Hannibal Enemy of Rome (10 page)

The next morning, Hanno had not returned home. In itself, that was not particularly unusual. But the hours passed, and still there was no sign of him. At midday, Bostar began to look worried. He paced up and down the corridor from the courtyard, checking the street for his youngest brother. By the early afternoon, he could take it no more. ‘Where is Hanno?’

‘Nursing a hangover somewhere, probably,’ Sapho growled.

Bostar pursed his lips. ‘He’s never been this late before.’

‘Maybe he heard about Father’s speech, and got even drunker than normal.’ Sapho looked at their father for approval. Surprisingly, he got none.

Malchus’ face now also registered concern. ‘You’re right, Bostar. Hanno always comes back in time for his lessons. I’d forgotten, but this afternoon, at his request, we were to discuss the battle of Ecnomus again.’

Sapho frowned. ‘He wouldn’t miss it then.’

‘Precisely.’

Suddenly, the situation felt very different.

A familiar voice cut through their dismay. ‘Malchus? Are you at home?’

All three turned to see a stout, bearded man appearing in the courtyard’s entrance. A long cream linen robe reached almost to his feet, and a headcloth concealed his hair.

Bowing, Malchus hurried forward. ‘Bodesmun. I am honoured by your presence.’

Behind him, Sapho and Bostar were also making obeisance. Eshmoun was not their family’s favoured god, but he was an important deity. His temple at the top of Byrsa Hill was the largest in Carthage, and Bodesmun was one of the senior priests there.

‘Can I offer you refreshment?’ asked Malchus. ‘Some wine or pomegranate juice? Bread and honey?’

Bodesmun waved a podgy hand in dismissal. His round, gentle face was worried. ‘Thank you, but no.’

Malchus was nonplussed. He had little in common with a peace-loving priest. ‘How can I help you?’ he enquired awkwardly.

‘It’s about Suniaton.’

Malchus’ response was instant. ‘What’s Hanno made him do?’

Bodesmun managed a weak grin. ‘It’s nothing like that. Have you seen Suni today?’

Malchus’ heart gave an involuntary leap. ‘No. I could ask you the same about Hanno.’

The smile left Bodesmun’s face. ‘He hasn’t returned yet either?’

‘No. Apparently, the tunny were running in their thousands yesterday. Any fool with a net could catch a boatload, and I’m sure they did the same. When Hanno didn’t return, I presumed they had gone out to celebrate,’ Malchus replied heavily, his imagination already running riot. ‘It’s odd that you should arrive when you did. I was just starting to get worried. Hanno has never skipped a lesson on tactics before.’

‘Suni has never missed the devotions in the temple at midday either.’

Bostar’s face fell. Even Sapho frowned.

The two older men stared at each other in disbelief. All at once, they had a great deal in common. Bodesmun was close to tears. ‘What should we do?’ he asked in a quavering voice.

Malchus refused to let the panic that had flared in his breast grow. He was a soldier. ‘There’ll be some easy explanation to this,’ he declared. ‘We might have to check every inn and whorehouse in Carthage, but we’ll find them.’

Bodesmun’s normal commanding demeanour had disappeared. He nodded meekly.

‘Sapho! Bostar!’

‘Yes, Father,’ they replied in unison, eager to be given something to do. By now, Bostar was distraught. Sapho didn’t look happy either.

‘Rouse as many soldiers as you can from the barracks,’ Malchus ordered. ‘I want the city combed from top to bottom. Concentrate on their favourite haunts around the ports. You know the ones.’

They nodded.

Despite his best efforts, Malchus’ temper frayed. ‘Go on, then! When you’re done, find me here, or in the Agora.’

Bostar turned at the entrance to the corridor. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Talk to the fishermen at the Choma,’ Malchus answered grimly. His mind was full of the storm that had battered the city the previous night. ‘I want to know if anyone saw them yesterday.’ He glanced at Bodesmun. ‘Coming?’

The priest pulled himself together. ‘Of course.’

With a sinking feeling in their bellies, they left the house.

