The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (51 page)

Theirs had never been a friendship, more a strange acquaintance. And it struck Caecilia that it was unusual for a wife to feel concern for such a woman. Yet Erene had wept bitterly that day in the pavilion, unlike Ulthes’ wife who remained captured in her own misery, adding the death of her husband to the tally of the sons she’d already lost.

‘You must wonder why I am here,’ she said. ‘My house has been confiscated as well as my jewellery and artwork and furniture.’ Erene paused, her hesitancy unfamiliar, ‘but Mastarna vowed to me that, should Ulthes die, he would ensure my protection.’

Caecilia bridled. How could he expect her to honour such a promise! Charity was granted to kin and clients, tribe and clan, certainly not to a Cretan companion. What was Mastarna thinking when he made such a promise?

Or was it agreed when he met the courtesan in Ulthes’ house? When his friend had been generous enough to let him lie with his mistress, when all three comforted each other? The thought made Caecilia catch her breath. Tarchon had dismissed such suspicions. Erene could tell her the truth. ‘Tell me,’ she said, hesitant of hearing a painful answer, ‘were Ulthes and my husband always lovers?’

The hetaera raised her eyebrows, and then the condescending look of the Erene of old returned. ‘Do you ask out of jealousy or merely to define the degrees of your humiliation?’

Caecilia stiffened, retreating behind a barrier of virtue. ‘They have transgressed both Roman and Greek law.’

Erene laughed, leaning forward to put her hand on the girl’s knee, making it clear that, although she had begged for aid, she was not prepared to temper her contempt. ‘Have you learned nothing here? All around you there are indiscretions that would not be brooked in Rome—men lying with wives at banquets, men keeping courtesans, men mentoring freeborn boys— and yet you refuse to accept that, in Veii, they are not sins.’

Caecilia pushed the woman’s hand away. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

Leaning back, the hetaera sighed. ‘Men like Ulthes and your husband would court disaster if they forgot their duty. They are statesmen, leaders, and have many enemies. Have you ever known them to do anything to shame their families? Ulthes may have sometimes enjoyed slave boys, but Mastarna only loves women. So rest easy. Your husband was never Ulthes’ beloved once he’d become a man.’

Caecilia fell silent, relief almost crippling her. Turning away to regain her composure, she rose and walked to the atrium safe. The strange Rasennan coins were heavy enough to give weight to the purse. Gold and silver. Ships imprinted upon them. Forever after such currency would remind her of Erene and their odd acquaintance.

The companion pulled the purse strings tight and murmured her thanks. ‘I heard what you did. How you invoked the gods to delay giving him a son.’

Caecilia met her gaze, prepared to weather a rebuke.

‘He was so happy on the day of the play,’ the courtesan continued. ‘And so were you. You looked as though you’d at last become a Veientane.’

The lictors moved to the hetaera’s side, ready to escort her from the room.

‘So tell me, Aemilia Caeciliana, why would you want to hurt a man who loved you so?’

*

Tarchon came to her, breathless. ‘A messenger has arrived from Volsinii with news. The King has been ejected from the League of the Twelve.’

As he spoke, Caecilia imagined Tulumnes, draped in hubris and folly, striding into the vast congress of the cities, which stretched from the far northern mountains to those hugging the western coast. Insisting arms be pledged for war against Rome. Demanding to be made head of the council.

It seems the brotherhood was not brotherly enough to embrace either the only king among them or Veii’s ambitions. And, in petulance, our great Lucumo refused to provide the mummers and actors he’d promised for the festival. An insult not only to the league but to the gods. And so the council ejected him like a drunk into the street.’

Caecilia found herself trembling. The prospect of death was real and very near. It would arrive in the time it took for Tulumnes’ entourage to journey home. During Mastarna’s absence she’d tried to believe the threat was distant like a storm that rolls along the far horizon. Now if she heard the thunder and looked overhead, the bolt could cleave her in two.

Six weeks.

A mere six weeks for the Lucumo to bring discredit to his name and that of his city.

