her husband’s steps to exclude Tarchon. It was not easy to forget how Artile had studied his young lover at her wedding, a viligance she now knew was a jealous need.

There was no further talk of prodigies and politics. Artile knew her needs remained the same. Caecilia, too, was relieved to resume their routine.

‘My vial of Zeri is empty,’ she said before she had even begun her worship.

‘Then show greater piety, sister.’

She listened to what was required—more blood sacrifices, more time at prayer. In return the elixir would be granted for both rituals—the first convincing Nortia to postpone her child’s first breath, and the other persuading Aita to save her after she’d breathed her last. Twice the devotion, double the return.

Caecilia knelt before the haruspex, even keener that she must observe the rites, belly tightening, thirsty for the Zeri.

*

Mastarna was due to return at any day but had been delayed. As word spread of the astonishing fleece, superstitious tenants and clansmen gathered to discuss its import in every town square and turf shrine and market. He and Ulthes were spending much time and coin to ensure the gossip was countered, but both knew the whiff of a miracle was too alluring to be spoiled by fact.

He was urgently summoned from his business as Ati grew weaker. His mood sent the servants scurrying and set Caecilia’s teeth on edge. Unlike his brother there were only sharp edges to Mastarna’s worry and harshness to his queries, his resentment at the gods for taking another of his family palpable. When he first saw his mother sleeping, he grasped her hands so tightly that she woke suddenly and surprised. Although Larthia nodded at his urgings that she get better, Caecilia could see that once again Ati was humouring her adult son as though he were a child.

As Larthia lay dying, Caecilia and Mastarna spoke rarely; she tending to his mother, he attending to the threat to the Zilath. Neither spoke of the pankration or the Winter Feast. He seldom slept in their bed, instead snatching rest at the palace where strategy was being devised. There he could avoid watching the anguish of Ati’s last days, last hours, last rasping breaths. When he did lie in their chamber he did so after Caecilia had gone to sleep, not even waiting for dawn before he arose, choosing the oppressive darkness of the dead hours to make his escape.

Each time she woke to find him gone, emptiness filled her as she realised that her longing for Rome was being replaced with a yearning for him.

*

Larthia’s last words were a murmur of thanks to her daughter for a small candle, some sweets and a tiny statue of Juno Lucina. She smiled, too, although feebly, glad to be dying when people laughed and sang and prayed for the return of spring.

When Ati died Mastarna shed no tears. Nor did he seek out risk as was his usual remedy for pain. Instead he was resolutely composed as befitting the head of a clan, and Caecilia was relieved to find him acting as would a Roman.

He wanted no words of comfort or touch, rebuffing her attempts at consolation. He did not ignore her grief, though. ‘Know that she loved you,’ he said gruffly, and held her in an embrace so fleeting compared to the heated urgency of the pankration she wondered if it could be the same man. The brief caress only added to her melancholy that they could not share and soothe each other’s sorrow.

A sense of loneliness filled the House of Mastarna as it retreated into mourning, making Caecilia seek out shadowy corners, feeling like she had been abandoned, needing Marcus to be there.

*

Snowflakes were falling, replacing the grey ash upon the mourners’ hair with pure white, streaking their faces with sky-sent tears. Caecilia did not need such artificial signs of lamentation. Her eyes were swollen from crying and she felt numb inside without assistance from the cold. Tarchon, too, was pale-faced and weary with grief.

Larthia’s funeral procession marched slowly from the city of the living into that of the dead. Mastarna and Artile led the mourners, walking on either side of a two-wheeled carriage upon which the bier was borne. The two brothers avoided each other’s gaze. Mutual grief had not brought them closer and Caecilia knew that every moment spent together at the funeral would be awkward.

Behind them acolytes guided two black bulls, victims to be sacrificed to Aita, two souls that would be released for Larthia and her dead husband to claim. Caecilia considered their sleekness, the latent force of muscle and bone, the potency of their seed. To acquire the souls of such splendid creatures would surely endower Ati and her husband with great power in the Beyond.

A column of lamenting women followed, walking two by two in solemn progress, the hems of their long finely pleated tunics trailing in the muddy slush. A fold of their heavy woollen cloaks partly covered the diadems crowning their unbound hair. Some raised their fingers to scratch their cheeks in despair, other held tiny palm trees made of gold in veiled hands. Their shrieks and wails were as jarring as the discordant notes from the aulos. It was the first time Caecilia had heard Veientane musicians play other than sweet harmonies. The fractious notes and gloomy drumbeats set her nerves on edge.