PROLOGUE
Her whole world was orange.
Shifting her head to one side, feeling the weight of the veil, hearing it rustle, her eyes strained to focus through the fine weave.
Orange. The vegetable smell of the dye had been faint when she’d first donned the wedding veil, but now its scent filled her nostrils and mouth, the cloth pressing against her face as she walked to where the guests were waiting.
The atrium was crowded. So many people. Shaking, legs unsteady, Caecilia found she needed to lean against her Aunt Aurelia. Through the haze of the veil she could barely make out the faces of the ten official witnesses or that of the most honored guest, the chief pontiff of Rome.
And she could not see Drusus. Perhaps he could not bear to witness her surrender.
“Stand straight, you’re too heavy,” hissed her aunt, pinching the girl’s arm.
Biting her lip, Caecilia was led forward. The groom stood before the wedding altar, ready to make the nuptial offering. Her Uncle Aemilius smiled broadly beside him.
Aunt Aurelia, acting as presiding matron, deposited her charge with a flourish, then fussed with the bride’s tunic. She was reveling in the attention and smiled vacuously at her guests, but the girl was aware that, for so crowded a room, silence dominated.
Drawing back her veil, Caecilia gazed upon the stranger who was to become her husband. To her surprise, his black hair was close-cropped and he was beardless. She was used to the long tresses of the men of Rome—and their odor. This man smelled differently; the scent of bathwater mixed with sandalwood clung to his body.
Head bowed, she tried in vain to blot out his existence no more than a handbreadth from her side, but she need not have bothered. He made no attempt to study either her face or form.
“The auspices were taken at sunrise,” declared Aemilius. “The gods confirm the marriage will be blessed.”
Bride and groom sat upon chairs covered with sheepskin and waited while the pontiff offered spelt cake to Jupiter.
There was a pause as they stood and circled the altar, then the priest signaled Aurelia to join the couple’s hands.
Caecilia wished she could stop shaking. She had to be brave. She had to be dignified. But her body would not obey her. She was still quaking when Aurelia seized her right hand roughly and thrust it into the groom’s.
The warmth and strength of his grip surprised her. Her palm was clammy and it occurred to her that her hand would slip from his grasp. Slowly, she turned to face him. He was old; lines of age plowed his forehead and creased his eyes. He must be nearly two score years. What was he like, this man? Her husband?
Aware that she should be making her vows to him in silence, she instead prayed fervently that the gods would take pity and not make her suffer too long or too hard in his keeping.
His hand still encompassed hers. Before releasing her fingers, he squeezed them slightly, the pressure barely perceptible. She held her breath momentarily, amazed that the only mark of comfort she had received all day had been bestowed upon her by a foe.
She scanned his face. His eyes were dark and almond-shaped, like the hard black olives from her aunt’s pantry. His skin was dark, too, sun dark. A jagged scar ran down one side of his nose to his mouth.
He was far from handsome.
His toga and tunic were of a rich dark blue, making all stare at him for a difference other than his race. Yet his shoulders were held in a martial pose, no less a man for his gaudiness, it seemed, than the Roman patricians around him in their simple purple-striped robes. And the bridal wreath upon his head could have been a circlet of laurel leaves, a decoration for bravery, not nuptials.
A golden bulla hung around his neck, astounding her. For a man did not wear such amulets once he’d stepped over the threshold to manhood. Only children wore such charms in Rome. He wore many rings, too, but one in particular was striking. Heavy gold set with onyx. No Roman would garland himself with so much jewelry.
There was one other thing that was intriguing, making her wonder if his people found it hard to bid farewell childhood. His arms and his legs seemed hairless, as if they had been shaven completely.
Perfumed, short-cropped hair, no beard. Caecilia truly beheld a savage.
Once again she steeled herself, repeating silently: “I am Aemilia Caeciliana. Today I am Rome. I must endure.”
ONE
All Romans feed on ambition. Like Romulus and Remus nuzzling greedily at the dugs of the she wolf. Lucius Caecilius was no different. Tugging on one teat for personal profit while gorging on another for public gain.
His daughter did not know this.
To Caecilia, her Tata was a champion of the people. One of ten tribunes empowered to veto unjust laws. The highest office a commoner could hold.
In a world riven by a bitter class war, he had succeeded in marrying a patrician. His bride did not welcome the marriage, though, forever after hating her brother, Aemilius, for brokering the union.
Living on her husband’s estate, away from the city of Rome, Aemilia bore the shame of her marriage in seclusion by refusing to greet other matrons who sought to visit.
Caecilia’s memories of her mother were distant, for the patrician woman cloistered herself within the rambling country house, and when confronted with her child looked disappointed, almost perturbed, that the proof of Aemilius’s betrayal still lived and breathed and had taken form as a little girl.
Humiliation formed a canker both within and upon Aemilia’s breast, and she lay in a darkened chamber brimming with stuttering coughs, rasping breaths, and resentment. The air was heavy with the bittersweet scent of the hypericum oil she rubbed upon her sores that left a bright-red stain as if to declare she could never be cured. To Caecilia, even the slightest hint of such an odor would forever more return her to that fetid room, assaulting all her senses. All except for one. All except for touch.
