Hannibal Enemy of Rome (2 page)

A step ahead of him, Suniaton nearly collided with a carpenter carrying several long cypress planks. Rather than apologise, he thumbed his nose and sprinted towards the citadel walls, now only a hundred paces away. Stifling his desire to finish the job by tipping over the angry tradesman, Hanno dodged past too, a grin splitting his face. Another similarity he and Suniaton shared was an impudent nature, quite at odds with the serious manner of most of their countrymen. It frequently got both of them in trouble, and was a constant source of irritation to their fathers.

A moment later, they passed under the immense ramparts, which were thirty paces deep and nearly the same in height. Like the outer defences, the wall was constructed from great quadrilateral blocks of sandstone. Frequent coats of whitewash ensured that the sunlight bounced off the stone, magnifying its size. Topped by a wide walkway and with regular towers, the fortifications were truly awe-inspiring. Yet the citadel was only a small part of the whole. Hanno never tired of looking down on the expanse of the sea wall that came into view as he emerged from under the gateway’s shadow. Running down from the north along the city’s perimeter, it swept southeast to the twin harbours, curling protectively around them before heading west. On the steep northern and eastern sides, and to the south, where the sea gave its added protection, one wall was deemed sufficient, but on the western, landward side of the peninsula, three defences
had been constructed: a wide trench backed by an earthen bank, and then a huge rampart. The walls, which were in total over 180 stades in length, also contained sections with two-tiered living quarters. These could hold many thousands of troops, cavalry and their mounts, and hundreds of war elephants.

Home to nearly a quarter of a million people, the city also demanded attention. Directly below lay the Agora, the large open space bordered by government buildings and countless shops. It was the area where residents gathered to do business, demonstrate, take the evening air, and vote. Beyond it lay the unique ports: the huge outer, rectangular merchant harbour, and the inner, circular naval docks with its small, central island. The first contained hundreds of berths for trading ships, while the second could hold more than ten-score triremes and quinqueremes in specially constructed covered sheds. To the west of the ports was the old shrine of Baal Hammon, no longer as important as it had previously been, but still venerated by many. To the east lay the Choma, the huge man-made landing stage where fishing smacks and small vessels tied up. It was also their destination.

Hanno was immensely proud of his home. He had no idea what Rome, Carthage’s old enemy, looked like, but he doubted it matched his city’s grandeur. He had no desire to compare Carthage with the Republic’s capital, though. The only view he ever wanted of Rome was when it fell - to a victorious Carthaginian army - before seeing it burned to the ground. As Hamilcar Barca, Hannibal’s father, had inculcated a hatred of all things Roman in his sons, so had Malchus in Hanno and his brothers. Like Hamilcar, Malchus had served in the first war against the Republic, fighting in Sicily for ten long, thankless years.

Unsurprisingly, Hanno and his siblings knew the details of every land skirmish and naval battle in the conflict, which had actually lasted for more than a generation. The cost to Carthage in loss of life, territory and wealth had been huge, but the city’s wounds ran far deeper. Her pride had been trampled in the mud by the defeat, and this ignominy was repeated just three years after the war’s conclusion. Carthage had been unilaterally forced by Rome to give up Sardinia, as well as paying more indemnities. The shabby act proved beyond doubt, Malchus would regularly rant, that all Romans were treacherous dogs, without honour. Hanno agreed, and looked forward to the day hostilities were reopened once more. Given the depth
of anger still present in Carthage towards Rome, conflict was inevitable, and it would originate in Iberia. Soon.

Suniaton turned. ‘Have you eaten?’

Hanno shrugged. ‘Some bread and honey when I got up.’

‘Me too. That was hours ago, though.’ Suniaton grinned and patted his belly. ‘Best get a few supplies.’

‘Good idea,’ Hanno replied. They kept clay gourds of water in their little boat with their fishing gear, but no food. Sunset, when they would return, was a long way off.

