The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (5 page)

*

‘Camillus says that a war will save you,’ said Marcus after Drusus had left. ‘He will not let the Veientane have you.’

Caecilia shook her head. Aemilius would not like his heir admiring Camillus. Not when the much-feted senator always opposed him.

‘War will not save me, Marcus,’ she said softly. ‘It will make me a hostage.’

‘No, don’t you see? When Camillus is a consular general he will negotiate your release. The threat of our power will cause Veii to surrender and you will be freed.’

She took his hand. ‘But I am to be married now,’ she said softly. ‘Camillus failed to gain office this time and the new elections are not until next winter. Without holding power Camillus cannot protect me.’

Caecilia glanced over to the ancestor tree etched so grandly on the atrium’s wooden walls. No woman’s name appeared upon its branches, the existence of countless invisible Aemilian mothers, sisters, wives and daughters was only implied.

Caecilia’s thoughts turned to her mother, who was also promised in marriage to further political ambitions. A fifteen-year-old patrician girl wedded to an old plebeian man; a union of convenience between her husband and her brother. How powerless she must have felt. How deserted! As a patrician mother she was expected to give birth to a noble son; instead she’d been forced to bear a child that was neither. Now her daughter’s fate was to marry a man of another race more base-born than her own husband.

Yet this glimpse into her mother’s world did not give Caecilia any comfort, even though she now understood Aemilia’s grief and sense of betrayal. Briefly stroking the ghost’s cheek did not compensate a daughter for her mother’s failure to touch her when she was alive.

And Aemilius could be right. Her marriage might lead to veneration. Maybe the gods indeed thought she was worthy. For it was not often a woman was given the chance to make a mark. If marriage to an enemy staved off hunger for her people then perhaps she could make a difference after all.

She gently touched a space upon one branch of the ancestor tree where Marcus’ name was destined to be written. He and Drusus had both been posted to the garrison at Verrugo to stop the Volscians reclaiming that city. It made her tremble for them nearly as much as she trembled for herself.

As a daughter of Rome she had learned the tales of heroes and battles so that she might teach her sons about sacrifice. She always believed that if she’d been born a man she could have raised a sword, declared war and saved herself, but today she knew she was too much of a coward to ever do so. Men volunteered to die for the glory of Rome. All she could do was endure what Rome proclaimed. Fortitude was a virtue. The unseen women on the family tree told her so.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

‘For goodness sake, stop weeping,’ commanded Aurelia, face as round and smooth as any of the apples to which she was so partial.

Caecilia wiped her eyes, surprised, as always, that such a large woman could emit such a shrill little voice. Somehow she expected booming vowels, hearty consonants. Had expected sympathy, too, on her wedding eve.

The atrium was dark, the light from the torches barely illuminating the recesses of the room. It was chilly, too, with the tiles cool against her bare legs as she knelt on the floor, but the sacrificial fire from the family hearth was hot against her face.

The gods of Aemilius’ house peered at her from the gloom; those of the store cupboard and fire; those that protected the threshold. A few months ago she had ceased sacrificing spelt cake to the spirits of her father’s house, now she must farewell those of her uncle’s household as well.

Blotting out the sound of her aunt’s whining, she dedicated her dolls before the family shrine, weeping as the fire licked at their tiny wooden faces. They’d been some of the few possessions she’d brought to the House of Aemilius. She knew she was too old for such toys, but it was hard to destroy the links with her past when her future seemed so uncertain, so frightening.

Shivering, she removed her childish short dress, then nervously slipped on the long, white wedding tunic, her hands trembling as she fastened her hair into an orange bridal net. Any fear that her attire would be disarrayed by morning was small. She doubted she would sleep that night.

The hardest farewell to childhood was untying her locket from around her neck. The charm had protected her against evil from birth. Tata had placed it upon her. And he should have removed it as she dispensed with her childhood. Instead she dropped it into Aemilius’ open palm.

Standing before her aunt the next day, Caecilia kept touching her throat, seeking the comfort and weight of the amulet. Whether maid or matron, she still needed the luck encased within it.

Aurelia tugged at the straight edges of the bridal gown. ‘Now stand still while I fasten this,’ she said, tying a woollen cord at Caecilia’s waist in a special knot, the knot of Herculeus. ‘And remember only he can untie it.’

‘He’ was Vel Mastarna, the man she was to wed. The Veientane lord who would take her away from her home, away from her family. The man who would seal the pact between their cities not by wax and stamp but by the stain of virginal blood.

‘You are very fortunate, Caecilia,’ continued her aunt. ‘You are lucky to finally find a husband. Too old and too much education, that’s the trouble. I blame your father for that. What type of wife will you make?’

‘One fit for an Etruscan,’ the girl said under her breath.

Aurelia’s slap was hard and sharp. Caecilia chided herself silently, knowing better than to rile her aunt, the matriarch of this house. Once again she told herself she must endure.

Her cheek smarted from the blow, her skin turning pink. If the same damage had been done to the other, it would look like she’d rouged her face to appeal to her groom. A hurt to feign allure.

Once again she thought of Drusus. If she were to wed him today, she would have happily pinched her cheeks to gain such colour.

Caecilia ran her hand along the birthmark upon her neck. A mark that would not fade. Tata had said it meant her path would not be smooth. What would Mastarna think of such a blemish? Of such an omen?

She studied her hands. The nails, as usual, were bitten to the quick. No iron betrothal ring adorned them. No such formalities had been observed, such was the haste of politicians to cement a truce. She wished Drusus had given her this token. It was said a nerve ran through the ring finger to the heart.

Drawing up a wooden stool, Caecilia concentrated on admiring her wedding slippers. They were the first pretty shoes she had ever worn. For they, together with her veil, were the colour of the sky at dawn.

