by Laura Dowers
But then, Aemilia had reasoned, being a girl, Volumnia was unlikely to ever be in a position to do harm. She would have no say in how Rome was ruled, she would not be able to fight in Rome’s wars… what else was there? And so, she had relaxed once more, content in her belief that the prophecy could not have meant the fruit of her womb at all. No doubt it referred to a much later generation of the family Sidonius, at a time when she would be dead and not in a position to care any longer. Whoever it referred to, it was not her, she was sure.
At least, she was sure until Vibinius announced he had arranged a husband for their daughter. She should have considered this, Aemilia told herself angrily. Kaeso would not marry, of that she had no doubt. No family would want their daughter marrying such as he lest it pollute their bloodline, but of course, Volumnia would wed and then there would be children. What if a child of Volumnia’s was the enemy of which the prophecy spoke? Perhaps, she thought, it would be best if Volumnia did not marry, just in case. And so Aemilia had tried to dissuade Vibinius from the idea of their daughter marrying, but he was adamant. It was a good match, he told her, and had invited the husband-to-be to dinner to meet Volumnia and so that the details of the wedding could be settled.
Aemilia had met Caecilius only once before and had not liked him. She couldn’t put her finger on why she had taken a dislike to him; there was just something in his way of talking, his obvious contempt for her husband’s tendency towards boastful pomposity that vexed her. But, she considered ruefully, Caecilius was probably just the type of man Volumnia would like. They would suit one another.
If there was anything good to be got out of this marriage, it was knowing that Volumnia would soon be leaving the family domus. Aemilia’s love for her daughter was borne of duty rather than nature, and she could not pretend she wouldn’t enjoy the peacefulness of a domus without Volumnia in it. She and Kaeso would be allowed to live without continual criticism, for one thing, and that was not to be sniffed at. As it was, Aemilia had had to order a slave to take Kaeso out of the domus for the evening because Volumnia had said she didn’t want her brother embarrassing her before Caecilius. Yes, she thought, a smile creeping onto her face, Volumnia’s absence would be something to be grateful for.
‘You’re dragging your feet.’
Caecilius moved out of the way of an oncoming handcart laden with sacks and sighed. ‘Stop nagging, will you?’
His friend, Menenius Agrippa, frowned. ‘Why such a bad mood, Cae? You should be happy.’
‘Why should I be?’ Caecilius said.
‘Why? You’re going to be married again,’ Menenius said. ‘No more lonely nights in your domus, someone to look after all your needs. And,’ he poked Caecilius in the arm, ‘a chance to be a father.’
‘And that’s the only reason I’m doing this.’
‘Oh, surely not!’
‘Will you stop being so bloody cheery? It’s very irritating.’
Menenius chuckled, amused by his friend’s bad temper. He could guess why Caecilius was so irritable. Caecilius had been with the prince the night before and, no doubt, Titus had been ribbing him about his bride, saying he would be nagged to death before too long. There was some truth in that, Menenius acknowledged, thinking of his own wife, Gabinia, but not all wives were shrews, and it was possible that this Volumnia Sidonius was young enough to be moulded into the perfect wife. She was young enough to be fertile, certainly, and that was all that seemed to matter to Caecilius.
Menenius understood. Caecilius’s first wife had died in childbirth and the child itself had not lived past an hour. With their deaths had died Caecilius’s chance of continuing his bloodline. The Marcius men had always been obsessed with their bloodline, for there was no denying it was an impressive one; Caecilius could trace his ancestors back to a king of Rome, Ancus Marcius. Caecilius had been a widower for a few years now, and he obviously felt time passing him by and so had sought out a bride. Why he had chosen the daughter of Vibinius Sidonius, though, Menenius had no idea. Menenius knew little about the Sidonius family. He had met Vibinius and thought him to be a decent man if something of a bore; his wife, Aemilia, he had met but once and she had not made much of an impression upon him. The daughter, Volumnia, he had not met at all, though he had seen her at various dinners and thought her to be quite pretty.
‘I suggest you put a smile on your face,’ he said, pointing to a door a few feet away whose posts boasted the emblem of a winged serpent. ‘We’re here.’
