Fields of Blood

Chapter X

The Volturnus valley, northeast of Capua, autumn

The entrance to the valley was about half a mile wide. The forested peaks on either side formed a tunnel for the wind that scudded constantly across the Campanian plain from the sea. At the height of summer, it would have provided welcome relief from the heat, but the season had changed early. Once it got dark, temperatures dropped fast and the breeze just added to the chill. Cloaked and wearing two tunics, Quintus was grateful that he had a fire to crouch over. The blaze at which he and his comrades were warming themselves was just one of many strung across the valley’s entrance. A few hundred paces to his right, the line of light — and the valley itself — was split by the dark band of the River Volturnus, which ran down to Capua and the west coast. To be illuminated and in such an exposed position felt most uncomfortable, but that was Fabius’ precise intention. Although Quintus felt a little like a piece of iron upon the anvil just before the smith is about to strike, the dictator’s decision made perfect sense.

With the harvest taken in, and Campania stripped bare, Hannibal needed to march his army to the east once more. There were few routes out of the area, and Fabius had covered them all. Strong forces had been posted, weeks before, astride the Via Appia and the Via Latina, and at the mouths of a number of passes. Quintus was one of four thousand legionaries and velites to be posted here, in the perfect place to block one of the larger paths to the east. This, while Fabius’ main strength continued to shadow Hannibal’s army, up and down the edge of the Campanian plain, sticking to the mountain slopes and avoiding battle at all times. The two weeks Quintus had spent here had dragged beyond belief. Less than fifteen miles from Capua and a similar distance from his home, he had been unable to do a thing about it. Even a day’s leave was out of the question, and, thanks to the quadrupling of the sentries at night, desertion was downright dangerous. If truth be told, that wasn’t why Quintus had stayed. Although he’d longed to slip away for a night or two, to try and see his mother and Aurelia, a loyalty to Rutilus and Corax, and even his new comrades, had held him back. If he had missed a big battle, he would never have forgiven himself. At this stage, his loved ones had to be safe inside Capua. From the gossip Quintus had heard, the countryside was empty, abandoned. This news had given him much solace. Hannibal wasn’t about to lay siege to Capua. As long as the farm hadn’t been raided in the weeks prior, his mother and sister were fine.

Whether he and his comrades would be was another matter. Hannibal’s host was camped not two miles distant, on the plain. He had seen it with his own eyes, an immensely long column that had taken the entire afternoon to arrive. Now, a thousand pinpricks of light in the distance marked the enemy fires. Quintus’ stomach clenched at the sight of it. Would the Carthaginians attempt to break through this pass? And if so, when? Those were the questions on every man’s lips.

‘There are a lot of them, eh? At least we’re not alone. The rest of the army is close by,’ said Rutilus as he stamped in from the vantage point fifty paces to the front.

‘I know,’ muttered Quintus. ‘It doesn’t feel like it, though.’ It was hard to believe that Fabius, his four legions and an equal number of socii troops were nearer than the enemy. Their encampment was on a hill less than a mile away.

‘It certainly doesn’t.’ Rutilus spat in the direction of Hannibal’s forces.

‘They’d get here quick enough if we’re attacked,’ declared Quintus with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. ‘It takes hours to form an army up to march. Hannibal’s men are no different.’

‘So you think Fabius will actually fight?’ asked Rutilus with a snicker.

Quintus knew what his friend meant. After an entire summer of marching and training, training and marching, and chewing on the dust left by the marauding Carthaginians, most soldiers were champing at the bit to fight the invaders of their land. Trebia was a distant memory; even Trasimene didn’t seem such a terrible defeat when one considered that they had been outnumbered nearly two to one. Apart from the time spent in the field, the main reason for this newfound confidence was that Fabius and Minucius, his Master of the Horse, now led more than forty thousand men. ‘That’s more than enough strength to smash the guggas,’ soldiers said to each other daily. ‘It’s time to teach Hannibal a lesson.’ Quintus had been brooding on it too. ‘This pass is easy to defend. If the enemy begins an assault, I think he will, yes. The time is right.’

‘Ha! I’m not so sure. Old “Warty” wants to avoid confrontation no matter where we are. He’s got no taste for battle. I’d wager my left bollock that-’

‘That what, soldier?’ Corax emerged from the shadows, his eyes glinting dangerously.

‘N-nothing, sir,’ replied Rutilus.

‘Did I hear you calling Fabius “Verrucosus”?’ Corax’s voice was silky. Deadly.

‘I, er. .’ Rutilus’ gaze flickered to Quintus and back to the centurion. ‘Yes, sir. You might have done, sir.’

Corax’s response was to punch Rutilus in the solar plexus, dropping him to the ground like a sack of grain. Rutilus’ mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water. He gasped in a choking breath. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you this time,’ Corax growled. ‘But if I ever hear you insult our dictator in future, I’ll have you scourged within a pubic hair of your life. Do you understand?’

Unable to speak, Rutilus just nodded.

Corax wheeled on Quintus, who had to force himself not to flinch. ‘You’re not as much of a fool as your friend here.’

