Hannibal Enemy of Rome (16 page)

Varsaco nodded eagerly. ‘There was a bad storm a few weeks back. We were caught in it, and our bireme nearly sank. We didn’t, thank the gods. The next day, we came across an open boat, with two young men in it.’

Sapho leaped up and placed his dagger across Varsaco’s throat. ‘Where were they from?’ he screamed. ‘What were their names?’

‘They came from Carthage.’ Varsaco’s eyes flickered like those of a cornered rat. ‘I don’t remember what they were called.’

Malchus grew very calm. ‘What did they look like?’ he asked quietly.

‘One was tall, and had an athletic build. The other was shorter. Both had black hair.’ Varsaco thought for a moment. ‘And green eyes.’

‘Hanno and Suniaton!’ Sapho’s face twisted with anguish. Despite his relief at Hanno’s disappearance, he couldn’t bear that this might be the dreadful truth.

Malchus felt physically sick. ‘What did you do with them?’

Varsaco turned a pasty shade of grey. ‘Naturally, we were going to return them to Carthage,’ he stammered. ‘But the ship had sprung a leak during the storm. We had to make for the nearest land, which was Sicily. They disembarked there, in Heraclea, I think it was.’ He looked to the Egyptian and received a nod of confirmation. ‘Yes, Heraclea.’

‘I see.’ An icy calm blanketed Malchus. ‘If that’s the case, why have they not returned? Finding a ship to Carthage from the south coast of Sicily should pose a problem to no man.’

‘Who knows? Young lads who have just left home are all the same. Only interested in wine and women.’ Varsaco shrugged as nonchalantly as he could.

‘“Just left home”?’ Malchus shouted. ‘You make it sound as if they had chosen to be washed out to sea. That it was a matter of no consequence. If you let them off in Heraclea, then my name is Alexander of Macedon.’ He glanced at Sapho. ‘Castrate him.’

Sapho lowered his knife.

‘Not that, please, not that,’ Varsaco shrieked. ‘I’ll tell the truth!’

Malchus raised his hand, and Sapho paused. ‘You’ve probably guessed by now that you and these other sewer rats are dead men. You have condemned yourself with your own words.’ Malchus paused to let his sentence sink in. ‘Tell me honestly what you did with my son and his friend, and you’ll keep your manhood. Receive a quick death too.’

Varsaco nodded dully in acceptance of his fate. ‘We sold them as slaves,’ he whispered. ‘In Neapolis. We got an excellent price for both, according to the captain. That’s why we came to Carthage. To abduct more.’

Malchus took a deep breath. It was much as he had suspected. ‘Whom did you sell them to?’

‘I don’t know,’ Varsaco stuttered. ‘I wasn’t there. The captain did it.’ His gaze turned to the Egyptian, who spat contemptuously on the floor.

‘So you are the one who is responsible for this outrage?’ Cold fury bathed Malchus once more. ‘Cut
his
balls off instead,’ he roared.

At once Sapho stripped the Egyptian of his clothing. Grabbing hold of the moaning pirate captain’s scrotum, he tugged down to draw it taut. Sapho threw a quick glance at Malchus, and received a nod. ‘This is for
my brother,’ he muttered, lining his blade up, praying that the act would assuage his guilt.

‘Varsaco was the one who would have raped them,’ shouted the Egyptian. ‘I stopped him.’

‘How good of you,’ Malchus snarled. ‘You had no problem selling them, though, did you? Who bought them?’

‘A Latin. I didn’t get his name. He was going to take both to Capua. Sell them as gladiators. I don’t know any more.’ The Egyptian looked down at Sapho, and then towards Malchus. All he saw from both was an implacable hatred. ‘Give me a quick death, like Varsaco,’ he pleaded.

‘You expect me to keep my word after what you have done to two innocent boys? Those who engage in piracy merit the most terrible fate possible.’ Malchus’ voice dripped with contempt. He turned to the soldiers. ‘You’ve heard what these scum have done to my boy and his friend.’

