Fields of Blood h-2

by Ben Kane

  By this stage, Hanno was no longer paying such close attention. On a less busy street, he had nearly caught up with the bodyguards when he noticed the Greek’s absence. Hastily, he feigned interest in the display of ironmongery outside a shop. On impulse, he bought a small but sharp knife. When he turned, the bruisers’ gaze was locked on the staircase that led up to the shrine’s entrance, which told him where Phanes had gone. Slipping the blade under his tunic and into the waistband of his undergarment, he walked right past them. There was little room to pass on the stairs. Soothsayers promised readings of the future, men were selling hens suitable for sacrifice, or votive lamps and trinkets to leave as offerings. Half an as bought Hanno a tiny clay amphora; anyone who glanced at him would assume he was another worshipper. At the top, six mighty fluted columns supported a triangular, richly decorated portico. In the centre was a painted figure of a winged woman standing with a sceptre in her hands. On either side sailors in ships reached up to her in supplication. Fortuna, he thought. The moneylender prays to Fortuna for good luck. It felt quite apt.

  Great wooden doors framed the entrance to the cella, the long narrow room that formed the main part of the temple. A group of people clustered there around a stout, robed priest with a beard, listening as he held forth on the goddess’ intent for Capua and its citizens. There was no sign of Phanes. Hanno padded inside, wary and alert. His eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom, which was alleviated by an occasional oil lamp on a bronze stand. The chamber’s walls had been decorated with panelled murals of Fortuna: she stood with her father, Jupiter Optimus Maximus, and other deities; presided over fields of ripe wheat as the goddess Annonaria; watched chariots race at a stadium while men placed wagers. Hanno did not like the last depiction, that of Mala Fortuna, in which she stood over the entrance to Hades, watching as those who had died through bad luck filed past with miserable faces. Although she was not one of his gods, he offered her a prayer nonetheless, asking that his fortunes remain good — while he was in Capua at least.

  At the far end of the room stood a low altar. Behind it was an enormous painted statue of Fortuna, her lips curved in an enigmatic smile. It was a little disquieting that her dark-rimmed eyes seemed to follow Hanno as he wove his way through the throng, but he told himself it was just his imagination. The other devotees were a mixture of men and women, young and old. Everyone needed Fortuna on their side, thought Hanno, from the crone who needed money to buy food to the man who was fond of gambling and the wife who could not conceive.

  Phanes was standing near the altar, his head bowed. Hanno slipped in behind him, grateful for the loud prayers of an elderly woman nearby. He moved past the Greek to place his figurine on the altar among the other offerings, confirming with a sidelong glance that he’d found his man. Poised behind his quarry once more, his heart began to race. Whatever he did would have to be rapid and brief. It had to take place within the cella and in a manner that didn’t alarm those around them. He doubted that anyone would intervene but if the two brutes outside were alerted to what was going on, he’d be lucky to escape with his life — even though he was now armed. Steady, he thought. It will go to plan. Soon Atia will have less to worry about, and I will know where to find Aurelia. That thought was calming.

  He reached under his tunic and took hold of the knife’s hilt, readying himself. When Phanes began to turn, Hanno slid forward on the balls of his feet. He grabbed the Greek’s left hand and twisted it behind his back, at the same time tickling the skin over his right kidney with the blade’s tip. With his lips against Phanes’ ear, he whispered, ‘Keep turning. If anyone looks, smile at them. Do not cry for help, or I’ll slide this iron in so deep that it comes out of your filthy chest.’

  Phanes obeyed. His head twisted. ‘Who in Hades’ name are you? What do you want?’

  Hanno shoved him forward a step. ‘That’s an odd question for a stinking moneylender to ask. I’d wager you have plenty of enemies. That’s why you employ those two apes outside.’

  ‘They’ll gut you when this is done,’ hissed Phanes. He squawked with pain as Hanno pushed the knife hard enough to draw blood.