Caecilius fiddled with his toga, checking it hung properly over his left shoulder. ‘Thank you for agreeing to come tonight.’
‘I always say yes to a free dinner,’ Menenius grinned. ‘Though why you want me here, I don’t know.’
‘I can’t stand old Vibinius all on my own, that’s why. If he starts talking about the price of salt, interrupt him, I beg you.’
‘I will,’ Menenius promised. ‘Now, let’s go in. I want to meet your bride.’
Volumnia Sidonius was certainly unlike other women of her age, Menenius thought as he accepted another cup of wine from their hostess. She seemed prettier to him than he had originally thought, not a beauty, it was true, but there was spirit in her eyes and a pleasing curve to her lips that made him envy Caecilius his nights. But he felt there was more to Volumnia than a quite pretty girl of a good patrician family. During the dinner, he had discerned an intelligence and determination in her that was quite out of the ordinary for a girl. He had expected her to be silent during the dinner, only speaking when spoken to, but Volumnia had been loquacious. Vibinius had indeed started talking about the price of salt, and Menenius, following a glance from Caecilius, had been about to steer the conversation onto other matters when Volumnia performed that task for him by asking about his experience of war. Volumnia quite astonished him with her enquiry, for few young girls wanted to hear of warfare, and he must have shown his surprise because Vibinius had tried to quiet his daughter. But Volumnia would not be put off by her father and persisted until Menenius had been forced to provide an answer. He told her of the battles he had fought in, adding loyally that Caecilius had fought bravely in some too, and she had listened with a fervour that was both gratifying and unsettling. She urged him to talk more of the killing, wanting to know what it felt like to pierce an enemy’s flesh with a sword or spear, and to know how quickly the life passed from a man once struck. She was disappointed when he told her he did not know, for in battle he struck and moved swiftly on to the next enemy, not waiting to see if the men he pierced died there and then or later.
‘I wish I had been born a man,’ Volumnia said when he had finished.
‘I, for one, am glad you were not,’ Caecilius said, his expression saying clearly he didn’t know if he should take her declaration seriously.
Volumnia waved her hand dismissively. ‘You would have found another girl to wed.’
‘Volumnia, really,’ Aemilia said, widening her eyes at her daughter, an instruction to behave. ‘Caecilius would be heartbroken not to marry you, wouldn’t you, Caecilius?’
‘What? Oh, yes, heartbroken,’ Caecilius nodded, thumping his chest and belching.
‘Why do you wish you had been born a man?’ Menenius asked Volumnia, genuinely curious.
‘Because men are able to do so much. You can fight, you can debate, you can go where you please, do what you please. You don’t have to spend day after day endlessly spinning wool.’
‘Volumnia finds wool spinning exceedingly tiresome,’ Aemilia explained apologetically.
‘And so would they if they had to do it,’ Volumnia retorted, gesturing at Caecilius and Menenius. ‘Tell me, Mother, how can a woman find glory in her life?’
‘A woman is not supposed to desire glory, Volumnia,’ Aemilia said. ‘A woman finds contentment in her family and the deeds of her husband and sons.’
‘As you have done, Mother?’ Volumnia demanded haughtily. ‘Tell me, what have you to be content about? A son who is an embarrassment and should have been ex
posed at birth and a daughter who wishes she had been born a man?’
‘I won’t have you talking like this in front of guests, Volumnia,’ Aemilia said, and Menenius saw the pain in her eyes, the muscles tightening in her jaw. Volumnia’s words had greatly upset her. Indeed, their hostess seemed on the verge of tears.
‘It’s getting late,’ Menenius said, thinking it would be a kindness to leave before Aemilia and her daughter quarrelled further. ‘My wife will wonder what has become of me.’
‘It’s not so very late,’ Vibinius protested.
‘No, Menenius is right,’ Caecilius said, getting to his feet a little too enthusiastically. ‘We must go. Lady,’ he turned to Aemilia, ‘thank you for a delicious dinner.’
‘You’re very welcome, Caecilius,’ Aemilia said, forcing a smile.
Vibinius and Aemilia showed their guests to the door. Vibinius took hold of Caecilius’s hand and held on to it, intent on saying a few words to his soon-to-be son-in-law before he went.
