Hannibal 03 - Clouds of War

by Ben Kane

  Gaius barked an order at the throng of soldiers to disperse. Looking confused, they did as they were told. ‘Time for a few cups of wine,’ said Gaius. ‘Come on, Pera. It’ll be my treat.’

  Quintus was aware of Pera’s hate-filled eyes boring into him, but he was careful not to meet them. ‘Why did you lend the dunghill rat your chestnut anyway?’ he heard Pera demanding of Gaius as the two centurions moved off. ‘You should have given him your other horse.’

  The instant that Pera was out of earshot, Quintus spoke. ‘Did you see what happened at the torch, sir?’

  ‘I saw,’ replied Corax.

  ‘Pera cheated, sir! He turned a long way from the halfway point. If his mount hadn’t gone down, he would have won – by cheating!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything, sir?’ Quintus knew the bitter truth even as he asked.

  Corax gave him a hefty shove in the chest. ‘Watch your mouth! It’s thanks to your stupidity that this whole damn enterprise came about. What came over you to decide to race against a centurion? Do you really want men like Pera to discover that you’re of noble birth?’

  Quintus had wondered for some time if Corax suspected, but to hear it said out loud was truly shocking. ‘You knew, sir?’

  There was a derisive snort. ‘After this long with you under my command, it’s as clear as the nose on your face. Your accent used to give you away; so too did your manners, however hard you tried to act like the rest. You speak Greek well, and have some understanding of battle tactics. You can ride a horse. What else could you be but an equestrian?’ Corax’s eyes were amused as he looked at Quintus. ‘Close your mouth, soldier, or a fly will go in.’

  ‘You haven’t told anyone, have you, sir?’

  ‘You must have your reasons for wanting to serve among the hastati, Crespo. As long as you didn’t murder someone’ – here Corax raised a hand in acknowledgement as Quintus began to protest – ‘it’s not for me, or for anyone else, to stop you doing so. Besides, you’re a good soldier, one of the best in the maniple. I need you.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, sir.’

  ‘Then say nothing, Crespo.’ Corax chuckled. ‘That’s not even your name, is it?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s—’

  Corax put a finger to his lips. ‘It’s better that I don’t know. If anyone ever comes looking, I’ll be able to deny all knowledge of you.’

  ‘That will never happen, sir,’ said Quintus sadly. ‘My father died at Cannae.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Corax. ‘But do not think that you might never be discovered. You tried hard tonight to have Pera realise that you were of noble birth.’

  Quintus felt his cheeks redden. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘What’s done is done. Be content that you were saved a beating, or worse. And watch out for Pera from now on. He will not forgive you for this, even if it was a fair victory. Did you know that he is related to Marcellus?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Quintus, shocked.

  ‘It’s distantly, I am told, but that’s not to say that he won’t try to bend Marcellus’ ear about this.’

  Quintus felt sure that Corax was telling him obliquely that as Quintus’ commander, he too might attract unwanted attention from above. ‘If you knew, sir, why didn’t you tell me to back out beforehand? I’d have had to, if you ordered it.’

  There was a fiery glint in Corax’s deep-set eyes. ‘You’re not the only one who doesn’t like to refuse a challenge, Crespo.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Quintus muttered, feeling proud yet again that Corax was his centurion. ‘Can I go, sir?’

  ‘You can. Call by my tent in the morning.’

  ‘Sir?’

  To his surprise, Corax winked. ‘There were huge odds against you winning, but I thought it only fair to back one of my men. I’m not sure of the exact amount, but I’ll be collecting something over four hundred denarii later. You can have ten.’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ Despite the tiny fraction of his winnings that Corax was offering, Quintus straightened up. The memory of Pera’s incandescent rage at being beaten was a consolation too. So what that Pera was Marcellus’ third cousin or something? He was the centurion of another unit, with no power over him or any of Corax’s men.

  ‘Go on, then. Piss off and find your mates. No doubt they’ll be wanting to spend some of their earnings on you.’

  Quintus saluted and headed for the gate.

  Chapter XI

  ‘MISTRESS.’ ELIRA’S VOICE echoed in the bedchamber.