One day, though, Aemilia pressed a fascinum into her daughter’s hand, a tiny phallus crafted from bone and tipped in iron. “To keep away the evil eye,” she whispered. “You, most of all, will need it.”
Such a gesture of concern caused confusion in the child as to whether her mother wished to protect her or thought she was already cursed.
While Aemilia lived, Lucius resided in the city, visiting rarely, always anxious to escape his wife’s chilly reserve. And so, knowing nothing else than her mother’s disdain and her father’s diffidence, the young Caecilia learned to hide in shadowy corners away from the servants. For she soon understood from listening to their gossip that they saw her neither as a patrician nor even a plebeian but only as a brat.
Lonely and silent, she became invisible, only finding happiness when she could slip from dimness into sunlight to trace on foot the limits of her father’s land, tying woolen puppets to the boundary stones to remind the spirits to remember and protect her.
***
When Aemilia died there was relief. An observation of duty. Nothing more. No tears. Tata hired mourners for that. Ashes caking their faces and hair. Keening.
Freed of the gloom of that oppressive household, the little girl ran wild, dressed in dark-blue mourning clothes but not grieving, using only oil and the scrape of iron strigil to keep clean, hair uncombed, chores left unattended, and wondering now and then whether she should weep.
Seeing Tata’s reaction to his wife’s death did not help her uncertainty. On the day her mother died, Lucius hesitated before placing his lips over Aemilia’s, as though uncomfortable that he should inhale her dying soul with such a kiss.
***
Not long after the funeral, Caecilia ran into Tata’s study to escape the rain leaking from under the atrium roof covers. Discovering in her father’s domain a feast long denied her, the ten-year-old raided its secrets as hungrily as she plundered his beehives for honey, intrigued by scrolls that slithered and curled into rolls when she played with them, or wax tablets upon which words or numbers could be etched.
Summoned by his steward, Lucius was startled to find his wayward daughter guiltily handling his books as though she were a thief caught in his wine cellar.
To her surprise he did not chide her. Instead, father and daughter came to an understanding. Lucius’s fingers were crippled by an affliction that made his joints gnarled and his flesh frozen with pain. It had become hard for him to hold a stylus without splattering ink or digging unwanted strokes onto a fresh page. And so he taught Caecilia to read and write, telling her the laws of their people and reciting unwritten customs in long, worn sentences. And in time she wrote his letters and read aloud to him when eyesight and candlelight were both failing.
Amid the tablets and scrolls, bills and invoices, inventories and manuals, Caecilia gained an education that would have been reserved for a son: religion and law, arithmetic, and history.
She gained his love as well.
Each night, after she’d ground a salve of calendula by mortar and pestle, she’d massage his gnarled and tortured knuckles, smoothing the pungent ointment into his skin. And always, while she did so, he’d lace his crippled fingers between hers and murmur: “My honey-eyed child, what would I do without you?”
***
Tata was wealthy. Being plebeian did not preclude riches. Riches built upon salt.
When given the chance, Caecilia would hungrily savor the grains sprinkled from the heavy saltcellar upon the table, sometimes pouring the precious particles onto the oak and making finger trails. And a supply was always certain because Tata owned a concession to a salt mine, a treasure trove at the mouth of the Tiber seized from the enemy city of Veii many years ago.
Despite possessing a fortune, Lucius lived humbly and was generous to the people, never forgetting it was they he represented in the forum. Yet he could not always help them.
On the few occasions when Tata took Caecilia to the village, she would sit safely within the confines of his carriage while he went about his business. For he treated her as a patrician virgin, forbidding her to drink wine and vigilantly guarding her virtue. By thirteen she was old enough to wed, her potential to marry an aristocrat valuable. Tata did not want such a chance threatened by a plebeian suitor. He wanted a grandchild that would be three-quarters patrician. Nobility by degrees.
One day, when peeping through the gap in the carriage curtains, Caecilia saw a man in the square fettered in chains. Filth was spattered across his tunic, remnants of missiles lobbed at him by village urchins. The skin of his face and arms was burned, blisters forming, hair and beard caked with dirt. He looked hungry and thirsty and defeated, his humiliation heavier than his bonds.
A young girl stood beside him. It was not his daughter, wearing as she was the stola overdress of a matron. She carried a baby in her belly and one upon her hip. The little boy was screaming, cheeks red, his mouth so wide with sound it seemed he’d forgotten to take a breath. His mother, face lined and eyes weary, ignored him. She was too busy feeding her husband a watery gruel. He gulped it down, almost choking in his haste to take a mouthful.
Caecilia tugged at Tata’s sleeve. “Who is he?”
“A soldier who has fallen into debt. He’s been chained there for nearly two months waiting for the magistrate to pass final judgment.”
Caecilia stared at the veteran. “He is a citizen?”
Lucius frowned and sighed. “Rome has many enemies, Cilla. Volscians in the south, Aequians in the east and the sleeping threat of the Veientanes in the north. And so to defend our city our citizens march out to war in spring and only return in winter to plow and sow their land. While they are away their wives and children must see to the harvest, which grows ever meager with each passing year of drought. Debts accrue. Men return to impatient creditors. And so warriors who have not already sacrificed their lives return to forfeit their liberty instead.”
