by Ben Kane
‘Aurelia! You cannot say such things! It will bring misfortune upon us.’ Lucius was appalled.
‘Misfortune?’ she shrieked. ‘How could anything be worse than what you’ve just told me? This for the gods!’ She hawked and spat on the floor. Even as she did it, Aurelia regretted it. But it was too late.
‘Be silent, wife! Control yourself, or I shall be forced to do so for you.’ The veins on Lucius’ neck stood out like purple ropes. ‘Is that clear?’
Aurelia was stunned by the level of his anger. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘To your room! Attend to my son. That is your damn job, not calling down the anger of the gods on this family, this house.’
Weeping, Aurelia fled before his fury. What madness had possessed her to speak as she had? She was but a mere human, condemned to accept whatever was handed out to her, good or bad, by the all-powerful deities. Defying them would make no difference, and would in all likelihood make things worse. Yet part of her could not help thinking: How could things be any worse? Father is dead. Quintus is dead. Gaius is dead. Our army has been destroyed. She would never know, but no doubt Hanno had also been slain. Hannibal and his army could now visit whatever fate they wished upon the Republic.
Publius stirred in her arms, and her heart lurched her back into reality. Here he was, more precious than any of the other people or things in her life. She began silently to beg forgiveness of the gods. Do not take my child from me, please. Forgive my transgression, which was made in the depths of despair. Such words will never pass my lips again. I shall make generous sacrifices in expiation. Aurelia prayed long and hard and as earnestly as she had ever done in her life.
It was only when she had finished and settled a sleeping Publius in his cot that Aurelia dared to allow her grief to resurface. She lay on her bed and sobbed into the pillow, wishing that Lucius would come to comfort her. It was a faint hope, which disappeared as the hours passed. Elira crept in at one point, but Aurelia, angry that it was not Lucius, shouted at her to get out and not come back. Thoughts of Hanno did not help either. He was a fantasy figure, whom she would never meet again, let alone conjure into an appearance here.
Eventually her tears dried up, not because she felt any better but because she had none left to shed. When she emerged, red-eyed and exhausted, Statilius informed her that Lucius had gone to find out more news. The sounds of distress from the streets had eased, but only a fraction. Aurelia expressed an interest in going to the forum, but the major domo regretfully told her that the master had left orders that no one should leave the house before his return.
She had no energy left to defy Lucius’ command, no strength to ask for Elira or that a messenger be sent to her mother, no capacity to do anything other than retire to her room. There Publius was beginning to cry again. Sinking even deeper into misery, Aurelia tended to him as best she could. Somewhere in her consciousness, she was aware that caring for her baby would provide a way through the pain, but it was of scant comfort in that dark moment. Utterly drained, she fell asleep some time later, fully clothed, on her bed.
During the evening, the sound of Lucius’ arrival roused her from her torpor but she did not dare go out. Ears pricked, hopeful, she fed the baby and waited for her husband to come to check on her. He didn’t. The snub shouldn’t have hurt, Aurelia reasoned. After all, she didn’t love him. Yet the gesture cut as sharply as a knife. He was her husband. An ally, when she had so few. Fresh tears flowed. The last thing that Aurelia thought before falling asleep again was that it would be a relief never to wake up.
There was to be no such blessing. Publius woke not long after with colic. She spent the rest of the night in a semi-catatonic state, nursing him, walking him and snatching a few moments of rest whenever he closed his eyes.
Aurelia had never entrusted her baby to Elira’s care for long before, but she did that day. ‘Wake me only when he needs to feed,’ she ordered. Agonisingly, however, she found no rest even when Publius was out of earshot. All she could think about was the slaughter that had just taken place and how she would never see her father, Quintus or Gaius again.
This was to become the pattern of Aurelia’s life for the next few days. Her mother’s arrival meant that she had more help with Publius, but when Atia tried to start talking about the battle, Aurelia walked away. She was too distraught to open up to anyone. Lucius came and went, checking on the baby in the daytime but barely bothering with her. He was still angry with her for defying the gods. Aurelia heard from Statilius that the mood in the city was one of open fear, which did nothing to help her state of mind. In the end she had the major domo send a slave to an apothecary’s, there to buy a flagon of papaverum. Having downed several large mouthfuls of the bitter liquid, Aurelia was relieved to feel herself succumbing to unconsciousness. Over the course of the following days, she found constant respite in its embrace. Soon she could not sleep without it, nor even get through daylight hours without a few nips to keep her going. Atia appeared not to notice; Elira cast worried looks at her, but Aurelia was oblivious. It dulled her feelings, blunted her agony. That was a blessing. It made life bearable. Just.
Aurelia was aware of the door opening and someone entering. The papaverum that she’d consumed not long since was just starting to take effect, enfolding her in its warm cocoon. It was too much effort to open her eyes. Whoever it was — Elira, probably — would see that she was asleep and leave her alone. Even if the baby needed a feed, it could wait.
‘This has to stop, wife.’