On the Choma, Malchus and Bodesmun found scores of the fishermen who plied the waters off the city. Their day’s work was long done. With their boats tied up nearby, they lounged about, gossiping and repairing holes in their nets. Unsurprisingly, the appearance of a noble and a high-ranking priest filled them with awe. Most went their entire lives without ever being in the presence of someone so far up the social scale. Their guttural argot was also quite hard to understand. Consequently, it was hard to get a word of sense out of them.

‘We’re wasting our time. They’re all idiots,’ Malchus muttered in frustration. He forced himself not to scream and lash out with rage. Losing his temper would be completely counterproductive. The best chance of discovering anything about their sons’ disappearance was surely to be found here.

‘Not all, perhaps.’ Bodesmun indicated a wiry figure sitting on an upturned boat, whose silver hair marked him out as older than his companions. ‘Let’s ask him.’

They strolled over. ‘Well met,’ Bodesmun said politely. ‘The blessings of the gods be upon you.’

‘The same to you and your friend,’ replied the old man respectfully.

‘We come in search of answers to some questions,’ Malchus announced.

The other nodded, unsurprised. ‘I was thinking that you were after more than fresh fish.’

‘Were you out on the water yesterday?’

There was a faint smile. ‘With the tunny running like they were? Of course I was. It’s just a shame that the weather changed so early, or it would have been the best day’s catch in the last five years.’

‘Did you see a small skiff, perhaps?’ Malchus asked. ‘With two crew. Young men, well dressed.’

His urgent tone and Bodesmun’s anxious stance would have been obvious to all but an imbecile. Nonetheless, the old man did not answer immediately. Instead, he closed his eyes.

Each instant that went by felt like an eternity to Malchus. He clenched his fists to stop himself from grabbing the other by the throat.

It was Bodesmun who cracked first. ‘Well?’

The old man’s eyes opened. ‘I did spot them, yes. A tall lad and a shorter, stockier one. Well dressed, as you say. They’re out here regularly. A friendly pair.’

Malchus and Bodesmun gave each other a look full of hope, and fear.

‘When did you last see them?’

The old man’s expression became wary. ‘I’m not sure.’

Malchus knew when he was being lied to. A tidal wave of dread swamped him. There was only one reason for the other to withhold the truth. ‘Tell us,’ he commanded. ‘You will come to no harm. I swear it.’

The old man studied Malchus’ face for a moment. ‘I believe you.’ Taking a deep breath, he began. ‘When the wind rose sharply, I saw that a storm was coming. I quickly pulled my net on board and headed for the Choma. Everyone else was doing the same. Or so I thought. When I was safe on dry land, I saw one skiff still over the tunny. I knew it for the young men’s craft by its shape. At first I imagined that they had been consumed by greed and were trying to catch even more fish, but as it was carried out of sight, I realised I was mistaken.’

‘Why?’ Bodesmun’s voice was strangled.

‘The boat appeared to be empty. I wondered if they’d fallen overboard and drowned. That seemed improbable, for the sea was still not that rough yet.’ The old man frowned. ‘I came to the assumption that they were asleep. Oblivious to the weather.’

‘What do you take us for?’ cried Malchus. ‘One dozing, maybe, but both of them?’

The old man quailed before Malchus’ wrath, but Bodesmun laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘That is a possibility.’

Wild-eyed, Malchus turned on Bodesmun. ‘Eh?’

‘A flask of good wine is missing from my cellar.’

Malchus gave him a blank look. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Suniaton is the likely culprit,’ Bodesmun revealed sadly. ‘They must have drunk the wine and then fallen asleep.’

‘When the wind began to rise, they didn’t even notice,’ Malchus whispered in horror.

Tears formed in Bodesmun’s eyes.

‘So they were just washed out to sea?’ Malchus muttered in disbelief.
‘You are old. I can understand why you might have held back, but those?’ Furiously, he indicated the younger fishermen. ‘Why did none of them help?’

The old man found his voice once more. ‘They were your sons, I take it?’

Anguish overtook Malchus’ fury, and he nodded.