“And if he cannot pay his debts?”
Lucius carefully closed the curtains. “He will become a bondsman, Cilla. Or his new master could do as the Laws of the Twelve Tables permit and sell him across the Tiber to become a slave.”
“And his wife and children?”
“I will do what I can, but the girl must hope her family will support her.”
“And if you were a judge, could you help him?”
She felt him tense. “I’m afraid only patricians can be magistrate, judge, or consul. To take office you need to light a sacred flame. A man must have holy blood to do that. And so, because no plebeian can claim a lineage to the gods, no plebeian will ever sit upon a magistrate’s ivory chair or thereafter don the purple-bordered toga of a senator in the Curia.”
Caecilia leaned against him so that her cheek was warmed by the soft wool of his cloak, bewildered by such injustice. “So a commoner will never govern Rome?”
Tata gently grasped her fingers. “Cilla, don’t you understand? That is why you are the future of this city, my own little patrician, proof that holy and mundane can merge. When there are more born like you all of Rome will feel the trickle of the divine within their veins and then no one can claim greater rights to power than another.”
Caecilia smiled, puffed with pride at hearing she had such purpose. Then uncertainty filled her. Just what part of her was godly? Her toes or elbows? Chin or shoulders? Some awkward part, no doubt. Gracefulness did not seem to have been ordained. And if indeed she possessed such blood, how was it that the servants scowled at her and even the cat would not heed what she said? Whatever doubts she had about herself, though, did not stop her believing in her father.
Yet over time, as gossip drifted on city breezes from the forum, it slowly dawned on her that Tata no longer held office as a tribune of the people, and that his world had shriveled, like his once-strong hands, to the confines of his farm.
***
Years later, on a night so cold the wind howled through the atrium’s blackened rafters, Caecilia learned of Tata’s true ambitions.
On that night, when Marcus Furius Camillus came to call, wearing a thick woolen toga edged in purple, the charcoal and flame flared within the hearth, making her wonder if he would douse the fire or fan it with his fervor.
“What brings you to the country on such a night, senator,” asked Lucius, drawing aside the curtain to the doorway of his study, “when you could be warming yourself in the Curia’s heated debate?”
Caecilia followed closely behind Tata and the patrician. She could smell the faint odor of urine and sulfur used to clean his robes. His hands were strong and handsome compared to her father’s, and he wore a gold signet ring, a touch of flamboyance for a society used to wearing iron.
Scanning the pile of books that lay scattered on the floor of the study, Camillus turned his attention briefly to her. “Your daughter should be married, Lucius, not straining her eyes on reading.”
Tata nodded to Caecilia in dismissal as he led the senator to his study. The gesture was gentle but it was as though she had been slapped, reminding her of what a woman’s place should be—would be—if not for his indulgence. She made a show of gathering up the scrolls to delay a moment longer.
“I came here to speak of war,” Camillus said.
Lucius seemed puzzled. “Which war? Against the Volscians or the Aequians?”
“Why, against Veii, of course,” he said, glaring at Caecilia for still loitering. “The murderers of our kinsmen and the coveters of Rome’s salt mines.”
Caecilia’s eyes widened. The ruthlessness and treachery of the Veientanes could never be forgotten. They had killed Tata’s brothers and many other Romans before the present treaty was signed. Knowing this she frowned as she left the study, wondering if the Etruscans planned to steal the salt mines that were prized as though the white stuff were gold.
Pausing behind the bronze safe beside the doorway, she glanced back inside. Camillus was limping slightly as he paced the room, legacy of a Volscian spear thrust in his thigh, proof also of glory gained when very young.
“You talk of war with Veii,” said Lucius, “and yet this wretched truce is still on foot.”
The senator loomed closer to the door, causing the girl to shrink away. “Wretched truce, indeed. Nearly twenty years have passed with those pampered Veientanes doling out corn to us, while we let go the chance to cross the Tiber and seize their land. And all because peacemakers like your brother-in-law hold power.”
The tirade startled her. She was used to Tata teaching his tenets, together with grammar and dictation, with a gentle zeal. This man spoke not just the language of hatred but of passion for Rome.
“I don’t disagree,” said Tata. “I, too, would see Veii crushed, but our soldiers are already fighting the Volscians at Anxur and Verrugo while the Aequians stalk our borders. Resources are low, as is morale. Aemilius has good cause to counsel caution.”
Camillus scraped a chair along the floor to sit close by the plebeian, his body tensed upon the edge of the seat. “Haven’t you heard? Martial law has been proclaimed. Rome fights on so many war fronts it needs more generals. While the city is under military rule, four consular generals will be elected instead of two ordained consuls. Do you know what that means, my friend? Commoners will not be precluded from holding such a position. It is possible that a plebeian could lead a legion of Rome.”
Caecilia’s heart beat faster. How pleased Tata would be that his prayers had been answered and that his counsel was being sought.
Lucius did not reply. The senator’s startling news had caused him to cough. It was a racking cough that had persisted all winter, hoarse and painful, deep and wheezy. “Your words bring hope to the people,” he eventually said, gaining breath, “but it does not explain how our soldiers will be convinced to fight another war.”
