The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (21 page)

Ignoring Tarchon’s concern, she carefully laid aside the boots, not wanting them ruined.

‘What are you doing!’

‘I’m going to look inside.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Tarchon crankily, grabbing her arm. ‘You’ll slip. See the moss?’

Scooping up the edges of her tunic, she splashed into the river. ‘Come on, Tarchon! Join me.’

The youth pouted, irritated that she would not heed him. ‘Don’t think I’ll rescue you if you fall in.’

She laughed. The water was warm at the edges, the silt oozing between her toes. As she waded into the depths of the cavern, the rush of river was amplified, the sound of her laughter echoing around the damp lichen-covered walls. However, the pull of the current soon pushed against her, making it difficult to progress, the pebbles slippery beneath her feet. When she found herself hitching her dress up to her thighs she reluctantly ceased her exploration.

Tarchon sat on the bank, glowering at her. ‘Don’t ever do that again! Mastarna would kill me if you were hurt.’

Giggling, Caecilia lay upon the palla shawl strewn across the grass.

Tarchon granted her a begrudging smile.‘I like your laugh,’ he said. ‘It has a hint of childhood in it.’

‘I feel like I did when I ran barefoot on my father’s farm.’

The youth stretched out beside her, closing his eyes. ‘I forget you’re half plebeian.’

Caecilia ignored his haughtiness. ‘Why don’t you want to go wading?’

‘Because I don’t like the feel of sand beneath my feet.’

She studied his beauty as he lay dozing beside her. He wore one turquoise earring, claiming it was a male fashion in Carthage. Another instance of his foreignness and effeteness. She tried unsuccessfully to imagine Marcus or Drusus wearing such an adornment.

Observing Tarchon Caecilia knew that, despite her friendship with the Veientane, he could never replace Marcus in her heart. Her cousin and she were of the same clay, formed from the same mould, their Romanness ingrained.

Yet she’d heard no word from him. The letters she’d sent with official correspondence to Rome were unanswered. Had he forgotten her already? Or had something happened? Surely Aemilius would send word if the garrison atVerrugo had been attacked.

Her attention returned to Tarchon. From his pallor it was plain he’d been out drinking and had not slept the night before—a common occurrence despite bleary eyes and an aching head the next day upon wakening. Not that Tarchon thought he’d missed half the day by the time they began their journey. The Veientanes saw midday as the official start of their day. To them midnight was only halfway through waking hours.

‘I think you must drink more than any Veientane I’ve met,’ she scolded.

‘Then you haven’t met many,’ he grumbled.

Basking in the sun in the ripe, lethargic afternoon, Caecilia ignored his bad mood. Around her crickets sawed the air with song. Staring upwards she gazed at the lazy billowing clouds and wished that summer was not ending.

Today there was no sense of foreboding as she lay next to the Cremera, the same river beside which she had fought the bandit. Instead she felt secure. For together with the Fosse on the opposite side of the city, the two streams formed a perimeter that embraced Veii and kept its territory safe from invaders.

Close to Tarchon, she noticed a bruise shadowed his jawline. He often had such marks upon him. She never asked him how he came by them, assuming they were legacies from drunken fist fights, although the thought of the soft-living Tarchon provoking violence seemed unlikely. ‘You should be training to be a soldier, not getting into brawls,’ she said, pointing to his chin. ‘Marcus used to practise on the Campus Martius every morning.’

The youth did not comment.

‘It must be time for you to join the army soon,’ she said, prodding him. ‘Marcus is your age. He’s fighting the Volscians.’

Tarchon opened one bloodshot eye. ‘I’m sick of hearing about your cousin,’ he snapped. ‘Besides, except for Rome, Veii doesn’t fight its neighbours.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, sitting up.

Tarchon yawned, touching his bruised jaw tentatively as he also sat up. ‘It’s true. All the cities in Etruria have formed a brotherhood that has lived in peace for centuries. The twelve greatest form a league to ensure concord continues. Tarquinia is one of them. So, too, is Veii. Each year they meet north of here at the sanctuary at Volsinii to elect a leader from among the twelve. Seianta’s father, Aule Porsenna, has been voted in as head zilath this year. As long as Rome keeps the treaty there is no opportunity for me to fight.’

