The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (12 page)

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Cytheris’ dark hair was like unspun wool. Its abundance made Caecilia’s own thickness seem sparse in comparison, especially as the maid wore it in one long braid reaching almost to her ankles. When unloosed and brushed it would look like a thicket from which a round and pockmarked face would peer. Pimples still lurked on Cytheris’ chin, and although her smile was appealing in its breadth it revealed a missing dogtooth. Caecilia considered she should have been milking cows or mucking out pigsties instead of waiting upon a noblewoman. Yet Cytheris’ ability to speak her tongue had made this first afternoon in Veii bearable. The novelty of having a maid to herself was also intriguing. At home, a miserly Aurelia had commandeered the services of the one harried handmaid.

The Greek girl was from Neapolis, a town south of here in Magna Graecia. Just yesterday Caecilia had never met someone from a foreign land, now she was plunged into a world of varied skins and tongues.

Beside the dressing table in the bedroom was a cylindrical bronze casket. Inside the cista were little compartments full of ivory combs, hair pins of bone and cosmetic jars made of amber.

When Cytheris had opened up the trove, Caecilia laughed at the thought of using such outlandish things. Yet she was delighted at the perfume of lilies the maid dabbed upon her skin, amazed that a flower’s essence could be distilled and poured into an alabaster flask.

Then she grew wary. Was it really expected she would be so flagrant as to paint her face and redden her lips?

‘How shall I arrange your hair, mistress?’

‘In a knot.’

‘That is very plain.’

‘A knot will suffice.’

The maid was bemused but Caecilia was determined to maintain the dignity of a Roman matron. It was thrill enough for her to be free of the demure bun of a maiden but it would be undignified to adopt Larthia’s elaborate twisting and pinning.

‘How is it that you know Latin?’

Cytheris continued with her task, speaking with a hairpin clenched between her teeth.

‘Courtesy of a man from Aricia, a town in Latium. He was kind enough to teach me his language as well as make me with child. The first gift was not particularly useful until your arrival, my lady. As to the second, you can judge.’ The maid nodded towards a small girl who had appeared at the door. She was no more than seven with a solemn air and ringlets of black hair. She handed some clothing to her mother.

‘Very well, Aricia,’ snapped Cytheris. ‘Off you go.’

‘I see you called her after her father’s city,’ said Caecilia as she watched the little one leave. ‘Is your husband also in service here?’

‘The Arician was not my husband, mistress,’ laughed Cytheris. ‘I was his slave. The gods may remember how many men I’ve lain with, but I’ve called none husband.’

Again Caecilia felt as though she must be simple. ‘You’re a slave?’

Cytheris’ eyes narrowed as though concerned she may have been undergoing some test. ‘And pleased to be in the care of the House of Mastarna.’

‘And Aricia?’

‘Her also. But does Rome not have such the like?’

‘Prisoners of war. And bondsmen. But they are treated as servants and work beside us in the fields.’

‘The Greek and Rasennan worlds depend on the toil of their slaves,’ continued the Greek girl. ‘I would not fuss about it too much. Lord Mastarna is a kind master. Better than some.’

‘How long? How long have you been enslaved?’

‘How long?’ Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. ‘A long time. Father got into debt, you see, and rather than face bondage himself, sold me to a trader. I fetched a good price at auction, too, despite an ugly face.  Now shall I finish your hair?’

Caecilia shook her head. ‘Auction? Were you sold as you do cattle?’

‘Most slaves are bought at auction here.’

Then she remembered Tata. How he’d said that debtors were sold into slavery across the river. Across the Tiber into Veii. She shivered to think there might be more than one unfortunate Roman citizen enslaved in her husband’s house, never able to return home. She wondered, too, at what kind of people would buy women and children as though bartering sows and piglets.

‘Forget my tale, mistress. Look! It is for your wedding feast.’

