The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (30 page)

The grim contours of her mother’s face returned to Caecilia. Aemilia had chosen misery, locking herself in her room, dry-eyed and dried up inside, merely existing.

But would she have been proud of her daughter? Would that sad woman have felt Caecilia’s sacrifice was for good purpose?

Deep down Caecilia knew her mother would have wanted her to go. Not for peace but for the honour. And despite her shock and sense of betrayal, the girl knew Larthia was right; that she was strangely pleased that Tata’s dream had come true when both classes of Rome had finally joined together, if only briefly, to see her wed.

‘I believe you will survive our world. A vine flourishes because it can climb and weave and explore. It survives even though its roots may be planted in earth far from where it roams. In time I think you will be content. For here you can be more than mother, wife or daughter. You can foster your own ambitions at the same time as supporting your husband’s.’

Caecilia looked away, watching a kitchen maid mopping up her mess. It was difficult to meet her mother-in-law’s gaze, to believe that what she said was true. She knew she’d unexpectedly found bravery in a glade beside a river, but what Larthia spoke of was different—a courage that must be sustained through every moment of every day, whether dealing with tedious tasks or momentous crises.

‘Now what has my son done to upset you? You can tell me.’

Caecilia shook her head, not wanting to divulge what had occurred.

Larthia leaned down from her chair to pick up a shard of bowl. ‘It must be of some import if it has come to breaking pottery,’ she said, smiling. ‘Luckily the House of Mastarna is wealthy.’

Caecilia blinked, nonplussed at the jest. It was odd to hear such words when all she could see before her was the wan, drawn face that did not hide Larthia’s pain but implored her not to notice it. The older woman’s voice was raspy and soft, each word frayed and tattered. Caecilia saw how it pained her to swallow. The suppurating ulcers meant she could eat little yet Larthia had not retired from her life. Her bones were of metal, not soft ornamental bronze but iron, the ore of weapons and warriors. She was a survivor even as she suffered.

‘I am sorry about the mess.’

The matron pointed to the wall. ‘Well, your aim is true. You hit Vel in the face.’

The mural the servants were cleaning extended the full length of the chamber. Caecilia had studied the picture of the parents and children dining together many times; the intimacy depicted in the tincture and pigment seemed somehow shocking. Until now she thought it to be a scene from another age, but as she looked closer she saw that the wife dining in the garden was indeed Larthia. A Larthia with dark hair instead of white, with sensual lips instead of blistered mouth. The woman extended her hand across the table to tenderly clasp that of her husband’s. Here was the Mastarna of whom her mother-in-law so often spoke.

Larthia held a little boy upon her lap. Rolls of fat evident, he held a half-eaten orange in his plump grip while another boy, legs sturdy, was showing how he could throw a bone to a handsome dog that crouched beneath the table. It was this child to whom Larthia was pointing. Could it truly be Mastarna, lord of the house?

There was no doubting the bloodline. Both sons had inherited their father’s dark features. Caecilia thought it odd to look upon someone who was father to her husband but younger in appearance. Vel Mastarna senior did not even look to be thirty in the paint that formed him.

The matron sat down again, wiping her mouth with her kerchief, frail, face pale. ‘You know, Caecilia, you remind me of myself. I, too, was an old bride. Married at seventeen after an earlier betrothal come to naught. Like you I came from a different city. My father wished an alliance with the wealthy House of Mastarna. Vel’s grandfather was also happy for the partnership, gaining sailing ships for his cargoes.

I also trembled on my wedding night and prayed to Uni that my groom would spare me hurt. I was determined not to like him, not to feel the lesser for coming from a family that could not boast such wealth as his. I need not have worried. My Mastarna was no more than twenty and resentful of being married before he’d proven himself in battle. At first both of us were prickly and proud, but common nervousness led to affection. He became friend as well as lover, the one who could both calm as well as stir me.’

Caecilia concentrated again on the sight of the young Vel, uncomfortable with Larthia’s open declaration of her love. The matron seemed not to notice.