The politician leaned forward and gripped the armrests of Tata’s chair. “Pay them a wage,” he said loudly, as if Lucius needed greater volume to understand him. “Pay them a wage and then their spirits will rise enough to fight ten foes!”
Caecilia thought of the soldier whose valor had been rewarded by bondage. Thought, too, of all those Roman dead who called to be avenged.
And yet instead of approval, Tata fell silent, his hesitation mirrored in the tapping of his cane. “The idea has merit,” he finally said. “But why come to me? It’s your patrician friends you should be approaching.”
“I already have support from those who do not shrink from conflict. But we can do nothing if one of the peoples’ tribunes blocks the bill. All I ask is that you speak to your colleagues. Convince them that this would be in all our interests.”
Again Tata hesitated. “But will the treasury fund it?”
Camillus shifted in his seat. “No, there would have to be a tax. The people would have to be reasonable and pay their share.”
It was Tata’s turn to pace, rapping the bookshelves and the table with his cane to punctuate his words. “A tax? Don’t waste my time! If you promised booty or land as well it might be different, or if the patricians said they’d pay the lion’s share. I can hear the tribunes now, standing in the forum, faces flushed with fervor. They’d choose some grizzled veteran in the crowd and make him display his scars. They’d shout, ‘Tell us, can this soldier afford to shed any more blood? Lose any more flesh? Does he have anything left to meet a tax to pay himself!’”
“Ah, Lucius,” said Camillus, smiling. “I’ve missed your orations.”
Tata eased back into his chair, rubbing his knuckles, his voice low. “You know I am no longer welcomed by the Comitium. The people will surely claim I am still a patrician’s puppet. There is no way they will listen to me.”
“You have more support than you imagine. All you need do is return to Rome and stand up for what you believe.” Camillus leaned over and touched the other’s sleeve. “You never acted dishonorably, only reasonably, unlike the current tribunes who take every chance to veto a levy of troops. Just one of them can hinder us proclaiming war. It is they who misuse their power, whereas you always exercised good judgment.”
Tata continued to massage his crooked fingers. “You mean I never opposed Aemilius and his friends. You mean I was ‘reasonable’ enough not to veto laws that the patricians wanted passed.”
Camillus casually rearranged his robes. “You are too harsh upon yourself,” he said. “You’ve kept your promises to Aemilius, but has he? You funded his elections from your bulging purse yet here you are in this backwater, not one step closer to being consul than when you first met him. Since the censors have been consecrated to light the sacred flame for plebeians, there have been others given the opportunity to step into magisterial shoes. What has Aemilius actually done besides let you lie with his sister and father a half-caste child?”
In her hiding place, Caecilia flinched at hearing such truths, not wanting to believe them.
Her father’s chair scraped along the floor. “I think you should leave,” he said softly, firmly. “What you say may be true but, for better or worse, I am tied to Aemilius. I will not break my word.”
Trembling, the girl chanced one more peek into the room. Camillus stood with open palms.
“Come, Lucius, don’t be angry. We are both hawks, my friend, and well suited. And so I offer you this last chance. You can still attain your dreams if you are loyal to me. All I ask is that you campaign for a veteran’s salary and war with Veii. In return I’ll help you stand beside me as a consular general. Think of it, Lucius Caecilius, imagine! You could be the first plebeian in the city to share supreme office in Rome.”
Holding her breath, Caecilia waited for Tata’s reply, thinking he would be elated. Instead his voice sounded despairing.
“I am afraid you are too late,” he finally said as he stretched out his twisted, feeble hands. “Look at them! Look at them! Do you really think I could command either state or army? I have no more power to sway my people than I have strength to hold a sword.”
***
Lucius knew his daughter well. After Camillus had gone in a whirl of arrogance and disappointment, Tata called her to him, his words squeezed out in the gaps between his wheezing. “How much did you overhear?”
Caecilia was shaking as much from the betrayal as from summoning courage to confront the man who owned her. “Was I always the residue, not the essence, of your vision, Tata? Am I just the tailings left after you had mined my mother’s family for their value?”
Lucius slumped against the doorjamb in another fit of coughing. Despite her anger, Caecilia rushed to lead him to his chair.
“Cilla, you must never think that! Never! My dream was always to unite the classes, but there will never be concord unless the plebeians share power. And so my marriage to your mother served another purpose. It was supposed to help me walk upon the Honored Way—step by step up the political ladder to the governorship of Rome.”
“Yes,” she said, voice trembling at defying him, “through the currency of bronze weights and collusion!”
Tata leaned back, exhausted, face ashen, voice quiet. “There was honor in my dream.”
“But you heard Camillus! I am just a half-caste to them. While you see me as half of what could make Rome great, my mother’s people see me as half of what would destroy it. The patricians will never let go of their rule.”
“I can’t believe that. You are the future.”
She sank to her knees beside him. “Is that all you see in me?”
Laboring for breath, Lucius put his hand upon her head and stroked her hair. “How can you doubt I love you? Haven’t you wondered why you are nearly eighteen and still unwed? I could have given you to a patrician groom by now, but I could not bear to be without you.”
