‘Aye. I think Father would have wanted us to rejoice over this victory,’ said Hanno. ‘Before I found you, I had hoped he might join us in a drink tonight.’
Bostar chuckled. ‘You know, I think he would have, just this once. We’ll keep a brimming cup for him this evening, eh?’
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Hanno nodded. Their father would never be forgotten – and nor would their victory here, on the fields of blood.
Chapter XIX
Capua, two days later . . .
THE WAILING STARTED
just after dawn. It began as a few isolated cries of dismay, like those of a family discovering the death of a loved one. It wasn’t long, however, before other voices joined in: scores, and then hundreds of them. Aurelia was already awake, nursing Publius. Unsettled, she carried him – still on the breast – out into the courtyard. Here the volume was far louder, even more disconcerting, and Publius became distressed. As she tried to soothe him, Lucius emerged half-dressed from his bedroom, looking angry and alarmed. Almost every slave in the household was lurking by the doors to the kitchen, whispering, pointing, muttering prayers. Yet more voices joined the clamour and a cold knot of apprehension formed in Aurelia’s gut. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Lucius replied curtly.
He was being evasive. Aurelia had an idea what it might be, but like her husband she was not prepared to say what she feared.
An enormous
boom
sounded overhead; their heads lifted. Banks of black cloud were sweeping in from the west, brought in by a wind that had suddenly picked up. Light flickered within the clouds, presaging lightning. Another crackle of thunder. They shared a worried look. This was a bad omen. Added to the racket, it felt even more menacing. A few of the slaves began to weep.
‘Be silent!’ roared Lucius. ‘Out of my sight. Get back to work.’ The slaves scurried from view, urged on by Statilius. ‘I’m going to find out what’s causing the alarm,’ said Lucius, his face grim.
Aurelia felt a lurch of panic. ‘Send Statilius instead.’
He didn’t respond. ‘Bar the doors when I am gone. Let no one in until I return.’
She didn’t argue. Rarely had she seen him so set upon a purpose. ‘Be safe, husband,’ she whispered.
A short smile and he vanished into the tablinum, shouting for his sword. She watched him go, feeling sick at the thought of what he might discover.
Waiting for Lucius to return was hellish. The noise outside continued to increase in volume. It was audible even with the rumbling of thunder that accompanied it. In it, Aurelia heard women’s screams, men shouting angrily, the crying of babies and the braying of mules. Even when the rain began to fall, the unearthly sound did not stop. It was what Aurelia imagined Hades might sound like. Gooseflesh erupted all over her body; she could not settle Publius, no matter how hard she tried. He didn’t want to feed; his usual lullabies made no difference. All he would do was cry. In the end, she walked him around the colonnaded walkway that enclosed the courtyard. That helped a little.
A barrage of hammering on the front door nearly made her jump out of her skin. Lucius’ voice demanding entry reassured her that it wasn’t a demon come to claim them, but her stomach still roiled as Statilius ran to let his master in. Lucius appeared a moment later. He was soaked to the skin and his cheeks were haggard, as if he’d been out in the weather all day.
Aurelia walked to meet him, cradling Publius, who mercifully fell silent. Nausea clawed the back of her throat, but she fought it away. Neither husband nor wife said a word as they neared one another. Close up, Aurelia saw that Lucius had been crying. His face was stricken. ‘They lost, didn’t they?’ she said, uttering the unthinkable, which had been in her mind since the commotion began. ‘Hannibal won.’
His nod was mechanical, as if he’d been drugged.
If Aurelia hadn’t been holding Publius, she would have fallen. Calm. You must stay calm, she thought. ‘Tell me.’
