Hannibal: Clouds of War (10 page)

‘I’ve never been one for subterfuge, child, you know that. I’m dying.’

For all that the evidence was before her, Aurelia was still shocked. ‘Don’t say that, Mother!’

Atia took her hand and placed it on her belly. ‘Tap it.’

Horrified yet fascinated, Aurelia obeyed. The feeling of fluid thrilling beneath her touch was unmistakeable. ‘What does it mean?’ she whispered.

‘My liver has failed. The growth has doubled in size, the surgeon says, or more. I’m not surprised. I’m constantly nauseous now. Even drinking water makes me want to vomit. There are worse signs too, things I wouldn’t want you to know.’

Aurelia stroked her mother’s fingers in an effort to stay composed. ‘Did he say how long?’

A tired laugh. ‘At this stage, I think I know better than he does what will happen. A few more days, that’s all.’

An odd feeling of calm settled over Aurelia. ‘You’re sure?’ she heard herself saying.

‘Yes.’ Atia’s yellowed eyes were serene. ‘I will be reunited with Fabricius sooner than I imagined. How I have missed him!’

But you’re leaving me behind! I have no friends in Rome, and only Publius for company, Aurelia wanted to scream. Instead she said, ‘He will be overjoyed to see you, Mother.’

They sat in silence for a little while, Atia lost in her own thoughts and Aurelia trying to divert her grief by thinking of the arrangements that would soon need to be made. Not for the first time, she cursed the war, which meant that there was no chance of Quintus attending the funeral, or of holding it at their home near Capua. Capua and the area around it now followed Hannibal. ‘Have you decided where you might like to be …’ Her voice cracked and broke. ‘… buried?’

Atia’s touch on her cheek was more welcome than she could remember. ‘Child, you must be strong. Publius needs you. Your husband relies on you. Quintus will need your letters as well. You are the centre point of the family.’

Aurelia swallowed, nodded. ‘Yes, Mother. What I was going to say is that the family mausoleum is too far away, and too dangerous for us to use.’

‘I’ve made some enquiries. It’s not expensive to have a simple structure erected on the Via Appia. Agesandros can give you the details of the stonemason with whom I spoke. My ashes can be placed in the tomb after my cremation, to remain there until the war is over. After that, you can take them back to Capua. I’d like it if you could put a vase with your father’s name beside mine.’

Aurelia felt as if a scab had been picked off an old wound. Her father’s bones would never be retrieved. With countless thousands of others, they still lay unnamed on the fields of blood, at Cannae. ‘Of course, Mother.’

‘That’s settled then.’ Atia smiled. ‘I drew up my will some time since. Naturally, Quintus will receive the farm and the remaining slaves. He will also get what money remains. Despite what I’ve had to spend running this household, there’s a little left. The sale of the agricultural slaves raised quite an amount. To you, I bequeath my jewellery and personal possessions.’

Aurelia bowed her head. ‘Thank you, Mother.’

‘There’s not much left now. Much of what I had was sold to pay that vulture Phanes.’ A brittle laugh. ‘If there’s one good thing to be said for the war, it’s that he sided with the Capuans when they turned traitor. I haven’t had to pay him since Cannae. We can’t go near the farm at this moment, but one day, when Hannibal has been beaten, Quintus will be able to return there. It will be ours once more.’

Aurelia thought it possible that the conflict with Carthage would eventually be won, but there was no certainty that her brother would come back. She closed her mind to that grim prospect. There was only so much grief that she could cope with. ‘I shall visit the farm too. It will be wonderful to see it again,’ she said, thinking not of the family tomb but of the last time she had been there, and kissed Hanno. Guilt washed over her that she could think of herself at a time like this.

‘There is one more thing.’

Aurelia gave her mother a questioning look.

‘Agesandros is to be manumitted, and discharged of his duties to the family once I am gone. He has spent more than half of his life in loyal service to us. Since your father’s death, he has been invaluable to me. I know that he desires to return to Sicily before his own death, and as it is in my power to grant this wish, I will do so.’ She glanced at Aurelia. ‘I imagine that you will not be displeased by this?’

‘No. It shall be as you wish, Mother.’ I’ll be so glad to see the back of him, thought Aurelia.

‘That’s enough talk of death,’ her mother pronounced. ‘I want to hear about Publius.’

Aurelia was more than relieved to talk about her son.

