‘We see G-anny?’
Aurelia smiled. As ever, Publius’ reedy voice mangled the word ‘Granny’. Her mother hated it. No matter how many times Aurelia told her that he would eventually learn to say it, Atia had to correct him. She gazed down at him fondly, squeezing his hand. ‘Yes, dear. We’ll see Granny soon. It’s not far now.’
It was mid-morning, one of the safest times of day to be out in Rome, and this part of the Palatine was a respectable area. That didn’t stop Aurelia’s grey eyes from roving the crowded street, searching for trouble. The brutal attack she’d suffered in Capua before Publius’ birth, two and a half years prior, had left a lasting scar. Elira, her Illyrian slave, padded at her back — company and a buffer to criminals at the same time. Agesandros was walking a step or two ahead of her. Aurelia had been mistrustful, even fearful, of her father’s Sicilian overseer since the death of Hanno’s friend Suni, but on the capital’s filthy streets, she was glad of his presence.
It wasn’t that odd that he was also here. When they had first had to abandon their farm, and then to leave Capua itself, Agesandros had been left with no real role. He’d been with the family for many years, however. Almost by default, he had become a servant cum bodyguard for Aurelia’s mother, Atia. During the chaotic, terrible weeks after Cannae, when it became clear that Fabricius would not be coming home, he had become indispensable to Atia. Nowadays, with mother and daughter living in Rome, he barely left Atia’s side. Aurelia, who resided at her husband Lucius’ house nearby, could not protest to her still-grieving mother about that. It wasn’t as if she had to see him every day, and at times like this, he provided security.
Aurelia studied Agesandros as he walked. He was as bandy-legged and wiry as he had been all her life. The only discernible sign of ageing was the patch of silver hair above each ear. The cudgel in his right hand dangled nonchalantly, but Aurelia knew how fast Agesandros could spin it through the air. There would be a dagger secreted about his person too, of that she had no doubt. Nearing fifty, he was still an intimidating, ruthless presence. Men tended to get out of his way, which made their journey much easier. It struck her again that he was moving faster than he would usually, yet her son was growing heavy in her arms. ‘Agesandros, stop. I need to rest for a moment.’
His head turned. Aurelia thought she caught a twitch of impatience in his lips, but it had gone so fast she couldn’t be sure. ‘Of course. Over here.’ He gestured to their left. A few steps away, customers were sitting on stools at the counter of an open-fronted restaurant.
The smell of frying sausages and garlic hit Aurelia’s nostrils as she set down Publius with a relieved sigh. She wasn’t the only one to notice. ‘Sau-sage?’ her son piped. ‘Sau-sage?’
‘Not now, dear,’ said Aurelia. Spotting Agesandros’ foot tapping, irritation took her. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘Eh?’ His face was a blank.
‘You seem impatient. Are we in any danger?’
His eyes flickered over the passers-by, came back to her. ‘No.’
Since he had slain Suni before her very eyes, Aurelia had feared Agesandros. She was still capable of interrogating him. ‘Something’s going on. What is it?’
His mask dropped for an instant; Aurelia saw the fear in his eyes.
She didn’t like it one little bit. Since Cannae, their life had achieved some kind of stability. True, she didn’t see her husband much, and Quintus and his best friend Gaius not at all, but Publius kept her busy. Life trundled by without daily trauma. No one dear to her had been hurt, or died. ‘Agesandros. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘It’s your mother,’ he said reluctantly. ‘She’s not well.’
‘I saw her a week ago,’ protested Aurelia. There had been mention of a few nights’ poor sleep, and that she had lost a little weight, but what woman complained about that? The first was the norm, and the second was always to be desired. ‘She was fine then.’
‘Sau-sage, Mama,’ said Publius, scuttling away from her towards the counter. ‘Sau-sage!’
Darting in pursuit of her son, Aurelia missed Agesandros’ reply. She retrieved a grinning Publius, who had been handed half a sausage by the jovial woman serving at the counter, and returned. ‘Well?’
He wouldn’t look at her. ‘She’s been vomiting a lot. Complaining of a pain in her belly.’
