The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (36 page)

The sin in the courtesan’s smile was undiminished. ‘Very well. When Seianta lost her daughter she became a wraith, consumed with bearing Mastarna a healthy child. For it seemed she’d acquired another trait of my kind—no living children. But whereas I chose such a course by use of sylphion or rod the poor girl railed against her fate. How weary she became, how desperate, as one after another unformed babes slid from her womb or, like her tiny son, died within hours of his arrival.

‘Her deformed son,’ said Caecilia softly.

‘Yes, Seianta’s curse.’

‘And Mastarna’s.’

Erene seemed surprised. ‘The father’s? No it is always the mother’s weakness, the mother’s failure.’

For a brief moment, Caecilia felt some hope that any child she was destined to bear with Mastarna would be whole. Glimpsed also the possibility of sharing his joy. Yet Artile had made it clear who would be to blame for planting the seed of a monster. The judgment of a haruspex must hold more weight than a whore’s.

‘And then she died.’

‘Yes, and Mastarna fell into drunkenness, bellicose and gloomy. There were few times when he was sober. It would have been better for him to take poison, but he considered that to be cowardly. Instead, more and more he would stake his life in dangerous pursuits, mad and frenzied, so that he might join his dead wife and children in The Beyond. After a time his wildness turned to bedding his friend’s wives until he erred in choosing those whose husbands did not turn a blind eye.

‘Ulthes calmed him, understanding his grief. My rooms became a place where we could grant comfort to Mastarna. Ulthes was generous, too, offering my companionship to his friend when he alone was entitled to my services.’

The Roman girl flinched. ‘As much as his dead wife would let you.’

The deliberate way Erene adjusted her tebenna revealed that the comparison was uncomfortable. When she spoke, the Roman recognised the hetaera’s tell just as easily as she could identify Ulthes’. Erene’s hand did not tap against her thigh, though; instead, the companion, who was normally so composed, let her refined voice momentarily lapse into the coarseness of the Cretan gutter.

‘You are right. In my language the name Erene means peace, but I could not bestow peace upon Mastarna. He wanted something I could not provide. He wanted me to be Seianta, but I could not replace her in his bed because she still lay upon it.’ She was defiant. ‘And nor will you.’

It was strange to hear the anger in the courtesan’s voice, to understand she was envious of a dead girl. A lifetime ago she’d never seen a hetaera, nor spoken to one, nor wished to. Now she was listening to one who’d shared her husband.

Caecilia had grown used to strange things, but she never thought she would envy Seianta as Erene did. Yet after last night she realised she was just like the courtesan—hurt to think Mastarna did not want her enough to bid his dead wife farewell.

This morning, the fit of their bodies had been broken by slumber. He’d not tried to mend it. Seianta must have chided him for his lapse, tightening her grip around him. His retreat was upsetting and confusing.

The Tarquinian would be twenty-two had she lived. Old. Would she, like Erene, have to wear more white lead to hide the lines, wear more clothes to hide her flesh, smile less to hide stained or missing teeth?

Would Mastarna still love her?

‘At least I have Ulthes,’ continued Erene. ‘I’ve found contentment with him, almost as though we were man and wife. I do not think he will abandon me for someone younger. He assures me I will be provided for when he dies.’ Smoothness had returned to the plain vowels of her voice but it could not hide her apprehension as to her future.

Humiliating as it was, Caecilia could not help being drawn to this woman. The Rasennan wives still kept her at a distance and only Cytheris and Larthia showed her any fondness. The two women, Roman and Cretan, foreigners in an exotic world, had found a brittle liking for each other.

‘I must go,’ said Erene, ‘I wish to bathe before the contest. My story is not remarkable, Aemilia Caeciliana. No more remarkable than your own.’

Caecilia stayed for a while, picking at the quick of a fingernail, wincing when it tore, confused, always confused. Would it be different if Mastarna exorcised the ghost and wanted only her? Would she be brave enough to cease begging Nortia to reset time? Be prepared to risk a monster if Mastarna stood by her through their loss? Her head was throbbing as though forced to sit too near a drum, the beat becoming a pulse inside her telling her she was a fool.