The fabric Aricia had delivered was a robe. Caecilia’s mouth dropped open. This was not the simple stola and tunic from her trunk but a gown shimmering with golden thread. Cytheris’ manner was reverential as she handed her the dress.

‘There’s more, too, my lady.’

A gilded fillet for her hair, a pendant for her neck, gold circlets for her wrists. Her imagination could never have conjured such finery. Caecilia fingered the round pendant—a precious amulet to replace the charm she’d surrendered to her uncle. Mastarna was both generous and thoughtful.

‘This looks like Atlenta,’ she said, showing the maid the locket.

Cytheris peered at it. ‘Why it does, too.’

Putting the necklace aside, Caecilia stroked the fine weave of the gown, bringing its softness to her cheek, checking to see if the colour suited her complexion. The cloth was light, exquisite. She had never owned so expensive, so elegant a garment. It must have taken magic to spin thread that seemed pure gold. But then she noticed how the fabric was nearly transparent. The dress would not just define the curve of her breasts but reveal them. And if she did not wrap a mantle around her it would show all.

‘Come, my lady, I’ll help you dress.’

‘Get my stola and tunic from my baggage. I am a Roman and will dress as one.’

‘But it’s your wedding gown,’ the Greek girl stuttered.

Caecilia let the dress drop to the floor. A silence fell between them as Cytheris silently helped her mistress into more sober clothes.

When Mastarna appeared his face creased into a frown. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, scooping up the gown. ‘Why aren’t you dressed?’

He was gruff. Despite his brief pleasure at seeing Larthia, his mood had not improved. She tensed, ready to explain why she must anger him. Yet when she saw him she found herself wordless.

He wore a white kirtle, bare to the waist with a mantle draped across one shoulder. A golden torque around his neck. His brown skin was smooth, but crossing his chest was one long livid scar, a diagonal slash from shoulder to hip as though he wore a living sash of purple. She could not keep her eyes off the wound, wondering who had dealt it, how indeed he had survived it. There were other marks upon his body, too. Less gruesome but nevertheless testament to a whole history of battles and injury: a fine white mark across his collarbone and a longer one above his hipbone, and, of course, the cicatrice between his lip and battered nose that she had studied surreptitiously before.

Then she realised that, although he had lain naked beside her that first night, she had no idea of the ugliness lying inches away, an unsightliness that was fascinating. Yet he seemed unperturbed by his disfigurement, equally assured whether bearing himself proudly in elegant society or opening the throat of a bandit in a wood. The sight of his near nakedness was so distracting it took Caecilia some moments to realise he was to remain half clad at the banquet. She dropped her gaze and blushed.

Mastarna ignored her scrutiny, holding out the wedding dress to her. ‘You must hurry and change. The Zilath will be arriving soon.’

‘I cannot wear this. It would be unseemly. The cloth is sheer.’

He smiled. ‘Bellatrix, you will look beautiful. There is no need to hide your fair figure under homespun.’

Unease flickered at the base of her throat. His flattery was as unnerving as the fact he wanted her to stand near naked in front of others. She shook her head.

Mastarna took a step closer, gently pushing Cytheris aside. ‘Caecilia, you are in Veii now. You must adjust and act as befitting my wife.’ His voice was hard. He had not spoken in such a tone before.

Her pulse sharpened, her heartbeat racing as confusion overwhelmed her. After their time together last night she’d found herself trusting this Etruscan, even thinking she might like him. Now he was encouraging wantonness when he had promised Aemilius he would respect her. Stories of Etruscan depravity rushed back into her thoughts. ‘Yesterday I donned the stola for the first time, the garment of a married woman. I do not think Rome would forgive me for wearing your gown and jewellery.’

Shaking his head he offered the robes to her again. ‘Listen to me, Caecilia. Not all here support the marriage of our two cities. Your refusal to dress this way will be confronting.  It will emphasise our differences not temper them.’

‘I represent my city. I will not dress like a whore.’

