The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (20 page)

She stared at the little golden box and thought of Cytheris and choosing men. Mastarna was making Fortuna choose for her, but she did not understand why this would make her desire him. Winning the throw would merely give her a chance to avoid misery for one night.

‘Also, I am embarrassed,’ he continued, ‘for acting like a Roman on our wedding night.’

This time she managed to pull her hand from his grasp. ‘How dare you!’

Mastarna twisted his gold and onyx ring around his finger. ‘Do you think your Drusus would be a good lover?’

The girl was astounded. He’d never mentioned the youth who’d called her name in the twilight on their wedding day. ‘How do you know who he is?’

‘I made it my business to discover who covets my wife.’

‘Then know that Claudius Drusus would never treat me as a harlot!’

‘I have already explained these things to you,’ Mastarna said evenly.

‘Or his harlot as his wife!’

Mastarna’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see Cytheris has been more than your interpreter.She should be whipped for her gossiping.’

‘That is your right as her owner, I suppose. Is whipping a woman another freedom I’ve gained? Would you have Erene whipped, too, if she was insolent?’

‘I would not dare,’ he snorted.

Caecilia scowled, infuriated that he was treating her concerns so lightly, but when she heard him suddenly sigh she knew that he, too, was frustrated. They may be conversing in Latin but they spoke the language of very different worlds.

‘Forget about Erene. She is not my mistress but Ulthes’. She is not a slave but a freedwoman. I have no say in what she does. Do you understand?’

She nodded, but wished she knew whose version she was to trust. His or her maid’s.

After a time the silence grew awkward between them. He rubbed his brow, wincing when he brushed the cut above his eye. He gestured for her to sit beside him. ‘When I said I acted more like a Roman I meant that I denied you pleasure.’

He cupped her chin with his fingers, the gesture of a man certain of possession, unconcerned that she had been unfaithful in thought. She brushed his hand away, annoyed that he was dismissing Drusus as a rival. One thing was certain, Mastarna had not pleased her on their wedding night and she doubted he could remedy his failing.

Pleasure. Cytheris had spoken of it. Would there be different versions of this, too?

Once again Mastarna held out the dice. ‘If you throw a number higher than mine, it will be a sign that the gods wish you to do other than sleep in our bed tonight.’

She gasped, astounded at such a proposition. What would he do if she refused to honour the wager? Would he then force her to perform her wifely duty and do so every time he wished to claim the right of a husband? Surely the chance of avoiding his embrace, on the throw of the dice each night, was better than such a future?

And so, holding her breath, praying to Fortuna to be kind, she summoned up courage to scatter them the sheets.

‘Now, we will test how well you learned your numbers and letters,’ said Mastarna as she peered at the words written on the sides, adding the values. It was typical of the Rasenna that they did not even use dots upon their tesserae. Perhaps it was so they could cheat.

She waited anxiously to see what numbers he would throw as he rolled the dice between his palms.

Her brief flare of hope was doused immediately.

Mastarna did not gloat; instead he drew a glass alabastron from his robes and swallowed some of its contents. ‘Drink this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It is called Alpan after Turan’s handmaiden. Both act as love’s helpers.’

Caecilia swallowed nervously. What had the goddess of love got to do with them?

‘
What will it do? Make me drunk? Make me sick?’

‘The potion is safe. A love philtre only. I’m not sure what is in it exactly. A little mandragora I am told.’

Caecilia sniffed the top of the vial. She knew of the herb. Aurelia grew it. If her aunt understood it could be used to awaken passion, though, it was unlikely she would have used it for that purpose. All Caecilia knew was that it soothed aches and made you sleep.

It could also be a poison.

Mastarna held out his hand to draw her to the bed. ‘See I have taken it already,’ he said, reading her mind. ‘It will take you far outside this room to pleasure and then to sweet sleep. And …’ he stretched and touched her mark again, ‘it will leaven the flickering here and in your breast from fear to wanting.’

Caecilia stared at the deep blue of the glass. She doubted anything could conjure a longing for him, but she’d seen how wine had unchained the women at the banquet and suspected this potion was as potent a brew. If she could not flee the room, was it not better to relent and choose the elixir with its promise of escape?

‘And you, what will it do for you?’

‘It will make me forget,’ he said quietly and bent to kiss her.

She put her hand across his mouth. ‘We Romans kiss the dead to catch their souls. You cannot have mine.’

He frowned. ‘You are far from dying.’

She did not reply.

The taste of the elixir was cloying with a hint of bitterness for caution. He stripped and she saw there were more injuries from the hunt, scars and bruises within and without. Then he made her stand as he unfastened her robes so that she stood naked beside him. Small-breasted and boyish, her long legs gave her height enough to meet his eyes, but she could not.

Then a droplet of elixir hurtled through her, and another, shepherding her cares to the tips of her fingers where she could shake them away with a flick of her wrist.

She was lying beside him, eyes closed, letting the warmth ripple through her until languor immersed her and he disappeared. She floated upon waters, wavelets buffeting at her gently. Sound was banished except for her breathing. If she moved her head slightly her hair writhed, touching her as though alive. The water’s skin adhered to her own. She would have to peel it away when she rose. And all the while the current bore her along, letting colour and light glide by her, pulling her towards calm, towards stillness, towards peace.

Drusus spoke to her and she smiled. She could see his long reddish hair, his fierce eyes and the beard framing dark pink lips. He turned her on her side, his finger and thumb squeezing her neck lightly, sometimes playing with the soft short wisps of hair at the base of her skull.

