Fields of Blood

Chapter V

Outside Placentia

Quintus scowled as he caught sight of his father approaching. A lot had happened in the month since his hunting trip, but one thing had been constant: Fabricius’ towering anger at what he had done. It hadn’t been as evident during the week he’d spent in the camp hospital, having his wound cleaned and monitored, and poultices applied to it twice a day. Once the surgeon had discharged Quintus, however, things had changed. Fabricius had subjected him to a long lecture about his stupidity. Leaving the camp without permission. Taking so few men with him. Attacking the Gauls instead of trying to avoid them. He had gone on and on until Quintus thought his head would explode. He’d tried to justify his actions, tried to explain how their casualties had been light compared to those suffered by the warriors. It had been like banging his head on a wall. As his father, Fabricius could say and do what he wished. It was even permissible for the head of a Roman family to strike his children dead if they displeased him. That wasn’t likely, but Fabricius swore that Quintus was to return home the moment he’d sufficiently recovered. His father had also declared that, if needs be, he had enough friends in high places to ensure that Quintus didn’t serve in the military again. That didn’t bear thinking about.

The worst thing about his convalescence was that he couldn’t train with Calatinus and his comrades, or go on patrol, during these, the last opportunities he would have for a long time, possibly ever. His ribs had healed and the strength was returning to his left arm, but Quintus still couldn’t hold a shield for long. He spent a couple of hours every day riding his horse, but his interest in that had palled long since. Fabricius kept him busy running errands around the camp, but that felt demeaning. Quintus had taken to avoiding his father. He would lurk in his tent after his comrades had left for the morning, playing endless games of Three in a Line on Calatinus’ small clay board. In between, he’d lift his shield to strengthen his left arm. Of course Fabricius knew where to find him, which was no doubt why he was here now. Quintus thought about retreating further into the tent, but there was no point. He threw his shoulders back and stepped outside instead. ‘Father.’

‘I find you here, again.’

Quintus gave a careless shrug. ‘I was lifting weights with my arm.’

Fabricius’ lips thinned. ‘You were supposed to come to my quarters first thing.’

‘I forgot.’

Slap! Fabricius’ palm struck his cheek, and Quintus yelped.

‘You’re not too big yet for me to take a whip to your back. Is that what you want?’

‘Do what you wish,’ said Quintus with a curl of his lip. ‘I can’t stop you.’

Fury flared in Fabricius’ eyes. ‘Lucky for you, I need an important message taken somewhere. Otherwise, I would tan your hide right now!’

Quintus felt a sour delight at his father’s frustration. He waited.

Fabricius produced a tightly rolled parchment. ‘You’re to find a centurion by the name of Marcus Junius Corax. He serves in Longus’ first legion, and commands a maniple of hastati.’

‘What does it say?’ Fabricius rarely told him anything, but Quintus was curious. Cavalry and infantry didn’t often have much to do with each other.

‘None of your business!’ snapped Fabricius. ‘Just deliver the damn message.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Biting his lip, Quintus took the parchment.

‘Wait for a reply, and then find me on the open ground beyond the camp.’ Fabricius was already half a dozen paces away.

Quintus threw a poisonous stare after him. Upon his return, he’d have to traipse around after Fabricius, acting as his unofficial messenger for the rest of the day. He rubbed at the purple scar on the front of his bicep, willing it to recover. It was time for another offering to Aesculapius, the god of healing. He could do that this evening. Donning his cloak, Quintus set out for the legionaries’ tent lines. Taking his horse didn’t appeal; holding the reins quickly tired out his weak arm.

Despite the losses at the Trebia, the camp had still been erected as a double consular one, albeit smaller than usual. The fact that Corax was in one of Longus’ legions meant a long walk indeed. The consuls’ quarters were placed back to back and the legionary tent lines extended to the furthest rampart.

Quintus’ spirits rose a little as he walked. His interest in legionaries and what made them the men they were had persisted, but he never got to spend any time with them. Cavalrymen were a social class above infantry, and the two rarely mixed. Quintus longed to push through that barrier, if only for a while. He wanted to know what it had felt like to drive through the Carthaginian centre. Perhaps Corax wouldn’t give him an immediate reply, which would give him time to talk to some of his men.

His search took a long time, but Quintus finally came upon Corax’s maniple’s tent lines. They lay not far from Longus’ headquarters, but the centurion wasn’t there. As a cynical-looking hastatus told him, Corax liked to get out and about. He was drilling his men, ‘Somewhere on the training ground.’ Trying not to feel frustrated, Quintus headed for the porta praetoria, the entrance that lay furthest from his own tent.

Beyond the walls and the deep defensive ditch lay the area designated for the soldiers’ training. As usual, it was filled with thousands of men. The four types of legionary were for the most part easy to differentiate one from another, which made Quintus’ task a little easier. Many of the velites, or skirmishers, had been on sentry duty at each of the gates, but the rest were hurling javelins while junior officers looked on. These were the youngest and poorest members of the army. Some could be distinguished by the strips of wolf skin adorning their helmets. In another section, the triarii, the most experienced legionaries who formed the third rank in battle, stood out thanks to their mail shirts and long thrusting spears. The hastati and principes, who made up the first and second ranks respectively, were harder to differentiate. Both these types of soldier wore simple bronze helmets, although some had triple feather crests; square breastplates protected their chests. Only the wealthiest men wore mail shirts similar to those seen on the veteran triarii. Their weapons and shields were similar too. There were thousands of them marching, halting, presenting arms and assuming battle formation in maniples, or double centuries. Volleys of javelins followed, and then a charge, before the whole procedure was repeated. Centurions and optiones looked on, roaring orders and reprimands in equal measure. The maniples’ standards were present, but the writing on each was so small that Quintus would have to approach each one. With a sigh, he walked to the nearest.

By the tenth maniple, he was getting angry. From the occasional snickers that followed him, Quintus felt sure that he was deliberately being sent astray. The eleventh unit he approached was some distance from the rest. The two centurions had separated their soldiers into their individual centuries. Each man carried a wooden shield and sword. Over and over, they charged each other, slowing at the last moment before smashing together in a loud crash that wasn’t dissimilar to what Quintus had heard in battle. The thrusts he saw being delivered were as savage as the real thing too. It was so very different to fighting from the back of a horse, which, thanks to its mobile nature, rarely involved more than an exchange of one or two blows. Engrossed by the scene, Quintus drew quite near to the centurions without realising.

‘It’s tough work,’ said a voice.

Quintus looked around, startled. One of the centurions, a man in early middle age with deep-set eyes and a narrow face, was staring straight at him. ‘It looks it, sir.’

‘You’re here on business.’ He pointed at the parchment in Quintus’ fist.

‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to be taken as the spoilt son of a cavalry officer. He adopted a rougher accent than his usual one. ‘Have you any idea where I’d find Marcus Junius Corax, centurion of hastati in Longus’ First Legion?’

A sardonic smile. ‘Look no further. Why do you want me?’

