Fortune smiled on him. The small balcony that he came upon through a pair of open doors was unlit. By sitting to one side of it, he could avoid being seen from the corridor. With a sigh of relief, he sat on a stone bench and peered out at the city. Slivers of moonlight traced the outline of tiled roofs; shadow filled the spaces in between. Overhead, innumerable stars shone. Off to one side, he could make out the line of the rampart. Now and again, a dog barked. From a distance came the sound of waves lapping against the breakwater. It was the most natural thing in the world to close his eyes.
He woke, shivering with cold. Knuckling away his weariness, Hanno studied the moon. It had started to fall in the sky. Melqart’s beard, he thought, I must have been asleep for hours. He was about to stir, but a movement from the corner of his eye stopped him. He wished that he’d ignored the order to come unarmed, but his concern eased as the shape on the neighbouring balcony, which he hadn’t noticed until that point, was revealed to be a woman. She had a child in her arms, and was rocking it gently to and fro. ‘There, there,’ she whispered. ‘It was a bad dream, my love. Mother’s here. There, there.’
Hanno blinked and listened again. She was talking Latin, not Greek. A Roman woman here had to be a captive or, worse, one of Hippocrates’ whores. Every instinct was telling him to back away silently, and return whence he came, but sympathy — and curiosity — made him stay put.
‘Mother?’ asked the child, a boy.
‘Yes, my love?’
‘When are we going home?’
‘I–I don’t know, my love. Soon, I hope.’ The boy might have missed the catch in his mother’s voice, but Hanno did not. A memory tickled the edge of his still befuddled mind, like a feather.
‘Mistress?’ A second woman spoke from the room which gave on to the balcony.
‘Yes, Elira?’
Hanno felt as if someone had thrown him, head first, into a pool of icy water. He had not heard the name ‘Elira’ since he’d left Quintus’ family home, more than four years before. She’d been an Illyrian, he remembered. How many women of that race, of that name, could serve a Roman mistress? It couldn’t be. Could it?
‘Aurelia?’ he whispered. ‘Aurelia?’
There was a sharp intake of breath, then a frightened voice said: ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’
Hanno cursed his stupidity. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t know who it was on his balcony. ‘Do not fear. I’m just a weary guest from the party. Is your name Aurelia?’
‘How could you know that?’ she demanded, retreating further.
Now Hanno knew it was she. He spoke quickly, in case she grew even more alarmed. ‘Because I am Hanno, he whom your brother Quintus picked out in the slave market in Capua. You were there too.’
‘Hades below! H-Hanno?’ Her voice cracked again.
He went to the edge of the balcony so she could see him better. ‘I’m here.’
She moved towards him, still clutching her son. ‘I’d heard that you might be in the city, but to meet you is beyond all hope!’ She began to weep quietly.
It was Hanno’s turn to struggle with disbelief. ‘Bomilcar found you?’
‘Yes, in Rome.’
‘Who are you talking to, Mother?’ The boy’s voice was sleepy.
‘Just a man, my love.’ Aurelia glanced at Hanno. ‘Give me a moment.’ She disappeared from view.
While she was gone, the hideous image of Agathocles and the women he’d bought — for Hippocrates — filled Hanno’s mind. This could be the only reason for Aurelia’s presence here, in the palace. A rage such as he’d never felt before burst into flames in his belly. Hippocrates, the filthy fucking bastard. He had to get her away — how, Hanno had no idea, but doing nothing was not an option.
‘How long have you been in the city?’ She was back.
‘A few weeks. And you …?’ Hanno didn’t know how to phrase it delicately. ‘You were taken prisoner? Is that how you came to be here?’
‘Yes. Our ship was taken by a Syracusan trireme. My husband’s partner was killed. I have no idea what became of Agesandros, but Elira and I were chosen by one of Hippocrates’ men as … concubines.’ She said the last word with utter venom.
Hanno longed to enfold her in his arms, to tell her that everything would be fine. ‘Let me into your room.’
‘I can’t, Hanno. I’m sorry. We’re locked in.’
He mouthed a silent, savage oath. ‘Then I’ll kick the door down.’
‘And if the guards come?’
Again Hanno cursed. What chance would he have, pissed and unarmed, against Hippocrates’ soldiers? Even if they could be avoided, there were plenty more at the palace’s main gate. There was no way that he, Aurelia, her son and Elira — Hanno had no doubt that Aurelia would insist she came too — would be allowed to leave. He wanted to scream with frustration. ‘I can’t leave you.’
‘You must. For now.’
‘But that monster, Hippocrates-’
‘He can’t hurt me any more. Not when I know you are here.’ Her hand reached out, and he seized it, trying to send all he felt for her through his fingers and into her flesh.
‘I’ll devise a plan for us to escape.’
‘I know you will.’ Her voice had a serenity to it that he wouldn’t have thought possible. It helped to calm him. ‘How can I get word to you?’ he asked.
‘There’s a baker’s near the agora that sells sweetmeats and pastries. They’re the best in Syracuse, or so everyone says. Elira is allowed to go there occasionally, if Hippocrates is pleased with us. That’s the only thing I can think of, unless you can grow wings, and fly up here.’
‘I’ll find her.’ Again he was staggered by her apparent equanimity. Fresh rage washed over him. When Hippocrates ‘is pleased’ with them? Hanno made a spontaneous, heartfelt vow. The filth would die for this. But first, he had to get them out of here.
‘Hades, that hurts!’ grumbled Urceus.
‘Stop being such an old woman. I’m being as gentle as I can.’ Two days had passed, and Quintus was unwinding the bandage that covered Urceus’ wound. The last of the wrapping came away, and Urceus couldn’t quite mask his concern.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
Quintus eyed the inner parts of the bandage, and then the hole on either side of Urceus’ triceps. The fabric was stained with blood, but there was no trace of green. Both wounds were reddened, but their edges weren’t angry-looking. There was a little discharge from each, but it was pink-red, not purulent. ‘It looks good. There’s no smell. The surgeon must have been right.’
Urceus grunted. ‘Aye, maybe salt water is good for killing infection.’
‘Well, that and the acetum he sluiced in there. You squawked when he did that,’ jibed Quintus.
‘As if you wouldn’t have! You’re the one who whines when he gets a stone in the heel of a sandal.’
‘True enough.’ Quintus’ grin was rueful. Picking up the roll of linen that lay by his side, he began to cover Urceus’ wound again. ‘Another week or two and you’ll be able to return to duties, I’d wager.’
‘Good. I want to get back into training with you and the rest of our brothers.’ Urceus made a face. ‘What few of them remain.’
They both fell silent, remembering Wolf, Unlucky and the dozens of others who had died in the carnage of their assault on Syracuse. Their maniple had not been alone in suffering heavy casualties. Exact numbers were always hard to come by, but the word was that more than two thousand legionaries and a similar number of sailors had died in the water that day. The attack on the Hexapyla gate had fared no better, the artillery barrages there being every bit as accurate as in the harbour. Marcellus, it was said, had been incandescent with rage when the news reached him. Upwards of a legion had been lost in total; that didn’t take into account the hundreds who had died of their injuries since. The wounded who yet lived still filled the beds of the makeshift hospitals. Men such as Urceus, whose arm no longer required the attention of a surgeon, had been sent to recover among their comrades. His friend’s improvement had definitely speeded up since then, thought Quintus.