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

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