The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (48 page)

Yet her disgrace was not what was most painful. She felt an anguish within her so agonising that no sound would be deep or loud enough to expel it if she opened her mouth to scream. For the image of Mastarna bending to kiss Ulthes would not leave her. She had seen him weep, his misery embedding doubt; doubt as to whether he’d ceased to love his friend after he’d reached manhood, after he’d married Seianta, after he’d married her.

Erene had said the three of them comforted each other after Seianta died. Caecilia had thought the courtesan to be the only one to give succour. Her imagination had not stretched too far. But having watched the revellers at the Winter Feast, her education had been furthered. The thought of Ulthes and her husband together hurt and sickened her, sullying her memory of the Zilath and disgusting her that Mastarna had been his bride, the lesser of the two.

‘I am glad that Artile’s prediction must have been wrong. That there was no need to try and defer my fate after all.’

Again he looked bewildered. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘He told me I would give birth to your son and so I prayed to Nortia to postpone bearing him for seven years.’

His almond-shaped eyes looked bruised. She lowered her eyes, unable to watch a strong man’s face lapse into that of a stricken child’s.

‘Why? Why would you do such a thing?’

‘You kept the truth about little Vel secret. Then Artile told me you were prepared to let me have your monsters in your lust to sire an heir. Just as you did with Seianta.’

This time his touch was not gentle or inveigling. He dragged her to him effortlessly with one hand. ‘Seianta and I both knew our marriage was cursed. We both wanted a son, no matter the cost.’

His fingers gripped her arms so fiercely she thought he would break them as easily as he’d snapped Amyntor’s bones. They sank into her flesh, deep enough to mark the soft whiteness for days. ‘So my brother led you in these rites?’

Caecilia nodded, defiant.

He’d never lifted a finger to her, his restraint almost a weakness for a husband. This time she did not expect mercy. She closed her eyes, not wishing to see him strike, but there was no blow, instead harsh breathing, ragged and hectic.

‘And have you continued kneeling in such prayer? Even as you whispered your love to me?’

Caecilia wavered, the scent of chamomile and verbena filling her. ‘No, I stopped the rites after Larthia’s funeral because I loved you. I was prepared to take a risk, but now I know the lightning I called down was not from Uni. My destiny is to return to Rome—mutilated, dead or alive.’

She pushed her hands against his chest, each movement painful because he was still grasping her arms. ‘I wanted your son, Mastarna, but not any longer.’

He began to shake her, her limbs knocked and flung around as easily as one of her old wood-and-rag dolls. Terrified, she began to cry.

Hearing her he quickly released her. She sank to the ground, chest heaving. He reached out to her hesitantly, guiltily, but he was still angry. ‘You knew I longed for a child. You knew!’

Caecilia struggled for breath, her distress peaking in crests and troughs as he paced beside her.

‘You are no Lucretia! You were seduced by me, not raped,’ he growled. ‘And a seduction only succeeds when there is desire to be tempted. You chose to be a Veientane on the day you took the vial of Alpan from my hand, Caecilia. You chose it, too, on the day you sat in audience beside me as my wife.’

She kept her head lowered, unable to speak. The bitterness in his voice was scalding.

‘I promised Ulthes not to start a war, but that pledge is over. And if not for you, I’d have tried to kill Tulumnes today and let my death be a spur to rebellion. For you see, wife, even if you think me base, I have honour enough not to let him harm you.’

Mastarna returned to Ulthes’ side, grasping the three-fingered hand of his friend, his face collapsing into the grimness reserved for any talk of Artile. ‘Go to your priest and see if he will take you back as his disciple. Pray to Uni also, but let this be your prayer—that I can convince the Twelve to help us and that Tulumnes keeps his word and sends you home.’

Turning his back on her, Mastarna stooped to bathe his friend’s face and hands. The knowledge that his lover’s body would be desecrated must have been intolerable above all the unbearable things that had happened that day. Unable to watch him, Caecilia lay on her side upon the rug’s dirtied weave and, exhausted, closed her eyes.