Bending down, he swept her plait from her neck to reveal a purplish blemish. “This birthmark is a sign of changing fortune, Cilla, ups and downs. The gods have signaled your life will not be easy. But you must believe me when I say that you and your children will make a difference to Rome, even if I have failed you.”
***
The cold of that winter’s day extended into weeks of ice and months of snow. Tata, lungs choked, hacking and hawking up green phlegm, ribs cracked from coughing, retreated to his bed nursing his humiliation.
Caecilia tended him with devotion, forgiving his corruption and complicity, reluctant to forgo the touch of the only one who’d loved her. And the revelation had some benefit, for she at last understood why Tata hated Aemilius, and why, in turn, her mother hated her.
“Stay with me,” rasped Lucius, too weak to grasp his daughter’s hand. “Catch my last breath.”
When he died, Caecilia placed her mouth upon his still-warm lips, inhaling his soul, proud to possess part of him forever and glad that no brother existed to claim that right instead of her.
There was no need to hire mourners. Abandoned and alone, she grieved and sorrowed.
His bier was plain, adorned by garlands. It bore the insignia of a people’s tribune, the highest office he had held. Washed and anointed, he lay within his atrium, feet pointed toward the door. Outside, an evergreen bough was hung to announce to passersby that death had already visited.
He had been cremated at night so that his daughter’s farewell, spoken three times, was uttered through the choking taste and smell of burning flesh and cypress. The shock of watching him consumed upon his pyre raised the hairs on Caecilia’s skin and summoned a night demon to her dreams. Every time she fell asleep, it sat upon her chest, weighing the same as a small dog, with snakes growing like horns from its head and wings sprouting from its back, its eyes black slits in yellow.
And no matter how loud she screamed, nobody heard her cries.
***
It was spring when Caecilia left her home.
At the Liberalia festival people drank from the paltry vintage, singing and praying that the earth’s new growth would burgeon instead of wither.
Before she left, the hearth fire was extinguished and not relit. There was no master to perform the rites to reignite it. The flames were quenched with sand, a silent smothering, leaving her with only the memory of a blackened hearthstone in a cheerless room.
It was March, the month of her birthday. The start of a new year.
It was also the month of Mars, the warrior god.
And so, as the girl began her journey, Rome prepared once again to go to war.
TWO
Leaving the vineyards and olive trees of the farm behind her, Caecilia bid farewell to the sights and sounds and smells of the country, the bleating of goats, the wind in the pine trees and the faint scent of lemons from nearby orchards. Arriving in Rome, the city enveloped her with clamor and stridency and smoke, which seeped through the walls of her uncle’s Palatine house together with the stench from the great public drain.
Her Uncle Aemilius greeted her coolly. Even from the grave Lucius had not let the Aemilians forget him. Against custom, he’d appointed Aemilius as his daughter’s guardian, a responsibility that would prove a constant reminder to her uncle of his betrayal of his sister Aemilia many years before.
Aunt Aurelia observed her new charge at arm’s length as she would a dead rat, declaring that once again Caecilia would wear dark blue for a year.
No more books. No more writing.
No more going barefoot in the summer and building scarecrows in the fields. Instead, baths once a week and combed hair. Spinning and weaving and washing and sewing. Preparing to become a wife. Women’s company at last but no companionship. And, apart from her cousin, Marcus, no affection.
In her uncle’s house the emptiness did not leave her. Aurelia’s chiding and Aemilius’s patronizing attempts at compassion did not lift her melancholy either, but Marcus understood her.
He was older than her by two years. A green soldier, unblooded and untested, destined to appear upon the family tree whose branches groaned with the names of magistrates, generals, and consuls. His father expected much of him for there was no other son to bring fame to their line of the clan. Climbing the Honored Way and gaining battle honors was his duty.
Dowdy in mourning clothes, Caecilia clutched at grief as if scared it would be snatched away as swiftly as death had seized her father. Marcus found her pacing the boundary of Aurelia’s little garden, hemmed in by wooden houses instead of oak woods, sad that in only a few strides Rome could define and contain her. He snapped a rose from its stem and offered it to her.
“No more weeping, Cilla. Honor his memory with roses, not tears. Ceasing to mourn will not banish him. He will always be with you.”
After this shared kindness the cousins became allies, for although Marcus enjoyed his mother’s attention, he hated how she beat Caecilia. “You know I won’t let her hurt you,” he would promise, but Caecilia knew better, glad that her sleeves hid the welts from Aurelia’s spiteful pinches. Marcus believed he was her champion, but once he was absent, the matron would continue her mistreatment.
Caecilia concentrated instead on enjoying those fragments of time Marcus could spare. For he trained every day, and every day he railed against the need to wield a wooden sword tipped with a leather button to ensure no accidents befell him. The army did not believe in killing green recruits at practice. There was time enough for the Volscians to do so.
One afternoon he settled beside her before the family shrine—face dirty, tunic torn, forearms and knees grazed—and stoked the cinders of the hearth fire while she took up the mortar and pestle. “Not elder leaves,” he said, screwing up his nose. “The house stinks for days after you grind them.”
