The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (25 page)

‘Please, Mastarna, I’m afraid.’ She grabbed his sleeve, not trying to hide how her voice quavered or her fingers fumbled with courage.

He squeezed her hand briefly. ‘Keep calm. Until Artile tells us what this means there is no use in worrying.’

But he did not let her hand drop from his as he led her past the stone table, instead clasped it tightly as though shielding a quaking child from ghosts. And for a moment she wondered if he was gaining strength from her grip, too, that he also had something to fear from the fierce lances of light, that he might suffer punishment also if the thunder strike pointed to her city, pointed to her, as some kind of scourge.

The bull lay on its side, exhausted and silent, the jaunty but bedraggled ribbons trailing in the wet, the bells silent. Its distress had been an omen in itself. A beast resisting sacrifice did not bode well. It was all so complicated—communing with the gods, witnessing how divine secrets were revealed.

She shivered. Wanting desperately to be home.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

The god who hurled the thunder bolt meant men to take notice.

At the palace the principes inspected the damage, taking it in turns to file past the site where the lightning had gouged a scorched furrow into the fired-brick wall of the building. The rain pelted all, the women’s flimsy parasols no protection as everyone stared at the puddles surrounding the rut left by the fiery spear. Some gasped at the wound, others paled. Many murmured a prayer.

Mastarna was impassive, no longer holding Caecilia’s hand. The register of her voice was low and hoarse as she asked him what it meant, but he could give no comfort.  ‘Pray the gods remember they blessed the treaty. Pray they are not fickle.’

After that he followed Ulthes into his inner chamber through bronze doors that extended as high as the ceiling. Only six were allowed to hold counsel with the Zilath. Five high councillors and Artile, Chief Haruspex of Veii. The doors swung heavily on their hinges when they closed. Two slaves were needed on each to move them. They shut with a clang to signal the secrecy that was to begin.

Tarchon took off the scarlet cloak, his good mood also discarded. Instead he seemed drained, the high emotion siphoned from him, first by the excitement of the storm and then by the anxiety trapped within the antechamber.

At first Caecilia was amazed that women were allowed to remain, but she was soon aware that the other wives were used to waiting upon their husbands’ deliberations. Gathered in groups, their voices were muted as they probed and examined every aspect of the evening’s drama. Occasionally they would glance at her, as they had at the temple. Caecilia wondered why they bothered to be surreptitious. They might as well stare.

Erene was nowhere to be seen. Caecilia almost felt disappointed at the absence of an unlikely ally.

The members of the College of Principes waited also. All those who had gathered at the temple to observe the signs now gathered in the hall to hear the verdict. Dripping, steam rose from their robes along with the smell of fine wet wool. Sodden silks clung fast, revealing here a skinny calf, there a plump arm. The nobility plucked at the soaked cloth, pulling it away from their skin, pushing clinging hair from their eyes. The marble hall resounded with squelching footsteps from sopping shoes.

The chamber was enormous but not large enough to comfortably house all. Crammed together, the elderly were offered seats on claw-footed couches. The remainder pressed together in groups, then parted, gossip hovering between one person’s lips and another’s ears, whispers fraught with argument and conjecture, and all laughter banished.

Curtains of golden thread billowed from chequered ceilings. Cramped, people leaned against immense murals depicting the stories of the Divine: Turan and Laran—love wedded to war; Fufluns and his satyrs, and Tinia and Uni—King and Queen of the gods.

Examining the paintings, Caecilia marvelled how Rasennan children were fed on ethereal chronicles, myths and fables, while Roman heirs had to make do with the history of mortals like Romulus and Aeneas. Why was it that in Rome her gods had only purpose and a name, and yet across the Tiber they revealed their lives? Why had the divine chosen to expose their thoughts, deeds and emotions here? Why were these people so blessed when they were so depraved?

Tarchon touched her forearm, startling her. She clasped his hand. ‘Please stay with me.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, gesturing to the crowd. ‘All of us are afraid.’