‘Something she ate, surely?’
‘I doubt it. I’ve eaten everything she has, and I am fine.’ He glanced up the street. ‘Can we go?’
Aurelia scooped up Publius and followed Agesandros. She’d seen the look in Elira’s eyes when he’d mentioned eating Atia’s food, so it wasn’t just her who had imagined the worst. ‘Is Mother worried about being poisoned?’ People’s heads turned at the mention of the word ‘poison’, but she didn’t care.
‘Not at all. It’s a coincidence that we had shared the same dishes.’
Not the food then. Her mother only ever drank water from a spring, so it wasn’t that either, Aurelia decided. ‘Has a surgeon attended her?’
‘This morning. His visit is the reason that I came to fetch you.’
Real worry began to gnaw at her. ‘Why? What did he discover?’ Agesandros didn’t answer, and Aurelia increased her stride to catch up with him. Publius bounced up and down, gurgling with delight at what he thought was a race. ‘Agesandros. What did he say?’
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 her 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.’
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.
On the fourth day, Atia woke again, appearing a little stronger. It was stupid to feel encouraged, yet Aurelia couldn’t help herself. They had a short conversation — about, of all things, Atia’s own childhood in Capua — before her mother asked to see Publius. ‘I want to talk to him one last time,’ she said. Aurelia trembled with emotion while her son was in the room, but the gravity of the situation was lost on him. Like any very small child, Publius had no real concept of death. After he’d kissed Atia farewell, he was happy enough to be led from the room by Elira with the promise of a honey cake. ‘Bye, G-anny,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Bless him,’ whispered Atia, closing her eyes. ‘He’s a good boy. I will miss him. And you.’
‘You will be sorely missed.’ Aurelia kissed her mother on the forehead.
Atia didn’t really speak again. It was as if her mother had saved up the last of her energy to say goodbye, thought Aurelia as the tears rolled down her cheeks.
Not long after sunset, Atia stirred a little under her blankets. Aurelia, who had been dozing on a stool alongside the bed, woke at once. She caressed away the straggles of wispy hair that had moved over her mother’s face, and murmured what she hoped were reassuring words.
Atia muttered ‘Fabricius’ twice. She took a deep breath.
Aurelia’s heart caught in her chest. Even after the last few days, she wasn’t ready for the end.
Her mother let out a long, slow exhalation.
Aurelia had no idea if it was the last breath, but she bent and touched her lips to her mother’s anyway. If at all possible, the soul had to be caught as it left the body. She sat, her back rigid, watching Atia’s chest to see if it moved again. It didn’t. She’s gone. Aurelia placed a hand on her mother’s ribs, under her left breast. The heartbeat she felt was irregular, and slowing fast. When she wet a finger and placed it beneath Atia’s nostrils, she felt no movement of air.
Aurelia placed her hands in her lap and regarded the body that had been her mother. It was done. Just like that, Atia was gone. It didn’t seem real. The sound of Publius’ voice, carrying in from the courtyard, and Elira’s tones, replying: they were real. But this wasn’t. It was a horrible dream, from which she would wake at any moment.
Except she didn’t. The harsh reality sank home some time later when Elira came in to let her know that Publius had gone for his nap. Aurelia looked again. Her mother still lay unmoving on the bed before her. The waxen sheen of death had begun to appear on her skin. There was no denying it now.
Elira came a little further into the room and saw Atia. She gasped. ‘Is she — is she gone?’
‘Yes,’ murmured Aurelia, leaning forward to close her mother’s eyelids.
Elira let out a little sob. ‘She was a good mistress. Always fair. May the gods look after her.’
‘I’ll need help to lay her on the floor, and to anoint her. She must be cremated in her finest dress,’ Aurelia heard herself saying in a monotone. Elira threw her a concerned look, but she didn’t acknowledge it. The only way that she was going to get through this was to remain completely matter of fact. She could grieve later, when it was all done. ‘Then we must lay her on a table in the atrium, and place a coin in her mouth. Word must be sent to the family’s friends in Rome, and arrangements made for the funeral.’