After a while the lictors appeared, seemingly unperturbed by the quarrel they’d overheard. After all, a man beating his wife was only fitting, especially a Roman one who’d caused such trouble.

Escorted from the tent, Mastarna went to play his new role, that of the King’s loyal supporter. He said nothing as he left.

*

Hours passed. Caecilia lay with knees huddled against her chest, limbs cramping, not caring that they did. Her only companions were the two guards, sullen at missing the feast.

Two lictors and a dead man.

The stuffy air within the pavilion had dissipated into evening cool. Dimness surrounded her, the grey between awareness and sleep. No one had come for her. She’d expected to be bound and dragged away but instead she had been left alone.

Until he came. Until Artile stared down upon her in silence.

When she stood up she hobbled for a few steps like an old woman, resenting that her aches reminded her she was still alive.

‘I did not know you hated Ulthes and Mastarna so much. I did not think you hated me.’

The haruspex sighed. ‘Sister, it is not a question of hatred. The gods send their miracles and I am charged with reading them.’

She found courage to glance at the dead Zilath and resisted the urge to weep. His face was no longer suffused with colour, sweat no longer covered his brow, his craggy face no longer was contorted.

Leading her outside, Artile held out a double-handled chalice. ‘I see you are in need.’ His voice was mellow, lulling. She remembered how she once found comfort with him. ‘I have missed you,’ he continued, stroking her hair with soft hands. ‘I have missed your devotion.’

She should have pushed him away but it was easier to follow, to fall back into the role of priest and follower, and to believe he could help.

Outside, dusk stained stone and wood in orange and pink. Such showiness nudged at Caecilia’s grief, and she wished darkness would soon blanket the garishness. On the hillside, fires were flickering, mischievous compared to the languor of failing light. The keening and wailing had transformed into a hubbub of joy. The Rasenna were ready to celebrate that they were alive even as Ulthes lay dead.

‘The King is wise. He has delayed telling the people that the Zilath’s body is to be destroyed,’ he said. ‘The Feast of Fufluns and its mysteries will dull the pain of their grief. At the end of it they will be better able to cope with change.’

Caecilia knew there would still be an undercurrent of anxiety. A lucumo had been appointed without an election and Vel Mastarna, who had so opposed a monarchy, now strangely stood at Tulumnes’ side assuring them that a civil war had been avoided.

The drinking had already started as large wooden vats were filled with strong unwatered wine. Caecilia knew what scenes would follow. The Winter Feast had been a rehearsal.

Panic rippled through her. Mastarna had said she need not stay for the revels. She could not escape to her room tonight. She would need another exit. Artile offered her the cup again.

‘Drink it and it will ease the pain. It will speed you to pleasure faster than Zeri. It is Divine Milk, the milk of the gods.’

The Zeri had taken worry away before. It was still hard to forget its power or ignore its call. It was difficult to imagine that this elixir was stronger.

The image of the mocking dancer in the villa shimmered before her; how she’d lain vomiting each drop of the potion from her veins, writhing and moaning and scratching to rid herself of its thrall. One sip and she would be enslaved again.

It tasted like goat’s milk. Sour with a hint of earth in it. She thought drinking from the breast of the Divine would have been sweeter.

She drank deeply, used to bitterness.

*

Tarchon had fled to Artile’s side for protection after his humiliation. Her weakening did not cause him to frown. He’d already shared the Milk, his pupils eating the browns of his eyes. ‘Call to Fufluns and he will answer.’

A familiar sense of ease coursed through her, so strong she knew she couldn’t stop or slow it, rushing her into a current of elation. Then Cytheris was beside her, shoving Tarchon away. Admonishing and then pleading, her brow creased and her mouth pursed, she tugged at her mistress’ hand. Caecilia did not respond, pushing the maid from her. Happiness was bursting within her, chasing concern away, making her giggle at the servant.

