The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (26 page)

Artile smoothed one eyebrow again and nodded to Ulthes in acknowledgment. ‘Thank you, my lord. I have declared the meaning after consulting the Holy Book. I can do no more.’

The humility in Artile’s voice must have goaded his brother for Mastarna turned his back on him. The insult caused the assembly to mutter and shuffle in concern, but Caecilia’s husband ignored them. His gaze was directed alone at Laris Tulumnes. ‘You may rejoice in this omen, but no city in the league has installed a sovereign for many decades. The twelve cities will despise us, even spurn us if we do.’

‘Perhaps it is long ago for the likes of Tarquinia,’ Tulumnes shouted. ‘But don’t forget my father died just twenty years ago.’ He swivelled around to point at Caecilia. ‘Killed and mutilated by her people.’

The princip’s glare was one of sharp, deep hatred. Caecilia could feel his menace being hurled across the room. Tarchon put his hand on her shoulder. Arruns moved quietly to stand beside her.

Mastarna’s voice exploded with anger. ‘Whatever the Romans may have done, Tulumnes, your father was a despot. Veii chose to replace him with a zilath rather than bear the tyranny of another king.’

The usual sheen of perspiration on Tulumnes’ face had thickened into rivulets of sweat. At Mastarna’s taunt he strode towards Caecilia, stabbing his finger in the air at her, his eyes dark, paining for vengeance. ‘Mastarna and Ulthes have insulted us with this marriage. No one here should forget she is a descendent of Mamercus Aemilius. Now is the time to use this Roman whore to our advantage. Let us hold her as a hostage. Then Rome must choose to surrender or let her die.’

The familiar gnawing in the pit of Caecilia’s stomach returned. The destiny she’d feared when Aemilius first told of her marriage could come true. As Tulumnes advanced towards her, she cringed in fear. His great bulk loomed above her, malevolent and gloating. She was shaking, skin clammy beneath her damp clothes.

Mastarna was only a short step behind him. He wrenched Tulumnes away with a cold anger, a serious fury. ‘Touch her and I’ll kill you.’

‘Be quiet!’ Ulthes’ voice cut through the tension between the two lords, pushing the men apart as surely as if he’d laid hands upon them. Then, with his lictors shadowing him, he stood between them.

Mastarna took a step towards Caecilia but Ulthes restrained him, motioning her to come to him instead and offering her his arm.

Caecilia could not stop shaking, the terror of the temple returning, her heart pounding.

‘Take courage,’ he whispered. ‘Stand straight.’

Her knees buckled a little but he held her steady, placing his other hand over hers. Caecilia gripped his forearm, grateful for his protection but wishing he were Tata.

‘The College of Principes agreed to extend the treaty with Rome through this marriage. We will not dishonour that pact while I govern for we have nothing to fear. Rome is weak from starvation, it poses no threat.’ As he spoke he hooked his calloused thumb around Caecilia’s as a warning not to bridle before a company of frightened people.

Both Mastarna and Tulumnes tried to speak at once but Vipinas, cool amid rising tempers, interrupted them. ‘Be quiet both of you and let the Zilath speak.’

Caecilia noted his respectful tone with surprise. Mastarna had told her before that the colourless man did not approve of the treaty.

‘Today,’ said Ulthes, ‘the god of war warned us that my rule is in danger. Laran has spoken to us and we cannot ignore his message. For centuries the Rasenna have chosen lucumo or zilath, king or magistrate. Veii must choose again how it should be ruled. I do not want the destruction of our city from within—Veientane brother fighting brother. He gives us a chance to choose concord or conflict—a zilath and peace or a lucumo and war.’

The nobles who had whispered and gossiped as they waited now muttered in querulous murmurs at his words.

‘And so I propose that Tulumnes and I will be the only candidates at the upcoming election. In spring the College of Principes will determine the city’s destiny. In the meantime each tribe must make its choice.’

The chamber erupted into protest and quarrels. Apercu, his fat cheeks puffed like a wind god, fended off questions from his clansmen while the pallid Vipinas grew paler.

