The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (10 page)

Settling heavily upon her chest it leaned forward with scaly hands, one pressing upon her windpipe, the other clamping firm upon her mouth.

Dreams are messages sent by the gods, and sleep the channel through which omens are revealed. Caecilia lay awake, perspiring and stricken, thinking she would forever be haunted not just by the demon but by the boy, her fingermarks still clear in the clay on his unbearded cheek.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

He was morose the next day, as though waking to a new morning was a disappointment. Apart from asking Caecilia after her welfare, he spoke to no one other than Arruns, and the closer they drew to his home the surlier he became.

With the Cremera still as their companion, the caravan turned onto the Via Cassia. The rocking of the creaky wagon jarred her. The bruises that had bloomed upon her wrists were sore and her joints pained from the bandit’s rough handling. Head aching from lack of sleep and worry, Caecilia concentrated on the grooves of the rutted road to focus attention away from concern. And so, constantly sneezing from the dust kicked up by the bullocks’ hooves, it took time to notice the wanton scattering of greenness upon the verge, tufts of errant grass that grew carefree from thirst.

Glens of oak had changed to a vista of flowing fields of barley. Dry-stone walls curved along the margins with rows of poplar or pine crowning ridges. Hawthorn trees dotted with bright red berries crowded together beside the roadside.

All green.

Deep and dark or translucent with light. Thriving on sunshine, not scorched by it—making Caecilia ask why the gods allowed rain to fall upon this side of the river, on Mastarna’s people’s land; why Rome scavenged for husks while Etruscan silos groaned with grain.

Men were scything grass, skimming the froth of chamomile flowers and setting free their heady scent. They paused briefly in their toil to bow their heads to Mastarna and the noblemen but, realising who Caecilia was, their glances lengthened into stares. Reminded of the country folk of her village, the Roman girl nodded and smiled but they did not respond. The children, though, ran beside the caravan, squealing and laughing and pointing at the stranger.

Humble wooden shrines dotted the sides of the road before which small votives vied for space as well as for divine favour. Some were fashioned into the shapes of hands or feet engraved with imprecations to soothe crippled fingers or heal a broken toe. The turf altars were adorned with wilted garlands of daisies together with fresh fragrant ones. Caecilia whispered a prayer, knowing she had crossed over the boundaries of their gods while leaving hers behind.

Clinging dizzily to her seat, apprehension and curiosity merged as the cart bumped along the steepening road up to a plateau where the square-cut stone walls of the city lay. Along the way the caravan fought for space with wagons heading to and from the markets. The acrid stink of molten metal filled the air as she passed foundries and blacksmiths’ shops, hoping ploughshares rather than weapons were being forged.

Turning in her seat, Caecilia looked back over her shoulder southwards. Southwards towards Rome. Below her, extending to all points of the compass, roads radiated out as though from a hub. Roads that she had never known existed, heading to places she’d only heard of, all leading to one place, the city of Veii.

She held her breath. It was as though she had kicked the top off an ant’s nest and found another world of industry and intricacy and purpose foreign to her own, exposing herself also to the danger of being bitten.

‘Welcome to your new home, Caecilia.’

Mastarna had ridden up beside her and was pointing within the city. Before her, accessed by one narrow road, Veii’s Arx teetered upon a red-and-grey tufa cliff guarded by two ominous stone towers. At least a hundred feet high, the citadel was crowned with the graceful lines of a temple, its brilliantly black-and-red painted portico and pediment
glinting in the sunlight.

The hills of Rome boasted characters of their own: the pompous Palatine, pious Capitoline and plebeian Aventine all teeming with houses and temples and shops that had amazed her when she first saw them. She never thought she’d see anything grander or smellier or noisier and yet as she passed through Veii’s magnificent gates she held her breath, realising she had crossed the sacred border into another city.

As the oxen trundled into the congested streets, Caecilia needed to adjust to enormity, to immensity, to grandeur, as though she was stepping into the footprints of a giant, reminding her of her smallness.

