Page 49 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

Dowdy in mourning clothes, Caecilia clutched at grief as if scared it would be snatched away as swiftly as death had seized her father.

Marcus found her pacing the boundary of Aurelia’s little garden, hemmed in by wooden houses instead of oak woods, sad that in only a few strides Rome could define and contain her.

He snapped a rose from its stem and offered it to her.

“No more weeping, Cilla. Honor his memory with roses, not tears. Ceasing to mourn will not banish him. He will always be with you.”

After this shared kindness the cousins became allies, for although Marcus enjoyed his mother’s attention, he hated how she beat Caecilia.

“You know I won’t let her hurt you,” he would promise, but Caecilia knew better, glad that her sleeves hid the welts from Aurelia’s spiteful pinches.

Marcus believed he was her champion, but once he was absent, the matron would continue her mistreatment.

Caecilia concentrated instead on enjoying those fragments of time Marcus could spare.

For he trained every day, and every day he railed against the need to wield a wooden sword tipped with a leather button to ensure no accidents befell him.

The army did not believe in killing green recruits at practice.

There was time enough for the Volscians to do so.

One afternoon he settled beside her before the family shrine—face dirty, tunic torn, forearms and knees grazed—and stoked the cinders of the hearth fire while she took up the mortar and pestle. “Not elder leaves,” he said, screwing up his nose. “The house stinks for days after you grind them.”

She laughed, then pointed to the bruises on his legs. “Aunt Aurelia thinks the plant is a cure-all. She told me to make an ointment for you.”

“Then I better not tell her I think I’ve sprained my wrist.”

She glared at him. “No, otherwise I’ll be pulling nettle stings out of my fingers for days after making a compress for you.”

“But at least Mother will be happy.”

Caecilia laughed again. It was true. The only time Aurelia seemed content was when concocting brews and ointments, salves and plasters, filling the air with smells of calendula and birch bark, or scents of mint or thyme, such plants giving up their bitter or sweet secrets to her.

“As for your aches and pains,” she said, “you’ll just have to be brave and bear them.”

Marcus grew serious, picking at the calluses upon the palm of one hand. “Father spoke to me today,” he said. “I am to be posted to Verrugo in Volscian territory this summer.”

Caecilia’s smile faded. No longer could her cousin whine that his weapon would not draw blood. His sword would be of iron and its tip and blade honed sharply. And with such thoughts came worry, the knowledge that a spear or sword could pierce him and he would be lost to her forever.

“But this is good news,” she said, trying to hide her concern. “It is an honor.”

Marcus tore a strip of dead skin from his palm, exposing tender pink flesh beneath. Quiet. Voice a murmur. “But what if I lack courage? What if I dishonor our family?”

Caecilia laid the mortar and pestle upon the floor, not sure what to say.

There was no reason for Marcus to doubt himself.

All his life he’d attained the goals his father had set him.

He was, in every way, a golden child: intelligent, diplomatic, athletic— and brave.

With his talents he would not fail to climb the ladder of ambition and nor would he fail in battle.

Before she could answer, though, he strode over to the ancestor cupboards and flung them open. Caecilia gasped. The death masks of the famous ancestors within were not allowed to be revealed except on special occasions. “Quickly, close it,” she hissed, “or we’ll be punished.”

Ignoring her, Marcus pointed at one image in particular. The firelight flickered upon the waxen face, the eyes blank and staring. “Behold Mamercus Aemilius,” he declared. “Liberator of Fidenae! Conqueror of the Veientanes!”

He tapped his chest. “And now behold his great-nephew—the coward.”

Caecilia glanced around nervously lest Aurelia emerge. She carefully closed the cupboard. “What are you talking about? You’ve never backed down from a fight.”

Marcus shook his head. “You don’t understand, Cilla. The Legion of the Wolf is ancient and esteemed. What if I cannot fight as boldly as my father expects?”

Caecilia took his hands. They were trembling. “Of course you will be brave,” she said. “This is just nerves. You’ll see, when the time comes you’ll face the enemy with courage. You are no coward.”

“But I have never killed a man. Perhaps in the heat of battle I will falter.” He bowed his head, his voice a whisper. “Cilla, I’m scared of dying.”

She was stunned. “All young soldiers must feel the same. What of your friends? I’m sure they have doubts also.”