  Aurelia barely registered it. All of her focus was locked on the crumpled little shape that was Publius, in the bed before her. She leaned over him, stroked the damp hairs off his forehead, telling herself that the dark red flush to his skin was because he was too hot. The cool breeze that blew through the palace most evenings couldn’t come quickly enough today. If only they were in Rome, if only she hadn’t decided to travel south. None of this would have happened. Stop it. You have to stay strong, for Publius’ sake. ‘There, there, my darling. You’ll soon be better.’

  ‘Mistress.’ This time, Elira shook Aurelia’s shoulder.

  She tore her eyes from her son. ‘Is the surgeon here?’

  ‘No, mistress. He said he couldn’t come again until tomorrow, remember?’

  ‘But the medicine he gave Publius hasn’t worked.’

  ‘That was the best treatment he had. Malaria is very hard to treat, mistress, especially in the young.’ Elira’s tone was very gentle.

  For the thousandth time, Aurelia’s eyes moved around the well-appointed room, looking for a way out. Along with an adjacent living area and a latrine, this was her entire world. Her prison. Apart from the times that Hippocrates summoned her, that was. It was fortunate that Elira was the current focus for his lust, she thought dully. With Publius so sick, there was no way that she would have been able to entertain him as she had before.

  Publius coughed, and her attention reverted to the present. ‘Bring me a damp cloth.’

  ‘Of course, mistress.’ Elira scurried off.

  By the time that she had returned, Publius had wet himself. A large stain was spreading across the sheet, surrounding the lower half of his body. Without a word, they changed the bed linen and wiped him down. With the sheets removed, it was impossible to ignore how the malaria had ravaged him. He was nothing more than a bag of skin and bones, and the yellow tinge to his skin was mild in comparison to the jaundiced colour of the whites of his eyes. Somehow, Aurelia blanked it all out, ignored Elira’s concerned glances. Refusing to acknowledge how ill Publius was made it easier to imagine his recovery.

  ‘I know it’s difficult, mistress, but I need to talk to you.’

  The unusual sharpness to Elira’s tone pierced Aurelia’s mental haze. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was given another message when I went out this morning.’

  Hanno. ‘At the baker’s?’

  ‘Yes. From a soldier, as before. I made sure to give him your reply to the first letter.’

  Aurelia took the proffered tiny, rolled parchment with trembling hands. It had seemed an eternity since her chance meeting with Hanno until the first one had come. Although it had not offered a way out of the palace – Hanno had said that he was planning that with a friend – its arrival had helped her to go on. This was the second message, come two weeks after its predecessor. Maybe Hanno could get another surgeon to attend Publius? she wondered. She dismissed the idea at once. He could no more do that than spirit three people through the walls of the palace. The familiar, yawning pit of despair opened up before her. Do not give up hope, she told herself. This letter is proof that the gods have not forsaken us completely. We will escape, somehow. Cracking off the little blob of sealing wax and unrolling the parchment, she began to read.

  ‘To Aurelia: Greetings. My apologies for the long delay in getting this second missive to you, but my friend has few soldiers whom he trusts enough with the duty of giving it to Elira. I pray
that you are enduring as best you can.’ Aurelia’s eyes moved to Publius’ form. She had to concentrate to see him breathing, and a stab of pain pierced her heart.

  I regret to say that we are still searching for the best way to rescue you, your son and Elira. Clearly, force cannot be used, and the number of guards within the palace means that subterfuge will not work either. We need a way to get you all into the city proper. My friend says that if this becomes possible, your escape is certain.

  Her gaze roved down the remaining lines, to Hanno’s signature. Each of the phrases ‘stay strong’, ‘the gods will protect you’ and ‘we will meet again soon’ felt like hammer blows to the last of her hope. Publius was gravely ill, and they would never leave this place. She would be at Hippocrates’ mercy until he tired of her. After that, Agathocles – whom she had already had to couple with once, hurriedly – would want his share of her flesh. Despairing, she let the tears that often threatened begin to fall.

  ‘What does it say, mistress? Is it bad news?’

