The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (46 page)

‘He was fatigued last night but too restless to sleep,’ said Erene in response to Mastarna’s questioning. ‘No drink will satisfy his thirst. This morning his head throbbed so that his vision was blurred. I begged him not to come.’ The Cretan continued to observe Ulthes, agitated that she could not be by his side. ‘I have never seen him like this.’

Caecilia tried to reassure them. ‘Perhaps it is just something he has eaten and will be purged in time.’

‘Let’s hope so.’ Mastarna made room for the hetaera to sit down.

A trumpet sounded and the crowd grew quiet. A chorus of twelve filed from the parados at the side of the stage into the orchestra, causing Caecilia to gasp in awe. The actors were dressed as priestesses, strange wild creatures, their masks fixed into expressions of elation, leopard skins draped across their shoulders and snakes coiled through wigs of tangled hair. As the musicians played a forlorn and haunting tune, the choir’s chanting stirred the air, the soaring voices creating an emptiness within her. Caecilia put a finger to the base of her throat, letting the music fill her. It mattered not that they sang in Greek. The beauty of their sound and dance transcended meaning.

An actor appeared, also wearing a mask, mouth agape, eyeholes dark. Under his tunic and goatskin cloak he wore leggings and long sleeves decorated with bright whorls. His boots were strangely pointed. The young man was beautiful, even more beautiful than Tarchon, with golden hair curling down his back. A young god—Dionysus. Divine but present among mortals, not in heaven but upon a wooden stage on a sunny day in spring.

Another actor entered—a woman with a diadem in her hair. Her linen mask was drawn with exaggerated arched eyebrows and a fine straight nose. Caecilia guessed she was the woman Semele, abandoned in the Underworld and waiting for her son to save her. Her form was slender, and when she spoke her voice was dulcet and mellow. The only sign that she was a man was her hands as the long white sleeves did not cover them. Broad and masculine, they were out of place with her slimness.

Then a character strode onto the stage with a mask more dreadful than the Phersu’s, hard and black as ebony, features grim, mouth leering, eyes blank. Thanatos stood before them guarding the entrance to the Underworld. Separating Dionysus from Semele.

Caecilia shuddered and glanced at Mastarna. He sat with jaw clenched, preoccupied with Ulthes. The Zilath was learning forward, head cradled between his palms, rocking and moaning. Apercu crouched beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

Tulumnes, too, was surveying his rival. Droplets of perspiration were breaking through the normal clammy sheen upon his skin. He tugged at the neck of his robes and called for the wine jug repeatedly, looking as though something was lodged in his thoughts in the same way gravel hides in a shoe and cannot be budged.

Erene’s scream rose in solo above the chorus when Ulthes slumped to the ground. She clambered down, trying to reach him, but the lictors warded her off. Mastarna followed, vaulting the row of seats and pushing Apercu aside, commanding the bodyguards to let Erene through.

The crowd had been quiet while watching the drama, rapt in wonder at the spectacle and songs and speeches, but their hush had a constant undertone of gasps and gestures. At the collapse of the Zilath, a weird silence descended as everyone realised Thanatos might not just be present as an actor on the stage.

The Zilath’s ragged breath, horrible, desperate, helpless, wheezed into the air. As Erene held him, his head lolled back and his eyes went blank. He moaned and muttered. He rasped out the names of demons and of his sons. He clutched at Mastarna with his three-fingered hand.

Erene kissed his face so that she was also covered in dye. Wiping his face clean they saw his skin was deeper scarlet than the paint. She called for water, begging Ulthes to drink but he could not swallow. And then he sank back in her arms, eyes rolling back into his head, mouth ajar showing his cracked chipped teeth. Not dead. Not yet.

Prising Erene away, Mastarna lifted his friend and carried him to the pavilion outside the theatre. The shade of the tent was a relief after the brightness of the sun. Calmer, Erene sat beside Ulthes on the divan, stroking his brow, his spiky hair. Outside the eerie quiet began to splinter into murmurings.

Inside the tent, no one spoke.

