The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (31 page)

The girl was silent. Larthia was a Rasennan whether she lived in Tarquinia or Veii. For Caecilia to forget she was a Roman was not the same. Nevertheless, she did not want to shrink from the matron’s touch. She wanted to tell this woman all her fears, every single one of them, but she did not dare.

She glanced at the mural, at Larthia’s two little sons, and briefly hoped that if she bore a healthy child she would be different to Aemilia; able to spoil an infant with caresses, able to both want and be wanted.

The older woman’s voice was soft and husky, creeping through Caecilia’s thoughts. ‘Every woman wants a child,’ she said. ‘And it would be a sweet thing to hold a grandson in my arms before Vanth leads me to Acheron. It would please Mastarna, too, Caecilia, please him greatly.’ Reaching over to kiss the girl on the cheek, she whispered, ‘And then you can truly call me Ati.’

Glossary

Cast of Characters

They heard the cackle of hens first, the whirr of wings. Then Tarchon’s voice, loud, his accusations heated. The youth’s anger seemed sacrilegious in such a hallowed place and the jarring tone did nothing to settle Caecilia’s uneasiness as she stood before a temple within the City of the Dead.

Imposing votive statues were scattered throughout the sacred precinct, safe behind stone walls and an ornamental wooden gate. Chimera and Bellerophon wrestled, frozen in bronze, while winged horses and griffins stood with dedications inscribed upon them, silent reminders of the piety and gratitude of the rich and mighty. The tombs were grand secret reservoirs for riches—sepulchres that declared the greatness of clan heroes. Compared to these, the crypts of Roman nobility were insignificant, mere cupboards to house urns of ashes.
More amazing was the fact the graves lay within a sanctuary owned by the Mastarna family alone. Holiness procured through wealth.

Following the sound of Tarchon’s shouts, Caecilia and Cytheris stole into the dimness of the priests’ quarters, blinking away the glare of the day. The chamber was crowded with cages of squawking doves and pigeons, the air filled with their stink, their wing beats spreading dander and lice that made Caecilia’s eyes and nostrils itch.

Their presence was reassuring. She understood how birds could herald a god’s whim. In her city, the subtle flight or varied calls of owl or crow, eagle or raven determined the favour of the gods. Today, though, there would be a different type of divination, her future read in blood and gore.

The hatred in Tarchon’s voice was startling, more so because it was directed towards Artile. What had happened to the Tarchon who stood in awe and adoration of the haruspex? Finding the bickering of the lovers repellent, Caecilia swallowed nervously, her saliva metallic, as though disgust had found a taste. Usually she could pretend these men were not like wife and husband, but the screech of a domestic squabble could not be ignored.

Artile’s responses were quiet and deliberate. So quiet that the women could not catch his words, only their sound. But they invoked fury in Tarchon as he denied Artile the right to possession of him, chiding the priest for his jealousy. The women would have turned to escape but a young cepen appeared. He seemed oblivious to the argument. Such frays must have been familiar. He nodded to them and courteously ushered them to the lovers.

The smell of the birds was overridden by a pall of myrrh and thyme, wood smoke and stifling heat. A fierce fire burned in a brazier, reminding Caecilia that while the autumn sun shined brightly outside its warmth did not permeate indoors. A great mahogany table stood in the centre of the room. Cluttered upon it were tiny votives of bronze and stone and clay, little gods jostling for space, waiting to be dedicated to their mighty counterparts in the sky.

After a while the men noticed Caecilia, but not before she had studied them, once again struck by Artile’s calm. Compared to the fury of the other, he seemed like a patient father waiting for a young child to finish his tantrum. Nevertheless, Caecilia noticed his discomfort when he realised he had an audience. He turned away, clearly embarrassed that she was privy to their quarrel.

Tarchon was glaring at her. Tension had replaced his litheness, a grimace spoilt his lovely mouth. She did not wish to see him that way, ugly in his petulance. She was used to his selfish charm, so easily disarmed by it. Today he was disdainful of her judging him and his freeborn lover. Unable to check his anger, he strode out into the sanctuary and sunlight, but not before she noticed a red weal upon his cheek.