‘This, sir.’ Quintus hurried forward. ‘It’s from Gaius Fabricius, cavalry commander.’

‘I’ve heard of him.’ Taking the parchment, Corax slit the wax seal and unrolled it. His lips moved silently as he read. ‘Interesting,’ he said after a moment.

Quintus didn’t hear. All his attention was on the nearest hastati, who were striving to knock one another over with great shoves of their scuta.

‘It’s filthy, dirty work,’ said Corax. ‘Not like the glory stuff the cavalry boys get to take part in.’

‘There isn’t too much glory being in the cavalry these days,’ Quintus replied bitterly.

‘No, I don’t suppose there is. I’ve heard good things about Fabricius, though.’

‘I’m sure you have, sir.’ Quintus failed to keep all the sarcasm from his voice.

He was relieved when Corax didn’t comment.

‘When does he want a reply?’

‘He just told me to wait, sir.’

‘Fine. I won’t be long.’ Corax barked an order, and his men pulled apart, their chests heaving. He stalked over to them and issued new orders. This time, his soldiers formed into two lines and began trotting up and down, at speed.

Quintus watched, fascinated. This was fitness training as he’d never seen it. The wooden training equipment was twice as heavy as the real thing, and soon the hastati were sweating heavily. That was when Corax had them sprint back and forth ten times. His father never had his men train this hard, thought Quintus critically. Just because they rode horses didn’t mean that it wasn’t a good idea. He wondered again what it would be like to fight on foot, surrounded by dozens of comrades. Would it feel better than being a cavalryman?

‘You’re interested.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ever thought of joining the infantry?’

Quintus struggled for an answer. His assumed accent, simple cloak and plain tunic had made Corax think he was nothing more than Fabricius’ servant. ‘As it happens, I have, sir.’

‘Well, we need velites as much as any type of soldier.’

Quintus tried to look pleased. His fantasy had been that of becoming a heavy infantryman, but Corax’s words had put a madcap plan into his head. For it ever to have any chance of becoming reality, he had to continue the charade. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your master might not be too happy, but we’d be pleased to have you. If you make it through the initial training, of course. Some officers don’t bother making the new recruits do too much, but not me.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’d be honoured.’ Would I? Quintus wondered. He’d heard it said before that the velites were the dregs at the bottom of the amphora. Yet joining their number would be better than the shame of being sent home. Of never serving in the army again.

‘Don’t be honoured. Give some serious thought to it. Rome needs men like you in its legions. After a year or two’s service, you could be promoted. Become a hastatus.’

Excitement gripped Quintus at that idea, but a twinge from his left arm put paid to any sudden decisions. Even if he were to start training with the velites, his injury would soon be discovered. Explaining away a wound that had been caused by an arrow would be nigh-on impossible. Besides, he needed time to consider his options. ‘I’ll think about it, sir.’

Corax studied him for a moment, but then his optio shouted a question and he was gone.

Yet by the time that Corax had scribbled a reply at the bottom of Fabricius’ message, Quintus’ mind was racing. With his father’s threats to send him home about to be realised, what better way was there of remaining in the army? Moving to another cavalry unit wouldn’t work — Fabricius certainly wouldn’t allow that, and every officer knew who he was anyway. But this, this might work. If he fought well, he’d be promoted to serve as a hastatus. It seemed a good plan, and Quintus’ stride was light as he made his way back to the cavalry lines. All he needed to implement it was for his left arm to regain its strength.

A few hours later, he wasn’t so sure. Calatinus’ initial reaction had been one of disbelief. ‘Your father won’t send you home, surely!’ he had cried. But when he’d seen that Quintus was convinced that that would happen, he had done his best to dissuade him from the idea of enlisting in the infantry. Quintus’ identity would be revealed in no time; thanks to his accent, his new comrades would never accept him; that was without considering the high casualty rates suffered by the velites in battle. (‘Remember the number of men we lost at the Trebia?’ Quintus had protested.) Yet it was Calatinus’ final shot which had hit home the hardest. ‘What about me?’ he’d asked. ‘You would leave me with no friends. Don’t do that to me, please.’

‘All right,’ Quintus had muttered, trying not to think of his father. ‘I’ll stay.’

Inside, however, he wasn’t sure how long he could stick it.

Etruria, spring

Feeling a tickle, Hanno brushed at the scar on his neck for the hundredth time. The flesh where the brand had burned him had healed, but for some reason, it attracted flies like a fresh cowpat. He swatted the air in frustration. ‘Piss off!’

‘There aren’t that many flies around, sir,’ said Mutt in a mild tone. ‘Count yourself lucky it’s not later in the year.’

‘They say the air is black with them then,’ added Sapho.

Hanno threw them both an irritable look, but they were right. He’d seen the midsummer clouds of midges over the marshy ground near Quintus’ home, knew what it was like to have every visible piece of flesh covered in bites. It was easy to find something else to be irritated about, however. There was a loud sucking sound as he pulled his left foot out of the calf-deep mud and tried to find a drier spot to step on to next. He failed. ‘This place is a hellhole,’ Hanno grumbled.

‘That it is, sir. And you’re going to find the way out of it, aren’t you?’

Hanno wondered if he was being mocked, but Mutt’s dirty face was as serene as a baby’s. ‘Yes. I am. Me, or Sapho here.’ His brother grinned at him. Not for the first time, Hanno wondered if his offer to Hannibal had been rash. A day earlier, he had gone to his general and asked to lead a reconnaissance party, his purpose to find a more rapid way through the marshes in which the army found itself. To his surprise and pleasure, Sapho had offered to come with him, ‘as moral support’, he’d put it.

Hanno had been grateful when Hannibal had acceded to his request. ‘One more set of scouts won’t do any harm. If anyone can find a way, you can. Being the lucky one that you are, eh?’ he’d growled, wiping at the reddish fluid that ran from under the bandage over his right eye. Despite being pleased at the praise, Hanno had had to force himself not to look away. Men said that Hannibal was going to go blind, that they were going to lose as many soldiers as they had during the crossing of the Alps. Hanno came down hard on anyone he heard spreading the rumours. Hannibal had brought his army over the Alps, in winter. His general would find a way through this, with or without him, Hanno had told himself. Yet here, in this godforsaken wilderness, without Hannibal, he didn’t feel quite so certain.

‘Maybe the army should have taken a different path,’ he muttered.

‘It’s not as simple as that,’ retorted Sapho.

Hanno sighed. ‘I know. There was little else we could do without a fight.’ With the arrival of spring, word had come that Gaius Flaminius, one of the new consuls, had moved his legions to Arretium, in the Apennines. Hannibal’s response was to avoid Flaminius by crossing the floodplain of the River Arnus, which ran westwards to the sea through the heart of Etruria.

‘It’s been difficult, but the ploy has worked,’ said Sapho. ‘There’s been no sign of Roman troops for several days.’

‘Course not! Why would they even think of marching in here?’ Hanno gestured angrily at the water all around them.