Rising to make ready for her guests, Caecilia told herself she need not worry. She doubted Mastarna would ever love her or that Seianta’s spirit would ever let him go.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

Since the night of her wedding feast Caecilia had only been close to Laris Tulumnes once. At the palace. At other times he kept his distance, turning his back and speaking to others as though she was a child unworthy of address.

Today, barging his way into the villa’s atrium, boots muddy and tebenna damp from the rain, he could not ignore her. Steam rising from his robes, his face flushed, he was unable to hide how his chest swelled and fell sharply. As always, his face gleamed with a faint sheen of perspiration. He stank, too, of wet wool and onions. Throwing off his cloak, he waited for his two young slaves to gather it up and begin drying his arms and legs.

The boys were tiny, blond and blue-eyed. As she studied them Caecilia marvelled at what it would be like to possess a piece of sky within her. Then she remembered Tarchon’s gossip that Tulumnes imported the slaves from a snow-capped country far to the north, and that the princip only used them for a short time because they aged so quickly after being mastered. She felt nauseous at the thought.

His liking for youth was not limited to boys either. He’d been married twice to maidens so young that they died bearing his daughters. There was another betrothed to him with instructions that they be wed as soon as she ripened. She was chosen, they said, not just for her wide hips and placid nature but for the prediction that she’d give him sons. The princip would not take any more chances with delicate bones, narrow waists and nerves.

Despite facing Caecilia in her own home, Tulumnes still tried to be dismissive, demanding that her steward summon Mastarna without even bestowing a greeting. Caecilia refused to be intimidated by this interloper, although, in truth, she felt like running and hiding behind a grown-up like a child. She signalled the major-domo to heave the massive outer doors shut.

She was buoyed by the memory that this man did not fight the duel with Mastarna. She suspected that, despite claiming to be from a dynasty of warriors, Tulumnes would be at his most adept when piercing a man’s back.

The nobleman ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back upon his high brow. A drop of water flicked upon her cheek as he did so, reminding her she was standing far too close, but the Roman in her made her wait for him to move first.

At the wedding he’d spat an insult she’d half understood without the need for translation. Now she had learned his language and its invective. She was no longer a frightened girl in a room full of strangers. Today she was not prepared to be bullied by his height and words or concede to the type of man who would cast a slur upon another’s wife and then slink away when honour was demanded.

‘You act as though you are mistress of this house when you can never be more than a trespasser in any Veientane home,’ he growled.

‘Remember that here,’ she replied calmly, ‘it is not I who am uninvited.’

Nonetheless, when Tarchon appeared suddenly, Caecilia was relieved to step aside. Her brief defiance had been exhausting, her knees unsteady, trembling with the simple act of standing. She was also touched that her tutor was seeking to protect her. She did not expect such bravery from Mastarna’s son.

Tarchon had arrived late to the villa, clearly unhappy that his father would not permit him to join the men in their discussions. The youth tried to ignore this rebuff by loitering around the wrestlers and their trainers, even sparring with a few. Such pursuits would normally have made him garrulous with arrogance. Instead he slouched as he sat amid the hubbub, disheartened, speaking with politeness rather than fervour.

For Mastarna had slowly exchanged disapproval with blatant exclusion. Tarchon was not acting as expected or as bidden. By remaining nestled within Artile’s arms, acting as a boy even though he had grown a beard, his actions could no longer be overlooked as those of one still on the cusp of manhood.

She found it hard to watch her tutor’s plight, even though she knew he deserved it. Yet knowing that a child should feel the sting of a birch rod made it no less easy to strike. And so when she’d heard Mastarna berating him she’d asked that he wait a little longer before cutting ties with his son.

Mastarna had turned upon her, astounded. ‘Since when has a Roman defended one such as Tarchon?’

She’d faltered then, confused at facing the difference between emotion and reason. ‘It’s so painful to watch.’