‘Yes, mistress,’ replied Elira, respect filling her eyes.
‘Fetch Agesandros to me. Bring oils, and clean cloths, and the dress my mother used to wear to banquets.’
Elira scuttled from the room.
When she had gone, leaving Aurelia with her mother’s corpse, her mask slipped a little. The tears began to flow again. Her marriage to Lucius had separated her from Atia, but the space between them had never been more than the distance between their two houses. In its place there loomed a chasm that could never be bridged. Why did it have to be now, with the war keeping Quintus away? Aurelia railed silently. Her mother had been fit and well for her entire life. She could have expected to live for another five to ten years.
The quiet knock helped Aurelia to regain control. She wiped the tears from her face. ‘Come.’
Agesandros slipped inside. His dark eyes drank in Atia’s body, and his lips thinned. ‘She is dead then. Although it was a release for her, I am sorry for your loss.’
Aurelia inclined her head in recognition. ‘I want you to go to the Forum and the markets. Find the stonemason whom she spoke with first. A tomb needs to be built.’
‘And the plot that it will be built on?’
‘I will see to that. There are lawyers who act for the vendors of such land. You must also find musicians and actors for the funeral. Some of the household slaves can be pallbearers.’
‘They will be honoured. I will act as one too, should you permit it.’
How could she deny him that? ‘Very well.’
‘My thanks.’
‘Mother spoke highly of you before the end.’
Agesandros looked pleased. ‘I have always done my best, first for your father, and afterwards, your mother.’
It felt bizarre to be having this conversation over Atia’s body, but Aurelia felt he should know. ‘You are to be rewarded for that service with manumission, and not only that, but discharge from any duties to this family. It was one of my mother’s last commands.’
Wonder, and then joy, flared in his eyes. He approached the bed, lifted Atia’s hand and kissed it with great respect before replacing it on the covers. When he straightened, he was very close to Aurelia. It took all of her self-control not to retreat. ‘You will be glad to see me gone,’ he said.
Despite her fear, she met his gaze. ‘I will. We both know why. Suni was no threat to our family.’
‘I disagreed, and so did your mother,’ he said emotionlessly. Then, ‘If the paperwork can be drawn up in time, I will depart after the funeral.’
You’re not free yet, she thought angrily, but she didn’t possess the energy for an argument. ‘That can be arranged. You’ll travel to Sicily?’
‘If I can find a ship to take me, yes.’
‘It will be dangerous there, with the war.’
‘Good. I intend to take service with the legions, in whatever role they will have me.’
Her temper flared up. ‘The Carthaginians whom you encounter will be innocent of the murder of your family.’
His anger rose to meet hers. ‘I don’t care! They’re all gugga dogs, who need killing.’
Aurelia recoiled from his fury. She thought of Hanno, whom Agesandros had hated, and tried not to feel scared for him. He was serving on the mainland. Even if he ever came to Sicily, there was no chance of him and Agesandros meeting. That didn’t stop her from toying with the idea — for a guilty moment — of refusing to grant the Sicilian his freedom. Yet her mother’s wish, made on her deathbed, could not be denied. Aurelia had no desire to court more divine misfortune. Rallying her courage, she said, ‘That is your opinion, and that of a slave. To me, they are just our enemies. They need to be defeated, but not annihilated.’
The walk from the city behind the slaves carrying her mother had taken an age. Aurelia had hated every dragging moment of it. The slow pace. The actors wailing at the front; the musicians playing solemn dirges. Atia’s body, rocked gently from side to side by the motion of the litter. The disinterested, even annoyed looks from pedestrians on the packed streets. Once out on the Via Appia, it had been only a little easier. They had had to negotiate their way past hordes of travellers and files of carts and wagons bound for the capital. Their arrival at the newly constructed brick tomb, some two miles from the city walls, had been a welcome relief, but the screams of the pig, as it was sacrificed in honour of the goddess Ceres, had not. Nor had the falsely eulogistic words of the priest she’d hired for the occasion. In a daze, Aurelia had watched the placing of her mother’s body on the pyre that sat alongside the vault. Her grief had come bubbling up then and she’d been grateful for Tempsanus’ fleshy hand on her arm, and for his support when she’d had to step forward with the burning torch and set the timbers alight. It had been the right decision to leave Publius behind. The protest had been there in Elira’s eyes when Aurelia had ordered her to look after him, but she hadn’t argued. Regardless of what others might say about children attending funerals, thought Aurelia, seeing a human body burn was not something that a two-and-a-half-year-old should witness.
