Hannibal Enemy of Rome (32 page)

Hanno was about to tell Aurelia of his plans, when, out of the corner of his eye, he sensed movement. Through the open doors of the tablinum, he could see into part of the atrium. Outside the square of floor illuminated by the hole in its roof, everything lay in shadow. There Hanno could discern a tall figure, watching them. Instinctively, he pulled away from Aurelia. When Agesandros walked into the light, Hanno’s stomach constricted with fear. What had he seen or heard? What would he do?

Aurelia saw the Sicilian in the same moment. She drew herself up proudly, ready for any confrontation.

To their surprise, Agesandros came no nearer. A tiny smile flickered across his face, and then he disappeared whence he had come.

Hanno and Aurelia turned back to each other, but Elira and another domestic slave emerged from the kitchen. The brief moment of magic they had shared was gone. ‘I will talk to Quintus,’ said Aurelia reassuringly. ‘Whatever happens, you must hold on to your friendship. As we two will.’

Keen to make things as they were before he left the farm for ever, Hanno nodded. ‘Thank you.’

Unfortunately, Aurelia was unable to remonstrate with her brother that day. As she told Hanno later, Quintus had taken off for Capua without a word to anyone but the bowlegged slave who worked in the stable. The afternoon passed and night fell, and it became apparent that he would not be returning. Hanno didn’t know whether to feel angry or worried by this
development. ‘Don’t be concerned,’ Aurelia said before retiring. ‘Quintus does this sometimes, when he needs time to think. He stays at Gaius’ house, and returns in a few days.’

There was nothing Hanno could do. He lay back on his bedroll and dreamed of escape.

Sleep was a long time coming.

AFTER THE FALL
of Saguntum, Bostar took to visiting his wounded men every morning, talking to those who were conscious and passing his hand over those who were still asleep, or who would never wake. There were more than thirty soldiers in the large tent, of whom half would probably never fight again. Despite the horror of his soldiers’ injuries, Bostar had begun to feel grateful for his losses. All things considered, they had been slight. Far more Saguntines had died when Hannibal’s troops had entered the city, howling like packs of rabid wolves. For an entire day, the predominant sound throughout Saguntum had been that of screams. Men’s. Women’s. Children’s. Bostar squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget, but he couldn’t. Butchering unarmed civilians and engaging in widespread rape was not how he made war. While he hadn’t tried to stop his men - had Hannibal not promised them a free rein? - Bostar had not taken part in the slaughter. Commanded by their general to guard the chests of gold and silver that had been found in the citadel, Malchus had not either. Bostar sighed. Inevitably, Sapho had.

A moment later, Malchus’ touch on his shoulder made him jump. ‘It’s good that you’re up so early checking on them.’ Malchus indicated the injured men in their blankets.

‘It’s my job,’ Bostar replied modestly, knowing that his father would have already visited his own casualties.

‘It is.’ Malchus fixed him with a solemn stare. ‘And I think Hannibal has another one for you. Us.’

Bostar’s heart thudded off his ribs. ‘Why?’

‘We’ve all been summoned to the general’s tent. I wasn’t told why.’

Excitement filled Bostar. ‘Does Sapho know?’

‘No. I thought you could tell him.’

‘Really?’ Bostar tried to keep his tone light. ‘If you wish.’

Malchus gave him a knowing look. ‘Do you think I haven’t noticed how you two have been with each other recently?’

‘It’s nothing serious,’ lied Bostar.

‘Then why are you avoiding my gaze?’ demanded Malchus. ‘It’s about Hanno, isn’t it?’

‘That’s how it started,’ Bostar replied. He began to explain, but his father forestalled him.

‘There are only two of you now,’ said Malchus sadly. ‘Life is short. Resolve your differences, or one of you might find that it’s too late.’

‘You’re right,’ replied Bostar firmly. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘As you always do.’ Malchus’ voice was proud.

A pang of sadness tore at Bostar’s heart. Did I do my best by letting Hanno go? he wondered.

‘I’ll see you both outside the headquarters in half an hour.’ Malchus left him to it.

After telling his orderly to polish his armour, Bostar headed straight for Sapho’s tent. There wasn’t much time for getting ready, never mind a reconciliation. But their father had asked, so he would try.

Recognising the tent lines of Sapho’s phalanx by their standard, Bostar quickly located the largest tent, which, like his, was pitched on the unit’s right. The main flap was closed, which meant that his brother was either still in bed, or busy with his duties. Given his brother’s recent habits, Bostar suspected the former. ‘Sapho?’ he called.

There was no answer.

Bostar tried again, louder.

Nothing.

Bostar took a step away. ‘He must be with his men,’ he said to himself in surprise.

‘Who is it?’ demanded an annoyed voice.

‘Of course he’s not,’ Bostar muttered, turning back. He untied the thong that kept the tent flap closed. ‘Sapho! It’s me.’ A moment later, he threw wide the leather. Sunlight flooded inside, and Bostar lifted a hand to his nose. The reek of stale sweat and spilt wine was overpowering. Stepping
over the threshold, he picked his way over discarded pieces of clothing and equipment. Bostar was shocked to see that every item was filthy. Sapho’s shield, spear and sword were the only things that had been cleaned. They leaned against a wooden stand to the side. He came to a halt before Sapho’s bed, a jumble of blankets and animal skins. His brother’s bleary eyes regarded him from its depths. ‘Good morning,’ said Bostar, trying to ignore the smell. He hasn’t even washed, he thought with disgust.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Sapho’s voice was acid.

‘We’ve been summoned to a meeting with Hannibal.’

Sapho’s lips thinned. ‘The general told you that over breakfast, did he?’