‘It will soon be over,’ declared Sapho jovially.

Hanno let out an irritable grunt by way of reply. Things had been getting steadily worse since they had entered the delta. Thanks to heavy spring rains, the Arnus was running a lot higher than normal. With much of the land covered in water, often the only method of finding a way through was to choose a path and start walking. This proved hazardous in the extreme, with scores of men drowning in deep pools, or being swept away by powerful, unseen currents. The pack animals were no less susceptible. Some panicked and swam away from their handlers to a certain death. Others sank to their bellies in the mire and could not be extricated. The more fortunate of these beasts were slaughtered, but many were just stripped of everything that could be carried and abandoned. As things deteriorated, the same had happened to men. A careless step off the path taken by those in front could be fatal. Trapped in glutinous mud up to their chests or chins, the trapped soldiers had begged to be saved. At first, men tried to help their comrades but as lives were lost in repeated unsuccessful attempts, they gave up. Hanno’s phalanx had been lucky to lose only three men. The unit Bomilcar had been assigned to had had many times that number of casualties. Unwilling to leave his soldiers to suffocate in the mud, Hanno had ended their suffering himself with a bow.

The Gauls had been most badly affected by the savage conditions. After a number had deserted, Hannibal had ordered the undisciplined warriors into the middle of the column. The Iberian and Libyan infantry had taken the van, while the heavy cavalry made up the rear. The Numidian horsemen under Mago, Hannibal’s brother, had prevented any escape on the flanks. The move had prevented mass desertion, thought Hanno bleakly, but it had not stopped men’s spirits from being sucked ever downwards, like the poor bastards who’d suffocated in the mud. He had been grateful for Bostar’s and his father’s ability to remain steadfast in the face of difficulty. Even Sapho had been a help, making macabre jokes about the worst things he’d seen. Yet despite his family’s support, the horror had continued.

The temperatures had risen just enough for any fresh provisions to rot, meaning hunger became a new enemy. Stocks of water and wine had run low, forcing men to drink from the river. Inevitably, many who did so went down with vomiting and diarrhoea. Most were able to continue the march but some became too weak to go on. Like the trapped mules, they were left behind. Night-time, a usual source of respite, had been no better. Conditions had been so damp that fires had proved impossible to light. Cold, ravenous and with nowhere dry to lie down, soldiers had tried to sleep on top of their equipment. Hanno had even seen men dozing on the corpses of dead mules.

Going to Hannibal hadn’t just been about regaining his general’s approval, therefore. Anything had to be better than trudging through a mire without end, in a world that consisted of only sky and water. Hanno hadn’t been surprised when almost every spearman in his phalanx had volunteered to go with him. In the end, he’d taken twenty of the strongest soldiers. He would have preferred to leave Mutt in charge, but the dour officer would not be left behind. ‘I lost you once before, and I’m not having it happen again,’ he’d muttered. ‘And I owe you one.’

Hanno glanced at Mutt again, deciding that his comment a moment before had been genuine, not sardonic. During a clash with a Roman patrol before reaching Victumulae, he had saved his second-in-command’s life. He hadn’t done it to ensure Mutt’s loyalty, but the fact that that had been one of the results felt good. Hanno determined to live up to Mutt’s devotion. He had to prove himself to Sapho too.

They had left the column behind at dawn, taking only their spears, some water and food. Hanno judged that it was now some time after midday. They’d been gone for more than five hours and, in that time, hadn’t found any dry ground that persisted for more than a few score paces. Everywhere he looked, there was still endless water. Grateful that the clouds had parted, Hanno checked the position of the sun. At least he could use that to maintain a rough course to the south. They would keep moving in that direction and, with the gods’ help, find a path that the army could take.

He trudged on, each step feeling more difficult than the last.

Time passed, and the sun fell towards the western horizon. The midges continued to focus on Hanno’s neck. The scar ached, his belly grumbled and his throat was parched. The clods of mud on his feet grew so heavy that he was forced to stop and scrape them off from time to time. He didn’t know why he bothered. The relief granted lasted on average all of twenty steps before the operation needed to be repeated. Hanno began to think that a fight against a Roman force far stronger than his own would be preferable. Anything to stop the torment.

His gaze roamed from left to right, taking in the usual clumps of rushes. Beyond them, far away, a line of trees. And something else. ‘What’s that?’

‘What, sir?’ Using his spear as a crutch, Mutt squelched to his side.

‘That.’ Hanno pointed slightly off to their left.

Mutt squinted for a moment, and then his dour expression cracked. ‘It’s a small boat, sir.’

‘By all the gods, so it is,’ said Sapho.

Hanno fought his excitement. They’d seen hardly a soul since entering the floodplain. It wasn’t surprising that the local inhabitants had fled, but it had meant there had been no chance to hire guides. ‘It’ll be someone fishing.’

‘Could be, sir,’ said Mutt.

‘What shall we do?’ asked Sapho, making no attempt to take charge.

‘If they see twenty of us, they’ll vanish.’

‘You’re not going on your own, sir,’ said Mutt at once.

‘I’ll come,’ offered Sapho.

Hanno’s lips tugged into a smile. ‘You’re like two old women. But I suppose I’d better not go alone, or I’ll never hear the end of it.’

Even though there was precious little dry ground to sit on, the spearmen were content at the idea of a break. Ordering them to keep out of sight, Hanno set off with Sapho. They left their helmets and shields behind, taking just their spears. A peasant would be terrified by the sight of soldiers — any soldiers — so Hanno wanted to pose as little threat as possible.

They crept along quietly. Hanno was so busy watching the boat through the breaks in the rushes and shrubby bushes that he paid less heed to where he was going than before. Suddenly, the ground underfoot vanished. He lurched forward into a deep pool, remembering somehow not to cry out, for fear of alerting their quarry. As the water closed over his head, Hanno struck out with one arm, trying to right himself. The other arm was useless to swim with thanks to his spear, yet he instinctively clung on to it. He reached down with tiptoes, trying to find the bottom.

After what felt like eternity, he felt something solid. Relief turned to horror as his right sandal sank deep into mud. His arms splashed the surface as he struggled to free it. He thrashed about with his other leg, but it made no difference. Water sloshed into Hanno’s open mouth, and he began to cough, in the process swallowing some more. It was difficult to keep his chin above the surface. His eyes were blurred, full of water. Panic tore at him. I could easily drown here, he thought. His head spun frantically, looking for Sapho. If he reached out with his spear, his brother might be able to drag him out.

It might have been Hanno’s imagination, but as he focused on Sapho’s face, he could have sworn it bore a curious, satisfied look, like that on a cat’s when it has trapped a mouse. Hanno blinked, and it was gone. ‘Help!’ he hissed. ‘My foot is stuck in the mud.’

‘I thought you were enjoying a swim.’

It was an odd time to make a joke, thought Hanno. He was so desperate, however, that the thought vanished. ‘Can you reach this?’ He shoved his spear in Sapho’s direction.

