The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (45 page)

She smiled and laid her head upon his shoulder, his flesh warm against hers, pleased that it was different now, that he wished to prolong touch, to hold her in the ebbing.

Mastarna trailed his fingers, knuckles scarred, through her hair as it floated in the water like seaweed.

She smoothed her hand across his chest. To her amusement there was an imprint of the figure of Atlenta pressed into his skin. ‘Look. We held each other too tightly.’

Mastarna looked down, then touched the space between Caecilia’s breasts where the reverse side of the pendant’s engraving also appeared. ‘It seems Atlenta has made her mark on both of us.’

He kissed the top of her shoulder then rose and helped her to stand. ‘It’s time to get out, the water is cooling.’

Water streaming from him as he stepped from the bath, Mastarna dragged his fingers through his sleek wet hair. His legs and arms were dark from the sun, his body the colour of honey, the livid cicatrice no longer alarming, all the scars upon his skin explored and charted.

Cytheris wrapped Caecilia in a linen sheet, rubbing her dry. Mastarna checked her, claiming the right. The maid grinned and bustled about waiting for her mistress to be released so that she could attend to her dressing.

Leaning her head to one side, Caecilia twisted her hair into a rope, wringing it dry. Mastarna stroked her birthmark. ‘I told you this was the sign of a fortuitous marriage.’

She pointed to the painting of the warrioress on the chamber’s ceiling. ‘Let’s pray our marriage is more fortunate than Atlenta’s. I hope we don’t end up being eaten by lions.’

Mastarna frowned. ‘Atlenta and her husband weren’t eaten. Turan transformed them into lions when they trespassed into a sacred garden. So our fate may not be so bad.’

His words lifted her spirits.

‘Although I hope your mistress isn’t as cruel as the huntress,’ Mastarna said over his shoulder to Cytheris.

‘No, master.’ The Greek girl giggled, her smile revealing her missing dogtooth.

Caecilia wondered how much more of the tale she did not know. ‘How so?’

Mastarna kissed her again. ‘Because she plunged a lance into the breast of those she defeated. You won’t do that to me, will you, Bellatrix? Now that you have conquered me?’

*

Smiling, the Roman fingered the sheer cloth of her gown, threaded with gold, the wedding dress she’d never worn. A world away from the white woollen tunic and orange veil. A lifetime away from either the Roman or Veientane bride she had been.

She stretched, enjoying the fragrance of lilies and the smoothness of silk upon her shaven skin. Her hair hung in one long disgraceful braid down her back entwined with a shining ribbon and was crowned by a high white tutulus hat. The vanity of knowing kohl emphasised the roundness and colour of her eyes made her painted lips curve in a smile.

She was sitting under a canopy in one of the enormous wooden stands erected on the plain outside the city to celebrate the Festival of Fufluns. Nearby lay the dark sloped hill where the initiation ceremonies into the god’s cult would take place that night. In the woods, birdsong vied with trilling flutes, while the sweet-scented narcissus bordering the roadside were trampled as more and more people lined up to gain entry to the games.

Around her, the crowd was waiting for the commencement of the drama competition where playwrights vied for honours just as Olympians strove to win the olive wreath. The air rattled with their talk and laughter as loudly as the bees hummed and buzzed in the white hawthorn blossom outside. The world had shrugged its heavy winter cloak from its shoulders and emerged as spring with as much aplomb as an actor entering from the doors to a stage.

Yesterday prayers and praise had been given to Fufluns, the god of theatre, god of wine and god of resurrection. Today the Drama Games would begin and Caecilia was not about to miss one moment of the fifteen plays that would be performed over the next three days.

Dew had to be wiped from the benches when Caecilia made her way to her seat. The morning was chill, the dampness coating the grass and trees ready to be burned away. The light was crisp and bright. No clouds. She took a deep breath to inhale the blueness, contentment filling her.

As she waited for the official procession, she prayed she would not be disappointed, that this time enchantment would not be spoilt by cruelty. She wanted to believe Mastarna’s assurances that there would be no violence except that exacted through artifice.