Artile greeted her as though Tarchon had been a phantom and his invective no more harmful than the protests of the temple birds. His friendliness was also an unspoken request not to inquire further about this discord. Embarrassment silenced her anyway, suspecting the older man had struck Tarchon. Chancing upon their indiscretion was as awkward as finding her father’s servants furtively rutting among the stout amphorae of olive oil all those years ago.

What type of man was this Artile to keep a young nobleman from fulfilling his manly duties? To expose himself to ridicule as he clung to the hemline of a beauty who was unfaithful? For either failing, she knew she must choose whether to condone his conduct or shun him.

But her brother-in-law had something to offer. A soothsayer’s gift. And so she would don a blindfold once again to Rasennan behaviour. Indeed she was getting used to the feel of the band tied tightly behind her head, crushing her hair, pressing against her eyes.

‘So, sister, Ati tells me you seek to know something of your fate.’

He was speaking Latin. Caecilia stared, surprised at how well he spoke her tongue, as though born to its rhetoric and syntax. Until now he had chosen to quarantine her by his rapid use of Rasennan. ‘Why do you only now greet me in my language when before you would not converse?’

The priest passed his palm over his hair slowly. It was longer than most Veientane men. The hint of curls in Mastarna’s short crop was unchecked here. The gesture showed his irritation at her bluntness. Unlike her husband, this man would not tolerate a woman’s questions. ‘I speak Latin, dear sister, because I want you to understand exactly what I tell you. Misunderstandings can be dangerous when dealing with the gods. Besides, it is pleasant, is it not, to hear the words of your people when you are so far from home? To recall the autumn shivering of yellow poplars or the fragrance of a garden of rosemary and thyme.’

She wondered if this man had been to Rome, glad that he had let her revisit it briefly, surprised, too, that he should know what her homesickness should feel like, look like, smell like.

His eyes were similar to her husband’s in shape and colour and size. But that was the extent of the resemblance. Mastarna’s were of stone; Artile’s gleamed. Mastarna’s were flinty enough to strike an angry flame; Artile’s soft enough to reflect a sliver of what could be. Her husband, as a warrior, looked at men to size up strengths and shortcomings. Artile, as a priest, saw only their possibilities.

Near to him, she noticed his breath smelled of bay leaves; strong, aromatic. When he talked it was as though her people’s language was flavoured with herbs. A smell of cleanness also. Of rosewater. He must have bathed recently, as befitted a priest who would perform the rites. His belly would be empty, too, from his ritual fast. There was effort involved in his preparation, even when telling the future of a Roman.

Was this the man who’d guided her hand too close to the nuptial flame? Perhaps it had been an accident after all? Perhaps Mastarna was too ready to blame? When Artile had touched her at the wedding his skin and flesh had been soft, vaguely abhorrent. But in this room, with its clutter of offering bowls, candles and votives, it seemed right that they should be so. A warrior would be out of place. Hard hands and harsh voice would unsettle the birds that clucked and scrabbled within their wicker cages, cooped up until allowed to spread their wings. And how would the clumsy hands of a soldier skilfully incise the liver of a sacrificial victim when used to hacking flesh from limb?

She had to be cautious, careful. The power of a man who could catch a thunderbolt could not be ignored.

*

The haruspex led her outside to a podium with a stone altar scored with deep grooves to collect libations. There was blood upon it. Fresh. Its smell mingled with that of candle wax and sanctity. A lamb was tethered next to it. It was not bleating; instead it kneeled quietly waiting, its beady yellow eyes dull. Caecilia examined it. It was for her alone—a mere woman. The private augury made her skin prickle.

The lamb’s ears flicked lazily as Artile bent and tickled its head. ‘I usually find that when someone asks me to look into their future it is because they are not prepared for death. Is this so with you, sister?’

‘Tulumnes’ threats frighten me.’

‘I think your visions of Tuchulcha should terrify you more.’