Tulumnes, the regal candidate, suddenly seemed to tower over those around him, his eyes radiant, his lopsided face somehow gaining symmetry from the chaos. Pesna crowded close to him, mimicking his crony’s responses to those who sought a hundred answers.

Strangely serene, Artile took his place behind the bronze table in the inner council room. Neatly folding the linen pages of the holy text, Caecilia thought he seemed strangely satisfied at having let one of its secrets escape and cause pandemonium.

The Zilath smiled grimly as he released Caecilia into the care of her husband.

Mastarna put his arm around her waist. ‘Are you very shaken?’

She shook her head in a lie.

‘Best you sit down. This could take some time.’

As Mastarna dealt with his angry tribesmen, Caecilia listened to the arguing, frightened people, praying that this palace would never again house a king.

Finally the Zilath’s voice boomed over the crowd: ‘There will be no more discussion. The heavens have delivered their message. Go home.’

*

All had been dismissed. All except Mastarna. And Aemilia Caeciliana.

The Roman sensed the grudging looks and resentful thoughts of the others at such favouritism. With a worried look, Tarchon reluctantly turned to continue his wait for them outside. Only Arruns remained inscrutable as he prepared to stand sentinel outside the door with the other lictors.

Ulthes sat wiping the red paint impatiently from his face with a cloth, his fingers stained as he drew them through his spiky hair.

Watching her husband pacing before his friend, Caecilia was struck at how close they were. Like older and younger brothers. It was no wonder her husband despised Artile when blood ties were like milk compared to such a friendship.

Mastarna did not break his stride. ‘Why do you give him a chance to take power?’

The Zilath was calm. ‘I have placed my faith in our equals. They voted for the treaty and I do not think they will fail us now, Vel. No one wants to return to oppression.’

‘It will not happen because I will order my men against him.’

‘No!’ The hard edge to the older man’s voice was no longer brotherly but as a father demanding obedience from his child. ‘I will not let you start a civil war.’

‘I am my own man, Arnth Ulthes.’ Mastarna’s voice had found an edge, too.

Stunned, Caecilia wished the men would cease their arguing, wanting to point out to them that the gods must be laughing at their cruel joke. How in cautioning men against discord they had awakened it. Wondering, too, why Ulthes believed Mastarna held power enough to combat Tulumnes alone.

‘I won’t let Veientanes slay each other.’ Ulthes displayed his reddened palms. ‘If I do there will be blood instead of paint on my hands.’

Mastarna grabbed one of his wrists. ‘Don’t you see, it will be your blood, Arnth, when Tulumnes claims the crown? Why give him a chance to be elected? When the blood of kings courses through other nobles in the college? Through you. Through me.’

Ulthes wrenched away. ‘You forget yourself.’

Caecilia could sense Mastarna’s embarrassment at showing such disrespect. ‘Forgive me, my lord,’ he said, bowing his head.

Ulthes’ voice softened. ‘It is better this way, Vel. Tulumnes’ ambition is like a canker. He will never stop in his quest to be king unless the boil is lanced. Let all the principes wield the scalpel, not you.’

‘But what if he wins? Veii is ill-equipped to fight a war. We have grown fat from twenty years of peace and our weapons are blunt and rusted. Do you expect me to stand by while Tulumnes harms my wife and forces her people to surrender? Do you think I would let Tulumnes kill her?’

Both men looked at her, conscious that she should not be listening to their dispute. Mastarna’s words were making real the threat when all she wanted to hear was reassurance.

‘Of course not. But we will handle that danger when and if it happens. In the meantime we must see to it that we win the election,’ said Ulthes, smiling faintly at her. ‘So Aemilia Caeciliana will be safe.’

The Zilath bent closer to Mastarna, voice intense. ‘Promise me you will not start a civil war.’

Caecilia was bewildered. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How is Mastarna able to challenge Tulumnes?’

‘Because my tenants owe allegiance to me, Caecilia. They form an army that I pledge to the city. The largest army in Veii.’

