Her eyes hunted for another object to fight with. Nothing lay within reach. She lifted her legs one by one, tried to twist away from him, but he just slapped her buttocks and laughed. ‘I love it when a woman fights back!’
Her despair mushroomed. Aurelia could feel her ability to resist ebbing away with the blood running down her legs. Let him do it, she thought wearily. If coupling with Lucius doesn’t harm the baby, this won’t either. It’s better to survive. Better that my child lives rather than dies.
The sound of rushing feet in her ears made no sense. It was followed a heartbeat later by a loud cracking sound and a cry of pain. Aurelia was still struggling to understand what had happened when a hand grabbed hers. ‘Come on, mistress! Run!’
Aurelia lurched upright, took in her attacker reeling backwards, clutching his head. An alembic rolled in circles at his feet, the large dent in its surface evidence of what Elira had done. Panic flared in her belly — he was still conscious and still armed. When Elira tugged at her arm again, Aurelia ran for the door after her slave. A roar of anger gave her extra speed, but it was too little, too late. There was no way that she could outrun a big man in her state.
That was until the Judaean, who had appeared from nowhere, emptied a flagon of scented oil over the floor between them. There was a strangled cry and a thump as the man’s feet went from under him. Aurelia dared to hope for the first time. Few people would help but outside they could blend into the crowd while her slave slowed down or stopped the attacker.
‘I’m coming for you, you whore!’
Near the shop’s entrance, she risked a glance behind her. To her horror, her attacker had scrambled to his feet. The Judaean approached him, but retreated before the savage thrusts of the man’s blade. ‘Out of my way, greybeard, or you’ll be picking up your own guts!’
‘Mistress!’ Elira was beckoning urgently.
Aurelia urged her tired legs onwards and burst out into the golden light of the setting sun. Lucius’ slave regarded her with open mouth. She must look a sight, thought Aurelia, with blood all down her back, but there was no time to consider that. ‘I was attacked inside. Stop the man who’s chasing us. He’s masked. He has a knife!’
‘Y-yes, mistress.’ Looking scared, he raised his cudgel.
She shoved past without another word. Whether he survived or not was none of her concern. What mattered was that she got away. The street was busier than ever. Women, men, children, carts pulled by oxen, mules laden down with merchandise. Residents of the city, visitors, slaves and merchants: they were all out at this, the best time of day to do business. The press, the reek of unwashed humanity made Aurelia begin to panic. ‘Which way is Lucius’ house?’ she hissed at Elira.
The Illyrian’s hand stabbed to their left. Aurelia’s heart sank. A large wagon was nearing them from that direction. It was loaded so heavily that there was almost no room to pass on either side. Under normal circumstances she could have squeezed through, but not now. If they went the other way, however, they risked getting lost. The pounding of feet close behind made her mind up. It was go right, or die. ‘The other way!’ She pushed Elira forward. ‘Quickly!’
They shoved into the crowd, ignoring the protests and cries of indignation that met their entry. It was hard to follow Elira, but Aurelia did her best. She dodged under the outstretched arm of a beggar who was harassing a portly, well-dressed man; she muttered an apology as she edged past a woman who was berating a small child for not holding her hand. Her feet dragged with every step and her belly felt as if it had doubled in size. The pain from her back was excruciating, but she pressed on regardless. Perhaps twenty paces into the mass of slowly moving people, she risked a look over her shoulder. At first, she thought they had escaped. There was no sign of her attacker. Maybe the slave had restrained him? Another scan changed her mind. Not far behind, a hooded man was wading through the throng; his elbows moved right and left like clubs, clearing the path before him. One of his victims, a merchant, began to protest. A heartbeat later, he had collapsed out of sight, levelled by a punch to his considerable paunch.
‘Oh gods,’ whispered Aurelia, fighting exhaustion and resignation. All at once, the exertions of the day, the heat, her gravid condition were overwhelming her. She wouldn’t be able to go much further. Why had she been so foolish? She should have taken Lucius’ advice and stayed at home.
She wasn’t expecting the crowd to part. When it did so quite suddenly, Aurelia stumbled and almost fell. A few steps ahead of her, Elira had just collided with a strapping man whom she did not recognise. Even as the Illyrian was being cursed for being a stupid slave, Aurelia took in the toga-clad figure behind the man. Grey-haired, distinguished-looking, he had to be one of the magistrates who ruled Capua. His companion, whose presence had been clearing the way, was his bodyguard. She rushed forward. ‘Your pardon, good sir.’ She clutched at the guard’s hand, gave his master a beseeching look. ‘Help us, please!’
The big man’s brows lowered in suspicion, but before he could say a word, the magistrate spoke. ‘Stand back. By her dress, she is clearly of good standing. Can’t you see she’s hurt?’
‘I’m all right,’ replied Aurelia stoically.
‘What has happened, my lady?’ asked the magistrate, his tone concerned.
‘I was attacked in a perfume shop down the street. My assailant is still after us.’
‘This is an outrage. Lay your hand to your sword, Marcus.’
Tears of relief sprang to Aurelia’s eyes as the bodyguard stepped forward. ‘What does he look like?’
‘You’ll see him any moment. He was just behind us. I didn’t see his face, but he’s big, and wearing a hooded cloak.’
Marcus grunted; his sword snickered from its scabbard.
Aurelia’s gaze followed his, left to right, right to left at the semicircle of people regarding them. There were men and women, young and old, tall, thin, short and fat. They had skin as white as alabaster, black as charcoal and every shade of brown under the sun. She could see no mask or raised hood, however, no familiar bulky figure.
They waited. And waited. There was no sign of her attacker. No one dared to push past the magistrate from either direction, but eventually people began complaining. Aurelia began to grow self-conscious. She was almost grateful for the wound on her back: proof that she was no madwoman. ‘He must have seen you,’ she said lamely.
‘Most likely,’ agreed the magistrate. ‘Hannibal himself would think twice before tackling Marcus here. Best forget him. You need urgent attention from a surgeon.’
‘I want to find him,’ protested Aurelia, although she knew that the magistrate was right. There was no chance of finding the man who had nearly raped her. He would be long gone.
‘Your slave can help Marcus to search for him,’ said the magistrate kindly. ‘You, on the other hand, are returning with me to your house. But first, a message to the surgeon, with all possible speed. Who is your husband? We should also send word to him.’
‘His name is Lucius Vibius Melito,’ said Aurelia. Her vision blurred for a moment. She could feel herself swaying.
‘Melito?’ His voice was at her elbow, his grip supporting her, for which she was very grateful. ‘Why didn’t you say before? I know him and his father well. No need to tell me where his house is. Come.’
Aurelia’s legs would not obey her any longer. As her knees buckled and she crumpled to the ground, she was dimly aware of raised voices around her. It was the last thing she remembered.
She was woken by the baby kicking in her belly. Aurelia’s eyes opened, adjusting slowly to the dim light. She was in a bed, lying on her side, facing the wall. Relief bathed her as she recognised the decorated plaster. It was the main bedroom of Lucius’ house in Capua. Her back ached, but not as badly as she would have expected. Nor were there any signs that she was in labour, another cause for relief. With difficulty, she rolled over on to her back. Pain stabbed through her, and Aurelia moved on to her other side as swiftly as she could. To her surprise, Lucius was sitting right beside her on a stool. His face twisted with emotion — anger, relief, sadness — she wasn’t sure. ‘How are you feeling?’