The streets descending Byrsa Hill did not follow the regular layout of the summit, instead radiating out like so many tributaries of a meandering river. There were far more shops and businesses visible now: bakers, butchers and stalls selling freshly caught fish, fruit and vegetables stood beside silver- and coppersmiths, perfume merchants and glass blowers. Women sat outside their doors, working at their looms, or gossiping over their purchases. Slaves carried rich men past in litters or swept the ground in front of shops. Dye-makers’ premises were everywhere, their abundance due to the Carthaginian skill in harvesting the local
Murex
shellfish and pounding its flesh to yield a purple dye that commanded premium prices all over the Mediterranean. Children ran hither and thither, playing catch and chasing each other up and down the regular sets of stairs that broke the street’s steep descent. Deep in conversation, a trio of well-dressed men strolled past. Recognising them as elders, who were probably on their way to the very meeting he was supposed to be attending, Hanno took a sudden interest in the array of terracotta outside a potter’s workshop.

Dozens of figures - large and small - were ranked on low tables. Hanno recognised every deity in the Carthaginian pantheon. There sat a regal, crowned Baal Hammon, the protector of Carthage, on his throne; beside him Tanit was depicted in the Egyptian manner: a shapely woman’s body in a well-cut dress, but with the head of a lioness. A smiling Astarte clutched a tambourine. Her consort, Melqart, known as the ‘King of the City’, was, among other things, the god of the sea. Various brightly coloured figures depicted him emerging from crashing waves riding a fearful-looking monster and clutching a trident in one fist. Baal Saphon, the god of storm and war, sat astride a fine charger, wearing a helmet with a long, flowing
crest. Also on display was a selection of hideous, grinning painted masks - tattooed, bejewelled demons and spirits of the underworld - tomb offerings designed to ward off evil.

Hanno shivered, remembering his mother’s funeral three years before. Since her death of a fever his father, never the most warm of men, had become a grim and forbidding presence who lived only to gain his revenge on Rome. For all his youth, Hanno knew that Malchus was portraying a controlled mask to the world. He must still be grieving, as surely as he and his brothers were. Arishat, Hanno’s mother, had been the light to Malchus’ dark, the laughter to his gravitas, the softness to his strength. The centre of the family, she had been taken from them in two horrific days and nights. Harangued by an inconsolable Malchus, the best surgeons in Carthage had toiled over her to no avail. Every last detail of her final hours was engraved in Hanno’s memory. The cups of blood drained from her in a vain attempt to cool her raging temperature. Her gaunt, fevered face. The sweat-soaked sheets. His brothers trying not to cry, and failing. And lastly, her still form on the bed, tinier than she had ever been in life. Malchus kneeling alongside, great sobs racking his muscular frame. That was the only time Hanno had ever seen his father weep. The incident had never been mentioned since, nor had his mother. He swallowed hard and, checking that the elders had passed by, moved on. It hurt too much to think about such things.

Suniaton, who had not noticed Hanno’s distress, paused to buy some bread, almonds and figs. Keen to lift his sombre mood, Hanno eyed the blacksmith’s forge off to one side. Wisps of smoke rose from its roughly built chimney, and the air was rich with the smells of charcoal, burning wood and oil. Harsh metallic sounds reached his ears. In the recesses of the open-fronted establishment, he glimpsed a figure in a leather apron using a pair of tongs to carefully lift a piece of glowing metal from the anvil. There was a loud hiss as the sword blade was plunged into a vat of cold water. Hanno felt his feet begin to move.

Suniaton blocked his path. ‘We’ve got better things to do. Like making money,’ he cried, shoving forward a bulging bag of almonds. ‘Carry that.’

‘No! You’ll eat them all anyway.’ Hanno pushed his friend out of the way with a grin. It was a standing joke between them that his favourite pastime was getting covered in ash and grime while Suniaton would rather plan his next meal. He was so busy laughing that he didn’t see the
approaching group of soldiers - a dozen Libyan spearmen - until it was too late. With a thump, Hanno collided with the first man’s large, round shield.

This was no street urchin, and the spearman bit back an instinctive curse. ‘Mind your step,’ he cried.

Catching sight of two Carthaginian officers in the soldiers’ midst, Hanno cursed. It was Sapho and Bostar. Both were dressed in their finest uniforms. Bell-shaped helmets with thick rims and yellow-feathered crests covered their heads. Layered linen
pteryges
hung below their polished bronze cuirasses to cover the groin, and contoured greaves protected their lower legs. No doubt they too were on their way to the meeting. Muttering an apology to the spearman, Hanno backed away, looking at the ground in an attempt not to be recognised.

