The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (38 page)

Mastarna gained the advantage, grabbing Amyntor’s leg when the Greek kicked out at him. The younger man twisted desperately in the joint lock. ‘Break his knee! Break his knee!’ Tarchon was shrieking as fiercely as the others. Caecilia closed her eyes but only for an instant.

Amyntor, though, was champion of Olympia for a reason. Suddenly he arched backwards and, placing his hands and the top of his head upon the ground, spun himself from the Veientane’s hold. Mastarna was stunned and took too much time to gain composure. Jumping onto his back as though riding a horse, the Greek scissored his legs around Mastarna’s abdomen while holding his arm across his windpipe.

The Greek supporters yelled, urging their man to finish him, to force him to yield. Mastarna staggered under the other’s weight, trying to throw him, but Amyntor locked his legs behind his opponent’s thighs, one arm squeezing his neck.

At first the Veientanes frantically urged Mastarna to resist, but as they watched him being strangled, his face scarlet, the veins on his neck bulging, their calls changed to ‘Yield! Yield!’ The referee hovered, waiting to declare the winner.

After a few minutes all in the room realised Mastarna was not going to concede. The only sound in what had previously been clamour was his gasping as Amyntor kept pressure on his throat. Even the Athenian seemed confused, wondering why the challenger wanted to die; that he would have to be his killer.

When Caecilia’s voice had become hoarse from calling to him, she glanced across at Erene. The hetaera’s face was ashen. Caecilia knew then that her husband was mad, that not even the companion had seen him act so. Beating her way through the spectators to Ulthes, Caecilia clutched at the Zilath’s robes. ‘Make him yield!’

‘I can’t,’ he said, wincing as he listened to his friend’s choking. ‘It’s his choice.’

Arruns had followed her. ‘Do something,’ she croaked. ‘Please, do something.’

The Phoenician nodded towards the ring.

It happened rapidly, so rapidly that Caecilia was not quite certain how her husband managed to break free. Despite gaining a choke hold, Amyntor failed to push Mastarna to the ground. Unable to break the Greek’s grip around his throat, Mastarna grabbed hold of Amyntor’s thighs instead and began to rock until, losing balance, both men toppled to the side.

As the wrestlers hit the ground, Mastarna slammed all his weight onto Amyntor’s ankle, snapping it as easily as a diner breaks a wishbone. The referee waited for the Greek to yield. The champion did not stop screaming as he raised his hand.

The Veientanes’ roars were deafening. Mastarna had won.

The spectators crowded around him, hooting and yelling. There was little chance of Caecilia reaching him.

Still on his side in the ring, the champion of Olympia lay with chest heaving, his beautiful body streaked with sawdust and sweat, blood still streaming from his broken nose, red marks ready to bloom into bruises upon his flesh, cuts covering his face, his bones cracked and his eyes soft with pain.

There would be no lover for him tonight to comb his curling hair and kiss his torn and swollen lips. The night ahead was one of suffering and restlessness and ignominy.

He would never again know glory—his future that of a cripple.

*

Throwing a cloak around him, his admirers led Mastarna to a bench where he sat, hands resting lightly upon his thighs, shoulders relaxed, fatigue momentarily held at bay by triumph.

As people crowded about him, the Phoenician tried to bathe his master’s wounds with vinegar, making Mastarna wince with each sting. His eye was swollen shut and blood from a cut on his cheek had only partially dried. Worst of all was the bruise upon his throat. The morning would no doubt reveal more injuries to add to old scars.

He was grinning despite this. Caecilia had never seen his mouth stretched in such delight before. She found herself smiling, too, the tension of watching him fighting replaced by the elation of all around her. But she did not try to break through the tight band of supporters around him, unsure of what to do.

Ulthes slapped him on the back. ‘As ever you are a fool, Vel.’

His friend grinned even wider, and she sensed what it would have been like between these men when they fought side by side for Porsenna. Knowing Mastarna better than anyone, Ulthes had been right not to interfere. She doubted she would ever match his understanding.

