The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (6 page)

Marcus pointed to Camillus, who was holding the attention of many in the room. Caecilia studied him, comparing him to Mastarna. Both were of similar age, both nobles. Yet while she’d heard that the Veientane was a soldier, it seemed strange for him to be dressed in vivid robes and bedecked in jewellery. In contrast, Camillus’ purple-edged toga hung in precise and even folds. With his hair worn long and beard neatly trimmed he showed what a warrior should be: austere, virtuous and manly.

If Camillus was elected as a consular general he’d promised to rescue her. But what would become of her in the time between?

Marcus touched her arm. ‘This will protect you in the meantime.’ On his wrist was an amulet wrought in iron and engraved with the family crest. He slipped it over his hand and thence over hers. ‘Take this. It will keep you safe. And remember, believe in Camillus. Believe in Drusus. Believe in me.’

Caecilia smiled sadly. Yesterday she had doted on his every word. Today she knew she had outgrown him. Marcus believed in Rome. Yesterday she had believed in it, too. And deep in her heart she knew that, to survive, she would need to have faith in her city. But as she observed her husband and uncle in conversation, holding her life in their hands with as much care as a cup or plate, she knew there was no certainty. She was only a symbol. And when the other marriage symbols were removed tonight: her wedding robes, her girdle, her veil, her shoes, what would be left of her?

*

When Vesper, the evening star, climbed into sight the bridal party entered the streets. Mastarna had left shortly before. It was the custom for the groom to lie in wait and snatch the bride from the presiding matron’s care, just as the Sabine women of legend had been seized by the early men of Rome.

Usually a crowd of noisy guests, shouting catcalls and throwing nuts, followed a bridal march, but again the guests were far from bawdy. Instead the procession was sedate, the nuptial hymn sombre, the atmosphere more like a funeral than a celebration. Even the drunks who gawked from tavern doors were oddly reticent as the wedding chant was shouted: ‘Talassius, talassius!’

Then Caecilia turned the corner into the street.

Mastarna stood there waiting.

She stared at him dumbly. ‘Come, wife, no more weeping,’ he said abruptly, offering her his arm. His voice was calm, his accent thickly coating her language.

‘Caecilia!’

 Startled, she turned to see who had called her name. From the crowd of onlookers, Drusus emerged. He held out the patch of orange veil to her before stashing it within his toga. His face pale, his eyes paining, he called her name and struggled towards her, but Marcus restrained him. Caecilia stared at him, astounded, aching to run to him, but he may as well have been standing on the other side of the Tiber; she could never reach him.

Beside her, Mastarna was observing her, observing Drusus. She glanced at him, not knowing how to speak or regard him. When she turned to search for her admirer, it was too late. The youth had gone.

‘Come,’ said Mastarna, still seemingly untroubled by what he’d seen. ‘There is more to this ceremony.’

Catching hold of the hands of one of her three page boys, Caecilia was grateful for the distraction of the procession. It meant she could leave Mastarna’s side. Yet she could not help wondering why her husband did not demand to know the name of the youth who’d claimed her veil. Perhaps Drusus didn’t warrant his curiosity and, if so, she hoped that it would remain the case.

*

Caecilia’s fingers were greasy from the pig’s fat and oil saturating the strips of wool she wrapped around the doorposts of the house. The ritual was to protect against evil spirits that she might bring from her old home to her husband’s, but the doorway she anointed was not Mastarna’s. Instead one of the consular generals had kindly offered his hospitality to them for the night.

There was a pause as the need for the ritual was debated. This only emphasised her humiliation. But if he was offended, Mastarna showed no sign.

‘What is your name?’ His deep voice made the words of the prescribed refrain resonate.

Her throat was dry. Each step of the ceremony signalled another transition into Mastarna’s life. She glanced at Marcus, pleading for a rescue that would not occur.

‘Go on, Caecilia,’ said Aurelia loudly, ‘say the words so we can escape the street.’