‘Then go to sea. Fight the Syracusan raiders. Make Mastarna proud of you.’

To her surprise the youth gave a bitter laugh. ‘Do you really think Artile would let me be a soldier?’

‘What has he got to do with it?’

‘The priest has been more of a guardian to me than Mastarna. He looked after me when I first came to this household. He wanted to train me to become a priest.’

‘So why didn’t he?’

Tarchon suddenly became preoccupied with rearranging his necklaces and adjusting the buckle on his embroidered belt.

‘Tarchon?’

‘Mastarna was against it,’ he finally said. ‘And now he thinks Artile has made me soft. He wants me to marry and father children, enter politics, fulfil my duty to my city.’

‘As is fitting.’

He patted her as though she were a child. ‘I belong to Artile, Caecilia. I am not destined to be any of those things while I am his beloved. It is but another splinter under Mastarna’s skin.’

For a moment, Caecilia wondered if she’d heard correctly, then an ache returned to her head and belly. Here was another tier of rot revealed, the beautiful veneer stripped away. Only this time it was Tarchon who was wanting. No Roman citizen would submit to being the bride of another. A father would be justified to kill his son for such a disgrace. If he was in the army he could be executed.

‘How can he be your lover when you are both freeborn?’ She could hardly bear to say the words.

‘Caecilia, I wish you could understand. I am Artile’s beloved but he is more than my lover. I was eleven when my father died. As the youngest of seven sons my mother could not afford to keep me. I was sent to live with her cousins. I farewelled the Arx of Tarquinia and welcomed that of Veii’s; said goodbye to sea breezes and greeted woodland and streams. Seianta and I travelled here together. Larthia claimed me and Mastarna agreed to raise me.’

His mention of Seianta’s name made Caecilia turn to him, her hunger to know about the woman overcoming the discomfort of listening to his unnerving story. ‘You arrived here at the same time as Seianta?’

‘Yes. They were just married. Mastarna took little notice of me other than to grasp my shoulder and declare his home was mine. It was as though nothing else existed for him. Seianta was like a sun that warmed his stony soul or drained it if she denied him smiles.’

The youth picked at a loose thread on his embroidered belt. ‘I yearned for her to notice me also, enjoying her flirting cleverness, grinning at her antics and ploys. She rarely acknowledged me, though, feeding me titbits of attention. Enough to take the edge off loneliness but not enough to fill the hole. She was fourteen and could captivate adults and cajole men. Why would she waste her time speaking to an eleven-year-old boy?’

‘But Artile did?’

‘Yes, he took notice of me, recognising my loneliness and abandonment with those eyes that both terrified and seduced me. He was not yet chief haruspex but his fame as a seer was growing. I was overwhelmed that this agent of the gods cared about me.

‘At that age my body was much the same as a girl’s: the hint of breasts, sloped shoulders, straight waist and legs that had yet to decide how tall they should grow. I felt clumsy and ugly but Artile made me feel wanted. When we were alone together, he’d let me parade around his chamber dressed in his fringed shawl and hat. If I was good, he’d allow me to bisect a liver, my fingers sticky with blood, slimy with membrane. ‘It’s good practice,’ he’d say, ‘for when you become a priest.’

‘He told me once that he’d been sent away to the Sacred College at ten to learn about the Holy Books. There was pride at being chosen, but I could hear the timbre of loneliness and homesickness within his voice.

‘I had other schoolmasters, of course—a whining Greek whose birch rod stung my knuckles, but Artile soon sent him off and became my teacher, wrongly taking it upon himself to be my lover as well with no intention of teaching me the ways of manhood and citizenry and war.’

Caecilia stared at him. His blood was tainted—even though it had been the priest who was the corrupter. ‘What do you mean wrongly? When is it ever honourable for a nobleman to lie with a princip’s son?’

Tarchon shook his head. ‘Poor Caecilia. How confusing it is for you. You see, if another lord had offered to teach me there would have been no problem. In Veii, noblemen act as mentors to aristocratic youths; they become lovers and beloveds. It is only when their pupils fail to grow into soldiers, husbands and fathers that the boys are shunned as soft ones, what you Romans call ‘molles’. My dilemma, you see, is that Mastarna wishes me to be a man while Artile does not.’