Thank all the gods that the wind was blowing away from them. Despite that, the stench of burning human flesh hung in the air, trapped perhaps by the towering cypresses that stood around. Even when the pig had been butchered and set to cook on another fire, the normally welcoming smell of roasting pork had not helped. Nonetheless, she had eaten some of the meat. It was part of the ritual. Somehow, she had prevented herself from bringing it back up again, had accepted the condolences of the dozen or so mourners, who had mostly been aged relations. A number of hours had passed since then. Few people remained. Tempsanus, bless him, had stayed by her the entire time. She was grateful for that. He hadn’t tried to talk to her; his mere presence had helped. At last the smell from the pyre was waning. There would be little left now of her mother but bones and ash. Aurelia stirred; offered up a last prayer. The slaves would tend the fire until her mother’s remains could be removed and placed in a funerary urn. She could return the following day to oversee their interment in the plain tomb alongside. That would be difficult, she knew, but for the moment her ordeal was almost over.
Or so she thought.
Initially, she paid no attention to the clatter of hooves from the nearby road. The Via Appia was the busiest thoroughfare in the land; scores of horsemen had ridden past them that day. It was when a horse and rider cantered off the road, towards the pyre, that she felt the first stirrings of alarm in her belly. All eyes focused on the newcomer, a young man in a dusty tunic. He looked exhausted, but there was nothing wrong with his voice. ‘I seek Aurelia, wife of Lucius Vibius Melito,’ he called out. ‘I was told to seek her here, among the tombs.’
The attention reverted to Aurelia. She took a deep breath and stepped forward. ‘I am she.’
The rider dismounted and threw the reins to a slave. He approached Aurelia, delving into the leather satchel that hung from a cord over one shoulder. ‘I beg your pardon for disturbing you at this time, my lady.’
She waved a hand in dismissal. The fashion of his arrival had driven all thoughts of her mother from her mind. ‘What is it?’ she asked, fighting real anxiety.
‘I bring news, from Rhegium.’
Instead of the normal elation she would have felt at this news, Aurelia felt dread. What was going on?
‘Have you ought for me?’ Tempsanus interrupted. ‘I am Melito’s business partner.’
Relief blossomed on the rider’s face. ‘Yes, sir. I have a note for you as well.’
Aurelia advanced a couple of steps. ‘Could you not find our house — Melito’s house?’
‘I found it, mistress, but I was charged with delivering the note into your hands and no one else’s.’
So the messenger had ridden past them, into the city, and back out again to where they stood now. From the corner of her eye, she could see Tempsanus frowning. Despite the pyre’s heat, cold sweat began running down Aurelia’s back. ‘Is everything all right? Is my husband well?’
The messenger would not meet her gaze. Silently, he proffered the letter.
Aurelia closed her eyes. Let me be imagining this, she prayed. But when she looked up again, the parchment was still there in front of her. With a trembling hand, she took it.
‘Shall I read it for you?’ The concern was clear in Tempsanus’ voice.
‘No.’ Cracking the seal, she unrolled it. Dimly, she heard Tempsanus demanding his note. After that, her attention was locked on the neat script that covered the page.
‘From the hand of Caius Licinius Stolo, agent of Lucius Vibius Melito and Julius Tempsanus in Rhegium-’
It wasn’t from Lucius. Aurelia’s fear reached new heights.
‘I send greetings to Aurelia, wife of Melito.’