  ‘Shut your mouth. Keep walking,’ ordered Hanno, smiling at an old man who was gawping. He guided the unresisting Greek over to the side of the room, where there were fewer people. By the mural of Fortuna at the games, he paused, as if to admire it. ‘Are Gaius and Atia Fabricius familiar to you?’ Phanes stiffened and his heart leaped.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They owe you money.’

  ‘A great deal,’ agreed the Greek.

  ‘Are their names among those that Calavius will receive later?’

  Phanes’ head twisted again, this time in surprise, and Hanno poked him again with the knife. ‘Keep your eyes to the front. Answer the damn question.’

  ‘Yes. They’re on the list.’

  ‘No, they’re not!’ Hanno gave the blade a vicious little twist, and Phanes had to bite back a moan. ‘You are going to leave their names off it. If you don’t, I will hunt you down and cut you into little pieces. That’s after I’ve cut your balls off and fed them to you. The same will happen to you if you harm them or any of their family. Understand?’

  ‘Y-yes.’ The Greek sounded confused as well as terrified.

  Hanno could see beads of sweat trickling down through Phanes’ oiled hair, which pleased him immensely. ‘Good. Do you know their daughter as well?’

  ‘Aurelia?’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I would have thought you’d know that,’ muttered the Greek. ‘You seem aware of everything else.’

  ‘Tell me,’ demanded Hanno.

  Phanes let out a little phhh of contempt. ‘I believe that she’s living with her husband, on his land, to the north of the city. They were married a short time ago.’

  Hanno closed his eyes. Disappointment washed over him. These were two eventualities that he hadn’t counted on. That Aurelia would already be married and that not all citizens were too scared to remain on their properties. It was as if the Greek sensed his dismay. With a powerful wriggle and twist, he jerked free of Hanno’s grasp. Whirling, he slammed Hanno’s hand against the wall. The knife clattered to the floor and Phanes clawed at Hanno’s eyes with hooked fingers. As Hanno lurched backwards, the Greek snatched at his neck cloth instead. It wasn’t knotted, so it came away with ease. A heartbeat’s pause; a disbelieving gasp from Phanes. Hanno could almost feel the ‘F’-shaped scar itching.

  ‘You’re a runaway slave?’ The Greek’s voice was loud and shrill.

  The game was up. Hanno ran for the door, shoving past everyone in his way.

  ‘Stop that slave!’ Phanes cried. ‘He attacked me with a knife. Stop him!’

  A middle-aged man stepped into Hanno’s path, arms outstretched. Hanno roared a war cry, and the man abruptly changed his mind.

  Hanno pounded towards the entrance, elbowing a youth who grabbed at him in the face. There were a few ineffectual attempts to seize him by the tunic, but he was running at full tilt now. Past a goggle-eyed old woman and into the open air. From behind him, Phanes’ voice, growing louder. Hanno cursed. Unless the Greek’s bodyguards were deaf, they would be waiting for him at the bottom of the steps.

  Slowing, he walked to the top of the staircase. Sure enough, the heavies were staring upward, scowls on their faces and cudgels in hand. Every face in between was watching too. Don’t alarm any of them, Hanno thought. He needed the men on the steps to remain calm and Phanes’ thugs to feel confident. With a casual smile, he began to descend. ‘I’ll come down to you,’ he called. The bodyguards glanced at one another, grinning with delight. So far, so good, thought Hanno. His stomach was tying itself in knots, but he waited until he was three-quarters of the way down before making his move.

  Grabbing a large woven basket full of poultry from a startled boy, he hurled it straight at Phanes’ men. Loud curses, a crash, the sound of splintering wicker. Feathers flew. The air filled with the distressed squawking of hens. Hanno didn
’t wait to see what happened next. With a great leap, he bounded down the last few steps and into the crowd. Worming his way between the passers-by, he was careful not to look at people’s faces. To his relief, no one tried to stop him. Ten paces, twenty, then thirty, forty from the base of the staircase. He slowed his pace, assumed a casual gait. Already few would realise that he was the one being sought. All eyes were on the temple.

