The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (57 page)

Stunned, Caecilia remained silent, biting her lip as her uncle’s fingers dug into her flesh.

Mastarna stood with open palms. ‘Then if she is to remain, release her and allow us to make our farewells.’

Her uncle hesitated, glancing at Camillus. The Commander shrugged his shoulders,
looking bemused as to how negotiations had been reduced to marital affairs.

*

Surrounded by the delegations of two cities, they faced each other under a canopy buffeted by a spiteful whistling wind. They spoke in Rasennan so that they could hide while in full sight.

Near him, seeing his scarred ugliness, the dark almond-shaped eyes and short hair, smelling his scent, hearing his beautiful voice, she wished there was no Rome or Veii. That there was only Mastarna and Caecilia.

‘You’ve taken to wearing homespun again and chewing your nails, I see,’ he said, smiling briefly. When he reached out to smooth his hand along her shawl, she could hear the Roman men behind her mutter, could almost feel their bodies stiffen. Conscious that their time would be cut short if they touched again, she stood inches from him, an agony of nearness.

‘I don’t understand why you want me.’

‘Because when we fought that day I forgot how young you were. How frightened you had been; a fear I fostered without knowing. Even so it was hard to believe you were in the thrall to the man I hated the most. That you’d tried to take from me what I yearned for.’

‘And yet you have forgiven me.’

He nodded. ‘At the sanctuary at Volsinii, with its green coolness and the aura of the divine, I remembered how you’d spoken of wanting our child in the time before we argued. And so I sought guidance as to what to do and Nortia showed me the way. Tulumnes was deposed, Apercu fled and Vipinas raised an army against Pesna. Veii was freed from a king’s madness and I stopped hating you. All I wanted was to be home. To be in our house. To be in our bed.’ He paused. ‘And then word was sent that you had gone.’

A pulse started throbbing in her temple. Relieved that her uncle and Camillus could not understand what was being said, she recalled all the times Mastarna had not been angry when he could have been, how he had forgiven Artile’s seduction of her into the Calu Cult, how he hadn’t berated her when he’d found her spewing forth the Zeri as winter ice melted into mud and slush.

‘I’m so sorry I deceived you. I’m sorry, too, that I was so hateful, but I couldn’t stop thinking of you and Ulthes.’

‘We did nothing that needs pardon by either you or the gods.’

‘Yes, I understand that now, but I thought you still loved him more than me.’

Mastarna touched her arm again. ‘How could you think that?’

Aemilius shifted closer, but Mastarna’s glare stopped him interrupting further.

‘I wish you could return to me,’ he said, reverting his attention to Caecilia. ‘You are no more Roman than I am.’

Memories of the night with the maenads returned. ‘You say that, but you know it’s not true. Don’t you see it is better this way? I am out of place in your world—the world of the Phersu.’ Her voice was breaking. ‘And I saw what Fufluns expects of his worshippers. Knowing you follow such a god scares me.’

Mastarna frowned. ‘I don’t know what happened at the feast,’ he said, ‘but there is good and bad in everything—people, cities, even the Divine. I never made you kneel before any of our gods, Bellatrix. In Veii you always had a choice, and you chose what you thought was beautiful and comforting and thrilling. You could have remained devoted to your Roman spirits if you wished. I would not have forced you to follow my people’s religion.’

Caecilia’s head ached. All around her were things of utility or ceremony. All angles and uniformity, solid, unadorned. In the sharp concrete Roman world, Mastarna stood as though some mythical beast, strange as a hippocampus, mysterious as a chimera.

He spoke of choice but there had only been temptation. He spoke of love but it was corrupt. And standing there, she felt the distance between them was like a gulf even though he stood only inches away.

‘But how long would it have been before you resented me for not joining in your worship? It would have been unbearable to watch you drinking Divine Milk and lying in the arms of others.’