‘I fell with child easily and bore my two sons without trouble. And I thought the gods would bless us with many more, but it was not to be. After many peaceful years the truce with Rome was broken. Fidenae rebelled against the Roman yoke and Veii came to its aid.’ Larthia’s voice faltered slightly. ‘And my Mastarna marched to war.’ She quickly patted her mouth to grant an excuse for letting her mask slip.

‘After that it seemed as though there was no time when I did not fear the Romans would break through the Fidenate lines, cross the Tiber and march upon Veii. No time when I did not dream of them butchering my sons and raping me.’

Caecilia fiddled with a bean on the table that had escaped the flight of its brothers, anything but face her mother-in-law. It was strange to hear the enemy’s side of the story, how they lived in the shadow of death cast by her people
.
Her city was always at war, taking its battles to the gates of its foes so that its women and children did not have to always live in terror. For Rome did not sit astride a cliff like Veii. Rome besieged other cities because it could not itself withstand a siege.

‘Every day I waited to hear news that my Mastarna was dead,’ continued the widow. ‘It was a torment beyond torment—not knowing, waiting.’

Caecilia squashed the bean into the table, gluey beneath her fingertip. She knew the end of the story. Larthia’s Mastarna had died. At Mamercus Aemilius’ hand.

Larthia gestured to the maid to fetch a beaker of water.

‘After I buried him, Caecilia, sorrow would soothe me to sleep and then greet me when I woke. After that I learned what it meant to survive; that a woman must do whatever it takes to get through each day, to conquer grief and grow stronger inside. Guided by Vel’s grandfather, I ran this household. I supervised tenants and sat in audience with clients. And then I started my workshop so that I would not have time to remember what I’d lost or indeed forget what I had to live for, why I had to survive.’

Caecilia did not need to ask what that was. Two sons, both jealous for her attention. Two sons growing into men.

‘You must hate me,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘How could you watch your son marry an Aemilian?’

Larthia took a sip of water from her cup. And then another. ‘There is no denying I found it hard at first, but if welcoming the daughter of an enemy into my family prevents other sons being killed, then I will gladly do so.’

‘But didn’t Mastarna want to avenge his father’s death?

‘Of course he did. When Fidenae fell he was fifteen, desperate to fight but of course too young. Just like Tulumnes he was impatient for vengeance, but the enemy they wanted to defeat was no longer a foe. The twenty-year truce had been signed. After the Lucumo was slain, the Veientanes argued among themselves whether to elect another king, but chose not to bow once again to a potential tyrant. Tulumnes felt the loss of his father keenly and wanted retribution. He was and is still tortured, too, by the thought that his father’s ghost wanders in eternal shame.’

For a brief moment, Caecilia understood the depth of the princip’s hatred, realising that Rome had only told her the bones of his father’s story. This woman was adding flesh to fact and emotion to legend.

‘Why did Mastarna change his mind?’

‘Because of Arnth Ulthes, of course. He believed there was no point in avenging endlessly.’

‘A lesson taught when Mastarna went with him to sea?’

Larthia shook her head. ‘No, before that. Vel’s grandfather expected him to learn to be the master of this house. While civil unrest continued Ulthes helped him in this regard. He had long been my husband’s friend.’

‘And then they went to Tarquinia?’

‘Vel was eighteen by then. Old enough to experience battle, not just pretend to do so at training. Neither I nor his grandfather could stop him. With Vipinas at last installed as zilath and peace agreed with Rome, he was keen to go with Ulthes.’

‘And Artile. Did he not want to avenge his father?’

 ‘Artile was a strange child never born to wield a sword. I don’t think he cares whether there is peace or war provided he can converse with the gods.’

‘So there is no reason for Mastarna to be jealous?’

Larthia tightened an ivory hairpin that had come loose, sighing as she did so. Her white hair was thinning in places now and had lost its sheen. ‘It is difficult not to grow fond of a son who helps me stay in communion with the dead. Vel mistakes this for preference.’

‘So Artile is a comfort to you even now while Mastarna stirs concerns.’

