Hannibal Enemy of Rome (14 page)

Aurelia was fascinated, while Quintus was delighted. He had made a good choice. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Hanno,’ the Carthaginian answered. He indicated his comrade. ‘That’s Suniaton. He’s my best friend.’

‘Why didn’t you answer the overseer’s question?’

For the first time, Hanno met his gaze. ‘Would you?’

Quintus was thrown by his directness. ‘No … I suppose not.’

Encouraged, Hanno turned to Aurelia. ‘Buy us both - I beg you. Otherwise my friend could be sold as a gladiator.’

Quintus and Aurelia glanced at each other in surprise. This was no peasant from a faraway land. Hanno was well educated, and from a good family. So was his friend. It was a bizarre, and uncomfortable, feeling.

‘We require one slave. Not two.’ Agesandros’ clarion voice was a harsh call back to reality.

‘We could come to some arrangement, I’m sure,’ said Solinus ingratiatingly.

‘No, we couldn’t,’ the Sicilian snarled, cowing him into submission. He addressed Quintus. ‘The last thing the farm needs is an extra mouth to feed. Your father will already want to know why we spent so much. Best not blow any more of his money, eh?’

Quintus wanted to argue, but Agesandros was right. They only needed one slave. He gave Aurelia a helpless look. Her tiny, anguished shrug told him she felt the same way. ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he said to Hanno.

The smirk of satisfaction that flickered across Agesandros’ lips went unnoticed by all except Hanno.

The two slaves exchanged a long glance, laden with feeling. ‘May the gods guide your path,’ Hanno said in Carthaginian. ‘Stay strong. I will pray for you every day.’

Suniaton’s chin trembled. ‘If you ever get home, tell my father that I am sorry,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Ask him for his forgiveness.’

‘I swear it,’ vowed Hanno, his voice choking. ‘And he will grant it, you may be sure of that.’

Quintus and Aurelia could not speak Carthaginian but it was impossible to misunderstand the overwhelming emotion passing between the two slaves. Quintus took his sister’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can’t buy every slave in the market.’ He led her away, without looking at Suniaton again.

Agesandros waited until they were out of earshot, then he whispered venomously in Hanno’s ear, in Carthaginian. ‘It wasn’t my choice to buy a gugga. But now you and I are going to have a pleasant time on the farm. Don’t think you can run away either. See those types over there?’

Hanno studied the gang of unshaven, roughly dressed men some distance away. Every one was heavily armed, and they were watching the proceedings like hawks.

‘They are fugitivarii,’ Agesandros explained. ‘For the right price, they’ll track down any man. Bring him back alive, or dead. With his balls, or without. Even in little pieces. Is that clear?’

‘Yes.’ A leaden feeling of dread filled Hanno’s belly.

‘Good. We understand each other.’ The Sicilian grinned. ‘Follow me.’ He strode off after Quintus and Aurelia.

Hanno turned to look at Suniaton one last time. His heart felt as if it was going to rip apart. It hurt even to breathe. Whatever his fate, Suni’s would undoubtedly be worse.

‘You can’t help me,’ Suniaton mouthed. Remarkably, his face was calm. ‘Go.’

Hot tears blinded Hanno at last. He turned and stumbled away.

Carthage

IN WHAT HAD
become his daily routine, Malchus finished his breakfast and left the house. Although Bostar had already shipped for Iberia, Sapho was still at home. However, he mostly stayed at his rooms in the garrison’s quarters. When Sapho did call by, it was rare for him even to mention Hanno, which Malchus found slightly odd. It was his eldest son’s way of dealing with bereavement, he supposed. His was to shun all human contact. It meant that apart from the rare occasions when he had visitors, Malchus’ only companions were the domestic slaves. It had been thus since Hanno’s disappearance a few weeks before. Scared of Malchus’ fierce temper and obvious sorrow, the slaves tiptoed around, trying not to attract his attention. In consequence, Malchus was even more aware of - and annoyed by them. While he longed to lash out, the slaves were not to blame, so he bit down on his anger, bottling it up. Yet he could not bear to stay indoors, staring at the four walls, obsessed with thoughts of Hanno, his beloved youngest son - his favourite son - whom he would never see again.

