The Forest House (36 page)

“Bring the baby back, Ardanos.” Caillean, who in her years with Lhiannon had learned all about compromise, softened her voice. “Even if Eilan has the child with her, they are still in your power. Do you think it is a small thing to have the Priestess of the Oracles in the hollow of your hand?”

“Perhaps I did act a little hastily—” he said finally. “But what I told the girl was true. If she flaunts her son at the Forest House we might as well proclaim her shame to the world. How do you suggest we maintain the deception if I let her keep him there?”

Caillean's shoulders slumped as she realized that she had won. “I have thought of a way—”

 

The day appointed for Gaius's wedding dawned clear and bright. Gaius woke when the spring sun shone in through his window, and blinked as it glowed blindingly on the whiteness of the toga draped across the chair. In the past year he had been required to wear the garment at the social and diplomatic occasions at which he had accompanied his prospective father-in-law and had become a little more used to handling its draperies, but he still found it awkward. Agricola boasted that he had taught the sons of British chieftains to wear the toga, but Gaius wondered. He had been brought up as a Roman, but he was still more comfortable in uniform or in the tunic and trews of the tribes.

He sat up, surveying the garment in dismay. His father, who had come in from Deva the day before and was sleeping in the same room, turned over and lifted one eyebrow.

“I do think they could invent a better ceremonial garment,” Gaius grumbled, “or at least something more convenient.”

“A toga is more than a garment,” said Macellius. “It is a symbol.” He sat up and to the amazement of his son, who was never at his best the first thing in the morning, began to discourse on the toga's honorable history.

But presently Gaius started to understand. Even, or perhaps especially, here at the far end of the Empire, the right to wear the white toga of a citizen was a way of distinguishing between the masters of the world and those they had conquered, and the narrow purple stripe of the
eques
that marked his tunic an honor dearly won. And that was very important to men like his father. Compared to that, the comfort of the garment was irrelevant.

Much as he would have liked to toss the offending piece of cloth out of the window, it was just one of the things he had to accept when he threw in his lot with Rome. At least the toga was woolen, and so was the tunic he would wear beneath it. Though the April wind blew chill and rainy he would not freeze.

Sighing, he allowed himself to be bathed and shaved by his freedman, slipped into his tunic and sandals, and then set to work trying to figure out how to drape the thing. After a few moments his father, his face gone so wooden that Gaius felt sure he was suppressing a grin, took the toga away from him. Deftly he arranged the pleats of white wool to hang down in front of the left shoulder, adjusted the drape across the back and under his son's right arm, and then drew the remainder carefully across his chest and over the left shoulder in the other direction so that the folds were draped gracefully over his arm.

“There now.” He stepped back and surveyed his son indulgently. “Stand up a little straighter and you could pose for a statue.”

“I feel like one,” Gaius mumbled, afraid to move lest the whole arrangement come undone. This time his father did laugh.

“Never mind; it's natural for a bridegroom to be nervous. You'll feel better when it's all done.”

“Did you?” Gaius asked abruptly. “When you married my mother, were you afraid?”

Macellius stilled, and for a moment his eyes clouded with remembered pain. “I felt joy when she came to me and every day of our lives together until she was gone…” he whispered.

As I did when Eilan lay in my arms
…Gaius thought bitterly.
But I have consented to this mummery, and have no choice but to go through with it now.

 

The sight of the haruspex who had been called in to take the auspices for the marriage did nothing to improve his mood. In the noon sunlight the man's bald red head and long skinny legs made him look like one of his own chickens and Gaius was cynically certain that whatever spots he found on the entrails of the unfortunate fowl would indicate it was an auspicious day. With most of the dignitaries of Londinium standing about it would be exceedingly inconvenient to cancel the festivities. In any case, the augurs had already been consulted weeks ago to select the proper day.

The atrium, its pillars twined with greenery, was crowded with what seemed to be an appalling number of people; he recognized a couple of wrinkled prune-faced elderly dowagers whom he had met in Licinius's house several times over the last few months. He noticed that they really smiled, if not actually at him, at least somewhere in his direction. Maybe they were happy for Julia; if they only knew how mixed a bargain she was getting they would frown!

In due course the sacrificer declared it a very good day for a wedding and offered congratulations. No day on which Julia had decided to be married would dare to be unfavorable.

There was a little murmur as the sacrifice was cleared away and the bride entered on her father's arm. Gaius could see little but the hem of her white tunic beneath the crimson flamma, the famous veil. One of Licinius's secretaries unrolled the marriage contract and began to read in a nasal drone. Most of it had been completed at the ceremony of betrothal: the amount of the
coemptio
which Gaius was offering, and the sum which Julia would bring to the marriage, the fact that she was to remain “in the hand” of her father as a legal part of his family, and would retain her own property. It had been explained to him that these days that arrangement was more usual, and no one would think the less of him. There was a provision that he could not divorce Julia except for “grievous misconduct,” which must be attested by at least two noble matrons. Gaius would have laughed if anything now could have made him laugh; anyone less likely to misbehave than the dignified Julia, he simply could not imagine, and she had made it too clear that she wanted this marriage to jeopardize it. Even her sober demeanor today could not hide the triumph in her eyes.

“Gaius Macellius Severus Siluricus, do you agree to the terms of this contract, and are you willing to take this woman as your wife according to the law?” his father asked then. Gaius realized that they were all looking at him, but still it seemed an endless time before he could say the words.

“I am willing—”

“Julia Licinia?” Her father turned to the girl and repeated the question. Her agreement came a good deal more swiftly. The secretary presented the document to each of them for signing and then carried it away to be registered in the archives.

