by Ben Kane
At breakfast she acted subdued, even penitent, before Atia. To her relief, her mother gave no sign of being suspicious. Relief filled Aurelia. Their secret appeared to be safe.
‘When will you leave?’ asked Atia.
‘With your permission, as soon as I have finished this.’ Gaius indicated his plate, upon which lay half a small flat loaf, some olives and a thick wedge of cheese. ‘It’s delicious bread.’
‘Julius has a real talent. He could make his living as a baker,’ said Atia with a smile. ‘You must take some for your father.’
‘Thank you. He’d like that very much.’
‘Maybe you can persuade him to come along next time.’
Gaius grinned. ‘He would jump at the chance of your company.’
The pleasantries went over Aurelia’s head. Gaius was going to leave so soon. Her happiness was overtaken by disappointment. ‘Do you have to go?’
Atia gave her a sharp look. ‘Gaius isn’t free to stay here at your beck and call, you know. He serves in the socii cavalry. He has duties to fulfil.’
Aurelia glowered but said nothing.
‘I would like nothing better than to stay, but your mother is right. I’m supposed to report to my unit by midday.’ Gaius gave a rueful shrug. ‘Weapons drill first, and practice at riding in formation later.’
Aurelia pulled an understanding smile. ‘I see.’
‘I can come back in ten days or so, if your mother will allow it.’ He glanced at Atia.
‘You’d be most welcome.’
Aurelia did her best to look pleased. It was better than nothing.
The slap of sandal leather off the floor in the atrium stopped any further conversation.
Aurelia’s lips thinned when the bandy-legged figure of Agesandros appeared in the doorway. She had come to loathe him. Besides, what business had he here?
Atia frowned. ‘We are at breakfast, in case you can’t see.’
‘My apologies, mistress.’ Agesandros bowed his head, but stayed put.
‘What is it?’
‘A messenger has arrived. He’s military, from the look of him.’
Aurelia thought her heart would stop. Across from her, Gaius’ face was the picture of shock. Even her mother struggled to speak.
‘A messenger?’ barked Atia after a moment, regaining her self-control. ‘From where?’
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. He wants to see the mistress of the house.’
‘Bring him in. At once!’ cried Atia. ‘We shall meet him in the tablinum.’
‘Yes, mistress.’ Agesandros spun on his heel and trotted off.
‘Do you think he’s carrying a message from Father?’ Aurelia’s voice faltered. ‘O-or about Father?’
‘Let us pray to the gods that it’s the former,’ replied her mother, standing up and smoothing down her dress. ‘Follow me.’
Aurelia shot to her mother’s side like a child in need of a hug.
Gaius stayed where he was.
Atia threw him a look. ‘You come too.’
‘I don’t want to intrude.’
‘You’re practically family.’
Aurelia was grateful for Gaius’ presence by her side as they hurried to the tablinum. There was no time for a prayer at the lararium — she could hear the clash of hobnails in the atrium — but she threw up the most fervent of prayers to her ancestors, that their protection of her father and Quintus had worked. Had kept them alive.
Her mother took up a position before the household shrine, back upright, a stern expression on her face. Aurelia stood to her right, with Gaius on the other side. Despite herself, Atia’s face worked as Agesandros reappeared with a weary-looking man in a thick wool cloak a step behind him. Within a heartbeat, her mien became more welcoming. Aurelia didn’t know how her mother could remain so calm. She had to clench her fists by her sides to stop herself from instantly screaming questions.
Agesandros stepped to one side. ‘The mistress of the house, Atia, wife of Gaius Fabricius.’
The man approached. Snow fell from the broad brim of his Boeotian helmet as he walked, and his calf-high boots left wet impressions on the mosaic floor. Aurelia studied the messenger’s face as he drew near. He was unshaven, gaunt-cheeked, exhausted-looking. She wanted to be sick. Was he carrying bad news?
‘My lady.’ A crisp salute.
‘You are welcome. .’
‘Marcus Lucilius, my lady. I serve with the cavalry that’s attached to Longus’ legions.’
