The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (56 page)

Life with Drusus would be predictable and secure. He was serious but at least he was kind. And his wealth and family influence in the city could not be ignored. She’d surrendered independence when she’d left the walls of Veii. Now it would have to suffice to carry the keys to all rooms except the wine cellar, be hostess to her husband’s colleagues but not share his dining couch and attend to the duties of the atrium instead of receiving his clients.

And there would be a blustering sort of passion, a one-sided devotion, as she shared his bed while remembering how she’d lain in Mastarna’s. In either case there would be no temptations, no dark worship, no chance of wickedness anymore.

She thought of Artile and his prediction of a son who would beget a son. Tried to reconcile that it must be this Roman’s and not Mastarna’s. Realised she would bear an unchosen child after all. Smiled ruefully at how the blind but all-seeing Fortuna must be laughing.

*

Lying on her pallet after Drusus had gone, Caecilia noticed the patch of orange which had floated to the floor. Back in Veii, in a large linen chest, her wedding shroud lay folded, fine weaved with golden thread.

For an instant the memory of standing beneath the double veil with Mastarna returned. He’d been preoccupied with a ghost as he whispered his vows to his new bride. Now he was free to be reconciled with Seianta, and lie in death beside her.

Caecilia had felt smothered by the orange veil. Under the Veientane bridal mantle there had been room enough to see Mastarna’s face, smell his scent, feel his breath gently upon her cheeks, freedom as well to peer out through the netting to the strange new world beyond. And so she did not know which was sadder, the Roman bride who left her uni-coloured world or the Rasennan wife who chose to return to it.

*

It took a few heartbeats to remember where she was when she woke among the other items of inventory. The frenzied barking of the camp dogs pierced the gloom, rising above the noise of soldiers at their drills. In the early morning mist the hounds harried the horses drawing the carriage of a consular general through the gates.

Aemilius had hastened to the camp as soon as he’d heard of her arrival. Strangely, the sight of his plain but handsome senatorial toga made Caecilia want to cry in relief that she might finally see her home.

‘I am thankful to find you safe, daughter.’

The brief sense of a welcome homecoming vanished. Aemilius knew, or at least suspected, what awaited her in Veii. Had she meant so little to him?

‘Are you, uncle? Are you truly glad to face one you had already made a ghost?’

His usual look of annoyance when conversing with her returned. Caecilia did not care. She’d been angry with this man for too long.

The display of animosity between father and adopted daughter was interrupted when Camillus appeared. The atmosphere between the Commander and the Consular General was tense. Camillus clearly resented Aemilius being elected instead of him. Worse still, he’d now arrived to oversee a meeting the Commander considered should have been under his control.

Aemilius was also prickly. Although Camillus’ ambition had been thwarted, the Consular General could not ignore that the war hero enjoyed the adoration of his men and would no doubt ultimately gain office. Camillus was renowned for his valour, and valour brought fame, and fame brought power. All the Commander needed to achieve his aims was a war.

Both men ceased their show of ill feeling when a messenger arrived. Both looked troubled at his news, their reaction unsettling.

The Veientanes had sent word that Tulumnes would not be meeting with them that day. Instead, Vel Mastarna would be ambassador for Veii.

*

The wind was sharp and hot. The type of wind that badgers tempers and tugs at trees and flags and cloaks. It whipped the large unwieldy banners of the Romans so strongly that one flag-bearer struggled not to tip over. It had twice reefed the sacred flints and oak leaves from the fetial altar.

An open pavilion had been erected beside the Cremera, the river’s surface buffeted and ruffled. On either side of the clearing the walls of the ravine loomed over the men gathered on the boundary between the lands of Rome and Veii.

Caecilia sat between Aemilius and Camillus, wedged between them like a child guarded by her parents, conscious of how the men smelled of leather and stale sweat. Marcus and Drusus stood to attention behind them, proud to be chosen to be among the sentries that guarded such dignitaries. Nearby the fetial priest prepared for the rites quietly, almost meekly, for a man who was heeded by the god of war.