She raised her eyes to Mastarna. He was facing her but she could tell his eyes were not focused upon her.

Did he have a Drusilla to match her Drusus?

‘When you are Gaius, I am Gaia.’ Her tremulous high-pitched response emphasised their differences.

The married men of the party crowded around her, lifting her over the threshold to ensure she did not invoke bad luck by striking it with her feet. Then before she had even touched the ground, Aurelia was pinching her. ‘Follow, I must lead you to the bridal couch.’

Just as custom prescribed, the nuptial bed had been erected in the atrium. The finest linen had been used and blossoms were strewn across the expanse of sheets. Caecilia did not shake at its sight, instead she froze. If she wept now, her tears would be icicles and she would breathe spider webs of frost.

Mastarna did not approach. Instead he took the hawthorn wedding torch from the eldest of the three pageboys. All through the procession Caecilia had expected the flame to flicker wildly, an ill omen, but, surprisingly, it had remained smooth and sculpted. Mastarna extinguished the torch, then, blowing on the wood to cool the embers, handed some of the charred remains to each child together with a handful of nuts. ‘For luck,’ he said, bestowing a smile upon them only.

Aurelia tugged at Caecilia’s gown. ‘Offer the blessing,’ she ordered.

Wondering how much more she could suffer, the bride nervously intoned a prayer of thanks to the gods of her old hearth. Next she gave a blessing to all her family. In normal circumstances she would have said a prayer to the god of her new home, but that would be a ritual kept for the house in Veii, the house of tomorrow.

For a time, the wedding guests remained, but soon relief from awkwardness was sought by all. The girl clutched at her aunt’s robes when the older woman made ready to go. And perhaps, at last, Aurelia felt some pity, for the matron brusquely straightened Caecilia’s girdle and smoothed the edges of her tunic. ‘You will survive the night, Caecilia. Believe me, going to a man’s bed is not as bad as you might imagine. Submit and let him be your master. That is a woman’s duty. And pray to the goddess Juno, all knowing protectress of wives and mothers. She will help you.’

Caecilia surveyed the faces around her. They were leaving her to a fate none of them were prepared to meet themselves. She felt utterly alone.

For a moment she tried to conjure her mother’s face. A face long erased by death. Caecilia wondered if Aemilia would have guided her, whispering the secrets of the nuptial bed into her ear. But Caecilia doubted her patrician mother would have smoothed her hair or kissed her cheek in encouragement or solace. Her mother did not like to touch others.

Certainly not half-castes.

Not even her own.

It was time to bid good night. Aemilius and the other officials clustered around Mastarna. To her surprise, Camillus did not seek to grasp her husband’s arm but instead bowed his head to her. His voice was low, his words reassuring so that gratitude filled her for both his attention and the knowledge that, of all the noblemen here, he pitied her plight.

‘I will pray for you, Aemilia Caeciliana,’ he said, briefly touching her elbow, ‘as your father would.’

Noting this interchange, Aemilius drew his niece, now his daughter, towards him and unexpectedly kissed her on each cheek. ‘I am proud of you, Caecilia. Remember, I will not abandon you.’

Compared to the comfort of Camillus, his words gave no reassurance. Once again, Caecilia wished Tata was there to save her.

The wedding party left. The marriage bed lay ready. The iron hinges of the heavy street doors creaked shut.

Caecilia, at last, was alone with her husband.

*

All day she wished the veil to be gone, but she now longed for its protection as she reluctantly removed it. She clenched her fingers. She was not totally ignorant of the duty that lay ahead of her, the role of a wife.

As a child, it was not just her father’s conversations she overheard when she hid in unseen nooks. There were scraps of scandal and gossip from the servants, too. Once, in the dimness of the storeroom, she had chanced upon a furtive, hurried coupling. Although the girl’s moaning was alarming and the urgency of the bondsman’s thrusts a revelation, it was the picture of grubby hands gripping white fleshy thighs that Caecilia distinctly remembered.