Mastarna leaned over and cupped her chin in his hand, his fingers exerting the slightest pressure. ‘Only Nortia could know of such a future. All that is certain is that if you’d stayed with me you would have borne our child, you would have been loved.’

At the caress Aemilius seized Caecilia’s elbow and yanked her back, pushing her behind Camillus and signalling the two centurions to advance towards the Etruscan.

Arruns and the other Veientane guards stepped forward, but Mastarna put up his hand to calm them, the dignity in his voice warding off the two Roman soldiers.

Caecilia tried to push her way to the front but Marcus placed his hand upon her wrist, making her wince from the traces of his father’s roughness. His palm was sweaty but his fingers were firm. ‘Stay here, Cilla.’

‘It seems I was wrong to believe you are men of honour,’ she heard Mastarna say. ‘Instead you are true Romans—bleating of virtue while you smite your foe.’ His tone was bitter, wounding.

‘Let us dispense with these marital matters,’ said Camillus to the Consular General.

Aemilius nodded. ‘It is time to keep your promise to divorce my daughter under Etruscan law.’

Mastarna laughed. ‘You talk of promises? You talk of keeping good faith?’

Trapped behind the red cloaks and bronze armour of the two Roman leaders Caecilia felt helpless. Time had overtaken her.

Finding strength to wrench away from Marcus she squeezed between the General and Commander so she could speak to her husband. ‘I love you, Mastarna. I will never forget you.’

He smiled and nodded, and it was as though it was their Roman wedding day and he was squeezing her fingers in comfort.

Then, bowing deeply, he spoke in her tongue, the invisible shelter provided by his language wrenched from around them as the last link was severed. ‘Hear me, Aemilia Caeciliana. Your father has spoken. You are no longer my wife. I shall return your dowry. You can take your things and go.’

*

The fetial priest covered his head with a woollen shawl, raising aloft a red dogwood spear with a charred iron tip and invoking the gods to bless his city’s cause. ‘O Jupiter and Mars. Give us your ear! I call you to witness that Veii is unjust.’

Mastarna and his men had retreated into their territory, faces solemn and hostile.

The holy man held a salver over the spear tip, but before he could consecrate the blade with pig’s blood Drusus surprised all by limping over to him and seizing the lance from his hand. Then, still with one shoulder strapped, the young soldier awkwardly tore the bandage from his calf and thrust the blade into his wound, smearing it with his own blood. He glared at Mastarna as he did so, his curses stolen by the wind.

The priest impatiently reclaimed the weapon, pointing the javelin towards enemy soil. ‘I, Priest of the Fetial College, acting for the Roman people and the Senate, declare war upon your
nation.’

As he hurled the lance, the wind snatched it, causing it to waver then skitter to a stop in front of Mastarna. For a moment there was only the sound of horses snorting and pawing the ground.

Finally, the Etruscan slipped from his saddle. Picking up the spear, he lofted it high into the air where it landed, deeply embedding in the ground at Camillus’ feet.

The two cities, those unrequited lovers, were at last at war.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

The wind had blown itself out leaving a humid haze rising above the road to Rome. Caecilia sat upon the rocking cart swatting at the flies that lazily landed upon her lips and eyes until, immersed in misery, she let them crawl, sticky footed, upon her. She was exhausted, numb, feeling that, although she had set events in motion, the result was not as she’d expected. It was as though she’d opened a door to shoo out a wasp only to have a hundred more fly in and bite her.

With war declared, Camillus and her uncle had dismissed her, her presence superfluous and shameful, her life as a Roman woman to resume without delay. Aemilius did not speak before despatching her; instead turned his back, pretended to adjust his breastplate, hair untidy from the wind. It was the angriest she’d ever seen him, but this did not frighten her. He had forsaken her. Self-righteousness was a shield.

There was no sign of Drusus when she returned to the encampment. He’d been confined to quarters awaiting suitable punishment for his infractions. No doubt Camillus would try to convince him not to wed a woman who might be hailed as a hero as well as a harlot.

