by Ben Kane
He regarded her dispassionately. ‘Your mother ordered me not to talk about it. She wants to tell you herself.’
‘I see.’ Aurelia’s lips set in a thin line, but inside she had begun to panic. This kind of behaviour from her mother was unheard of. She took a deep breath, bestowed a warm smile on Publius. ‘We’ll see Granny soon, my darling!’ To Agesandros, she said, ‘Let us get there quickly.’
Apart from Publius, they made the rest of the journey in grim silence.
Atia sat up in the bed as Aurelia opened the door and made an effort to smooth down the rumpled bedclothes. ‘Aurelia. Publius! How’s my little soldier?’
‘G-anny! G-anny!’ Publius hurled himself on to the bed and into Atia’s embrace.
Aurelia gazed approvingly at the reunion, but she was struggling to conceal her shock. To find her mother abed at this hour was unusual enough, but in a darkened room, and looking like this? In the seven days since Aurelia had last seen her, Atia had aged a decade or more. The poor light could not conceal her grey complexion, nor the fact that her sharply delineated cheekbones were bare of their usual dusting of ochre. Her black hair, normally held up and behind her head, hung in limp tresses on either side of her haggard face. ‘How are you, Mother?’ she said, hating the stupidity of the question.
A wan smile. ‘I’ve been better, but I’ve also been worse. It will pass, with the help of the gods.’ Atia stroked Publius’ head. ‘Would you like a sweet pastry, my little soldier?’
‘Yes! Yes!’
‘Run along to the kitchen then. Ask the cook if he has anything for you.’
Aurelia let a beaming Publius push past her before moving entirely into her mother’s bedchamber. Her nose twitched with distaste. ‘It’s so stuffy. When was the last time you aired the place? It can’t be healthy for you to be stuck in here all hours of the day. Come out to the courtyard. It’s a lovely morning. Fresh air will do you good.’
Without a word, Atia lifted the blanket and swung her legs towards the floor. They too had become thin.
Suddenly, Aurelia felt old. Whether her mother realised it or not, their relationship had changed. She had become the carer, and Atia the patient. Whatever the outcome of her mother’s illness, their roles would never fully be reversed. It was a natural evolvement in the parent-child relationship, she realised, but not one she welcomed at this particular moment. She held out her hand to Atia and together they walked outside. The daylight did her mother no favours. Aurelia fought her rising concern. The bags under Atia’s eyes were as deep as craters; she stooped now rather than walked upright. It won’t be anything serious, Aurelia told herself. Mother is as strong as an ox; she’s never ill. She guided Atia carefully to the wooden bench by the step that led from the colonnaded walkway into the courtyard. The spot caught the sunshine; it was her mother’s favourite place in the house. Aurelia suspected that she thought about Fabricius here. ‘Look – the sun is still shining. It must be for you.’
‘Ah,’ whispered Atia, her eyes lighting up. ‘I have missed sitting here.’
Aesculapius be with her, prayed Aurelia. She must be as weak as a kitten not to be able to make her way this short distance alone. They sat down side by side, Atia with a sigh of relief. Publius’ shrieks of happiness could be heard from the kitchen. Overhead, a small bird trilled its optimism that winter was ending. The shouts of a mobile food vendor carried in from the street. Agesandros lingered in the courtyard, making a pretence of tending the vines, but more often than not, his gaze strayed to mother and daughter.
‘Agesandros tells me that you haven’t been feeling well.’
‘Not for a number of weeks.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’ Aurelia’s guilt that she hadn’t noticed and fear for her mother came out as anger. ‘When I last saw you, you seemed fine! You mentioned losing a little weight, not sleeping that well, but it didn’t seem to be anything of concern.’
‘I didn’t think so either. I’ve had such illnesses before, when I was younger. They passed, however. This hasn’t.’
‘So you called for a surgeon.’
A weary nod.
‘Who was it?’
‘A Greek, of course. One recommended to me by Lucius some time ago.’
Aurelia felt a little relief. If the surgeon came with her husband’s approval, he wouldn’t be one of the many charlatans who preyed upon the unwell. ‘You should have had him attend you sooner,’ she scolded.
‘That’s water under the bridge. He has seen me now.’