Lucius. It was Lucius, she thought, dragging her eyelids open. He was standing over her, a disapproving frown on his face.
‘Your mother tells me you’re drinking this.’ He waved the flagon that now lived by her bed.
So her mother had noticed, thought Aurelia. ‘It helps me to sleep.’
‘But Elira says that you consume it night and day. Atia thinks that that might be why the baby is drowsy.’ He sounded angry now.
She stared daggers at the Illyrian, who was just behind him. Elira dropped her eyes. ‘That’s not true,’ said Aurelia hotly, knowing he’d spoken the truth.
‘What’s not true?’
‘Publius is fine,’ she mumbled, lying. ‘He’s had a cold, and broken sleep because of the cough that came with it. That’s why he has been lethargic of late.’
Lucius gazed at her long and hard. ‘And you? Is it true that you’re partaking of this stuff at all times?’
Shame filled Aurelia. She couldn’t bring herself to tell another outright lie, but nor could she admit to what she’d been doing.
‘Your silence proclaims your guilt. Well, you’re to have no more of it. Learn how to fall asleep as the rest of us do — without any help.’
Fury replaced the shame. She scowled at Elira. ‘Out! Close the door behind you.’ When she and Lucius were alone, she hissed, ‘If you had lost a father and a brother, you might know how I feel!’
At last his face softened. ‘Sorrow is not unknown to me, wife. My mother was taken from us when I was only ten years old.’
She felt instant remorse. ‘I remember.’
‘That isn’t to say that your loss has not been grievous.’ After the slightest of hesitations, he went on, ‘Or that my conduct has not been that of a husband towards you since the news of the defeat.’
Stunned, she looked up at him.
‘I was greatly angered by your outburst, but that does not mean I could not have offered you comfort at the time of your greatest distress.’ He reached out his hand.
This was as close to an apology as she would get, Aurelia realised. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, clutching at his fingers as she would have if she’d been drowning. Now the tears came anew. When he sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, she leaned into his body and let her grief out, more glad of the human touch than she had ever been in her life. To his great credit, Lucius did not say a word. He just held her tightly, his physical presence giving her the reassurance that someone cared.
Just over a week had passed since the news of the defeat had reached Capua and the city was still in a state of constant panic. Ominous signs were reported daily: south of the city, a heavy storm had rained stones upon the earth; the divination tablets at Caere had somehow grown smaller; threatening figures in the likeness of men, dressed in white, had seemingly appeared in innumerable locations in the countryside. The priests in the city’s temples tried to issue explanations that offered some reassurance that the world was not about to end. According to Lucius, every soothsayer for a hundred miles had descended upon Capua to make the most of the population’s desire to know the future.
Fresh rumours swept the streets every day. The Roman dead at Cannae had been mutilated beyond recognition; Hannibal had ordered the torture and execution of every single prisoner taken by his men; a bridge had been built over the River Aufidius made of Roman bodies; he was marching on Rome, on Capua, on both, burning the towns in his path; a Carthaginian fleet had landed thousands of soldiers and scores of elephants on Sicily, or on the southern coast of Italy itself; King Philip of Macedon was about to join the war on the side of Carthage. Aurelia knew better than to believe all of the stories, but it was difficult not to feel unsettled by them, or by the fact that the disquiet had also seen a severalfold increase in crime. Unaccompanied women were liable to be raped in broad daylight. Foreigners such as Egyptians or Phoenicians had been attacked. Civil disorder had also become common. On a number of occasions, the magistrates had been forced to deploy troops to prevent near-riots becoming the full-blown article. In consequence, Lucius had forbidden anyone to go out without his specific approval. When he ventured forth, it was with half a dozen slaves armed with sticks. Ignoring the law that banned bladed weapons within the city confines, he himself never went without a sword. Aurelia was beginning to feel claustrophobic within the confines of the house, yet she was not about to argue with her husband’s decision.
Despite the social unrest and her confinement, her mood had achieved some degree of stability. Every moment of every day was still tinged with sorrow, but the routine of looking after the baby combined with Lucius’ support was helping Aurelia to cope. The torrential outpourings of grief had become occasional rather than constant. Things had also been made easier by Atia’s gentle insistence that they talk to each other. Aurelia had given in and, to her relief, their subsequent conversations — and shared tears — had helped their relationship, already made stronger by Aurelia’s pregnancy and the subsequent arrival of the baby, to enter a new phase of intimacy. It was as Aurelia remembered her childhood, when she had shared everything with her mother.
Another visitor that day — a welcome surprise — had been Martialis. The old man had aged greatly. New lines etched his face; his hair was now altogether white. Tears had filled his eyes the instant he saw Aurelia; the same had happened to her. They had embraced like father and daughter. Martialis had had no news, but, like Aurelia, he assumed that Gaius had fallen at Cannae. Thus far, all news of the Roman and allied cavalry had been catastrophic. United in their grief, they had reminisced for a short time about those they had lost, but it hadn’t taken long before their sorrow had killed the conversation. Unsurprisingly, it was the baby who had lifted the mood, gurgling with happiness as Martialis dandled him on his knee. When it was time for the old man to leave, he had done so with evident regret. Aware of how alone Martialis must have been feeling, Aurelia had insisted that he promise to call in again soon.