‘Sir?’ asked Quintus in confusion.

‘We’ve had our orders. If the guggas come at us, the entire army will march into battle.’ A wolfish grin. ‘No more moving out of the way.’

‘That’s great news, sir!’

‘I thought so.’ Corax threw Rutilus a baleful glare. ‘When you catch your breath, I want you back on sentry duty — for the rest of the night.’

Quintus began to relax — a fraction too soon.

‘You can go with him, Crespo. Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep.’

Quintus knew better than to protest. He glowered at Rutilus as the centurion walked away. ‘We’re going to freeze our balls off all bloody night thanks to you. Why couldn’t you just keep your big mouth shut?’

‘Sorry,’ Rutilus muttered. He didn’t grumble when Quintus told him to bring along the skin of wine that he’d been saving for a special occasion.

All the same, Quintus thought sourly, it would be a long time until dawn.

Despite the cold, it was possible for one of the pair to try to doze a little from time to time. Corax came to check on them once or twice, but by the third watch, it was clear that he’d left them to it. Quintus wasn’t sure if there was much benefit in closing his eyes and snatching a few brief moments of standing rest. He was so chilled that it was almost impossible to fall asleep. Every time he did, a gust of wind would sweep under his cloak, waking him anew. The wine helped, but it soon ran out. They traded dirty jokes for a while, but then they ran out of new material. Rutilus started droning on about Severus and how much they had in common. Quintus was still pissed off with Rutilus, though, and rudely said he wasn’t interested. He tried thinking about the warm bed in his old bedroom at home, but that made him even more grumpy. Imagining the battle that might take place the following day had a similar result. Infuriatingly, Macerio’s position was close to theirs and the blond-haired soldier spent his time making obscene gestures at Quintus or spitting in his direction. Quintus did his best to ignore the taunting, but it was hard. By the time a few hours had passed, he was in an utterly foul mood. His face and feet were numb, and so too were his lower legs, where his cloak didn’t reach. The rest of his body was a little better, but not by much. Stamping up and down was preferable to standing still. Staring at the fires to the rear didn’t just ruin his night vision, it made him feel far worse. With a fixed scowl on his face, he marched to and fro, his gaze fixed on the enemy’s camp.

The first flares of light did not register for a few heartbeats. When they did, Quintus blinked in surprise. Had a tent caught fire? It wasn’t unheard of for that to happen. The glow spread, and he knew that he had been mistaken. No blaze could spread that fast. What in Hades was going on? ‘Rutilus? Do you see that?’

‘Can’t a man take a piss in peace?’ Rutilus glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened. Swallowing a curse, he shoved himself back into his undergarment and sprinted to Quintus’ side.

‘What do you think it is?’

‘It’s soldiers, getting ready to march,’ replied Quintus as realisation dawned. ‘They’re all lighting torches at once.’ Around him, he could hear the alarmed voices of the other sentries. No one had expected this. Attacks at night were not something that the Romans undertook, so they didn’t expect them of their enemies.

‘The bastards aren’t waiting until the morning to move!’ cried Rutilus, stating the obvious. He was already a few steps away. ‘I’ll fetch Corax.’

Quintus watched with increasing nervousness as the illuminated area before the enemy camp grew in size. Thousands of men were involved, he thought. Would it be the whole of the enemy host or just a section? Was a rapid assault on their position about to be launched? That could break through. The four thousand soldiers blocking the pass were spread thinner than soft cheese on a piece of bread. If the Carthaginians moved fast, there was no possible way that Fabius and the rest of the army could reach them in time. At best, they would be swept aside; at worst, annihilated. A knot of fear twisted in Quintus’ stomach. As at Trasimene, he felt the sickening certainty that he would die. A short time later, when the torches began to move, he was almost relieved. Death, when it came, would be swift.

‘Scheming gugga dogs,’ snapped Corax.

Quintus had never been more glad to see his centurion. ‘Yes, sir. Rutilus went for you the instant we saw the lights.’

‘They’re moving already.’

Nausea roiled in Quintus’ belly, but then he saw that the line of torches wasn’t coming towards them. His head twisted, eyes searching the darkness. ‘The saddle. They are heading for the saddle, sir!’ On the far side of the peak to their right, the slope was less precipitous. Quintus had seen it as they marched into position. ‘The climb from the plain to the ridge between it and the next summit to the north isn’t difficult.’

‘Yes, I know it. From there, they’ll be hoping to pick up the trail that leads through the Apennines. So they’re trying to outflank us, eh?’ Corax laughed. ‘The fool Hannibal has misjudged the distance. If we move now, we can scale the peak near us and after that, the ridge, before his troops. Denying them the passage with a good advantage of height shouldn’t be hard. Spread the word. I want four men out of every five assembled by the riverbank and ready to march as fast as they possibly can. I’ll be back soon.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Quintus’ heart thumped against his ribs. His weariness fell away; even the cold was no longer an issue. He and Rutilus set about gathering the velites who were on duty and passing on his orders to the legionaries present. When Corax returned with Pullo and the other centurions, the soldiers were formed up in maniples. Corax gave him a tiny nod of approval before eyeing his men. ‘You’ve all seen what’s going on, boys. Hannibal thinks he’s being smart. He thinks we’re asleep! Well, his men are going to get the surprise of their miserable lives. When they reach the ridge, we will be waiting there for them. Won’t we?’