Gaius felt as if his freedom were going with it, but the Roman gravity that went with the toga did not require him to smile. A sweet-faced lady, identified as the daughter of Agricola, came forward, took Julia's hand and led her to Gaius. He felt a pang of guilt as her small fingers tightened on his.

There were prayers then, a great many it seemed, invoking Juno and Jupiter, Vesta and every other deity who might be assumed to be concerned with the preservation of hearth and home. He and Julia were given a bowl of grain and a flagon of oil to offer to the fire on the altar. As it crackled in the flames the scent of cooked food came suddenly from the dining hall off the atrium, mingling in a rather sickening fashion with the incense that had been burned. The feast was almost ready. Julia put back her veil. He took the cake of rough spelt wheat—he hoped they would have something better to eat at the feast to follow—broke it and thrust a morsel between Julia's lips. She repeated the gesture, saying the appointed words that made them legally one. The ritual had acquired its own momentum, and from now on he had only to go through the motions.

He sat through the wedding feast in the dining chamber, as lavish as Licinius's purse and Julia's pride could make it, in a kind of daze. He was aware that the tables were laden with an amazing variety of things. People spoke to him; he accepted congratulations from an elderly friend of Licinius and agreed that yes, he was indeed lucky to be getting a splendid girl. The old senator lingered, insisting on telling him anecdotes of Julia as a toddler; he had known her all her life. Somewhere near by two of the magistrates were discussing in low tones the Emperor's upcoming German campaign.

Slaves, murmuring congratulations, served them, not the meat of the sacrifices, but tender roast chickens, roast pork and delicate cakes of fine wheat bread. And there was a liberal amount of wine, which Gaius, drinking everything he was given, soon decided was better than he had thought. An almost endless stream of guests kept coming and offering him congratulations; he had seldom seen Macellius look so happy.

As the feasting continued, Gaius drew on all his reserves of courtesy and self-control, while at the back of his mind wondering what Eilan would think of all this nonsense, whether she would ever know or appreciate what he was doing for her and for their son.

Julia giggled at the rude jokes of the mountebanks who entertained them, but he was not sure whether she really understood them. This part of the ceremony was traditionally to encourage the begetting of children; the clowns seemed very eager to make sure nobody could possibly miss the point. The sight of food was beginning to revolt him, but he continued to make a pretense of eating, and agreed for the ninetieth time that Julia was a lovely girl and he a very lucky man.

Julia was beginning to look sleepy; she had accepted a second and then a third glass of the wine, and since it was considerably stronger than what Licinius served at his everyday table, her normal vivacity was muted. Gaius envied her condition; he was still, unfortunately, quite conscious.

It was growing dark. From outside he heard shouting, and grinned foolishly when the Master of Ceremonies announced that the moment for the bridal procession had arrived. It was all quite ridiculous really, for since Macellius had no house in the town, the new couple was only moving to the far wing of Licinius's mansion, but Julia was apparently determined not to miss a single tradition on her big day.

It was just as well that he was not really expected to carry off his bride, thought Gaius as he gripped Julia by the wrist with simulated roughness and pulled her after him. In his current state of unsteadiness he could have been held off by an old woman and a lame dog.

The Master of Ceremonies handed him a bag full of gilded walnuts and small copper coins; he indicated that Gaius should scatter them to the beggars outside who frequented weddings just for this. Julia had a similar bag which matched her crimson veil. The litter bearers ceremoniously carried them out of Licinius's house, down the avenue to the forum, past the new Governor's palace and the tabularium, preceded by flute players and singers and surrounded by torches, and finally circled back to the entrance of the new apartment that had been made ready for them. Gaius suppressed a desire to giggle. He scattered coins and heard the blessings of the crowd. Only a little further now…

The whitethorn torch sent a flickering light through the doorway, banishing shadows and evil magic. Gaius, whose head had been somewhat cleared by the chill air, wished it could banish memory. Someone handed Julia a bowl of oil with which to anoint the doorposts and the strands of white wool with which to adorn them.

The elderly dowagers kissed Julia, murmuring wishes for her happiness, and after a moment's thought kissed Gaius too; this touched off a regular storm of embraces, kisses and congratulations. Macellius, a bit drunk—the first time Gaius had ever seen his father affected even a little by wine—embraced them both; Licinius kissed Julia and Gaius, and said it had been a splendid wedding.

Then Gaius lifted her, marveling once more at how light she was in his arms, carried her over the threshold, and kicked the door shut behind him.

He could smell fresh paint on the walls, competing with the incense and the scent of Julia's flowers. She stood still before him, and with more tenderness than he had thought he could muster he lifted the flamma away.

Her wreath was wilting; the six locks of hair that her maid had so carefully curled unraveling around the neck of her gown. She looked far too young to be married. Before he could speak she led the way to the altar in the center of their own atrium, and stood waiting expectantly.

He pulled the end of his toga up to cover his head and saluted the little terra-cotta statues that represented the family gods.

“By fire and water I welcome you as my wife and priestess of my home—” he said hoarsely. He poured water across her hands and held the towel for her to dry them, then handed her the taper from which to light the fire.

“May the gods bless us at bed and at board, and grant that I bear you many sons,” she answered him.

The bridal bed had been made up against the wall. He led her towards it and fumbled to undo the peculiar knot with which her woolen girdle was tied, wondering how many eager grooms had lost patience and simply cut the thing loose. At least now he could unwind himself from the swaddling folds of his toga.

Julia lay in the big bed with the covers drawn up to her chin, watching him. In the morning the bloody sheets would be ceremoniously presented to the dowagers as evidence of consummation; but Gaius would not even have to be present. And in any case he did not doubt that Julia—always practical—had provided herself with a little bag of chicken blood in case he should be too drunk to perform. Almost every bride had sense enough for that, he had been told.