Later that day, Aurelia was dozing in a comfortable chair in the courtyard. Publius was asleep; her mother was in the kitchen, making arrangements for that evening’s dinner. Lucius had retired to his office to write letters to his family’s business partners in other cities. Aurelia was woken by a loud rap on the front door. Alarmed, she listened hard but heard no further sounds outside until the knock was repeated again, this time harder. Aurelia’s heart beat a little faster. Was it Phanes? There had been no recent news of him, but that did not mean he would never cause trouble again. Calm yourself, she thought. A dozen men could not break down that door. Besides, there were always two armed slaves on duty there. Lucius appeared not to have heard the summons, so she indicated to Statilius that he should see who it was.
There was a strange look on his face when he returned a moment later. Aurelia rose as he approached. ‘Statilius?’
‘There is a soldier outside. He wants to speak to you.’
‘What about?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’
She felt the faintest ray of hope. ‘Is he a cavalryman? Or an allied infantryman?’
‘No, a regular legionary. A hastatus, I think.’
Aurelia’s hope died. She knew no citizen foot soldiers. What possible reason could one have to seek her out — other than to tell her something dreadful about the deaths of her father or brother? Dread took hold of her, but she batted it away. She felt a great compulsion to hear what the hastatus had to say. ‘Let him in.’
‘Do no such thing!’ cried Lucius, emerging into the courtyard. ‘We have no idea who he is.’
‘Yet it is possible that he has news for me,’ said Aurelia, heading towards the tablinum. ‘At the very least, I want to see his face. I can do that without admitting him.’
To her relief, Lucius did not try to stop her. Grumbling, he followed. Statilius took up the rear, his expression the picture of worry.
The slaves detailed to guard the house’s entrance were waiting by the door, clubs in hand. ‘Open the viewing port,’ she ordered. They eyed her warily, but when Lucius jerked his head, they rushed to obey. Swallowing her irritation that they had not done so at her command, Aurelia stepped up to the narrow rectangular opening. It was an unusual feature, but it meant the occupants could see whether it was safe to admit potential visitors. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight outside. A sturdy figure in a filthy, bloody tunic stood with his back to her. A battered helmet, missing its feathers, covered his head; a square plate protected the upper part of his torso front and back; she could see that he was armed with a sword. By the set of his slumped shoulders, he was exhausted.
‘Well?’ hissed Lucius.
‘He’s facing in the other direction.’ Aurelia coughed to attract the soldier’s attention.
He turned, and her mouth fell open. The unexpected uniform, the line of scabs on his jaw, the rings beneath his grey eyes, the layer of grime on every part of his exposed skin could not conceal who it was. ‘Quintus!’
‘Aurelia?’ He covered the ground to the door in a heartbeat. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, yes, it is I!’ Weeping with joy, she ripped at the bolts.
‘It’s your brother?’ Lucius was by her side, helping.
‘Yes. Thank all the gods, he’s alive!’
Brother and sister fell into each other’s arms the instant the door opened. They clung to one another with a fierceness and a joy that neither had ever felt before. Uncaring of who might see or hear, that Quintus stank of sweat and blood, that Lucius might disapprove, Aurelia sobbed her heart out. He shook with emotion, but shed no tears, instead transferring his feelings into their embrace.
‘I thought you had joined the socii infantry,’ said Aurelia eventually, remembering his letter.
‘I only said that in case Father tried to find me.’
She laughed. ‘What does it matter where you were? I cannot believe you are here. The news was so bad. It seemed impossible that you could have survived.’
He pulled back a little and gave her a sad smile. ‘I damn near didn’t.’ She let out another laugh, but nervous this time, and his face grew even more serious. ‘It was Corax, my centurion, who saved us. He kept the maniple together even when the units around us were collapsing and trying to flee. Rounded up a few more men. Spotted the weak point in the enemy line and smashed a hole in it wide enough for us to escape. If he hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘Thank all the gods! Have you seen Father, or heard any news of him? Or of Gaius?’ Or Hanno? she wanted to add, even though he could have no way of knowing that.
‘Gaius I have seen, but Father. .’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘He wasn’t among the few cavalrymen who joined up with us at Canusium after our retreat, nor with those who straggled in over the following couple of days. Word came that about fifty riders had escaped with the consul Varro to Venusia, so I went there as well. I had no joy.’ A heavy sigh. ‘I would have searched the battlefield, massive as it is, but the enemy camp is still close by. To venture anywhere near the place is to commit suicide.’
Aurelia’s heart sank. ‘You did what you could. We will pray that he reappears out of nowhere, like you and Gaius,’ she said, determined to remain positive. ‘If one miracle can happen, why not two?’