Mastarna touched her wrist gently. ‘My answer is the same as when you keep pestering me to free Cytheris and her daughter. These things have already been decided. Tell Artile instead to free Tarchon. It is he who is making my son an outcast.’

Today, though, she thought Tarchon as brave as any soldier as he spoke firmly to the intruder, but when Tulumnes drew himself to full height, pushing his face to within an inch of the youth’s, she could see his courage flag. Instead of trying to eject the princip, Tarchon gestured to him to sit while his father was informed.

The aristocrat made it clear he did not want to wait. ‘Hasten and call him. I don’t want to linger with Artile’s bride and a Roman.’

For a moment Caecilia thought Tarchon would object, but daring failed him, turning away like a chastised child, recognising that the insult was too close, too true.

*

Inside the meeting chamber Ulthes held counsel with the clan leaders. Caecilia knew how he could finesse an argument by stroking his opponents’ conceit until they purred, but when she and Tarchon led Tulumnes to where the principes were assembled she wondered if flattery would be enough.

The Zilath needed the support of Vipinas as leader of his tribe. Apercu had already pledged his allegiance, but the thin man was coy, weighing up the gilded promises of Tulumnes against the principles of Ulthes; lapping up the attention of the two candidates as does a child enjoying the favours of doting grandparents. Pesna had not been invited as Ulthes did not want to waste his time on a lost cause. Tulumnes had long ago become his master.

When Mastarna saw Caecilia and his son enter he frowned and beckoned to them, but before they could speak Laris Tulumnes burst into the room with the eagerness of one ready to share bad news.

The Zilath’s lictors scrambled to form a shield around him, rods and axes at the ready, but Ulthes, as ever, was composed. He ordered his men to fall back and for the principes, who had sprung to their feet, to be seated. Caecilia could see the fury beneath his calm by the sharpening of his speech and the tapping of his hand upon his thigh.

Caecilia hesitated whether to leave but Mastarna took her arm. ‘Stay,’ he said. ‘This will involve you.’

She edged behind her husband’s enormous high-backed chair, instinctively wishing to hide, aware that the other men might consider her an interloper.

‘You are not welcome here,’ said Mastarna, glaring at Tulumnes and directing Arruns to eject him.

Although the guard was shorter than him by more than a head, Caecilia could see the nobleman hesitate to oppose him. ‘Wait!’ he said, warily eyeing the Phoenician. ‘Tell your man to withdraw. He touches royalty.’

‘You are not king yet,’ said Ulthes, the feathery veins on his nose flushing red.

‘Then you defy the gods to say so. I’ve come to tell you a lamb has been born on my estate with purple fleece. A prodigy. A sure sign that I am to be the gods’ anointed king.’ He was almost breathless with excitement. ‘The omen is listed as one of the miracles in the Book of Fate. Crimson fleece signifies the owner of such offspring will be granted the greatest good fortune. It is clear the gods wish to grant me the divine right to rule.’

The colour rapidly drained from every man’s face even as they slowly digested the announcement, but no man was paler than Ulthes. The Zilath was a pious man, devoutly worshiping the Calu Death Cult. Although he counted Mastarna as his friend he did not share his disregard of portents. He was not taking the reported miracle lightly if it was, indeed, a sign that the gods were weary of rule by the electoral college.

Apercu rubbed his neck with chubby fingers, chewing on the import of the miracle like a cow on its cud. As the Maru, head of the college of the Cult of Fufluns, he was also known for his piety. He could not ignore the portent either.

‘Let us dispense with your ridiculous election,’ continued Tulumnes, ‘for there is no doubting the miracle’s meaning.’

A furrow creased Vipinas’ smooth waxen brow. Caecilia knew little about him other than he valued keeping a distance from those around him. He was silent as he grappled with the sanctity of the news, only the clicking of his gold and ivory teeth as his tongue worked against them revealed his disquiet. Being a religious man, he laid his hand upon her husband’s arm in caution, but Mastarna shrugged him away.