The enclosure was crowded with emblems. Aside from the Wolf insignia, there were badges of individual courage also. Two centurions stood next to dozens of the silver standards and spears that had been won by the officers, while they themselves wore armbands and torques, their corselets studded with phalerae discs, decorations to warn the enemy of the type of men that both led and fought for Rome.

Aemilius had exchanged toga for armour, the breastplate a little tarnished compared to Camillus’ burnished and embossed cuirass. Her uncle must have been jealously aware that his head was bare while the Commander, like Marcus, wore an oak leaf crown.

Soon a troop of fine-legged Etruscan horses approached
with plaited beribboned manes and trappings of bright blue silk. The elegant Veientane flags alternatively snapped or streamed out upon the contrary wind. The contingent marched to the strains of trumpet, timbrel and cymbals, both melodic and martial compared to the raw flat notes of Roman horns.

And leading the delegation, imposing despite wearing no armour, rode Vel Mastarna. Caecilia’s heart beat painfully at the sight of him. He was accompanied by those principes who had shown fickle loyalty to Tulumnes only weeks before. She itched with curiosity as to what had happened to the King, remembering how she’d last seen most of these noblemen at the Feast of Fufluns, their grotesque masks disguising little. She shuddered at the memory. Just behind Mastarna rode Arruns, his hooded eyes impassive.

Her husband looked weary. Not the tiredness that is salved by sleeping soundly or being relieved of worry, but a fatigue that seeps into bones making limbs ache. Exhaustion was etched into the creases around his eyes and the grooves from nose to mouth as permanently as his scars.

He scanned those within the pavilion, especially the fetial priest, greeting the Roman officers formally. Finally he turned to Caecilia and nodded curtly as if they’d never lain in each other’s arms or whispered endearments. She looked away, wondering why she would expect him to act in any other way.

‘So, Mastarna,’ said Aemilius when all were seated, ‘how is it that you and not your King attend this council?’

‘Because the lords of Veii no longer support Tulumnes after the brotherhood cast him out for his hubris. Our brave Lucumo has fled in fear of his life.’

‘And have you now claimed the crown?’

‘I am no king,’ said Mastarna, stiffening. ‘I return to call elections to choose a zilath. Veii does not need an enemy on its doorstep. As Tulumnes has been deposed I wish the truce to continue.’

Relieved, Caecilia smiled. There was no need to defend Rome after all. No need to risk Roman lives or for Veientanes to die.

Camillus stood and moved closer to the Etruscan. ‘I am afraid it is not quite that simple. There is still the matter of compensation.’

At first Caecilia was unsure she’d heard correctly. Turning to Aemilius, she waited for him to counter the Commander, but her uncle avoided her gaze.

Mastarna was equally confused. ‘What compensation?’

‘Your city breached a prior treaty on commencement of the last Fidenate war. The penalty is a payment of five wagons full of gold.’ The Commander leaned forward. ‘Veii broke the pact by fighting at Fidenae.’

Mastarna laughed in disbelief. ‘That debt was erased upon signing our current treaty. You must be mad to think my people would pay such an amount after more than twenty years. I could never agree to such terms.’

‘Then you give Rome no choice.’

‘Uncle, stop this!’ Caecilia grabbed Aemilius’ forearm, but he shrugged her away.

All three men were standing. Caecilia wanted to join them but felt sure Camillus, if not her uncle, would physically restrain her. Mastarna addressed Aemilius alone, snubbing the Commander. ‘Tell me this is not true.’

When the Consular General glanced at Camillus before he spoke, Caecilia understood that, above all else, her uncle was a politician and a hunter, weighing up benefit and disadvantage, not prepared to be bested by his subordinate. The time had passed when he could remain a dove.

‘Circumstances have changed, Mastarna. I’m afraid it is no longer a question of trade tolls and corn. Rome is strong again and the plebeians are impatient. They are citizen soldiers, not tenants.’