‘YES, SIR!’

‘Fabius is relying on us. Rome is relying on us to throw the guggas back. If they can’t get out of Campania, the shitbags will starve. And then we’ll have them!’

As the men around him began shouting, ‘Roma! Roma!’ Quintus remembered the talk of kicking an army in its stomach. That was all very well, he thought with a touch of bitterness, but the lands that would be laid to waste if Hannibal’s troops were denied the passage were those of Campania, his home. Thus far, the area east of the Apennines had escaped the brunt of the enemy’s depredations. There was nothing wrong with them taking their turn. Yet Quintus felt guilty for even entertaining the idea. It was time to fight, he thought, not to give in just so his home region could be spared.

‘Crespo. Rutilus.’ Corax and the other centurions called the velites’ section leaders into a quick huddle. ‘You lot can move faster than the hastati or principes. You’re to go in front. Run like the wind. I want you up there before the guggas at all costs. Give them a welcome that they won’t forget. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Quintus replied, his pulse racing. The air filled with growls of acknowledgement from the others.

‘This is your opportunity to prove that you’re not the fool I think you are,’ said Corax, glaring at Rutilus.

‘You won’t be disappointed in me, sir,’ replied Rutilus fiercely.

‘What are you waiting for?’ cried Corax. ‘Get moving!’

They hurried to their comrades. Quickly, Quintus explained what they had to do. ‘Ask Hermes for his help on the way up. It’s a broken ankle that you need to be most worried about, for now at least.’ That garnered him a few chuckles, but Quintus didn’t smile. He ignored Macerio’s sneering, scarred face too. ‘I’m serious. Watch your footing. If you fall, you will have to fend for yourself. I want every able-bodied man ready to fight the instant we reach that saddle.’ There were grim nods then, reassuring him. He glanced at Rutilus. ‘Ready?’

‘I’d have been halfway up the hill already if you hadn’t talked so much.’

‘You’re full of shit!’

‘And you love it. See you at the top.’ Clearly keen to win Corax’s favour once more, Rutilus jumped straight into the river, spears and shield in hand. His men followed.

‘We can’t let them steal a march on us!’ shouted Quintus. ‘With me!’ He sprinted after Rutilus, all thoughts but reaching the top and throwing back the Carthaginians gone from his mind. Fortunately, the Volturnus was no more than knee deep. Even so, the chill in the water struck him like a blow in the face. He scrambled across, his sandals slipping a little on the smooth stones of the bottom. And then he was up on to the opposite bank, the damp grass brushing off his legs.

They ran at full speed across the flattest portion of the valley floor. It wasn’t long before they caught up with Rutilus and his men. Insults were thrown about who could sprint the fastest, and despite his nerves, Quintus grinned. The badinage was a good sign that morale was high. As the incline began to rise, the grass was replaced by small trees, bushes and rocks. The ascent became a matter of scrambling over boulders and shoving through thick scrub. An orange-yellow harvest moon hung low in the sky, while overhead countless stars glittered.

Moving slowly would still have posed some risk, but their urgency meant that it was impossible to avoid harm. Curses rang out as toes were stubbed and flesh ripped open by thorns. Now and again, Quintus heard the impact of a body hitting the ground. It was difficult to see who had fallen but there was no time to stop and help. He had to trust that the unlucky men would only be lightly injured. Every spear would count at the ridge.

By the time he reached the peak, Quintus was vaguely aware of a bruised shin and a long, bleeding graze on one arm. To his left and right, the panting shapes of men emerged one after another. All his attention, however, was on the mass of enemy soldiers ascending from the plain. ‘Jupiter’s cock, they have moved fast,’ he swore.

Rutilus materialised by his side. ‘It will be a push to get to the saddle before them.’

‘We can do it, damn it!’ A glance back down the slope and Quintus’ unease lessened. The dark shapes of the legionaries were only a couple of hundred paces below them. The fight would just have started by the time they arrived. ‘Come on, lads,’ he cried, moving before his fear took a greater hold. Rutilus was more than equal to the challenge and took the lead once more. Quintus was determined not to be left behind. Neck and neck, they barged down the slope, trusting that their comrades were following. Afterwards, he would wish that he had checked. They were perhaps halfway down when someone gave him a tremendous shove in the back. He stumbled forward and his vision spun as he lost control. He saw stars, Rutilus’ back, burning torches and then the ground. His head slammed against a rock and Quintus knew no more.

He came to with someone slapping his face. Blinding pain was radiating from a spot above his left eye, and Quintus groaned.

‘He’s alive.’

‘Can you get up?’ The voice was low and urgent.

