The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome by Elisabeth Storrs Page A

laurels with a flight of swallows flitting above his head. His gaze was peaceful, his eyes entrancing. She liked him immediately.
    How different to her small, gloomy bedroom situated off the atrium in Aemilius’ house with the noise of the street piercing its walls. And yet, while it bore no comparison to her new sleeping place, at least she did not need to share it.
    Even in this empty chamber Mastarna’s existence could not be ignored. His panoply hung upon the wall along with baskets and hooks. Polished, cold and menacing, the armour revealed not only his wealth but his potential as a foe: the round hoplite shield, the moulded greaves and the sculpted cuirass. And, most daunting of all, the heavy crested helmet with its hinged cheek pieces stared at her from empty sockets; a warning that, from the time she rubbed slumber from her eyes to when she blew out the lamp, she was a hostage, and that when she lay upon the bed she would be denied any protection.
    Drawing the coverlet over herself, she closed her eyes and tried to rest.
    *
    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