His words were brave but she could tell he was nervous. It was clear, though, he was prepared to take responsibility for her. She was family now and he would not let her stand forlorn as he had done at the temple.Arruns had not left her side either. She was growing used to his presence, no longer drawn to study his tattoo instead of his eyes.

‘We lived here for a year when Mastarna was zilath,’ Tarchon said. ‘It’s still called the palace even though there is no king. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

Caecilia nodded, trying to imagine Mastarna residing in this splendour with his Tarquinian bride, honoured and revered. His new wife brought a different type of standing.

Tarchon pulled a pouch from his tunic. Drawing some fresh green leaves from it, he rolled them into a plug. When he began to chew them Caecilia frowned in distaste, understanding why his teeth were stained and his breath stank.

‘We could be waiting for a long time,’ he said, offering her some. ‘This Catha will help quell your fears.’

His pretty lips curved into a conceited smile knowing she would be wrestling with curiosity.

‘Catha is named after our sun god. It will liberate you from space and time. It will make you exultant, elated.’

Here was another plant of which Aurelia had never spoken. She thought of the Alpan. This Catha must be like river rapids compared to the gentle buffeting current of her elixir. It held no allure, though, with its pungent sour smell. She guessed its taste would be no better. ‘I have never heard of it.’

‘It is from the land called Aegyptus. Their traders bring it here.’

The Roman girl shook her head, wary of chewing the leaves of a herb seeded in even more foreign soil than Veii’s.

Tarchon shrugged his shoulders then gestured to the principes around them. ‘See how they bicker about the portent, confident in their own interpretation? A vain pastime. Only Artile will know exactly what the lightning bolt foretells. He is skilled in reading the signs contained in the Book of Thunderbolts.’

‘Another holy text?’

Previously, Tarchon had been reluctant to tell her about the Book of Acheron, but today, perhaps unnerved by the lightning, he was prepared to talk about this other sacred tome. How it revealed that the deities held domain in sixteen different sectors in the sky. How those that lived in the northwest were to be dreaded and those in the northeast were to be beseeched to show their favour.

Caecilia thought of how many times she’d pointed at the stars, unaware that she might be touching the smile of Uni or Turan’s brow. With all the Etruscan gods, angels and demons, the heavens must indeed be crowded. ‘And these gods, can all of them throw thunderbolts?’

‘No. Only nine can throw the splinters of sound and light. It is the task of the haruspex to interpret the meaning of their source and destination. There is an almanac that lists the import of thunder heard on certain days to which all principes can refer; a calendar detailing omens including warnings about war, governments and conflicts.’

‘And what does the almanac predict for today?’

‘That is what everyone is arguing about and why people frown and fret. For if thunder is heard on the fourth day of this month, the bolt signifies the downfall of a powerful man.’

The rapid beating of her heart had subsided slightly while waiting, but now it stirred again. The downfall of a powerful man? Could it be her husband? Or Ulthes? If so, her demise would follow theirs.

Tarchon leaned closer. ‘Don’t worry. The calendar is not such a simple thing to read. The Chief Haruspex will decipher the portent.’

Caecilia tried to push her fright away. The anticipation of hearing bad news was exhausting. She wished the doors would open and her fate be declared. Still, it was hard not to marvel at Tarchon’s lesson. Her people relied on custom and memory for their rites. Books held knowledge and the law, not divine words. Roman deities had not allowed their magic to be recorded in ink and paper.

How splendid these Rasennan books of worship must be! Did they creak as they were unfurled, the scrolls thick and heavy with wisdom? Did men’s skin burn as they touched such mysteries or their eyes moisten when reading holy terms?

‘Whatever the omen,’ continued Tarchon. ‘Artile will conduct the rites to bury the lightning.’

‘Bury lightning? How can you do that?’

‘The bricks that were scorched will be broken up and buried. All prodigies must be destroyed after they have revealed their portent in case any evil also exists within them. That part of the palace will never be used again.’

