The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (53 page)

After a time the road veered away from the Cremera River, boundary stones on either side of the road marking Fidenate territory. Halfway to Rome, halfway from Veii.

Tarchon reined the horse to halt abruptly. Soldiers were blocking the road, challenging them. Roman soldiers. The sound of their Latin seemed ponderous after being deprived of hearing the speech of her countrymen for a year.

Signalling the body guards to stay back, Tarchon spoke to the Romans calmly, but his Rasennan accent was as thick as the soldiers’ was rustic and they did not understand him.

Caecilia awkwardly slid off the horse, her legs cramping a little as she stood. The two sentries fell silent when they saw her, confused as to why a Roman matron should be with three barbarians.

She smiled a welcome, although it should have been them doing the greeting. ‘Do not harm us,’ she said slowly, proudly. ‘I am Aemilia Caeciliana, citizen of Rome.’

*

A camp had been built a short distance along the road. It was impressive with a full-scale ditch surrounding it at least twelve feet wide and almost as deep. A high mound had been raised behind it and on top of that was a fence of timber stakes, the wounds of its freshly cut wood still raw. Pennants were flying and the Standard of the Wolf Legion adorned the gate. What seemed to be a small town of tents was set out in rows within. Everywhere soldiers were training, running, jumping or throwing javelins. Alongside them arrowsmiths filed tips for spears and arrows, swordcutlers hammered iron, and bow-makers carved weapons from wood and bone. And above this bustle and the babble of cursing and joking wafted the aroma of turnip and onion soup, plain and simple, making her mouth water.

The last Roman soldiers she’d seen were those patrolling the ferry, dressed in shoddy gear and stiff with boredom. The warriors before her wore brightly polished armour and were performing drills that suggested action rather than precaution. The camp had an air of permanence, too, and the sight of such preparations made her uneasy. Why was such a force here? Had the Fidenates rebelled again? It seemed unlikely since Fidenae was Veii’s ally, and news would have spread if such a conflict had occurred.

As they walked through the camp the noise of barked orders, scraping metal and conversation ceased. Instead there was only silent scrutiny of a tall girl in Roman garb and a Rasennan peacock parading as a man.

Tarchon stood close by her. She was proud of him. The hirelings had refused to follow them into a Roman encampment, not prepared to trust the soldiers even with Caecilia vouchsafing their safety.

As they neared the command tent its flap was flung back and a young soldier appeared. Caecilia thought it was a vision because the man was known to her amid all these strangers.

It was her cousin Marcus, very much alive.

*

Seeing him made her realise how imperfect memory was, and that an iron amulet was a poor substitute compared to being near him with the cowlick in his hair, acne scars upon his cheeks and his patchy beard. His face was tanned and gaunt, and there was a gash across the bridge of his nose. So many times she’d wondered if he was alive, questioning why, within such a short time of being enlisted, he could have been killed.

She wished he wore no armour as she hugged him tightly, the bronze cuirass denying her the chance to press herself against warmth and flesh. But she quickly found it was not the metal that was the only barrier because Marcus immediately pulled away from her, embarrassed by her public display.

Disconcerted, she instinctively bowed her head. It was the first of many things she must remember. There were so many differences between her people and Mastarna’s. Differences that she’d adopted as her own. For a moment she wondered how often she would reveal that she’d forgotten what was correct and what was pious.

Marcus’ words were warm, though. And his face revealed his delight and relief. ‘Cilla, I thought never to see you again.’

‘Nor I you! I heard all were killed at Verrugo.’

‘Luckily I was transferred to the siege at Anxur before that town fell.’

‘And what of my letters? I thought Aurelia would send them to you.’

Her cousin frowned. ‘But I didn’t receive any letters! And when you didn’t reply to mine I thought you no longer cared.’

Marcus sighed. The girl shook her head also, but was prepared to forget the pettiness of her aunt when she noticed the cut upon his forearm, scabby and puckered.  ‘You’re injured!’

