The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (4 page)

Before she could answer, though, he strode over to the ancestor cupboards and flung them open. Caecilia gasped. The death masks of the famous ancestors within were not allowed to be revealed except on special occasions. ‘Quickly, close it,’ she hissed, ‘or we’ll be punished.’

Ignoring her, Marcus pointed at one image in particular. The firelight flickered upon the waxen face, the eyes blank and staring. ‘Behold Mamercus Aemilius,’ he declared. ‘Liberator of Fidenae! Conqueror of the Veientanes!’

He tapped his chest. ‘And now behold his great nephew—the coward.’

Caecilia glanced around nervously lest Aurelia emerge. She carefully closed the cupboard. ‘What are you talking about? You’ve never backed down from a fight.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, Cilla. The legion of the Wolf is ancient and esteemed. What if I cannot fight as boldly as my father expects?’

Caecilia took his hands. They were trembling. ‘Of course you will be brave,’ she said. ‘This is just nerves. You’ll see, when the time comes you’ll face the enemy with courage. You are no coward.’

‘But I have never killed a man. Perhaps in the heat of battle I will falter.’ He bowed his head, his voice a whisper. ‘Cilla, I’m scared of dying.’

She was stunned. ‘All young soldiers must feel the same. What of your friends? I’m sure they have doubts also.’

He frowned. ‘Men do not speak of such fears to one another.’

The girl fell silent, sad that her cousin could gain no solace just because manhood had been reached and bravado encouraged. She spoke softly. ‘Are you sure there is no one?’

His face set into an expression that told her he regretted telling her of his fears. ‘Cilla, you are a woman. You’ll never understand.’

*

Soon after, Caecilia met a friend of Marcus’ whom she felt would understand him. His name was Appius Claudius Drusus. He too was a son of a wealthy patrician. He too was expected to walk upon the Honoured Way.

Around the time Drusus began to visit, Caecilia found she was no longer oblivious to the physique of the men she was allowed to meet. She was suddenly aware of the height of a man or the width of his shoulders, the strength of his arms or the line of his legs. Aware, too, that she was no beauty. Too tall for a girl—as Aurelia was oft to repeat—her nose too straight, her mouth too wide. And, upon her neck, as a constant reminder, the ugly, reddish stain.

Cloistered in her uncle’s house, she was frustrated that her time with Drusus was always limited to formal visits. He was nervous, always restless in his chair. She could tell Aurelia disliked him; his gruff, halting sentences, his rough social graces. Yet in the minutes it took for her to proffer a dish of almonds to each guest, she could not ignore how his eyes followed her every movement, how he blushed when she caught him watching; how, too, an unexpected shyness welled within her, an eagerness to please that was unsettling.

It was better when the russet-haired youth visited Marcus only, for her cousin would ignore how she’d linger, perching on the edge of the impluvium well, listening to their news and bragging until Aurelia chased her away, scolding her for immodesty.

At such times, Drusus’ voice would become louder, his gestures broader, his fervour deeper, his hesitancy gone. He yearned to fight, wanted glory and hungered for his chance at war.

Caecilia listened to his talk of battle and ambition but did not concentrate on every detail. She would have been content just to observe him. To study how his hands were bony, the knuckles pronounced, how his body, too, was lean and lank with the scaffold of a man’s but not yet its core. And how his eyes had a hint of anger, a wildness that made her believe he could be defiant. Defiant enough to consider a half-caste.

One time, to her delight, they had a chance to be alone. A moment after the servant left to fetch her cousin, Drusus took her hand and drew her close, snatching a kiss, light and clumsy, a forbidden kiss which chaperones guard against and for which maidens sigh. Yet, strangely, the touch did not lead to further embrace. They were uneasy at such rashness, at the risk of embracing before the household gods who even now must be muttering with outrage.

To Caecilia’s relief the awkwardness did not last. Drusus’ kiss may have been askew, but he suddenly gained confidence to speak. ‘I want to marry you. I want you to be mine.’