She fingered the flammeum’s weave, the brightest shade she’d ever worn. But the colour was reserved for her wedding day. She would never wear such a hue again.

She grimaced as the maid started to dress her long, straight hair. The servant’s rough prying fingers jolted her already frayed nerves as the tresses were carefully divided into six sections by the bent point of a ceremonial spear. Next the woman set about entwining orange ribbons into dark brown plaits. The braids were pulled tight, the strands tugged, the scalp scratched before they were coiled high upon her head.

‘Let me stay here,’ she pleaded. ‘Etruria is so far away.’

Aurelia shook her head as she smoothed the folds of her own gown. No amount of preening would help disguise the bulges and the way the cloth ruched around the matron’s waist.

‘Don’t be foolish. This treaty is being arranged because the city of Veii is so close. Twelve miles beyond the Tiber. It is a constant threat.’

The girl stretched out to take the matron’s hand but Aurelia shied away.

‘It is no use crying to me. It has been agreed.’

‘But they say Etruscans are very wicked. They say their children never truly know who their fathers are.’

Face flushed, the matron leaned close, making Caecilia think she would finally offer comfort, tell her the rumours were untrue. ‘You are distrustful if you think my husband would send you to such a fate. You can teach Veientane wives womanly virtues even if you will never be a Roman matron. Remain pious, modest and faithful to Rome. Then you will prevail.’

Caecilia’s shoulders slumped. It was hard not to tremble, hard not to weep.

Aurelia pressed a crown of verbena onto Caecilia’s head and carefully arranged the veil over it. The circlet was uncomfortable against the bulkiness of the braids. For a moment, the bride’s vision dimmed before the outline of her aunt’s face appeared through the mesh. Her breathing shortened.

Standing at the entrance of the atrium, Caecilia prayed for strength, forcing herself to take a deep breath, thinking of Drusus.

Her whole world was orange.

*

The wedding breakfast was not as rowdy as was customary. No ribald comments were tossed at the couple, no saucy songs were bellowed. Although most present wished to achieve concord between the cities, they also shared reservations over the marriage of Roman to Veientane.

Caecilia searched the room for Drusus but he was not there. Disappointment filled her so deeply that it outstripped her fear; disappointment that she could have been wrong about him, that it was foolish to think a handful of awkward moments could amount to much. Yet he had proposed. That was real. Even though it was in vain.

Aurelia continued her fussing, but Caecilia had to admit her aunt had done well to present a quantity of food in a city starved for staples, let alone the delicacies demanded of such an occasion. And she did make sure the honoured guests wanted for nothing.

The men lay upon the dining couches while the women sat upon chairs. The gathering was large, and so the feast took place in the atrium. It was the first time Caecilia had ever seen the hall decorated with brightly coloured ribbons and garlands of flowers, laurel and myrtle. A fraudulent celebration.

Caecilia thought that being permitted to dine with men other than her family would have made her happy, but the novelty was soured by apprehension. Becoming a wife should also have given her satisfaction at reaching equality with the other matrons. Becoming a patrician, though, had not overcome their prejudice to a half-caste. Caecilia may have represented Rome, but it did not mean she was fit to talk to.

Mastarna was not suffering such a problem. The great men of Rome were in serious discussion with him. Indeed, the Etruscan spoke her people’s language without flaw. The Veientane noblemen who’d accompanied her husband proved he was no aberration either. They, too, were garishly dressed. Like robin and wren, it seemed that Etruscan males were the ones to wear vibrant apparel. Or were their wives also brazenly adorned?

After a time she realised the men’s cheerful garb was disguise only. With their watchful sloe eyes, she could tell there was little rejoicing among the groom’s party either.

Not wishing to accidentally meet her husband’s gaze, she studied the ancestor cupboard that had been opened so that the death masks of her forefathers could peer out. Caecilia was sure one or two of them were frowning.

Again she looked for Drusus but there was no sign of him.

‘Sweet Cilla,’ said Marcus, sitting down beside her. ‘Those lovely eyes of yours look so frightened.’

‘Where is Drusus?’ she said, clutching at the folds of his toga. ‘Why isn’t he here?’

‘His father is dying, Cilla. He could not attend.’

It took a while to register what he was saying.

‘Drusus says not to despair,’ he continued, patting her gently on the back. ‘He has vowed to destroy your husband. He has invoked the gods to torment Mastarna’s mind and soul.’

Caecilia was unsure what to say. Such vehemence on her account! She glanced at the Etruscan, thinking that, although such a fate could not come quickly enough, it would suffice if the gods could make him simply disappear. But cursing her husband’s house was not the same as seeing Drusus.

Sure that she should show similar devotion, Caecilia quickly tore a strip from her veil and pressed it into her cousin’s hand. ‘Give this to Drusus. Tell him not to forget me. Tell him I wanted to wear the flammeum for him.’

Marcus hesitated before taking it. Overwhelmed, Caecilia covered her face with her hands, desperate to prevent a stricken face being revealed to the world. It was of no use. Tears trickled through her fingers. ‘I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go.’

‘Stop crying, Cilla, and listen,’ said Marcus, his voice low and urgent. ‘Mastarna has been granted the right to marry a Roman on the proviso you remain under our father’s power. To do this you must return and stay under his roof for three nights by the end of one year and every year thereafter. Do so and your husband will not own you. You will be Mastarna’s wife but still belong to Aemilius, the head of our house, and to Rome.’

Caecilia stared at him, eyes red-rimmed. ‘A year? One whole year?’

‘Is one year not better when a moment ago you thought it was never?’

‘But what if Mastarna does not let me return?’