  Aurelia wiped her eyes. ‘Not so much that, more that nothing has changed. Hanno can find no way to break us out of here. For now. But we are not to give up hope.’

  ‘That’s easy for him to say!’ spat Elira. ‘He’s not the one who has to lie with Hippocrates every night.’

  ‘He’s doing what he can.’

  Elira’s temper vanished, leaving in its place sorrow. ‘I know, mistress. It’s so hard, though. Just waiting, waiting, all the time.’

  Rather than improving as Aurelia had hoped, Publius’ condition took a sharp turn for the worse. In the ensuing hours, his fever rose and rose until his entire body was burning hot to the touch. Seizures followed: horrifying wild jerks and spasms of his limbs that terrified both women. It was fortunate that the surgeon had warned them of this possible development, or Aurelia might have thought him possessed by a demon. Instead, she knew that trying to lower his temperature might help. There was no ice to be had, so they had to make do by repeatedly bathing Publius in cool water. When the fits finally stopped, Aurelia hoped he might have turned a corner. Instead, he lapsed into complete unconsciousness. Then an area around one knee, which had banged against the floor during a seizure, developed into what looked like a bruise. Soon it was apparent that there was bleeding under the skin. At this point, Aurelia threw caution to the wind and went to the guard who stood outside their door. Prepared to do just about anything, she was relieved when he agreed to send for the surgeon because her child was seriously ill. She had no doubt that it was due in part to Publius’ cheerful nature and admiration of the guards’ every move. He had charmed a good number of them. More than one had smuggled in extra food and sometimes even a small wooden toy for her son.

  The surgeon’s poor humour at the hour of his summons fell away the instant that he saw Publius.

  ‘Why did you not call for me sooner?’ he asked, and then sighed. ‘You don’t need to answer that. Tell me what he’s been doing.’ Calling for more light, he knelt by the bed and listened to Aurelia’s explanation. He immediately subjected Publius to a close examination, placing his ear on the boy’s chest to monitor his breathing, checking his pulse and the colour of his gums, and lifting his eyelids to examine his conjunctivae. The process made Aurelia so nervous that she had to take hold of Elira’s hand.

  At last he was done. ‘When did the child last pass urine?’

  Aurelia regarded the surgeon blankly. ‘Urine? I don’t know. A long time ago. Six hours? Eight?’

  With another sigh, he checked Publius’ pulse again. When he looked up, his expression was sombre. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing more I can do.’

  Aurelia felt as if someone had punched her in the solar plexus. She gasped, and sank to her knees. ‘What do you mean?’ she heard Elira ask.

  ‘It’s classical, severe malaria. A high fever, followed by seizures and other nervous signs. I suspect that he fell into a coma after that. This mark on his knee shows that his blood is not clotting. From what you say about his urination, I suspect his kidneys are also failing.’

  Aurelia could not speak. She stared at Publius, at the surgeon, at Publius.

  The next time she looked, the surgeon’s face had softened further. ‘He’s dying, I’m afraid. There’s nothing that can be done.’

  ‘Dying?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes. I’ve never seen an adult recover once this stage has been reached, let alone a small child. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Will it be long?’

  The surgeon shook his head, sending Aurelia into a daze of grief. She scarcely noticed his light touch on her shoulder as he walked out.

  Sinking on to the bed, she enfolded Publius in her arms. Unbidden, a lullaby came to mind, one that she’d crooned to him as a tiny baby. Aurelia began to sing it, very softly. Over and over she sang it, until her voice gave out and she had to hum the melody. Grief overwhelmed her, and it wasn’t long before the sheet had been saturated by tears. Apart from an occasional deep breath, Publius didn’t move or stir. She was grateful that he no longer seemed distressed. It was easy for Aurelia to fall into a fantasy that he was sleeping off an upset stomach, and that she was comforting him. She was still enmeshed by this pleasant fiction when sleep took her.

  When she awoke, it took no more than a heartbeat for her mother’s intuition to tell her that Publius was gone. With infinite tenderness, she laid his head back on to the pillow. His eyes were half open, but his colour had changed from the angry pink of earlier to the grey of the freshly dead. Aurelia placed a finger on the large vein in his neck. By the time she’d counted twenty, there had been no pulse. It was a little late, but she put her mouth to his, to allow his soul to exit his body. ‘Forgive me, my little darling,’ she whispered. ‘The gods grant you a safe passage to the other side. Let them reserve their punishment for me.’