  Nonetheless, at the first alleyway, Hanno decided to leave the main thoroughfare. Pausing at the corner, he looked back for a moment. Phanes was just visible on the temple steps. His face was purple and he was screaming abuse, no doubt at his hapless bodyguards. Hanno smiled as he turned and sped away. A fresh strip of cloth ripped from his tunic would cover his neck; he would soon become just another member of the crowd. His satisfaction didn’t last, though. It was not safe to remain in Capua. Phanes would not rest until he was found.

  There was a bitter taste in his dry mouth. What need had he to stay when Aurelia was not here? There was no point either in heading off on a wild-goose chase to find her. She was a married woman now, with a whole new life that he could never be part of. Any chance of finding Agesandros had vanished too. His best option was to return to his phalanx and his duty, and to forget them both. Try to forget them.

  Fortuna was so capricious, he thought ruefully. He had threatened Phanes and made good his escape, but in the process been denied a chance ever to see Aurelia again. He hardened his heart. Mutt was right. There was no place for women in war. From now on, his only focus would be the Carthaginian cause.

  Yet for all his resolve, Hanno felt a deep sadness as he walked away.

  Chapter XII

  North of Capua

  Aurelia regarded her own face in the bronze mirror. Her complexion was good at the moment: her face unmarked by her inner turmoil. Even her hair, which Elira was brushing, had a lustrous gloss to it. It was as if her body had decided to act in the opposite manner to the way she felt, which was isolated and miserable. There was another reason that might lie behind how well she looked, but Aurelia didn’t want to think about that. Better for the moment to wallow in her loneliness — her new and constant companion. It wasn’t surprising. Her new abode was in the countryside, in a household of slaves whom she didn’t know. Lucius’ mother had long since passed away, and his father was a crusty old man whose only interest lay in the running of his estates. Lucius, whose company she now felt wary of, was rarely present either. Family business and political dealings kept him in Capua much of the time. When he was home, he tended to spend his days with his father, or out on the farm. They slept together, but the bedroom activity tended to be physical rather than verbal. Aurelia didn’t know why this was. She suspected it was because that they were now man and wife. Other than trying to get her with child, there was no need for him to make any effort with her. Although she still didn’t love Lucius, she missed the attention he had showered upon her. It was possible that she had the power to change the way he acted towards her, but Aurelia wasn’t ready to share her secret with him yet.

  There was an occasional dry letter from her mother, which helped a little. Her father was alive; he was serving with the legions who shadowed Hannibal’s forces; there had been no further word from Quintus; the olives had been harvested, and preparations for winter on the farm were going well. There had been no sign of enemy troops in their area of Campania, which justified Atia’s decision to return home with Agesandros and the slaves. Not a word about Phanes, which she hoped meant that her mother was managing to meet his payments. The news eased Aurelia’s isolation only a fraction. If it hadn’t been for Elira, who had stayed with her after the wedding, her loneliness would have been unbearable.

  Despite sharing many confidences with the Illyrian, Aurelia had not yet let her in on her innermost thoughts either. Her eyes flickered, studying Elira’s profile behind her, brush in hand, deft strokes freeing her hair from the tangles that had formed overnight. She would have to mention it soon, she decided, or Elira would guess. She wouldn’t be able to conceal her pregnancy much longer. At first, Aurelia had been unsure. Lucius had lain with her enough times but she had somehow felt sure that his seed would not have taken root. That had been but wishful thinking. A second month had gone by without the usual bleeding and her confidence had turned to anxiety. Of recent days, her belly had begun to tighten a fraction. Some mornings, she felt a little nauseous. The last of her doubts had been dispelled. Before long, the swelling would be impossible to miss, especially when she bathed. Soon, thought Aurelia, I will have to tell Elira soon. And Lucius. Or to act. Guilt filled her that she could even contemplate such a thing, yet the thought wouldn’t go away. Aurelia didn’t wish the baby any harm; the idea kept popping up because she had not resigned herself completely to the cold reality of her life as Lucius’ wife. Thus she had not been able to stop herself eavesdropping on the kitchen slaves talking about ending unwanted pregnancies: they used rue, but Aurelia had no idea where to find such a plant, how to prepare it or even what dose to take. There were old women in back alleyways in Capua who dealt in herbs and potions, but she had no pressing reason to go to the city. Her duty was to remain here, unless Lucius took her with him. Stop it! she commanded herself. Her pregnancy had not come about through violence or mistreatment. There was no point in trying to terminate it. Apart from anything, the process was dangerous. Her mother had told her once of a slave who had bled to death after a botched attempt at abortion.