The other’s eyes filled with an unhealed sorrow. ‘I lost my only child to the sea ten years hence. A son. It is the gods’ way.’ There was a short pause. ‘The rules of survival are simple. When a storm strikes, it is every craft for itself. Even then, death is quite likely. Why would those men risk their own lives for two youths they barely knew? Otherwise Melqart would likely have had more corpses entering his kingdom.’ He fell silent.

Part of Malchus wanted to have every person in sight crucified, but he knew that it would be a pointless gesture. Glancing back at the old man, he was struck by his calm manner. All his deference had vanished. Looking once more into the other’s eyes, Malchus understood why. What difference would threats make here? The man’s only son was dead. He felt strangely humbled. At least he still had Sapho and Bostar.

Beside him, silent sobs racked Bodesmun’s shoulders.

‘Two deaths is enough,’ Malchus acknowledged with a heavy sigh. ‘I’m grateful for your time.’ He began fumbling in his purse.

‘I need no payment,’ the old man intoned. ‘Such terrible news is beyond a price.’

Mumbling his thanks, Malchus walked away. He was barely aware of a weeping Bodesmun following him. While he retained his composure, Malchus too was riven by grief. He had expected to lose one son - perhaps more - in the impending war with Rome, but not beforehand, and so easily. Had Arishat’s death not been enough unexpected tragedy for one lifetime? At least he’d been able to say goodbye to her. With Hanno, there hadn’t even been that chance.

It all seemed so cruel, and so utterly pointless.

Several days went by. The friends were kept on the forecastle and given just enough food to keep them alive: crusts of stale bread, a few mouthfuls of cold millet porridge and the last, brackish drops from a clay water gourd. Their bonds were untied twice a day for a short period, allowing them to stretch the cramped muscles in their arms and upper backs. They
soon learned to answer calls of nature at these times, because at others their guards would laugh at any request for help. On one occasion, desperate, Hanno had been forced to soil himself.

Fortunately, Varsaco was not allowed near them, although he sent frequent murderous glances in their direction. Hanno was pleased to note that the overseer walked with a decided limp for days. Other than making sure Hanno was recovering from his injuries, the Egyptian ignored them, even moving his blankets to the base of the mast. Strangely, Hanno felt some pride at this clear indication of their value. Their solitude also meant that the pair had plenty of occasions to confer with each other. They spent all their time plotting ways to escape. Of course both knew that their fantasies were merely an attempt to keep their spirits up.

The bireme reached the rugged coastline of Sicily, travelling past the walled towns of Heraclea, Acragas and Camarina. Keeping a reasonable distance out to sea meant that any Roman or Sicilian triremes could be avoided. The Egyptian made sure that the friends saw Mount Ecnomus, the peak off which the Carthaginians had suffered one of their greatest defeats to the Romans. Naturally, Hanno had heard the story many times. Sailing over the very water where so many of his countrymen had lost their lives nearly forty years before filled him with a burning rage: partly against the Egyptian for his lascivious telling of the tale, but mainly against the Romans, for what they had done to Carthage. The
corvus
, a spiked boarding bridge suspended from a pole on every enemy trireme, had been an ingenious invention. Once dropped on to the Carthaginian ships’ decks, it had allowed the legionaries to storm across, fighting just as they would on land. In one savage day, Carthage had lost nearly a hundred ships, and her navy had never recovered from the blow.

A day or so after rounding Cape Pachynus, the southernmost point of Sicily, the bireme neared the magnificent stronghold of Syracuse. Originally built by the Corinthians more than five hundred years before, its immense fortifications sprawled from the triangular-shaped plateau of Epipolae on the rocky outcrop above the sea, right down to the island of Ortygia at the waterline. Syracuse was the capital of a powerful city-state, which controlled the eastern half of Sicily and was ruled by the aged tyrant Hiero, a long-term ally of the Republic, and enemy of Carthage. The Egyptian took his ship to within half a mile of the port before deciding
not to enter it. Large numbers of Roman triremes were visible, the captains of which would relish crucifying any pirates who fell into their hands.

It mattered little to Hanno and Suniaton where they landed. In fact, the longer their journey continued, the better. It delayed the reality of their fate.