Hannibal Enemy of Rome (69 page)

And the run. Bostar would never forget the run.

They did not sprint. It was more than half a mile to the battlefield. Exhausting themselves would give away all the advantage they had been granted. Instead they moved at a fast trot, leaving plumes of exhaled breath in their wake. The cold air was filled with the low, repetitive thuds of horses’ hooves and men’s boots and sandals on the hard ground. No one spoke. No one wanted to. Everyone’s eyes were locked on what was unfolding before them. Amid the confusion, one thing was clear. There was no sign of the enemy’s cavalry, which meant that the Iberian and Gaulish horsemen must have driven them off. On the Roman flanks, the allied infantry were struggling against the Carthaginian elephants, skirmishers and Numidian horsemen. In itself, these were major achievements, and Bostar wanted to cheer. But he did not utter a word. The battle’s outcome still hung in the balance. As they drew closer, he saw that the fighting in the centre was incredibly fierce. The legionaries there had actually moved in front of their wings, which meant that they had pushed the Gauls who formed the central part of Hannibal’s line backwards.

They had come not an instant too soon, thought Bostar.

Mago came to the realisation at the same time. ‘Charge!’ he screamed. ‘Charge!’

With a wordless roar, Bostar, Sapho and his soldiers obeyed, increasing their speed to a dangerous, breakneck pace. Any man who tripped now risked breaking an ankle or a leg. But no one cared. All they wanted to do was to start shedding their opponents’ blood. To bury their weapons in Roman flesh.

The last moments of their run were surreal. Exhilarating. Thanks to the deafening sounds of battle, there was no need to worry about how much noise they made. The triarii in the enemy’s third rank - their targets - were not looking behind them. Unsurprisingly, the veterans were engrossed by the bitter struggle going on to their front, and were preparing to join in. They had no idea that two thousand Carthaginian soldiers were about to strike their rear at a full charge. Bostar would always remember the first
faces that turned, casually, for whatever reason, to look around. The sheer disbelief and terror that twisted those faces to find a group of the enemy fewer than thirty paces away. The hoarse screams as the small number of triarii who were aware tried to warn their comrades of their deadly peril. And the satisfaction as they smashed into the Roman ranks, drawing their weapons down on the backs of men who did not even know they were about to die.

For the first time in his life, Bostar was overcome by battle rage. In the red mist surrounding him, it was easy to lose count of the number of men he killed. It was like stabbing fish in a rock pool off the coast of Carthage. Thrust forward. Run the blade in as deep as possible. Withdraw. Select another target. When eventually his blunted spear stuck in a triarius’ backbone, Bostar simply discarded it and pulled out his sword. He was vaguely aware that his arm was bloody to the elbow, but he didn’t care.
I’m coming
,
little brother
.
Stay alive
,
Father
.

Eventually, the veteran legionaries managed to turn and face their attackers. The fight became harder, but the advantage was still with Mago’s men, who could now see that the enemy’s flanks had broken. Bostar exulted. The combined wave of Carthaginian troops and cavalry on the allied infantry’s undefended side had proved too much. Prevented from wheeling to face the threat, they had been mercilessly hacked to pieces.

Now, dropping their weapons, the survivors turned and ran for the Trebia. Bostar threw back his head and let free an animal howl of triumph. To the rear, he glimpsed thousands of their cavalrymen waiting for just such an eventuality. The allied troops would not go far. Suddenly, a veteran with a notched sword blade drove at him and Bostar was reminded that their own task was not over. Although the triarii were suffering heavy casualties, the rest of the legionaries were still moving forward into, and through, the lines of Gauls. Like a battering ram, they could only be resisted for so long. Bostar’s elation died away as he realised that some of the Libyan phalanxes had also given way. They quickly crumbled before the legionaries’ relentless assault. Catching Sapho’s attention, Bostar pointed. His brother’s face twisted in rage. With renewed energy, they both threw themselves at the triarii.

‘Hanno! Father!’ Bostar shouted. ‘We’re coming!’

Too late, his heart screamed back.

When Aurelia entered the bedroom, her mother barely stirred. Elira, who was sitting by the bed, turned.

‘How is she?’ Aurelia whispered.