Erene bent to Mastarna, her fingers trailing across the crushed redness on his throat. ‘One day you won’t escape.’

He kissed her hand with a flourish. ‘If so, make sure I die in a pankration, then I will know that death worked hard to take me.’

Caecilia stiffened at their intimacy, resenting the fact that all around her seemed to know what to do and say. The Rasenna had gained energy from watching the possibility of him dying. This was what life was about—squeezing it dry.

Ulthes’ good humour was short-lived. Knowing Mastarna was safe meant he could return to other worries. ‘We must talk before the Winter Feast starts. See to your hurts quickly.’

Mastarna nodded then waved everyone away. The supporters slowly drifted into groups, already beginning the task of exaggerating what they had witnessed. He turned to Arruns. ‘Where is Lady Caecilia?’

As she approached his smile flattered her, as did the way he stretched out his hand even though the bindings around his knuckles were wet with sweat and blood. ‘I am sorry if I frightened you,’ he said, but she could tell he was pleased with himself.

His vanity made her temper flare. Had he thought nothing about those he would have left behind? Larthia? Tarchon? Had he not thought of her?

‘Why didn’t you yield?’

Grasping her by the hips, he stood and pulled her to him. ‘Because peril is a drug—the choice of escape or standing fast.’

‘It is a sickness and you should have yielded.’

‘Don’t be so cross,’ he laughed, kissing the mark upon on her neck which matched the weal upon his own. ‘Did you see how I made Nortia fight for me? And every time I thwarted her, the blood burst within me like a current.’

Conscious that he was holding her in front of others, aware also of his nakedness beneath the cloak, Caecilia knew she should break away but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Her resentment disappeared. She wanted his euphoria, his urgency, for him to keep embracing her as though he wanted only her.

‘See, my heartbeat is only now beginning to slow.’ He placed her hands upon his chest. His skin was hot, near feverish, the sweat upon him souring. ‘Did you feel nothing when you saw me gasping for breath?’

‘Only that you were foolish,’ but her voice was not scolding. She could not forget the voice that shrieked within her when she saw Amyntor crushing his windpipe, nor her relief surging at his escape.

Fingers gliding over the oil upon his skin, she stroked the ridges of muscle beneath the slickness, pressing her body along his, eyes widening as she felt him harden.

Mastarna wrapped his arms tightly around her, his mouth tasting of salt and heat as he kissed her. ‘Lie with me tonight,’ he murmured, laying his battered cheek against hers, ‘beneath the reed.’

There was a pause as she took in his words, their meaning lagging behind for a fraction as when thunder sounds after lightning has already struck.

Thoughts of Erene flickered within her. Aware that the hetaera was observing them. Listening to them. Laughing at her for having been halfway lured into the indecency he was suggesting that night. Shame filled her. Greater than humiliation. Greater than embarrassment. How they must all be sniggering at her. At the prudish Roman who had forgotten modesty.

Forcing herself away from him, she ran, wondering if she would ever find a chamber large enough in that colossal house in which to hide forever.

*

‘Drusus would never have dishonoured me in such a way.’

Cytheris shook her head as she watched her mistress pace the bedchamber. Caecilia thought she did so with a provincial girl’s disapproval for immorality but she was mistaken. ‘Mistress, why talk about that Roman boy again? A memory doesn’t keep you warm in bed as does a husband.’

Caecilia glared at her, not wanting to admit the truth of the maid’s statement. As always, she knew the Greek girl spoke sense. The thought of the red-haired youth as an avenger somehow seemed ridiculous. Drusus paled against the sheer brute force of her husband, who could snap the ankle of Amyntor, champion of Olympia.

Caecilia looked over to the wooden wall shelf where she had placed her special keepsakes, tiny souvenirs: Marcus’ amulet, her mother’s yellowing ivory fascinum and her father’s stylus with his teeth marks scored upon it. And, of course, her little juno. All these things were her comfort, their smoothness or roughness engendering memories as she stroked them.