‘I think so.’ Strong arms raised him to his feet. Quintus was grateful that they didn’t let go of him at once. His knees shook from the effort of standing upright. It was odd, but he thought he could hear the bellowing of cattle.

‘You’re lucky that one of the lads saw you,’ said a burly hastatus. ‘What the hell happened? Did you trip?’

Macerio. It must’ve been he who pushed him, thought Quintus fuzzily. His wits were scrambled, but he knew better than to accuse a fellow soldier of something he had no way of proving. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Can you fight?’

He raised a trembling hand to his head, gingerly feeling where it hurt. His fingers came away sticky with blood. Quintus wiped them on his tunic. ‘Of course I can,’ he said. He looked down; confusion filled him. Then the bellowing he’d heard made sense. Hundreds and hundreds of cattle were stampeding across the saddle. A weird light flared from their heads.

‘Clever, eh?’ snarled the hastatus. ‘They’ve got torches tied to their horns. From a distance, each beast looks like two men.’

Quintus goggled. Around the sides of the herd darted the enemy: men armed with spears and little else. Other figures, which had to be Roman, were being massed at the bottom of the slope while others, the velites probably, hurled javelins at the Carthaginians. ‘It’s a trick, to get us out of the pass,’ he said stupidly. ‘Why didn’t we see it?’

‘Your lot did,’ replied the hastatus grimly. ‘They started shouting, but we couldn’t hear. The centurions kept us moving. At the top, we were packed like salted fish in a barrel. Even when we got the order that most men were to return to the river, it took an age to turn everyone around. That was when the second enemy unit hit us with a volley of javelins and slingshots. There was complete chaos.’ A bitter laugh. ‘They knew we’d charge for the saddle like a bunch of excited children.’

‘What’s happening now?’ asked Quintus as dread filled him.

‘There’s fighting on two fronts: here and on the other side of the peak. Meanwhile, Hannibal’s entire fucking host is marching through the pass under arms. Even if we do succeed in crossing the river again, it will be too late.’

‘That was his plan all along,’ muttered Quintus.

‘I’ll give that gugga bastard one thing,’ admitted the hastatus. ‘He’s damn clever.’

‘His luck will run out one day.’ Quintus tried to ignore his relief that Campania would be spared further pillaging. ‘Fabius will finish him.’

‘Aye, or Minucius, more likely,’ retorted the hastatus.

Rutilus wasn’t alone in thinking that Fabius was too cautious, thought Quintus. He, on the other hand, favoured Fabius, not least because Flaccus had been an arrogant fool. Hanno worried that Minucius was cut from the same cloth. ‘One of them will get lucky in the end,’ he said diplomatically.

‘Gods willing. Best go and lend a hand, eh?’ The hastatus punched him on the arm. ‘Take your time down the slope. You’re probably still seeing stars. One javelin more or less isn’t going to change the outcome.’ With a cynical laugh, he and his companion moved off.

Grateful for the respite, Quintus sat on a large boulder. His head was still killing him. The fighting below looked to be growing more vicious. The cattle continued to stream by. Was there no end to Hannibal’s tricks? he wondered. It appeared not. Yet this was no Trebia, no Trasimene. There would be some casualties, but not many thousands. This had not been a defeat, merely a case of being outmanoeuvred. It was a sting to Rome’s pride, not a blow to its vitals.

Far below, a man with blond hair lobbed a spear at the enemy. It was Macerio. I need to watch my back better from now on, thought Quintus soberly. Fortuna must have been smiling on him earlier. Macerio probably thought that the fall had killed him, or perhaps someone else had come upon the scene, preventing his enemy from finishing the job. Either way, it had been a lucky escape. Soon after, this truth was brought home to him even harder. On his way down to the saddle, he came across Rutilus’ body. That was upsetting enough, but the fact that his friend’s mortal wound was in his back made Quintus’ blood boil with rage. It would not be a coward’s injury; Rutilus was no lily-liver. The chances of an enemy striking such a blow were slim to none. Wounds in honourable combat tended to be on a soldier’s front, or side. No, it was far more likely that Macerio had turned on Rutilus after pushing him down the slope. It was a cowardly act that would be impossible to prove. Where is the devious bastard? Unsure that he was strong enough to fight but desperate for revenge, Quintus scanned the area. In the confusion of battle, there was no sign of the blond-haired man.

He forced himself to calm down. His best tactic would be to pretend nothing had happened, to lull Macerio into thinking that he had got away with it. Next time, though, he would be ready. And it would be Macerio who ended up dead, not him.