Using his own weapon to probe for secure footing, Sapho moved a few steps towards him. Before long, he was able to grab the spear’s tip. ‘Hold on!’

Hanno had rarely felt so relieved as he did when he felt his sandal suck free of the mud at the bottom. Drowning was not the way he wanted to die. The damp soggy ground beneath his feet felt wonderful. ‘Thanks.’

‘Anything for a brother. You all right?’

‘Just wet, but that’s nothing new.’

Sapho clapped him on the shoulder, and they moved on, using their spears to assess the water’s depth with even more care than before. Fortunately, the ground became a little drier for some distance, allowing them to close in on the boat. At about two hundred paces, Hanno reckoned that its occupant hadn’t been disturbed by the noise of his immersion. The craft had not moved at all. The figure within was busy leaning over the side, adjusting what looked like a fishing net. Hanno’s pace picked up. Perhaps another thirty paces later, his foot came out of the mud with an extra loud sucking noise. He cursed and ducked down, but it was too late. The figure stiffened, stared in their direction and straightaway began pulling his net out of the water.

Shit, thought Hanno. This was what he’d worried would happen.

‘He’ll be long gone before we can get close,’ observed Sapho dourly.

‘I know.’ Hanno cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Help!’ he shouted in Latin.

The fisherman’s urgency did not waver.

‘Come on,’ said Hanno. ‘The instant that he’s taken in that net, he’ll be gone.’

Half walking, half swimming, they managed to narrow the gap by half before the last strands of the net had been heaved aboard. The fisherman seized his oars and set them in the rowlocks. Leaning forward, he began to row.

Utter frustration took Hanno. ‘Please,’ he roared. ‘Help us, please! We mean you no harm.’

The figure stared at them, hesitated and then renewed his efforts at the oars.

‘We can pay you! Silver. Gold. Weapons!’

A glance over his shoulder. The oars went still in the water.

Hanno shot a look at Sapho and pushed a dozen steps closer. ‘We need a guide. Can you help?’

‘A guide?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ He made it another ten paces. ‘To lead us through the floodplain to the south. Do you know the way?’

A short laugh. ‘Of course.’

Now Hanno could see that the fisherman was in fact a boy of about ten years. Scrawny, with lank hair, he looked wary and ill fed. A tunic full of holes was his only garment. ‘Can you take us? You will be well rewarded, I swear it. How does a bag of silver sound?’

‘What need have I of silver?’ retorted the boy. ‘It’s of no use to me here.’

‘How about a spear like this?’ asked Hanno. With a flash of inspiration, he raised his weapon in the air. ‘It’s good for hunting.’

The boy scowled. ‘Maybe. Arrows are more useful, though.’

‘I can give you arrows,’ promised Hanno. ‘As many as you want!’

For the first time, there was a hint of warmth. ‘Really?’

‘I swear it to you on my mother’s grave.’

There was no immediate answer. Hanno let the boy think. Then he said, ‘Can I come closer?’

‘Just you. Not the cruel-looking one.’

Sapho, who didn’t speak much Latin, was oblivious. Hanno hid his surprise at the comment. ‘Wait here,’ he said to his brother. He moved towards the boat. At about twenty paces, the boy signalled him to halt. ‘No nearer.’

He did as he was told. ‘My name is Hanno. What’s yours?’

‘Sentius. Mostly, though, I’m just called “Boy”.’

Hanno sensed that however hard his life in Quintus’ household had been, it had been nothing compared to this boy’s existence. ‘I’ll call you Sentius, if that’s all right?’

A nod. ‘Show me the spear.’

Hanno held it out with both hands. ‘It’s for thrusting. You could use it for fishing, or maybe hunting deer.’

Sentius’ eyes studied the spear greedily. ‘Give it to me. Butt first.’

Ignoring Sapho’s hiss of dismay, Hanno waded to the side of the boat and handed it over. He wasn’t remotely surprised when Sentius whirled it around and aimed the tip at his face. All the same, he couldn’t stop his stomach from clenching with nerves.

‘I could kill you now.’ The spear jabbed forward. ‘Your friend wouldn’t be able to do a thing. I’d be gone before he ever got close to me.’

‘True,’ said Hanno, forcing himself to stay where he was, forcing himself to think of Hannibal’s reaction when he returned with a guide. ‘But if you did, you wouldn’t get the arrows you want.’

‘I want two hundred at least.’

‘Fine.’

‘And a dozen spears,’ added Sentius quickly.

‘If you can lead my general’s army out of this place, you’ll have them, I guarantee.’

A short pause.

Sentius had not agreed yet, which bothered Hanno. ‘Is there anything else you want?’

‘They say that great beasts accompany your soldiers. Creatures taller than a hut, with long noses and long white teeth. They can crush men underfoot like beetles.’

‘Elephants,’ said Hanno.

‘El-e-phants,’ Sentius repeated, his voice full of awe.

Joy filled Hanno. This was what would finally win the boy over. He knew it in his gut. ‘That’s right. Sadly, we only have one left. Would you like to see him, up close? His name is Sura.’

A dubious glance. ‘Is it not dangerous?’

‘Only when his rider orders him to attack. Otherwise, he is quite gentle.’

‘You can show me the el-e-phant?’

‘I can do better than that. You can even feed Sura if you wish. He especially likes fruit.’

Sentius looked amazed.

‘Have we a bargain?’ Hanno shoved out his right hand.

Sentius didn’t take it. ‘You will stay with me?’

‘I won’t leave your side the whole time you are with us,’ Hanno promised. ‘May the gods strike me down if I prove false.’

Sentius’ eyes flashed. ‘I will strike you down. With your own spear!’

Hanno pulled open his tunic, exposing his chest. ‘You can drive it in right here.’

At last Sentius seemed satisfied. He stuck out a grubby paw. ‘It’s a deal.’

Hanno smiled as they shook hands. Sentius hadn’t guided them to dry ground yet, but he would. Their suffering would soon be at an end. The price of ten score arrows, a dozen spears and a chance to feed Sura was cheaper than Hanno could have imagined. Surely, neither Sapho nor Hannibal could fail to be impressed.

‘Did you hear about the ox that escaped from the Forum Boarium the other day?’ asked Calatinus. It was evening, and they had finished their duties. Their comrades had gone in search of some wine, leaving the two friends alone in the tent.

‘No. They get out of the pens all the time. A slave forgets to push home the bolt and the gate opens,’ said Quintus dismissively. ‘I’ve seen it happen in Capua.’

‘It doesn’t matter how the beast got out. It’s what it did afterwards. For some reason, it ran up a set of stairs on the outside of a three-storey cenacula.’

Quintus sat up on his blankets. ‘What?’

‘You heard,’ said Calatinus, pleased that he had Quintus’ attention at last.

‘Who told you?’

‘A lad I know in another troop was talking to one of the messengers from Rome who arrived yesterday. Apparently, the crazy brute went all the way to the top of the building! The residents were terrified, and their screams sent it even madder. It jumped over the bannisters and fell to the street, where it crushed a child to death.’