Would she have to prise the information out with a pair of pliers? ‘So? Did he discover what ails you?’
‘He thinks so.’ A pause.
Aurelia’s impatience grew, but when her mother’s eyes lifted to hers and she saw the sadness there, utter panic took its place. ‘W-what? What did he find?’
It was as if Atia hadn’t heard her. ‘I’ve been feeling bloated much of the time, even when I haven’t eaten for many hours. Nauseous too. My skin itches for no apparent reason. Even on cold nights, I’ve been too hot; sweating as if I were in a caldarium.’
Aurelia was baffled, frustrated, scared. She wanted to shake her mother, but she reined in her fear. ‘What did the surgeon find, mother?’
Atia placed a hand on her belly. ‘During his examination, he felt something in here.’
Time stood still. Although Atia was right beside her, she seemed far away – almost as if Aurelia was at one end of a tunnel and her mother was at the other. ‘Something.’
‘Yes. A growth of some kind.’
‘A growth,’ repeated Aurelia stupidly. ‘Where?’
‘He wasn’t sure, but possibly on my liver.’
Aurelia felt sick. If the surgeon was correct … ‘Can he treat you?’
‘There are some herbs, some preparations he wants to make up for me.’ Atia’s hands, all skin and bone, fluttered in the air. ‘He says they might help.’
The only way that Aurelia could make this horror real was to say the harsh words. ‘Help, not cure.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there no surgery that could be performed?’
A trace of Atia’s old self returned; her eyebrows rose in disbelief. ‘You know the answer to that question, child.’
Tears filled Aurelia’s eyes. She felt utterly helpless. ‘So you’re going to die?’ she whispered.
Atia’s lips crooked. ‘We all die.’
‘Don’t joke about it!’ cried Aurelia. From the corner of her eye, she saw Agesandros’ head whip around to watch them. Curse him, she thought. It’s none of his business. She’s my mother. ‘You know what I mean.’
Atia took her hand and stroked it. ‘The growth will kill me, yes. The surgeon was regretful, but sure of his diagnosis.’
‘He could be wrong!’ Aurelia said. Lucius’ confidence in the Greek might be misplaced. ‘We can get another surgeon to examine you.’
‘I already have. One of the neighbours called in a few days ago; when she saw how ill I looked, she had her husband, a surgeon, come by when he returned home. He found the same lump in my belly.’ Atia’s gaze was calm. ‘They won’t both be wrong.’
There was no point arguing. The divine powers had done what they wished – as they had at Cannae, when her father had been among the slain. Damn them all! Aurelia’s grief and fury threatened to overwhelm her, but then she remembered her reaction – raging, shouting, cursing the gods – when she’d heard the news of her father’s probable death. Was this punishment for that outburst? It was hard not to think so. Aurelia longed to utter the same curses again, but she dared not. In the time since Cannae, she had curried favour with every deity in the pantheon, spending a fortune on sacrifices and offerings in temples, asking that her loved ones be looked after. Now, despite her devotion, this calamity had befallen her mother.
The gods were so fickle, so faithless, she thought bitterly. But fear sealed her lips. Publius and her brother were one reason to keep silent, Gaius and Hanno another. It was a long time until h
er son was five, and beyond the age that saw at least half of all children die from illness. On Sicily, Quintus risked being killed on a regular basis. The same would be true – if they were alive – of his friend Gaius, and Hanno, for whom she still had strong feelings. Aurelia couldn’t bear to think about her loved ones dying. The gods had to be kept happy at all costs. I must be strong, she thought. For Mother’s sake. She will need me in the days and weeks to come. Aurelia managed a confident but false smile. ‘That doesn’t mean that a third opinion won’t be useful.’
‘Very well,’ Atia replied, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun. ‘Do as you wish.’
This demonstration of her mother’s weakness made Aurelia’s grief resurge but, at that moment, Publius came hurtling into the courtyard. ‘Mama! Mama!’
Reality hit home yet again. She had to go on, for her child’s sake as well as her mother’s. She hoped that Lucius returned home from his business trip soon. Although they were not that close, their relationship was serviceable. His presence at home would give her strength, but until that point, she was on her own. ‘Here I am, my darling,’ Aurelia said, opening her arms.
