The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (41 page)

Artile put a finger to his lips to silence his young lover and turned to Mastarna. ‘Brother, perhaps you prefer Fufluns’ promise of rebirth because of Seianta. Can’t you feel her here, unable to gain salvation because you are not pious enough? It is you who should be on your knees seeking deliverance for your family.’

Mastarna’s cry filled all the space within the chamber. With a sweep of his arm, he scattered the candles, lamps and votives, the oil flashing blue as flame briefly ignited it. Then he snatched the golden patera from Artile’s hands, ready to dash it to the ground.

‘You desecrate her tomb,’ said the priest, his voice raised, his eyes hard as his brother’s. ‘Do not damn her before she has even knelt before Lord Aita.’

Mastarna’s breathing was ragged. Scanning the damage and swallowing hard, he slowly lowered the dish onto the coffin. ‘I did not mean to dishonour her.’

Caecilia did not know what to do or say. Mastarna’s sacrilege had gone beyond self-destruction. He had insulted the gods when his mother was upon their threshold. He could not have acted more rashly or more cruelly.

Face drained of colour, he ran from the tomb into the narrow corridor and up the steep ramp into the day.

Caecilia felt as though the weight of the tomb above her would collapse and crush her. In a way she would welcome an end to her turmoil.

Tarchon shook as he relit the candles. Caecilia, too, found her hand was trembling as Artile commenced the rites, making sure to add prayers in placation and expiation, lengthening the time they must stay within this gravesite.

‘Holy Lord Aita who rules us all.

For you we bring gifts of silver and gold, flowers and incense and wine.

For you we have burned two bulls and offered their blood.

We give thanks for granting Larthia’s request.

May my parents live as one divine under your protection.

May you reign gloriously forever!’

The haruspex was no longer hesitating and confused. He did not waver as he gave Caecilia the cup of blood and wine to drink, confident in his purpose, guiding her thanksgiving for Larthia’s deification.

The blood was warm and thick. Caecilia gagged on its taste. Artile was watching, but she could not be anything but grateful. He had not revealed to her husband that she also prayed to Nortia for a different purpose.

He stroked her hair soothingly.

He prayed.

 
Glossary

Cast of Characters

It stopped snowing, the clouds banished. The sky was so blue Caecilia thought it had been painted to achieve such perfection.

She sat in a stadium. Around her the Veientanes had come out in their splendour, their tutulus caps pinpoints of colour across the expanse of seating. Gone was the gloominess of the funeral procession. The mourners had turned into spectators, noisy and exuberant. Larthia’s journey to Acheron was to be celebrated by games dedicated to her alone. Astonishing.

How provincial the funerals of dead Roman magistrates seemed compared to the massive and sophisticated parade for Ati’s funeral. And now there were to be games and a banquet as if declaring that all in the Mastarna family were heroes, not just those who had been zilaths; announcing that a matriarch could command not only respect but be lauded through pageantry as well.

The prospect of such entertainment did little to distract Caecilia from what had happened in Larthia’s tomb. Sitting beside her, Mastarna was withdrawn after his sacrilege, his stillness freezing, like ice so cold it would burn to touch.

Suddenly an explosion of cheering overwhelmed her. The crowd roared as Ulthes entered and took his seat, signalling the games to begin. Jugglers and tumblers whirled about in flashes of colour and speed to the accompaniment of music. Acrobats and athletes followed, competing in foot races, jumping with weights in their hands, hurling javelin and discus.

As they left the arena, Artile entered followed by a peculiarly clad man. At his appearance the crowd erupted into cheers: ‘Phersu, Phersu.’ The name was familiar but Caecilia could not recall why. The man bowed to Ulthes who acknowledged him with a nod.

The stranger wore a conical cap, so favoured by the Rasenna. Also a short tunic, which better displayed his stocky build, broad chest, powerful arms and massive thighs. The arrogance of his stance proclaimed he must have trained for hours to achieve such strength, but this is not why Caecilia shivered when she studied him.

The Phersu’s face was covered by a mask. Vermilion with a black-pointed beard attached, the mouth frozen in a rictus, dark holes for eyes—the face of a demon, grinning and malicious.

Mastarna touched her wrist, making her jump in fright. ‘If you truly wish to observe the Calu Cult, don’t look away and don’t show distress. The people will think you are offending the heavens if you do.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Phersu is an instrument of the gods. He spills blood to revitalise the dead.’

Caecilia did not fully understand his warning but she did not take it lightly. The fear she’d known when she’d begged Uni for protection at the Great Temple was only ever thinly disguised.

The howls of the crowd hindered any further conversation.

The Phersu remained alone in the arena. An enormous hound was led to him. It was liver coloured with pale yellow eyes, slivers of drool dripping from its jaws. The man held the hound by its leash firmly, giving it no slack. It was clear the beast knew its master. A nail protruded from its collar into its flesh.

A prisoner, hands bound behind his back and tethered around the neck, was dragged before the crowd. To her horror, the Phersu placed a leather bag over the man’s head, then freed his hands to give him a wooden club. Yanking the dog’s lead so that the nail bit into its neck, the cur howled, barking and snapping with pain, lunging at the hooded man fruitlessly until the Phersu let the leash go slack.

On hearing the animal’s snarling the blinded prisoner lurched back in terror, urine trickling down his legs as he tried to run. The Phersu reined him in even as he let the hound have its way.

Suddenly Caecilia was in a cocoon created by the mob as they stood up, sound and passion surrounding her. It was as though the crowd had become a great beast, one that could be good natured but now was maddened with fever, ready to spring. It reminded her of the contagion of emotion at the pankration only this was greater, this was overpowering. One had become many—all had one thought, one feeling.