‘Gods,’ muttered Quintus, picturing the gory scene.

‘I wouldn’t mind if that’s all that had happened,’ Calatinus went on gloomily, ‘but it’s just one of a litany of things. A shrine in the vegetable market was struck by lightning the same day. Among the thunderclouds overhead, men saw the ghostly shapes of ships. A damn crow even flew down to the temple of Juno and perched on the sacred couch.’

‘Did the messenger see any of these things?’ demanded Quintus, thinking of how his father rubbished such tales. ‘Or was it someone’s aunt’s cousin who did?’

Calatinus gave him a withering look. ‘So many people witnessed the ox throw itself off the balcony that it cannot be anything but true. The messenger saw the lightning bolt strike the temple with his own eyes, and the ships in the sky.’

Quintus didn’t like that, but he wasn’t going to admit it. ‘And the crow?’

‘He didn’t see that,’ Calatinus admitted.

‘Well, then. Even if it did land on the couch, it was probably just sheltering from the rain.’

Calatinus half smiled. ‘Maybe so. You know I wouldn’t pay these things much notice, but they’re happening all over. It rained rocks in Picenum a little while back.’

‘Come on! Rocks?’

It was as if Calatinus hadn’t heard him. ‘The priests at Hercules’ spring saw flecks of blood in the water last week. That can mean but one thing.’

Despite himself, Quintus felt uneasy. People were superstitious — they would easily assume divine hands directing the most ordinary events, but priests were less gullible. They knew whether the gods were involved or not, at least that was what most believed. His father was a little more cynical; Quintus remembered the comments Fabricius had made about the priests after his son had killed a bear to celebrate reaching manhood, and again before the Trebia, when ominous signs had occurred thick and fast. It had been easier then to dismiss the stories as mere rumours, thought Quintus unhappily. But the defeat by Hannibal had almost been a fulfilment of the bad omens. If they were recurring aplenty, did that not mean the gods were still unhappy? That the Carthaginians were about to win another victory? Stop it! ‘I’d wager that Gaius Flaminius doesn’t worry too much about such nonsense,’ he said as confidently as he could.

Calatinus risked a glance outside. ‘That’s as may be. But what new consul leaves Rome before he’s been officially elected to office?’

‘He was just doing that to piss off the Senate. Flaminius has a grudge against many of the senators because of the way they treated him six years ago over his triumph celebrating his victory over the Insubres.’

‘Who cares?’ cried Calatinus. ‘This is no time to risk angering the gods. And that’s what he surely did by leaving the capital before the proper ceremonies have been carried out.’

Quintus didn’t reply. He felt the same way. If that had been the only thing that Flaminius had done, it wouldn’t have felt so bad. Ignoring the Senate’s demands that he return to Rome wasn’t the end of the world, but Quintus had not liked hearing the story of the calf chosen to be sacrificed when Flaminius arrived at Arretium. To everyone’s horror, it had slipped out of the priest’s grasp after just one, non-fatal strike of the knife. Even when it had been recaptured, no one had had the courage to kill it. The second calf chosen had died without protest, but the whole experience had left a bad taste in men’s mouths.

‘No doubt that’s why his horse threw him when we were about to move out the other day,’ said Calatinus. ‘And why that standard stuck in the ground.’

‘I think that telling the signifer to dig up the damn standard if he was too weak to pull it out was the right thing to say,’ said Quintus, forcibly rallying his spirits. ‘Flaminius is a brave man and a good leader. The soldiers love him. It’s not as if we’re sitting around on our hands. We’re trailing Hannibal until the right opportunity presents itself. We’re lucky that we were posted to Flaminius’ cavalry. Imagine still being stuck in Ariminum. Surely you’d rather be following a general who wants to fight?’

‘Gnaeus Servilius Geminus is no coward!’ barked a familiar voice.

Both men looked around, surprised and embarrassed. Calatinus jumped up and saluted, while Quintus glowered.

‘I don’t think that’s what Quintus meant, sir,’ protested Calatinus.

Fabricius’ gimlet stare turned. ‘Well?’

‘I wasn’t saying that Servilius is a coward,’ muttered Quintus.

‘I’m glad to hear it!’ Fabricius’ tone was sarcastic. ‘It’s not down to you, a stripling cavalryman, to stand in judgement on a consul. Servilius is doing what he was ordered to by the Senate, and that is to guard the east coast in case Hannibal should march that way. Just as Flaminius has been chosen to protect the west coast in the event that the gugga does the opposite.’

‘It feels wrong just to let Hannibal and his army ravage the countryside. I’m sick of seeing farms that have been burned to the ground and had all of their inhabitants butchered,’ said Quintus, letting his anger against his father flare alongside his outrage at what the Carthaginians were doing.

‘So am I.’ Calatinus’ tone was heartfelt.

‘Oh, for the eagerness of youth! Fear not,’ said Fabricius with a wink, ‘for Flaminius hopes to catch Hannibal between his army and that of Servilius. If he succeeds with that, we shall carve up the guggas like the Gauls at Telamon.’

Quintus’ spirits rose at that idea, but his father’s next words struck him like a punch in the solar plexus.

‘If it works, Calatinus, you should see action as well.’

Quintus gaped at Fabricius. No, not now, he thought. Please! Beside him, Calatinus’ surprise was also palpable. ‘I don’t understand. My arm is better. I’m ready to fight.’

‘It’s nothing to do with your wound. You’re to return home at once. Calatinus and seven others are to be posted back to serve with Servilius’ horsemen.’

Quintus was stunned into silence.

‘In Ariminum? Why, sir?’ asked Calatinus, looking confused.

‘Flaminius has had word from Servilius. He wants men who have fought Hannibal’s cavalry before. Too many of us were assigned to Flaminius’ units. Servilius has been left short, and he needs riders who can instruct his men in Carthaginian tactics. We agreed on a figure of eight men. I suggested the candidates.’

‘Why can I not go as well?’ demanded Quintus hotly. ‘I am old enough now! Besides, I have taken the oath.’

‘Hades, will you never learn to curb your tongue? I see your mother in you more and more,’ snapped Fabricius. ‘I’ve spoken to Flaminius. You’re going home, and that’s an end to it.’ He saw something in Quintus’ eyes and pointed a stern finger. ‘Technically, you will still be in the cavalry. You could be called up again — but only if you have demonstrably matured. If I hear otherwise, I’ll be sure to have your military oath annulled.’

In that moment, Quintus absolutely hated his father.

Fabricius rounded on Calatinus. ‘Are you going to protest too?’

‘No, sir. I’d rather not leave, but if those are your orders, then I shall follow them.’

‘Fine. As you were.’ Fabricius ducked out of the tent without another word.

Furious, Quintus watched him go. Curse him to Hades!

‘By all the gods, that was unexpected,’ muttered Calatinus.

‘For you maybe, but not for me,’ said Quintus bitterly. ‘At least you have a chance of getting to close with Hannibal. I’ll be stuck at home, with the women.’