He flinched. ‘Think of it this way.  My mother is admired for her grace. The women you will meet tonight will give you a glimpse of something similar, while you—’ he hesitated, ‘while you will look like a peasant.’

She bristled at the insult. Was hurt also. It was the first time he had been cruel. ‘Don’t try to shame me into thinking Rome is the lesser for expecting its women to be modest.’

He tossed the gown onto the bed. ‘Is this how our marriage is to be? Fighting every inch over our differences? I liked you better yesterday when your courage was worthy.’

Caecilia lowered her eyes, resenting his words. He’d not been asked to live in Rome, to leave all he knew behind. He’d worn the toga for one day but could slip back into Etruscan robes.

‘Very well, I won’t force you to wear the dress,’ he continued. ‘But you might find that adapting to our ways is easier than resisting them.’

Caecilia examined the gown again. He was saying she was wrong to judge his people, but they would be just as severe in judging her. The unfairness stung her.

She glanced at Cytheris, reaching over to draw the Greek girl near, needing an ally even if she was a servant. ‘Cytheris, you must stay by me all night.’

‘If the master permits,’ the maid said nervously.

Mastarna observed the exchange but made no comment. ‘Our guests arrive.’

In a slight attempt at placation, she gestured to Cytheris to fasten the Atlenta pendant around her neck.

Mastarna frowned. ‘Atlenta cannot aid you, Caecilia,’ he said, offering her his arm, ‘unless you help yourself.’

Bewildered, she lay her fingers gently upon his forearm, trying not to tremble—for if her husband wanted her to dress like a prostitute, what more would he ask of her?

Glossary

Cast of Characters

Could the first wedding have only been two days ago?

Once again witnesses surrounded Caecilia as she bound herself to this man, only this time it was under the eyes of his gods. Many of the rites echoed the Roman ceremony, but that simple ritual seemed crude compared to these grand devotions. The offerings were made countless times: salt in gratitude to the gods, honey to placate them and wine in expiation for the sin of marrying an enemy.

Caecilia glanced at Mastarna. He remained stern as they sat facing each other upon curved backless chairs, each with one hand on the other’s shoulder and holding hands. Once again, when saying her vows to her husband, she strove to hide her nerves.

Artile was presiding. In addition to the sheepskin cloak and strange conical hat he carried a curved lituus staff, his presence adding solemnity to the proceedings. She did not understand his words but she knew what he was saying as he prayed and exhorted, implored and praised: Surrender to Mastarna. Cross the threshold into his world.

The lustral water was blessed. The priest sprinkled it over her then pointed to the sacred fire. To help her understand his meaning, he guided her hand.

At that moment she noticed two things: that his hand was soft and fleshy, and that he was steering her fingers too close to the flame.

A murmur of concern spread through the guests at her cry. She hoped it was not too dreadful an ill omen. Mastarna was irritable, speaking tersely to his brother to repeat the rite. The men glared at each other but Artile finally sprinkled the water over her again with a flicking, derisory movement. This time only smoke bathed her hand yet uneasiness lingered.

Artile signalled two attendants to hold a large round mantle over the couple; a symbol of shelter and union from those outside. Just like the bridal gown it was light and transparent, a fine thread of gold woven through it. There was space beneath it—a kind of cocoon. Enclosed there, it seemed all sound was blocked out except their breathing, all scents extinguished except lilies and sandalwood.

Caecilia beheld her husband and was perplexed. Instead of the aloofness of their first wedding day, misery exuded from him, from sad eyes to defeated shoulders. Their bodies close, Caecilia wrestled whether to offer comfort despite their argument. Tentatively, she touched his arm. ‘Mastarna?’

The movement made him focus upon her. His face softened. ‘This is our wedding shroud,’ he said. ‘Eventually it will embrace us in death.’

She shivered.

As the mantle was lifted from them, a polite smattering of applause filled the room. They were now man and wife under Etruscan law. The second ritual of marriage was complete.