Aurelia’s world stood still. She could see every detail of Marcus’ face. The marks that had been left on his cheeks by the pox. A spot on his chin. A scar, possibly caused by a blade, running along the left side of his stubbled chin.
‘What brings you here?’ Atia’s voice was serene, while Aurelia could taste bile in her mouth. Gaius didn’t look too happy either.
A weary smile. ‘I bear a message from your husband.’
‘He lives?’ cried Atia.
‘When I left the camp near Placentia, he was in good health.’
‘And his son?’ blurted Aurelia.
‘He was also well.’
‘Oh, thank the gods!’ cried Aurelia, her hands rising to her mouth. Her mother was more composed, but her expression had softened further. They even exchanged a tentative smile. Gaius was grinning like a fool.
The messenger rummaged inside his off-white tunic and produced a rolled parchment. ‘Pardon the state of it, my lady,’ he said, proffering it. ‘Fabricius bade me guard it with my life. It’s been against my skin for the whole journey.’
‘It’s of no matter,’ said Atia, practically snatching it from his hand. Silence fell as she slit the wax seal with a thumbnail and unrolled the letter. Her eyes drank in the words; her lips moved in silent synchrony.
The tension was too much for Aurelia. ‘What does it say, Mother?’
‘Your father is alive and unhurt.’ There was a slight shake in Atia’s voice. ‘So too is Quintus.’
Tears of joy rolled down Aurelia’s cheeks. She shot a glance at the lararium and the death masks on the walls to either side of it. Thank you, household spirits. Thank you, my ancestors. I will make offerings in your honour. ‘Does he send other news?’
‘The fighting at the Ticinus was bitter. The cavalry gave a good account of themselves, but they were substantially outnumbered. That was when Publius Scipio was injured.’
Gaius and Aurelia nodded at one another. Naturally, the news that a consul had been wounded had reached Capua soon after the clash.
‘Shortly afterwards, he was sent on a patrol with Quintus, over a river into enemy territory. Flaccus went with them. It seems to have been his idea.’
Aurelia felt a trace of unease.
‘They were ambushed not just once, but twice. Only a handful of riders made it back to the ford where they’d crossed. Your father, Quintus and Flaccus were among them.’ A little gasp. ‘Hanno was among the enemy soldiers!’
A pause.
Atia’s eyes shot to Aurelia’s. ‘I’m sorry.’
Aurelia struggled to understand for an instant. If her father and Quintus were all right, then. . ‘Flaccus?’ she asked in a small voice.
‘He’s dead. Apparently, one of Hanno’s brothers killed him.’
Her husband-to-be, slain? Aurelia felt neither sadness nor relief. She felt numb. Detached. ‘I don’t understand. How did Father and Quintus survive?’
‘Apparently, Hanno said he owed Quintus his life twice over. Two lives for two debts. Quintus and your father were allowed to go, but they killed the others.’
‘Savages!’ growled Gaius. Lucilius rumbled in agreement.
Our troops would do the same, thought Aurelia angrily. At least Hanno honoured his obligations. That’s more than many Romans would do. Still she felt nothing for Flaccus.
‘They managed to retrieve Flaccus’ body the next day so that he could be given a proper burial,’ Atia went on. ‘That will be of some consolation to his family.’
> ‘Does he say ought of the battle at the Trebia?’ asked Gaius.
Atia read on. ‘A little. The fighting there was even more intense than at the Ticinus. The weather was appalling. To reach the battle, our troops had to cross several streams. By the time the battle began, they were soaking wet and freezing cold. Hannibal’s troops, his cavalry in particular, fought very well. He also sprang an ambush on the rear of our army. Both flanks broke under the pressure.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Your father and Quintus were lucky to escape the slaughter. With a band of others, they made for the safety of Placentia. Longus arrived a few hours later with around ten thousand legionaries.’
Aurelia tried to imagine the scene. She shuddered. ‘It must have been carnage.’
‘It was terrible,’ agreed Lucilius. ‘Or so my comrades say.’
