The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (22 page)

Tarchon frowned. ‘This isn’t Rome, Caecilia. We aren’t tainted and Mastarna will not kill me.’

‘Are you foolish? If Mastarna shuns you, so will Veii!’

‘I don’t care. Artile will protect me.’

‘You’re mad,’ she shouted. ‘You’ll think differently when people turn their back upon you. I thought you wanted to please Mastarna.’

Arrogance and stubbornness surfaced upon Tarchon’s face. She recognised them from looking in the mirror.

‘It’s not that simple. Even if I broke off with Artile, Mastarna won’t respect me. I’m not meant to be a warrior. Besides, I will never leave him.’

As he strode away, Caecilia stared back into the tunnel, at the darkness within its vaulted arch. What had been delightful now seemed ominous, the Veientanes’ artistry sullying nature. It was as though she’d bitten into an apple and found a worm. The sweetness of the afternoon was spoilt, her world, once again, turned upside down.

*

Arruns was shaving Mastarna when she returned. Because of his heavy beard her husband often liked to do so in the evening. Both men’s chests were bare, the air redolent with masculinity and perfume.

Musicians were playing in the garden. Normally she would pause to listen, always grateful that such artists were employed for mundane purpose not just for ceremonies; the burden of their slavery relieved by plucking strings, beating drums or trilling pipes. And it seemed the Veientanes captured the lilt of melody in their limbs even when no lyre or horn could be heard.

Mastarna’s barbers made smooth his body by pitch, but he trusted only Arruns to shave him. The servant was careful in his ministrations, using the razor skilfully, scraping the bristles from Mastarna’s chin with a precision that ensured no nicks were made.

Despite spending nearly all their waking hours together, the freedman and his master were not friends, not even companions. There was a bond between them, though. Arruns was Mastarna’s shadow. It was clear he would die without hesitation for the princip.

Caecilia felt no such affinity towards the Phoenician. And yet there was a connection between them that stemmed from him having saved her life. The blue tattooed snake that writhed around his torso and bit into his face did not frighten her. She felt no menace, but she was wary. His strength was awesome, the danger he posed to Mastarna’s enemies ever present. Yet, strangely, Arruns was more like a Roman than all the other Veientane men she’d met. There was no sense of excess about him, his reserve had dignity, a sense of duty was instilled within him.

Mastarna frowned when he saw her. ‘What have you been doing? You look bedraggled.’

‘I want to talk to you about Tarchon.’

‘Why? What has he done now?’

Aware that their conversation should be held in private, Caecilia turned to Cytheris, who was busy choosing a change of clothes for her mistress. ‘Go and get me some hot water to wash my feet.’

As the maid reluctantly left the chamber Caecilia stared pointedly at Arruns. She hoped that Mastarna would give a similar command, but he gestured to his servant to continue with his task.

The constant attendance of the two servants in Caecilia’s life was unsettling. Cytheris and Arruns seemed to share all intimacies except the time spent lying or asleep with her husband. Shared secrets also. Sometimes she longed for solitude instead of being crowded by people who tended to her every comfort.

‘Tarchon has told me about Artile.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your son is a freeborn man submitting to being a bride.’

Mastarna’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘And where did a Roman maiden learn to speak in such a way?’

She thought of the servants’ gossip about Aemilius. How she had snatched and squirrelled their words inside her head, not understanding them until now. Realised, too, why such eavesdropping was of value.

‘I’ve learned more than how to count in my life. How could you let it happen?’

At her words Mastarna turned and dismissed Arruns after all. Suddenly Caecilia was nervous, realising she had blundered. They’d not quarrelled since she’d defied him about the golden gown. Even so, she had to hear his side of the story.

As before with her, his contempt was cold and deliberate. ‘I don’t know what Tarchon has told you, but I can assure you I am not at fault here. I did not condone Artile taking a boy who was not eligible or of an age to be his beloved. And when I discovered his deception I forbade him to continue. But both my brother and my son have continued to defy me. It is Artile you should accost, Caecilia. He is the one who denies Tarchon the right to be a man now that my son has grown a full beard.’