Aurelia had been frustrated and disappointed when the third surgeon, who had been suggested by her husband’s business partner Julius Tempsanus, came to the same diagnosis as the previous two. She’d had no knowledge of the second surgeon – her mother’s neighbour – so could therefore not make a judgement upon him. She respected the first, however, the Greek recommended by Lucius. He had attended her and Publius more than once; he was a sober, professional individual whose treatments had been effective. The last man had seemed no less skilled. He had also been the most sympathetic, telling Aurelia that her mother might live for months. ‘The progress of these diseases cannot be predicted,’ he’d said. ‘Look on each day as if it might be her last, but tell yourself that she will still be here at Saturnalia.’
Aurelia had seized on his advice, using it to give her strength in the trying time that followed. She had immediately written a letter to Quintus, telling him of their mother’s illness; it had been truly bittersweet that a short message from him had arrived the day after she’d sent hers. Life was hard on Sicily, Quintus had said, but he was healthy and fit. Other than asking the gods to grant the same to his family, there was little he needed. He sent his fond regards to them all. When Aurelia had read that, she had broken down in tears. Lucius’ news from Rhegium, that he would be detained by business for at least another two weeks, made her life even harder to bear.
She’d had no time to wallow in her grief. Publius had come down with a bout of vomiting and diarrhoea that confined him to bed for a week. Terrified that it was cholera or a similar disease, Aurelia had had the surgeon attend him twice a day. Despite her distrust of the gods, she had sacrificed at the temples of Aesculapius and Fortuna. To her intense relief, Publius had made a slow but steady recovery. The moment he was better – that very morning – Aurelia had hurried to Atia’s house. During Publius’ illness, she had refrained from visiting for fear of giving the disease to her mother. She’d had to rely on Agesandros, who had acted as a messenger daily.
The week might as well have been a month, or even two, she thought bitterly. Her mother, who was sitting on the same bench where Aurelia had first heard of her illness, had lost even more weight. She resembled the victim of a famine, with her skin stretched tight over her bones. Aurelia’s heart bled to see her like it. ‘Mother,’ she said brightly. ‘There you are.’
Atia turned, and Aurelia saw with horror that the whites of her eyes had turned yellow; there was even a tinge of the same colour to her complexion. At this rate, Aurelia decided, she wouldn’t last until spring.
‘Daughter.’ Her voice was husky and weak. ‘Where is Publius?’
‘I left him at home with Elira. He’s still not fully recovered.’
‘The poor little mite. I have been looking forward to seeing him again.’
‘I’ll bring him tomorrow, Mother.’ She held up the covered pot in her hands. ‘I’ve made you some soup. It’s vegetable, your favourite. You should have some – it will give you strength.’ She twisted her head, looking for a slave to fetch a bowl and spoon.
‘I’ll have some later,’ interrupted Atia. ‘Not right now.’
Aurelia noted the beads of sweat on her mother’s forehead. ‘Very well,’ she said sadly.
‘Come. Sit by me.’ Atia patted the bench.
Fighting tears, Aurelia sat, placing the soup between her feet. They clasped hands.
‘You’re the image of your brother,’ said her mother out of the blue. ‘You have the same black hair, the same eyes, the same chin.’ There was a sigh. ‘How I wish he was here.’
The longing in Atia’s voice brought a tear to Aurelia’s eyes. ‘You’ll see him again,’ she lied.
‘I won’t.’
Aurelia pretended that she hadn’t heard. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve never been one for subterfuge, child, you know that. I’m dying.’
For all that the evidence was before her, Aurelia was still shocked. ‘Don’t say that, Mother!’
Atia took her hand and placed it on her belly. ‘Tap it.’
Horrified yet fascinated, Aurelia obeyed. The feeling of fluid thrilling beneath her touch was unmistakeable. ‘What does it mean?’ she whispered.
‘My liver has failed. The growth has doubled in size, the surgeon says, or more. I’m not surprised. I’m constantly nauseous now. Even drinking water makes me want to vomit. There are worse signs too, things I wouldn’t want you to know.’
Aurelia stroked her mother’s fingers in an effort to stay composed. ‘Did he say how long?’
A tired laugh. ‘At this stage, I think I know better than he does what will happen. A few more days, that’s all.’