North of Capua

Dawn had come. Aurelia could tell. She had been lying awake for hours — if she had slept at all — and through her closed eyelids the light had been increasing for some time. Still she refused to open her eyes. By doing so, she would be forced to acknowledge that this was her wedding day. Lying rigid on the bed, taking only shallow breaths and thinking of everything but the celebrations to come, she could continue the pretence that she and Lucius were not to be husband and wife by the day’s end. That she would never see Hanno again. The thought of him brought tears to her eyes once more. Before his unexpected arrival on the night at the farm, she had been gradually reconciling herself to the idea of wedding Lucius. Since seeing Hanno it had been impossible. Her every waking moment, and many of those when she was asleep, had been consumed by passionate thoughts of him. The preparations for the wedding: being fitted for her bridal dress, ordering the orange veil that she would wear, deciding whom should be invited, had passed her by in a blur. Any time that she was forced to concentrate and things had seemed more real, Aurelia had told herself she was preparing to marry not Lucius, but Hanno. Yesterday, however, her efforts at denying what was happening had begun to unravel at last. Accompanied by her mother, Martialis and a party of slaves, she had travelled north of Capua to the house of one of Lucius’ relations. Because of the risk of marauding Carthaginian soldiers, it had been deemed too dangerous to hold the wedding at her family home as tradition dictated. Instead, it would take place in this villa, a house that she had never set foot in until the previous day. All night long, Aurelia had tried to deny the truth of what would happen in the coming hours. But the pretence was coming to an end. She tried to curse Hanno for appearing in her life, for opening her heart to feelings of love, but she couldn’t. May the gods protect you, wherever you are, she prayed.

‘Mistress?’ Elira was outside the door. ‘Are you awake?’

And so it begins, thought Aurelia wearily. ‘Yes. Come in.’

The door opened and Elira slipped inside, smiling. ‘Did you sleep well?’

Aurelia wondered whether to lie, but before she could speak, the Illyrian had seen her mood.

‘Melito is a good man. A kind man. He will give you many children.’

There was no point trying to explain. ‘I know,’ replied Aurelia, forcing a smile of her own.

They both started as the unmistakable sound of a pig squealing carried from outside the house. It was customary to slaughter a pig early on a wedding day so that the entrails might be read by a soothsayer.

‘Let us hope that the omens are favourable,’ said Elira.

Aurelia found herself murmuring in agreement. For all her misgivings, she did not want to add bad luck to the impending proceedings. She eyed her old dress, lying over a stool, and a few of her childhood toys, brought with her from Capua just so she could ritually set them aside the day before. From this moment, she would never wear a girl’s dress again. She would don a bridal tunic; later she would become a woman — in the truest sense. Her cheeks flushed at the thought.

‘Your mother will be here soon to help with getting you dressed. She says to start by dressing your hair.’ Almost shyly, Elira raised the iron spear head in her right hand.

‘Very well.’ Aurelia threw back the covers and swung her legs on to the floor. ‘There is more light in the courtyard,’ she said, picking up another stool.

The moment that they were seen, the two began to attract attention. By the time that Elira began using the spear head to separate Aurelia’s hair into the traditional six plaits, a handful of slaves had gathered to watch. Their approving smiles and murmurs of appreciation did nothing to improve Aurelia’s mood, but she did not frown or throw disapproving looks. This would be a long day, but she was determined to maintain her family’s honour throughout. After the way she had contributed to her parents’ problems, it was the least she could do. Marrying Lucius was the only way that the threat of Phanes could be kept at bay.

Aurelia was standing just outside the open doors of the tablinum. She was alone apart from Elira. This was it, she thought, her guts churning. There was no going back now. Apart from Lucius, who would be last to arrive, everyone else was waiting for her in the atrium.

‘It’s time,’ whispered Elira.

Aurelia’s head turned. Through her flammeum, or veil, Elira was orange. Her whole world was orange. It was most disconcerting, even more than her simple, white wedding dress, saffron-coloured cloak and sandals. Her fingers rose to touch the knot of Hercules that tied the girdle just beneath her breasts — it could only be undone by her husband — and she fought the urge to weep. It felt like a waking nightmare.

‘Mistress.’ Elira’s voice was urgent.

Freeing her traitorous limbs by sheer strength of will, she began to move forward. The scent of marjoram from the wreath at her brow was strong in Aurelia’s nostrils. It was one of her favourite smells, and she inhaled deeply, trying to take strength from it. Into the tablinum, across the black and white chequered mosaic, past the pool that collected rainwater from the hole in the roof. By the wooden partition that separated the room in which she stood from the atrium, she paused. Her heart was beating like that of a bird in her breast, faster than she could count. Nothing she did made any difference. Get on with it, she thought. Prolonging the agony will make it worse.

Inside the atrium, her mother and Martialis waited with the priest and eight other witnesses. As she entered, Aurelia heard their murmurs of approval. Her appearance at least was satisfactory. Trying to move gracefully, she walked to stand before the priest, the most senior from the temple of Jupiter in Capua. A stern-looking man with a narrow face and little hair, he gave her a tight nod. Atia and Martialis stood to his right; the others, to his left. Aurelia’s eyes moved to her mother’s face, which bore a pleased expression. She looked away, holding in the anger that bubbled up in response. Martialis gave her a kindly smile. Apart from Lucius’ father, she didn’t know the eight further witnesses. She supposed that they were friends and relations. Gods, but she wished that her father and Quintus could have been among them, if not to stop the proceedings, then at least to give her moral support.

