The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (54 page)

Caecilia clenched the goblet a little too tightly, water spilling from it as she remembered how sanguine the Commander had been when Tarchon told him what Tulumnes had planned for her.

‘What did you expect,’ she said, including Marcus in her gaze, ‘when you sent a bride to live with lions?’

At her words Camillus leaned forward, eyes grave and unexpectedly sincere. Persuasive and charismatic, she glimpsed again why Marcus and Drusus followed him; that, although sitting amid many, he made her feel as though she were the only one present. ‘Caecilia, as I watched you wed Vel Mastarna last year, charming in your orange veil, I saw you had courage and that you understood you were not merely a bride. I saw that the possibility of sacrifice made you both terrified and proud. So don’t say you were unaware of what your fate could be. Rome made no promises to you other than to attempt to keep you safe without imperilling our city. And that is why we agreed to meet with Tulumnes’ delegation. Rome wished to negotiate your release before the King called for war.’

Studying the statesman Caecilia suspected he was lying, not due to any telling sign upon his face but by the way Marcus froze for a fraction at his leader’s words. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, hurt he was trying to gull her as if she was a child who could swallow lies with a posset of milk. ‘I do not think you came here to save a Roman daughter but to forsake her.’

Camillus’ voice was steely. ‘Very well, Caecilia, let me be candid. I know it is hard to discover that Rome would choose its welfare over your own, but you were to be the rallying cry, a reason why soldiers should fight even as they lauded you as a daughter of both the people and patricians.’

Caecilia stared at him. He’d assured her that he would pray for her as would a father. How foolish she’d been. All Camillus had ever wanted was to attack Veii no matter the cost. And she should have remembered how he’d told Tata that he was as impatient to march against the Etruscans as he was eager to see Rome’s veterans paid.

‘And when Rome refused to surrender and Tulumnes returned my body, ravaged and mutilated, would the cause have been all the fiercer?’

Camillus flinched this time. ‘We would have wept, Caecilia, and your death would have been avenged.’

She stood and moved over to stand before him. ‘Peace may still be possible now that the Lucumo has been expelled by the league. Vel Mastarna will no longer be constrained to protect me. His tribe can rise up against the King.’

Camillus tapped the arms of the chair and roared at her. ‘Sit down! Think about what you have done. Your flight may have already caused Tulumnes to kill your husband.’

Legs shaking, feeling like she was a stranger in her own body, Caecilia put her hand on the back of the chair for balance before slumping into the seat.

Mastarna dead? Like a child believing their parents will live forever or a young man thinking he is invincible, she’d always thought he would somehow survive. How foolish she’d been. If Tulumnes could not coerce Mastarna any longer, he would kill him, especially since Pesna had already begun weakening the strength of the Mastarna tribe.

Seeing her distress, Marcus requested permission to go to her. ‘We’ll find out his fate tomorrow, Cilla,’ he said, crouching beside her. ‘Tulumnes may not have stomach enough to harm your husband. And without the support of the league he may choose to continue the treaty.’

‘Marcus is right. Tomorrow’s meeting will answer all our fears,’ said Camillus, his encouraging voice revealing how he must be in the Curia or Forum, lulling and luring all to his cause. ‘But no matter the result you’ll be revered for facing depravity and eluding your captors.’

Resentful that he should think her stupid, she glared at him. ‘So whereas before I was to be honoured for dying defiled and defiant, now I am to be lauded for withstanding evil and maintaining virtue? Or will I simply be shunned for having been wed to a foe?’

His eyes flickered, irritation swelling. ‘I fear you’ve learned bad habits, Caecilia. Did your husband always indulge you in talking to men in such a way?’

She wanted to shout that she’d given audience to tenants and clients, that she’d banqueted on a dining couch with men and discussed philosophy and politics and poetry, but she bit her tongue knowing that these men could not cope with such a revelation; that it would confirm to them how a woman could become disobedient and disrespectful.

The Commander stood, causing all around him to stand to attention. ‘You must be tired,’ he continued, not allowing her to speak. ‘Your cousin will take you to your quarters.’

He slapped Marcus on the back. ‘Did you know he was awarded a crown of oak leaves for saving a fellow citizen? It’s a time for celebration among the Aemilians with such a valiant son and courageous daughter.’

Her cousin wore the same look as when he’d shown prowess at training. There was modesty and satisfaction, relief also that he had pleased his father. This time, though, his half-smile hinted at something extra. More than pride—a touch of arrogance, a hint of ambition. She wondered what feat he’d performed to gain such honours.

As they turned to leave, another soldier entered the tent and saluted the Commander. He gave his message as quickly as he could, all the while staring at Caecilia.

She could not take her eyes from him either. Tall and angular, Drusus’ corselet looked slightly too small for his long torso. One of his calves was bandaged and his shoulder was strapped. His arms, legs and face were covered in half-healed grazes, and he stooped slightly beneath the low-roofed tent, his hesitant stance reminding her of his usual awkwardness.

His gaze was not uncertain, though, his intensity making her bow her head for the second time that day.

‘Ah, here is Claudius Drusus,’ said Camillus, ‘who owes his friend his life.’

Caecilia noticed that the expression Drusus normally reserved for Marcus had altered. Where there had been adulation, instead there was resentment. The richly dressed and eloquent Camillus was indeed unusual if he could command their allegiance and yet drive a wedge into their friendship.

Relieved to escape Drusus, she nervously followed Marcus out into the encampment, unable to shrug the young soldier’s stare from her thoughts.

The destiny glimpsed through an orange veil had turned out to be hers after all. She could never avoid being owned by Roman men. And yet she had to concede that what had been asked of her was no more than what was expected of all Romans, of Rome itself: to embody the virtues of faithfulness and fortitude, to preserve family honour and to put her city above friendship, even above love.