She had never seen a play before. Lurid mime shows were sometimes performed in Rome but not before an audience of women—plebeian perhaps, but not patrician. Caecilia hoped what she saw today would be more than clumsy theatre. She wanted to be moved to either mirth or tears, seeing no shame in commoner or noble doing the same.

After spreading cushions and soft rugs, Cytheris opened a hamper to serve goat’s cheese and olives. A heavy-lidded Tarchon stretched out along the row, one leg bent and one arm flung across his face, once again deprived of sleep from his nightly carousing. No doubt sated from enjoying himself with some lover.

After a time, a servant dressed in the livery of Apercu’s house approached and tapped Tarchon on the shoulder, slipping some Catha into his palm. For an instant, Caecilia felt a twinge of envy, traces of longing for the Zeri emerging like water seeping to the surface when a hole is dug in sand.

Tarchon closed his hand around the messenger’s and kissed it quickly. The Roman glanced away, embarrassed as always to witness the youth’s display of affection, also understanding how Tarchon could survive wakefulness for days and nights on end.

‘Don’t look so stern. He’s a freedman. Carthaginian.’

‘Yes, from Apercu’s house, not ours. You should be careful.’

The youth sniffed. ‘How you Romans do love rules.’

Caecilia watched how the Etruscans were scrambling to gain the best position, setting up their pillows, food and wine for the long exciting day ahead either on the grass verge or in the stands. They were as colourful as ever. She now understood such hues distinguished the classes. The rich were dressed in ornate kilts, their women in elegant gowns, while those in nettle green and elderberry blue took their places in the better seats, relegating the poorer in patches of brown and black to areas that cost the least and afforded the worst view.

Vendors were selling refreshments; the chatter of their business exchanges irritating but the aroma of oily sweetness awaking homesickness in her. At home the Liberalia would be celebrated now. Liber’s priestesses would be setting up small-handled altars in the streets for the offering of honey cakes, while fourteen-year-old boys would untie bullas from around their necks, remove their purple-bordered togas and don the white robes of a man.

‘Look,’ said Cytheris. ‘They’re setting up the skene. A palace. See the columns and statues, mistress? That means it will be a tragedy.’

The maid was as excited as her mistress. That morning Cytheris had taken great care in plaiting and pinning her long bushy hair, the powder and rouge upon her cheeks lessening the ugliness of her pock marks. Caecilia had given her a fine new tunic: pleated, blue and white. The servant had adjusted it to expose as much cleavage as possible. It was clear the Greek girl saw an opportunity to enjoy the feast tonight. She would call to her Greek god Dionysus, but would be satisfied if a man rather than a god embraced her.

Caecilia’s own apprehension about the celebrations that night had been allayed. Mastarna promised her that he did not expect her to join in revelry similar to that which she’d witnessed at the Winter Feast.

Discordant snatches of musicians practising double pipe, timbrels and drums drifted to Caecilia as she surveyed the orchestra. In the centre stood an altar, an ever-present reminder that these plays were dedicated to Fufluns.

‘The first play will be performed by the troupe visiting from Greece. They have come all the way from Athens where the Great Dionysia is even now being held
,
’ said the maid.

‘Do you know what it is about?’

‘It tells how Dionysus rescued his mother, the mortal Semele, from the Underworld. He convinced Thanatos to release her so that she could live on Mount Olympus.’

‘Thanatos is Death,’ explained Tarchon. ‘Personally, I’d prefer to watch a satyr play.’

‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Cytheris. ‘Sad and funny all at once.’

‘A satyr play?’

His eyes were bright with the drug. ‘Yes, where a chorus of fat-arsed satyrs stand in a grotto and sing about their plans to abduct the heroine.’

Cytheris was giggling.

‘I’d prefer something more serious,’ sighed Caecilia.

‘Ah, there’ll be plenty of pathos.’ Tarchon searched in the basket for a flask of wine, eager to begin worshipping. ‘Three tragedies today alone. Too many, if you ask me.’

‘They say the Greek play is touted to win the games,’ said Cytheris.

