The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (61 page)

‘Hale my son,’ said his father with equal seriousness before placing his leather lined helmet upon the boy, engulfing him. The child pulled it back, tilting his head so he could spy the world through the slits between nose and cheek pieces, both hands held firmly on either side to bear the weight.

Seeing his brother gaining such favour, the two year old forgot his awe of the warrior. He hastened from behind Cytheris’ skirts, bounding over to wrest the trophy from the other. ‘Give me, Tas, give me!’

The five year old turned away, raising the bright blue crested helmet firmly out of reach, not prepared to surrender his prize. ‘Go away, Larce. Apa gave it to me.’

Mastarna laughed and lifted his younger son onto his hip. The boy’s startled expression changed to one of glee as he caught sight of the sword strapped to his father’s side. ‘Look Ati,’ he shrieked at his mother, gripping the hilt. ‘Sword! Sword!’ Despite struggling to remove the weapon from its sheath it remained secure.

‘Hello Caecilia.’

A soldier stood beside her with open arms. It took a moment to recognise the bearded man as Tarchon. Mastarna’s other son. Adopted. Little older than she was. The thought was sobering. In spring she would be twenty six.

There was no sign of the effeminate youth she once knew. He was a man now, boasting battle scars. What warrior did not, after so many years of war? Nevertheless his fine face was unscathed, its beautiful symmetry incongruous against the blatant masculinity of bronze.

‘Thank the gods you have been spared.’ She hugged him.

Tarchon returned the embrace, cautious of the bundle of boy squeezed between them.

‘Thank the Gods also that you bore my brother safely.’ He touched the baby’s cheek gently with one finger and was rewarded with a smile. It was no surprise. Tarchon pleased everyone – everyone except his father.

‘He has your big round Roman eyes but I won’t hold that against him.’

Caecilia frowned, glancing at the sloe eyed Etruscans around her. She doubted they’d ever forgive her for being a daughter of Rome. ‘Yes, but others might.’

Tarchon kissed her cheek. ‘I’m only teasing. Besides all here respect you now.’

Before she could reply Mastarna interrupted. ‘Isn’t it time I named my new son?’ He swung Larce to the ground. The boy immediately grasped his leg, demanding to be returned to the heights. Cytheris quickly drew him away.

Caecilia nodded. Ever since her son was born she’d been anxious to perform the ceremony. After all the child was two months old and rightly should have been claimed within nine days of his birth. There was always an undercurrent of concern within her. What if Mastarna did not return? Would the right of this boy to take his father’s name be questioned? What would become of her, no longer Roman but never Etruscan, if her husband should die?

‘What name have you chosen?’

‘Arnth. After Arnth Ulthes, our great friend.’

Mastarna searched her face. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Very sure. It is a strong name, given in honour of a noble man.’

‘He would be pleased that you wish to remember him.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Now let me claim him.’

Despite her desire for the rite to be performed, Caecilia hesitated at the thought of placing the child at his father’s feet. The crowd around them was unruly and she was afraid that the horses could trample the baby.

Then she noticed Arruns, Mastarna’s guard –head shaven, the snake tattoo upon his face adding, as always, a rugged menace to him. Without needing an order he cleared a space around the family, holding the reigns of his master’s horse tight.

Laying the baby on the cobble stones, Caecilia anxiously watched as Mastarna lifted him above his head.

‘All present here bear witness that this boy is my son. His name shall be Arnth of the House of Mastarna. Child of my loins and that of Aemilia Caeciliana’s - known to all as Caecilia.’

Unlike Larce, the infant did not enjoy being raised in the air, screaming with a fierceness at odds with his size. Mastarna hastily lowered him, holding him close, before taking a gold amulet necklace from Caecilia and placing it around the little boy’s neck.

‘May this bulla protect you forever from the evil eye! May all the Great and Almighty Gods watch over you!’

Caecilia took the sobbing baby from his father, soothing him once again. As she did so, she noticed that the crowd around them had quietened. She tensed, holding her breath, aware their stares were reserved for her; their silence signalling resentment of her as much as respect for Mastarna.

And she knew why that must be.

Seven years ago, in a glade beside a river between two cities, she had made a choice to forsake her home. A choice Rome claimed provoked a war. And she had questioned that decision many times. Not because she did not love her husband but because his people did not love her.

She knew what to do today, though. Had done it before. She slowly held Arnth out to the crowd. ‘I give my son to this city. Another man-child to bear arms for Veii. Another warrior for you who have become my people.’

There was no response at first, their gaze wavering from her to the baby and then to the warrior.

Then cheering erupted. ‘Hale Arnth of the House of Mastarna! Hale General Vel Mastarna!’

Relief filled her; reassured in that moment to know that, even if the Veientanes hated her, she was safe as long as they revered her husband.

***