Her eyes sped on, skimming the pleasantries. The words ‘watching the loading of a ship’, ‘iron ingots’ and ‘a rope snapped’ leaped out at her. Full of fear now, she read on. Stolo wrote that her husband had been gravely injured. The surgeon had diagnosed a shattered pelvis, multiple cracked ribs, two broken legs and a fractured arm, but it was Melito’s head injury that was giving rise to the most concern. ‘In the hours since the accident, he has rarely been conscious. When he does awake, it seems that he has no idea who he is, or where he is.’ Aurelia felt sick; she struggled to finish reading the letter. It closed with an attempt at reassurance, telling her that no efforts were being spared with regard to Melito’s care. She was to remain calm; to pray, especially to Aesculapius, and to wait for more news.
Aurelia took a moment to rally her strength before pinning the messenger with her eyes. ‘Did my husband yet live when you left?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘How many days ago was that?’
‘Four. The message would have been sent by ship, but the weather was too severe.’
It was then that Aurelia took in the lines of exhaustion on his face, the dirt that was ingrained in every patch of exposed skin. The man must have ridden like a demon, and changed horses many times. She would have to reward him well, she thought absently. Four days. For someone with such severe injuries, it was a lifetime ago. Aurelia’s eyes moved to Tempsanus. She saw the same awareness there. ‘He could already be dead,’ she said, her tone flat.
‘Let us not think like that, my lady,’ he urged. ‘Lucius is a young man; he’s at the peak of his physical strength. It will take time, and the help of the gods, but he may yet recover.’
Aurelia nodded, trying to believe him. Inside, however, she was terrified that Lucius was as dead as her mother. She felt an overwhelming need to hold Publius, to feel his breath warm her cheek, to know that he at least was still with her. It was also obvious what else she had to do.
‘I shall set out for Ostia in the morning, and there take ship for Rhegium,’ she heard Tempsanus’ voice saying. ‘The Bark of Isis was launched last week, so the winds should be with us.’
‘I want to travel with you,’ said Aurelia.
Tempsanus gaped. Regaining his composure, a fatherly, knowing expression crept across his face. ‘I cannot countenance that, my lady. You must celebrate the sacred feast for your mother in nine days. Besides, your husband would not approve of you leaving Rome.’
‘I need to be by his side.’
‘Your devotion is to be admired, my lady, but the sea journey is too perilous. Bad weather sinks many vessels. Syracusan and even Carthaginian vessels can be found in the waters off Rhegium. It’s no voyage for a woman of your station to undertake.’
Aurelia began to object once more, but Tempsanus was having none of it. ‘Your grief is clouding your judgement, my lady. It is time for you to return home, to your son. You need rest and sleep. I will call on you in the morning, before I leave.’
Aurelia didn’t have the strength to argue. ‘Very well,’ she whispered.
‘Mama, Mama!’ cried Publius the instant that Aurelia emerged from the lararium and into the courtyard. He was playing by the central fountain, with Elira in watchful attendance nearby.
Aurelia had seen him briefly upon her return from the funeral, but had left him since in the care of Elira. She needed time to try and absorb her mother’s death and the news about Lucius. On this occasion, however, there was to be no escape. Publius scampered over, his arms outstretched. She stooped to pick him up, grateful that his innocence would not see through her false smile. ‘Hello, my darling.’
‘Come and play,’ he ordered.
She gave in. ‘What are we to do?’
‘Splashing in the water.’ It was one of his favourite games.
The simple pleasure that Publius took in playing by the edge of the fountain, and the endless repetition of what he demanded she do — flicking water over his hands and arms, and occasionally a few drops on his face — took up all of Aurelia’s attention. It was a relief not to think about her mother, about Lucius, about anything other than amusing her son.
The approach of the doorman a short while later was an unwelcome distraction. A strapping Thracian bought by Lucius upon their arrival in Rome, he lingered unhappily on the edge of her vision, not quite prepared to intervene on the domestic scene. Eventually, Aurelia could ignore him no longer. ‘Publius, quiet for a moment. Who is at the door?’ she demanded. ‘Another itinerant soothsayer who wants to peddle his lies? Someone purporting to sell the finest perfumes in Rome?’