‘Two messengers presented themselves at the gates just after sunrise, demanding an audience with the magistrates. An announcement was made in the forum after that meeting. All kinds of rumours are flying about, but I managed to speak with an official whom I know. He’s level-headed, so his account is as reliable as can be expected. Two days ago, it was Varro’s turn to lead the army. He was determined to start a battle, even though Paullus wanted to wait until a better location could be found.’ Lucius spoke in a monotone. ‘Varro crossed the River Aufidius and drew up the legions in one great bloc. Hannibal’s army followed and formed up opposite. Our soldiers advanced on the middle of the enemy line, with the cavalry in support on the wings. Varro’s intention was to smash the guggas apart with one decisive blow, before annihilating their broken remnants. Our horse had to hold the flanks. Except everything went wrong. Hannibal’s horsemen attacked on both sides. They put the citizen cavalry to flight almost at once, while the socii riders were bogged down by his infernal Numidians. We had such superiority of numbers of infantry that that shouldn’t have mattered – in theory. The trouble was, Hannibal had a master plan that Varro didn’t see. His weakest troops were standing in his centre and in a formation slightly bowed towards our soldiers. When the fighting began, the enemy was driven back slowly. But as the legionaries drew level with the rest of his men, Hannibal had his wings – which were made up of his Libyan veterans – swing around to attack the legions’ sides. Much of his cavalry fell upon our rear at the same time.’
Aurelia felt cold all over. ‘Where were our horsemen by this time? The citizens, especially?’
‘Driven off, or killed.’ His eyes caught hers. ‘I’m sorry, Aurelia.’
Father! Gaius!
She had to lean against a pillar to hold herself upright. Lucius’ gaze was steady and it helped her to gain control. ‘Go on. I want to know everything. How many dead?’
‘No one knows for sure. One of the tribunes sent a group of riders to inform the Senate as the sun fell. Apparently, Varro escaped to Venusia with a few thousand men. More still fled to Canusium. There were stragglers all over the countryside. It will take days to calculate the losses.’
‘How many?’ she demanded again.
‘Thirty thousand, perhaps more,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what the messengers think.’
Aurelia reeled. It felt as if someone had punched her in the solar plexus. ‘Quintus is dead too, then.’ She could control her emotions no longer. Clutching Publius to her as if he’d be stolen too, she let the sobs come. Alarmed, he also began to wail. Lucius moved towards her, but she waved him away. ‘How can the gods do this to me?’ she screamed. ‘Take three of the most important men in my life in one sweep? Curse them for being faithless! Curse them for never listening to our pleas!’
‘Aurelia! You cannot say such things! It will bring misfortune upon us.’ Lucius was appalled.
‘Misfortune?’ she shrieked. ‘How could anything be worse than what you’ve just told me? This for the gods!’ She hawked and spat on the floor. Even as she did it, Aurelia regretted it. But it was too late.
‘Be silent, wife! Control yourself, or I shall be forced to do so for you.’ The veins on Lucius’ neck stood out like purple ropes. ‘Is that clear?’
Aurelia was stunned by the level of his anger. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘To your room! Attend to my son. That is your damn job, not calling down the anger of the gods on this family, this house.’
Weeping, Aurelia fled before his fury. What madness had possessed her to speak as she had? She was but a mere human, condemned to accept whatever was handed out to her, good or bad, by the all-powerful deities. Defying them would make no difference, and would in all likelihood make things worse. Yet part of her could not help thinking: How could things be any worse? Father is dead. Quintus is dead. Gaius is dead. Our army has been destroyed. She would never know, but no doubt Hanno had also been slain. Hannibal and his army could now visit whatever fate they wished upon the Republic.
Publius stirred in her arms, and her heart lurched her back into reality. Here he was, more precious than any of the other people or things in her life. She began silently to beg forgiveness of the gods. Do not take my child from me, please. Forgive my transgression, which was made in the depths of despair. Such words will never pass my lips again. I shall make generous sacrifices in expiation. Aurelia prayed long and hard and as earnestly as she had ever done in her life.
It was only when she had finished and settled a sleeping Publius in his cot that Aurelia dared to allow her grief to resurface. She lay on her bed and sobbed into the pillow, wishing that Lucius would come to comfort her. It was a faint hope, which disappeared as the hours passed. Elira crept in at one point, but Aurelia, angry that it was not Lucius, shouted at her to get out and not come back. Thoughts of Hanno did not help either. He was a fantasy figure, whom she would never meet again, let alone conjure into an appearance here.
Eventually her tears dried up, not because she felt any better but because she had none left to shed. When she emerged, red-eyed and exhausted, Statilius informed her that Lucius had gone to find out more news. The sounds of distress from the streets had eased, but only a fraction. Aurelia expressed an interest in going to the forum, but the major domo regretfully told her that the master had left orders that no one should leave the house before his return.