‘What has that to do with it? A Roman boy becomes a man at fourteen. Tarchon was that old when Artile stained him.’

‘Growing a full beard marks the time when a mentor must release his pupil to enter public life.’

Caecilia could not believe Mastarna was excusing such a despicable practice. She pointed to the bronze shaving basin and pedestal. ‘How can you tell if a youth has grown hair upon his chin? All you Veientane men have smooth cheeks like children.’

Mastarna slowly stood up. Wiping away remnants of lather from his face, he crossed the room. ‘Don’t you think I am a man, Caecilia?’

She glanced away, embarrassed. He had shown her more than once that he was virile as they lay beneath the Alpan’s spell. The scent upon his skin and the gentle music to which he listened in no way detracted from his maleness. ‘Of course not,’ she said, her voice trailing away.

Mastarna drew her close and she sensed he was no longer angry. ‘Bellatrix, I can understand how bewildered you must be, but there is no dishonour in a nobleman teaching a boy to be a man. Artile abused the rules and won’t admit he is condemning Tarchon to humiliation. Tarchon is being foolish, too. I have no choice other than to shun him if he doesn’t break with my brother. But you might be able to persuade him. He just might listen to you.’

Glad that there was one instance where Veii’s rules were the same as Rome’s, Caecilia nodded. ‘I’ll try.’

‘Good,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek before breaking away to take his cloak off a wall hook.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To meet with Ulthes then dine with the other high councillors.’

‘Again? I thought you’d already met with them today.’

‘Tulumnes is being difficult.’

Caecilia weighed up whether she should question him about such politics, but she could see he was in a hurry. His role as one of the elders of the city often called him away at night. The Etruscan government intrigued her. It was not a republic. The common man did not have a voice. Discovering this shocked the plebeian in her. Instead of their six tribes electing consuls or generals together with a body of senators to advise them, the principes chose magistrates from their own ranks to sit in an electoral college. The clan chieftains, who formed a high council, then elected the zilath. Mastarna was one of these leaders together with Vipinas, Pesna and Apercu. Tulumnes also.

She sighed. It was rare that her husband returned from such meetings in a good mood. The councillors argued over every proposal, and Tulumnes and Pesna were constant thorns in Ulthes’ side.

Mastarna cupped her chin with his fingers as he bade her goodnight.

‘As for my shaving,’ he said, all traces of their argument gone. ‘I’ve never known a woman who wanted her skin scratched by her lover’s beard.’

When he’d gone, Cytheris returned. As the maid knelt to wash her mistress’ feet, Caecilia wanted to tell her all that had happened but she was too tired. Instead, staring into space, she was at last free to lose herself in thought. The task of convincing Tarchon would not be easy. For if he could challenge the authority of his father, why would he heed the counsel of a young Roman girl?

Glossary

Cast of Characters

A bright yellow sun beat down upon them; a sun more suited for summer than for the blue sharpness of autumn. Caecilia gazed out to a sky streaked with clouds, giddy at the heights upon which she stood. For the Arx of Veii clung to a hurtling cliff of red and grey, and, impregnable, brooded over dark valleys of carpeted russet and gold.

The gentle undulations of the Roman hills were humble compared to such gaudy geography. Vulnerable, too, although that was a word she had never before applied to her city, a city that lay so tantalisingly close.

The Temple of Uni lay near to the precipice, allowing the goddess to preside over her dominion without having to edge closer to its rim. To Caecilia, it seemed that the giant city wall was the only thing that prevented the sanctuary from toppling to the landscape below. The immense terracotta goddess stared balefully at the ministrations of her servants, her gaze encompassing the vast crowd that murmured and jostled beyond the steps of her temple. Below her, priests fussed with pateras and axes, knives and draining bowls. An aulos was being played, the graceful notes of the double oboe twisting through the air like ribbons of smoke. Crafted in clay, head and shoulders covered in goatskin, and brandishing a lightning bolt, Uni stood ensconced in glory within her own chamber, triumphant that other gods had been relegated to the two temple cells on either side.