‘No, mistress,’ he mumbled.
‘Who then?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘In that case, send him away!’ she snapped.
‘He’s i-insistent.’ He stumbled over the word. ‘He asks to speak with you, mistress. Aurelia, daughter of Gaius Fabricius.’
Aurelia’s head spun to regard him. In Rome, few people indeed knew her father’s name. ‘What else?’
A helpless shrug. ‘Nothing, mistress.’
There was no point interrogating the Thracian further. ‘Let the man in. Search him for weapons, and bring him to me.’
‘Mistress.’ The Thracian was already backing away.
‘Time to play with Elira again, my sweet. Go and find her. I will be back soon.’ She planted a kiss on Publius’ head and walked into the tablinum. There she would find some privacy.
She paced to and fro, wondering who was this visitor with knowledge of her family. With a sudden dart of fear, she thought of Phanes, the moneylender her mother had talked about. Before Cannae, he had made their lives a misery. She dismissed the idea. He wouldn’t have the balls to come here. Nevertheless, Aurelia was relieved to see that the man following the Thracian was not Phanes. He had the same dark complexion, but his black hair was tight and curly, not in oiled ringlets. Aurelia didn’t recognise him. Composing herself, she took up a position by the lararium, asking the household gods to watch over her.
The Thracian stopped a few paces from her. ‘He had a knife, mistress, but he gave it up easy enough. Nothing else on him, apart from a purse.’
Aurelia nodded her approval. ‘Remain here.’
The Thracian stepped to one side, allowing the visitor to approach. He bowed courteously. ‘Have I the honour of addressing Aurelia, daughter of Gaius Fabricius?’
‘And wife of Lucius Vibius Melito. You do, yes. Who are you?’
He looked up, revealing deep blue, wary eyes. ‘My name is Timoleon. I am an Athenian merchant.’
‘I know no Athenian merchants. Perhaps you have come to see my husband? He is not here-’
‘I am here to see you, my lady. I bring you a message.’
Aurelia felt a familiar flutter of fear in her belly. This could not be more bad news from Rhegium. Could it? ‘From whom?’
‘A friend.’ He cast a sideways glance at the Thracian.
Aurelia understood. ‘Return to the atrium,’ she ordered. The Thracian looked unhappy. ‘You’ve got his knife, haven’t you?’ she cried. ‘If I need you, I will call out. Go!’
With a final glare at Timoleon, he shuffled off.
‘Approach,’ Aurelia directed.
Timoleon drew near. ‘Thank you, my lady. My real name is Bomilcar.’ He paused. ‘It’s Carthaginian.’
Aurelia’s throat tightened. ‘Hanno sent you?’ she whispered.
‘I am here on … other business, but Hanno asked me to seek you out if I could.’
‘D-does he not think that I am still in Capua?’ she stammered.
A slight upturn of his lips. ‘With the city gone over to Hannibal? He knows that you and your family will always remain true to Rome.’
She felt her cheeks grow warm, and not just because Hanno had guessed where her loyalties lay. She thought of their embrace, the kisses that they had shared on the night of their chance encounter. ‘How did you find me then? How could you know where I had gone?’
‘I didn’t. My mission was to come to Rome, and while I was here, I made some enquiries. As you might imagine in a city of this size, they came to nothing. I gave up eventually. Two nights ago, however, I fell into conversation with a group of stonemasons who were drinking at my inn. One of them happened to mention that he’d been commissioned to erect a tomb to a lady named Atia, the wife of a man called Gaius Fabricius. He didn’t know much more, but I gambled that there wouldn’t be too many individuals by that name in Rome. It was easy enough to persuade him to tell me where your mother lived. A bronze coin placed in the hand of a slave there gave me your name and address, and here I am.’
‘You are a resourceful man.’ As Bomilcar smiled in recognition, Aurelia gave thanks for his persistence. ‘Is Hanno well?’
‘He is. Hale and hearty. He commands a phalanx of Libyan spearmen. Hannibal favours him too.’
