Ben Kane - Hannibal - Enemy of Rome

‘I know that it can’t go on for ever,’ she declared gloomily. ‘They’ll be looking to marry me off shortly, no doubt.’

Quintus hid his shock. Even if Aurelia hadn’t heard that particular conversation, it wasn’t surprising that she was aware of what would happen. Maybe he could help, then, rather than pretending it would never come to pass? ‘There’s a lot to be said for arranged marriages,’ he ventured. It was true. Most nobles arranged unions for their children that were mutually beneficial to both parties. It was how the country ran. ‘They can be very happy.’

Aurelia gave him a scornful look. ‘Do you expect me to believe that? Anyway, our parents married for love. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Their situation was unusual. It’s not likely to happen to you,’ he countered. ‘Besides, Father would keep your interests at heart, not just those of the family.’

‘Will I be happy, though?’

‘With the help of the gods, yes. Which is more than might happen to me,’ he added, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I could end up with an old hag who makes my life a misery!’ Quintus was glad, though, to be male. No doubt he would eventually wed, but there would be no unseemly rush to marry him off. Meanwhile, his adolescent libido was being satisfied by Elira, a striking slave girl from Illyricum. She was part of the household, and slept on the floor of the atrium, which facilitated sneaking her into his room at night. Quintus had been bedding her for two months, ever since he’d realised that her sultry looks were being directed at him. As far as he was aware, no one else had any idea of their relationship.

Finally, she smiled. ‘You’re far too handsome for that to happen.’

He laughed off her compliment. ‘Time for breakfast,’ he announced, continuing to move away from the awkward subject of marriage.

To his relief, Aurelia nodded. ‘You’ll need a decent meal to give you energy for the hunt.’

A knot of tension formed in Quintus’ belly, and what appetite he’d had vanished. He would have to eat something, though, even if it was only for appearance’s sake.

Leaving Aurelia chatting to Julius, the avuncular slave who ran the kitchen, Quintus sloped out of the door. He had barely eaten, and he hoped that Aurelia hadn’t noticed. A few steps into the peristyle, or courtyard, he met Elira. She was carrying a basket of vegetables and herbs from the villa’s garden. As usual, she gave him a look full of desire. It was wasted on Quintus this morning. He gave her a reflex smile and brushed past.

‘Quintus!’

He jumped. The voice was one of the most recognisable on the estate. Atia, his mother. Quintus could see no one, which meant that she was probably in the atrium, the family’s primary living space. He hurried past the pattering fountain in the centre of the colonnaded courtyard, and into the cool of the tablinum, the reception room that led to the atrium, and thence the hallway.

‘She’s a good-looking girl.’

Quintus spun to find his mother standing in the shadows by the doors, a good vantage point to look into the peristyle. ‘W-what?’ he stammered.

‘Nothing wrong with bedding a slave, of course,’ she said, approaching. As always, Quintus was struck by her immense poise and beauty. Oscan nobility through and through, Atia was short and slim and took great care with her appearance. A dusting of ochre reddened her high cheekbones. Her eyebrows and the rims of her eyelids had been finely marked out with ash. A dark red stola, or long tunic, belted at the waist, was complemented by a cream shawl. Her long raven-black hair was pinned back by ivory pins, and topped by a diadem. ‘But don’t make it so frequent. It gives them ideas above their station.’

Quintus’ face coloured. He’d never discussed sex with his mother, let alone had his activities commented upon. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that it was she who had brought it up, though, rather than his father. Fabricius was a soldier, but as he often liked to say, his wife had only been prevented from being one by virtue of her sex. Much of the time, Atia was sterner than he was. ‘How did you know?’

Her grey eyes fixed him to the spot. ‘I’ve heard you at night. One would have to be deaf not to.’

‘Oh,’ Quintus whispered. He didn’t know where to look. Mortified, he studied the richly patterned mosaic beneath his feet, wishing it would open up and swallow him. He’d thought they’d been so discreet.

‘Get over it. You’re not the first noble’s son to plough the furrow with a pretty slave girl.’

‘No, Mother.’

She waved her hands dismissively. ‘Your father did the same when he was younger. Everyone does.’

Quintus was stunned by his mother’s sudden openness. It must be part of becoming a man, he thought. ‘I see.’

‘You should be safe enough with Elira. She is clean,’ Atia announced briskly. ‘But choose new bed companions carefully. When visiting a brothel, make it an expensive one. It’s very easy to pick up disease.’

Quintus’ mouth opened and closed. He didn’t ask how his mother knew that Elira was clean. As Atia’s ornatrix, the Illyrian had to help dress her each morning. No doubt she’d been grilled as soon as Atia had become aware of her involvement with him. ‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Ready for the hunt?’

He twisted beneath her penetrating scrutiny, wondering if she could see his fear. ‘I think so.’

To his relief, his mother made no comment. ‘Have you prayed to the gods?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Let us do it again.’

They made their way into the atrium, which was lit by a rectangular hole in the ceiling. A downward-sloping roof allowed rainwater to fall into the centre of the room, where it landed in a specially built pool. The walls were painted in rich colours, depicting rows of columns that led on to other, imaginary chambers. The effect made the space seem even bigger. This was the central living area of the large villa, and off it were their bedrooms, Fabricius’ office, and a quartet of storerooms. A shrine was situated in one of the corners nearest to the garden.

There a small stone altar was decorated with statues of Jupiter, Mars, or Mamers as the Oscans called him, and Diana. Guttering flames issued from the flat, circular oil lamps sitting before each. Effigies of the family’s ancestors hung on the wall above. Most were Fabricius’ ancestors: Romans, the warlike people who had conquered Campania just over a century before, but, in a real testament to his father’s respect for his wife, some were Atia’s forebears: Oscan nobility who had lived in the area for many generations. Naturally, Quintus was fiercely proud of both heritages.

They knelt side by side in the dim light, each making their silent requests of the deities.

Quintus repeated the prayers he’d made in his room. They eased his fear somewhat, but could not dispel it. By the time he had finished, his embarrassment about Elira had subsided. He was still discomfited, however, to find his mother’s eyes upon him as he rose.

‘Your ancestors will be watching over you,’ she murmured. ‘To help with the hunt. To guide your spear. Do not forget that.’

She had seen his fear. Ashamed, Quintus nodded jerkily.

‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you.’ Fabricius came into the room from the hall. Short and compact, his close-cut hair was more grey now than brown. Clean-shaven, he had a ruddier complexion than Quintus, but possessed the same straight nose and strong jawline. He was already wearing his hunting clothes — an old tunic, a belt with an ivory-handled dagger, and heavy-duty leather sandals. Even in civilian dress, he managed to look soldier-like. ‘Made your devotions?’

Quintus nodded.