Uni.

Roman Juno.

It was a comfort that she lived in Veii. Here was a deity who was more than Mother Goddess. She was also a fearsome warrioress, a liberator.

‘Tonight,’ Mastarna had informed her earlier, ‘we will sacrifice a bull in thanksgiving for a bountiful harvest.’

Hearing this, Caecilia had been too excited to sleep. Unwed Roman girls were not permitted to witness a state ceremony. Instead she’d only observed her uncle taking the auspices over domestic concerns and familial decisions. And so she was grateful to stand on the temple porch among the high-ranking principes, the Chief Haruspex and the Zilath, and survey the round stone altar that stood in the forecourt below.

The unseasonable heat made the air suffocating, stifling.  The temperature had been rising all day, but proximity to the sacred table made the overpowering warmth bearable, her exhilaration defying the heat, suppressing discomfort.

Solemnity had not yet settled on the people at the prospect of sacred rites. The sanctuary was crowded with Veientanes enjoying themselves. Used to the worship of the ritual phallus, Caecilia nevertheless found her cheeks burning at the startling number of steles
and womblike stones adorning the temple and its precincts, proof of the people’s belief in the sacredness of fertility and rebirth. Many took long draughts of wine, dancing to the music of double flutes and lyres as they pressed their bodies together, arms draped around necks, singing. Both men and women urinated openly while some vomited noisily where they stood, their neighbours taking care to avoid the mess. The god Fufluns was making his presence known, encouraging drunkenness.

Screwing up her nose, Caecilia thought it was no wonder the cat-eyed Rasenna treasured their religion; daily expiation was surely needed to counter such sacrilege.

She wished Larthia was with her. Her mouth and gums ulcerated, the pain painting her face grey and making her weary, the matron attended less and less public events.Mastarna was not with her either. Tonight he was occupied with the other councillors, playing the role of politician. She had been left to stand with the wives, homespun among silks.

Scanning the temple precincts she finally saw Tarchon, the scarlet and black of his tebenna cloak noticeable across the throng. He was talking to a youth, one arm slung across the other’s shoulders. Both were shaking with laughter.

Seeing them amused by each other, hands and bodies brushing together affectionately, she had to turn away, wondering if his companion was freeborn, too, and whether Tarchon had added infidelity to his wickedness. He would have to take care. Artile seemed possessive. Or perhaps jealousy had no currency among male lovers.

It was not Tarchon, though, who was being shunned today. The councillors’ wives gathered apart from Caecilia in careless conversation and careful exclusion. To ignore them Caecilia gazed upward to the heavy wooden beams of the ceiling, sheathed in painted terracotta as brilliant as Tarchon’s cloak. Brightness matched by the colourful robes of the statues of many deities balanced perilously upon the temple roof, keeping watch upon her.

Someone else was observing her, too. The Zilath’s mistress stood separate from the others on the edge of the portico. The whore moved closer.

‘It seems they like Romans even less than a hetaera.’

Caecilia turned away slightly, exercising her own form of ostracism, but it was impossible to pretend the Cretan woman was not there—although, granted, Erene’s perfume this time was subdued, and the carmine and albumen on her lips and face subtle. Far from indecent by Rasennan norms, her sleeveless cream chiton nevertheless seemed shocking to Caecilia, exposing as it did her firm and supple arms and hints of her shapely legs through the skirt’s long side slits. Fine chains ringed her neck, bust and waist, gold bracelets coiled up her arms, and ivory rings embraced her long, slim fingers. Caecilia wondered why the woman didn’t jangle when she walked; at least it would give warning of her approach.