He frowned. “Men do not speak of such fears to one another.”

The girl fell silent, sad that her cousin could gain no solace just because manhood had been reached and bravado encouraged. She spoke softly. “Are you sure there is no one?”

His face set into an expression that told her he regretted telling her of his fears. “Cilla, you are a woman. You’ll never understand.”

***

Soon after, Caecilia met a friend of Marcus’s who she felt would understand him. His name was Appius Claudius Drusus. He too was a son of a wealthy patrician. He too was expected to walk upon the Honored Way.

Around the time Drusus began to visit, Caecilia found she was no longer oblivious to the physique of the men she was allowed to meet.

She was suddenly aware of the height of a man or the width of his shoulders, the strength of his arms or the line of his legs.

Aware, too, that she was no beauty. Too tall for a girl—as Aurelia was oft to repeat—her nose too straight, her mouth too wide.

And, upon her neck, as a constant reminder, the ugly, purple stain.

Cloistered in her uncle’s house, she was frustrated that her time with Drusus was always limited to formal visits.

He was nervous, always restless in his chair.

She could tell Aurelia disliked him: his gruff, halting sentences, his rough social graces.

Yet in the minutes it took for her to proffer a dish of almonds to each guest, she could not ignore how his eyes followed her every movement, how he blushed when she caught him watching; how, too, an unexpected shyness welled within her, an eagerness to please that was unsettling.

It was better when the russet-haired youth visited Marcus only, for her cousin would ignore how she’d linger, perching on the edge of the impluvium well, listening to their news and bragging until Aurelia chased her away, scolding her for immodesty.

At such times, Drusus’s voice would become louder, his gestures broader, his fervor deeper, his hesitancy gone. He yearned to fight, wanted glory, and hungered for his chance at war.

Caecilia listened to his talk of battle and ambition but did not concentrate on every detail.

She would have been content just to observe him.

To study how his hands were bony, the knuckles pronounced, how his body, too, was lean and lank with the scaffold of a man’s but not yet its core.

And how his eyes had a hint of anger, a wildness that made her believe he could be defiant.

Defiant enough to consider a half-caste.

One time, to her delight, they had a chance to be alone.

A moment after the servant left to fetch her cousin, Drusus took her hand and drew her close, snatching a kiss, light and clumsy, a forbidden kiss which chaperones guard against and for which maidens sigh.

Yet, strangely, the touch did not lead to further embrace.

They were uneasy at such rashness, at the risk of embracing before the household gods who even now must be muttering with outrage.

To Caecilia’s relief the awkwardness did not last. Drusus’s kiss may have been askew, but he suddenly gained confidence to speak. “I want to marry you. I want you to be mine.”

She was surprised. While she had prayed that this boy might marry her, she had not expected Drusus to dare try. It had been enough for him to notice her, to make her conscious of the swell of her breasts and hips, that her hair was shiny. Now he was speaking of a union that could never be.

Marriage was a matter for family, for the sons yet to be born, for bloodlines and power and wealth.

Grandfathers as well as fathers wanted heirs.

Love had nothing to do with it. Yet the fact Drusus should speak of his desire for her to be his wife made her smile.

And there was admiration, too, for his boldness.

Conscious that they would be disturbed at any moment and aware, too, that both their palms were slippery, her heart beat as fast as when she raced the clouds down the corn rows of her father’s farm.

Hearing Marcus approach she pulled away, but Drusus would not let her go.

“I am going to ask my father to speak to Aemilius. Why would either refuse?”

***

Caecilia was not skilled at weaving. She always broke the thread upon the spindle and tangled the warp weights on the loom. Yet, hopeful that the elders would come to an agreement, she began spinning fine yarn to weave a flammeum, the veil of Roman brides.

As always, she struggled to start the whorl twirling, aware that Drusus would expect her to be as skillful as his sisters at the task. The prospect of achieving an even weave was also daunting, as was the fear of orange blobs forming when she steeped the gauze in dye of weld.

Yet knowing her labors were for Drusus, the girl settled to the task until she heard Aemilius noisily returning early from the law courts.

Curiosity turned to surprise when he entered the atrium and sat down beside her, bending to remove his dusty boots and slip on indoor sandals.

“I have decided to adopt you,” he said abruptly.