Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

‘Isn’t it?’ Aurelia rolled up one sleeve of her nightdress and flexed her biceps. She smiled at his surprise. ‘I’ve been lifting stones like you do.’

‘Eh?’ Quintus’ jaw dropped further. Keen to get as fit as possible, he’d been doing extra training in the woods above the villa. He’d clearly failed to conceal his tracks. ‘You’ve been spying on me? And copying me?’

She grinned with delight. ‘Of course. Once my lessons and duties are over, it’s easy enough to slip away without being noticed.’

Quintus shook his head. ‘Determined, aren’t you?’ Persuading her to give it all up would be harder than he had thought. He was glad that the duty wouldn’t fall to him. Guiltily, Quintus remembered hearing his parents talking about how it would soon be time to find her a husband. He knew how Aurelia would take that announcement. Badly.

‘I know that it can’t go on for ever,’ she declared gloomily. ‘They’ll be looking to marry me off shortly, no doubt.’

Quintus hid his shock. Even if Aurelia hadn’t heard that particular conversation, it wasn’t surprising that she was aware of what would happen. Maybe he could help, then, rather than pretending it would never come to pass? ‘There’s a lot to be said for arranged marriages,’ he ventured. It was true. Most nobles arranged unions for their children that were mutually beneficial to both parties. It was how the country ran. ‘They can be very happy.’

Aurelia gave him a scornful look. ‘Do you expect me to believe that? Anyway, our parents married for love. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Their situation was unusual. It’s not likely to happen to you,’ he countered. ‘Besides, Father would keep your interests at heart, not just those of the family.’

‘Will I be happy, though?’

‘With the help of the gods, yes. Which is more than might happen to me,’ he added, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I could end up with an old hag who makes my life a misery!’ Quintus was glad, though, to be male. No doubt he would eventually wed, but there would be no unseemly rush to marry him off. Meanwhile, his adolescent libido was being satisfied by Elira, a striking slave girl from Illyricum. She was part of the household, and slept on the floor of the atrium, which facilitated sneaking her into his room at night. Quintus had been bedding her for two months, ever since he’d realised that her sultry looks were being directed at him. As far as he was aware, no one else had any idea of their relationship.

Finally, she smiled. ‘You’re far too handsome for that to happen.’

He laughed off her compliment. ‘Time for breakfast,’ he announced, continuing to move away from the awkward subject of marriage.

To his relief, Aurelia nodded. ‘You’ll need a decent meal to give you energy for the hunt.’

A knot of tension formed in Quintus’ belly, and what appetite he’d had vanished. He would have to eat something, though, even if it was only for appearance’s sake.

Leaving Aurelia chatting to Julius, the avuncular slave who ran the kitchen, Quintus sloped out of the door. He had barely eaten, and he hoped that Aurelia hadn’t noticed. A few steps into the peristyle, or courtyard, he met Elira. She was carrying a basket of vegetables and herbs from the villa’s garden. As usual, she gave him a look full of desire. It was wasted on Quintus this morning. He gave her a reflex smile and brushed past.

‘Quintus!’

He jumped. The voice was one of the most recognisable on the estate. Atia, his mother. Quintus could see no one, which meant that she was probably in the atrium, the family’s primary living space. He hurried past the pattering fountain in the centre of the colonnaded courtyard, and into the cool of the tablinum, the reception room that led to the atrium, and thence the hallway.

‘She’s a good-looking girl.’

Quintus spun to find his mother standing in the shadows by the doors, a good vantage point to look into the peristyle. ‘W-what?’ he stammered.

‘Nothing wrong with bedding a slave, of course,’ she said, approaching. As always, Quintus was struck by her immense poise and beauty. Oscan nobility through and through, Atia was short and slim and took great care with her appearance. A dusting of ochre reddened her high cheekbones. Her eyebrows and the rims of her eyelids had been finely marked out with ash. A dark red stola, or long tunic, belted at the waist, was complemented by a cream shawl. Her long raven-black hair was pinned back by ivory pins, and topped by a diadem. ‘But don’t make it so frequent. It gives them ideas above their station.’

Quintus’ face coloured. He’d never discussed sex with his mother, let alone had his activities commented upon. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that it was she who had brought it up, though, rather than his father. Fabricius was a soldier, but as he often liked to say, his wife had only been prevented from being one by virtue of her sex. Much of the time, Atia was sterner than he was. ‘How did you know?’

Her grey eyes fixed him to the spot. ‘I’ve heard you at night. One would have to be deaf not to.’