Atia lapsed into unconsciousness the day after, at which point Aurelia moved herself, Publius and Elira into the house. She was not going to miss her mother’s passing. Trusting her son to Elira’s care, Aurelia spent every hour of the day and night by Atia’s side. On occasion, she tried to get her to swallow some liquids. There was little point. In the brief moments when Atia was conscious, she refused all food or drink. Apart from wiping her mother’s forehead with damp cloths and changing the bedclothes, Aurelia’s only role was to provide company as Atia slipped away. She tried to accept this bittersweet situation, but it was hard. Aurelia was not alone: she saw Elira and Publius each day, but she couldn’t confide in the former – because she wanted to maintain a distance between them – or the latter. When Agesandros looked in on Atia, Aurelia avoided him. Two more days passed in this lonely fashion.

On the fourth day, Atia woke again, appearing a little stronger. It was stupid to feel encouraged, yet Aurelia couldn’t help herself. They had a short conversation – about, of all things, Atia’s own childhood in Capua – before her mother asked to see Publius. ‘I want to talk to him one last time,’ she said. Aurelia trembled with emotion while her son was in the room, but the gravity of the situation was lost on him. Like any very small child, Publius had no real concept of death. After he’d kissed Atia farewell, he was happy enough to be led from the room by Elira with the promise of a honey cake. ‘Bye, G-anny,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘Bless him,’ whispered Atia, closing her eyes. ‘He’s a good boy. I will miss him. And you.’

‘You will be sorely missed.’ Aurelia kissed her mother on the forehead.

Atia didn’t really speak again. It was as if her mother had saved up the last of her energy to say goodbye, thought Aurelia as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

Not long after sunset, Atia stirred a little under her blankets. Aurelia, who had been dozing on a stool alongside the bed, woke at once. She caressed away the straggles of wispy hair that had moved over her mother’s face, and murmured what she hoped were reassuring words.

Atia muttered ‘Fabricius’ twice. She took a deep breath.

Aurelia’s heart caught in her chest. Even after the last few days, she wasn’t ready for the end.

Her mother let out a long, slow exhalation.

Aurelia had no idea if it was the last breath, but she bent and touched her lips to her mother’s anyway. If at all possible, the soul had to be caught as it left the body. She sat, her back rigid, watching Atia’s chest to see if it moved again. It didn’t.
She’s gone.
Aurelia placed a hand on her mother’s ribs, under her left breast. The heartbeat she felt was irregular, and slowing fast. When she wet a finger and placed it beneath Atia’s nostrils, she felt no movement of air.

Aurelia placed her hands in her lap and regarded the body that had been her mother. It was done. Just like that, Atia was gone. It didn’t seem real. The sound of Publius’ voice, carrying in from the courtyard, and Elira’s tones, replying: they were real. But this wasn’t. It was a horrible dream, from which she would wake at any moment.

Except she didn’t. The harsh reality sank home some time later when Elira came in to let her know that Publius had gone for his nap. Aurelia looked again. Her mother still lay unmoving on the bed before her. The waxen sheen of death had begun to appear on her skin. There was no denying it now.

Elira came a little further into the room and saw Atia. She gasped. ‘Is she – is she gone?’

‘Yes,’ murmured Aurelia, leaning forward to close her mother’s eyelids.

Elira let out a little sob. ‘She was a good mistress. Always fair. May the gods look after her.’

‘I’ll need help to lay her on the floor, and to anoint her. She must be cremated in her finest dress,’ Aurelia heard herself saying in a monotone. Elira threw her a concerned look, but she didn’t acknowledge it. The only way that she was going to get through this was to remain completely matter of fact. She could grieve later, when it was all done. ‘Then we must lay her on a table in the
atrium
, and place a coin in her mouth. Word must be sent to the family’s friends in Rome, and arrangements made for the funeral.’

‘Yes, mistress,’ replied Elira, respect filling her eyes.

‘Fetch Agesandros to me. Bring oils, and clean cloths, and the dress my mother used to wear to banquets.’

Elira scuttled from the room.

When she had gone, leaving Aurelia with her mother’s corpse, her mask slipped a little. The tears began to flow again. Her marriage to Lucius had separated her from Atia, but the space between them had never been more than the distance between their two houses. In its place there loomed a chasm that could never be bridged. Why did it have to be now, with the war keeping Quintus away? Aurelia railed silently. Her mother had been fit and well for her entire life. She could have expected to live for another five to ten years.

The quiet knock helped Aurelia to regain control. She wiped the tears from her face. ‘Come.’

Agesandros slipped inside. His dark eyes drank in Atia’s body, and his lips thinned. ‘She is dead then. Although it was a release for her, I am sorry for your loss.’

