The
Wedding Shroud:
A Tale of Ancient Rome
‘All the drama and sensuality expected of
an historical romance, plus a sensitivity to the realities of life in a very different
time and world…’ Ursula Le Guin
Buy at Amazon
In 406 BC, to seal a tenuous truce, the
young Roman Caecilia is wedded to Vel Mastarna, an Etruscan nobleman from the
city of Veii. The fledgling Republic lies only twelve miles across the Tiber
from its neighbour, but the cities are from opposing worlds so different are
their customs and beliefs. Leaving behind a righteous Rome, Caecilia is
determined to remain true to Roman virtues while living among the sinful
Etruscans. Instead she finds herself tempted by a hedonistic culture which
offers pleasure and independence to women as well as an ancient religion that
gives her a chance to delay her destiny. Yet Mastarna and his people also hold
dark secrets and, as war looms, Caecilia discovers that Fate is not so easy to control
and that she must finally choose where her allegiance lies.
Exploring themes of sexuality, destiny
versus self-determination and tolerance versus prejudice, The Wedding Shroud
is historical fiction at its best which vividly brings Ancient Rome and Etruria
to life while accenting the lives of women in ancient history. It is the first
book in a trilogy set in Ancient Rome and Etruria and was judged Runner-Up in
the 2012 Sharp Writ Award for general fiction. The sequel, The Golden Dice, will be released in 2013.
Prologue:
Her whole world was orange.
Shifting her
head to one side, feeling the weight of the veil, hearing it rustle, her eyes
strained to focus through the fine weave.
The atrium was
crowded. So many people. Shaking, legs unsteady, Caecilia found she needed to
lean against her aunt Aurelia. Through the haze of the veil she could barely
make out the faces of the ten official witnesses or that of the most honoured
guest, the Chief Pontiff of Rome
And she could
not see Drusus. Perhaps he could not bear to witness her surrender.
‘Stand straight,
you’re too heavy,’ hissed her aunt, pinching the girl’s arm.
Biting her lip,
Caecilia was led forward. The groom stood before the wedding altar, ready to
make the nuptial offering. Her uncle Aemilius smiled broadly beside him.
Aunt Aurelia,
acting as presiding matron, deposited her charge with a flourish then fussed
with the bride’s tunic. She was revelling in the attention and smiled vacuously
at her guests, but the girl was aware that, for so crowded a room, silence
dominated.
Drawing back her
veil, Caecilia gazed upon the stranger who was to become her husband. To her
surprise, his black hair was close-cropped and he was beardless. She was used
to the long tresses of the men of Rome
Head bowed, she
tried in vain to blot out his existence no more than a hand’s breadth from her
side, but she need not have bothered. He made no attempt to study either her
face or form.
‘The auspices were
taken at sunrise,’ declared Aemilius. ‘The gods confirm the marriage will be
blessed.’
Bride and groom
sat upon chairs covered with sheepskin and waited while the pontiff offered
spelt cake to Jupiter.
There was a
pause as they stood and circled the altar, then the priest signalled Aurelia to
join the couple’s hands.
Caecilia wished
she could stop shaking. She had to be brave. She had to be dignified. But her
body would not obey her. She was still quaking when Aurelia seized her right
hand roughly and thrust it into the groom’s.
The warmth and
strength of his grip surprised her. Her palm was clammy and it occurred to her
that her hand would slip from his grasp. Slowly, she turned to face him. He was
old; lines of age ploughed his forehead and creased his eyes. He must be nearly
two score years. What was he like,
this man? Her husband?
Aware that she
should be making her vows to him in silence, she instead prayed fervently that
the gods would take pity and not make her suffer too long or too hard in his
keeping.
His hand still
encompassed hers. Before releasing her fingers, he squeezed them slightly, the
pressure barely perceptible. She held her breath momentarily, amazed that the
only mark of comfort she had received all day had been bestowed upon her by a foe.
She scanned his
face. His eyes were dark and almond-shaped, like the hard black olives from her
aunt’s pantry. His skin was dark, too, sun dark. A jagged scar ran down one
side of his nose to his mouth.
He was far from
handsome.
His toga and
tunic were of a rich dark blue making all stare at him for a difference other
than his race. Yet his shoulders were held in a martial pose, no less a man for
his gaudiness, it seemed, than the Roman patricians around him in their simple
purple-striped robes. And the bridal wreath upon his head could have been a
circlet of laurel leaves, a decoration for bravery not nuptials.
A golden bulla
hung around his neck, astounding her. For a man did not wear such amulets once
he’d stepped over the threshold to manhood. Only children wore such charms in Rome
There was one
other thing that was intriguing, making her wonder if his people found it hard
to farewell childhood. His arms and his legs seemed hairless, as if they had
been shaven completely.
Perfumed,
short-cropped hair, no beard. Caecilia truly beheld a savage.
Once again she
steeled herself, repeating silently: ‘I am Aemilia Caeciliana. Today I am Rome
Elisabeth
Storrs
Elisabeth Storrs graduated from the
University of Sydney in Arts Law majoring having studied Classics and has long
held an interest in the history, myths and legends of the ancient world. Over
the years she has worked as a solicitor, corporate lawyer, governance
consultant and business writer. She lives with her husband and two sons in
Sydney.
Excerpt:
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