by AM Kirkby
***
He settled the wreath on his head, feeling it dig into his hair and prickle his scalp, till it was tight, and when he moved his head sharply, testing, it stayed fixed in place; only his hair moved, the thick braids swinging easily and together. The golden leaves were thin, their ends sharp; he'd pricked a finger putting the wreath on, and sucked it thoughtfully, then took it out of his mouth and looked at the pink flesh. A small dot of red appeared, grew, and rounded itself into a droplet; he smeared it down with his thumb.
"Hurt?" Tullia had already finished dressing, her flaming hair matched by the red and golden stripes of her dress, and the heavy gold of her jewellery.
He sniffed. He'd been through the battle at Veii, and he might not admit it even to Tullia, but to himself, he would; it hurt horribly, far more than any blow he'd been struck. The smallest hurts were always the worst. He sucked his thumb again, hard, trying to dull one pain by causing another.
"It's not too pretentious, is it?"
She laughed. "Are you going all Roman on me? Manly homespun toga and no jewellery?"
"I just don't want to look like a ..."
"Look," she cut in, firmly; "on anyone else it would be pretentious. Or overdressed. But with your good looks and that mass of dark hair, it sits well."
"You're not convincing me."
"Trust me."
He looked down from where they sat, through the one window that wasn't shuttered against the chill breeze, and saw a line of horses crossing the flat below, silhouettes against the dusty fields and dustier road. The sight saddened him; he always felt some deep melancholy when he saw, from afar off, a traveller or a caravan moving slowly, as if that other world that they belonged to had touched him very lightly, and then passed out of his life. They always moved on... He started to say something to Tullia, then feared she'd laugh at it, and laughed himself, nervously.
(Was this what his mother's gift of prophecy felt like, he wondered; this feeling of having been touched, across great distances?)
"You're shivering."
"The wind is rather cold," he said, and hoped she didn't notice that it had stopped blowing some time ago.