Forgetting their argument, knowing she needed his forgiveness, Caecilia wrapped her arms around Tarchon’s waist, pressing her face against his chest, glad that he was there—that she was not utterly alone.

She thought of Mastarna. How she’d wasted her last moments with him. Longing to see him. Although it would be better that they did not meet again if it meant he must watch Tulumnes’ lictors taking turns with her. Or perhaps he would not care after all that she had said and done?

Still, there was hope. With the monarch’s disgrace, rumour would surge through the city. Slippery as an eel and as difficult to kill. Rumour that Artile’s prophesy might be flawed. That Tulumnes should not be crowned. And the monarchy might yet fall if her husband was free to rise up against him.

Caecilia hugged Tarchon tighter. ‘You were right. I was wrong about Mastarna. Help me repay him for putting his life in danger for me.’

Frowning, the youth pulled her gently away from him. ‘How could you do that?’

‘Rome is only twelve miles distant. If I wear stout boots, a travelling cloak and carry water I would reach it in a day. Don’t you see? If I escape, Tulumnes could no longer threaten Mastarna. Your clan could rise up against the King.’

‘But you are held captive.’

‘Not if you help me. Not if you show Artile what type of man Mastarna wants you to be.’

The youth smoothed his hand through his oiled hair, fiddling with his turquoise earring. ‘I can’t, Caecilia. Artile would be very angry.’

She squeezed his forearm hard enough to make him pay attention, knowing how difficult it was for him to take the first step to defy his lover. ‘Yes, you can,’ she urged. ‘Artile would be pleased to see me go.’

‘Not if it means I might be executed for assisting you. Besides, Mastarna would be furious.’

‘No,’ she said, not expecting her husband to ever love or forgive her. ‘He would be grateful to be rid of me after what I did.’

Tarchon wound one of his many gold neck chains around and around his fingers. ‘You do not know that for sure,’ he murmured.

Caecilia squeezed his arm again. ‘Think about it! I would no longer be a hostage. Tulumnes would not be able to use me against Mastarna or my people.’

As he stood biting his lip, white-faced and silent, Caecilia’s own fear revived. Voice hoarse and plaintive, she hugged him again. ‘Please, Tarchon! I don’t want to be raped. I don’t want to lose my hands. I don’t want to die.’

So near to him she could smell perspiration bleed through the scent of jasmine.

The youth breathed deeply, summoning courage. Deciding.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

On the kalends of each month Cytheris would wash her hair.

As the new moon eased its way into the night sky, pale and skinny as a newborn, Caecilia hesitated at the entrance to the kitchen as she sought out her servant, aware of the snicker and snorting of horses from the stables next door. She watched Cytheris fill a pail and remove the stopper from a flask of sweet-smelling oil she’d given her. It was late in the evening. The cook and scullery maids had gone to sleep ready to wake up at dawn.

Ducks dangled from hooks, their gamey smell causing Caecilia to crinkle her nose. Massive iron pots hung from the fireplace, a giant stone mortar and pestle beside it. Tongs, shears and knives were stacked upon a table. These were no humble tools. They were ornate, decorated with figures of nymphs and animals, the pots’ lids moulded into faces with leering grins.

Aricia unravelled her mother’s long braid so that a blanket of wiry tresses spilt across the floor like grain tips from an amphora. The little girl helped her mother brush the mane, tackling the task in segments because of its length and thickness. Once Caecilia had suggested that Cytheris cut it shorter but the Greek maid was resolute. In Magna Graecia, shorn hair was the sign of a slave, and so Cytheris gave thanks to the Rasenna for every inch because it made her appear like a freedwoman.

With her hair heavy and dripping after its washing, the slave dragged it out of the water and snapped at Aricia to rub it dry. Then she sat, allowing herself the luxury of doing nothing but gaze into the flames. Her daughter sat at her feet twining the locks of wet hair around her fingers or pretending it was her own, covering her own black curls with the ends of her mother’s.