An odd feeling of calm settled over Aurelia. ‘You’re sure?’ she heard herself saying.
‘Yes.’ Atia’s yellowed eyes were serene. ‘I will be reunited with Fabricius sooner than I imagined. How I have missed him!’
But you’re leaving me behind! I have no friends in Rome, and only Publius for company, Aurelia wanted to scream. Instead she said, ‘He will be overjoyed to see you, Mother.’
They sat in silence for a little while, Atia lost in her own thoughts and Aurelia trying to divert her grief by thinking of the arrangements that would soon need to be made. Not for the first time, she cursed the war, which meant that there was no chance of Quintus attending the funeral, or of holding it at their home near Capua. Capua and the area around it now followed Hannibal. ‘Have you decided where you might like to be …’ Her voice cracked and broke. ‘… buried?’
Atia’s touch on her cheek was more welcome than she could remember. ‘Child, you must be strong. Publius needs you. Your husband relies on you. Quintus will need your letters as well. You are the centre point of the family.’
Aurelia swallowed, nodded. ‘Yes, Mother. What I was going to say is that the family mausoleum is too far away, and too dangerous for us to use.’
‘I’ve made some enquiries. It’s not expensive to have a simple structure erected on the Via Appia. Agesandros can give you the details of the stonemason with whom I spoke. My ashes can be placed in the tomb after my cremation, to remain there until the war is over. After that, you can take them back to Capua. I’d like it if you could put a vase with your father’s name beside mine.’
Aurelia felt as if a scab had been picked off an old wound. Her father’s bones would never be retrieved. With countless thousands of others, they still lay unnamed on the fields of blood, at Cannae. ‘Of course, Mother.’
‘That’s settled then.’ Atia smiled. ‘I drew up my will some time since. Naturally, Quintus will receive the farm and the remaining slaves. He will also get what money remains. Despite what I’ve had to spend running this household, there’s a little left. The sale of the agricultural slaves raised quite an amount. To you, I bequeath my jewellery and personal possessions.’
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Aurelia bowed her head. ‘Thank you, Mother.’
‘There’s not much left now. Much of what I had was sold to pay that vulture Phanes.’ A brittle laugh. ‘If there’s one good thing to be said for the war, it’s that he sided with the Capuans when they turned traitor. I haven’t had to pay him since Cannae. We can’t go near the farm at this moment, but one day, when Hannibal has been beaten, Quintus will be able to return there. It will be ours once more.’
Aurelia thought it possible that the conflict with Carthage would eventually be won, but there was no certainty that her brother would come back. She closed her mind to that grim prospect. There was only so much grief that she could cope with. ‘I shall visit the farm too. It will be wonderful to see it again,’ she said, thinking not of the family tomb but of the last time she had been there, and kissed Hanno. Guilt washed over her that she could think of herself at a time like this.
‘There is one more thing.’
Aurelia gave her mother a questioning look.
‘Agesandros is to be manumitted, and discharged of his duties to the family once I am gone. He has spent more than half of his life in loyal service to us. Since your father’s death, he has been invaluable to me. I know that he desires to return to Sicily before his own death, and as it is in my power to grant this wish, I will do so.’ She glanced at Aurelia. ‘I imagine that you will not be displeased by this?’
‘No. It shall be as you wish, Mother.’ I’ll be so glad to see the back of him, thought Aurelia.
‘That’s enough talk of death,’ her mother pronounced. ‘I want to hear about Publius.’
Aurelia was more than relieved to talk about her son.
Atia lapsed into unconsciousness the day after, at which point Aurelia moved herself, Publius and Elira into the house. She was not going to miss her mother’s passing. Trusting her son to Elira’s care, Aurelia spent every hour of the day and night by Atia’s side. On occasion, she tried to get her to swallow some liquids. There was little point. In the brief moments when Atia was conscious, she refused all food or drink. Apart from wiping her mother’s forehead with damp cloths and changing the bedclothes, Aurelia’s only role was to provide company as Atia slipped away. She tried to accept this bittersweet situation, but it was hard. Aurelia was not alone: she saw Elira and Publius each day, but she couldn’t confide in the former – because she wanted to maintain a distance between them – or the latter. When Agesandros looked in on Atia, Aurelia avoided him. Two more days passed in this lonely fashion.