The main thoroughfare was wide, wide enough for three wagons to pass at once, which was fortunate given the traffic. Here was no simple intersection of main streets running north and south and east to west. Instead two or three broadly paved avenues bisected the road, also extravagant in breadth. Drainage ditches covered by stone slabs running along the streets made the stalwart great drain of Rome seem rustic. Strange people bustled and bumped each other as they hastened down cobblestoned pavements or crossed the street on raised stepping stones, which were not precaution enough to avoid the stickiness of muck and ordure left by ghost-grey oxen or horses.

Immodesty flourished everywhere as did excess. Caecilia averted her eyes from the many statues of nudes; the skin of males ruddy, the women of pale hue. Concentrating instead on the densely packed wooden houses with their jaunty painted friezes, she soon forgot such indecency, absorbed with the sight of leather workers, carpenters and potters working in their shops while all around, the catcalls and barking of the vendors bombarded her ears, inveigling her to stop and buy, stop and buy!

Here Caecilia had no idea of each person’s status. Most seemed to wear vivid-coloured robes and wreathed themselves in gold and silver. Instead of sensible boots, the toes of their shoes curled whimsically and many wore toques upon their heads.

In contrast, her world was defined in clothing of white and purple or brown and black. There was certainty in looking across a crowd and knowing exactly who was a senator or knight, citizen or bondsman. Broad or narrow purple stripes on tunics and on togas, and red shoes with ivory buckles denoted who was patrician. All were reassuring. All clearly defined the tiers and limits of society. Strangers were not encouraged. More often than not within the Forum, the only alien faces were those of conquered enemies doing their masters’ bidding.

Today she witnessed others as foreign as the Etruscans, with their large cat-shaped eyes and short-cropped hair. There were sun-brown men with pointed beards, their long hair oiled and twisted. Fair-skinned people as well, who made Caecilia think the sun must never shine upon their land. One man with skin as black as onyx stared at her, the whites of his eyes streaked with fine red veins, startling against his darkness. Head swathed in a turban, he bowed when he noticed her scrutiny. She quickly turned away.

*

Mastarna’s house was made of light. Or so it seemed.

It was clear he did not need the scanty gifts of cattle and gold that comprised her dowry. His residence surpassed any of the homes of Rome. It was of brick, and its entrance way was flanked by two columns with a loggia crowning the roof.

Passing through a monumental bronze door, Caecilia entered the atrium. The high ceiling was supported by enormous rafters decorated in terracotta cladding. Incredibly, there were no columns to be seen. Sunshine spilled copiously across the floor from the roof opening. To her surprise the ceiling slanted inwards, making her wonder what it would be like when sheets of water streamed into the decorated bronze reservoir below when it was raining.

From the doorway, her eyes surveyed a shrine and a hearth fire that was large and fierce and bright. Both sights warmed her, relieved to know the household spirits were also revered in his world.

But it was not this alone that delighted her. Beyond the reception room she could see a garden. Not like the vegetable patch at the back of her uncle’s house but a place extravagant with sun and warmth and beauty. An arcade ran along each side of it flanked with shrubs. In the middle was a pool with a fountain. In the face of such artistry Caecilia was forced to wonder what kind of people flaunted water for decoration instead of sustenance or wasted time carving laurel into patterned borders. All within the confines of a house!

‘Hale Aemilia Caeciliana.’

A diminutive woman stood before her. Caecilia was not sure what struck her most. Here was a mature matron yet surely not one of any virtue; a noblewoman dressed like a harlot. Her robes were vermillion and decorated with a pattern of diamonds tied by a girdle drawn tightly under the bodice. She wore not one but three gold lockets around her neck. Most striking of all was her hair; white as frost and pulled high into the most elaborate hairstyle. Ringlets bobbed over her ears, curls spiralled upon her brow, and the bulk was tied up and covered by a silken snood.

