Hannibal Enemy of Rome (17 page)

Hanno could scarcely believe what he was hearing: a Roman express regret for what had been done to his people. Perhaps they weren’t all monsters? he wondered for the second time. His gut reaction weighed in at once.
They are still the enemy
.

‘That conflict was a generation ago,’ said Quintus, bridling. ‘This is now. Even if it comes late, Rome has to defend one of her allies who has been attacked without due cause.’

Fabricius inclined his head. ‘She does.’

‘So war with Carthage is coming, one way or another,’ said Quintus. He threw a further look at Hanno, who affected not to notice.

‘Probably,’ Fabricius replied. ‘Not this year perhaps, but next.’

‘I could be part of that!’ Quintus cried eagerly. ‘But I want to know how to use a sword properly first.’

‘You’re proficient with both bow and spear,’ admitted Fabricius. He paused, aware that Quintus was hanging on his every word. ‘Strictly speaking, of course, it’s not necessary for the cavalry, but I suppose a little instruction in the use of the gladius wouldn’t go amiss.’

Quintus’ grin stretched from ear to ear. ‘Thank you, Father.’ He raised a hand to his mouth. ‘Mother! Aurelia! Did you hear that? I am to become a swordsman.’

‘That’s good news indeed.’ Coming from the depths of the litter, Atia’s voice was muffled, but Quintus thought he detected a tinge of sadness in it.

Aurelia lifted the cloth and stuck her head outside. ‘How wonderful,’ she said, forcing a smile. Inside, she was consumed by jealousy.

‘We’ll start tomorrow,’ said Fabricius.

‘Excellent!’ Instantly, Quintus forgot both his mother and Aurelia’s reactions. His head was full of images of him and Gaius serving in the cavalry, winning glory for themselves and Rome.

Despite his guilt over Suniaton, Hanno’s spirits had also risen. While he had Agesandros to contend with, he was not destined to die as a gladiator. And, although he might not be able to take part, his people were about to take on Rome again, with Hannibal Barca to lead them. A man whom his father reckoned to be the finest leader Carthage had ever seen.

For the first time in days, a spark of hope lit in Hanno’s heart.

One summer morning, word came from the port that Malchus and Sapho had landed. Bostar shouted with delight at the news. As he hurried through the streets of New Carthage, the city founded by Hasdrubal nine years before, he couldn’t stop grinning. Catching a glimpse of the temple of Aesculapius, which stood on the large hill to the east of the walls, Bostar offered up a prayer of thanks to the god of medicine and his followers. If it hadn’t been for the injury to his sword arm, sustained in overexcited
training with naked blades, he would have already set out for Saguntum with the rest of the army. Instead, on the orders of Alete, his commanding officer, Bostar had had to stay behind. ‘I’ve seen too many wounds like that turn bad,’ Alete had muttered. ‘Remain here, in the care of the priests, and join us when you’ve recovered. Saguntum isn’t going to fall in a day, or a month.’ At the time, Bostar had not been happy. Now, he was overjoyed.

It wasn’t long until he’d reached the port, which looked out over the calm gulf beyond New Carthage. The city’s location was second to none. Situated at the point of a natural, enclosed bay which was furthest from the Mediterranean, it was surrounded on all sides by water. To the east and south lay the sea, while to the north and west was a large, saltwater lagoon. The only connection with the mainland was a narrow, heavily fortified causeway, which made the city almost impregnable. It was no surprise that New Carthage had replaced Gades as the capital of Carthaginian Iberia.

Bostar sped past the ships nearest the quay. New arrivals would have to moor further away. As always, the place was extremely busy. The vast majority of the army might have left with Hannibal, but troops and supplies were still coming in daily. Javelins clattered off each other as they were laid in piles, and stacks of freshly made helmets glinted in the sun. There were wax-sealed amphorae of olive oil and wine, rolls of cloth and bags of nails. Wooden crates of glazed crockery stood beside bulging bags of nuts. Gossiping sailors coiled ropes and swept the decks of their unloaded vessels. Fishermen who had been out since before dawn sweated as they hauled their catch on to the dock.

‘Bostar!’