She laughed, then pointed to the bruises on his legs. “Aunt Aurelia thinks the plant is a cure-all. She told me to make an ointment for you.”
“Then I better not tell her I think I’ve sprained my wrist.”
She glared at him. “No, otherwise I’ll be pulling nettle stings out of my fingers for days after making a compress for you.”
“But at least Mother will be happy.”
Caecilia laughed again. It was true. The only time Aurelia seemed content was when concocting brews and ointments, salves and plasters, filling the air with smells of calendula and birch bark, or scents of mint or thyme, such plants giving up their bitter or sweet secrets to her.
“As for your aches and pains,” she said, “you’ll just have to be brave and bear them.”
Marcus grew serious, picking at the calluses upon the palm of one hand. “Father spoke to me today,” he said. “I am to be posted to Verrugo in Volscian territory this summer.”
Caecilia’s smile faded. No longer could her cousin whine that his weapon would not draw blood. His sword would be of iron and its tip and blade honed sharply. And with such thoughts came worry, the knowledge that a spear or sword could pierce him and he would be lost to her forever.
“But this is good news,” she said, trying to hide her concern. “It is an honor.”
Marcus tore a strip of dead skin from his palm, exposing tender pink flesh beneath. Quiet. Voice a murmur. “But what if I lack courage? What if I dishonor our family?”
Caecilia laid the mortar and pestle upon the floor, not sure what to say. There was no reason for Marcus to doubt himself. All his life he’d attained the goals his father had set him. He was, in every way, a golden child: intelligent, diplomatic, athletic—and brave. With his talents he would not fail to climb the ladder of ambition and nor would he fail in battle.
Before she could answer, though, he strode over to the ancestor cupboards and flung them open. Caecilia gasped. The death masks of the famous ancestors within were not allowed to be revealed except on special occasions. “Quickly, close it,” she hissed, “or we’ll be punished.”
Ignoring her, Marcus pointed at one image in particular. The firelight flickered upon the waxen face, the eyes blank and staring. “Behold Mamercus Aemilius,” he declared. “Liberator of Fidenae! Conqueror of the Veientanes!”
He tapped his chest. “And now behold his great-nephew—the coward.”
Caecilia glanced around nervously lest Aurelia emerge. She carefully closed the cupboard. “What are you talking about? You’ve never backed down from a fight.”
Marcus shook his head. “You don’t understand, Cilla. The Legion of the Wolf is ancient and esteemed. What if I cannot fight as boldly as my father expects?”
Caecilia took his hands. They were trembling. “Of course you will be brave,” she said. “This is just nerves. You’ll see, when the time comes you’ll face the enemy with courage. You are no coward.”
“But I have never killed a man. Perhaps in the heat of battle I will falter.” He bowed his head, his voice a whisper. “Cilla, I’m scared of dying.”
She was stunned. “All young soldiers must feel the same. What of your friends? I’m sure they have doubts also.”
He frowned. “Men do not speak of such fears to one another.”
The girl fell silent, sad that her cousin could gain no solace just because manhood had been reached and bravado encouraged. She spoke softly. “Are you sure there is no one?”
His face set into an expression that told her he regretted telling her of his fears. “Cilla, you are a woman. You’ll never understand.”
***
Soon after, Caecilia met a friend of Marcus’s who she felt would understand him. His name was Appius Claudius Drusus. He too was a son of a wealthy patrician. He too was expected to walk upon the Honored Way.
Around the time Drusus began to visit, Caecilia found she was no longer oblivious to the physique of the men she was allowed to meet. She was suddenly aware of the height of a man or the width of his shoulders, the strength of his arms or the line of his legs. Aware, too, that she was no beauty. Too tall for a girl—as Aurelia was oft to repeat—her nose too straight, her mouth too wide. And, upon her neck, as a constant reminder, the ugly, purple stain.
Cloistered in her uncle’s house, she was frustrated that her time with Drusus was always limited to formal visits. He was nervous, always restless in his chair. She could tell Aurelia disliked him: his gruff, halting sentences, his rough social graces. Yet in the minutes it took for her to proffer a dish of almonds to each guest, she could not ignore how his eyes followed her every movement, how he blushed when she caught him watching; how, too, an unexpected shyness welled within her, an eagerness to please that was unsettling.
It was better when the russet-haired youth visited Marcus only, for her cousin would ignore how she’d linger, perching on the edge of the impluvium well, listening to their news and bragging until Aurelia chased her away, scolding her for immodesty.
At such times, Drusus’s voice would become louder, his gestures broader, his fervor deeper, his hesitancy gone. He yearned to fight, wanted glory, and hungered for his chance at war.
Caecilia listened to his talk of battle and ambition but did not concentrate on every detail. She would have been content just to observe him. To study how his hands were bony, the knuckles pronounced, how his body, too, was lean and lank with the scaffold of a man’s but not yet its core. And how his eyes had a hint of anger, a wildness that made her believe he could be defiant. Defiant enough to consider a half-caste.
One time, to her delight, they had a chance to be alone. A moment after the servant left to fetch her cousin, Drusus took her hand and drew her close, snatching a kiss, light and clumsy, a forbidden kiss which chaperones guard against and for which maidens sigh. Yet, strangely, the touch did not lead to further embrace. They were uneasy at such rashness, at the risk of embracing before the household gods who even now must be muttering with outrage.