‘I fear you are upset by your daughter’s words, lady,’ Menenius said quietly to Aemilia.
‘She hates my son, my Kaeso,’ Aemilia said, turning her back on Volumnia as though unable to bear looking at her. ‘I don’t know why she does. He is such a lovely boy.’
‘Perhaps she speaks so out of nerves,’ Menenius suggested, though doubting it was true. ‘She is to be a wife in only a few days and I’m sure that may be a source of great anxiety to a girl.’
Aemilia looked at him coolly. ‘My dear Menenius, I’ve never known Volumnia to be nervous about anything. I promise you, she meant every word she said tonight. I imagine that when you set out for here, you did not expect to be interrogated about battles and the men you have killed. I am sorry if Volumnia brought back memories you would rather have forgotten. But she is so bloodthirsty, so unnatural a woman.’ She glanced at Caecilius, who was trying to extricate himself from her husband. ‘I wouldn’t blame Caecilius if he changed his mind about marrying her after tonight. And maybe that would be for the best...’. Her voice trailed off as she stared at him.
‘Lady?’ Menenius prompted.
‘What?’ Aemilia looked at him, as if suddenly remembering he was there. ‘Oh, nothing. I’m a little tired and my mind wanders. Thank you for coming tonight, Menenius. I have enjoyed your company, and I am glad Caecilius has such a friend. Once he marries my daughter, he’s going to need all the good company he can get.’
Gallio ran the whetstone down the blade of his sword, bringing it up and repeating the action to sharpen the metal. He had performed this sharpening so many times that the blade was becoming thin. He supposed he would have to get another one made by the blacksmith soon, but he had a strong attachment to this sword and would be reluctant to see it thrown into the melting pot. This sword had been his weapon in many a battle and had protected him well, but that was not why it was special to him. It was this sword that had cut the cord of his son on that dreadful night five years before, and Gallio had come to believe it was a lucky sword. He, his wife and his son might have died that night as many of his neighbours and friends had died, and his sword had become a talisman, a symbol of his family’s endurance against their enemies. He would take no pleasure in giving it up.
He looked up and smiled. The son he had been thinking of was standing a few feet away, watching him work. ‘Come here, Tullus,’ he said, gesturing him over. The small boy stepped nearer, his eyes fixed on the sword. Gallio knew the weapon fascinated his son. ‘Would you like to hold it?’
Tullus nodded and held out his arms. Gallio laid the sword across them, saw them dip a little at the weight, and sat back. His son stared at the gleaming metal with its leather-wrapped hilt.
‘Now, hold it as it should be held,’ Gallio said, taking hold of the blade and turning the hilt to his son.
Tullus stretched out his right arm and his little fingers curled around the hilt. Gallio let go. The sword pitched towards the ground, knocking the little boy off balance.
‘Heavy, isn’t it?’ Gallio grinned. ‘Try lifting it up.’
Tullus brought his left hand to join his right on the hilt. Pursing his mouth, he took a deep breath, his small chest heaving, and raised the sword, bringing the tip to his father’s chin.
‘Do you like it?’ Gallio asked, feeling the point tickle his beard.
‘Can I have it?’ Tullus said in answer.
‘In time. You are a little young for such a weapon.’
‘I’m five,’ Tullus protested as if it was a great age.
‘How old were you when you learnt to fight, Gallio?’ Salonia asked from the doorway, a woven basket full of linen on her hip. ‘No older than Tullus, I seem to remember you telling me.’
Gallio took the sword from Tullus and sheathed it. ‘My father wanted me to learn early.’
‘So you could defend yourself and those you loved, no?’ Salonia raised an eyebrow. ‘Why deny Tullus the same lessons?’
‘You want our son to fight?’ he asked angrily. ‘To be hurt?’
‘I want him to be able to defend himself,’ Salonia said, her jaw tightening. ‘It’s a dangerous world we live in, husband. It is best he is prepared for it.’
‘I grow weary of war, Salonia.’
‘Then you grow weary of living,’ she snapped. ‘There will always be war, Gallio. If not war with the Romans, then it will be war with the Greeks or the Etruscans or the Gauls.’
