Chapter Text
It was one month after the golden Virgilia died that Acantha was wed.
Acantha had not met her husband at all, though her father had agreed heartily to the marriage proposal. But of course, who would not, when the general of the Roman armies and one of the most outspoken but beloved consuls asked for your daughter’s hand. Acantha had no follies concerning this matter; Caius Martius Coriolanus required a wife, and a mother to his two young sons—including the infant whose birth was his mother’s death. Acantha would fulfill that role, and nothing else. And there were wide shoes to fill.
And so Acantha was wed. She knew few things of the man they called Coriolanus: one, that he had nearly lost his consulate before it had even begun, two, that he was the most fearsome soldier and commander Rome had seen in many years, and three, that he had before been married to the perfect woman. The late Virgilia had been a tantamount wife and mother—beloved by everyone, well known in social circles, and hailed as incredibly beautiful. Acantha, who was but eighteen years of age, knew already she could not compare. The look in her husband’s eyes as they were wed told her as much.
Of course he appraised her, as it was only natural. He was, after all, marrying her. Though Acantha had never seen the lady Virgilia, she could see that she did not meet the high standards that her predecessor had set. Where Virgilia’s hair had been shining and golden, Acantha’s was a dark brown that neared black. Where Virgilia’s skin had been flawlessly pale, Acantha’s was a more olive, darker tone. Where Virgilia’s eyes had been a piercing blue, Acantha’s were a deep chocolate. Acantha had not yet truly grown into her body as Virgilia had, though she was well old enough to be married off, and where Virgilia had desirable womanly curves Acantha was built more or less a stick. She was too tall, and too lanky, and as she watched Coriolanus look at her for the first time during the ceremony she knew that he saw that too.
Still, she held her head high. She was the daughter of a well-to-do nobleman, a consul and a businessman, and she had long been raised to keep her wits about her in public. It would not do to make a show. She had known her beauty would not compare, and so she must double her efforts as a wife and mother.
The ceremony finished without a hitch, only requiring a few terse words from Coriolanus to complete the marriage contract. Acantha had always considered herself adept at reading body language, and she knew from the tight set of her new husband’s shoulder and the tick of his jaw that he was mightily displeased. And he had a notorious temper.
It also became quickly apparent that he held quite a bit of contempt for social gatherings. It was considered socially reprehensible for the newly married couple to make away before the end of the first day of celebrations, and they had hours yet before nightfall. Hours which, it seemed, Coriolanus was determined to spend in as much solitude as possible. Which was none.
Acantha had to admit to herself that she was not expecting so many at the festivities. She had known, of course, that the marriage of so notorious a man would bring many gossiping eyes and ears, and that by the end of the week all of Rome would be comparing her to Virgilia—but so many people? They absolutely thronged her and her new husband, and while Acantha did her best to smile and make nice with as many faces as she could (many of which she recognized as members of high society, though names failed her) Coriolanus seemed to do nothing but grunt and glare.
That did not deter people, especially men, from clapping him on the shoulder or wishing him congratulations with lewd winks. Of course everyone knew what would happen tonight. Acantha tried not to think about it.
The ceremonious meal seemed to go on for a small eternity, until finally the newly married couple was ushered out to complete their union. The jeers and shouts made Acantha’s face heat up to the very tips of her ears, though she tried not to show it. The heavy doors were closed behind them, and as they walked further away from the still partying crowd a heavy silence settled.
Though she had been beside Coriolanus all day and night long, Acantha had yet to hear him speak aside from his clipped acceptance of their marriage. And he certainly did not speak now. He wove through the halls of his home with a swift gait, as if determined to leave Acantha in the dust behind him, but Acantha’s legs were long and she remained only a few hurried steps behind him. He did not speak to her, or look at her, but acted as though he expected her to follow. She supposed he did.
She had to admit to herself that she had held some girlish hope, a fantasy of sorts, that Coriolanus would set his eyes upon her and welcome her into his home, his life, his family. Though she had known no such thing was to pass, she could still feel the sting as that hope faded away. The servants all kept their eyes down, avoiding their master as though they knew he was moments from unleashing his wrath, and Acantha could only feel a sense of foreboding. As the doors of the wedding chamber—her bedroom, their bedroom—clanged shut behind them, she could feel them close on the life she had known.
Gooseflesh rose on her bare shoulders, a cold creep of fear lacing up her spine. She didn’t know what to do. Her mother had told her the mechanics, of course, and warned her of several things in her usual businesslike tone (don’t tense up, it will hurt more; don’t fight him, it will make him angry; don’t expect gentility, he will not show it). None of those words made Acantha feel anything but secure, and here in a room with Coriolanus alone—the most hot-headed and dangerous man in Rome—she felt like a lamb before slaughter.
Coriolanus shed his shirt with a swiftness that startled Acantha, and terrified her. His back was to her, but now she could see the corded muscles of his arms and shoulders. He could easily hold her down and take from her. She stood in mute horror, her heart pounding painfully where she bit her tongue, waiting for him to turn on her. He kicked off his boots, flinging them away, and then he slumped into bed.
Acantha stood, still beside the doors as though she were a frightened rabbit. She waited, wide-eyed, for her new husband to assert himself, to order her to him, even to turn and look at her. He had not set eyes on her since his first dubious perusal upon the alter. But he remained with his back steadfastly and immovably to her, and said not a word. It was as though he did not care whether she joined him—or whether she slept on the floor.
After a long pause, Acantha gathered that he would not speak. It seemed she would get no direction from him.
Toeing off her sandals as quietly as she could, and placing her bridal jewelry on the ground beside them, she slowly approached the bed. There was nowhere else for her to sleep, and Coriolanus surely would have ordered her to do something else if he wanted her to, right? He did not move as she slid carefully into the bed, being certain that she touched no part of him. When she was not reprimanded, she settled herself on her side, back to him, pressed as close to the edge of the bed as she could be without falling off. She did not remove her clothes, or slip beneath the sheet.
There she lay, stiff as a board for she knew Coriolanus was not asleep, her every sense attuned to any movement from him, which never came. It seemed he wanted to remain still as well, lest he accidentally touch her. She kept her defenses up, unwilling to be caught unawares, and knew neither of them would see any restful sleep this night.