To Caecilia’s relief the awkwardness did not last. Drusus’s kiss may have been askew, but he suddenly gained confidence to speak. “I want to marry you. I want you to be mine.”
She was surprised. While she had prayed that this boy might marry her, she had not expected Drusus to dare try. It had been enough for him to notice her, to make her conscious of the swell of her breasts and hips, that her hair was shiny. Now he was speaking of a union that could never be.
Marriage was a matter for family, for the sons yet to be born, for bloodlines and power and wealth. Grandfathers as well as fathers wanted heirs. Love had nothing to do with it. Yet the fact Drusus should speak of his desire for her to be his wife made her smile. And there was admiration, too, for his boldness.
Conscious that they would be disturbed at any moment and aware, too, that both their palms were slippery, her heart beat as fast as when she raced the clouds down the corn rows of her father’s farm.
Hearing Marcus approach she pulled away, but Drusus would not let her go.
“I am going to ask my father to speak to Aemilius. Why would either refuse?”
***
Caecilia was not skilled at weaving. She always broke the thread upon the spindle and tangled the warp weights on the loom. Yet, hopeful that the elders would come to an agreement, she began spinning fine yarn to weave a flammeum, the veil of Roman brides.
As always, she struggled to start the whorl twirling, aware that Drusus would expect her to be as skillful as his sisters at the task. The prospect of achieving an even weave was also daunting, as was the fear of orange blobs forming when she steeped the gauze in dye of weld.
Yet knowing her labors were for Drusus, the girl settled to the task until she heard Aemilius noisily returning early from the law courts.
Curiosity turned to surprise when he entered the atrium and sat down beside her, bending to remove his dusty boots and slip on indoor sandals.
“I have decided to adopt you,” he said abruptly.
Caecilia paused in her work, uncertain what to say. The news was unexpected and intriguing. As her guardian, Aemilius controlled her considerable inheritance. He did not need to claim her nor worry that she was unwed. Yet hearing his words, the possibility of marriage crossed her mind. Perhaps he had brokered a business deal and betrothal in one negotiation. Perhaps with Drusus’s father.
“Caecilia, every son is expected to sacrifice himself for our city,” he declared. “And such commitment is also expected of a daughter, in a different way. I am going to give you a chance to perform a duty no other Roman woman has ever faced. And in agreeing, you will be lauded, you will be revered.”
Unease crept through her and she found herself perspiring as when she sat before a fire too closely and too long. Her voice wavered. “What is it you wish me to do?”
Then he told her of a marriage, but not the one she desired. Hearing this, she dropped the distaff, sending the whorl flying across the room.
“An Etruscan?”
“It is to extend the truce, daughter, so that Veii will not be our foe.”
“And if I do not agree?”
Aemilius raised one caterpillar eyebrow. “There is many a maiden who consents to a marriage she does not want.”
Caecilia’s disquiet flared to panic. She was hot now, as though flames were licking her hands, melting them, melting her. She sank to her knees, knowing that she should not question him. A paterfamilias demanded respect, a respect born of an illustrious career and the care of his family. He had the power to kill her. Yet, wasn’t what he was proposing worse than death?
She thought of Lucretia, the dutiful Roman wife: epitome of modesty, fidelity, and patience. She’d been compromised, threatened, and raped. By an Etruscan prince. Then venerated for taking her life rather than living with dishonor. “I do not want to be another Lucretia,” she choked, tears pricking her eyes.
Aemilius put his hand on her shoulder, a rare contact. “You worry unnecessarily, my dear. Vel Mastarna has shown himself to be honorable in all my dealings with him. And he has held the equivalent position to a consul in the past.
Caecilia swallowed, her throat tight. Being married to an august Veientane nobleman should have granted her comfort yet did not allay her fears. The Etruscan monarchs had been aristocratic tyrants. As far as she was concerned all Etruscans were base.
“Please, Uncle! They say Veientane husbands make their wives lie with other men!”
Startled, Aemilius glared at her. “Who has said such things to you?”
“Please don’t ask me to do this,” she begged, not wishing to reveal Marcus as her source. “I promise I will obey Aunt Aurelia, I promise I will see to household duties as she bids.”
Aemilius pulled her to her feet, face beet red. “Listen to me. Vel Mastarna has assured me that he will not shame you.”
There was a silence where she made herself believe him. “Will I ever see Rome again?”
“Of course, of course,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “You won’t be a prisoner.”
Caecilia willed him to look at her but he would not. Frustration welled within her and she found herself remembering Camillus. Over the past months his plans had not succeeded, thwarted as her father predicted by both the people’s tribunes and patrician doves.
“Why extend the treaty? Why not declare war?”
His tone was terse with irritation from speaking of such matters to a girl. “Do you think Rome can afford another war front? The city is in the middle of a famine! We are starving because our crops are withering from drought. We need peace. Romans are farmers while Veientanes, although blessed with fertile fields, are traders. Veii supplies us with corn and they, in turn, gain access to the roads that Rome now owns.”
