The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (47 page)

Artile showed no emotion at the sound of his name other than the merest narrowing of his eyes, and Caecilia realised how sweet it must be to have the power to determine the destiny of a city and destroy his brother.

It was a calmly spoken sentence. ‘Ulthes’ death is a powerful portent.’

Caecilia gasped. His words condemned the Zilath to eternal torment. As a prodigy, Ulthes’ body would be cut up, burned and buried. Just like the lightning’s scar on the palace. Just like the purple fleece. The evidence of the gods’ intentions scoured from the world.

Mastarna’s cry whipped the room, loud and sudden and sharp, making Caecilia’s already racing heart jump. Artile stepped back in fright.

Immediately Tulumnes roared at Ulthes’ bodyguards to seize her husband. In the cramped space, the lictors stepped forward, the area bristling with the raised axes and stout rods of men as hard and cruel as Arruns.

A murmur spread through the room at seeing the twelve black-clad men, once the servants of the Zilath, showing no hesitation in obeying.

Vipinas was enraged. ‘What’s this? Release him!’

‘Don’t waste your breath,’ said Mastarna. ‘Gold has more meaning than allegiance to a dead man.’

‘The Zilath was a believer in Aita,’ insisted Vipinas to Artile. ‘Don’t deprive him of the chance to join the Blessed.’

‘I only interpret the signs,’ said the priest, smoothing one eyebrow. ‘I did not make the sacred law.’

Vipinas appealed to Tulumnes instead. ‘You can’t deny him a funeral. The people will despise you.’

The princip shoved the old nobleman aside.
It was the first time Caecilia had seen the lean, pale-skinned man blush, a pink tinge like candlelight through wax.

‘The people will do as I tell them.’ Safe between two bodyguards, Tulumnes pointed to her, infuriating in his smugness now that his opponent was truly dead, truly gone. And in that moment Caecilia knew without doubt that this man had committed murder with sneaking sureness and cowardice.

‘This whore is a reminder of how we lick Rome’s arse instead of thrashing it. The treaty should never have been continued.’ He prodded Mastarna’s chest, making him struggle against his captors.

‘Forget Rome,’ Mastarna said coldly. ‘Neither my tribe nor Ulthes’ will let you take power.’

Tulumnes called for a chair, enjoying his prisoner’s discomfort. ‘You don’t seem to fully understand. There will be no election. My allies and I have already called our clans to arms. Our men are ready to fight, but I would prefer you pledged support instead. After all, you have often said that civil war is a boon to one’s enemies. They avidly watch the cockfight and then cut off the head of the victor in its exhaustion. Gaul would relish the chance. So, too, Rome. Do you want to endanger our city out of stubbornness?’

Mastarna grimaced. ‘You are even more feeble-minded than I suspected if you think I’ll help you become king.’

The gleam of sweat returned to the princip’s face. ‘Again, I think you fail to comprehend. I do not wish to kill the man with the ability to raise Veii’s largest army. Nor do I wish to lose the support of one as venerable as Vipinas. So let me give you an incentive to convince you to support me.’

The lictors were men hired to harm; broken teeth, wind-burned faces, coarse hands and dirty fingernails. Their black robes did not hide their rankness or the stains from their last meal. But when one of them seized Caecilia’s arm, she was surprised she felt no terror; instead the same current of alarm ran through her as when the bandit held her, giving her courage to try and wrench herself free.

‘It is time for your wife to serve her purpose. Not only will she be held as surety for your allegiance but as a hostage to Rome. The time has come to conquer her city.’

As Mastarna struggled against the men who restrained him, Caecilia was reminded how the Phersu had held back the hound, goading and kicking while it strained to attack its prey. Tulumnes’ threat was the cruel nail in the cur’s collar that dug into its flesh.

To Caecilia, though, the threat was an old one. Danger had dogged her steps on her wedding day and fed her fear as she knelt at the altar before Artile. She had lived with it for so long that it had come to be like a dull ache in her side that could be tolerated or even forgotten only to flare into sharp pain when she was foolish enough to stretch too high. Today her foolishness had been at its greatest. Today, basking in sunshine, she’d beheld a spectacle believing that the ache was healed.

