The figure straightened, and the hood of his cloak whipped back. ‘Sapho?’
‘Bostar?’ said Sapho incredulously.
‘Yes,’ his brother replied. ‘Can we talk?’
Sapho staggered as a particularly savage gust of wind struck him. He watched, aghast, as it buffeted an unsuspecting Bostar sideways and on to one knee. As he struggled to stand up, another blast of air hit, carrying him backwards and out into the blackness.
Sapho couldn’t believe his eyes. He ran to the edge of the precipice, where he was astonished to find his brother clinging desperately to the protruding branch of a stunted bush several steps below him.
‘Help me!’ Bostar shouted.
Silently, Sapho stared down at him. Why should I? he asked himself. Of what benefit is it to me?
‘What are you waiting for?’ Bostar’s voice cracked. ‘This damn branch will never hold!’ Seeing the look in Sapho’s eyes, he blanched. ‘You want me to die, don’t you? Just as you were happy when Hanno was lost.’
Sapho’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with guilt. How could Bostar know that? Still he didn’t act.
The branch split.
‘Fuck you to hell and gone!’ screamed Bostar. Letting go with his left hand, he threw himself forward, searching for a fingerhold on the track. There would only be a moment before his body weight pulled him backwards and into the abyss. Knowing this, Bostar scrabbled frantically to gain any kind of purchase in the rock-hard, ice- covered earth. He found none. With a despairing cry, he started to slide backwards.
Sapho’s gut instinct took over, and he leaned forward to grab his brother by the shoulders. With a great yank, he pulled him up and over the edge. A second effort saw them several paces away, on safer ground. They lay side by side for a few moments, their chests heaving. Bostar was the first to sit up. ‘Why did you save me?’
Sapho met his gaze with difficulty. ‘I’m not a murderer.’
‘No,’ Bostar snapped. ‘But you were glad when Hanno vanished, weren’t you? With him out of the way, you had a chance to become Father’s favourite.’
Shame filled Sapho. ‘I-’
‘It’s strange,’ said Bostar, interrupting. ‘If I had died just now, you’d have Father all to yourself. Why didn’t you let me slip into oblivion?’
‘You’re my brother,’ Sapho protested weakly.
‘I might be, but you still stood there, looking at me when I first fell,’ Bostar retorted furiously. He regained control of himself. ‘Yet I have you to thank for saving my life. I am grateful, and I will repay my debt if I can.’ He carefully spat on the ground between them. ‘After that, you will be dead to me.’
Sapho’s mouth gaped. He watched as Bostar got up and walked away. ‘What will you tell Father?’ he called out.
Bostar turned, a contemptuous expression twisting his face. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll say nothing.’ With that, he was gone.
Right on cue, a blast of icy wind hit Sapho, chilling him to the bone.
He had never felt more alone.
Quintus’ and Hanno’s departure left Aurelia feeling abandoned. Finding an excuse to head off to visit Suniaton was far from easy. She could not confide in her mother for obvious reasons, and she didn’t like, or trust, her old Greek tutor. She was friendly with Elira, but the Illyrian had been in a bad mood recently, which made her poor company. Julius was the only other household slave Aurelia could be bothered with. After the excitement of her trips to the woods, however, discussion about what was on next week’s menu was of little interest. Inevitably, she spent most of her time with her mother, who, since they’d been left alone, had thrown herself into household tasks with a vengeance. It was, Aurelia supposed, Atia’s way of coping with Quintus’ disappearance.
Foremost among their jobs was dealing with the vast amount of wool stockpiled in one of the sheds in the yard. It had been shorn from the sheep during the summer, and in the subsequent months, the women slaves had stripped the twigs and vegetation from the fleeces, before dyeing them a variety of colours: red, yellow, blue and black. Once dyed, the wool was ready for spinning, and then weaving. Although the majority of this work was done by slaves, Atia also contributed to the effort. She insisted Aurelia did so as well. Day after day, they sat in or walked around the courtyard, distaffs and spindles in hand, retreating to the atrium only if it rained.
‘It’s the job of a woman to keep the house and work in wool,’ said Atia one crisp morning. Deftly pulling a few unspun fibres from the bundle on her distaff, she attached them to her spindle and set it spinning. Her eyes lifted to Aurelia. ‘Are you listening, child?’
‘Yes,’ Aurelia replied, grateful that Atia hadn’t noticed her rolling eyes. ‘You’ve told me that a thousand times.’
‘That’s because it’s true,’ her mother replied primly. ‘It’s the mark of a good wife to be proficient at spinning and weaving. You’d do well to remember that.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Aurelia dutifully. Inside, she imagined that she was practising with a gladius.
‘No doubt your father and Quintus will be grateful for any cloaks and tunics that we can send them too. I believe that the winters in Iberia can be harsh.’
Guiltily, Aurelia applied herself to her task with more vigour. This was the only tangible way of helping her brother. She was shocked to find herself wishing that she could do the same for Hanno. He’s one of the enemy now, she told herself. ‘Has there been any more news?’
‘You know there hasn’t.’ There was an unmistakable trace of irritation in Atia’s voice. ‘Father will have no time to write to us. With the gods’ blessing, however, he’ll have reached Iberia by now.’
‘With luck, Quintus will find him soon,’ Aurelia responded.
Atia’s composure cracked for an instant, revealing the sorrow beneath. ‘What was he thinking to go on his own?’
Aurelia’s heart bled to see her mother so upset. Until now, she hadn’t mentioned that Hanno had left with her brother. Saying nothing made things far simpler. Now, though, her resolve wavered.
A discreet cough prevented her from saying a word. Aurelia was annoyed to see Agesandros standing by the atrium doors.
In the blink of an eye, Atia’s self-possession returned. ‘Agesandros.’
‘My lady,’ he said, bowing. ‘Aurelia.’
Aurelia gave the Sicilian a withering look. Since his accusation of Hanno, she had avoided him like the plague. Now he had stopped her from consoling her mother.
‘What is it?’ asked Atia. ‘A problem with the olive harvest?’
‘No, mistress.’ He hesitated. ‘I have come to make an apology. To Aurelia.’
Atia’s eyebrows rose. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing that I shouldn’t have, mistress,’ said Agesandros reassuringly. ‘But the whole business with the Carthaginian slave was most… unfortunate.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ Aurelia interjected acidly.
Atia raised a hand, stalling her protest. ‘Continue.’
Publius was incensed, upon his arrival in Pisae nearly a week later, to be greeted by a messenger from the Senate. The consul’s only thought was to travel north, to Cisalpine Gaul, and there take control of the legions presently commanded by a praetor, Lucius Manlius Vulso. Yet the note Publius was handed suggested in no uncertain terms that it would be judicious to report to the Senate before taking further action against Hannibal. This was necessary because, as Publius spat at Flaccus, he had ‘“exceeded his consular remit, by deciding not to proceed to Iberia with his army”.’
Flaccus innocently studied his fingernails.
‘Someone must have sent word before we left Massilia,’ Publius raged, staring pointedly at Flaccus. ‘Yet nowhere do I see any mention of the word provocatio. In other words, I could ignore this disrespectful note. I probably should. With every day that goes by, Hannibal and his army march closer to our northern borders. Sempronius has no chance of travelling from Sicily quicker than I can reach the north. Journeying to Rome will delay me by two weeks, or more. If Hannibal turns up during that time, the result could be catastrophic.’
‘That would scarcely be my fault,’ Flaccus replied smoothly.
Publius’ nostrils flared white with fury. ‘Is that so?’
Flaccus had the sense not to answer.
Reading the missive again, Publius composed himself. ‘I will return to Rome as asked, but any responsibility