An angry growl left the Libyans’ throats, and one stood forth. ‘What shall we do with them, sir?’

Malchus let his gaze linger on the four pirates, one by one. ‘Castrate them all, but cauterise the wounds so they do not bleed to death. Break their arms and legs, and then crucify them. When you’re done, find the rest of their crew and do the same to every last one.’

To a background of terrified protests, the spearman snapped off a salute. ‘Yes, sir.’

Malchus and Sapho watched impassively as the soldiers set about their task. Dividing into teams of three, they stripped the prisoners with grim purpose. Light flashed off knife blades as they rose and fell. The screaming soon grew so loud that it was impossible to talk, but the soldiers did not pause for breath. Blood ran down the pirates’ legs in great streams to congeal in sticky pools on the floor. Next, the stench of burning flesh filled the air as red-hot pokers were used to stem the flow from the prisoners’ gaping wounds. The pain of the castration and cautery was so severe that all the pirates passed out. Their respite was brief. A moment later, they were woken by the agony of their bones breaking beneath the blows of hammers. Low repetitive thuds mingled with their shrieks in a new, dreadful cacophony.

Malchus pressed his lips to Sapho’s ear. ‘I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.’

Even in the corridor outside, with the door closed, the din was incredible.
Although it was now possible to talk, father and son looked at each other in silence for long moments.

Malchus spoke first. ‘He could still be alive. They both could.’ Rare tears glinted in his eyes.

Sapho felt bad for Hanno. Drowning was one thing, but fighting as a gladiator? He hardened his heart. ‘They won’t be for long. It’s a mercy in a way.’

Unaware of Sapho’s motivations, Malchus clenched his jaw. ‘You’re right. We can do no more than to hope that they died well. Let us join Hannibal Barca’s army in Iberia, and wage war on Rome. One day, we will bring ruination, fire and death to Capua. Then, vengeance will be ours.’

Sapho looked stunned. ‘Hannibal would invade Italy?’

‘Yes,’ replied Malchus. ‘That is his long-term plan. To defeat the enemy on their own soil. I am one of only a handful of men who know this. Now you are another.’

‘The secret is safe with me,’ whispered Sapho. Obviously, he and Bostar had not been party to all of the information carried by Hannibal’s messenger. Finally, he understood his father’s threat to raze Capua. ‘Our revenge will come one day,’ he muttered, thinking of the golden opportunities to prove his worth that would arise.

‘Speak after me,’ ordered Malchus. ‘Before Melqart, Baal Saphon and Baal Hammon, I make this vow. With all my might, I will support Hannibal Barca on his quest. I will find Hanno, or die avenging him.’

Slowly, Sapho repeated the words.

Satisfied, Malchus led the way outside.

The screaming continued unabated behind them.

Near Capua, Campania

HANNO TRUDGED DESPONDENTLY
behind Agesandros’ mule, swallowing the clouds of dust sent up by those in front. Ahead of the Sicilian was the litter containing Atia and Aurelia, and beyond that, in the lead, were Fabricius and Quintus. It was the morning following his purchase by Quintus, and, after spending the night at Martialis’ house, the family was returning to their farm. During their short stay, Hanno had been left in the kitchen with the resident household slaves. Dazed, still unable to believe that he had been separated from Suniaton, he had simply slumped in a corner and wept. Other than placing a loincloth, a beaker of water and a plate of food beside him, no one had offered him any comfort. Hanno would remember their curious stares afterwards, however. No doubt it was something they had all seen countless times before: the new slave, who realises that his life will never be the same again. It had probably happened to most of them. Mercifully, sleep had finally found Hanno. His rest had been fitful, but it had provided him with an escape of sorts: the possibility of denying reality.

Now, in the cold light of day, he had to face up to it.

He belonged to Quintus’ father, Fabricius. Like his family, Suni was gone for ever.

