Aurelia had never entrusted her baby to Elira’s care for long before, but she did that day. ‘Wake me only when he needs to feed,’ she ordered. Agonisingly, however, she found no rest even when Publius was out of earshot. All she could think about was the slaughter that had just taken place and how she would never see her father, Quintus or Gaius again.
This was to become the pattern of Aurelia’s life for the next few days. Her mother’s arrival meant that she had more help with Publius, but when Atia tried to start talking about the battle, Aurelia walked away. She was too distraught to open up to anyone. Lucius came and went, checking on the baby in the daytime but barely bothering with her. He was still angry with her for defying the gods. Aurelia heard from Statilius that the mood in the city was one of open fear, which did nothing to help her state of mind. In the end she had the major domo send a slave to an apothecary’s, there to buy a flagon of papaverum. Having downed several large mouthfuls of the bitter liquid, Aurelia was relieved to feel herself succumbing to unconsciousness. Over the course of the following days, she found constant respite in its embrace. Soon she could not sleep without it, nor even get through daylight hours without a few nips to keep her going. Atia appeared not to notice; Elira cast worried looks at her, but Aurelia was oblivious. It dulled her feelings, blunted her agony. That was a blessing. It made life bearable. Just.
Aurelia was aware of the door opening and someone entering. The papaverum that she’d consumed not long since was just starting to take effect, enfolding her in its warm cocoon. It was too much effort to open her eyes. Whoever it was — Elira, probably — would see that she was asleep and leave her alone. Even if the baby needed a feed, it could wait.
‘This has to stop, wife.’
Lucius. It was Lucius, she thought, dragging her eyelids open. He was standing over her, a disapproving frown on his face.
‘Your mother tells me you’re drinking this.’ He waved the flagon that now lived by her bed.
So her mother had noticed, thought Aurelia. ‘It helps me to sleep.’
‘But Elira says that you consume it night and day. Atia thinks that that might be why the baby is drowsy.’ He sounded angry now.
She stared daggers at the Illyrian, who was just behind him. Elira dropped her eyes. ‘That’s not true,’ said Aurelia hotly, knowing he’d spoken the truth.
‘What’s not true?’
‘Publius is fine,’ she mumbled, lying. ‘He’s had a cold, and broken sleep because of the cough that came with it. That’s why he has been lethargic of late.’
Lucius gazed at her long and hard. ‘And you? Is it true that you’re partaking of this stuff at all times?’
Shame filled Aurelia. She couldn’t bring herself to tell another outright lie, but nor could she admit to what she’d been doing.
‘Your silence proclaims your guilt. Well, you’re to have no more of it. Learn how to fall asleep as the rest of us do — without any help.’
Fury replaced the shame. She scowled at Elira. ‘Out! Close the door behind you.’ When she and Lucius were alone, she hissed, ‘If you had lost a father and a brother, you might know how I feel!’
At last his face softened. ‘Sorrow is not unknown to me, wife. My mother was taken from us when I was only ten years old.’
She felt instant remorse. ‘I remember.’
‘That isn’t to say that your loss has not been grievous.’ After the slightest of hesitations, he went on, ‘Or that my conduct has not been that of a husband towards you since the news of the defeat.’
Stunned, she looked up at him.
‘I was greatly angered by your outburst, but that does not mean I could not have offered you comfort at the time of your greatest distress.’ He reached out his hand.
This was as close to an apology as she would get, Aurelia realised. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, clutching at his fingers as she would have if she’d been drowning. Now the tears came anew. When he sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, she leaned into his body and let her grief out, more glad of the human touch than she had ever been in her life. To his great credit, Lucius did not say a word. He just held her tightly, his physical presence giving her the reassurance that someone cared.
Lucius continued to spend time with her and the baby over the next couple of days and his presence helped to take Aurelia’s mind off her sorrow a little. It certainly made having no papaverum easier to bear. Removing the flagon had been a good thing, she realised. Her cravings for it were far more intense than she’d expected. Aurelia dreaded to think what it would have been like if she had been consuming it for weeks rather than days. To her surprise, Lucius was also excellent with Publius, cuddling him, soothing him, walking around the courtyard as he talked to him. Aurelia began to reappraise her feelings towards her husband. Just because they were not made for each other did not mean that they could not get on. Perhaps this was the type of marriage that her mother had spoken of, she reflected. It wasn’t what she had dreamed of, with Hanno, but it seemed to work. And that was better than living in utter misery.
Just over a week had passed since the news of the defeat had reached Capua and the city was still in a state of constant panic. Ominous signs were reported daily: south of the city, a heavy storm had rained stones upon the earth; the divination tablets at Caere had somehow grown smaller; threatening figures in the likeness of men, dressed in white, had seemingly appeared in innumerable locations in the countryside. The priests in the city’s temples tried to issue explanations that offered some reassurance that the world was not about to end. According to Lucius, every soothsayer for a hundred miles had descended upon Capua to make the most of the population’s desire to know the future.
Fresh rumours swept the streets every day. The Roman dead at Cannae had been mutilated beyond recognition; Hannibal had ordered the torture and execution of every single prisoner taken by his men; a bridge had been built over the River Aufidius made of Roman bodies; he was marching on Rome, on Capua, on both, burning the towns in his path; a Carthaginian fleet had landed thousands of soldiers and scores of elephants on Sicily, or on the southern coast of Italy itself; King Philip of Macedon was about to join the war on the side of Carthage. Aurelia knew better than to believe all of the stories, but it was difficult not to feel unsettled by them, or by the fact that the disquiet had also seen a severalfold increase in crime. Unaccompanied women were liable to be raped in broad daylight. Foreigners such as Egyptians or Phoenicians had been attacked. Civil disorder had also become common. On a number of occasions, the magistrates had been forced to deploy troops to prevent near-riots becoming the full-blown article. In consequence, Lucius had forbidden anyone to go out without his specific approval. When he ventured forth, it was with half a dozen slaves armed with sticks. Ignoring the law that banned bladed weapons within the city confines, he himself never went without a sword. Aurelia was beginning to feel claustrophobic within the confines of the house, yet she was not about to argue with her husband’s decision.
Despite the social unrest and her confinement, her mood had achieved some degree of stability. Every moment of every day was still tinged with sorrow, but the routine of looking after the baby combined with Lucius’ support was helping Aurelia to cope. The torrential outpourings of grief had become occasional rather than constant. Things had also been made easier by Atia’s gentle insistence that they talk to each other. Aurelia had given in and, to her relief, their subsequent conversations — and shared tears — had helped their relationship, already made stronger by Aurelia’s pregnancy and the subsequent arrival of the baby, to enter a new phase of intimacy. It was as Aurelia remembered her childhood, when she had shared everything with her mother.