  And if she lost the baby, she would just have to get pregnant all over again. That would be Lucius’ — and everyone else’s — wish. Her purpose now was to provide his family with a male heir, and as soon as possible. Atia’s words came back to her. If she could carry a baby to term, and, even better, swiftly produce a second and a third child, her existence would become much easier. Lucius would leave her alone. Her life would be filled with the joy of raising her family. If Fortuna granted her favour, she might even find a lover, someone who thought of her not as a brood mare, but a woman. It was hard not to think that doing nothing was the best course of action. An image of Hanno came to mind, but, ruthless, Aurelia shoved it away. The bitter truth of it was that she would never see him again. Would never spend her life with him. It had to be better to accept her situation as it was. Otherwise she would condemn herself to a life of utter misery, in which the only fleeting happiness to be had was in her head — and that was the path to madness.

  It was for the best that she was expecting Lucius’ child, she decided. That was part of her job now. Slyly, she slipped a hand to her belly. A thrill of excitement — of joy — touched her. It still didn’t feel real that she could have a baby growing within her. I will carry this child to term. For all that it is Lucius’, it will be mine too. And I will love it and cherish it, boy or girl. That will be my task in life. The decision pleased her. This was an area that lay, as so much else did not, within her control.

  ‘You look happy, mistress,’ said Elira.

  Startled, she masked her expression. ‘Do I?’

  The Illyrian regarded her through the mirror. ‘Yes. I thought I saw the hint of a smile, and the gods know that you don’t do that often.’

  Aurelia scrambled for a plausible lie. ‘I like you brushing my hair. It looks good.’

  ‘You don’t normally smile when I do it.’

  ‘Well, today I am enjoying it,’ Aurelia declared in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Elira’s eyebrows arched, but she said nothing.

  Aurelia considered telling the Illyrian now, but immediately decided against it. They were in too public a place: just outside the marital bedroom, which gave on to the main courtyard. To have any chance of beautifying herself well — something she had taken to doing since her marriage — Aurelia needed daylight, hence her current position, on a stool. She had grown used to the slaves’ stares and, in time, they to her ritual. The majority now didn’t give her a second glance as they moved to and fro, performing their daily duties, but that d
idn’t mean they wouldn’t eavesdrop on her conversation. It could wait until later, when she took her usual walk with Elira to the nearby river.

  Deep in thought, she paid no heed to Statilius, the thin major domo, as he minced around the walkway from the tablinum. It was only when he gave a polite cough that she looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mistress. Your lady mother is here,’ he announced.

  Aurelia blinked. ‘My mother?’ she repeated foolishly.

  ‘That’s right, mistress,’ he said, full of self-importance. ‘She has come on a visit. I’ve already sent a slave to find the master and let him know.’ He eyed the tablinum doors, which were open. ‘I offered her refreshment, a room to change, but she refused both.’

  Still trying to take it in, Aurelia rose, gesturing Elira to stop. Atia swept into view a moment later. A body slave scurried behind her.

  ‘Mother.’ Although things had been awkward between them when last they met, Aurelia felt a rush of warmth towards Atia. She fought her urge to run. That was what a child would do. She walked instead. ‘What a surprise! What a pleasure!’

  Atia’s lips turned upwards in reflex, but her eyes remained cold as they kissed. ‘Daughter.’

  Aurelia’s stomach lurched. Something was wrong. ‘Have you had word about Father, or Quintus? Are they all right?’

  ‘I assume so. There have been no letters since I last wrote to you.’ Atia pulled her dark green woollen cloak closer around her shoulders. ‘It’s so cold out here. How can you bear to sit in just a dress?’