“Why a marriage, then, as well as a treaty? Why do both Assembly and Senate want me to wed?”
She felt a bitter satisfaction in seeing his surprise, that she had forced him to wonder at a niece who was enough like her father to argue the point, and enough like her mother to despise him.
“There is no doubting you are Lucius’s child,” he snapped. “Belligerent and rude.”
“Please, Uncle. I need to know.”
“It is quite simple. Veii is riven by internal conflicts, as is Rome. Its leaders fear that warmongers like Camillus could gain power. And so, as surety that our state does not change its mind about the truce, Aemilia Caeciliana will marry a Veientane lord.”
As he spoke her adopted name, she shivered, finally understanding why she had been chosen. She would now be called by both plebeian and patrician names. “Aemilia Caeciliana” would be a melding of elite and common, a symbol of united Rome.
For a moment she panicked, wanting Tata to be there to stop this, wishing that her father could once again hold her with his deformed, aching hands, knowing that this was not his vision when he married her mother more than eighteen years ago.
She felt scornful, too, because her uncle knew that she was as much a fusion of the classes as oil and water. His cynicism was as breathtaking as it was bold. She was a half-caste. As such he’d not considered adopting her to help her wed Drusus, but he was prepared to claim her for the good of Rome in order to marry her to a foe.
What would Tata have thought? Would he have finally rejoiced that his daughter had been made officially patrician? Or instead been incensed enough to make her another Verginia—whose father slew her rather than let her be shamed?
“And what if old hostilities reignite? Will Rome then be content for me to become a captive?”
Aemilius strode toward the door before turning briefly to her. “Lucius was wrong to spoil you. I am your master now and you must do as you are told. And when I say there will be no war, you will believe me. It is as simple as that, do you understand?”
***
Drusus came to her as soon as he heard, body tense with outrage, eyes burning with frustration. And Marcus, as infuriated as his friend at Aemilius’s betrayal, ignored his duty to protect Caecilia’s reputation and let them be alone.
Fury leveled Drusus’s usually halting speech. “Your uncle and the consular generals are pitiless,” he ranted, gripping her hand. “It’s my father’s fault also. He wouldn’t let me marry you even though you’ve been adopted. He said such a union would corrupt our house.” He squeezed her fingers, making her wince. “If he were dead it would be different. If I were head of my house you would not be treated so.”
Caecilia noticed he had been punished for countering his father. A bruise marred his cheekbone. Drusus must have suffered the blow for her. She was almost giddy with the honor he bestowed on her in risking his father’s anger.
She had more sense than Drusus, though. A rebellious child was no match for the Roman state. Her disobedience had been limited, knowing when she was defeated. She could not save herself and neither could Drusus. Understanding this only added to her despair.
Hearing Aurelia’s footfall, Caecilia raised her face to his, heartbeat urgent, but Drusus hesitated too long, leaving no time for an embrace, no time for a final kiss.
***
“Camillus says that a war will save you,” said Marcus after Drusus had left. “He will not let the Veientane have you.”
Caecilia shook her head. Aemilius would not like his heir admiring Camillus. Not when the much-feted senator always opposed him.
“War will not save me, Marcus,” she said softly. “It will make me a hostage.”
“No, don’t you see? When Camillus is a consular general he will negotiate your release. The threat of our power will cause Veii to surrender and you will be freed.”
She took his hand. “But I am to be married now,” she said softly. “Camillus failed to gain office this time and the new elections are not until next winter. Without holding power Camillus cannot protect me.”
Caecilia glanced over to the ancestor tree etched so grandly on the atrium’s wooden walls. No woman’s name appeared upon its branches, the existence of countless invisible Aemilian mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters was only implied.
Caecilia’s thoughts turned to her mother, who was also promised in marriage to further political ambitions. A fifteen-year-old patrician girl wedded to an old plebeian man, a union of convenience between her husband and her brother. How powerless she must have felt. How deserted! As a patrician mother she was expected to give birth to a noble son; instead she’d been forced to bear a child that was neither. Now her daughter’s fate was to marry a man of another race more baseborn than her own husband.
Yet this glimpse into her mother’s world did not give Caecilia any comfort, even though she now understood Aemilia’s grief and sense of betrayal. Briefly stroking the ghost’s cheek did not compensate a daughter for her mother’s failure to touch her when she was alive.
And Aemilius could be right. Her marriage might lead to veneration. Maybe the gods indeed thought she was worthy. For it was not often a woman was given the chance to make a mark. If marriage to an enemy staved off hunger for her people then perhaps she could make a difference after all.
She gently touched a space upon one branch of the ancestor tree where Marcus’s name was destined to be written. He and Drusus had both been posted to the garrison at Verrugo to stop the Volscians reclaiming that city. It made her tremble for them nearly as much as she trembled for herself.
As a daughter of Rome she had learned the tales of heroes and battles so that she might teach her sons about sacrifice. She always believed that if she’d been born a man she could have raised a sword, declared war, and saved herself, but today she knew she was too much of a coward to ever do so. Men volunteered to die for the glory of Rome. All she could do was endure what Rome proclaimed. Fortitude was a virtue. The unseen women on the family tree told her so.