Hannibal: Fields of Blood (32 page)

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.’