  ‘He has gone.’

  Aurelia looked up at Elira, whose cheeks were running with tears. ‘Yes,’ she said dully.

  ‘May all the gods bless him and look after him. He was a wonderful child,’ murmured Elira, her voice breaking.

  ‘We must see to the funeral arrangements. They won’t deny me that, will they?’ Aurelia felt her fragile façade begin to crack.

  ‘I don’t know, mistress. If they do allow it, this might be our chance to escape.’

  It took a moment for Elira’s implication to sink in. ‘You mean, if we were to be allowed out of the palace?’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’ Elira’s eyes glistened. ‘Can you write a reply to Hanno? The soldier said that he would be at the baker’s again today. I can persuade the guard who’s on duty this morning to let me out. If Hanno knows about the funeral, he might be able to act.’

  ‘But we don’t know when they might let us hold it.’

  ‘I know, mistress, but some information would be more useful to Hanno than none, surely?’

  In that moment, Aurelia did not care about escape, or about Hanno. Her mind was full of Publius, and how desperately she would miss him. But she knew that this might be their first and last opportunity to get away. However she felt herself, it was not fair to condemn Elira to a lifetime of enforced prostitution. She took a deep breath and forced herself to think of the future. ‘Very well. I’ll do it.’

  Chapter XII

  AFTER A DISCUSSION with Kleitos, Hanno had decided to take the soldier’s place by the bakery that morning.

  ‘It makes sense to change the person who does it,’ he’d argued. ‘People might remember your man from yesterday.’ So now he was standing a few paces from the baker’s, a warm loaf in his hand. Gods, but it was good to eat it fresh from the oven, he thought. There weren’t many things that tasted better.

  Yet his pleasure couldn’t dispel his nerves. Despite the bravado he’d shown Kleitos, it was hard to act normal, and even harder not to be continually looking up and down the street for signs of trouble. Fortunately, nothing gave Hanno cause for concern. Housewives congregated by the door of the bakery, chattering. Slaves w
ho’d been sent out by their masters saw their chance and slipped past them to jump the queue. A well-dressed youth emerged with a bag full of loaves, and two stray dogs sniffed up and down, hoping for a dropped crust from the customers who ate what they’d bought.

  Some time went by, and the early-morning rush to buy bread died away. Hanno began to feel self-conscious again, and he was glad that there was an open-fronted inn on the little square opposite. None of the other customers gave him a second glance as he occupied an outside seat and ordered a cup of wine. An hour and a second cup, then another hour and a third cup, slipped past without any sign of Elira. Hanno’s worries began to grow. Maybe something was wrong? Maybe Aurelia had been taken ill as well, forcing Elira to look after her? To distract himself, he went to empty his bladder in the tavern’s facility – a section of its wall that lined one side of a tiny alleyway. As was commonplace, graffiti had been scratched into every visible part of the brickwork. Hanno grinned as he read. It was a combination of the usual: ‘I had a good shit here’; ‘Eumenes loves Agape’; ‘The whores in this inn have the pox’.

  Back at his seat, he resumed his study of the people who entered and left the bakery. It was with real shock that he saw Elira walking out, clutching a bulging bag. She was thinner than he remembered, and there were new lines of unhappiness that ran from the corners of her nose to her lips. Throwing back the last of his wine, he sauntered after her.

  He waited until no more than three steps separated them before speaking. ‘Elira.’

  She spun, nearly dropping her bag as she recognised him. ‘What a surprise,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Keep walking.’ Hanno drew alongside. ‘How is Aurelia?’

  ‘Not good, sir. Her son Publius – he’s dead.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘Malaria. He died during the night.’

  ‘Gods, that’s terrible.’ At once Hanno felt torn. This was horrific news for Aurelia, yet now he had one less person to magic out of the palace. The realisation that that too might not be necessary sank home a heartbeat later. ‘Will a funeral be permitted?’