Tulumnes studied her, anticipating her terror, but Caecilia did not flinch or raise hands to mouth or utter a cry. Remembering Erene’s composure, the girl was determined to show how a Roman, just like a Cretan, could despise him.

The nobles stood within the pavilion as though in a tableau, dressed and draped for spring with bright clothes, smooth skin, dark hair, sloe eyes. They should have been beautiful. Instead their faces were strained either in complicity or with the shock of betrayal. Already there was a slow drift to take sides, those for and against, the dread of brothers fighting brothers and fathers fighting sons the only thing they now had in common.

Vipinas protested again but Tulumnes placed one finger to his lips for silence. For the second time that day, the aristocrat reddened, back stiffening with the insult. Compared to the army Mastarna could muster, the influence Vipinas wielded over his small tribe was little threat. Tulumnes spoke of respect, but in truth the self-proclaimed King would easily crush Vipinas’ tribe. Ulthes’ clan would also need to reorganise themselves after the death of their leader. The tall princip must have factored this into his plan.

Mastarna smiled at her. A grim, hopeless smile. It made her cringe to see him so. A powerful man rendered powerless. It would seem that the thunderbolt that speared the palace was not just a warning for Ulthes.

And then she remembered her husband’s promise to his friend. Would the Zilath expect such a vow to be kept now that he’d been murdered and betrayed?

‘You’re a fool,’ said Mastarna, finally turning his gaze back to Tulumnes. ‘Do not think that famine and plague will hinder Rome. The hungriest wolves are the fiercest.’

There was a stubbornness that resided in Tulumnes’ jawline, a furrow between his eyebrows that signalled implacability. Mastarna’s words may as well have been shouted into a well that would be drained and never used again. Boarded up and then forgotten.

Tulumnes turned to his peers. ‘The Romans have lost men at Verrugo and are still held in siege at the Volscian town of Anxur. Diplomatic communications have ceased between our cities while Rome struggles with that foe. If we gain the assistance of the brotherhood of cities we will have all the Rasenna behind us. We will be invincible. Then, once again, a king will rule over Rome as godhead, judge and general.’

‘The Twelve will never support you,’ said Vipinas. ‘The northern cities see Gaul as a greater menace, and the brotherhood is always slow to unite against another city’s foe.’

Tulumnes glared at Mastarna. ‘That’s why you must accompany me to the council meeting at Volsinii. Aule Porsenna is Head Zilath this year. You must use the influence you still have with your former father-in-law to convince him to support our cause. And if you are successful, I will return your bitch to Rome before war is declared.’

The tall man signalled the lictors to release both husband and wife. When Mastarna stepped closer to Caecilia she noticed his sweat smelled of fear, frightening her.

‘I am not afraid to die,’ she declared, glaring at Tulumnes. But it was a lie spoken without thinking. A wish more than a fact.

The would-be King smiled. It was a smile that said he was halfway to righting the wrongs of Rome against his father. It was a smile that rejoiced in defeating his Veientane enemies. ‘Aemilia Caeciliana, I am not threatening you with death. Dishonour and humiliation is the vengeance I seek. A shame similar to that which my father endured. I wish you to despair so deeply that taking your own life will be the only choice. And so, if your husband does not assist me to gain support of the Twelve, I will cut off your hands and send them to Rome with a demand for surrender. It will then be up to your people to decide if you are worth saving. And to ensure both of you fully understand that I am serious, each of these twelve lictors will take turns with you before they wield the axe.’

*

Time stretched, slowed down, stopped. Without imploring Fate to make it so.

Through it all, Erene sobbed quietly at Ulthes’ side, her cries quiet and anguished.

When she was dragged away, a frail scapegoat between brutes, her sobbing neither rose to a wail nor dimmed to weeping but remained constant, endless, inconsolable.

Tulumnes took the crown of high office from Ulthes’ head and placed it slowly upon his own. It was slightly askew, hindered by his lopsided ears. It was harder for him to remove the purple cloak, which lay bunched beneath the body. Two lictors lifted the deadweight so that it could be retrieved. Each ministration making Caecilia cringe.

