Hannibal Enemy of Rome (35 page)

‘What’s he doing?’ Bostar whispered to Malchus.

For once, Malchus looked worried. ‘I don’t know, but I hope the gods are smiling on him.’

Sapho raised his voice. ‘If I defeat him, then you will apologise, accept Hannibal’s gifts and allow us to leave unharmed. When our army arrives, you will offer it safe passage.’

The chieftain laughed. So did everyone within earshot. ‘Of course. If you fail, though, he will take your head, and those of all your companions, as trophies.’

‘I would expect no less,’ Sapho replied disdainfully.

The chieftain gave a callous shrug. At his command, the mass of warriors formed a large, hollow circle. Malchus seized the initiative and used his soldiers to force a passage through so that they could form part of what was to be the combat area. He and Bostar stood at the very front. Many of the Ausetani did not like this move, and began pushing and shoving at the Carthaginian troops, until an angry shout from their leader stopped them. Surrounded by his bodyguards, the chief took up a position directly opposite Malchus.

Gripping his drawn sword, Sapho stalked through a narrow corridor of leering, unfriendly faces. A few paces behind him, the huge warrior received a rapturous welcome. When they were both in the centre of the circle, the crowd of Ausetani closed ranks. From a distance of perhaps a dozen paces, the two faced each other. Sapho was armed with a sword and a dagger. In contemptuous concession, his opponent had laid aside his shield and saunion, leaving him with a long, straight, double-edged blade. It still looked like a totally uneven match.

Bostar’s gorge rose. Sapho was a skilled swordsman, but he’d never faced a prospect like this. Judging by his father’s clenched jaw and fixed expression, he was thinking similar thoughts. Whatever he had been thinking about Sapho recently, Bostar didn’t want him to die losing to this giant. Closing his eyes, he prayed to Baal Saphon, the god of war, to help his brother. To help them all.

Sapho rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles and wondering what was his best course of action. Why had he thrown down such a stupid
challenge? The explanation was simple. Since Bostar had saved Hannibal’s life, Sapho’s jealousy had soared to new heights. There had always been a keen rivalry between them, but this was a step too far. In the months since they’d left Saguntum, Sapho had appeared to go along with Bostar’s wish to lay the matter to rest, but the feeling gnawed constantly at his guts like a malignant growth. Perhaps now some of his wounded pride could be reclaimed. Sapho studied his opponent’s bulging muscles and tried not to despair. What chance had he of succeeding? He had only one, Sapho realised with a thrill. His speed.

The chieftain raised his right arm, and a hushed silence fell. Glancing at both men to ensure they were ready, he made a downward chopping gesture.

With an almighty roar, the warrior launched himself forward, his sword raised high. For him, the contest was to be ended quickly. Brutally. Closing in on Sapho, he hammered down an immense blow. Instead of cleaving flesh, the blade whistled through the air to clash off the pebble-strewn ground, sending up a shower of sparks. Sapho was gone, dancing nimbly around to his opponent’s rear. The warrior bellowed with rage and spun to face him. Again he swung at Sapho, to no avail. He didn’t seem to care. With greater strength and reach, and a longer weapon, he had all the advantage.

Speed isn’t enough, thought Sapho. Desperately, he twisted away from a thrust that would have driven through both his bronze breastplate and his ribcage had it connected. So far, the warrior’s quilted linen tunic had turned away the glancing blows he had managed to land. Without getting dangerously close, it was impossible to do any more. Backing away from his sneering opponent, Sapho did not see one of the Ausetani stretch out his foot. An instant later, he tripped over it and fell backwards on to the hard packed dirt. Fortunately, he retained hold of his sword.

The warrior stepped closer and Sapho saw death looking him in the eyes. He waited until his enemy had begun to swing downwards, and then, with all his might, he rolled away into the centre of the circle. Behind him, Sapho heard his opponent’s sword slam into the ground with a bone-jarring thump. Knowing that speed was of the essence, he turned over and over before trying to get up. Mocking laughs from the watching Ausetani filled the air, and the huge warrior raised his arms in anticipation of victory.
Rage filled Sapho at their treachery. He knew too that this fight couldn’t be won by ordinary means. It was time to cast the dice. Take his chance. He drew his dagger with his left hand, ignoring the jeers this provoked.

Breathing deeply, Sapho waited. What he needed the warrior to do was take a great sideways slash at him. The only way he could think of drawing the hulk in was to stay put - without defending himself. It was a complete gamble. If the other didn’t take the bait and respond exactly as he wished, he’d be dead, but Sapho couldn’t think of anything else to do. Weariness threatened to overcome him, and his shoulders slumped.

The huge warrior shuffled in, grinning.

With a thrill, Sapho realised that his opponent thought he’d given up. He didn’t move a muscle.

‘Prepare to die,’ the warrior growled. Lifting his right arm, he swung his sword around in a curving arc, aiming for the junction between Sapho’s neck and shoulders. The blow was delivered with unstoppable force, at a target that was standing stock still. To those watching, it looked as if the duel was over.

At the last moment, Sapho dropped to his knees, letting the other’s blade split the air over his head. Throwing himself forward, he stretched out his arm and plunged his dagger into the warrior’s left thigh. It wasn’t a fatal wound, but nor was it meant to be. As he landed helplessly on his chest, Sapho heard a loud scream of pain. A grimace of satisfaction twisted his lips as he scrambled to his feet, still clutching his sword. A few steps away, the bleeding warrior was listing to one side like a ship in a storm. All his attention was focused on pulling the knife from his leg. Stabbing him in the back would be simple.