There had never been a memento from Drusus upon the shelf. Their acquaintance had been fleeting; her meetings with him counted in days not weeks. Now he could be dead. Her stomach lurched at the thought.

She’d heard the inconsolable sorrow of women wailing over the death of a husband or son; seen the cold gnawing grief of Mastarna for his dead wife and children. If Drusus was truly dead could she grieve in the same way for a man who was made more of imagination than flesh?

Cytheris handed her mistress a fresh candle of red wax. ‘I think you are being too hard on the master,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t think he wished to insult you.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘Because while Mistress Seianta was alive the master lay with no other women.’

‘What has Mastarna’s faithfulness to his dead wife mean to me?’

Cytheris put the taper to the wick and waited for the flame to steady. ‘Because, mistress, they say it is a sign of love for a husband to choose a wife instead of a courtesan with which to lie beneath the reed.’

*

The mood of the feast was subdued. The fervour and excitement of the tournament had faded. Apart from the Greeks, everyone had the air of children who had overexcited themselves and were now exhausted from their efforts.

Attention had turned from the pankration to the purple fleece. Not all the nobles were as dismissive of the omen as Mastarna.

Caecilia sat beside him as he lay upon the dining couch, determined not meet his eye or brush against him. Once again an awkwardness had arisen between them. He looked troubled. The ecstasy of escaping death had ebbed, the familiar shadows of the everyday returning. The skin around his eye was dark as a plum and the mark on his neck livid. After his proposition she’d expected merriment and the good humour of which Erene had spoken. Instead he went grimly about drinking, swallowing each mouthful with determination to foster moroseness and short temper.

There was no apology. Cytheris’ advice suggested that he probably did not think he’d caused offence. Yet Caecilia reasoned that he must know he’d contravened his promise to Aemilius.

There was sympathy, however. ‘Don’t weep yet, Caecilia. Marcus may yet be alive. I am sure your uncle will send word of what occurred at Verrugo.’ Mistaking her unease for weariness, he touched her shoulder. ‘If you are tired, why not go to bed?’

Caecilia scanned his face, seeing only bruises and exhaustion. Surveying the other men who had gathered to discuss their concerns she understood, with relief, that no reed screens would be used that night.

As she bid her guests good night, Caecilia passed Erene. The hetaera lay beside the Zilath wearing a turban held fast by a diadem of garnets, a wreath of flowers encircling her headdress, alien and elegant. She’d been politely distant to Caecilia all evening, offering no reassurance, as if to say she’d suffered humiliation too often to be troubled by the worries of an inexperienced wife. The courtesan’s indifference was disconcerting after the confidences shared during the day.

It appeared, however, that the companion did have some more advice for Caecilia. When the hetaera saw her hostess leaving, she slipped from Ulthes’ couch and followed her to the door. ‘I watched Mastarna with you today. I saw how he was with you. Do not hasten to spurn him. You may yet displace Seianta from his bed.’

*

The cool night air did not calm her as she walked to the outer courtyard, hoping the cold would seep within her, numb her, make her disappear.

The sound of bawdy laughter and a joyous song of prayer floated to her.

Fufluns, Fufluns, Fufluns

Oh, listen to my prayer.

May all the wine in my cellar

Prove to be strong and rare.

The Winter Feast was in progress, a celebration of the wine god’s sojourn in Acheron. The villagers had built a bonfire, its smoke and sparks shooting heavenwards to the clear, crisp sky. Some noblemen and the Greek visitors had joined them. Drunk and ribald, they were rejoicing that the fruit of the vine was fermenting in casks and would soon be ready for drinking. Caecilia smiled, remembering the rustic festivals of her people.

Silhouettes were outlined against the flames as revellers capered and leaped in abandon. Drawing nearer she saw some men were wearing phalluses tied around their waists, the leather penises jiggling and bobbing as they danced. The Roman edged nearer, reminded of the harmless bawdiness she’d seen when spying peasants celebrating the Liberalia on Tata’s farm.