‘Have you been in a war, Father?’ Tullus asked, sitting down at his father’s feet and crossing his legs.
‘Not for some years,’ Gallio replied. ‘Not since we came to live here in Antium. The last was some eleven years since when we fought the tyrant.’
‘Say his name, Gallio,’ Salonia cried. ‘Or are you afraid to?’
‘I am not afraid.’
‘Then say it. Say the tyrant Lucius Tarquin, King of Rome.’
‘What’s a tyrant?’ Tullus asked, his mouth struggling to form the unfamiliar word.
‘A tyrant is a man who mistreats his people,’ Gallio said, ‘who grinds them down by taking everything they have of any worth for his own. He’s a man who forces his people to fight wars so he can grow richer on the spoils of victory. Such a man is King Lucius, my son.’
‘Is he our enemy, Father?’
‘The greatest enemy,’ Salonia said, setting down her basket and running her hand through her son’s dark hair. ‘You will fight him one day when you are older. Your father will teach you how. Won’t you, Gallio?’
Her stare was a challenge. Gallio returned it, holding her gaze for a long moment, trying to see behind her eyes and know her mind. How different she was from the woman he had married. The night of Tullus’s birth had changed her. She had been soft before then, a woman who always sought to calm, not to enrage. That woman was gone, frightened away by a birth in the dark of a wood while her home was destroyed and her friends slaughtered by laughing Romans.
Gallio wished his son would not have to fight, that he could live out his life in peace and amity with the Romans and the Etruscans and all the other tribes that inhabited Italy. But that was a fantasy. Salonia was right; they did not live in such times. There would always be fighting, there would always be wars to be won, and Tullus would have a greater chance of a good and long life if he knew how to protect himself and those he loved. Gallio looked at Tullus, his young face eager and open, wanting to hear the answer to his mother’s question.
‘Yes, I will teach you, Tullus,’ Gallio said. ‘I will teach you to be a great warrior.’ He considered a moment, then reached down and picked up his sheathed sword. ‘This is yours now. You must learn to use it and—’
‘I will kill the tyrant Tarquin with it,’ Tullus cried happily.
Gallio looked at Salonia, whose face had softened and bore an adoring smile. ‘Do that, my son, and you will have pleased your mother greatly.’
Aemilia had risen early, wanting to pick the flowers that would decorate the domus herself. It would be a pleasant hour
, she had reasoned, in an otherwise exhausting day, to walk the garden paths and smell the flowers, to choose the prettiest ones and arrange them beautifully.
Once done, she had gone into the kitchen and ensured the slaves were working hard on the wedding feast. A quite ridiculous expense, in her opinion, but Vibinius had insisted the Sidonius family would put on a good show. And so, there were dishes of beef, dormouse and peacock, and all of the family’s wine had been brought up in amphorae from the farm. Aemilia thought ruefully that she, Vibinius and Kaeso would have to eat frugally for quite a few months after this wedding.
Telling herself the expense was worth it, Aemilia had left the kitchen and retired to her cubiculum to dress. She had taken great care with her dress and makeup, but as she put the hand mirror down, waving her slave away, Aemilia wondered why she bothered. She did not like what she had seen in the hammered metal: a face older than her years, furrows etched deep into her cheeks, eyes framed by crisscross lines. It was only fifteen years since she had been a bride and yet, here she was, on her daughter’s wedding day, looking like an old woman.
Aemilia left her cubiculum and headed along the corridor to her daughter’s room. She pushed the door open. ‘You’re up,’ she said in some surprise, closing it behind her. When she had looked in earlier, Volumnia had still been fast asleep. She moved to the dressing table where Volumnia sat and inspected her daughter’s hair. Volumnia’s dark brown hair had been smoothed and separated into six long locks, the ends tied with ribbons.
‘Does my hair meet with your approval?’ Volumnia asked with a wry smile.
‘It does,’ Aemilia said, taking a seat on the bed. ‘I’m pleased you are sticking with tradition and having your hair dressed appropriately. From your manner and words at dinner the other night, I thought you were doing your best to scare Caecilius off by being so very unconventional.’