He craned his head, searching for his family among the dense forest of masts and rigging. Finally, Bostar spotted his father and Sapho on the deck of a trireme that was tied up two vessels from the quay. He vaulted on to the first craft’s deck and made his way to meet them. ‘Welcome!’

A moment later, they had been reunited. Bostar was shocked by the change in both. They were different men since he’d last seen them. Cold. Hard-faced. Ruthless. He bowed to Malchus, trying not to let his surprise show. ‘Father. It is wonderful to see you at last.’

Malchus’ severe expression softened briefly. ‘Bostar. What happened to your arm?’

‘It’s a scratch, nothing more. A stupid mistake during training,’ he replied. ‘Lucky it happened, though, because it’s the only reason I’m still here. I receive treatment daily at Aesculapius’ temple.’ He turned to Sapho, and was surprised to see that his brother looked downright angry. Bostar’s hopes for a reconciliation vanished. The rift caused by their argument over releasing Hanno and Suniaton was clearly still present. As if he didn’t feel guilty enough, thought Bostar sadly. Instead of an embrace, he saluted. ‘Brother.’

Stiffly, Sapho returned the gesture.

‘How was your journey?’

‘Pleasant enough,’ Malchus answered. ‘We saw no Roman triremes, which is a blessing.’ His face twisted with an unreadable emotion. ‘Enough of that. We have discovered what happened to Hanno.’

Bostar blinked with shock. ‘What?’

‘You heard,’ snapped Sapho. ‘He and Suni didn’t drown.’

Bostar’s mouth opened. ‘How do you know?’

Malchus took over. ‘Because I never lost faith in Melqart, and because I had eyes and ears in the port, who looked and listened out day and night for any clues.’ He smiled sourly at Bostar’s bafflement. ‘A couple of months ago, one of my spies struck gold. He overheard a conversation he thought might interest me. We took the men in for questioning.’

Bostar was riveted by his father’s story. Hearing that Hanno and Suniaton had been captured by pirates, he began to weep. Neither of the others did, which only increased his grief. His anguish grew deeper with the revelation of the pair’s sale into slavery.
I thought it was a kind gesture to let them go fishing. How wrong I was!
‘That’s a worse fate than drowning. They could have been taken anywhere. Bought by anyone.’

‘I know,’ Sapho snarled. ‘They were sold in Italy. Probably as gladiators.’

Bostar’s eyes filled with horror. ‘No!’

‘Yes,’ Sapho shot back venomously, ‘and it’s all your fault. If you had stopped them, Hanno would be standing here beside us today.’

Bostar swelled with indignation. ‘That’s rich coming from you!’

‘Stop it!’ Malchus’ voice cut in like a whiplash. ‘Sapho, you and Bostar came to the decision together, did you not?’

Sapho glowered. ‘Yes, Father.’

‘So you are both responsible, just as I am for not being easier on him.’ Malchus ignored his sons’ surprise at his admission of complicity. ‘Hanno is gone now, and fighting over his memory will serve none of us. I want no more of this. Our task now is to follow Hannibal, and take Saguntum. If we are lucky, the gods will grant us vengeance for Hanno afterwards, in the fight against Rome. We must put everything else from our minds. Clear?’

‘Yes, Father,’ the brothers mumbled, but neither looked at the other.

Bostar had to ask. ‘What did you do to the pirates?’

‘They were castrated, and then their limbs were broken. Lastly, the scum were crucified,’ Malchus replied in a flat tone. Without another word, he climbed up on to the dock and headed for the city’s centre.

Sapho held back until they were alone. ‘It was too good for them. We should have gouged out their eyes too,’ he added viciously. Despite his apparent enthusiasm, the horror of what he’d seen still lingered in his eyes. Sapho had thought that the punishments would stop him feeling relief at Hanno’s disappearance, but he’d been wrong. Seeing his younger brother again rammed that home. I will be the favourite! he thought savagely. ‘Just as well that you weren’t there. You wouldn’t have been up to any of it.’

Despite the implication about his courage, Bostar retained his composure. He wasn’t about to pull rank here, now. He was also uncertain what his own reaction might have been if he’d been placed in the same situation, handed the opportunity for revenge on those who had consigned Hanno to a certain death. Deep down, Bostar was glad that he had not been there. He doubted that either his father or Sapho would understand. Melqart, he prayed, I ask that my brother had a good death, and that you allow our family to put aside its differences. Bostar gained small consolation from the prayer, but it was all he had at that moment.