‘Better,’ the Illyrian replied. ‘Her fever has broken.’

Some of the tension went from Aurelia’s shoulders. ‘Thank the gods. Thank
you
.’

‘Hush,’ murmured Elira reassuringly. ‘She was never that ill. It’s a bad winter chill, that’s all. She’ll be up and about by Saturnalia.’

Aurelia nodded gratefully. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. It’s not just caring for Mother these past few days. You made all the difference in Suni’s—’ She looked over her shoulder guiltily. To her relief, there was no one in the atrium. ‘I mean Lysander’s recovery.’

Elira waved a hand in dismissal. ‘He’s young, and strong. All he needed was some food and warmth.’

‘Well, I’m thankful to you nonetheless,’ said Aurelia. ‘So is he.’

Elira bobbed her head, embarrassed.

Things had moved on since she had returned to the farm with a half-conscious Suniaton two weeks previously, thought Aurelia, looking down at her sleeping mother. Fortunately, Atia had not questioned her story of finding him in the woods. In a real stroke of luck, a heavy snowstorm later that night had concealed the evidence of her tracks up to the hut. Unsurprisingly, everyone had taken Suniaton for a runaway slave. As agreed, he had pretended to be mute. He also put on a good show of appearing simple. Agesandros had been suspicious, of course, but there had been no trace of recognition in his eyes at any stage.

Aurelia had given the Sicilian no chance to have anything to do with Suniaton. Any master who wanted his property back could come looking for the boy, she had said to her mother. Until then, she was going to keep him. ‘Lysander, I’ll call him, because he looks Greek.’

Atia had smiled in acceptance. ‘Very well. If he even survives,’ she’d joked.

Well, he had, thought Aurelia triumphantly. Suni’s leg had recovered enough for him to limp about the kitchen under Julius’ instruction. For the moment, he was safe.

What frustrated Aurelia most was the fact that she could rarely talk to him. The best they could manage was an occasional snatched conversation
in the evenings, when the other kitchen slaves had gone to bed. Aurelia used these moments to ask Suni about Hanno. She now knew much about his childhood and family, his interests, and where he had lived. Aurelia’s reason for wanting to know about Hanno was quite simple. It was a way of not thinking about her betrothal. Even if Flaccus had been killed with her father, her mother would soon find her another husband. If Flaccus had survived, they would be wed within the year. One way or another, she would have an arranged marriage.

‘Aurelia.’

Her mother’s voice jerked Aurelia back to the present. ‘You’re awake! How do you feel?’

‘Weak as a newborn,’ Atia murmured. ‘But better than I did yesterday.’

‘Praise all the gods.’ Tears leaped unbidden to Aurelia’s eyes.

Finally, things were looking up.

Her mother’s improvement lifted Aurelia’s mood considerably. For the first time in days, she went for a walk. The chill weather meant that the snow that had fallen over the previous few days had not melted. Aurelia didn’t want to go far from her mother or Suni. Just venturing a short distance along the track towards Capua felt wonderful, however. She relished the crunch of the frozen snow beneath her sandals. Even the way her cheeks rapidly went numb felt refreshing after all the time she’d spent indoors. Feeling more cheerful than she had in a while, Aurelia let herself picture a scenario in which her father had not been killed. She imagined the joy of seeing him walk through the front doors.

With this optimistic thought uppermost in her mind, she returned to the house.

As Aurelia crossed the courtyard, she saw Suniaton. He had his back to her, and was carrying a basket of vegetables into the kitchen. Her spirits lifted even higher. If he was able to do that, his leg must have improved further. She hurried after him. Reaching the door, Aurelia saw Suniaton lifting his load on to the work surface. All the other slaves were busy in other parts of the room. ‘Suni!’ she hissed.

He didn’t react.

‘Pssst! Suni!’ Aurelia stepped inside the kitchen.

Still he did not respond. It was then that Aurelia noticed his stiff-backed
stance. Claws of fear raked her belly. ‘Sunny, it’s so sunny outside,’ she said loudly.

‘I could have sworn you said S-u-n-i,’ Agesandros purred, stepping from the shadows beside the kitchen door.

Aurelia blanched. ‘No. I said it was sunny. Can’t you see? The weather’s changed.’ She gestured outside at the blue sky above the courtyard.