After a time, Ulthes’ labouring breath ceased. Sobbing, Erene pressed her cheek against his chest while Mastarna closed the dead man’s eyes. Caecilia watched her husband bend and place his lips upon Arnth Ulthes’ mouth.

No one heard the intake of her breath as Mastarna breathed in the Zilath’s soul. No one seemed to notice but Caecilia that his kiss was more like a lover’s than a friend’s.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

Mastarna was staring at Ulthes seemingly unaware of the many eyes focused upon him. Unable to shift her gaze from her husband, Caecilia thought she must have been mistaken, that his farewell was nothing more than what was expected, that her imagination had become caught up with the drama unfolding both on and off the stage. Or perhaps it had been a trick of sight? The tent was dim after the brightness of the day and it had taken some time for her eyes to focus in the gloom, to blink away silhouettes and swirls of red and green before normal vision restored. Nevertheless, her heartbeat competed with the pulse in her head. She struggled to concentrate on one thing at a time, to put in order what she’d seen: death and humiliation.

‘Mandragora.’ Artile spoke the word with a voice used on the wide, windy steps of temple and portico. It rose clearly above the swelling lament of the crowd pressing upon the thin walls of the tent. The murmurs of the principes inside were spreading also, their whispers edged with fright. ‘I have seen others die this way when they have been too greedy or are given it without knowing.’

Caecilia took some time to comprehend his words as they echoed within her as though bouncing off a stone corridor, meaning and sound lagging, syllables magnified, understanding jumbled. Mandragora. She knew it could be either potion or poison. Hadn’t Mastarna given her the Alpan because it contained a small dose of the love plant? And also warned of its potency? A hint of malice was in its taste as well as euphoria. The Zilath must have taken much to die so horribly.

Erene lay with her head on Ulthes’ chest waiting for the rise and fall of breath that would not come. The vermilion dye upon her face had mingled with her tears as though she was weeping blood.

Tulumnes was staring at the courtesan. Caecilia had thought him pensive at the play, but he’d since lost the look of one pondering upon a problem. Instead arrogance had returned. ‘Mandragora is a love philtre,’ he said. ‘Perhaps this hetaera has lost some of her skills. Perhaps she poured too much into his cup last night.’

Mastarna broke away from his dead friend and strode over to the princip, his face only inches from the other’s. ‘Don’t pretend this was not your doing!’

A fresh sheen of sweat oozed from Tulumnes’ pores, trickling down the sides of his face. ‘You must be mad.’

Vipinas put his hand upon Mastarna’s forearm. ‘Calm yourself. He’s right. It’s a grave thing to accuse him of murder.’

‘Listen to him,’ said Tulumnes, his voice assuming the tone of the aggrieved. ‘The whore is the one to question.’

Mastarna moved back to Erene, squeezing her shoulder gently when she did not respond. Caecilia could tell from his expression that he was remembering the Alpan, too. Tulumnes had thrown doubt onto the matter.

The companion raised her head, pushing tangled hair from her face. Her pale skin was smeared with kohl and crimson, but when she met the stares of the nobles and their wives her voice was defiant. ‘I have not gained fame because I cannot please a man.’

Caecilia looked at her in awe. The courtesan may have come from the slums of Heraklion but Erene was not cowed by the aristocracy, even if the bangles on one wrist jangled softly, fuelled by the trembling of her hand.

‘You know he was not one to partake of philtres, either for dreams or love,’ she said to Mastarna.

It was true. Ulthes always liked to keep control, taking neither drugs nor too much drink so as to better keep an eye on his enemies. Caecilia glanced at his corpse. He had not been wary enough.

‘There were many people at the banquet last night,’ continued Erene, ‘all celebrating the start of the festival. Anyone could have given him the mandragora.’

Mastarna would be thinking the same. He’d been gambling late, joining Caecilia in bed for only a few short hours before meeting with the tribal leaders prior to the procession. Now he would be worrying that he could’ve prevented such treachery, that if he’d been at his friend’s side he might have stayed the hand of the assassin, even if the poison had been deposited in a blink of an eye—in as short a time as it had taken him to kiss Ulthes so tenderly.

