There a small stone altar was decorated with statues of Jupiter, Mars, or Mamers as the Oscans called him, and Diana. Guttering flames issued from the flat, circular oil lamps sitting before each. Effigies of the family’s ancestors hung on the wall above. Most were Fabricius’ ancestors: Romans, the warlike people who had conquered Campania just over a century before, but, in a real testament to his father’s respect for his wife, some were Atia’s forebears: Oscan nobility who had lived in the area for many generations. Naturally, Quintus was fiercely proud of both heritages.
They knelt side by side in the dim light, each making their silent requests of the deities.
Quintus repeated the prayers he’d made in his room. They eased his fear somewhat, but could not dispel it. By the time he had finished, his embarrassment about Elira had subsided. He was still discomfited, however, to find his mother’s eyes upon him as he rose.
‘Your ancestors will be watching over you,’ she murmured. ‘To help with the hunt. To guide your spear. Do not forget that.’
She had seen his fear. Ashamed, Quintus nodded jerkily.
‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you.’ Fabricius came into the room from the hall. Short and compact, his close-cut hair was more grey now than brown. Clean-shaven, he had a ruddier complexion than Quintus, but possessed the same straight nose and strong jawline. He was already wearing his hunting clothes - an old tunic, a belt with an ivory-handled dagger, and heavy-duty leather sandals. Even in civilian dress, he managed to look soldier-like. ‘Made your devotions?’
Quintus nodded.
‘We had best get ready.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Quintus glanced at his mother.
‘Go on,’ Atia urged. ‘I will see you later.’
Quintus took heart. She must think I’ll succeed, he thought.
‘It’s time to choose your spear.’ Fabricius led the way to one of the storerooms, where his weapons and armour were stored. Quintus had only entered the chamber a handful of times, but it was his favourite place in the house. A ripple of excitement flowed through him as his father produced a small key and slipped it into the padlock. It opened with a quiet click. Undoing the latch, Fabricius pulled wide the door, allowing the daylight in.
A dim twilight still dominated the little room, but Quintus’ eyes were immediately drawn to a wooden stand upon which was perched a distinctively shaped, broad-brimmed Boeotian helmet. What made it stand out was its flowing red horsehair crest. Now faded by time, its effect was dramatic nonetheless. Quintus grinned, remembering the day his father had left the door ajar, and he’d illicitly tried the helmet on, imagining himself as a grown man, a cavalryman in one of Rome’s legions. He longed for the day when he’d possess one himself.
A pair of simple bronze greaves made from the same material lay on the floor beneath the helmet. A round cavalry shield, made from ox-hide, was propped up nearby. Leaning against it was a long, bone-handled sword in a leather scabbard bound with bronze fastenings: a gladius hispaniensis. According to his father, the weapon had been adopted by Rome after they had encountered it in the hands of Iberian mercenaries fighting for Carthage. Although it was unusual still for a cavalryman to bear one, virtually every legionary was now armed with a similar sword. Possessing a straight, double-edged blade nearly as long as a man’s arm, the gladius was lethal in the right hands.
Quintus watched in awe as Fabricius traced his fingers affectionately over the helmet, and touched the hilt of the sword. This evidence of his father’s former life fascinated him; he also yearned to learn the same martial skills. While Quintus was proficient at hunting, he had undergone little in the way of weapons training. Romans received this when they joined the army, and that couldn’t happen until he was seventeen. His lessons, which included military history and tactics, and hunting boar, would have to do. For now.
Finally, Fabricius moved to a weapons rack. ‘Take your pick.’
Quintus admired the various types of javelin and hoplite thrusting spears before him, but his needs that day were quite specific. Bringing down a charging bear was very different to taking on an enemy soldier. He needed far more stopping power. Instinctively, his fingers closed on the broad ash shaft of a spear that he had used before. It had a large, double-edged, leaf-shaped blade attached to the rest of the weapon by a long hollow shank. A thick iron spike projected from each side of the base of this. They were designed to prevent the quarry from reaching the person holding the spear. Him, in other words. ‘This one,’ he said, trying to keep his mind clear of such thoughts.