Mastarna embraced the woman with such force that Caecilia thought the lady’s slight bones would crack. ‘Ati,’ he said, kissing her as she laughed at his bearish embrace.

‘Vel, it is good to see you, son.’ Then she turned to face the Roman.

‘Welcome Caecilia,’ she said. ‘My name is Larthia. I am glad you are safe.’

Caecilia hesitated, unused to such effusiveness, surprised, too, that the woman spoke her own tongue, even if clumsily. ‘Thank you.’

Larthia’s eyes were as black as her son’s but without their harshness. In repose, her face was defined by curved cheekbones and a high forehead, yet when she smiled, the bottom row of her teeth was rotted forcing her to raise a small napkin to her mouth to wipe away a trickle of saliva. Instinctively, Caecilia ran her tongue inside her own mouth.

Larthia was surveying her also, and Caecilia sensed that, although the Veientane woman was smiling, she must have reservations about welcoming an Aemilian into her home. When the older woman stretched to take her hand, the Roman started. She was a stranger to this woman, and, until today, a foe. Was it customary to be so familiar? She thought briefly of Aurelia, whose hand had only ever brushed her in punishment or bullying.

‘Why are you surprised, my dear, that a mother should greet her new daughter so?’

Caecilia did not know how to respond. After a pause, Mastarna touched her elbow. ‘You might wish to give your present to Ati now,’ he said softly.

She nodded, thankful for the opportunity to relieve the awkward moment but as Mastarna signalled to a servant to come forward with her gift, he was interrupted by the entry of a man into the room.

Caecilia’s eyes widened as she took in the peculiar costume of the stranger. He wore a tall conical hat tied by straps beneath his chin and was dressed in a long-sleeved tunic that reached to his boots. His heavily beringed fingers played with the edges of his cloak, which was lined with sheepskin and fastened with a large bronze clasp. Indeed his hands were striking: long-jointed, in perfect symmetry, the long fingernails painted purple.

The man scrutinised her from head to toe. Unable to break from his examination, she shivered, his gaze hypnotic, the shape of his eyes accentuated by dark lines drawn around them. His face seemed familiar, and then Caecilia realised it was Mastarna she was looking at, only his face had none of the hard edges that war, killing and pain chipped and scraped from a man’s features. She knew, too, that if she touched his milky skin it would be softer than her own and the muscle beneath would give no resistance. But his eyes made her forgive this because, unlike Mastarna’s, they were liquid and gleaming and brilliant. They were eyes that had gazed upon the spirits, may even have glimpsed the gods.

‘Caecilia, my brother, Artile.’

The Roman girl waited for his welcome, but instead Artile spoke abruptly to his brother with a voice identical in timbre and resonance to Mastarna’s. Their conversation was brief. And unfriendly.

‘Artile requests that the purification rite be performed,’ said a voice from behind her.

The speaker was a youth who gained her attention not so much due to his perfect Latin but for his perfect physique. He took her hand and bowed. ‘Aemilia Caeciliana, I am known as Tarchon. May your time here be blessed.’

As she struggled to reply she tried not to stare. The youth was as comely as a maid. Dark oval eyes registered amusement and his full lips curved in a bow. His skin was flawless, his teeth even, his body lean and muscular and brown, and if Artile had communed with the gods, the gods themselves surely cherished Tarchon. ‘You speak the language of my people.’

‘And Greek and Phoenician and Carthaginian. I won’t bore you with the rest of my talents.’

‘Be quiet,’ growled Mastarna. ‘Caecilia does not need to hear your bragging.’

But she was sorry her husband had silenced the youth. Despite his boasting, there was sincerity and warmth. ‘And are you brother to my husband also?’

Mastarna grimaced. ‘Tarchon is my son, Caecilia.’

Of all the strangeness of that day, this was the strangest. Tarchon was of a similar age to her, perhaps no more than twenty. She tried not to glance at Mastarna. She knew he was old, but surely not as old as her father? He must have sired Tarchon when he was only a youth himself.

A son?

And before that there must have been a wife.