Page 49 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

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.

***

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