‘A wise choice,’ his father said, sounding relieved. He clapped Quintus on the shoulder. ‘What next?’
He was being given complete control of the hunt, Quintus realised with a thrill. The days and weeks he’d spent learning to track over the previous two years were over. He thought for a moment. ‘Six dogs should be enough. A slave to control each pair. Agesandros can come too: he’s a good hunter, and he can keep an eye on the slaves.’
‘Anything else?’
Quintus laughed. ‘Some food and water would be a good idea, I suppose.’
‘Very good,’ agreed his father. ‘I’ll go to the kitchen and organise those supplies. Why don’t you select the slaves and dogs you want?’
Still astonished by their role reversal, Quintus headed outside. For the first time he felt the full weight of responsibility on his shoulders. It was critical that he make the correct decisions. Bear hunting was extremely dangerous, and men’s lives would depend on him.
Not long after, the little party set off. In the lead was Quintus, with his father walking alongside. Both were unencumbered except for their spears and a water bag each. Next came Agesandros, a Sicilian Greek who had belonged to Fabricius for many years. Trusted by his master, he also carried a hunting spear. A pack hung from his back, containing bread, cheese, onions and a hunk of dried meat.
Through sheer hard work, Agesandros had worked his way up to become the vilicus, the most important slave on the farm. He had not been born into captivity, though. Like many of his people, Agesandros had fought alongside the Romans in the war against Carthage. Captured after a skirmish, he had been sold into slavery by the Carthaginians. It was ironic, thought Hanno, that the Sicilian had become the slave of a Roman. Yet Fabricius and Agesandros got on well. In fact, the overseer had a good relationship with the entire family. His genial manner and willingness to answer questions meant that he had been a favourite with Quintus and Aurelia since they were tiny children. Although he was now aged forty or more, the bandy-legged vilicus was in excellent physical shape, and ruled over the slaves with an iron grip.
Last came three sturdy Gauls, chosen by Quintus because of their affinity with the hunting dogs. One in particular, a squat, tattooed man with a broken nose, spent all his free time with the pack, teaching them new commands. Like the other slaves, the trio had been toiling in the fields under Agesandros’ supervision that morning. It was sowing time, when they had to work from dawn till dusk under the hot sun. The diversion of a bear hunt was therefore most welcome, and they chatted animatedly to each other in their own tongue as they walked. In front of each man ran a pair of large brindle dogs, straining at the leather leashes tied around their throats. With broad heads and heavily muscled bodies, they were the opposite of Fabricius’ smaller dogs, which had tufted ears and feathered flanks. The former were scent hounds, while the latter relied on sight.
The sun beat down from a cloudless sky as they left behind the fields of wheat that surrounded the villa. The sundial in the courtyard had told Quintus it was only just gone hora secunda. The characteristic whirring sound of cicadas was starting up, but the heat haze that hung in the air daily had not yet formed. He led the way along a narrow track that twisted and wound through the olive trees dotting the slopes above the farm.
Having traversed an area of cleared earth, they entered the mixed beech and oak woods that covered most of the surrounding countryside. Although the hills were much lower than th
e Apennines, which ran down Italy’s spine, they were home to an occasional bear. It was unlikely that he would find traces this near the farm, however. Solitary by nature, the large creatures avoided humans if at all possible. Quintus scanned the ground anyway, but seeing nothing, he picked up speed.
Like every other large town, Capua held its own ludi, or games, affording Quintus the opportunity to see a bear fight once before. It had not been a pretty sight. Terrified by the alien environment and baying crowds, the beast had had little chance against two trained hunters armed with spears. He had vivid memories, though, of the tremendous power in its strong jaws and slashing claws. Facing a bear in its own territory, alone, would be an entirely different prospect to the one-sided spectacle he’d witnessed in Capua. Quintus’ stomach clenched into a knot, but his pace did not slacken. Fabricius, like all Roman fathers, held the power of life and death over his son, and he had chosen the task. Quintus could not let down his mother either. It was his duty to succeed. By sunset, I’ll be a man, he thought proudly. Quintus couldn’t help imagining, however, that he might end his days bleeding to death on the forest floor.