All of them watched him don the trappings of office. His handsome face was painted with the vermilion of king or zilath. In the dimness of the tent he looked like some demon. All he needed was wings to rival Tuchulcha.

The principes spilled from the pavilion into a day that had slyly changed to afternoon. The people’s mourning altered pitch as the news of Ulthes’ death exploded from the pavilion into the weeping, grieving throng.

‘I go to greet my people,’ said Tulumnes.

Gone was the discontent that had chained his soul for so long, gone was the young boy tormented by his father’s disgrace. ‘Stay and farewell your dead lover and wife,’ he said to Mastarna. ‘After that, I expect you to be faithful to me.’

*

Mastarna knelt beside the body of his friend and wept. It was the first time Caecilia had seen her husband cry.

Two lictors guarded them, but it was if they were invisible so great was her misery.

The horror of Tulumnes’ warning seemed unreal, too enormous to digest, too terrible to consider. Instead she concentrated on a hurt that was more personal and just as cruel. For the meaning of the kiss had not been imagined. All this time she’d been foolishly envying a ghost when a rival of flesh and blood existed. She sank to her knees, sobbing.

Hearing her cries, Mastarna quickly knelt beside her, only to recoil as she shrank from his touch.

‘You were lovers! Were all those nights of politics merely feeding your need for each other? Did you steal from the warmth of his bed into mine?’

Mastarna stared at her, his expression as confused as when he’d found her ridding herself of the Zeri. ‘What are you talking about? Ulthes was my mentor. I was only his beloved when I was a youth.’

Mastarna tried to hold her again but she shied away. ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’

She struggled to her feet. ‘You were his bride. Freeborn lovers! Am I to know nothing but shame?’

Mastarna flinched at her insult. Then without taking his eyes from hers, barked at the lictors to stand sentry outside. They dithered, unsure of obeying a nobleman who was now prisoner to the King. Finally they left, no doubt satisfied to eavesdrop through the tent cloth. All Veii would know of the drama by nightfall.

Over her time with him, Caecilia had learned that Mastarna was quick to temper but reserved his rage for cowards and fools. She’d grown used to the rhythm of his moods, from melancholy and recklessness to tenderness and devotion. He’d only been angry with her once—when she’d used the pomegranates that night. It was a cold wrath that had led her to the rituals of the Book of Fate, a deceit she still held close.

‘What is this nonsense?’ He remained motionless, his broad shoulders and chest emphasising his potential to harm. One blow from him would fell her. ‘Don’t you understand there is going to be a war, Caecilia? Both our cities will be imperilled. Many people will die. So tell me, with all your Roman logic, why my being Ulthes’ beloved when I was young should be so important?’

His voice was chill, making her wish she could stop herself, curb her tongue, concentrate on the threat that faced them. Instead all she could think of was Ulthes and him together—and that he had lied to her before.

‘A Roman warrior could be killed for what you’ve done. A blood taint is upon you. A stain that has spread to me.’

Patience returned to his voice. Just as there always was when dealing with her prejudices. ‘You are not in Rome anymore, Bellatrix. Ulthes and I were not like Artile and my son. I was only beloved to him from the age of fifteen until I grew a beard.  It is the way here. I thought you understood. I thought you had learned to see Veii through other than Roman eyes.’

‘No, you blinded me but now I see. You have made me another Lucretia.’

Reaching over to play with one of her pendant earrings, he ran his hand down the sleeve of her wedding gown, the silk a sheer skin between his fingers and her arm. He smiled, making her feel like a child exaggerating the pain of a minor scrape. ‘Don’t be foolish. I love you, Caecilia. You are a Veientane wife. My Veientane wife.’

Feeling the familiar ridge of callous upon his palm, smelling traces of sandalwood still lingering beneath the sweat, she knew it was happening again. He was making her believe there was no shame in accepting corruption, that it was she who was deluded, that it was Rome who was wrong to expect her to be faithful to its ways.