Although confused as to why the maid would seek such an encounter, Caecilia told no one of what she had seen. Had nobody to tell. Her mother was dead and the servants shared no confidences with her. Later when she came to Aurelia’s there were no intimacies, no secrets passed from woman to woman except instructions as to how to bake bread or spin wool.

And so, lying awake in her narrow maiden’s bed, Caecilia would conjure up memories of the rutting servants.

Then images of Drusus would appear. His hands were never grimy.

Why should she be concerned, then, to finally find herself a bride? She was ready for a husband, was overdue for the marital bed, but now, in the draughty atrium, her groom a few paces away, she felt no stirrings of anticipated touch as she would have felt for Drusus.

Would she feel the same if it were a Roman groom who stood before her? A groom other than Drusus? Would she also worry whether he would take her carelessly, perhaps brutally, as she feared this Etruscan would?

Standing before her husband, she couldn’t bring herself to speak or raise her eyes. Instead she twisted the cord of her sash, hoping desperately that her uncle, regretting his decision, would return, annul the marriage and guide her home.

She could not look at Mastarna, yet she could not ignore him. The room seemed to shrink, diminished not only by his presence but by the power he possessed. The ache in her gut tightened, pain that had squeezed her bowels all day and made her anxious to attend the privy.

Mastarna was silent also as he observed her. ‘Let us go to sleep,’ he finally said.

She stiffened, eyes meeting his briefly. Perspiration trickled under her arms, the bridal tunic rank from the day’s stress and sacraments. He started to unwind his toga, ‘we need to rise early for the journey home.’

She twisted her belt again, confused. Was she to be spared tonight? Or did he speak some code that a wife should understand?

The Veientane sat upon the bed, pulling the garland from his head and rubbing his temples where the stems had dug into his skin. When she remained frozen, he scowled, his accent not thick enough to cover his irritation. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I don’t plan to bed you. I’ve had enough politics today.’

Her relief was not like a long cool drink of water, more like droplets upon a parched tongue. Swaying with tiredness, she remained standing. Being spared a consummation did not remove the need to fulfil her duty. There were rituals to be performed to confirm the marriage. Rites of fire and water. Prayers and blessings. Mastarna may not think there was any more diplomacy to endure but there was a question of piety. It was humiliating enough to be wed to a foe, but she did not want the gods to curse the union.

‘There are more rites,’ she said.

He sighed. ‘I think I have had enough of rituals, too.’

Sweat crept from her pores. She could feel the paleness spread over her face, her lips cold with whiteness. The rumours about Veientane wickedness surfaced again. Iniquity and sacrilege that her uncle had not actually denied.

‘So do Veientanes not observe ordained rites?’

Yawning, Mastarna stretched his arms above his head. ‘Quite the reverse; they are extremely pious.’

‘But I have heard otherwise. They say your women sell their bodies in the temples and claim it is a sacred act.’

His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Would you speak with such disrespect to your uncle?’

Caecilia blushed and sat down on a chair beside the hearth, wishing once again that she could control her tongue. It was not an auspicious start to the marriage, although he had not cuffed her yet for insolence.

Mastarna swept away the petals that were strewn upon the bed. The damaged blossoms floated to the floor forlornly. ‘My people have many customs that you will find strange, Caecilia. Just as we find you Romans peculiar. But if it calms you, know that we no longer practise such a custom.’ His expression was unnerving, his tone one of a teacher to a backward child. ‘As for any other tales you may have been told, it is best you do not carry the legacy of prejudice to my city. If you do so you will cause offence.’

Exhaustion was a burden. By now her ribbons and braids were half loosened, and she knew she looked tousled and childish in her simple white gown. Her eyelids were swollen from weeping, her fair skin mottled. She wanted to cradle her head between her hands and make him disappear.