Malchus headed towards the city’s twin harbours. Alone. The adage that one’s grief eased with time was utter nonsense, he thought bitterly. In fact, it grew by the day. Sometimes he wondered if his sorrow would overcome him. Render him unable to carry on. A moment later, Malchus caught sight of Bodesmun. He cursed under his breath. He found it increasingly hard even to look at Suniaton’s father. The opposite seemed true of the priest, who sought him out at every opportunity.

Bodesmun raised a solemn hand in greeting. ‘Malchus. How are you today?’

Malchus scowled. ‘The same. And you?’

Bodesmun’s face crumpled with anguish. ‘Not good.’

Malchus sighed. The same thing happened every time they met. Priests were supposed to lead by example, not crack under pressure. He had enough problems of his own without having to deal with Bodesmun’s too. Was he not carrying the weight of two losses on his shoulders? Malchus’ rational side knew that he was not responsible for the death of either Arishat, his wife, or Hanno, but the rest of him did not. During the frequent nights when he lay awake, Malchus had become painfully aware that his self-righteousness was partly to blame for Hanno’s bad behaviour. After Arishat’s death, he had become somewhat of a fanatic, interested in nothing except Hannibal Barca’s plans for the future. There had been no brightness or light in the house, no laughter or fun. Sapho and Bostar, already adult men, had not been so affected by his melancholy, but it had hit Hanno hard. Since that realisation, guilt had clawed at Malchus constantly. I should have spent more time with him, he thought. Even gone fishing, instead of droning on about ancient battles. ‘It’s hard,’ he said, doing his best to be sympathetic. He ushered the priest out of the way of a passing cart. ‘Very hard.’

‘The pain,’ Bodesmun whispered miserably. ‘It just gets worse.’

‘I know,’ Malchus agreed. ‘There are only two things I know of that make it ease somewhat.’

A spark of interest lit in Bodesmun’s sorrowful brown eyes. ‘Tell me, please.’

‘The first is my loathing of Rome and everything it stands for,’ Malchus spat. ‘For years, it seemed that the opportunity for revenge would never come. Hannibal has changed all this. At last, Carthage has a chance at settling the score!’

‘It’s more than two decades since the war in Sicily ended,’ Bodesmun protested. ‘More than a generation.’

‘That’s right.’ Malchus could remember how weakened the flames of his hatred had been before Hannibal’s emergence on to the scene. Now, they had been fanned white-hot by his grief for Hanno. ‘Even greater reason not to forget.’

‘That can be of no help to me. Begetting violence is not Eshmoun’s way,’ Bodesmun murmured. ‘What’s your other means of coping?’

‘I scour the streets near the merchant port, listening to conversations
and studying faces,’ Malchus answered. Seeing the confusion on the other’s face, he explained. ‘Looking for a clue, the smallest snippet of information, anything that might help to ascertain what happened to Hanno and Suni.’

Bodesmun looked baffled. ‘But we know what took place. The old man told us.’

‘I know,’ Malchus muttered, embarrassed at having to reveal his innermost secret. He had spent a fortune on sacrifices to Melqart, the ‘King of the City’, his sole request being that the god had somehow seen a way to prevent the boys’ boat from sinking. Of course, he’d had no answer, but he wouldn’t give up. ‘It’s just possible that they might be alive. That someone found them.’

Bodesmun’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a dangerous thing to go on believing,’ he said. ‘Be careful.’

Malchus’ nod was brittle. ‘How do you go on?’

Bodesmun looked up at the sky. ‘I pray to my god. I ask him to look after them both in paradise.’

That was too much for Malchus. Too final. ‘I have to go,’ he muttered. He strode off, leaving a forlorn Bodesmun in his wake.