She had no energy left to defy Lucius’ command, no strength to ask for Elira or that a messenger be sent to her mother, no capacity to do anything other than retire to her room. There Publius was beginning to cry again. Sinking even deeper into misery, Aurelia tended to him as best she could. Somewhere in her consciousness, she was aware that caring for her baby would provide a way through the pain, but it was of scant comfort in that dark moment. Utterly drained, she fell asleep some time later, fully clothed, on her bed.
During the evening, the sound of Lucius’ arrival roused her from her torpor but she did not dare go out. Ears pricked, hopeful, she fed the baby and waited for her husband to come to check on her. He didn’t. The snub shouldn’t have hurt, Aurelia reasoned. After all, she didn’t love him. Yet the gesture cut as sharply as a knife. He was her husband. An ally, when she had so few. Fresh tears flowed. The last thing that Aurelia thought before falling asleep again was that it would be a relief never to wake up.
There was to be no such blessing. Publius woke not long after with colic. She spent the rest of the night in a semi-catatonic state, nursing him, walking him and snatching a few moments of rest whenever he closed his eyes.
Aurelia had never entrusted her baby to Elira’s care for long before, but she did that day. ‘Wake me only when he needs to feed,’ she ordered. Agonisingly, however, she found no rest even when Publius was out of earshot. All she could think about was the slaughter that had just taken place and how she would never see her father, Quintus or Gaius again.
This was to become the pattern of Aurelia’s life for the next few days. Her mother’s arrival meant that she had more help with Publius, but when Atia tried to start talking about the battle, Aurelia walked away. She was too distraught to open up to anyone. Lucius came and went, checking on the baby in the daytime but barely bothering with her. He was still angry with her for defying the gods. Aurelia heard from Statilius that the mood in the city was one of open fear, which did nothing to help her state of mind. In the end she had the major domo send a slave to an apothecary’s, there to buy a flagon of
papaverum
. Having downed several large mouthfuls of the bitter liquid, Aurelia was relieved to feel herself succumbing to unconsciousness. Over the course of the following days, she found constant respite in its embrace. Soon she could not sleep without it, nor even get through daylight hours without a few nips to keep her going. Atia appeared not to notice; Elira cast worried looks at her, but Aurelia was oblivious. It dulled her feelings, blunted her agony.
That
was a blessing. It made life bearable. Just.
Aurelia was aware of the door opening and someone entering. The papaverum that she’d consumed not long since was just starting to take effect, enfolding her in its warm cocoon. It was too much effort to open her eyes. Whoever it was – Elira, probably – would see that she was asleep and leave her alone. Even if the baby needed a feed, it could wait.
‘This has to stop, wife.’
Lucius. It was Lucius, she thought, dragging her eyelids open. He was standing over her, a disapproving frown on his face.
‘Your mother tells me you’re drinking this.’ He waved the flagon that now lived by her bed.
So her mother had noticed, thought Aurelia. ‘It helps me to sleep.’
‘But Elira says that you consume it night and day. Atia thinks that that might be why the baby is drowsy.’ He sounded angry now.
She stared daggers at the Illyrian, who was just behind him. Elira dropped her eyes. ‘That’s not true,’ said Aurelia hotly, knowing he’d spoken the truth.
‘What’s not true?’
‘Publius is fine,’ she mumbled, lying. ‘He’s had a cold, and broken sleep because of the cough that came with it. That’s why he has been lethargic of late.’
Lucius gazed at her long and hard. ‘And you? Is it true that you’re partaking of this stuff at all times?’
Shame filled Aurelia. She couldn’t bring herself to tell another outright lie, but nor could she admit to what she’d been doing.
‘Your silence proclaims your guilt. Well, you’re to have no more of it. Learn how to fall asleep as the rest of us do – without any help.’
Fury replaced the shame. She scowled at Elira. ‘Out! Close the door behind you.’ When she and Lucius were alone, she hissed, ‘If you had lost a father and a brother, you might know how I feel!’
At last his face softened. ‘Sorrow is not unknown to me, wife. My mother was taken from us when I was only ten years old.’
She felt instant remorse. ‘I remember.’
‘That isn’t to say that your loss has not been grievous.’ After the slightest of hesitations, he went on, ‘Or that my conduct has not been that of a husband towards you since the news of the defeat.’