They didn’t have to wait long for Lucius to appear from the other entrance to the atrium. He was dressed in a new white toga and garlanded with flowers. He looked very handsome, Aurelia had to admit. Even so, she couldn’t help imagining Hanno in his place. Accompanying Lucius were more relations and a band of his friends. She trembled as he reached her side. It was a relief when the priest began to speak at once. He thanked the gods for the favourable auspices seen in the entrails of the sacrificial pig, welcomed everyone present to the marriage ceremony, offered gratitude to Lucius’ father and the shades of the family’s dead ancestors. A few words about marriage, children and a few more about Lucius. None about her, other than to mention she was of good stock. Aurelia fought her bitterness. By becoming Lucius’ wife and the woman who would bear his heirs, thus continuing his bloodline, she was also helping her family.

‘Repeat after me the sacred words,’ intoned the priest.

So soon? Aurelia wanted to scream.

‘As long as you are Aurelia, I am Lucius,’ said the priest.

Lucius echoed the words in a strong, clear voice.

The priest’s gaze moved to her. ‘As long as you are Lucius, I am Aurelia.’

Her eyes flickered to the side. Lucius was watching her. So was everyone in the room. Her breath caught in her throat; the muscles in her legs trembled. Somehow, she regained control. ‘As long as you are Lucius, I am Aurelia.’

‘To symbolise this union, witnessed by the gods, the couple’s hands must be joined by a married woman, who will represent the goddess Juno,’ declared the priest. This was Atia’s moment. She glided forward to stand before Aurelia and Lucius, who turned to face each other. Taking both of their right hands, Atia brought them together. Aurelia steeled herself as Lucius’ fingers gripped hers; she glared at her mother through her flammeum. I’m doing this for you and Father, she shouted silently. If she saw, Atia gave no sign. Wordlessly, she withdrew.

The remainder of the ceremony passed by as if in a dream. Aurelia walked forward to the temporary altar that had been set up by the household lararium; sat with Lucius on a pair of stools that had been covered with one sheepskin; watched as the priest made an old-fashioned offering of spelt cake at the altar. She paced around the dais, holding hands with Lucius, and repeated the blessing spoken by the priest; heard the applause as they were declared married; listened, numb, as, one by one, the guests offered their congratulations. She barely touched a morsel at the feast afterwards; she had no appetite. Only when Lucius encouraged her did she try some of the suckling pig, and the baked fish that had been especially shipped in from the coast.

‘It’s delicious, eh?’

They were almost the first words Lucius had said to her. To be fair, there had been no chance to talk, but that had suited her. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Have some more.’ He skewered a large piece of pork with his knife and deposited it on her plate.

‘Thank you.’ Aurelia felt boorish that she didn’t have more to say to him, but nothing sprang to mind. And the lump of greasy meat made her stomach turn. She was grateful when Lucius’ father, on a nearby couch, called his name and drew him into conversation. Toying with her food, she tried not to think of the night to come. No matter how hard she tried, however, her thoughts kept returning to what would happen, inevitably, after they had made the short journey to Lucius’ family’s house and retired to the bridal bed. Her mother’s lecture, delivered the previous day, returned to haunt her. Aurelia hadn’t been at all prepared for the graphic nature of it, particularly coming from her mother. During her childhood, she’d seen enough farm animals mating to know how the physical aspects of intercourse worked, but the concept of having to lie there while Lucius did the same to her was revolting and horrifying. ‘Won’t it hurt?’ she’d asked. Atia’s face had softened; she had patted Aurelia’s hand. ‘At first, a little, maybe. Lucius is not like many men, though. He will be gentle with you, I am sure of it.’

She shot a quick glance at her husband. The wine he’d drunk lent a warm flush to his cheeks. Alcohol made some men more aggressive, but there was no sign of that with Lucius. If anything, he seemed more jovial than ever.

‘In time, you may even come to enjoy it,’ Atia had gone on. The memory made Aurelia blush for the second time — simultaneously angry and embarrassed. As if that were possible! She would hate every moment of it, would endure it because that was her duty. There would be no pleasure involved; with luck, it would not take long. Despite the pork she’d just tried, there was a new, bitter taste in her mouth. It was easy for her mother to talk in this manner: she had been blessed in marriage, for she had wed Aurelia’s father not by formal arrangement, but in a love match that had been disapproved of by both their families. Maybe I should have run off with Hanno, Aurelia reflected, left my old life behind to make a new one with him. The fantasy lasted no more than a few heartbeats. Her conscience would not be silent. And leave Phanes to beggar your parents? it asked. A knot of emotion closed her throat. She could not have lived with herself if that had happened. It was partly her fault anyway. If she hadn’t been discovered eavesdropping that day, her mother might have kept up with the payments to the unscrupulous moneylender. Stop it, she thought. The whole argument is futile. If Lucius hadn’t come along, another suitable husband would have been found. It was so unfair!