Even the mention of Rome’s worst enemy and his soldiers, who had laid waste to half of the Republic, could not stop a creeping joy stealing over her. Hanno was alive and in good health! The gods had not abandoned her completely. ‘What message did he give you?’
‘He asked me to tell you that he thinks of you often. Often.’ Bomilcar let those words sink in before adding, ‘He said, “Tell her that with the gods’ help, we will see each other again one day.”’
Aurelia felt her knees grow weak. ‘I hope so. One day,’ she murmured.
Bomilcar smiled. ‘May my gods and yours see that it happens. Now, with your permission, I must go.’
Aurelia had to stop herself from crying out: ‘No!’ She longed to ask Bomilcar more, to get him to tell her everything about Hanno, yet she held her peace. Bomilcar was an enemy spy, in the heart of enemy territory. ‘You have risked much to come here. I offer you my heartfelt thanks, and the blessings of this household. Go in peace, and may your return journey be swift and safe.’
He gave her a grateful nod.
‘Can you take Hanno a message from me?’
His face grew sorrowful. ‘Alas, my lady, I cannot.’
‘Why?’
‘I am not at liberty to say.’
‘I swear, upon my mother’s grave, that I will not tell a soul,’ she beseeched.
A wary look, a sigh. ‘Hanno has gone to Syracuse.’
‘On Sicily?’ Her heart leaped. Rhegium was close to the island, where Quintus was. Now Hanno would be there too.
‘That is already too much information. I cannot tell you any more.’
‘Very well. Thank you,’ she said, bowing her head.
‘Farewell.’
When she looked up, Bomilcar was gone. An aching hole opened in Aurelia’s heart, and she longed to run after him. The encounter had been too brief, yet to delay Hanno’s friend would endanger his life. Receiving a message from Hanno out of the blue was enough good fortune, she told herself, and it gave her even more reason to go to Rhegium, to Lucius’ side. Aurelia felt only a little guilt. There was no chance of seeing Hanno or Quintus — how could there be? — but it would be comforting to be so close to them, even if it was for but a short while. No one else would know her underlying purpose; to all intents and purposes, her journey would look like that made by a devoted wife.
The main obstacle in her way was Tempsanus, but Aurelia had a feeling that she knew how to get around him.
‘You can say what you wish,’ said Aurelia, the next morning. ‘You are going to delay leaving until the feast in honour of my mother has been held in eight days’ time. Then I’ll be coming with you. So will my son, my body slave and my father’s old overseer, who has just been manumitted.’
‘The delay-’ he began.
‘Is acceptable.’ It was what she’d told herself repeatedly. Aurelia was not prepared to leave her mother’s funeral unfinished. ‘The day and hour of our arrival will not influence Lucius’ recovery. Only the gods can do that.’
Tempsanus sighed, looking apologetic. ‘I am sorry, my lady, but I will not allow it.’
Aurelia was ready. ‘Nothing in life is as important as those whom we care for,’ she said passionately. ‘I am not from Rome. What have I here? Other than my son and a few slaves, nothing! If you will not take me, I shall find my own way to my husband’s side.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I will go to Ostia and find a ship that’s sailing south.’
‘No captain will take you!’
‘For the right money, anything can be bought,’ Aurelia retorted. ‘Someone will be willing to afford us passage.’
‘You can’t do that,’ said Tempsanus, with genuine alarm. ‘For all you know, they might plan to steal your money, or sell you as slaves! Worse, perhaps.’
‘The gods will protect us,’ Aurelia declared breezily.
‘No. You cannot do this, my lady. As much as anything, Lucius would never forgive me.’
‘It’s none of your concern, Tempsanus. You are to leave today, is that not so? Once you’ve left, I will follow on behind. You can’t stop me.’ She gave him her most determined stare.
There was a short pause before resignation began to set into Tempsanus’ eyes and Aurelia knew that she had won.
‘Very well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘May Fortuna watch over us.’
‘And let Lucius still be alive when we reach Rhegium.’ He would recover faster with her there to care for him, she thought, and while he did, she could dream of seeing her brother again.
And Hanno.