They climbed steadily, leaving the deciduous woods behind. Now they were surrounded by pines, junipers and cypress trees. The air grew cooler and Quintus began to worry. He’d seen piles of dung, and treetrunks with distinctive claw marks scratched into the bark, in this area before. Today, he saw nothing that wasn’t weeks, even months, old. He kept going, praying to Diana, the goddess of the hunt, for a sign, but his request was in vain. Not a single bird called; no deer broke from cover. Finally, not knowing what else to do, he stopped, forcing everyone else to do the same. Acutely aware of his father at his back, Agesandros staring, and the Gauls giving each other knowing looks, Quintus racked his brains. He knew this ground like the back of his hand. Where was the best place to find a bear on such a warm day?
Quintus glanced at his father, who simply stared back at him. He would get no help.
Attempting to conceal his laughter, one of the Gauls coughed loudly. Quintus flushed with anger, but Fabricius did nothing. Nor did Agesandros. He looked at his father again, but Fabricius’ gaze was set. He would get no sympathy, and the Gaul no reprimand. Today of all days he had to earn the vilicus’ and the slaves’ respect. Again Quintus pondered. At last an idea popped into his mind.
‘Blackberries,’ he blurted. ‘They love blackberries.’ Higher up, in the clearings on the south-facing slopes, were sprawling bramble bushes, which fruited far earlier than those growing on slopes with a different orientation. Bears spent much of their life in search of food. It was as good a place to look as any.
Right on cue, the staccato sound of a woodpecker broke the silence. A moment later, the noise was repeated from a different location. His pulse racing, Quintus searched the trees, finally seeing not one, but two black woodpeckers. The elusive birds were sacred to Mars, the warrior god. Good omens. Turning on his heel, Quintus headed in an entirely different direction.
His smiling father was close behind, followed by Agesandros and the Gauls.
None was laughing now.
Not long after, Quintus’ prayers were answered in royal style. He’d checked several glades, with no luck. Finally, though, in the shade of a tall pine tree, he found a lump of fresh dung. Its shape, size and distinctive scent was unmistakable, and Quintus could have cheered at the sight. He stuck a finger into the dark brown mass. The centre had not grown completely cold, which meant that a bear had passed by in the recent past. There were also plenty of brambles nearby. Jerking his head at the tattooed man, Quintus pointed at the ground. The Gaul trotted up, and his two dogs instantly converged on the pile of evidence. Both began whining frantically, alternately sniffing the dung and the air. Quintus’ pulse quickened, and the Gaul gave him an enquiring look.
‘Let them loose,’ ordered Quintus. He glanced at the other slaves. ‘Those too.’
Aurelia’s foul mood crept up on her after Quintus and their father had left. The reason for her ill humour was simple. While her brother went hunting for a bear, she had to help her mother, who was supervising the slaves in the garden outside the villa. This was one of the busiest times of the year, when the plants were shooting up out of the ground. Lovage sat alongside mustard greens, coriander, sorrel, rue and parsley. The vegetables were even more numerous, and provided the family with food for most of the year. There were cucumbers, leeks, cabbages, root vegetables, as well as fennel and brassicas. Onions, a staple of any good recipe, were grown in huge numbers. Garlic, favoured for both its strong flavour and its medicinal properties, was also heavily cultivated.
Aurelia knew that she was being childish. A few weeks earlier, she had enjoyed setting the lines where the herbs and vegetables would grow, showing the slaves where to dig the holes and ensuring that they watered each with just the right amount of water. As usual, she had reserved the job of dropping the tiny seeds into place for herself. It was something she’d done since she was little. Today, with the plants growing well, the main tasks consisted of watering them and pulling any weeds that had sprouted up nearby. Aurelia couldn’t have cared less. As far as she was concerned, the whole garden could fall into rack and ruin. She stood sulkily off to one side, watching her mother direct operations. Even Elira, with whom she got on well, could not persuade her to join in.
Atia ignored her for a while, but eventually she had had enough. ‘Aurelia!’ she called. ‘Come over here.’
With dragging feet, she made her way to her mother’s side.
‘I thought you liked gardening,’ Atia said brightly.