Drusus’ hands were warm, dry and broad. They encircled her buttocks. Then his fingers moved up and down her spine, circling and pressing each ridge, releasing pockets of tension in brief exquisite bursts of pain.

She licked her lips, hoping to eke out some small remnant of the philtre as the current drew her onwards.

Drusus leaned closer, his breath a whisper. His hand slid along her belly to touch between her thighs; to the wet soft fleshiness and secret hardness, his fingers discovering what she had never explored.

She clutched his wrist, eyes flying open. Mastarna beheld her, his dark, almond-shaped eyes promising her.

The current eddied around them, its pull unyielding. She closed her eyes. She drifted. She let his wrist slip from her grasp.

*

It was late when she woke. Sunlight was lapping beneath the bottom of the curtains and peeking around the edges.

He was not beside her.

A different type of relief filled her. The apprehension that they would share the bed banished. Stretching her arms above her head, she delayed rising, enjoying her nakedness, the feel of the linen’s softness against her skin.

There was an aftertaste in her mouth. Glancing over to the tiny vial, she smiled.

The colour of the alabastron was appealing. Deep blue with swirls of yellow trapped within it. The visions she’d seen under its spell had freed her. For Drusus had been with her while Mastarna held her. She hoped that they would share the potion again soon.

Then she remembered Mastarna’s reason for also drinking it. He’d wanted to forget his loss for Seianta.

Realising her husband also dreamed of being in the arms of another made Caecilia worry again that Mastarna was comparing his wives. Was she less of a woman because he’d not lingered to greet her in the morning?

Sunlight streamed in from the garden as the maid swept back the curtains. ‘Get up, mistress. The master is waiting for you to take audience with him.’

‘When did he leave this morning?’

‘The master? Oh, he always rises at dawn to train with Arruns.’

Caecilia sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning, strangely pleased to learn Mastarna’s escape was not entirely because of her lack of skill.

As she stepped down onto the bed’s footstool, she noticed the leopard. ‘Ssh,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t tell Aurelia.’

Eager to meet the tenants, she bade Cytheris to help her dress quickly, ignoring the knowing look upon the maid’s face. There would be time later to speak of what happened, but she was uncertain whether to share the secret of the Alpan.

Hurrying into the garden, she found Mastarna there, talking to the steward before entering the reception chamber. As usual his manner was intense, preoccupied with business, authority emanating from him.

The deepness of his voice made Caecilia pause. Memories of the first morning after their wedding night returned. The night in Rome also. How she had feared his power, his nearness. Today that sensation was gone but she was still acutely aware of his presence.

Shyness overcame her. After she had lain with a man in such a way what was she supposed to say? To do? To feel?

His face relaxed when he saw her. ‘Did you sleep well, Bellatrix?’

She nodded.

‘Then let’s hope there are more nights when you can find such rest.’

It was a simple statement yet she blushed.

Offering her his arm, he led her from the garden. ‘There is an artisan I wish you to meet,’ he said. ‘He crafts the most beautiful bronzes and seeks a patron. Do you think you would like to act as his?’

She stopped walking, mouth agape. ‘You want me to be his patron?’

Mastarna smiled. ‘Why are you so surprised? Ati sponsors many craftsmen. Potters mostly from her workshop. It will gain you favour with my clan if they see you value artwork.’

She smiled broadly, nodding fiercely.

Mastarna laughed, bending to whisper in her ear so that the steward could not overhear him. His words were unexpected.

‘You should smile more often, Bellatrix,’ he said. ‘When you do, your serious face becomes as beautiful as one of Turan’s angels.’

Glossary

Cast of Characters

Caecilia gasped. ‘Did your people truly create this?’

Tarchon nodded.

Before them the river was being swallowed into the belly of a grey-and-yellow tufa cliff. The tunnel was monumental. Wide enough for two boats to pass and with a vaulted ceiling as tall as that of a vast temple. And along its great length, apertures were spaced at regular intervals letting shafts of light stream into the water. Caecilia gazed at it, questions rattling inside her head. ‘What are the holes for?’

‘The slaves used them to remove debris as they bored the passage through the rock. See the grooves made by their picks scarring the surface?’

The coolness of the cave beckoned to her, a respite from the heat. They had travelled in their carriage for most of the afternoon along the outside of Veii’s walls to see this marvel.

The harvest was over. Only stubble remained upon the scythed fields along the way. Hay bales stood neatly stacked—forage reserved for fat cows and sheep—granaries bulged, and boats and carts threaded their way along distant trade routes while a haze of barley dust and the earth smell of pulses hung in the air.

‘Are there other tunnels like this?’

‘Not as grand. My people have dug many canals under their farmland. They draw water through them to feed dry soil or use them to drain swampy land. One day I’ll show them to you, as well as the drains and cisterns carved from the stone beneath the city.’

Caecilia stared at him. As much as she condemned these people for their wickedness, she could not but be amazed at their ingenuity to divert a river. The mystery of a chequerboard of fields remaining verdant in a sunburned world had been answered.

The water running through the tunnel looked quite shallow. More stream than river. The lure of exploring was too great for her.

She sat down and unlaced her new red boots. A small temptation. She’d only hesitated briefly before accepting them. Since then she’d revelled in their soft leather, delighting in how small they made her feet look, smiling each time she pointed the ridiculously coiled toes so she could better admire them.

The sin of wearing such luxury was compounded by her removal of another layer of decorum. She no longer wore a stola overdress, willingly shedding its ugly woollen weight once Mastarna told her it was a barrier to gaining the trust of his tenants. She felt guilty in peeling off the Roman robes, but she could not deny that the gaze of his clients was less chary as she sat in audience.