‘You weren’t at the Trebia?’
A grimace. ‘To my shame, I was not, my lady. As a messenger, I am often away from the army. It was my bad luck not to be present at the battle.’
‘Or your good fortune,’ said Atia.
A lopsided smile. ‘You might think so, but I would have wished to have been there with my comrades.’
‘There is no shame in doing your duty,’ said Atia. ‘You can take pride today in what you have done as well. Our lives have been a complete torment since hearing of the events in Cisalpine Gaul. Although the war is still going on, we can take great consolation from the fact that our men are alive.’
Lucilius half bowed.
‘Will you stay for a little while, to rest and eat?’
‘Thank you, my lady. Some hot food would be welcome, but then I must be on my way again. I have to return to Rome. The Senate will have messages for me to carry to Longus and Scipio.’
‘Agesandros, take Lucilius to the dining room,’ ordered Atia. ‘Tell Julius to bring him the best food in the kitchen.’
Aurelia watched the pair go. Her heart was singing. Quintus and her father were alive! She thought of Flaccus, and her feelings crystallised. It was sad that he was dead, but she wasn’t especially sorry. Their betrothal was over now: she was promised to no one. Lifting her head, she found Gaius watching her. Colour flooded her cheeks as her desire for him returned. At that, she felt a little shame. But only a little.
‘It’s sad that Flaccus is gone,’ said her mother. ‘We must travel to Capua soon, to offer a sacrifice in his memory at the temple of Mars.’
Aurelia nodded, pretending that she cared. All her attention was on Gaius, though. A daring idea entered her mind. Perhaps she could win his affections?
Atia’s next words shattered her fantasy. ‘After a suitable period, the search for a suitable match for you will need to be renewed.’
Aurelia shot her mother a poisonous glance. Fortunately, it wasn’t noticed. Atia had gone to the lararium, there to give thanks for Lucilius’ news.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gaius. ‘She’ll find you a good man.’
‘Really? All they’re looking for is a man who’s rich and important,’ Aurelia shot back. What she didn’t dare to add was: ‘I want someone like you.’
Chapter IV
Victumulae, Cisalpine Gaul
Hanno’s admiration for Bogu had risen considerably. The spearman had been tougher than he could ever have imagined. He had soaked up the officer’s punishment, answering questions only when he could take the pain no more. Somehow Bogu had managed to give only snippets of information, which meant that the officer had to keep probing him for more. He had done so with great zeal, using sharp pliers to remove Bogu’s fingernails. Now reddish serum oozed from the letter ‘F’ on the spearman’s forehead. There were burns all over his body. He’d had glowing pokers shoved into both of his wounds. After a few hours, his great strength had ebbed away. Weakened by blood loss and the unremitting agony of his injuries, he had lapsed into unconsciousness. Two buckets of water roused him a little, but not enough to face further interrogation. Now Bogu hung like a discarded puppet from the rope, his head lolling on to his chest. It would be a miracle if he survived to see the morning, thought Hanno bitterly. Whenever that would be. In the windowless cell, time meant nothing.
Before Bogu died, however, Hanno would face the same treatment. The irons were ready; the legionaries watching; the slave waiting to interpret. The officer had left, promising to be back soon. Hanno’s fate was sealed. His guts roiled in fear. The stabbing pain in his belly took his mind off the throbbing ache in his shoulder joints, for a moment at least. He could no longer feel his hands below the wrists. Not that that mattered. He would be dead soon, and his last few hours would be excruciating. Shameful too, because he feared his ability to take pain would be as nothing compared to Bogu’s. Why could he not have died in battle, fighting for Hannibal? That death he could have borne.
Steps outside. A loud creak as the door opened inwards to reveal the smiling officer.
Sweat slicked down Hanno’s back.
‘That’s better.’ The Roman slapped his stomach. ‘I had a hunger on me like a wild beast. Now I’m ready to start work again.’
Work? You’re a damn monster, thought Hanno.
The triarii shared an envious glance. There had been no mention of food for them.