‘Being around your father isn’t good for you. All you do is clash off one another. Maybe a period away from him will do you some good. Who’s to say that the war will end soon anyway? Hannibal seems to be a shrewd leader. I’d wager that we’ll still be fighting him in twelve months. Your father won’t be able to deny you a place in the cavalry forever. Just keep your nose clean at home. Make sure your mother is happy.’

Quintus didn’t bother arguing. In his mind, his father would prevent him from ever serving again. That had made up his mind for once and for all. If ever there had been a perfect opportunity to approach Corax about joining the velites, it was now. That way, he could stay in Flaminius’ army, close to Hannibal. His father would never know. He won’t send me home, Quintus thought furiously. I’ll be my own master. Learn to fight as an infantryman.

It was a good feeling.

Capua

Aurelia’s spirits lifted as they left the temple of Mars. She hadn’t begrudged visiting to pray for Flaccus’ soul the first time, but it seemed a bit much to have to do it again and again. Her mother said that it was important, however, and Aurelia was playing it safe by not arguing. To be fair, she was sorry he was dead. The one and only time that she had met Flaccus, he had seemed personable. She had even fallen a little for his looks, and his air of confidence and power. But then he had gone to Rome, taking her father, and she had not seen him again. There had been one letter, and then nothing. Aurelia felt a twinge of remorse. There would have been more communications, but the war had been more important than writing to her, a mere child. Soon after, Flaccus had been killed. It was sad, but she wasn’t going to spend her life grieving over a man she had not known at all.

Their duties done, they could soon visit Gaius and Martialis, his father. Her heart leaped. Gaius had been away, training with his unit, on the previous occasion they had been to Capua. Aurelia loved Martialis, but seeing him instead of his son was not the same. How she hoped he would see past her status as Quintus’ sister today. She was wearing her best dress, all of her jewellery, and even a hint of perfume filched from a vial belonging to her mother. With a little luck, it would go unnoticed, but Aurelia was careful not to go too near Atia, whose sense of smell was impressive. So too was her ability to see through Aurelia’s actions.

‘That went well, I thought,’ said Atia.

‘Yes,’ mumbled Aurelia. How could one judge? she wondered. It wasn’t as if the statue of Mars responded in any way, to anyone. It just stood there, imperious and regal, glaring down at the long, narrow room that formed the centrepiece of the temple.

Atia turned with a frown. ‘I hope that your prayers for Flaccus were sincere?’

Aurelia caught the first warning sign fast. Best not to start an argument before they had even seen Gaius. ‘They were heartfelt, Mother,’ she lied, using her most sincere voice.

Atia’s face relaxed. ‘His soul will rest easier knowing that he is still remembered. You remembered to ask the gods to watch over Father and Quintus?’

‘Of course!’ This time, Aurelia’s reaction was entirely unfeigned.

‘Good. To the market, then. There are things I forgot to tell Agesandros to get.’

Aurelia’s eyes darted towards the crowd at the mention of the overseer, but, to her relief, there was no sign of him. With luck, they wouldn’t see Agesandros until later, at Martialis’ house. Buying everything on Atia’s list would take time. Not as long as it normally would, however. She had noticed on their last visit that her mother had not ordered as much food as usual; today it had been the same. Aurelia didn’t ponder the thought for long; already her head was full of images of Gaius. Smiling as he saw her. Resplendent in his uniform. Offering her his arm so that they might go for a walk. Complimenting her on her appearance. Stooping to brush his lips against hers. .

‘Spare a coin, young lady!’

Aurelia blinked, and flinched in horror. A beggar clad in rags stood before her. His leathery palm and the shiny nubs where his fingers should have been waggled under her nose. The disfigurement didn’t end there. The man had almost no nose, just two gaping holes under his inflamed, weeping eyes. His skin was scaly like that of a snake and lay in odd, disturbing angles. Round swellings peppered his face, small things no bigger than a fingernail to lumps the size of a peach stone. Aurelia had seen lepers on countless occasions, but at a distance. They were normally kept outside Capua by the guards at the gate. She had never been this close to one. She recoiled, fear twisting her guts that the disease might transfer to her. ‘I have no money.’

‘A wealthy young lady like you?’ The leper’s tone was unctuous but disbelieving. The stump of a hand waved at her again. ‘Even the smallest coin would help, if it please you.’

‘Get away from my daughter!’

The leper shrank back from Atia, fawning.

‘Aesculapius keep us from such a fate.’ Atia’s hand beckoned. ‘Step around him.’

Aurelia couldn’t help but look at the leper again. Although she was repulsed by his appearance, she felt a deep pity for him too. To be condemned to a slow, living death — she could think of few things that were worse. ‘Please, Mother. Give him something.’

Atia studied her for a moment; then she sighed and reached for her purse. What difference will a single coin make to our problems? ‘Here.’ A hemidrachm flashed in the air. The leper reached up for it, but was unable to catch it with his ruined hands. The small piece of silver dropped to the dirt, and he scrabbled after it, calling down the blessings of the gods on both of them.

Looking down, Aurelia gaped. He had no toes left on his left foot. Where his right foot had been, there was just a scarred bump of flesh loosely covered with a rag.

‘Come on, child. That will see him fed for a few days at least.’ Atia’s voice was kind.

They walked away, fast. The leper vanished into the crowd.

‘I won’t get his disease, will I?’ Aurelia’s initial fear had returned.

‘With the blessings of the gods, no. He didn’t touch you, and you weren’t close to him for long enough.’ Atia cast a look over her shoulder. ‘The men on the gate must have been half asleep this morning to let a creature like that inside the walls.’ Her nose twitched; fearing that her mother had smelled her perfume, Aurelia took a step away. A moment later, Atia glided on, and Aurelia thanked the gods for a lucky escape.

They stopped first at a potter’s and then at a wine merchant’s premises. There Atia began haggling with the owner over the quality of the most recent wine she had ordered. Aurelia soon grew bored. The earrings and necklaces displayed in the entrance to a jeweller’s shop opposite caught her eye, and she stepped outside to take a closer look. As she did, a short, balding man in a fine Greek chiton brushed against her. He muttered an apology; her mind on the array of trinkets, she took little notice.

The jeweller, a beady-eyed Egyptian, was quick to see Aurelia’s interest. ‘Can I be of service?’

She gave him a smile. ‘I’m just looking.’

‘Please, my shop is yours. Try on anything you like.’

Aurelia sighed. She had no money of her own. She threw a wistful glance at Atia, but there was no point in asking. Her answer would be that the jewellery Aurelia was wearing — a pair of gold pendants decorated with beads of blue glass, and a simple gold ring decorated with a red garnet — was more than adequate. Until her wedding day, her mother would not be purchasing her any more. Sudden mischief took her. The shopkeeper didn’t have to know that she wouldn’t be buying. ‘I like this,’ she announced, pointing to a necklace hung with dozens of small tubular red and black stones.