There was one consolation, if it could be called that. According to her mother, if she became pregnant, Lucius would not try to have sexual relations with her. Nor would he while she was breastfeeding a baby. ‘As you’re unhappy about this match, it’s all the more reason to get with child. Once you have provided him with at least one son, but preferably two or even three, he will leave you alone, should that be your wish.’ Aurelia could scarcely imagine giving birth once, let alone multiple times. It was not something that she’d dreamed about, as she knew other girls did. If given the choice, riding horses and training with a sword — both activities prohibited to women — were preferable to her than the drudgery of rearing children. But it would be best to forget that Quintus had ever taught her to do either. She would never do them again. Nor would she roam through the woods with him and Hanno.

‘Once you have had three children, no one could complain if you discreetly took a lover. But not before then,’ Atia had warned. Hanno might have been a lover, thought Aurelia with regret, if only he weren’t one of the enemy. According to everyone, the Carthaginians — she refused to call them guggas — were absolute savages. Aurelia only knew Hanno, and he certainly wasn’t like that. Nor had Suni been. She doubted their families were either. Quintus was about the only person who might understand her feelings for Hanno — to all intents and purposes, he and Hanno had been friends — but she doubted if even her brother could bring himself to approve. For the rest of her days, it would have to remain her dark secret.

Aurelia realised with a start that Lucius’ father had been speaking for some time. He expressed regret that her father and brother could not be present, offered his respects to Atia and Martialis, who was standing in for Fabricius, and gave thanks to the gods for the auspicious omens pronounced by the priests that day. Aurelia’s mouth went dry as he turned with a wink to Lucius. ‘And so the highlight of the ceremony is nearly upon us.’

‘Stand up.’ Atia was right by her. Aurelia did as she was told. Her mother had explained what would happen, but her heart still began to race once more. Atia’s embrace had never been more welcome as Lucius stood up and said in a loud voice, ‘I am here to claim my wife.’

There was an immediate, loud chorus of cheers, catcalls and sexual innuendoes from the other guests.

‘You will not take her,’ declared Atia.

Aurelia wished with all her heart that that were true, but it was all part of the ritual.

Lucius rose from the couch and took hold of Aurelia’s hand. ‘She is my wife, and I claim her.’

The hooting and crude references to the night’s activities grew even louder. Lucius began to pull Aurelia away. The reality of her situation sank in fully and she clung to her mother with her free hand like a child who didn’t want to go to its lessons. Lucius looked puzzled, and then annoyed. He tugged harder, but Aurelia resisted.

‘Let go!’ hissed Atia in her ear. ‘You will disgrace yourself and our family.’

Aurelia’s resistance crumbled and she allowed Lucius to drag her away. Her mother wailed theatrically at the ‘parting’, and the guests, who hadn’t noticed a thing, roared with approval. She let him lead her through the atrium to the front door, where slaves waited with burning torches to accompany them outside. There, two small boys were waiting. The first darted to her side and took her left hand. As tradition dictated, he was the son of two living parents, Lucius’ sister and her husband. The second child held a torch and a hawthorn branch; he would walk before them on the road to Lucius’ house, which lay about a mile away. The couple waited as the guests spilled out into the night air around them. A pair of musicians with flutes appeared and began to play rousing tunes. Aurelia tried to ignore the barrage of lewd jokes and songs, but it was impossible. They continued to be shouted and sung as the procession set off. She might not have cared if she’d drunk some wine, but custom dictated that women should not drink much, if at all.

‘You look beautiful.’

Lucius’ voice startled her, even more so because he had paid her the compliment. Typically, he did not do so, at least in public. ‘T-thank you.’

The cacophony made it easy to journey the rest of the way in silence.

At Lucius’ house, Aurelia anointed the doorposts with oil and animal fat, and tied woollen threads to each side of them. Lucius carried her over the threshold to much applause and they walked to the atrium. The guests followed in a loud, drunken gaggle. There he gave her the formal gifts of a beaker of water and a burning lamp, which welcomed her into his home. Using the torch borne by the boy who’d led the procession, they together lit the twigs which lay ready in the fireplace, symbolising their new life together. Without further ado, they continued to the bridal chamber, one of the bedrooms, which sat off the courtyard and had been specially prepared for this occasion. A large bed dominated the room, numerous lights hung from an ornate bronze stand. In a corner sat an ugly statue of the ancient fertility god, Mutunus Tutunus, with his massive phallus. More suggestive comments filled the air. Lucius’ lips twitched, but Aurelia eyed it with dread, grateful that the old practice of new brides having to lower themselves on to the stone member had long since been discontinued. She allowed her mother to divest her of the flammeum and her shoes, flushed red at her ceremonial advice and watched with relief as Atia and the other guests withdrew. Lucius closed the door behind them.

Of course the moment that they were alone, her mental anguish grew even greater. Aurelia didn’t know which way to look — at the bed, the statue of the priapic god, or Lucius. She shuffled her bare feet and gazed at the floor, too scared even to move. When Lucius touched her arm, she jumped. Unwillingly, she lifted her eyes to his. His expression was gentle, which almost made her disquiet worse.

‘Sit on the bed,’ he said in a kind voice.