‘It’s nothing. Drusus suffered greater wounds.’

‘He is alive?’

‘Of course. He’ll be very pleased to see you.’

Drusus. In all her planning and plotting to return she’d not thought of her admirer, too busy to find time to consider what she would do should she succeed. Hearing that he’d survived made her glad but not with the heartfelt relief of a lover seeking to be reunited. She no longer ached to see him, did not know what she would say when she did.

Marcus was studying Tarchon with the same curiosity as had all the other men. The deep moss green of the Veientane’s tebenna and his painted eyes, his earring and gold chains must have made the Roman wonder how his cousin came to be in the charge of such a man.

Compared to Tarchon, the Romans were shaggy and crude. Where once the shaven and short-cropped Etruscans seemed vain, Caecilia now saw the beards and shoulder-length hair of her people as unkempt, and their hairy forearms and chest hair protruding from their tunics as coarse.

She glanced at Tarchon, who was returning the blatant scrutiny of the men. And it was clear from his expression that, while he had learned their language, it had not prepared him for how they appeared.

Marcus broke from examining the Etruscan. ‘Where is your husband?’

Caecilia knew it wouldn’t be the last time she would be faced with this question. No one would expect her to travel without Mastarna’s permission. ‘He is returning from Volsinii. Laris Tulumnes proclaimed himself King but has now been ejected from the League of the Twelve.’ She took his hand. ‘Tulumnes is crazy enough to declare war even without the support of all the Rasenna.’

Marcus did not seem surprised at such news, making her conscious again of the activity of the camp around her. It looked like the Romans were mustering an army not a delegation. ‘Cilla, one of our allies has already informed us about Tulumnes. Camillus has been sent to meet him to renegotiate the treaty.’

‘Has he been elected one of the consular generals?

‘Unfortunately not. Father was successful, though.’

Even though her cousin’s face registered disappointment at his hero’s failure to gain office, Caecilia was heartened. Aemilius had always favoured peace with Veii. Tulumnes may yet be convinced to keep the truce.

Marcus lifted the flap of the command tent. ‘Perhaps it’s best you come inside.’

She motioned Tarchon to follow. He hesitated. Until then he had not spoken, but as they were ushered in he whispered quickly, ‘Do you know what you are going to say?’

Caecilia shook her head. Questions. There would be many.

And they would not like her answers.

*

Camillus rose to greet her and she remembered how he alone among the politicians had shown sympathy on her wedding day. His breastplate was burnished and bright, the folds of his military cloak falling with precision and elegance. Of all Roman men, Caecilia thought him to be the most like a Veientane in his vanity. The unusual gold ring flashed upon his hand, and his beard and hair were trimmed. Surrounded by his officers, he was an imposing figure, a commander and now an ambassador. She immediately felt safe in his presence until she saw a fetial priest standing behind him dressed in a curved white cloak, white boots and wearing a small bowl of a helmet. Caecilia knew such a holy man would be present for only one of two reasons—to either broker a treaty or declare war.

‘Where is your husband?’

Caecilia was irritated at the question, more so because Marcus answered for her.

Camillus glared at her. ‘So you are here with neither Tulumnes’ nor Vel Mastarna’s permission?’

‘Yes, I escaped with the help of Mastarna’s son, Tarchon. I sought to relieve my husband of the burden of having a Roman wife, and I no longer wished to be held hostage to the disadvantage of Rome.’

The silence in the tent was such that she could hear the subtle squeak and creak of leather against metal, and the shuffling of booted feet. The Commander stroked his beard as he sat upon his chair. ‘While such bravery is commendable, Caecilia, it is also misguided. Your unsanctioned return will give Tulumnes an excuse to seek compensation. You have broken the treaty. You have given the Veientanes a reason to invade.’

Caecilia was dumbstruck, a prickle of heat spreading across her chest and rising to her face as she realised her escape had not helped the negotiations but endangered all.