Butterflies stirred in Caecilia’s belly. How did he know her secret? Mastarna and Cytheris knew she had nightmares, but she’d told no one of the night demon. It was both the guardian and author of her fears. ‘How do you know of my dreams?’

He made her wait for his response as he donned his sheepskin cloak and conical hat. ‘Because you have the look of one haunted by a demon. I know the signs and I fear for you, sister. And for your parents. All of us must face Aita, King of the Beyond, but salvation is possible by discipline and devotion. Follow the Book of Acheron and you may become a lesser god.’

Scared to face him, Caecilia watched the young cepen cleanse the stained altar. Was it always to be her fate for the weight of Tuchulcha to lie upon her? If Tata lived in Acheron, was he trapped in agony now that she could no longer leave food and wine and honey at his tomb? Resentment stirred, not wanting her religion criticised, not wanting to believe his truth. ‘I pray to my gods and pay my parents due honours.’

‘I am sure you are most pious, sister, but are you sure they are not hungering in winter or thirsting in summer while you are absent?’

Caecilia shivered.

‘Because it is sobering,’ he continued, ‘to think what lies ahead if you are not one of the Blessed.’ He pointed to a frieze of beaten bronze that decorated the altar. ‘Here is the passage to the Beyond, a journey that extends across both land and sea, strewn with pitfalls and monsters. Where Vanth lists the names upon her scroll of only those who have gained salvation.’

Caecilia studied the carving. A demoness, holding a ball of thread in one hand and scissors in the other, beckoned to a dead man from behind a half open gate. Next to her, Vanth, wings arched high above her head, held a torch and scroll while six horses with stamping feet and snorting breath pulled a chariot towards the sea. There, as though marooned in air, a dreadful sea serpent coiled towards a ship and a dolphin scythed through water. Beyond this Tuchulcha lay in wait to trap the journeyer. Finally, another decomposing fiend with his hammer and tongs guarded a door behind which the dead man’s ancestors were seated at a banquet.

Caecilia closed her eyes. The journey seemed both perilous and arduous, an ordeal that would need courage to face and the assistance of the mighty to complete. To avoid the dangers of the journey to the Beyond, however, required her to forsake Roman beliefs.

Did she really want his afterlife, his people’s sadness and terror? Their quest for pleasure could not hide the fact that the reverse side to ecstasy was despair. Yet could she disregard this priest and his library of divine books? How was she to refuse the greatest of all temptations—to be immortal?

‘How then do I become one of the Blessed?’

Behind her Cytheris murmured a prayer, but Artile ignored her as he instructed a novice to light the candles.

‘By adherence to the Calu Death Cult. Sacrifice and prayers and libations. Every day we must placate Aita and praise him. Placate his demons also. And we must expiate our sins, give penance for any failure in our worship. He must be implored to protect us from allowing the dead to rise up and harass the living. And then, when your life is ended, your family must make glorious sacrifice at your funeral. A very special offering. For if Aita and his minions deem you are worthy, you may claim the soul of the bull as it rises from its body and thereafter attain everlasting life.’

The lamb bleated unexpectedly, startling her, betraying her nerves. Artile stroked its head. ‘Let’s talk no more of death, sister. It is time to ask the gods to reveal your future.’

Caecilia nodded, glad that the haruspex had decided to end the discussion, not ready to consider fully how Veii was not only changing her life but also trying to define her death.

Cytheris moved to her side but Caecilia did not acknowledge her. The servant had not wanted her to come here, and she guessed there were fears and doubts in her reluctance that led back to Seianta.

The novice came forward and scooped up the drowsy sheep and laid it on the altar. The animal knelt obediently again, uttering a fragile bleat, the drug restraining any struggle to remain alive.

‘Sister, before I begin I must ask if your husband knows of your desire to peek at destiny?’

The butterflies were in a frenzy, bumping against her ribcage. Mastarna was unaware of this meeting. They’d spent little time together, his coldness and absences making her feel lost as well as angry; his lies about his son and insistence that she could not return home pushing her to discover her fate.