A quick glance at the snarling faces surrounding them helped Sapho to make a snap decision. Mercy would be far more useful here than ruthlessness. Swiftly, he swept in and completed the task. Drawing his blade across the back of his enemy’s left leg, he hamstrung him. As the bellowing warrior collapsed, Sapho stamped on his right hand, forcing him to drop his weapon. Touching the point of his blade to the other’s chest, he growled, ‘Yield.’

Moaning with pain, the warrior extended both his hands upwards, palms extended.

Sapho lifted his gaze to the chieftain, whose face registered stunned disbelief. ‘Well?’ he asked simply.

Eventually, the chief managed to compose himself. ‘I apologise for insulting Hannibal, your leader. The Ausetani accept these generous gifts, with thanks,’ he muttered with bad grace. ‘You and your companions are free to go.’

‘Excellent,’ replied Sapho with a broad smile. ‘Your son will be coming with us.’

The chief jumped to his feet. ‘He needs medical attention.’

‘Which he will receive in plenty. We will leave him in the care of the best surgeon in Emporiae. You have my word on that.’ Sapho leaned on his sword slightly, eliciting a loud moan from the huge warrior. ‘Or I can end it right here. It’s your choice.’

The chieftain’s lips peeled back with fury, but he was powerless in the face of Sapho’s resolve. ‘Very well,’ he replied.

Only then did Sapho glance at his father and Bostar. Both gave him fierce nods of encouragement. Sapho found himself grinning like an idiot. Against all the odds, he had redeemed the situation, won his father’s approval and his brother’s admiration. Inside, though, he knew that the Ausetani would have to be defeated before this particular passage to Gaul was safe.

A BOOT IN
the ribs woke Hanno the next morning. Grunting in pain, he opened his eyes. Agesandros was standing over him, flanked by two of the largest slaves on the farm. Hanno knew them for dumb brutes who did whatever they were told. Sets of manacles hung from their ham-like fists. Confusion and dread filled Hanno. Quintus’ and Fabricius’ absence hit home like hammer blows. This had to be more than coincidence. ‘What was that for?’ he croaked.

Instead of answering, the Sicilian kicked him again. Several times.

Protecting his head with his hands, Hanno rolled into the foetal position and prayed that Aurelia would hear.

At length, Agesandros ceased. He’d made no effort to remain quiet. ‘Gugga son of a whore,’ he snarled.

Through squinted eyes, Hanno looked up. He was alarmed to see the Sicilian clutching a dagger in one hand and a small purse in the other.

‘I found these under your pathetic pile of possessions. So you would steal money and weapons from your owner?’ Agesandros thundered. ‘Probably cut all our throats in the middle of the night too, before running away to join your scumbag countrymen in their war against Rome.’

‘I’ve never seen those things before in my life,’ Hanno cried. Immediately, an image of Agesandros lurking in the atrium came to mind. That’s what the Sicilian had been doing! ‘You bastard,’ Hanno muttered, trying to sit up. He received a kick in the face for his troubles. Sprawling back on his bedroll, waves of agony washed over him. Blood filled his mouth, and a moment later he spat out two teeth.

Agesandros laughed cruelly. ‘Fit him with manacles,’ he ordered. ‘Neck as well as ankles.’

Dazed, Hanno watched as the slaves stepped forward and fastened the
heavy iron rings around his flesh. Three loud clicks, and he was back to where he’d been in the slave market. As before, a long chain extended from the metal band around his neck. With a brutal tug, Hanno was jerked to his feet and towards the door.

‘Stop!’

All eyes turned.

Still in her nightdress, Aurelia stood framed in the doorway to her room. ‘Just what do you think you are doing?’ she screeched. ‘Hanno is a household slave, not one of the farm workers, to do with as you please.’

The Sicilian bowed extravagantly. Mockingly. ‘Forgive me, my lady, for waking you so early. After hearing of the news in your father’s letter, I became concerned about how this slave would react. I worried that he was planning to do you and your family harm, before escaping. Unfortunately, I was correct.’ He held up the evidence. ‘These clearly aren’t his.’

Horrified, Aurelia’s gaze shot to Hanno. She flinched at the sight of his bloodied face.

‘
Someone
planted them among my things,’ Hanno muttered, throwing Agesandros a poisonous look.

Understanding at once, Aurelia started forward. ‘You see?’

The Sicilian chuckled. ‘He would say that, wouldn’t he? Every gugga’s a liar, though.’ He jerked his head at the two hulks. ‘Come on. We have a long journey ahead of us.’

‘I forbid you,’ Aurelia shouted. ‘Do not move another step.’

The slaves holding Hanno froze, and Agesandros turned. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but in this instance I am going to override your authority.’

Atia’s voice cut in like a whiplash. ‘What about mine?’ she demanded. ‘In Fabricius’ absence, I am in charge, not you.’

Agesandros blinked. ‘Of course you are, mistress,’ he replied smoothly.

‘Explain yourself.’

Agesandros held up the knife and purse once more and repeated his allegations.

Atia looked suitably horrified.

‘What would Fabricius say if he found out that I had left such a dangerous slave on the premises, mistress?’ the Sicilian asked. ‘He would have me crucified, and rightly so.’

You clever bastard, thought Hanno. Make your move when you only
have two women to intimidate. Fabricius was far away, and who knew when Quintus would return?

Atia nodded in acceptance. ‘Where are you taking him?’

‘To Capua, mistress. Clearly, the dog is too dangerous to sell as an ordinary slave, but I’ve heard of a local government official who died there recently. The funeral is in two days, and the man’s son wants to honour his father’s passing with a gladiator fight. A pair of prisoners are to fight each other to the death, and then the survivor is to be executed.’

Atia’s lips thinned. ‘I see. Will my husband be out of pocket?’

‘No, mistress. For an event like this, I’ll get far more than we paid for him.’

Tears of impotent rage ran down Aurelia’s cheeks. Frantically, she racked her brains. What could she do?