Beside her, Tarchon made a noise of disapproval and cleared his throat. ‘Would you rather send her back to be raped and mutilated at the hands of the Lucumo?’

The effect of hearing Tarchon speaking Latin was startling. Camillus’ eyebrows shot skywards. While the uncouth guards had struggled to understand him, these officers heard exactly what Tarchon said despite his Etruscan accent. The silence was broken by indignant shouts.

As Camillus signalled for calm she saw how the men glared at her tutor in the same way as the principes—a contempt for one who should be ridiculed and forgotten, offended that he’d entered the world of Roman men and dared to question them. Today, though, Tarchon’s reaction was not of quiet deference to such men. Instead, amid all the bravado of shining bronze and aristocratic robes, he faced them confidently, his weakness no longer defining him.

But Camillus chose to ignore him, causing Tarchon to be insulted even more. ‘I think it’s time for this Etruscan to return to Veii where he must face the consequence of absconding with his father’s wife.’

Caecilia was astounded. Did Camillus believe Tarchon was exaggerating? Didn’t he understand she’d been in danger? She glanced across to Marcus for assistance, but he, too, showed his disdain for the Veientane.

If there had been amazement at Tarchon speaking Latin, it doubled when she spoke in Rasennan to him. The Romans tensed as they listened but could not comprehend. Some looked away as though confronted to see how she had become like their foe, how she spoke their tongue easily and could keep secrets from them.

Tarchon did not shy from touching her as Marcus had. But this time Caecilia remembered it would be imprudent to show she welcomed such a display. Already the Roman men around them were tensing, ready to apprehend Tarchon for showing her affection. She wanted to embrace him, to forget the constraints she had chosen to renew, but she did not want him harmed. And so, even though she wished him to remain, she nodded for him to go as he stood hesitating over whether to leave her.

And in that moment she saw that it was ended, that once she had taken leave of Tarchon there would be no connection to Veii. Laughter and learning would be lost. Friendship and love. ‘It’s best you go. If you are away too long, not even Artile will be able to vouch for you.’

‘I can’t leave you like this. I don’t trust this man.’

‘Don’t worry, Camillus is honourable,’ she said, although she was already confused by the Commander’s behaviour. ‘Please, you must go.’

Tarchon smiled faintly. ‘Then I bow to the counsel of my stepmother who I will never forget.’ Then to add scandal to Roman indignation, he reached over and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘No matter what they say, Caecilia, these men are as hungry for war as Tulumnes. You mark my words.’

Unable to tolerate Tarchon’s familiarity with a Roman woman any further, Camillus ordered the Veientane be escorted from the tent. Caecilia anxiously prayed the purse of silver she’d given to the body guards would make them wait for him as promised and that the Roman guards would not treat him badly as they sent him on his way. Hoped most of all that he would be safe upon his return to his city.

A chair was brought for her and she was handed a beaker of water. For a moment she wished the contents would transform into wine but was too nervous to smile at such a thought. The cup was of finely turned wood, even and smooth, unpainted, plain. She rolled it between finger and thumb. The tent was also unadorned except for the insignia of the wolf—the symbol of Mars, the Roman god of war. The austerity of the surroundings was unsettling. She thought a return to sober Roman ways would sooth her, washing away all the vile things she’d endured. She thought transition would be immediate, that she would step from their world back to hers with the ease of changing from street shoes to indoor sandals, but it was not so.

When she’d arrived in Veii, her homesickness had been tangible, present with all five senses from waking until bedtime. Now she felt homesick and yet was home. She had wished everything to be black and white again, for there to be rules, for the world to be simple, and yet as invisible boundaries once again erected themselves around her, what was once familiar seemed strange. It was a comforting oddness, though, which she would grow used to. It gave a sense of what it was to have once been safe and where the customs and law of her people formed a shield.

‘You have changed, Aemilia Caeciliana,’ said Camillus. ‘I think perhaps you have forgotten modesty and how a woman should act.’