‘You mean they want land. Veientane land.’

Her husband reached into his robes. Caecilia could hear his gold and onyx ring click against the tesserae box as he studied Aemilius. ‘Then you’ve already decided that a war will be waged no matter who rules Veii.’ His tone was icy. ‘You are unwise to think Rome can defeat us when it has never done so. Rasennan kings ruled you, remember.’

Aemilius bridled. ‘And we sent the last one scuttling back to his Etruscan home.’

Mastarna raised his hand. ‘Then from either viewpoint, it seems there is no hope of peace.’

His gaze moved to Caecilia. It took her breath away to once again meet his eyes.

‘Since we are talking of compensation. There is the matter of reparation owed to my city. When my wife fled from Veii the existing truce was breached. Accordingly, I demand your city pay a penalty or return her.’

Startled, Caecilia half rose in her seat as Mastarna spoke to her in Rasennan.

‘You were not to know what would happen, Bellatrix. But I wish you could have stayed.’

‘I thought escaping would help you,’ she stammered.

The lapse into the Etruscan language infuriated Camillus. He placed his hand upon Caecilia’s shoulder, restraining her from standing. ‘Speak only when you are granted permission,’ he snapped at her. ‘And do so in our language.’

Caecilia was deciding whether to struggle from his grip when she heard Drusus cry out in fury behind her. ‘You Etruscan turd! She’ll be my wife,’ he shouted, striding across the tent and spitting in Mastarna’s face, ‘after I kill you!’

Before the youth could take another step, Aemilius exploded in anger, barking an order for him to be removed, unable to hide surprise at the young patrician’s declaration.

Two guards grappled with Drusus as they escorted him from the tent. As she watched, Caecilia felt uncomfortable for his rashness rather than flattered. He would be punished for his lack of discipline and excessive emotion—for disgracing the officers around him in front of the enemy.

Mastarna calmly wiped away the spittle with the edge of his cloak, ignoring the youth’s interruption as though Drusus was no more troublesome than the buzzing of a gnat. Instead he concentrated upon Caecilia, addressing her again in Rasennan. ‘Come back to me, Bellatrix. Tell them you wish to come back.’

Caecilia was speechless, wondering why he’d granted her forgiveness.

Aemilius raised his hand. ‘The matter is closed. No compensation will be paid. We will never surrender her.’

‘Then I repeat my request as a husband not an ambassador.’

Aemilius registered surprise, but his voice softened. ‘Don’t you understand, Mastarna? Caecilia can no longer remain as your wife. The time has come to sever nuptial ties. You agreed to divorce her if the treaty was broken.’

The wind had found its way inside her head making it impossible to think. She heard Aemilius’ words, but they were whipped up into the thoughts spinning in her head like a leaf swept from the ground and disappearing into a whirlwind. Time had sped up and she was struggling to catch up with it.

‘Please let me stand,’ she calmly asked Camillus. She was determined to face Mastarna. She had done so on the day she wed him and was not about to be divorced without doing the same.

The Commander hesitated, then relented, but Aemilius hovered close beside her.

‘Under Roman law my daughter has remained under my authority even though she lived in your house,’ he said. ‘Now she has returned to reside under my roof. Caecilia has chosen Rome and so, in the presence of ten good Romans, I declare this union to be ended.’

This time Mastarna’s gaze was not distracted by Seianta as it had been on their Roman and Veientane wedding days. His attention was held only by Caecilia as they were divorced.

After two ceremonies and consummation upon a nuptial bed, after a year of living with this man and loving his family, their marriage was ended. Without her involvement.

Quickly and easily, with no ceremony or the taking of the auspices. Simply by a declaration spoken before ten witnesses. Just as she thought she wanted.

Yet her husband, who was no longer her husband, did not wish to let her go. ‘I wish I hadn’t been so angry with you.’

Aemilius took Caecilia’s wrist, holding it down against his side painfully, his stare baleful as though guarding her from an assassin.