The men who’d marched him away had been embarrassed—uncertain how to cope with a soldier whose fervour was spoken aloud for a woman instead of the state.

She thought of Mastarna; of his recklessness, his passion, his calculated wooing of death so different to the bluster and drama of the red-haired youth. What would Mastarna do now that she’d left him forever? Would he taunt Nortia to take him or would he patiently succumb to divine will, accepting that his Roman bride had gone? She could not stop remembering his look when he divorced her. Like the Romans had knocked off a scab upon already wounded flesh.

Marcus was allowed to farewell her, at last breaking the restrained silence between them. As he checked that she was comfortable upon an uncomfortable seat, he noticed her arm was bare of adornment. ‘Where is my amulet?’

‘I gave it to a friend. But now you are near I no longer need such protection.’

He smiled a little sadly and touched the red marks on her wrist that replaced the bracelet. It was Aemilius who had caused them but she could not forget how Marcus had gripped her wrist harshly. Just like his father. Just as Drusus would if required. The iron grasp beneath their gentleness differing only by a few degrees.

‘I am sorry if I held you too tightly,’ he said.

‘It was the fact you chose to restrain me that was painful.’

His face assumed serious lines. ‘I will always love you, Cilla, but I cannot give you my support if you don’t learn to be a Roman woman again. I listened to how you spoke to Aemilius and the Commander, and I am afraid for you. Here a wife must always owe loyalty to her family above her husband. You must heed the counsel of my father again.’

Caecilia brushed the flies from her face. For a moment pin pricks of black swam before her eyes. The world was closing in on her. She braced herself, waiting for the dizziness to pass. ‘Don’t worry, cousin. I know our customs and rules. I know our laws and religion. They will comfort me and I will not disappoint you. I know my place.’

She could tell he was checking her words for sarcasm but he need not have worried. What she said was true. To hanker after the freedom of Veii would destroy her just as returning to that city and its vices would be her ruin.

Marcus steadied the ox as it shifted in its traces. ‘Cilla, I didn’t understand what you said to your husband but I did see how you looked at each other. You won’t tell me what passed between you while you were in Veii, but it is clear to me and to all who watched that Mastarna loves you.’

The young soldier glanced to where his friend was being held. ‘Drusus has waited for you all this time. He is hasty and rash and should not have acted as he did, but he’s been faithful to you and will honour you.’

He touched her arm lightly. ‘I also saw how you trembled at Mastarna’s touch, and I don’t think it was from fear. So be kind to Drusus. Let him believe you never went willingly to your husband’s bed, for it would kill him to know you still love the Etruscan.’

*

A stalwart veteran rode beside her with a warty chin and rotten teeth. Despite his gruff demeanour, he was keen to chatter about past battles. The redness of his nose, though, suggested his appetite for ale was greater than his prowess at fighting.

Each plodding step of the ox reminded her that in a very short time she would reach the Tiber and the old weathered ferry. By nightfall she would stand on hallowed Roman ground, her life changed forever.

Covering her head with her shawl against the sun, she wished the soldier would be silent and let her stew in her own quietness as she rode upon the swaying, jolting cart.

Suddenly the soldier’s mount whinnied in fear. Alarmed, Caecilia lifted her head and saw Arruns leap upon the hind quarters of the horse as does a leopard bringing down a deer.

An image flashed before her of the protector piercing the body of the bandit boy. As Arruns squeezed the man’s throat until the veteran’s face grew red then scarlet then purple, Caecilia screamed at him to spare the soldier who’d had the ill luck to be her escort. ‘In the name of Juno, please don’t kill him.’

The Phoenician looked doubtful but obeyed by striking the man on the side of the head, thereby granting him deep slumber and what would be a painful awakening. ‘Come, mistress, we must be quick,’ he said, lifting her from the wagon.

‘Let me go. I am no longer your mistress.’