Aurelia inclined her head in recognition. ‘I want you to go to the Forum and the markets. Find the stonemason whom she spoke with first. A tomb needs to be built.’

‘And the plot that it will be built on?’

‘I will see to that. There are lawyers who act for the vendors of such land. You must also find musicians and actors for the funeral. Some of the household slaves can be pallbearers.’

‘They will be honoured. I will act as one too, should you permit it.’

How could she deny him that? ‘Very well.’

‘My thanks.’

‘Mother spoke highly of you before the end.’

Agesandros looked pleased. ‘I have always done my best, first for your father, and afterwards, your mother.’

It felt bizarre to be having this conversation over Atia’s body, but Aurelia felt he should know. ‘You are to be rewarded for that service with manumission, and not only that, but discharge from any duties to this family. It was one of my mother’s last commands.’

Wonder, and then joy, flared in his eyes. He approached the bed, lifted Atia’s hand and kissed it with great respect before replacing it on the covers. When he straightened, he was very close to Aurelia. It took all of her self-control not to retreat. ‘You will be glad to see me gone,’ he said.

Despite her fear, she met his gaze. ‘I will. We both know why. Suni was no threat to our family.’

‘I disagreed, and so did your mother,’ he said emotionlessly. Then, ‘If the paperwork can be drawn up in time, I will depart after the funeral.’

You’re not free yet, she thought angrily, but she didn’t possess the energy for an argument. ‘That can be arranged. You’ll travel to Sicily?’

‘If I can find a ship to take me, yes.’

‘It will be dangerous there, with the war.’

‘Good. I intend to take service with the legions, in whatever role they will have me.’

Her temper flared up. ‘The Carthaginians whom you encounter will be innocent of the murder of your family.’

His anger rose to meet hers. ‘I don’t care! They’re all gugga dogs, who need killing.’

Aurelia recoiled from his fury. She thought of Hanno, whom Agesandros had hated, and tried not to feel scared for him. He was serving on the mainland. Even if he ever came to Sicily, there was no chance of him and Agesandros meeting. That didn’t stop her from toying with the idea – for a guilty moment – of refusing to grant the Sicilian his freedom. Yet her mother’s wish, made on her deathbed, could not be denied. Aurelia had no desire to court more divine misfortune. Rallying her courage, she said, ‘That is your opinion, and that of a slave. To me, they are just our enemies. They need to be defeated, but not annihilated.’

The walk from the city behind the slaves carrying her mother had taken an age. Aurelia had hated every dragging moment of it. The slow pace. The actors wailing at the front; the musicians playing solemn dirges. Atia’s body, rocked gently from side to side by the motion of the litter. The disinterested, even annoyed looks from pedestrians on the packed streets. Once out on the Via Appia, it had been only a little easier. They had had to negotiate their way past hordes of travellers and files of carts and wagons bound for the capital. Their arrival at the newly constructed brick tomb, some two miles from the city walls, had been a welcome relief, but the screams of the pig, as it was sacrificed in honour of the goddess Ceres, had not. Nor had the falsely eulogistic words of the priest she’d hired for the occasion. In a daze, Aurelia had watched the placing of her mother’s body on the pyre that sat alongside the vault. Her grief had come bubbling up then and she’d been grateful for Tempsanus’ fleshy hand on her arm, and for his support when she’d had to step forward with the burning torch and set the timbers alight. It had been the right decision to leave Publius behind. The protest had been there in Elira’s eyes when Aurelia had ordered her to look after him, but she hadn’t argued. Regardless of what others might say about children attending funerals, thought Aurelia, seeing a human body burn was not something that a two-and-a-half-year-old should witness.

Thank all the gods that the wind was blowing away from them. Despite that, the stench of burning human flesh hung in the air, trapped perhaps by the towering cypresses that stood around. Even when the pig had been butchered and set to cook on another fire, the normally welcoming smell of roasting pork had not helped. Nonetheless, she had eaten some of the meat. It was part of the ritual. Somehow, she had prevented herself from bringing it back up again, had accepted the condolences of the dozen or so mourners, who had mostly been aged relations. A number of hours had passed since then. Few people remained. Tempsanus, bless him, had stayed by her the entire time. She was grateful for that. He hadn’t tried to talk to her; his mere presence had helped. At last the smell from the pyre was waning. There would be little left now of her mother but bones and ash. Aurelia stirred; offered up a last prayer. The slaves would tend the fire until her mother’s remains could be removed and placed in a funerary urn. She could return the following day to oversee their interment in the plain tomb alongside. That would be difficult, she knew, but for the moment her ordeal was almost over.