Caecilia stared at her husband. Tarchon had hinted at the extent of his power, and now she realised there was no exaggeration. Her city’s strength came from citizen soldiers whose every sword stroke reserved their right to their piece of soil, their piece of Rome. Here private armies battled for their lords, either together for Veii—or among themselves.

Once again Ulthes pressed his friend for an answer.

Mastarna rubbed his brow, hesitating. ‘Very well,’ he finally said. ‘If Tulumnes is declared lucumo by our peers I won’t rise against him. But don’t think he’ll accept defeat if you are voted zilath. And don’t think I’ll stand by then and let him rule by force.’

‘It will not come to that. We know Apercu has no liking for kings. All we need is to persuade Vipinas to favour our cause.’

He nodded towards Caecilia. ‘Your wife is weary. Both of you get some sleep in whatever is left of this night. Tomorrow we begin our campaign. For my election and against war.’

Mastarna hesitated, not ready to concede the argument was resolved. Caecilia tugged at his arm. ‘Let it be,’ she whispered. In return she weathered a dark look, but finally Mastarna bade the magistrate good night.

As they moved away, Ulthes called after them. ‘Have faith in our peers, Vel. Have faith in me.’

She thought she would faint from exhaustion, feet dragging as she tripped to match Mastarna’s stride. He did not lessen his pace. As she stumbled tiredly after him, she considered Arnth Ulthes, who had power to ask the richest man to defer to him.

Who called Mastarna by his first name when she did not.

And Vel Mastarna, her husband, who’d claimed and defended her
.

*

The storm had passed and the metallic smell of earth mingled with the fragrance of rain. Water dripped off the roof opening’s edges, striking the atrium’s pool with rhythmic dollops. Vanth and Tuchulcha’s stone cheeks were streaked with tears.

Larthia greeted them dressed in her night robe, her acanthus embroidered shawl loose about her shoulders, hair untied, elegant in her disquiet.

Mastarna strode forward, Caecilia and Tarchon following upon his heels. No one had spoken since leaving the palace.

‘I have been waiting a long time.’ She bestowed a kiss on her son.

Mastarna put his arm around her briefly. ‘I’m hungry. I’ll tell you everything while we eat.’

Larthia kissed Tarchon on the cheek, too, then, turning to Caecilia, opened her arms. ‘You must be very frightened.’

Caecilia was greedy for the hug. It was the first time she had been held so by another woman. She assumed her own mother had once embraced her when she was a child but there was no memory of it, only of the hard band of Aemilia’s fingers gripping her own or the formal brush of lips on occasion. She found herself standing stiffly, conscious of breast touching breast, the smooth silk of the acanthus shawl against her arms, the wisps of Larthia’s hair straying across her face. ‘No harm will come to you,’ her mother-in-law whispered, and Caecilia found herself reluctant to leave the closeness, knowing that this is what a mother would promise—assurances without proof, protection without guarantee.

Caecilia had no appetite to eat the steaming bowl of lentils and onion sauce offered her. After what she had heard, she needed to calm her nerves and so she held out her cup for the servant boy to fill with wine. Having grown used to the sobriety of his foreign mistress, the slave hesitated. Tarchon put his hand upon her wrist, his eyes questioning, but Larthia waved him away. It was not the time to query what now seemed a trifle.

Mastarna observed his wife but said nothing. She swallowed the contents of the cup quickly. It was not like the sweet Sardinian wine that had warmed her belly and her senses so swiftly. This watered-down vintage was disappointing, giving her no mild euphoria, no balm to her spirits. Instead it seemed to summon melancholy. She wondered why she had fretted so about drinking it.

Mastarna concentrated on eating, almost as though it were a duty, wiping away any sauce that splashed upon his chin with the back of his hand. She wondered at such an appetite. How could he feel any mortal need tonight other than a desire for the gods to make things right?

While he ate, Mastarna related the events at the palace. Larthia cupped her cheek, her face ashen with more than the pain of her mouth and her voice tremulous as she asked haltingly about the return of a king.

Caecilia nodded as she listened, perplexed. ‘Do you really think a lucumo will be elected? I believed Etruscans thought even less of royalty than Romans.’