‘Carnelian and jet, that is,’ said the jeweller. ‘From Parthia. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Want to try it on?’ His hands were already undoing the clasp. ‘It will suit your complexion. Your husband will love it, and it won’t cost him the sun and moon.’

Aurelia didn’t disabuse him. Gaius might like it, she thought. She was about to allow him to place it around her neck when she heard raised voices. Her head turned. Inside the wine merchant’s, she could see the short man who’d bumped into her facing her mother, who looked furious. Her curiosity was roused. ‘Thank you. Maybe another time.’ She walked out, ignoring the protests of the perplexed jeweller.

She crossed the street, weaving her way through the passers-by. A pair of burly men loitering close to the vintner’s eyed her up as she went by. One made a smacking noise with his lips. Used to such attention, Aurelia ignored them.

The wine merchant’s was a typical, open-fronted shop. A long, rectangular room led in from the arched entrance. Oil lamps flickered from alcoves. A painted statue of Bacchus and his maenads watched from a shelf. On either side, lines of amphorae were propped against the wall or nestled in beds of straw, and a low counter where customers could stand to taste the shop’s wines was situated at the back of the room. Atia was ten steps from the doorway, a cup in her hand. The wine merchant stood alongside, looking decidedly embarrassed. The short man stood close to her, his hands raised in apparent placation.

‘All I am saying, my good lady, is that these things need to be talked about,’ he said as Aurelia drew near.

‘This is no place to discuss such matters,’ snapped Atia. ‘How dare you approach me here?’

A shrug. ‘Would you rather I had come to Martialis’ house?’

Atia’s lips pinched white.

‘What’s going on, Mother?’ asked Aurelia.

‘It’s nothing important.’

The short man turned. His brown eyes moved up and down, appraising her lasciviously. Her skin crawled. ‘Ah. This must be your daughter. Aurelia, if I am not mistaken?’

‘Yes. And you are?’

His oiled ringlets moved as he inclined his head. ‘Phanes, moneylender, at your service.’

Aurelia was no less confused, but before she could enquire further, her mother was moving towards the door. ‘Come on,’ said Atia. ‘We’re leaving.’ Aurelia knew better than to argue, and followed.

Phanes moved fast for one so small. In the blink of an eye, he had placed himself in front of Atia. ‘There is still the matter of your husband’s debt. We haven’t discussed it.’

‘Nor shall we!’ snapped Atia. She tried to move past Phanes, but he blocked her way.

Aurelia could not believe her eyes, or her ears.

‘Get out of my way, you low-down piece of Greek filth!’ Atia ordered.

Phanes didn’t move. ‘Lowly I might be, and Greek I certainly am. That doesn’t make the forty thousand drachms that your husband owes me disappear.’

‘You will have your money! You know he is good for it, damn your eyes.’

‘With his breeding and yours, one would think so, but I haven’t seen as much as a drachm for more than a year. A man can’t live on silence and missed payments. He’d starve.’

‘Fabricius is not here. There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed!’

‘No doubt Fabricius is doing us and the Republic proud, but that doesn’t mean he can renege on what he owes. For the first few months last year, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He had been sent to Iberia with Scipio after all. After my enquiries revealed that he had returned and been ordered to Cisalpine Gaul, I sent him a letter. There was no reply.’

‘He probably never received it. Everything is chaos up there. The damn Gauls kill most of the messengers.’

A sly smile. ‘I sent my message by ship.’

Atia’s composure slipped for a heartbeat. ‘That still doesn’t mean he received it.’

‘True. But when the second and then the third letters went unanswered, I decided it was time to take things up with you. I would have paid you a visit soon, but my sources told me that you were to visit the city this very day. What a perfect opportunity to chat. To find out if you had had word from your husband concerning this matter.’

Atia did not so much as acknowledge Phanes’ comment. She looked at him as if he were a snake. ‘Who told you I was coming to Capua? Martialis would not say a word to anyone that wasn’t a friend.’

Nor would Gaius, thought Aurelia.

Phanes’ smile widened.

‘A slave,’ spat Atia. ‘One of Martialis’ slaves is in your employ.’

‘I have ears all over Capua.’ Phanes’ hands fluttered. ‘I’m a moneylender. Men such as I need to know what people are talking about. Who is worried, who wants to try a new business venture and other titbits like that.’

‘You’re a blood-sucking leech,’ Atia retorted.

Phanes made a tutting noise. ‘Your husband was always far more polite. Especially when he wanted an extension to his loan. It must be the Roman breeding.’

Atia did not deign to answer. ‘Aurelia!’ This time, Phanes made no move to stop her. His head half turned. ‘Achilles! Smiler!’

The two men whom Aurelia had spotted filled the doorway. They were unarmed, but their expressions were far from friendly. ‘Boss?’ asked the first one, a thug with curving scars that ran from the corners of his lips across both his cheeks.

Aurelia felt sick. That one had to be Smiler. She knew his type; had seen them before. The pair were ex-gladiators, now the Greek’s paid heavies.

‘No one is to leave the shop until I say so,’ announced Phanes.

‘Yes, boss.’ The pair moved to stand shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way to the street. There was a muted squawk from the wine merchant about damage to his goods being a crime before he vanished into the back of the shop.

Atia drew herself up to her full height. ‘What are you going to do? Order these creatures to lay hands on us?’

‘I hope it won’t come to that,’ replied Phanes mildly.

‘You dog! If I scream, people will come in here.’

‘They might, and they might not. If anyone is foolish enough to try, Achilles and Smiler will soon make them see the error of their ways.’

Phanes was right. From her mother’s silence, Aurelia knew that too. Even in daylight, few of Capua’s residents would intervene in a quarrel or a brawl. If blood was shed, the city guards might be called, but otherwise it was a case of dealing with one’s own problems. In a change of heart, she would have given anything for Agesandros to appear, but even he would have had his hands full dealing with two such large, determined-looking men.

‘As they can with anyone, should I give the order.’

‘You dare to threaten us?’ cried Atia.

‘Threat? What threat?’ Phanes’ smile did not reach his eyes. ‘I would merely like to talk about the money owed to me, a considerable sum that I would wager you are fully aware of.’

Atia’s lips tightened, but she did not reply, which told Aurelia that her mother had known of the money owed to Phanes. She must have been avoiding him, Aurelia thought. They had to get out of here, however. She scanned the room for anything that would serve as a weapon, but could see nothing. Panic flared in her chest. They won’t dare harm us, she told herself. Inside, though, she wasn’t so sure. She moved closer to her mother. It was time for solidarity. ‘Why are you detaining us? What do you want?’ Aurelia hoped that he heard the loathing in her words.

If he did, the Greek did not react. ‘The wolf cub speaks at last, and with a more civil tongue than its mother! I ask for an agreement, that’s all.’

‘What kind of agreement?’ demanded Atia.

‘Why, nothing more than I am entitled to. Regular payments towards the monies I am owed.’