Bostar sighed. ‘Despite what you may think, I didn’t save Hannibal’s life to curry favour, or to make you jealous. You know I’m not like that.’ He was pleased when Sapho’s eyes dropped away. He waited, but there was no further response. Bostar pressed on. ‘Father sent me. We need to be there in less than half an hour.’

Finally, Sapho sat up. He winced. ‘Gods, my head hurts. And it tastes like something died in my mouth.’

Bostar kicked the amphora at his feet. ‘Drank too much of this?’

Sapho gave him a rueful grin. ‘Not half! Some of my men broke into a wine merchant’s when the city fell. We’ve kept it under guard since. You should see the place. There’s vintage stuff from all over the Mediterranean!’ His expression grew hawkish. ‘Shame his three daughters aren’t still alive. We had some fun with them, I can tell you.’

Bostar wanted to punch Sapho in the face, but instead he proffered a hand. ‘Get up. We don’t want to be late. Father thinks Hannibal has a task for us.’

Sapho looked at Bostar’s outstretched arm for a moment before he accepted it. Swaying gently, he looked around at the chaos of his tent floor. ‘I suppose I’d better start cleaning my breastplate and helmet. Can’t appear in front of Hannibal with filthy gear, can I?’

‘Can’t your orderly do it?’

Sapho made a face. ‘No. He’s down with the flux.’

Bostar frowned. Sapho was in no state to wash himself, prepare his uniform and present himself to their general in the time remaining. Part of him wanted to leave his brother to it. That’s what he deserves, Bostar thought. The rest of him felt that their feud had been going on too long.
He made a snap judgement. His own servant would have everything ready by now. It would only take him a few moments to get ready. ‘Go and stick your head in a barrel of water. I’ll clean your armour and helmet.’

Sapho’s eyebrows rose. ‘That’s kind of you,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t think I’m going to do it for you every day,’ Bostar warned. He gave Sapho a shove. ‘Get a move on. We don’t want to be late. Hannibal must have something special lined up for us.’

At this, Sapho’s pace picked up. ‘True,’ he replied. He stopped by the tent’s entrance.

Bostar, who was already following with Sapho’s filthy breastplate, paused. ‘What?’

‘Thank you,’ said Sapho.

Bostar nodded. ‘That’s all right.’

The air between them grew a shade lighter, and for the first time in months, they smiled at each other.

Bostar and Sapho found their father waiting for them near Hannibal’s tent. Malchus eyed their gleaming armour and helmets and gave an approving nod.

‘What’s this about, Father?’ asked Sapho.

‘Let’s go and find out,’ Malchus answered. He led the way to the entrance, where two dozen smartly turned-out scutarii stood. ‘The general is expecting us.’

Recognising Malchus, the lead scutarius saluted. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir.’

As they were led inside, Bostar winked at Sapho, who returned the gesture. Excitement gripped them both. Although they had met Hannibal before, this was the first time they’d been invited into his headquarters.

In the tent’s main section, they found Hannibal, his brothers Hasdrubal and Mago, and two other senior officers grouped around a table upon which a large map was unrolled. The scutarius came to a halt and announced them.

Hannibal turned. ‘Malchus. Bostar and Sapho. Welcome!’

Father and sons saluted crisply.

‘You will know my brother Hasdrubal,’ said Hannibal, nodding at the corpulent, brooding man with a florid complexion and full lips beside him.
‘And Mago.’ He indicated the tall, thin figure whose eager, hawk-like face and eyes threatened to fix one to the spot. ‘This is Maharbal, my cavalry commander, and Hanno, one of my top infantry officers.’ The first man had a mop of unruly black hair and a ready smile, and the other a stolid but dependable look.

The trio saluted again.

‘For many years, Malchus acted as my eyes and ears in Carthage,’ Hannibal explained. ‘Yet when the time came for first his sons, and then he himself, to join me here in Iberia, no one was better pleased than I. They are good men all, and they proved their worth more than once during the siege, most recently when Bostar saved my life.’

The officers murmured in loud appreciation.

Malchus inclined his head, while Bostar flushed at the attention. Beside him, he was aware of Sapho glowering. Bostar cursed inwardly, praying that the fragile peace between him and his brother had not just been broken.

Hannibal clapped his hands together. ‘To business! Come and join us.’

They eagerly crossed to the table, where the others made room.

At once Bostar’s eyes drank in the undulating coast of Africa, and Carthage, their city. The island of Sicily, almost joining their homeland to its arch-enemy, Italy.

‘Obviously, we are here, at Saguntum.’ Hannibal tapped his right forefinger halfway up the east coast of the Iberian peninsula. ‘And our destination is here.’ He thumped the boot-like shape of Italy. ‘How best to strike at it?’

Silence reigned. It was an affront to every Carthaginian’s pride that Rome enjoyed supremacy over the western Mediterranean, an historical preserve of Carthage. Transporting the army by ship would be foolish in the extreme. Yet no one dared to suggest the only alternative.

Hannibal took the initiative. ‘There will be no assault by sea. Even if we took the short route to Genua, our entire enterprise could be undone in a single battle.’ He moved his finger northeast, across the River Iberus, to the narrow ‘waist’ that joined Iberia to Gaul. ‘This is the route we shall take.’ Hannibal continued to the Alps, where he paused for a moment before moving into Cisalpine Gaul, and thence into northern Italy.

Bostar’s heart quickened. Although Malchus had told him of Hannibal’s plan, the general’s daring still took his breath away. A glance at Sapho told
him that his brother shared his feeling. Their father’s face, however, remained expressionless. How much does he know? Bostar wondered. He himself had no idea how the immense task Hannibal had just mentioned would be achieved.

Hannibal saw Sapho straining forward eagerly. He raised an eyebrow.