‘Yes. A growth of some kind.’
‘A growth,’ repeated Aurelia stupidly. ‘Where?’
‘He wasn’t sure, but possibly on my liver.’
Aurelia felt sick. If the surgeon was correct … ‘Can he treat you?’
‘There are some herbs, some preparations he wants to make up for me.’ Atia’s hands, all skin and bone, fluttered in the air. ‘He says they might help.’
The only way that Aurelia could make this horror real was to say the harsh words. ‘Help, not cure.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there no surgery that could be performed?’
A trace of Atia’s old self returned; her eyebrows rose in disbelief. ‘You know the answer to that question, child.’
Tears filled Aurelia’s eyes. She felt utterly helpless. ‘So you’re going to die?’ she whispered.
Atia’s lips crooked. ‘We all die.’
‘Don’t joke about it!’ cried Aurelia. From the corner of her eye, she saw Agesandros’ head whip around to watch them. Curse him, she thought. It’s none of his business. She’s my mother. ‘You know what I mean.’
Atia took her hand and stroked it. ‘The growth will kill me, yes. The surgeon was regretful, but sure of his diagnosis.’
‘He could be wrong!’ Aurelia said. Lucius’ confidence in the Greek might be misplaced. ‘We can get another surgeon to examine you.’
‘I already have. One of the neighbours called in a few days ago; when she saw how ill I looked, she had her husband, a surgeon, come by when he returned home. He found the same lump in my belly.’ Atia’s gaze was calm. ‘They won’t both be wrong.’
There was no point arguing. The divine powers had done what they wished — as they had at Cannae, when her father had been among the slain. Damn them all! Aurelia’s grief and fury threatened to overwhelm her, but then she remembered her reaction — raging, shouting, cursing the gods — when she’d heard the news of her father’s probable death. Was this punishment for that outburst? It was hard not to think so. Aurelia longed to utter the same curses again, but she dared not. In the time since Cannae, she had curried favour with every deity in the pantheon, spending a fortune on sacrifices and offerings in temples, asking that her loved ones be looked after. Now, despite her devotion, this calamity had befallen her mother.
The gods were so fickle, so faithless, she thought bitterly. But fear sealed her lips. Publius and her brother were one reason to keep silent, Gaius and Hanno another. It was a long time until her son was five, and beyond the age that saw at least half of all children die from illness. On Sicily, Quintus risked being killed on a regular basis. The same would be true — if they were alive — of his friend Gaius, and Hanno, for whom she still had strong feelings. Aurelia couldn’t bear to think about her loved ones dying. The gods had to be kept happy at all costs. I must be strong, she thought. For Mother’s sake. She will need me in the days and weeks to come. Aurelia managed a confident but false smile. ‘That doesn’t mean that a third opinion won’t be useful.’
‘Very well,’ Atia replied, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun. ‘Do as you wish.’
This demonstration of her mother’s weakness made Aurelia’s grief resurge but, at that moment, Publius came hurtling into the courtyard. ‘Mama! Mama!’
Reality hit home yet again. She had to go on, for her child’s sake as well as her mother’s. She hoped that Lucius returned home from his business trip soon. Although they were not that close, their relationship was serviceable. His presence at home would give her strength, but until that point, she was on her own. ‘Here I am, my darling,’ Aurelia said, opening her arms.
Aurelia had been frustrated and disappointed when the third surgeon, who had been suggested by her husband’s business partner Julius Tempsanus, came to the same diagnosis as the previous two. She’d had no knowledge of the second surgeon — her mother’s neighbour — so could therefore not make a judgement upon him. She respected the first, however, the Greek recommended by Lucius. He had attended her and Publius more than once; he was a sober, professional individual whose treatments had been effective. The last man had seemed no less skilled. He had also been the most sympathetic, telling Aurelia that her mother might live for months. ‘The progress of these diseases cannot be predicted,’ he’d said. ‘Look on each day as if it might be her last, but tell yourself that she will still be here at Saturnalia.’
Aurelia had seized on his advice, using it to give her strength in the trying time that followed. She had immediately written a letter to Quintus, telling him of their mother’s illness; it had been truly bittersweet that a short message from him had arrived the day after she’d sent hers. Life was hard on Sicily, Quintus had said, but he was healthy and fit. Other than asking the gods to grant the same to his family, there was little he needed. He sent his fond regards to them all. When Aurelia had read that, she had broken down in tears. Lucius’ news from Rhegium, that he would be detained by business for at least another two weeks, made her life even harder to bear.
She’d had no time to wallow in her grief. Publius had come down with a bout of vomiting and diarrhoea that confined him to bed for a week. Terrified that it was cholera or a similar disease, Aurelia had had the surgeon attend him twice a day. Despite her distrust of the gods, she had sacrificed at the temples of Aesculapius and Fortuna. To her intense relief, Publius had made a slow but steady recovery. The moment he was better — that very morning — Aurelia had hurried to Atia’s house. During Publius’ illness, she had refrained from visiting for fear of giving the disease to her mother. She’d had to rely on Agesandros, who had acted as a messenger daily.
The week might as well have been a month, or even two, she thought bitterly. Her mother, who was sitting on the same bench where Aurelia had first heard of her illness, had lost even more weight. She resembled the victim of a famine, with her skin stretched tight over her bones. Aurelia’s heart bled to see her like it. ‘Mother,’ she said brightly. ‘There you are.’
Atia turned, and Aurelia saw with horror that the whites of her eyes had turned yellow; there was even a tinge of the same colour to her complexion. At this rate, Aurelia decided, she wouldn’t last until spring.
‘Daughter.’ Her voice was husky and weak. ‘Where is Publius?’
‘I left him at home with Elira. He’s still not fully recovered.’
‘The poor little mite. I have been looking forward to seeing him again.’
‘I’ll bring him tomorrow, Mother.’ She held up the covered pot in her hands. ‘I’ve made you some soup. It’s vegetable, your favourite. You should have some — it will give you strength.’ She twisted her head, looking for a slave to fetch a bowl and spoon.
‘I’ll have some later,’ interrupted Atia. ‘Not right now.’
Aurelia noted the beads of sweat on her mother’s forehead. ‘Very well,’ she said sadly.
‘Come. Sit by me.’ Atia patted the bench.
Fighting tears, Aurelia sat, placing the soup between her feet. They clasped hands.
‘You’re the image of your brother,’ said her mother out of the blue. ‘You have the same black hair, the same eyes, the same chin.’ There was a sigh. ‘How I wish he was here.’
The longing in Atia’s voice brought a tear to Aurelia’s eyes. ‘You’ll see him again,’ she lied.
‘I won’t.’
Aurelia pretended that she hadn’t heard. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘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.’