‘As I said before, I love my sons equally. Both have achieved greatness and did so at an early age. Artile showed exceptional talent as a seer when only ten years old. I thought my heart would burst from pride when he was chosen to study at the Sacred College, although it was painful to leave him with the priests. He trembled greatly as I peeled his fingers from my own, even though I wanted never to let them go.’

‘And Mastarna, were you sad to farewell him?’

‘Why, of course, but it was different. He was a man by then. And when he returned after his grandfather had died, he was elected zilath when only thirty years of age, achieving fame and standing greater than his father.’

Larthia rubbed her brow in weariness. ‘Despite growing up, though,’ she said, ‘men are still little boys. Mastarna and Artile are just as they were when this mural was painted, both arguing as to who may claim me first.’

The frail woman lifted the beaker to her lips, gripping the cup as though even the weight of so small a thing was a burden, but Caecilia recognised Larthia’s might. This woman knew there was power in doling out favours. Her sons gravitated to her for advice just as Caecilia had seen Marcus rely upon Aemilius.

The Veientane matron claimed to have no favourite and yet Caecilia had seen how her assurances seemed to stoke the brothers’ envy and their ambitions, Larthia’s ambitions. It did not shock her. In fact it gave her reassurance. Rome looked to its women to be the mothers of brave and powerful sons. Beside Larthia, Caecilia felt insipid. It was unnerving to be given a lesson in being a Roman from a foe.

For a moment stillness rushed in to fill the gap in conversation, and as it did so Caecilia felt that in learning this woman’s story she’d discovered she could never be as strong, could only exist, did not think she could survive. ‘I am so very afraid,’ she whispered, ‘I don’t want to be held hostage.’

Larthia leaned over and took her hand. ‘Hush, you have a right to be scared, but we are all destined to die. Fate is unyielding. You say you must endure. But fortitude is only one part of virtue. Celebrating life noisily can be as great a quality as suffering hardship. Enjoying life even as you fear its ending is a strength.’

‘It’s not so simple.’

‘Maybe, but if you truly wish some comfort about your future, Caecilia, Artile can help you. He will seek to divine your fate.’

The pulse in Caecilia’s temple was fast and painful. Since travelling here, she’d witnessed Artile’s powers. Still, it was a dangerous game to ask the gods to reveal her future.

‘Why would Artile do this when he has shown me only disdain?’

‘That is just his way. He resents his brother for marrying an Aemilian but does not oppose the treaty.’

‘Did he divine Seianta’s fate, too?’

The older woman dabbed at a strand of spittle that had fallen to her robe. Over and over, her face distorted with a stab of pain. Her breath was rank, the smell of death inspired and expired. It reminded Caecilia of her mother. Only with this woman the odour evoked sadness.

‘You told Mastarna that Lady Fate could not always be swayed,’ she prompted. ‘Can destiny really be deferred?’

Her mother-in-law put her hand up to silence her. ‘Forget Seianta. Her obsession to prorogue destiny caused her and others to suffer. Fate is unyielding; even those who try to postpone it know this to be true.’

The girl had never heard rancour in Larthia’s voice before. Even when she spoke of her husband being killed by Roman hands, her tone had been measured. Larthia’s contempt for her daughter-in-law was startling. Her impatience at the dead woman’s failure to survive was clear.

The matron stood, swaying with exhaustion. ‘Come, let’s not speak of Vel’s dead wife. It was because of her that the rivalry between my two sons increased to hatred.’ She paused, ‘And Vel has never been the same since she died.’

Caecilia hastened to steady the woman. ‘Aren’t you afraid to die?’

‘Of course, that is why I strive each day to become one of the Blessed. I pray the gods will grant immortality to my Mastarna, too.’ The widow halted, dark oval eyes studying Caecilia. ‘I’m tired. It is best you speak to Artile about these things. You are young and should be thinking of bearing a child. Perhaps you would miss your home less if you had an infant of your own. A child would help you become a Veientane, just as it did for me.’