She was surprised. While she had prayed that this boy might marry her, she had not expected Drusus to dare try. It had been enough for him to notice her, to make her conscious of the swell of her breasts and hips, that her hair was shiny. Now he was speaking of a union that could never be.

Marriage was a matter for family, for the sons yet to be born, for bloodlines and power and wealth. Grandfathers as well as fathers wanted heirs. Love had nothing to do with it. Yet the fact Drusus should speak of his desire for her to be his wife made her smile. And there was admiration, too, for his boldness.

Conscious that they would be disturbed at any moment and aware, too, that both their palms were slippery, her heart beat as fast as when she raced the clouds down the corn rows of her father’s farm.

Hearing Marcus approach she pulled away, but Drusus would not let her go.

‘I am going to ask my father to speak to Aemilius. Why would either refuse?’

*

Caecilia was not skilled at weaving. She always broke the thread upon the spindle and tangled the warp weights on the loom. Yet, hopeful that the elders would come to an agreement, she began spinning fine yarn to weave a flammeum, the veil of Roman brides.

As always, she struggled to start the whorl twirling, aware that Drusus would expect her to be as skilful as his sisters at the task. The prospect of achieving an even weave was also daunting, as was the fear of orange blobs forming when she steeped the gauze in dye of weld.

Yet knowing her labours were for Drusus, the girl settled to the task until she heard Aemilius noisily returning early from the law courts.

Curiosity turned to surprise when he entered the atrium and sat down beside her, bending to remove his dusty boots and slip on indoor sandals.

‘I have decided to adopt you,’ he said abruptly.

Caecilia paused in her work, uncertain what to say. The news was unexpected and intriguing. As her guardian, Aemilius controlled her considerable inheritance. He did not need to claim her nor worry that she was unwed. Yet hearing his words, the possibility of marriage crossed her mind. Perhaps he had brokered a business deal and betrothal in one negotiation. Perhaps with Drusus’ father.

‘Caecilia, every son is expected to sacrifice himself for our city,’ he declared. ‘And such commitment is also expected of a daughter, in a different way. I am going to give you a chance to perform a duty no other Roman woman has ever faced. And in agreeing, you will be lauded, you will be revered.’

Unease crept through her and she found herself perspiring as when she sat before a fire too closely and too long. Her voice wavered. ‘What is it you wish me to do?’

Then he told her of a marriage, but not the one she desired. Hearing this, she dropped the distaff, sending the whorl flying across the room.

‘An Etruscan?’

‘It is to extend the truce, daughter, so that Veii will not be our foe.’

‘And if I do not agree?’

Aemilius raised one caterpillar eyebrow. ‘There is many a maiden who consents to a marriage she does not want.’

Caecilia’s disquiet flared to panic. She was hot now, as though flames were licking her hands, melting them, melting her. She sank to her knees knowing that she should not question him. A paterfamilias demanded respect; a respect born of an illustrious career and the care of his family. He had the power to kill her. Yet wasn’t what he was proposing worse than death?

She thought of Lucretia, the dutiful Roman wife; epitome of modesty, fidelity and patience. She’d been compromised, threatened and raped. By an Etruscan prince. Then venerated for taking her life rather than live with dishonour. ‘I do not want to be another Lucretia,’ she choked, tears pricking her eyes.

Aemilius put his hand on her shoulder, a rare contact. ‘You worry unnecessarily, my dear. Vel Mastarna is honourable. Descended from the royal line of Servius Tullius, the wise and just Etruscan king of Rome.’

Caecilia swallowed, her throat tight. A Veientane with an august ancestor? Such a pedigree should have granted her comfort yet did not allay her fears. The other two Etruscan monarchs were tyrants. As far as she was concerned there was no difference between Lucretia’s evil prince and the descendant of a good king. Both were Etruscan. Both were base.

‘Please, uncle! They say Veientane husbands make their wives lie with other men!’

Startled, Aemilius glared at her. ‘Who has said such things to you?’