When Tarchon had finally agreed to help her, Caecilia had been determined to hide her plans from the maid so Cytheris would not be punished for abetting her escape. And so, the maid’s routine proved fortunate as it gave her mistress time to prepare for her departure.

Pausing at the kitchen door to watch the girl and her daughter, a lump formed in Caecilia’s throat. If she had found it odd for Mastarna to have given her a maid it was even stranger to discover Cytheris was a friend, even though affection was tempered with subtle degrees of authority, invisible lines of rank.

Caecilia could not leave either without mending a rift that had grown between them of late. The servant did not approve of Caecilia’s reversion to Roman ways despite all that had happened at the Feast of Fufluns.

At first Cytheris had tried to be patient, perhaps thinking her mistress’ righteousness was a way of coping with heartache, but when Caecilia continued to condemn the master over his bond with Ulthes her patience faltered. She saw nothing wrong with it, accepting that among Greeks like the Athenians it was the way destined for boys of noble birth.

Aricia hid behind her mother when her mistress entered the room dressed in a long hooded cloak and carrying a small silver casket inlaid with ivory.

Cytheris’ pockmarked cheeks were slashed with colour when Caecilia told her she was leaving forever. The slave who always found it hard to curb her tongue fell silent, making Caecilia wish she could hear her gossiping instead.

Earlier, Caecilia had packed the belongings she wished to take with her. There were not many: the contents of her little shrine and the mirror Larthia had given her. It was a treasured keepsake. For despite the knowledge of her mother-in-law’s dark faith, Caecilia prayed that Ati’s soul hovered above her.

In her bedchamber Caecilia’s Veientane possessions remained: chests of rainbow gowns and baskets of curlicue shoes, pots of carmine and albumen, flasks of perfumes, ivory hairpins and amber clasps. All left behind, as though offerings within in a tomb. Only she did not seek to return hereafter to a Rasennan life, nor did she think the Mastarna family would want to remember her once she’d gone.

Caecilia crouched beside Aricia, kissing her head. Then she bade the tiny slave hold out her arms as she gently pushed two silver bracelets over each hand. The little girl smiled as the bangles slid up and down her wrists, clicking and rattling.

Cytheris rapped her daughter’s hands and ordered her to remove them.

‘They are a gift,’ said Caecilia, checking her. She drew the Atlenta pendant from the casket. ‘And this is for you.’

‘No, mistress, I don’t want it.’

Ignoring her, Caecilia placed the box of jewellery in the maid’s lap. ‘Listen. There is enough in here to compensate Aricia’s purchaser. Enough to pay for your freedom also. There’s a letter to the master inside, too. Give him the casket and you will both be freed. You know well what necklaces and bracelets are within, together with some gold coins and jewels I won at gaming.’ She paused. ‘You are valuable slaves and so are costly. I do not want to cheat him.’

The irony had not escaped Caecilia that the vice of gambling could be converted to good; that Mastarna had taught her a sin that could be useful. ‘I also directed him that you are to keep the pendant and the golden earrings and diadem.’

‘But I don’t want you to leave,’ said Cytheris. ‘Don’t forget the haruspex predicted you are to bear the master’s child.’

Caecilia was silent. Since Tulumnes’ expulsion she’d often thought about Artile and his prediction. On that autumnal day when the priest astounded her with his skills she hadn’t questioned his art or expertise. Now she knew that Artile’s promises were no more valid than Aurelia’s superstitions. He had bewitched her, convincing her that the Etruscans conversed with the Divine when instead they babbled like children before them.

Caecilia shook her head. ‘The priest was wrong. Fortuna must have determined a different course for me.’

‘Then all that worship of the Book of Fate was in vain.’

It was not surprising that the maid had read her thoughts. Cytheris often knew what she was thinking. This time the servant’s observation was sly and clever. Caecilia would not have followed the Book of Fate if not for Artile. His false portent had begun the downward spiral to losing Mastarna.

‘You could have told the master about the elixir, about my deception. He is, after all, the head of the house.’