‘And if I refuse?’ Atia’s eyes flickered over the heavies. ‘These two get sent in?’

‘Come now. You are a woman of high station. Despite your opinion, I am a civilised man,’ protested Phanes. ‘The courts would have to become involved.’ He locked eyes with Atia.

After a long moment, Atia sighed, and Aurelia knew that the Greek had won. She longed to throw herself at him, nails clawing at his face, but her fear of his men froze her feet to the spot. She listened as her mother said, ‘How often do you wish to be paid?’

‘Every month.’

‘Impossible!’

A predatory look. ‘Two-, or even three-monthly would also be acceptable, but I would have to increase the interest from two drachms in every hundred to four. That of course is in addition to the amounts that have accrued due to the lack of payments over the last year.’

‘You have the paperwork to prove what you say?’

‘Indeed. It is in my office, should you care to see it. Your husband’s signature was witnessed not just by me, but by my clerk.’

Aurelia could feel the helpless rage radiating from her mother. She felt it in her own belly, but if Phanes wasn’t lying — and her gut told her that he wasn’t — then he had them over a barrel. She would have given anything for her father to appear, to make everything right, but there was no hope of that. He was far away, fighting a war, and the gods only knew if he would ever return. Hopelessness mixed with her fear, drowning her anger.

‘Very well.’ Atia sounded older than Aurelia had ever heard her. ‘Where is your office?’

‘In the street that runs behind the courthouse, adjacent to a lawyer’s. You’ll see the sign.’

‘I will visit you there tomorrow morning to discuss. . terms.’

‘It will be my pleasure.’ Phanes bowed deeply. ‘Achilles, Smiler. Outside, both of you. The lady doesn’t need your ugly faces marring her view of the world any more.’

The knot in Aurelia’s belly eased as the two withdrew. Determined to act as if nothing untoward had happened, as if she were their master instead of the other way around, she followed them. Her breath caught in her throat, however, when Smiler saw her purpose. He cupped a hand over his groin and licked his lips. Achilles snickered. Aurelia acted as if she hadn’t seen — Show them no weakness! They will not dare touch me — and stepped past them into the street. She walked straight into a passer-by. Balance lost, the heavies’ laughter ringing in her ears, Aurelia stumbled backwards with flailing arms.

Strong hands prevented her from falling, brought her back up to a standing position. ‘In a hurry, young lady?’

Aurelia looked into a pair of amused blue eyes. They belonged to a young man with an open face and short hair, dressed in a crisp white toga. He was perhaps a few years older than Quintus, and quite handsome. ‘No. Yes. No,’ she said, feeling a rush of heat as her cheeks coloured.

‘You’re not quite sure.’ He chuckled, but then his gaze fell on Achilles and Smiler. His eyes turned hard. ‘Have these brutes been troubling you?’

Joy filled Aurelia as she saw the trio of strongly built slaves behind him. There was no doubt in her mind that if she said a single word, her rescuer would set his men upon Phanes’. She glanced into the shop. The Greek was watching her, his face closed. The tiny shake of Atia’s head spoke volumes, however. Don’t make things worse than they already are, it said. ‘No. I wasn’t looking where I was going, that’s all. My apologies.’

‘A beautiful young lady has no need to make apologies.’ Finally, he released her arms, and Aurelia coloured even more. ‘My name is Lucius Vibius Melito.’

Atia was by Aurelia’s side before she’d even realised. ‘Atia, wife of Gaius Fabricius. This is my daughter, Aurelia.’

‘Honoured to make your acquaintance.’ He bowed. ‘My compliments on your daughter. She is without doubt the fairest young woman I have seen in Capua. The scent of jasmine she uses is quite. . captivating.’

Aurelia’s eyes dropped. She was doubly embarrassed: firstly by his compliment, and secondly because there was only one place that she could have obtained the perfume. She would pay for it later.

‘You are too kind,’ Atia purred. ‘I have heard your name before. Doesn’t your family live to the south of Capua?’

‘Yes. My father and I are here visiting friends.’ Lucius’ gaze slid back to Aurelia, causing her to look away again.

‘As we are. Will you be here long?’

‘A couple of weeks at least.’

‘How nice. Perhaps we shall meet again, in the forum?’

‘It would be a pleasure,’ replied Lucius. His smile fell mostly on Aurelia.

‘Until then,’ said Atia. She tapped Aurelia lightly on the arm. ‘Come, daughter. We still have much to do.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Lucius.

‘Goodbye, and thank you,’ Aurelia managed before Atia led her away. She had a last glimpse of Achilles’ and Smiler’s scowls, Phanes’ slight frown and Lucius’ admiring look before the crowd swallowed them up. As she turned back, she found her mother watching her. She cringed inside, expecting a lecture about taking things that weren’t hers. But Atia didn’t mention the jasmine.

‘What a pleasant young man. He’s from a good family. I think one of his grandfathers might have been an aedile. He’s handsome, polite too, and not scared of helping someone in trouble. Didn’t you think?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Aurelia, hating the colour that gave the lie to her vague answer.

‘There’s no need to play coy with me. Did you like him or not?’

Aurelia looked around, self-conscious. Yet in the throng, no one would hear, or care. ‘He was nice, yes.’

‘So you wouldn’t object to meeting him again?’

Does nothing put her off? Aurelia thought of Gaius, but couldn’t mention him. The last time she had, her mother had said that Martialis wasn’t wealthy enough. It was so unfair! Why could she never do what she wished?

‘Well?’

‘Does Father really owe Phanes forty thousand drachms?’

‘Lower your voice, child.’

Atia looked most discomfited, and Aurelia grew daring. ‘Well, does he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘The crops have been poor several times in the last few years, you know that. The money from the sale of the grain provides most of our income. If Father hadn’t borrowed from Phanes and. .’ Atia hesitated for a heartbeat, before continuing, ‘. . from Phanes-’

Aurelia interrupted, ‘He owes money to more than one moneylender?’

Shame flitted across Atia’s face. ‘It’s none of your concern.’

‘It is if we are to lose the estate. Our house. That’s what will happen if you can’t meet Phanes’ and the others’ demands, isn’t it?’

‘Gods grant me patience. Where do you get this attitude? If we weren’t in public, I would give you a good whipping!’

They glared at each other for a moment.

‘We are in some financial trouble, yes. But it’s nothing that your father and I cannot see through.’

Something in Atia’s tone gave Aurelia insight. ‘That’s it,’ she murmured in shock and anger. ‘That’s why you’ve been so keen to find me a husband, isn’t it? If I marry into a rich, powerful family, then the moneylenders will leave you and Father alone. Melito is just the latest candidate.’

Unusually, Atia could not meet her gaze.

Aurelia’s anger gave her courage. ‘Is that all I am to you? A belonging, to be sold to the highest bidder?’

Atia struck her across the face. ‘How dare you speak to me in that manner?’

‘I hate you!’ Aurelia turned and fled the way they had come.

Her mother’s cries followed her, but she paid them no heed.