Hanno still didn’t know what to make of his master. Since a cursory examination when they had first returned to Martialis’ house, Fabricius had paid him little heed. He had accepted his son’s explanation that, because of his literacy and skill with languages, the Carthaginian was worth his high purchase price, the balance of which Quintus was paying anyway. ‘It’s your business the way you spend your money,’ he’d said. He seemed
decent enough, thought Hanno, as did Quintus. Aurelia was but a child. Atia, Fabricius’ wife, was an unknown quantity. So far, she’d barely even looked at him, but Hanno hoped that she would prove a fair mistress.

It was strange to be considering people whom he’d always considered evil as normal, yet it was Agesandros whom Hanno was most concerned about. The Sicilian had taken a set against him from the beginning. For all his concerns, at least his own situation had a positive side to it, for which he felt immensely guilty. Suniaton’s fate still hung by a thread, and Hanno could only ask every god he knew to intercede on his friend’s behalf. At the worst, to let him die bravely.

Hearing the word ‘Saguntum’ mentioned, he pricked his ears. A Greek city in Iberia, allied to the Republic, it had been the focus of Hannibal’s attention for months. Indeed, it was where the war on Rome would start.

‘I thought that the Senate had decided there was no real threat to Saguntum?’ asked Quintus. ‘After the Saguntines had demanded recompense for the attacks on their lands, all Hannibal did was to send them a rudely worded reply.’

Hanno hid his smirk. He’d heard that insult several weeks before, at home. ‘Scabby, flea-bitten savages,’ Hannibal had called the city’s residents. As everyone in Carthage knew, the rebuttal presaged his real plan: an attack on Saguntum.

‘Politicians sometimes underestimate generals,’ said Fabricius heavily. ‘Hannibal has done far more than issue threats now. According to the latest news, Saguntum is surrounded by his army. They’ve started building fortifications. It’s going to be a siege. Carthage has finally regained its bite.’

Quintus threw an angry glance at Hanno, who looked down at once. ‘Can nothing be done?’

‘Not this campaigning season,’ Fabricius replied crossly. ‘Hannibal couldn’t have picked a better moment. Both the consular armies are committed to the East, and the threat there.’

‘You mean Demetrius of Pharos?’ asked Quintus.

‘Yes.’

‘Wasn’t he an ally of ours until recently?’

‘He was. Then the miserable dog decided that piracy is more profitable. Our entire eastern seaboard has been affected. He’s been threatening Illyrian cities under the Republic’s protection too. But the trouble should be over
by the autumn. Demetrius’ forces have no chance against four legions and double that number of socii.’

Quintus couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘I’ll miss it all.’

‘Never fear. There’ll always be another war,’ said his father with an amused smile. ‘You’ll get your turn soon enough.’

Quintus was partly mollified. ‘Meanwhile, Saguntum just gets left to hang in the wind?’

‘It’s not right, I know,’ his father replied. ‘But the main faction in the Senate has decided that this is the course we shall follow. The rest of us have to obey.’

So much for Roman
fides
, thought Hanno contemptuously.

Father and son rode in silence for a few moments.

‘What will the Senate do if Saguntum falls?’ probed Quintus.

‘Demand that the Carthaginians withdraw, I imagine. As well as hand over Hannibal.’

Quintus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Would they do that?’

Never, thought Hanno furiously.

‘I don’t think so,’ Fabricius replied. ‘Even the Carthaginians have their pride. Besides, their Council of Elders will have known about Hannibal’s plan to besiege Saguntum. They’re hardly going to offer their support on that only to withdraw it immediately afterwards.’

Unseen, Hanno spat on to the road. ‘Damn right they’re not,’ he whispered.

‘Then war is unavoidable,’ Quintus cried. ‘The Senate won’t take an insult like that lying down.’

Fabricius sighed. ‘No, it won’t, even though it’s partly to blame for the whole situation. The indemnities forced on Carthage at the end of the last war were ruinous, but the seizure of Sardinia soon after was even worse. There was no excuse for it.’