Whether returning upon bier or horseback, whether martyr or survivor, she was to be a symbol. Once again she was Aemilia Caeciliana, daughter of Lucius, niece of Aemilius, wife of Mastarna. Caecilia had disappeared.

Glossary

Cast of Characters

Bellatrix was hiding, swallowed by scudding clouds, the moon shining only dimly.

It had been raining all afternoon, the steady soak turning the dusty grounds to quagmire, but the overall mood was joyful at the thought that perhaps the drought would end; that crops would grow from shrivelled seeds and animals would once again be able to drink from rivers instead of lying down to die.

Better yet, it might be an omen heralding that it was time for Rome to prosper through war.

The supply tent was stuffy, crowded with entrenchment tools: shovels, wicker baskets, ladders, hoses and buckets. Caecilia shared it with amphorae of olive oil and grain together with barrels of salt. They had not anticipated needing quarters for a woman.

All afternoon she’d sat upon an upturned tub and watched the downpour as the soldiers continued with their drills. Tall stakes were planted in the ground and the warriors practised their sword skills against them, lunging with wooden staves at imaginary enemies—Volscians and Aequians. Or Veientanes. In all her time in Veii Caecilia had never seen such activity. Mastarna commanded a sleeping force, only formed when he made the call.

She sat in the tent by herself because she had been dismissed. Having been treated like a man for more time than was seemly she’d been sent to her room like a chastened child.

When the rain stopped she ventured a few yards into the encampment to study the late evening sky. The soldiers sat before an enormous bonfire, stripped of their armour, tunics sodden. They sharpened swords and spears or oiled their shields, the weapons all of varying quality and quantity, yet she noted even the poorest veteran was tending to his helmet with the same vigour as the officer’s servant left to care for his master’s panoply.

Their laughter was deep and manly, lacking the descant of women to soften their bass. Loud, too, and raucous. A gathering of men and maleness. Dismissive of all but warriors. No place for a woman.

After a time some of them noticed her and their laughter made her blush as much as their words. She remembered how she had been encouraged to sit before another fire just one year ago.  Mastarna and the three principes had not banished her nor treated her like a child. Tonight, dressed in a humble stola, she felt more naked than she ever had when wearing clinging silk. Many Veientane men had studied her but theirs was more appraisal than ogling, a signal of their desire to seduce rather than crudely satisfy their lust. It was odd, then, that having returned to the morality of her city she felt even more ill at ease among Rome’s men than she had been amid the decadents of Veii.

‘You should not be out here, Cilla.’ Marcus stood between her and the soldiers.

‘Why is that, cousin?’

‘The men are to be given a ration of wine tonight in celebration of your flight.’

‘So the more they drink to my honour the more they are likely to threaten it.’

Shaking his head, Marcus touched her elbow and led her to the tent. ‘You have changed, Cilla,’ he said softly.

‘Yes, I have changed,’ she sighed.

‘What did he do to make you so?’

Tears pricked her eyes. She wiped them away abruptly, unable to cope with kindness, not wanting sympathy. No one in Veii thought her husband dishonourable for being Ulthes’ beloved. No one there understood her reaction, but all Romans would understand and agree if they knew. Yet she did not want Marcus thinking that Mastarna forced her to succumb to vice.

It was disturbing to find also that, although she had strived to return to Roman virtue, she had in fact become what she had tried so hard to resist. The transformation was complete. She could not escape it. In Rome she was and always would be a Veientane wife.

Safe from others’ scrutiny, her cousin took her hand and squeezed it
like the old Marcus. His fingers were scraped and calloused. ‘Did he hurt you?’

‘No, I was weak and tempted by Veientane ways. And in my desperation to see Rome I did terrible things.’

‘I don’t believe you. If you did anything wrong it was because he forced you.’

The girl reflected on what she’d endured. Marcus may have sampled vice in brothels and taverns this year but not wickedness, not sacrilege. She was not about to tell him what he could not imagine, the temptations she’d given into, or what she’d seen, of how she’d worshipped. If she did so he would not be able to ignore such confessions. And she already knew she did not have courage enough to face dying for her blood taint.

Instead she concentrated upon him. How many battles had he fought? How many men had he killed? Unlike her, who had been sacrificed, Marcus was prepared to surrender his life for Rome
.

‘It’s not just I who have changed,’ she said, staring at his newly healed scars. ‘How valiant you must have been to gain an oak leaf crown.’

The youth reddened. ‘I was no braver than any other man that day. I did what was needed and expected.’

His words were humble but, despite his blush, she once again saw a difference in him. Before he’d been doubtful of heroics and his ability to excel. The burden of being expected to step onto the Honoured Way had been great and his resentment heavy. His father, his family and his friends always wanting more of him—more courage, more shrewdness—and all for one goal. To hold imperium. Now she sensed that, having been awarded for his valour, he hungered to do so again and again, not only to satisfy Aemilius but to outdo him.

‘Your father must be pleased.’

‘Yes, he basks in my renown as though he himself raised the lance and struck the blow instead of being encumbered with age and high office.’

The edge of sarcasm was also new.

‘He’s been elected Consular General. Doesn’t that make you proud?

‘Of course, but I would be happier if Camillus had also been chosen. My father and his allies have sought peace for too long, letting our enemies grow strong.’

‘Tell me about the battle at Anxur. Tell me how you saved Drusus.’

He smiled, eager to tell his tale in a way that would be handed down in the Aemilian family for generations: the glory of battle, its gore, its terror. ‘Anxur had been under siege for many, many months, and the Volscians threatened to sweep down upon our city and raze it to the ground. Drusus and I were granted the honour of being posted there. We were lucky, too, because shortly afterwards all our soldiers were slaughtered at Verrugo. It was good to be able to avenge our dead.’