Behind her Tarchon was, as usual, shouting as loudly as the rest. She stared at this creature of Veii, beautiful but flawed, thinking his ecstatic spirit would explode from him at any moment as pulp bursts from a tight-skinned fruit.

Blood spurted from the man’s thigh and flank. The dog was hanging from him, its fangs sunk deep into his flesh. The victim vainly tried to strike the beast with his cudgel, staggering under the attack.

Mastarna sat stiffly, saying nothing, expressionless.

Caecilia was sweating. A cold clamminess. Bile rose in her throat.

Mastarna glanced at her, his sternness easing. ‘Stay calm, it’s nearly over.’

The savagery continued until the Phersu finally let the cur leap at the man’s throat. Gouts of blood soaked into the slush.

Caecilia had no more courage left to watch as she heard the hound’s barking turn to the territorial growling of a housedog as it worried at a bone. She turned to find Arruns focused upon her instead of the human sacrifice within the arena. At that moment she remembered why the title of the executioner was familiar. Arruns had once been the Phersu. The masked one. Mastarna had called him that after the raid.

Caecilia stared at the tattoo of the serpent coiling around Arruns’ neck, its blue-inked fangs devouring half his face, needing no mask to strike terror. And yet she had come to trust the servant, felt his menace was directed at her enemies not against her. ‘You were the Phersu?’

He nodded, his gaze unwavering, no sign of shame or pride or arrogance that he could have killed in such a manner.

‘But it is not my people’s way.’

Mastarna pulled her around to face him. ‘Don’t judge Arruns. The acts of the Phersu are consecrated.’

Shaking her head, tears pricked her eyes. ‘Sacrificing another human? Your people are barbaric!’

‘It’s you who seeks the salvation of Ati’s religion. Did Artile not tell you of all the sacraments? Today that criminal’s death was a duty paid to Larthia and our ancestors to revitalise them. You are the matriarch of our house now. You want to follow the Calu Cult, then respect Ati and honour all her beliefs.’

Caecilia thought of the goats and lambs whose throats were slit so silently by Artile’s acolytes after they had been made docile with potions and elixirs. The condemned man had died loudly, desperate to summon courage, goaded by the crowd.

She thought she had found a way to dance upon the shifting earth without faltering. To forget that a chasm lay beneath her into which she could plunge whenever another piece of Veii’s corruption was exposed. Here was wickedness to which even Larthia had been party.

Unable to obey Mastarna any longer, she put her face in her hands and wept, not caring if the people of Veii were offended by her weakness, knowing only that she was too far from home.

*

Glimpses of stars and silver birds sparkled upon the indigo cloaks of the dancers. Ribbons streaming from long curling tresses, heads thrown back, arms outstretched to the heavens, their slender limbs apparent through the sheer silk of their kilts. Their stamping shook the earth. Their song stirred the dead.

Caecilia studied them from the side of the banquet hall. They were dancing to reanimate Ati and her forebears. The Veientanes were taking no chances with Larthia’s soul. Sacrifice was not enough. After the terror of the Phersu came this whirling exultation of life.

So beautiful. So beautiful.

If Caecilia had not lived through the horror of the day she would have clapped her hands in joy. Clapped her hands and called for more.

*

Around her Mastarna’s guests enjoyed the feast. The women, hair crowned with wreaths, had laid aside the silver eggs they carried—symbols of life, symbols of protection—as they reclined next to their ever-attentive partners.

Tarchon was unsympathetic with her distress at witnessing the Phersu earlier in the day. ‘What he does is holy, Caecilia. You are too squeamish.’

It was difficult to hide her loathing, but she remembered Mastarna’s rebuke. She was the matriarch and must show her tolerance even as she strived to disguise her disgust.

Being busy helped. She’d ordered double the usual number of casks, and the tantalising aroma of roasted pork insinuated itself along the corridors and courtyard. Crowded inside from the winter’s cold, Caecilia could feel her cheeks burning without aid of fire or wine as she coughed from the smoke that stung her eyes.

Being busy, though, did not stop her wanting to slip away to escape with a draught of Zeri.

She needed to talk to Mastarna, but he had been occupied all night hosting the banquet, once again donning pensive armour. There had been few opportunities to speak, and when they did their conversation was coolly polite and peppered with practical matters and interruptions. She needed to ask him if Fufluns also expected human sacrifice. Dreaded, too, that he would say yes. She wanted to speak to Artile, also, to ask him why a man’s blood needed to be spilt.

*

Twilight was upon them. In Rome it meant the end of the day, going to bed and being ready for dawn and a new work day ahead. In Veii it was a signal for couples to extend the day with lamplight and lust.

In summer, smoke from lamps could billow into the night sky as couples lay behind the reed screens, but in winter, when darkness held sway over most of the day, both Romans and Etruscans dined with charcoal braziers blazing and palls of acrid, oily fumes hanging pregnant over the dining room.

As the hostess, it was Caecilia’s task to signal for the reeds to be erected. The air was fetid, crowded with the sweat and scents of diners, the fragrances of wilted flowers, and the fat and odours of discarded food. And so, when she gave the order, the Roman wondered if she was suffocating because of the fug within the room or from humiliation at presiding over dissipation.

Caecilia scanned the banquet hall. Ulthes was occupied with Erene. Artile remained upon his dining couch, talking to Apercu.

Mastarna was nowhere in sight.

*

Outside, the night was clear and crisp and cold. Escaping the banquet for some fresh air, Caecilia admired how the spreading branches of the shrubs were covered with slow-melting whiteness. Ice had formed in the fountain; even the birdbaths denied sparrows a drink and dip.

The grape vines were denuded of foliage but clung with writhing strength to the columns flanking the arcade, some thick as saplings, as old as grandfathers. Enjoying the quiet, Caecilia entered the walkway and was startled to find Mastarna sitting on one of the benches.