‘I hope so. I’ve wagered a fortune on it.’

Caecilia laughed. It would not be Veii if there was no gambling. No doubt the betting was already progressing in earnest among the crowd. And knowing Tarchon, he had placed wagers on more than which playwright might win. It could be an expensive week for him if he gambled every day on anything that amused him.

*

The councillors’ wives arrived before the parade. The noblewomen bustled into their seats, fans fluttering and jewellery glinting. After enjoying the luxury of observing the theatre preparations in peace, Caecilia felt as though she had been invaded. As usual they greeted her with strained voices and conceited gaze, but today it was not just Caecilia they insulted. They ignored Tarchon as if he were a servant, invisible and unimportant.

Her tutor’s astonishment was deeper than his blush. No one had ever failed to acknowledge the heir of the House of Mastarna.

Caecilia stared at the youth, willing him to stand firm and to challenge them.

Instead, dropping the flask, he shoved his way along the bench, stumbling over the bottle as it clinked at his feet. The wives savoured his departure with mean little smiles and knowing glances.

Caecilia wanted to go after him but knew it would serve no purpose. Tarchon understood that this would eventually happen. The youth was growing too old for a blind eye to be shown to his behaviour. The time had come for Mastarna to disown his son or suffer disgrace himself.

Lady Apercu, dewlap and bosom quivering, positioned herself as far away from Caecilia as she could while Pesna’s haughty young wife turned so that to converse would mean nudging her on the back with voice if not fingers. Only Lady Vipinas nodded briefly, her face marked with its ugly liver spots and wrinkles. It was unexpected. Startling. Of the three women, Caecilia thought Vipinas’ wife would never acknowledge her. Understood, too, why that would be so. Her only son had died at Roman hands. A mother was not expected to forgive such a thing.

It was mid morning when the principes finally filed into the theatre. The crowd had grown restless at the delay, but their impatience was quelled when Ulthes appeared in his ceremonial dress, face painted with vermilion dye as befitting his office.

As the Zilath entered Caecilia noticed he was swaying slightly and that two of his twelve lictors flanked him as if ready to catch him lest he miss a step. When he reached his chair, he sank into it as though he’d ended an odyssey.

Apercu also sat at the edge of the orchestra beside the Zilath. The princip held special eminence at the festival. As the Maru, head of the college of the Cult of Fufluns, he was entitled to also sit upon a throne. Apart from the god himself, both men were to be the principal spectators and judges.

The retinue took their seats, chatting and laughing. Servants darted among them, ensuring cups were filled, cushions plumped, parasols tilted and titbits offered. All were observed by the crowd who had settled themselves hours before without such flair or fuss. The councillors and their wives were as interesting a distraction as the drama to be performed.

Tulumnes and Pesna were seated close together, schoolboys gossiping in class. Vipinas conversed freely with them, but Caecilia knew her husband would not be concerned at the older man’s friendliness with the other candidate. The numbers had been toted up. At the end of the three days of the Drama Festival the election would be held and Ulthes would be returned.

As he approached, Mastarna grinned at Caecilia’s sheer golden gown. ‘Does this mean we are to be wed again?’

Smiling, words tumbled from her about her morning. Listening to her chatter, Mastarna sat with his thigh pressed along hers, casual and proprietary, but Caecilia was soon aware that she did not hold all his attention. Instead, Mastarna’s glances were troubled as he studied the Zilath.

Ulthes did not look well. The vermilion paint on his face seemed to have spread to his neck. The mid morning heat was not intense enough to cause his dripping sweat.

Caecilia touched the back of Mastarna’s hand. ‘What’s wrong with Ulthes?’

‘I don’t know. He was unsteady on his feet when we began the procession. He is stubborn, though, and would not say what ailed him.’ As he spoke, Mastarna turned in his seat as if looking for someone.

Erene was seated several tiers behind them with the lesser members of the entourage, eyes fixed on her patron. The hetaera’s face was pale. Her sheer chiton with its border of fine red spirals was that of a courtesan, but her expression was that of a devoted wife. Mastarna signalled Arruns to fetch her.