Caecilia covered her face, her cheeks flushed. These people condoned debasing children. It was even worse than she thought.

Tarchon reached over to pull her hands away from her face. Instinctively, she shrank from his touch. He dropped his hand to his side as though used to disappointment.

Unable to look at him, she fingered Marcus’ amulet, praying its charm would protect her. If she could just concentrate on it she could continue listening. Concentrate on it and not think too deeply about what Tarchon said.

Despite her rebuff, Tarchon ploughed on with his tale. ‘At first Artile asked nothing of me. He would beckon me to his bed as innocently as would my mother. I’d lie against his chest as he stroked my hair and face. I felt safe. But as my body grew lean, waist narrow, shoulders broad, and chest and belly muscled, his embraces grew more ardent. He would spend himself between my legs. “Your sweet thighs,” he would say. “My sweet, sweet boy.” ’

It was as if Caecilia had plunged her face into an ice bath. The fact she’d braced herself for the painful burning cold did not stop it being excruciating. The thought of the priest touching her at the wedding made her skin crawl, and she was repulsed by the idea that he could hold such sway over Tarchon; that a kinsman could defile an innocent boy.

Slowly she faced him, realising just how different his childhood had been to hers. Tata had protected her, but who had protected Tarchon? Where was Mastarna when this happened? Suddenly she needed to hear the rest of her friend’s story. It was the time for him to tell it and for someone other than Artile to listen. This time she touched his hand. ‘Go on.’

Tarchon smiled briefly at her encouragement. ‘Don’t look so sad. Even though Artile broke the code I don’t regret what he did for me. I was scared at first; bewildered that he had changed from father to lover. He told me not to tell Mastarna. Not to tell anyone. I did not want to anyway. Artile was my world.’

‘How could Mastarna not have seen it?’

The youth’s face hardened. ‘Because he chose to be blind. Because, by the time I turned fourteen, his daughter had died and Seianta was sick with grieving. I was invisible to him, but I did not care. I was happy with Artile.

‘But one day he must have decided to take notice. He berated his brother, his bellows informing the neighbours of the scandal. He forbade Artile from seeing me and then adopted me so that I became officially nephew to my lover, yet another barrier between us. Finally, although I begged to be a cepen, he forbade me taking any further instruction. “There is already one too many priests in this house.” ’

‘But you are still with Artile. How can that be?’

Tarchon bowed his head and Caecilia saw that he’d picked clean the pattern upon his belt, threads tattered. ‘Because Seianta died. In his hurt and misery, Mastarna did not care what we did. I was able to return to Artile. But four years have passed and he cannot afford to ignore us any longer. He has said he will shun me if I do not leave Artile.’

Anger rose in her. Not at Tarchon but at her husband. He should have stopped his son’s corruption when the boy had first come into his care. Again the spectre of Seianta emerged. It seemed that she’d controlled Mastarna when she was alive as much as she haunted him in death. Distracting him first with her desire and then with her despair. But at least Mastarna was finally recognising his duty. And if Tarchon heeded him, he could yet avert disaster.

At home, she would not need to meet with a man such as Tarchon. The servants would have whispered his name, smacking their lips at rumour, and, in turn, her guardians would have pursed their mouths and forbidden mention of him, even though in the Forum his name would be on everybody’s tongue. It would have been easy to maintain contempt for a man known only to her through gossip. But in Veii, she had gladly spent each day with him. She knew she should spurn him, hating her people for expecting her to do so. But she could not do it. For he seemed no different from the Tarchon she knew before. It was not easy to despise a Veientane who wanted a Roman as a friend.

She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Do you remember how you said we were the same? Well I think that is so in more ways than one. There are echoes of my life in your tale. Both of us are controlled by powerful men. You’ve been stained by another, while many in Rome would see me as tainted for wedding a foe. But it is not too late for you. Reject Artile and you won’t be shunned. You can have other lovers. Slaves. Freedmen. Anyone but another freeborn.’