‘Please don’t ask me to do this,’ she begged, not wishing to reveal Marcus as her source. ‘I promise I will obey aunt Aurelia, I promise I will see to household duties as she bids.’

Aemilius pulled her to her feet, face beetroot. ‘Listen to me. Vel Mastarna has assured me that he will not shame you.’

There was a silence where she made herself believe him. ‘Will I ever see Rome again?’

‘Of course, of course,’ he said, avoiding her gaze. ‘You won’t be a prisoner.’

Caecilia willed him to look at her but he would not. Frustration welled within her and she found herself remembering Camillus. Over the past months his plans had not succeeded, thwarted as her father predicted by both the people’s tribunes and patrician doves.

‘Why extend the treaty? Why not declare war?’

His tone was terse with irritation from speaking of such matters to a girl. ‘Do you think Rome can afford another warfront? The city is in the middle of a famine! We are starving because our crops are withering from drought. We need peace. Romans are farmers while Veientanes, although blessed with fertile fields, are traders. Veii supplies us with corn and they, in turn, gain access to the roads that Rome now owns.’

‘Why a marriage, then, as well as a treaty? Why do both Assembly and Senate want me to wed?’

She felt a bitter satisfaction in seeing his surprise; that she had forced him to wonder at a niece who was enough like her father to argue the point, and enough like her mother to despise him.

‘There is no doubting you are Lucius’ child,’ he snapped. ‘Belligerent and rude.’

 ‘Please, uncle. I need to know.’

 ‘It is quite simple. Veii is riven by internal conflicts, as is Rome. Its leaders fear that warmongers like Camillus could gain power. And so, as surety that our state does not change its mind about the truce, Aemilia Caeciliana will marry a Veientane lord.’

As he spoke her adopted name, she shivered, finally understanding why she had been chosen.
She would now be called by both plebeian and patrician names. ‘Aemilia Caeciliana’ would be a melding of elite and common, a symbol of united Rome.

For a moment she panicked, wanting Tata to be there to stop this; wishing that her father could once again hold her with his deformed, aching hands, knowing that this was not his vision when he married her mother more than eighteen years ago.

She felt scornful, too, because her uncle knew that she was as much a fusion of the classes as oil and water. His cynicism was as breathtaking as it was bold. As a half-caste he’d not considered adopting her to help her wed Drusus, but he was prepared to claim her for the good of Rome in order to marry her to a foe.

What would Tata have thought? Would he have finally rejoiced that his daughter had been made officially patrician? Or instead been incensed enough to make her another Verginia—whose father slew her rather than let her be shamed?

‘And what if old hostilities reignite? Will Rome then be content for me to become a captive?’

Aemilius strode towards the door before turning briefly to her. ‘Lucius was wrong to spoil you. I am your master now and you must do as you are told. And when I say there will be no war you will believe me. It is as simple as that, do you understand?’

*

Drusus came to her as soon as he heard, body tense with outrage, eyes burning with frustration. And Marcus, as infuriated as his friend at Aemilius’ betrayal, ignored his duty to protect Caecilia’s reputation and let them be alone.

Fury levelled Drusus’ usually halting speech. ‘Your uncle and the consular generals are pitiless,’ he ranted, gripping her hand. ‘It’s my father’s fault also. He wouldn’t let me marry you even though you’ve been adopted. He said such a union would corrupt our house.’ He squeezed her fingers, making her wince. ‘If he were dead it would be different. If I was head of my house you would not be treated so.’

Caecilia noticed he had been punished for countering his father. A bruise marred his cheekbone. Drusus must have suffered the blow for her. She was almost giddy with the honour he bestowed on her in risking his father’s anger.

She had more sense than Drusus, though. A rebellious child was no match for the Roman state. Her disobedience had been limited, knowing when she was defeated. She could not save herself and neither could Drusus. Understanding this only added to her despair.

Hearing Aurelia’s footfall, Caecilia raised her face to his, heartbeat urgent, but Drusus hesitated too long, leaving no time for an embrace, no time for a final kiss.