‘It’s nothing. I’m fine.’ She tried to straighten, but another contraction — she recognised it as that this time — surged in and she gasped.
‘Is it the baby? Is the baby coming?’
‘Maybe,’ she admitted.
To his credit, Lucius remained very calm. His friend’s wife was called over and asked to wait with Aurelia. He hastened down the steps, returning with two of his slaves, who helped her down to the waiting litter. The midwife was sent for. He held her hand and whispered soothing words all the way back to the house. Surrendering her to the care of her mother and Elira, he went to offer prayers at the lararium.
Aurelia remembered only fragments of the hours that followed; it was terribly hot and humid in the bedroom, and the sheets beneath her were drenched in sweat, making the hard bed she lay on feel even harder. Bizarrely, the bladders filled with warm oil at her sides felt comforting. Atia sat close by, rubbing creams on her belly and talking to her. Between regular internal examinations on Aurelia, the midwife busied herself by praying and readying her supplies on a table: olive oil to use as a lubricant, sea sponges, strips of cloth and wool, tinctures of herbs and pots of ointment. As time passed, Aurelia’s contractions grew closer and closer together, exhausting her. She was aware of crying out with each wave of pain. At one stage, she heard an anxious Lucius at the door; he was banished by Atia.
At last the midwife’s examination revealed that Aurelia’s cervix was sufficiently dilated. She and Atia helped her to the birthing chair. This had armrests for her to grip on to; it supported her thighs and bottom, leaving a ‘U’ shaped gap between her legs, access for the midwife. Aurelia’s fear reached new heights as she eased on to it, but Atia’s encouragement and the urgent cries from the midwife, who was crouched on a stool before her, helped her to go on. To keep breathing; to push when she was told to.
In the end, the baby emerged with less difficulty than she’d imagined. It came in a rush. Mucus, blood and urine spattered on the floor. The midwife gave a happy cry; so too did Atia. Aurelia opened her eyes to see a purple-red bundle topped by a thatch of spiky black hair being lifted to her breast. ‘Is it alive?’ she gasped. ‘Is it healthy?’
A mewling cry answered, and her heart filled. ‘My baby,’ she whispered as the midwife placed him on her chest.
‘It’s a boy,’ said Atia. ‘Praise be to Bona Dea, Juno and Ceres!’
‘A boy,’ whispered Aurelia, filled with elation. She had done her job, in part at least. She kissed the top of his downy head. ‘Welcome, Publius. Your father is looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Well done, daughter,’ said Atia, her tone warmer and gentler than usual. ‘You’ve done a fine job.’
After a little while, the midwife tied off and cut the cord. With some help, Aurelia walked the few steps to the second, softer bed where she lay down to rest and to feed Publius. It was strange that she’d had doubts about being pregnant, she thought, gazing adoringly at her son. The discomfort of the previous few weeks and the pain of her labour were already dimming in her mind. It all seemed worthwhile now. Lucius in particular would be ecstatic. As long as Publius thrived, his family bloodline had been secured.
As sleep took her, Aurelia felt more content than she had done in an age.
She didn’t think about Hanno.
Chapter XVII
Cannae, Apulia
Urceus cleared his throat and spat. The glob of moisture vanished in the dust before their feet. He wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Gods, but it’s so hot. So dry. There isn’t a fucking blade of grass left in the entire camp.’
‘Hardly surprising. It hasn’t rained for weeks,’ said Quintus with a wink, ‘and sixty thousand soldiers tramping the whole area every day don’t help either.’
Urceus threw him a baleful glare. ‘Smart arse. I’d ask for wind, but the damn breezes here only cause dust storms. I never thought I’d say it, but the sooner autumn comes, the better.’
‘It won’t be for a while yet.’
‘All the better that matters will come to a head soon.’
‘They didn’t today, though,’ mused Quintus. Their encampment was no more than a mile from that of Hannibal. They and upwards of ten thousand other soldiers had only just returned from several hours spent in the hot sun, arrayed in battle lines before their own ramparts, the consul’s response to Hannibal’s entire army being ready for a full battle. The initial tension had been unbearable. Prayers had been audible throughout the ranks, men had joked in over-loud voices or found none too plausible reasons to piss where they stood. Once it had become apparent that the enemy was not going to attack them and that Paullus wasn’t going to mobilise all the legions, an air close to euphoria had descended. Suddenly, their thirst and the strength-sapping heat were the only things that had mattered. The order to return to camp had been greeted with universal delight.
‘How come Paullus didn’t accept Hannibal’s offer of battle?’ muttered Urceus, before sucking at his water carrier like a babe that hasn’t been fed for a day.
‘No one likes to have the ground chosen for him,’ replied Quintus. ‘A lot of posturing goes on before battles. Moving camps, marching one’s army close to the enemy, setting ambushes. They’re all designed to provoke a response.’
‘Quite the veteran, eh?’ Urceus’ voice was half sarcastic and Quintus wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Talking knowledgeably about tactics — a topic he’d studied with his father — was a sure way to rouse suspicion about his true identity. He breathed a sigh of relief as Urceus went on, ‘Been listening to Corax, have you?’
He pulled a sheepish grin. ‘Yes.’
‘Corax is probably right. It’s not as if we can just march away after spending this much time within striking distance of the guggas. That would be catastrophic for the army’s morale. We’d be the laughing stock of Italy, the consuls know that. Fabius’ stalemates were fine for a time, until enough legions had been raised and our defeats forgotten a little. But now the Republic needs a victory, and an emphatic one at that.’ He eyed Quintus speculatively. ‘Hannibal’s as keen for a fight as we are, though. He’s not afraid.’
Quintus thought of Hanno, whose passion to fight against Rome had been palpable from the moment he’d felt it safe to reveal it to Quintus. The desire of Hannibal, a general who had led his troops on an epic journey to Italy, had to be even more overwhelming. If Rome had been roundly defeated in that war, been forced to pay vast reparations and had also lost a huge chunk of its territory to Carthage, I would probably feel the same way, he decided. ‘This is what Hannibal has been wanting since Lake Trasimene,’ he said, ignoring the tickle of fear that caressed his spine. ‘His army has been waiting for us these past two months. That’s why he moved his camp from Cannae to this side of the River Aufidius, and offered battle today. Refusing to play his game shows him that he can’t have it all his way.’
‘I suppose,’ said Urceus. ‘Things might be different tomorrow with Varro in charge, though.’
The tradition that each consul led the army on alternate days was as old as Rome itself, but when the two men were very different characters, problems could arise. Quintus asked that that would not happen during this campaign. ‘He does seem more fiery than Paullus,’ he admitted.
‘The clash with the gugga cavalry and infantry when we were marching south proved that,’ Urceus added. ‘The only reason Varro ordered the withdrawal was because the sun was about to set. I can’t see Paullus acting like that.’
Quintus grinned at the memory. The enemy ambush had seen some fierce fighting. Although it had been inconclusive, it had given the men of Corax’s and Pullo’s maniple a real hunger for victory. The same attitude appeared prevalent throughout the whole army. ‘He’s just a little more cautious than Varro, that’s all. After what happened at the Trebia and Trasimene, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve heard it said that Hannibal’s supplies will run out in a couple of days. If we do nothing, he’ll have to break camp, which could grant us an opportunity to attack. Paullus is probably just waiting for that.’