That, and a war to look forward to.

Checking that Agesandros was nowhere in sight, Hanno pulled the mules to a halt. The sweating beasts did not protest. It was nearly midday, and the temperature in the farmyard was scorching. Hanno jerked his head at one of the others who was threshing the wheat with him. ‘Water.’

The Gaul made a reflex check for the Sicilian before putting down his
pitchfork, and fetching the leather skin which lay by the storage shed. After drinking deeply, he replaced the stopper and tossed it through the air.

Hanno nodded his thanks. He swallowed a dozen mouthfuls, but was careful to leave plenty of the warm liquid for the others. He threw the bag to Cingetorix, another Gaul.

When he was done, Cingetorix wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Gods, but it’s hot.’ He spoke in Latin, which was the only language he and his countrymen had to communicate with Hanno. ‘Does it never rain in this cursed place? At home …’ He wasn’t allowed to finish.

‘We know,’ growled Galba, a short man whose sunburnt torso was covered with swirling tattoos. ‘It rains much more. Don’t remind us.’

‘Not in Carthage,’ said Hanno. ‘It’s as dry there as it is here.’

Cingetorix scowled. ‘You must feel right at home then.’

Despite himself, Hanno grinned. For perhaps two months after his arrival, the Gauls, with whom he shared sleeping quarters, had ignored him completely, speaking their own rapid-fire, guttural tongue at all times. He’d done his best to win them over, but it had made no difference. When it came, the change had been gradual. Hanno wasn’t sure whether the extra, unwanted attention he received from Agesandros was what had prompted the tribesmen to extend the hand of friendship to him, but he no longer cared. The camaraderie they now shared was what made his existence bearable. That, and the news that Hannibal’s iron grip on Saguntum had tightened. Apparently, the city would fall before the end of the year. Hanno prayed for the Carthaginian army’s success every night. He also asked that one day he be granted an opportunity to kill Agesandros.

There were five of them in the yard altogether, continuing the work which had begun weeks previously with the harvest. It was late summer, and Hanno had grown used to life on the farm, and the immense labour expected of him every day. Things were made much harder by the heavy iron fetters that had been attached to his ankles, preventing him moving at any speed faster than a shuffle. Hanno had thought he was fit beforehand, but soon realised otherwise. Working twelve or more hours a day in summer heat, wearing manacles and fed barely enough, he was a taut, wiry shadow of his former self. His hair fell in long, shaggy tresses either side of his bearded face. The muscles on his torso and limbs now stood
out like whipcord, and every part of exposed skin had darkened to a deep brown colour. The Gauls looked no different. We’re like wild beasts, Hanno thought. It was no wonder that they rarely saw Fabricius or his family.

Catching sight of Agesandros in the distance, he whistled the agreed signal to alert his companions. Swiftly, the skin was hurled back to its original position. Hanno dragged his mules into action again, pulling a heavy sledge over the harvested wheat, which had been laid right across the hard-packed dirt of the large farmyard. The Gauls began winnowing the threshed crop, tossing it into the air with their pitchforks so that the breeze could carry away the unwanted chaff. Their tasks were time-consuming and mind-numbing, but they had to be done before the wheat could be shovelled into the back of a wagon and deposited in the nearby storage sheds, which were built on brick stilts to prevent rodent access.

When Agesandros arrived a few moments later, he stood in the shade cast by the buildings and watched them silently. Uneasy, the five slaves worked hard, trying not to look in the Sicilian’s direction. Soon a fresh coat of sweat coated their bodies.

Every time he turned the sledge, Hanno caught a glimpse of Agesandros, who was staring relentlessly at him. He was unsurprised when the overseer stalked in his direction.

‘You’re walking the mules too fast! Slow down, or half the wheat won’t come off the stalks.’

Hanno tugged on the nearest animal’s lead rope. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled.

‘What’s that? I didn’t hear you,’ Agesandros snarled.

‘At once, sir,’ Hanno repeated loudly.

‘Stinking gugga. You’re all the damn same. Useless!’ Agesandros drew his whip.