As Tarchon returned the Catha to its pouch, Caecilia thought of Artile who could grapple with a lightning bolt, break it asunder and decipher its spark. It was no wonder the youth believed in his lover.

*

Weariness overwhelmed her as worries circled within her head. Body aching from staying in one position, her neck sore from tension, Caecilia leaned back against a mural, her head resting upon that of a painted centaur. Its scrutiny was permanently fixed upon the middle of the room while hers traversed the entire chamber.

As time passed into the dead hours of the night, more chairs were brought and all sat, heads nodding, voices muted except in pockets of disagreement, their murmurs an accompaniment to the melodies of the court musicians.

And then the bronze doors opened.

The Zilath entered wearing his crown, the vermilion dye upon his face still immaculate, his shoulders straight. Fear had not eked its way into his face to cloud his eyes, furrow his brow or tighten his mouth, yet Caecilia knew he was struggling to harness calm. His deformed hand tapped nervously against his thigh.

Through the doors, Caecilia could see a huge table clad in bronze upon which lay folded linen books laced with lettering. Wisdom wrapped in cloth? Could this be the Book of Thunderbolts? Such plainness was disappointing after visions of scrolls sheathed in gold.

Artile followed Ulthes, arranging his fringed shawl with precision. With one finger, the nail painted black, he smoothed the arch of his eyebrows slowly, savouring the anticipation of the waiting principes, making it apparent he enjoyed his position as both interpreter for the deities and mediator between men.

Mastarna and the other high councillors entered the hall. All five of them had been zilaths at one time. All understood the pressure that Ulthes must withstand. Fat Apercu plucked at his bullfrog chins while even the waxen-faced Vipinis, whose veins bled vinegar, seemed perturbed. Lanky Pesna loitered behind the others, watching Laris Tulumnes like a slave anxious to avoid a beating.

Tulumnes, with his crooked face, was smiling. Not his usual pinched and poverty-stricken look but broadly, gladly; and his body, usually tensed into the rigid lines that defined his own type of hunger, was oddly relaxed as though replete from a hearty meal.

Her husband’s face was covered in stubble, his eyes ringed with shadows, the muscles of his neck strained. He searched the room for her and nodded curtly when he saw her.

Caecilia sat forward, anxious to hear whether the gods sought war, that her role was to change from a symbol of goodwill to that of hostage—worse still, of an evil prodigy needing to be slain or burned and buried, like the lightning.

The Zilath called for silence, nodding to Artile.

‘The warning bolt flashed red,’ declared the Chief Priest, ‘and was thrown from the southeast where Laran, the god of war, resides. It also struck the palace. The Holy Book says such an event portends the rule of the Zilath is in danger.’

The brief silence in the hall evaporated as the principes fought to be heard all at once. Before Ulthes could address them, Tulumnes stepped forward, careless of offending the Zilath. His words instantly proved Artile had foretold the truth. ‘Heed me, my noble friends,’ he called. ‘The gods are calling for the return of a king.’

Caecilia struggled to understand his talk of monarchy. She’d believed that all kings were long buried by both Romans and the Rasenna. She’d also thought the ambitions of the descendants of Veientane royalty had been watered down or washed away.

Mastarna broke away from the other councillors and strode over to Tulumnes. ‘You are deluded if you think Veii will ever crown another lucumo. I will never let this city return to oppression, no matter what Artile may claim the gods might say.’

Caecilia watched Artile tense at his brother’s criticism. No one else in this room would dare to question the priest’s authority and interpretation. Ulthes frowned at his friend’s rashness, and for the first time Caecilia noticed how old he was. Till now she’d always marvelled at his youthfulness compared to her uncle Aemilius, but deliberation over the future of his city had stripped him of that vigour. The red dye upon his face failed to hide the lines of age, his tenseness and his weary expression. ‘The haruspex is not to be challenged.’