‘Rations might be tight, but for the right price, there’s still meat and cheese to be found.’ He leered at Hanno. ‘Fancy that?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
A dirty chuckle; a gesture at Bogu. ‘I’m not surprised. He’d put anyone off their dinner. Bet you’re thirsty, eh?’
Hanno’s mouth was as dry as a riverbed in high summer, but he didn’t utter a word.
The officer picked up a red clay jug from the table, and placed it to Hanno’s lips. ‘Drink.’
It’s piss, thought Hanno, keeping his mouth firmly shut.
The officer tipped the jug up. A little fluid poured out. To Hanno’s surprise, it didn’t smell bad. His thirst got the better of him. He tasted it and was amazed. The liquid was stale, warm, but it was water. Opening his mouth, he let the officer pour more down his throat. Unable to swallow it fast enough, some went into his windpipe. He jerked his head away, coughing. The movement made fresh pain radiate from his shoulders.
The officer laughed. ‘Had enough?’
He was only being offered it so that he’d be able to endure more torture, but Hanno was so thirsty that he didn’t care. ‘More.’ He managed to swallow three mouthfuls before the officer took away the jug.
‘Right. Back to business.’ Using a piece of cloth to protect his hand from the heat, the officer trailed his fingers over the irons that jutted from the brazier. ‘Which one shall we start with?’ He pulled out the length of metal with the ‘F’ on the end of it, and the triarii sniggered. Hanno thought he would lose control of his sphincter. Not that, please.
‘It’s too soon for that one.’ He selected another, a simple poker. Its end glowed white hot as it emerged from the fire. The officer studied it with a bemused look.
Eshmoun, Hanno prayed. Lend me some of your strength, for I am weak. He tensed as the officer stalked over. Bogu had revealed a substantial amount about Hannibal’s army. What else would the Roman want to know?
Without a word, the officer reached up and placed the poker against his left armpit.
Shock that there hadn’t even been a question filled Hanno, but the burning agony from the hot metal was far worse. A bellow ripped free of his lips, and he was unable to stop himself from jerking away to try and escape his tormentor. This in turn nearly wrenched his arms from their sockets. He sagged back down, straight on to the poker. ‘AAAAAHHHHH!’ Hanno screamed, pushing backwards with his toes.
With a sneer, the officer moved his hand a fraction, bringing the poker back into contact with Hanno’s flesh. This time, he could not move away from it. There was a sizzling sound, and his nostrils filled with the smell of cooking flesh. He shrieked again. To his shame, his bladder voided itself. Warm urine soaked through his garments and ran down his legs.
Hanno mustered his strength, and what was left of his pride. ‘Come closer. I was trying to piss on you,’ he croaked.
‘You filth. Still got a bit of spirit, eh?’
Hanno glowered at him.
‘So you’re this maggot’s commander?’
‘I am.’
‘You’re young to lead a phalanx. Hannibal must have few choices if he selects a child to command some of his best men.’
‘There were many casualties crossing the Alps.’ Hanno said nothing about his father having Hannibal’s ear.
A phhhh of contempt. ‘There must have been junior officers who had survived, or veterans who had proved themselves.’
Hanno didn’t reply.
The officer’s face grew crafty. ‘In the Roman army, it’s often about whom you know. I doubt it’s any different among the guggas. Who’s your father? Or your brother?’ Hanno didn’t answer, so he brought the poker towards his face.
Hanno’s fear swelled. What’s in a name? he thought. ‘My father is called Malchus.’
‘What rank does he hold?’
‘He’s just a phalanx commander, like me.’
‘You’re lying, I can tell!’
‘I’m not.’
‘We’ll see about that later,’ retorted the officer, eyeing Bogu. ‘Was your man telling the truth about the size of Hannibal’s army? Thirty-odd thousand soldiers?’
Answering truthfully wouldn’t tell the Roman anything more than a good scout would find out. ‘That’d be about right, but it’s growing in size. More Gauls and Ligurians are joining every day.’