‘I do,’ muttered Aurelia.
‘Why aren’t you helping?’
‘I don’t feel like it.’ She was acutely aware that every slave present was craning their neck to hear, and hated it.
Atia didn’t care who heard her. ‘Are you ill?’ she demanded.
‘No.’
‘What is it then?’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Aurelia mumbled.
Atia’s eyebrows rose. ‘Really? Try me.’
‘It’s …’ Aurelia caught the nearest slave staring at her. Her furious glare succeeded in making him look away, but she got little satisfaction from this. Her mother was still waiting expectantly. ‘It’s Quintus,’ she admitted.
‘Have you had an argument?’
‘No.’ Aurelia shook her head. ‘Nothing like that.’
Tapping a foot, Atia waited for further clarification. A moment later, it was clear that it would not be forthcoming. Her nostrils flared. ‘Well?’
Aurelia could see that her mother’s patience would not last much longer. In that moment, however, she caught sight of a buzzard hanging overhead on the thermals. It was hunting. Like Quintus. Aurelia’s anger resurged and she forgot about their captive audience. ‘It’s not fair,’ she cried. ‘I’m stuck here, in the garden, while he gets to track down a bear.’
Atia did not look surprised. ‘I wondered if that was what this is about. So you would also hunt?’
Glowering, Aurelia nodded. ‘Like Diana, the huntress.’
Her mother frowned. ‘You’re not a goddess.’
‘I know, but …’ Aurelia half turned, so the slaves could not see the tears in her eyes.
Atia’s face softened. ‘Come now. You’re a young woman, or will be soon. A beautiful one too. Consequently, your path will be very different to that of your brother.’ She held up a finger to quell Aurelia’s protest. ‘That doesn’t mean your destiny is without value. Do you think I am worthless?’
Aurelia was aghast. ‘Of course not, Mother.’
Atia’s smile was broad, and reassuring. ‘Precisely. I may not fight or go to war, but my position is powerful nonetheless. Your father relies on me for a multitude of things - as your husband will one day. Maintaining the household is but one small part of it.’
‘But you and Father chose to marry each other,’ Aurelia protested. ‘For love!’
‘We were lucky in that respect,
’ her mother acknowledged. ‘Yet we did so without the approval of either of our families. Because we refused to follow their wishes not to wed, they cut us off.’ Atia’s face grew sad. ‘It made life quite difficult for many years. I never saw my parents again, for example. They never met you or Quintus.’
Aurelia was flattered. She’d never heard any of this before. ‘Surely it was worth it?’ she pleaded.
There was a slow nod. ‘It may have been, but I would not want the same hard path for you.’
Aurelia bridled. ‘Better that, surely, than being married to some fat old man?’
‘That won’t happen to you. Your father and I are not monsters.’ Atia lowered her voice. ‘But realise this, young lady: we will arrange your betrothal to someone of our choice. Is that clear?’
Seeing the steel in her mother’s eyes, Aurelia gave in. ‘Yes.’
Atia sighed, glad that her misgivings had gone unnoticed. ‘We understand each other then.’ Seeing Aurelia’s apprehension, she paused. ‘Do not fear. You will have love in your marriage. It can develop over time. Ask Martialis, Father’s old friend. He and his wife were betrothed to each other by their families, and ended up devoted to one another.’ She held out her hand. ‘Now, it’s time to get stuck in. Life goes on regardless of how we feel, and our family relies on this garden.’
With a faint smile, Aurelia reached out to grasp her mother’s fingers. Maybe things weren’t as bad as she’d thought.
All the same, she couldn’t help glancing up at the buzzard, and thinking of Quintus.
Quintus had followed the pack for perhaps a quarter of an hour before there was any hint that the quarry had been found. Then a loud yelping bark rang out from the trees ahead. It quickly died away to a shrill, repetitive whine. With a racing heart, Quintus came to a halt. The dogs’ role was merely to bring the bear to bay, but there was always one more eager than its fellows. Its fate was unfortunate, but unavoidable. What mattered was that the bear had been found. In confirmation, a renewed succession of growls was met by a deep, threatening rumble.