Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Sapho met his gaze with difficulty. ‘I’m not a murderer.’

‘No,’ Bostar snapped. ‘But you were glad when Hanno vanished, weren’t you? With him out of the way, you had a chance to become Father’s favourite.’

Shame filled Sapho. ‘I-’

‘It’s strange,’ said Bostar, interrupting. ‘If I had died just now, you’d have Father all to yourself. Why didn’t you let me slip into oblivion?’

‘You’re my brother,’ Sapho protested weakly.

‘I might be, but you still stood there, looking at me when I first fell,’ Bostar retorted furiously. He regained control of himself. ‘Yet I have you to thank for saving my life. I am grateful, and I will repay my debt if I can.’ He carefully spat on the ground between them. ‘After that, you will be dead to me.’

Sapho’s mouth gaped. He watched as Bostar got up and walked away. ‘What will you tell Father?’ he called out.

Bostar turned, a contemptuous expression twisting his face. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll say nothing.’ With that, he was gone.

Right on cue, a blast of icy wind hit Sapho, chilling him to the bone.

He had never felt more alone.

Quintus’ and Hanno’s departure left Aurelia feeling abandoned. Finding an excuse to head off to visit Suniaton was far from easy. She could not confide in her mother for obvious reasons, and she didn’t like, or trust, her old Greek tutor. She was friendly with Elira, but the Illyrian had been in a bad mood recently, which made her poor company. Julius was the only other household slave Aurelia could be bothered with. After the excitement of her trips to the woods, however, discussion about what was on next week’s menu was of little interest. Inevitably, she spent most of her time with her mother, who, since they’d been left alone, had thrown herself into household tasks with a vengeance. It was, Aurelia supposed, Atia’s way of coping with Quintus’ disappearance.

Foremost among their jobs was dealing with the vast amount of wool stockpiled in one of the sheds in the yard. It had been shorn from the sheep during the summer, and in the subsequent months, the women slaves had stripped the twigs and vegetation from the fleeces, before dyeing them a variety of colours: red, yellow, blue and black. Once dyed, the wool was ready for spinning, and then weaving. Although the majority of this work was done by slaves, Atia also contributed to the effort. She insisted Aurelia did so as well. Day after day, they sat in or walked around the courtyard, distaffs and spindles in hand, retreating to the atrium only if it rained.

‘It’s the job of a woman to keep the house and work in wool,’ said Atia one crisp morning. Deftly pulling a few unspun fibres from the bundle on her distaff, she attached them to her spindle and set it spinning. Her eyes lifted to Aurelia. ‘Are you listening, child?’

‘Yes,’ Aurelia replied, grateful that Atia hadn’t noticed her rolling eyes. ‘You’ve told me that a thousand times.’

‘That’s because it’s true,’ her mother replied primly. ‘It’s the mark of a good wife to be proficient at spinning and weaving. You’d do well to remember that.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ said Aurelia dutifully. Inside, she imagined that she was practising with a gladius.

‘No doubt your father and Quintus will be grateful for any cloaks and tunics that we can send them too. I believe that the winters in Iberia can be harsh.’

Guiltily, Aurelia applied herself to her task with more vigour. This was the only tangible way of helping her brother. She was shocked to find herself wishing that she could do the same for Hanno. He’s one of the enemy now, she told herself. ‘Has there been any more news?’

‘You know there hasn’t.’ There was an unmistakable trace of irritation in Atia’s voice. ‘Father will have no time to write to us. With the gods’ blessing, however, he’ll have reached Iberia by now.’

‘With luck, Quintus will find him soon,’ Aurelia responded.

Atia’s composure cracked for an instant, revealing the sorrow beneath. ‘What was he thinking to go on his own?’

Aurelia’s heart bled to see her mother so upset. Until now, she hadn’t mentioned that Hanno had left with her brother. Saying nothing made things far simpler. Now, though, her resolve wavered.

A discreet cough prevented her from saying a word. Aurelia was annoyed to see Agesandros standing by the atrium doors.

In the blink of an eye, Atia’s self-possession returned. ‘Agesandros.’

‘My lady,’ he said, bowing. ‘Aurelia.’

Aurelia gave the Sicilian a withering look. Since his accusation of Hanno, she had avoided him like the plague. Now he had stopped her from consoling her mother.

‘What is it?’ asked Atia. ‘A problem with the olive harvest?’

‘No, mistress.’ He hesitated. ‘I have come to make an apology. To Aurelia.’

Atia’s eyebrows rose. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing that I shouldn’t have, mistress,’ said Agesandros reassuringly. ‘But the whole business with the Carthaginian slave was most… unfortunate.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ Aurelia interjected acidly.

Atia raised a hand, stalling her protest. ‘Continue.’