Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(81)
The queen bowed her head, examining the mirror again. “Yes, I love Vel very much.”
Her mention of Lord Mastarna’s first name surprised Semni. The queen never directly referred to him as such to any servant other than Cytheris. “Fufluns and Areatha were the most devoted of couples. The god fell in love with her when he found her asleep after the slayer of the Minotaur deserted her. But after such betrayal came a happy marriage. And Areatha bore many sons.”
“You know the myth well.”
“I know all the legends, my lady. They were the inspiration for my vases. I enjoyed learning of divine love and passion, bickering and heartbreak.”
“So what, then, is the rest of Areatha’s story?”
“I won’t lie. Her life was one of melancholy as well as joy. For there is the pain in loving Fufluns. He’s a suffering god, and those who love him can suffer, too. Some say Areatha was killed by one who hated the freedom Fufluns granted to women. Others speak of her hanging herself because she had angered the goddess of the hunt. But Fufluns descended into Acheron and saved her from Aita. Thereafter she became immortal.” Semni pointed to Areatha’s wedding tiara. “See her diadem? Fufluns tossed it into the sky to create the Northern Crown in her honor. At night you can view the starry corona and remember her.”
“Lord Mastarna calls me ‘Bellatrix’ after a tiny star in the constellation of Orion.” The queen placed the mirror on the table and took up the tortoiseshell lyre again. “But I don’t want to be likened to this sad goddess, Semni. Or my husband to Fufluns. I just want him to return so I can embrace him again.”
The queen averted her head, and Semni realized she was holding back tears. The girl hesitated, not sure what to do. Yet she sensed offering words of comfort would only cause the noblewoman to weep.
She thought of Arruns. How she would hate it if they were parted. Lady Caecilia had spent years as the wife of a warrior, never knowing if a farewell kiss might be the last ever shared. She stood and curtsied. “Thank you, mistress, for allowing us to wed.”
Lady Caecilia brushed her fingers across her eyes. “I’ll pray for your baby. And that your life with Arruns will be blessed.”
The nursemaid headed to the doorway, but before she reached it, the queen called, “And I’ll also pray you’ll have the opportunity to render other myths in terra-cotta one day. Then I’ll be able to fill this palace with red figured vases with your initials etched into their bases.”
Semni curtsied again, tears pricking her own eyes. In this beleaguered city, such a world seemed a lifetime ago and a lifetime away.
THIRTY-SIX
The perfume of the roses in Semni’s bridal wreath was heady. Veii was not devoid of spring blossoms even though deprived of food. Cytheris and Perca had filled dozens of vases with grape hyacinths and lilies to add an air of gaiety to the day.
The bride and groom sat on bronze stools opposite each other in the palace courtyard. The sumptuous surroundings were fit for the nuptials of the nobility, not the union of a maidservant and lictor. Nevertheless, there was a familial atmosphere. Dressed in their best clothes, the staff had been allowed to attend. Semni could not help a fleeting moment of sadness that Cook was not there. She missed the woman with flour-dusted hands who was always ready to gossip.
The witnesses were not the group of servants before whom Arruns had claimed Nerie. Instead ten royal lictors acted as the official observers. Semni always felt intimidated by these burly men with their weathered faces. Now they were relaxed and grinning, pleased to participate in the marriage of the Phoenician who led them.
Although used to royalty, Semni was daunted at the presence of the aristocratic guests. Lady Caecilia and Lord Tarchon stood resplendent in purple. The queen had insisted the regent preside over the ceremony. Semni was overwhelmed. She never imagined there would come a time when a ruler would officiate at her marriage.
Cytheris and the other handmaids chattered as they waited for the ceremony to begin. The Greek woman held Nerie on her lap. Cross-legged on the floor next to Perca, the three princes also watched the preparation for the rites. Semni noticed the lethargy of the children. She hoped the wedding would distract them from their hunger for a little while.
She touched a brooch fastened to her bodice. Cytheris had given it to her that afternoon when she’d helped her to dress her hair. A tiny Medusa’s head was engraved on it. The frizzy-haired maid had smiled when she’d placed it in Semni’s palm and folded the girl’s fingers around it. “A gorgon from the Gorgon,” she’d said, then patted Semni’s knee. “I give it to you with no malice. She will protect you from the evil eye.”
Semni had kissed Cytheris on both cheeks. “You love Nerie as would a grandmother. The baby I carry will be yours to cherish as well.”
Rearranging the mantle slipping from one shoulder, Semni was grateful Lady Caecilia had given her a chiton of fine linen bordered with blue spirals from her own collection. The gown was cinched at the waist with a girdle studded with tiny glass beads. The girl lacked the elegance of the queen, but she gained the attention of the men around her. Some of the lictors’ glances lingered. But her dimpled smile was reserved for her groom alone.
Her first wedding gown had been of rough weave, homespun on her mother’s loom. How she’d hated her father for marrying her to an old man. She’d dared not complain. She’d been expected to bear many sons to further both bloodlines. And so it was perplexing when her mother gave her a posy of lupins and laurel on her wedding eve. “Here’s the secret to ridding a babe seeded within you. Use flowers like these until you’re fifteen. I don’t want to see another of my daughters die in labor due to narrow hips and too small a womb. I was lucky to survive bearing your brother when I was twelve.”