She should have gone to him, taken the few steps that would bridge her doubt and bring him comfort, but she could not.

She sensed his frustration. There was no evidence as to who the murderer was, but all knew that Tulumnes had the most to gain. Like the destroyed purple fleece, proof was absent.

‘The question of how the Zilath died will have to wait,’ said Vipinas. ‘There is a more pressing need. What is to happen about the election?’

‘That’s simple,’ said Mastarna. ‘Postpone it. Ulthes must be buried with due honours first.’

The old aristocrat shook his head. ‘We can’t defer the vote, Mastarna. The League of the Twelve is due to meet. Veii is the wealthiest city. Either a zilath or king must be in attendance.’

Vipinas’ words seemed to encourage Tulumnes. Although keeping a wary eye upon Mastarna, the tall noble straightened his shoulders, puffing out his chest. Pesna, too, had taken note of his colleague. The normally hunched and anxious toady was surveying Mastarna haughtily.

‘There is no need for an election,’ said Tulumnes. ‘The gods have spoken three times to signal that a monarch be crowned: first the thunderbolt that struck the palace, then the purple fleece and now the Zilath dead on the eve of the election.’

Mastarna lunged at him, clutching his robes with both fists. ‘Ulthes did not die as a sign to prove your victory!’

Vipinas again took control. ‘Both of you stand back!’ There was no denying the old man commanded respect. Bony limbs and a humourless demeanour could not disguise his reputation as a war hero.

Mastarna released Tulumnes but was not ready to be calm. ‘There will be an election and you will lose,’ he shouted. ‘A candidate will be nominated and then the four tribes loyal to Ulthes will vote in favour of a zilath. The clans of Ulthes, Mastarna, Vipinas and Apercu.’

Tulumnes smiled. ‘Don’t be so certain that all will vote as you expect, Mastarna.’ He paused, turning to Apercu. ‘There are those who can no longer brook sacrilege by remaining in your camp.’

The fat princip stood as though caught in the act of thieving, hoping that to keep still would curtain him from view. His bullfrog throat puffed in and out in agitation, his face beetroot.

Last night he had been affable and charming, flattering Caecilia as he always did, the only aristocrat other than Ulthes who treated her with any warmth. He and Vipinas had spent much time with the Zilath. It had not seemed strange to her. These three had become a tight ring of conspirators with her husband. It was their custom to drink and plot and plan.

Last night, though, Caecilia remembered that the portly man had drunk much but did not become drunk. Odd for a person who took pride in cramming his ample belly too full and spilling over with merriment. There had been an irritability about him, too, that was unusual and that she now clearly understood.

The aristocrats within the tent shifted and whispered in a dance of unease and surprise. All must be thinking the same thing. All must be wondering if a man as perfidious as Apercu could also be a murderer. Their attention gradually turned to Mastarna, waiting.

A muscle in Mastarna’s cheek twitched as he realised how deeply he’d been betrayed. His best friend had died and now the man he thought a staunch ally was a traitor.

Apercu averted his gaze. Perhaps he would have welcomed rage instead of reproach. But when Mastarna did not speak, he gained confidence to pour out his spite.

‘I despise you for marrying this Roman bitch. This descendant of the Aemilian who killed your father. I lost my two brothers at Fidenae! How could you bear her in your bed?’

The councillor had always been kind to her. Always the avuncular hand at her elbow or worldly piece of advice in her ear. She had overheard others at court whispering their hatred but she’d never imagined that Apercu was one of them. His betrayal of the Zilath and Mastarna was of state proportion, but this private betrayal was no less devastating. She’d been drawn into trust and friendship only to find herself loathed and ridiculed behind her back.

‘I am a devout man, the Maru of Fufluns,’ he continued. ‘I can no longer ignore the warnings of the gods. It is clear to me that Tulumnes should rule.’

He gestured towards the opening of the tent where the crowd’s wailing had slurred into a syrup of maudlin grief, pierced by the keening and ululating of women. Prayers could be heard threaded through the crying. ‘The people will demand the three omens be heeded. The Zilath’s death was a sign. The Chief Haruspex will confirm the gods wish a king to rule.’