A short while later, Malchus reached the Agora. Seeing large numbers of senators and politicians, he cursed. He’d forgotten that there was an important debate on this morning. He considered changing his plans and attending, but decided against it. The majority in the Senate now backed Hannibal solidly, and this was unlikely to change in the foreseeable future. As well as restoring Carthaginian pride with his conquests of Iberian tribes and intimidation of Saguntum, a Roman ally, Hannibal had helped to restore the city’s wealth. Although his long-term plans weren’t common knowledge, there could be few elders who didn’t suspect the truth.

Catching sight of Hostus, Malchus’ lip curled. He for one thought war against Rome was coming, and was forever speaking out against it. The fool, thought Malchus. As Carthage’s prosperity and pride returned, so conflict with Rome was inevitable. The annexation of Sardinia was a primary reason, and just one example of the wrongs visited upon his people by the Republic. In recent years it had continued to treat them in a disrespectful manner. Constantly sending snooping embassies to Iberia, where it had no jurisdiction, Rome had forged an alliance with Saguntum, a Greek city
many hundreds of miles from Italy. It had then had the effrontery to impose a unilateral treaty on Carthage, forcing it not to expand its territories northwards towards Gaul.

Deep in thought, Malchus did not see Hostus recognise him. By the time the fat man had waddled self-importantly to his side, it was too late to get away. Cursing his decision to take the shorter route to the harbours, Malchus gave Hostus a curt nod.

Hostus flashed a greasy smile. ‘Not coming to the debate this morning?’

‘No.’ Malchus tried to brush past.

Moving adroitly for his size, Hostus blocked the way. ‘We have noted your absence in the chamber of late. Missed your valuable insights.’

Malchus stopped in his tracks. Hostus wouldn’t care if he died, let alone wasn’t present at council meetings. He fixed the other with a flinty stare. ‘What do you want?’

‘I know that of late you have had more important things than Carthage on your mind.’ Hostus leered. ‘Family matters.’

Malchus wanted to choke Hostus until his eyeballs popped out, but he knew that would be rising to the bait. ‘Of course you always act for the good of Carthage,’ he snapped. ‘Never for the silver from the Iberian mines.’

A tinge of colour reddened Hostus’ round cheeks. ‘The city has no more loyal servant than I,’ he blustered.

Malchus had had enough. He elbowed past without another word.

Hostus wasn’t finished. ‘If you tire of visiting Melqart’s temple, there is always the Tophet of Baal Hammon.’

Malchus spun around. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard me.’ Hostus’ smile was more of a grimace. ‘You may have only livestock to offer, but there are plenty in the slums who will sell a newborn or young child for a handful of coins.’ Seeing Malchus’ temper rising, Hostus gave him a reproving look. ‘Such sacrifices have saved Carthage before. Who is to say a suitable offering would not please Baal Hammon and bring your son back?’

Hostus’ barbed taunt sank deep, but Malchus knew that the best form of defence was attack. Give the dog no satisfaction. ‘Hanno is dead,’ he hissed. ‘Any fool knows that.’

Hostus flinched.

Malchus poked a finger in his chest. ‘Unlike you, I would not murder another’s child to make a request of a god. Nor would I have ever offered my own, unlike some around here. To do so is the mark of a savage. Not of someone who truly loves Carthage and would lay down his own life for it.’ Leaving Hostus gaping in his wake, Malchus stalked off.

His patrol of the port area that morning yielded nothing. It was little more than Malchus had come to expect. He had overheard talk of the weather conditions between Carthage and Sicily, the most auspicious place to make an offering to the Scylla, and an argument over which of the city’s whorehouses was best. He’d seen merchant captains holding guarded conversations, trying to glean information from each other without giving away any of their own, and drunken sailors singing as they weaved back to their ships. Housewives sat in the open doorways of their houses, working their spinning wheels, but the whores had gone to bed. Trickles of smoke rose from the chimneys of the pottery kilns a short distance away. The open-fronted taverns that dotted the streets weren’t busy at this time of day, but the stalls selling fresh bread were a different story. Stopping to buy a loaf, Malchus ran into an acquaintance, a crippled veteran of the war in Sicily whom he paid to listen out for any interesting news. So far, the man had provided him with nothing.