Oblivious to Sapho and Bostar’s presence, Suniaton was snorting with amusement at Hanno’s collision. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘We don’t want to get there too late.’

‘Hanno!’ Bostar’s voice was genial.

He pretended not to hear.

‘Hanno! Come back!’ barked a deeper, more commanding voice, that of Sapho.

Unwillingly, Hanno turned.

Suniaton tried to sidle away, but he had also been spotted.

‘Eshmuniaton! Get over here,’ Sapho ordered.

With a miserable expression, Suniaton shuffled to his friend’s side.

Hanno’s brothers shouldered their way forward to stand before them.

‘Sapho. Bostar,’ Hanno said with a false smile. ‘What a surprise.’

‘Is it?’ Sapho demanded, his thick eyebrows meeting in a frown. A short, compact man with a serious manner like Malchus, he was twenty-two. Young to be a mid-ranking officer, but like Bostar, his ability had shone through during his training. ‘We’re all supposed to be heading to listen to the elders. Why aren’t you with Father?’

Flushing, Hanno looked down. Damn it, he thought. In Sapho’s eyes, duty to Carthage was all-important. In a single moment, their chances of a day on the boat had vanished.

Sapho gave Suniaton a hard stare, taking in his pack and the provisions in his hands. ‘Because the pair of you were skiving off, that’s why! Fishing, no doubt?’

Suniaton scuffed a toe in the dirt.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Sapho asked acidly.

Hanno moved in front of his friend. ‘We were going to catch some tunny, yes,’ he admitted.

Sapho’s scowl grew deeper. ‘And that’s more important than listening to the Council of Elders?’

As usual, his brother’s high-handed attitude rankled with Hanno. This type of lecture was all too common. Most often, it felt as if Sapho was trying to be their father. Unsurprisingly, Hanno resented this. ‘It’s not as if the greybeards will say anything that hasn’t been said a thousand times before,’ he retorted. ‘Just about every one is full of hot air.’

Suniaton sniggered. ‘Like someone else not too far away.’ He saw Hanno’s warning look and fell silent.

Sapho’s jaw clenched. ‘You pair of impudent—’ he began.

Bostar’s lips twitched, and he lifted a hand to Sapho’s shoulder. ‘Peace,’ he said. ‘Hanno has a point. The elders
are
rather fond of the sound of their own voices.’

Hanno and Suniaton tried to hide their smiles.

Sapho missed Bostar’s amusement, but he lapsed into a glowering silence. He was acutely aware, and resentful, that he was not the senior officer present. Although Sapho was a year older, Bostar had been promoted before him.

‘It’s not as if this meeting will be a matter of life and death,’ Bostar continued reasonably. His wink - unseen by Sapho - told Hanno that all hope was not lost. He slyly returned the gesture. Like Hanno, Bostar resembled their mother, Arishat, with a thin face and piercing green eyes. Where Sapho’s nose was broad, his was long and narrow. Rangy and athletic, his long black hair was tied in a ponytail, which emerged from under his helmet. Hanno had far more in common with the gentle Bostar than he did with Sapho. Currently, his feelings for his eldest brother often verged on dislike. ‘Does our father know where you are?’

‘No,’ admitted Hanno.

Bostar turned to Suniaton. ‘I would assume, therefore, that Bodesmun is also in the dark?’

‘Of course he is,’ Sapho butted in, eager to regain control. ‘As usual where these two are concerned.’

Bostar ignored his brother’s outburst. ‘Well?’

‘Father thinks I’m at home, studying,’ Suniaton revealed.

Sapho’s expression grew a shade more self-righteous. ‘Let’s see what Bodesmun and Father have to say when they discover what you were both really up to. We have enough time to do that before the Council meets.’ He jerked a thumb at the spearmen. ‘Get in amongst them.’

Hanno scowled, but there was little point arguing. Sapho was in a particularly zealous mood. ‘Come on,’ he muttered to Suniaton. ‘The shoals will be there another day.’

Before they could move a step, Bostar spoke. ‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t go fishing.’

Hanno and Suniaton stared at each other, amazed.