She obeyed. He stooped to untie the knot beneath her breasts. Aurelia watched as if she were someone else. His hands went to the hem of her tunic, and she blurted, ‘Shouldn’t I pray first?’ Atia had drilled into her how things had to proceed.

He stood back and smiled. ‘If you wish. I for one have had a bellyful of prayers for today.’

Partly to conceal her shock, partly to delay the inevitable, she closed her eyes and asked Juno, the guardian of maidens, and Cincia, the goddess to whom the loosening of the knot was consecrated, for their blessings and their help in the hours to come. All too soon, she had finished. Lucius gave her an enquiring look, and Aurelia found herself nodding. She was too weary to fight.

Rather than undressing her, he surprised Aurelia by next taking off his toga. He was attractive, she had to admit. His muscles were as sculpted as those of an athlete and he had a belly like a race hound. Clad in just his licium, he approached again. ‘You have the advantage on me now,’ he said softly. ‘Stand up.’

‘Yes, husband.’ She tried not to tremble as he lifted the hem of her tunic up and over her head. It fell to the floor unnoticed as he slipped down her undergarment. Aurelia was mortified. She had not been naked in front of a man since well before her monthly bleeds had started. With an effort, she did not cover herself. His eyes drank in her body, and she did her best not to recoil when he reached out and touched a breast. Under his licium, she could see him swelling.

‘Get into bed,’ he said.

Relief for a moment as she escaped his touch. Sliding under the covers, she watched him extinguish the lights one by one. Blackness coated the room when he’d finished, but there was no comfort in it — as there might have been if she had been alone. Aurelia heard him move to the other side of the bed and undress. Her anxiety reached new levels. If the build-up to the ceremony and the event itself had been hard to take, this was torture. As he got in, she slid herself to the furthest edge of the bed and turned her back to him. When he reached out and touched her shoulder, she flinched.

His hand stayed where it was. ‘We’re married now.’

‘I know,’ she said miserably.

‘Wife, I know that you married me only because of your parents’ insistence.’

Guilt flayed at her. He deserves better than me, she thought. ‘I-’ she began.

‘Don’t lie.’ For the first time, his voice was harsh.

A long-drawn-out pause. Feeling even worse that he had seen through her, Aurelia tried to think of something to say. ‘You are a good man, Lucius,’ she whispered eventually.

‘And you are a kind and beautiful young woman. I hope that you can learn to be happy. Marriage is about begetting children and running a household, but it doesn’t have to be entirely miserable. Or so my father says.’

What would he know? Aurelia thought furiously. Yet when he moved closer, sliding his naked body against hers, she did nothing. His chest was warm and soft, in stark contrast to his stiffness, which pushed against her buttocks. It was all she could do not to jump up from the bed, screaming. She didn’t move. This was the final part of the test. It had to be endured, for her family’s sake. As Lucius fumbled down below, she thought of Hanno, which helped a little. The first thrust inside her was shocking, however. It hurt, because she was dry, but Aurelia didn’t say a word. She bit her lip instead. Lucius moved to and fro, easing himself deeper, letting out small sounds of pleasure. Aurelia’s pain grew a little worse, but it was bearable. The feeling of him inside her was far harder to accept. Be brave, she thought. Quintus has to risk his life in battle, has to slide his spear into other men’s flesh. I only have to do this.

Lucius reached around to squeeze her breast, shoved harder a few times and let out a strangled cry. His body juddered and relaxed; he pulled away from her. She felt his stiffness diminishing, and then it was out of her. At once she felt a sticky sensation between her thighs. It would be his seed and her blood, mixed. Aurelia felt a long, slow breath escape her chest. Was it relief, or satisfaction that the act had been done? She wasn’t sure. Lucius moved away from her without a word and she brought her knees up to her chest, as a baby would. A bath would have felt like heaven, but she knew that was out of the question on this of all nights. Silence cloaked the two of them, their bed, the room, like a heavy weight. At least the gods have been appeased, Aurelia thought. The marriage had been consummated.

It was as if that was enough for Lucius, whose only further words to her were a sleepy, ‘Good night, wife.’ Soon he was snoring.

The same was not true of Aurelia. She lay wide awake, staring into the blackness. Let his seed have taken hold, she prayed. Although she had no desire to have a child, pregnancy would protect her from more of what had just taken place — at least until that child had been weaned. If that didn’t happen, she would have to submit to Lucius as often as he wished. Never had Aurelia felt so helpless. A sob escaped her. She managed to swallow the next but then another one came, and another. It was too much for her. The tears that had been threatening all day began to flow at last. They poured out of her in a great tide of sorrow, soaking her pillow and the sheet below. She did her best to cry quietly, but after a while she no longer cared if Lucius heard. Maybe it would make him sorry that he’d touched her. If he saw how upset she was, maybe he wouldn’t touch her again. Aurelia even rolled over to lie beside her husband, to see if her weeping would wake him. All he did, however, was to roll over and snort as he settled in a new position.

At this, Aurelia’s desolation knew no bounds. Hanno, she thought. Hanno.

Many hours passed before sleep overtook her.