A rough stone altar wreathed in ivy had been built at the base of the hill. Sacred staves marked the ritual space and a bloodied double axe still lay upon the table. Candles dripped wax upon its surface. Candles upon candles. Flaring in competition with the firelight. Beside it stood a stone phallus, high as a man, symbol of Fufluns’ resurrection, power and fertility. A goat, sacred animal of the god, had been sacrificed, the aroma of its roasting meat pungent upon the breeze. Cepens were filling bull’s horns with Divine Milk to give to people eagerly lining up to receive communion.

Apercu stood behind the altar. The Maru’s face was hidden by a bull’s mask, his chest and paunch bare, a goatskin cloak around his shoulders and wearing leather hunting boots. Fufluns reborn, powerful and potent.

Two young women knelt before him. One was unknown to her. The other was Pesna’s comely wife. Heads covered with filmy veils, they were dressed in gossamer shifts so sheer it was if they were robed in candlelight. Wedding gowns, Fufluns’ brides, initiates of the Mysteries.

Bliss filled Caecilia. Her heart throbbed. Loud and soft. Fast and slow. Keeping time with cymbals and drums, timbrels and castanets. Long straight trumpets blasted notes into the darkness, the air solid with sound.

*

There were six of them. Priestesses dressed like the actors in the play’s chorus.

If Caecilia had not drunk the Divine Milk she would have quaked at the sight of them. Over their long pleated tunics they wore leopard skins, the fur sleek with its dark patches. One caressed a snake which slid around her arm, a scaly ornament, a slithering bracelet. They carried thyrsus staffs with ivy trailing from them. When they touched the tips to the lips of those around them, Caecilia swore honey flowed from them. They
were dancing with the same intensity and jerkiness as did a flame, whirling and stamping and leaping from one foot to the other, making themselves instruments of beat and rhythm and melody. Their song swept over Caecilia, infecting all, expelling the cool from the spring evening, spreading heat. Welcoming ecstasy.

The revellers began climbing the hillside, their torches a mass of wavering pinpoints in the darkness. They wore masks: goat, stag, bear, ram, wolf. Anonymous in their fervour, fantastic in their worship. They screamed to the god to reveal himself: ‘Bacchoi, Bacchoi!’

Following them, the maenad priestesses arched their backs then whipped forward, necks almost snapping with the force. Over and over again. The initiates, eyes vacant, mimicked them, falling into the same frantic trance, cries floating up with spirals of smoke as they climbed to the peak of the hill. The crowd followed.

Beneath hawthorn and beech, Veientanes rutted, celebrating death and resurrection in shuddering moments of climax, their souls reaching out to Almighty Fufluns, euphoric.

Watching them, Caecilia was stirred, wet. Hands tugged at her, inviting her to lie with them, but there was no time, the priestesses beckoned. And the Roman girl, colour and music twisting within her, called to Fufluns, too. Joining in the dance of the maenads, she threw her head backwards and forwards until, with each crack of her neck, a surge of pleasure exploded through her. Forgetting all care. Forgetting Mastarna.

*

Hours passed. Caecilia did not tire. The Divine Milk was strong and long lasting, but when her limbs at last flagged and melancholy crept into her laughter she refilled her cup. This time there was no rush of pleasure. Instead it was as if fingers were creeping along her spine, making her skin tingle and goosebumps form.

This time the revellers’ screams and laughter were frightening, their masks macabre. Nearby a priest swung a bullroarer. As its revolutions increased in speed, the sound progressed from a moan to a scream to a roar. Deafening and horrifying.

In the clearing at the top of the hill there was another altar. A wicker basket lay upon it. Hidden inside was the sacred phallus. The brides knelt, eagerly waiting for it to be revealed. Tethered to the table were two fawns. They bleated persistently, their cries discordant with the rhythm of pipe and drum.

The night had grown darker, the stars erased. The fires were burning low, white ash and charcoal forming drifts around their bases. Suddenly Caecilia felt surrounded, hemmed in, crushed by the mass of followers. A beat throbbed within her loudly, but she did not know if it was her heart or the drums. Her skin was clammy and nausea filled her. Everything she looked at twisted and shifted, magnified. The ground was unsteady beneath her feet.