She might as well have been speaking to a statue. ‘Suni - Suniaton - is a gugga name,’ said the Sicilian coldly.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Aurelia retorted desperately. Her gaze shot to Julius and the other slaves, but they were carefully pretending not to notice what was going on. Despair filled her. She wasn’t the only one who was scared of the vilicus. And her mother was still sick in bed.

‘Is this miserable wretch Carthaginian?’

‘No. I told you, he’s Greek. His name’s Lysander.’

From nowhere, a dagger appeared in Agesandros’ hand. He pricked it to Suniaton’s throat. ‘Are you a gugga?’ There was no response, and the vilicus moved his blade to Suni’s groin. ‘Do you want your balls cut off?’

Petrified, Suniaton shook his head vehemently.

‘Speak, then!’ Agesandros shouted, returning the dagger to Suni’s neck. ‘Are you from Carthage?’

Suniaton’s shoulders sagged. ‘Yes.’

‘You
can
talk!’ crowed the Sicilian. He rounded on Aurelia. ‘So you lied to me.’

‘What if I have?’ Aurelia cried, genuinely angry now. ‘I know what you think of Carthaginians.’

Agesandros’ eyes narrowed. ‘It was odd when this scumbag arrived, half-dead. With a recently healed sword injury. I bet he’s the runaway gladiator.’ Like a hawk, he pounced on Suniaton’s reactive flinch. ‘I
knew
it!’

Think! Aurelia told herself. Quickly, she drew herself up to her full height. ‘Surely not?’ she snapped haughtily. ‘That creature would have fled long ago.’

‘He might have fooled you, but there’s no drawing the wool over my eyes.’ Agesandros leaned on his blade. ‘You’re no simpleton, are you?’

‘No,’ Suniaton mumbled wearily.

‘Where’s your friend?’ the Sicilian demanded.

Don’t say anything, thought Aurelia pleadingly. He’s still not sure.

To her horror, Suniaton’s courage flared one last time. ‘Hanno? He’s long gone. With any luck, he’ll be in Hannibal’s army by now.’

‘Shame,’ murmured Agesandros. ‘You’re of no further use, then.’ Smoothly, he brought down his dagger and slipped it between Suniaton’s ribs, guiding it into his heart.

Suniaton’s eyes bulged in shock, and he let out a shuddering gasp of pain. His limbs went rigid before relaxing slowly. With an odd tenderness, Agesandros let him down. A rapid flow of blood soaked the front of Suni’s tunic and spread on to the tile floor. He did not move again.

‘No! You monster!’ Aurelia shrieked.

Agesandros straightened. He studied his bloodied blade carefully.

Panicking, Aurelia took a step backwards, into the kitchen. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘Julius! Help me!’

At last, the portly slave came hurrying to her side. ‘What have you done, Agesandros?’ he muttered in horror.

The Sicilian didn’t move. ‘I have done the master and mistress a service.’

Aurelia couldn’t believe her ears. ‘W-what?’

‘How do you think he’d feel to discover that a dangerous fugitive - a gladiator - had contrived to join the household, placing his wife and his only daughter in danger of their lives?’ asked Agesandros righteously. He kicked Suniaton. ‘Death is too good for scum like this.’

Aurelia felt herself grow faint. Suniaton was dead, and it was all her fault. She could do nothing about it either. She felt like a murderess. In her mother’s eyes, the Sicilian’s actions would be completely justifiable. A sob escaped her lips.

‘Why don’t you attend to the mistress?’ There was iron below Agesandros’ apparent solicitousness.

Aurelia rallied herself. ‘He’s to have a decent burial,’ she ordered.

The Sicilian’s lips quirked. ‘Very well.’

Aurelia stalked from the kitchen. She needed privacy. To wail. To weep. She might as well be dead, like Suniaton - and her father. All she had to look forward to from now on was her marriage to Flaccus.

Suddenly, an outrageous image popped into Aurelia’s mind. It was of her, standing on the deck of a ship as it sailed out from the Italian coast. Towards Carthage.

I could run away, she thought. Find Hanno. He—

Leave everything you’ve ever known behind to find one of the enemy? Aurelia’s heart shouted. That’s madness.