The Road to Rome (65 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 taller than eight men standing on each other’s shoulders. Like the outer defences, the wall was constructed from great quadrilateral blocks of sandstone. Regular coats of whitewash ensured that the sunlight bounced off the stone, magnifying its size. Topped by a wide walkway and with towers every fifty steps, the fortifications were truly awe-inspiring. And the citadel was only a small part of the whole. Hanno never tired of looking down on the expanse of the sea wall which came into view as he emerged from under the shadow of the gateway. 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 quarters within the walls, which were in total over a hundred and eighty
stades
in length, could hold twenty thousand troops, four thousand cavalry and their mounts, and hundreds of war elephants.

Home to nearly a quarter of a million people, the city was also worthy of a second look. Directly below them lay the Agora, the large open space which was bordered by the Senate, 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 Ba’al Hammon, no longer as important as it had previously been, but still venerated by most. To the east lay the
choma
, the huge manmade 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 way he ever wanted to see Rome was humbled – by a victorious Carthaginian army – and then burned to the ground. As Hamilcar Barca, Hannibal’s father, had inculcated a hatred of all things Roman in his son, so had Malchus in Hanno. Like Hamilcar, Malchus had served in the first war against the Republic, fighting in Sicily for ten long, thankless years.

Unsurprisingly, Hanno 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 only four 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. That didn’t mean Hanno wanted to spend all his time listening to boring speeches though.

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. ‘We could be gone all day. Best get some 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 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 of harvesting the local
murex
shellfish and pounding its flesh to yield a purple dye which 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 which broke the street’s steep descent. A group of Libyan soldiers clattered past, a richly dressed Carthaginian officer in their midst. He was wearing a bell-shaped helmet with a thick rim and a yellow horsehair crest, scale armour, and bronze greaves. An expensive-looking cloak was fastened at his right shoulder by a gold brooch wrought in the shapes of a horse’s head alongside a palm tree, two of Carthage’s sacred symbols. Recognising the officer, who was probably on his way to the very meeting he was supposed to be attending, Hanno quickly pretended to study the nearest array of terracotta outside a potter’s workshop.

Dozens of figures – large and small – were ranked on low tables. Hanno recognised every god and goddess in the Carthaginian pantheon. There sat a regal, crowned Ba’al 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. Ba’al Safon, the god of storm and war, sat astride a fine charger, wearing a helmet with a long, flowing crest. Also on display were 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 only 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 only lived 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 to 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, smaller than she had ever been in life. Malchus kneeling alongside, great sobs wracking 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 patrol had passed by, moved on. It hurt too much to think about such things.

A moment later, Suniaton, who had not noticed Hanno’s distress, paused to buy some bread, almonds and figs. Keen to lift his sombre mood, Hanno had eyes only for 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 too. In the recesses of the open-fronted establishment, he glimpsed a figure in a leather apron carefully lifting a piece of glowing metal from the anvil with a pair of tongs. There was a loud hiss as the sword blade was plunged into a vat of cold water. Hanno felt his feet move towards the forge. He
knew the smith, had spent long hours in his company, learning something of his craft. Much of the weaponry for Carthaginian officers was made in places like this. He’d even helped to make his own iron sword there. A typical example of the blade wielded by his race, it was straight – the length of his extended hand and forearm – and double-edged. The simple pommel and hilt were made of carved wood and bone. It was Hanno’s most prized possession.

‘Hey! We’ve got better things to do. Like making money,’ cried Suniaton, blocking his path. He shoved a bulging bag of almonds at Hanno. ‘Carry that.’

‘No! You’ll eat them all anyway.’ Hanno pushed his friend out of the way and ran off, laughing. 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.

Soon they had reached the Agora. Its four sides, each a
stade
in length, were made up of grand porticoes and covered walkways. The beating heart of the city, it was home to the Senate, government buildings, a library, numerous temples and shops. It was also where, on summer evenings, the better-off young men and women would gather in groups, a safe distance apart, to eye each other up. Socialising with the opposite sex was frowned upon, and chaperones for the girls were never far away. Despite this, inventive methods to approach the object of one’s desire were constantly being invented. Of recent months, this had become one of the friends’ favourite pastimes. Fishing beat it still, but not by much, thought Hanno wistfully, scanning the crowds for any sign of attractive female flesh.

Instead of gaggles of coy young beauties though, the Agora was full of serious-looking politicians, merchants and high-ranking soldiers heading for one place. The Senate. Within its hallowed walls, in a grand pillared debating chamber, more than three hundred senators met on a regular basis, as, for more than half a millennium, their predecessors had done. Overseen by the two
suffetes
– the yearly elected rulers – they, the most important men in Carthage, decided everything from trading policy to negotiations with foreign states. Their range of powers did not end there. The Senate was also where declarations of war and peace were made – yet they did not appoint the army’s generals any longer. Since the war with Rome, that had been left to the people. The only prerequisites for candidature of the Senate were citizenship,
wealth, an age of thirty or more, and the demonstration of ability, whether that be in the agricultural, mercantile, or military fields.

Ordinary citizens could participate in politics via the Assembly of the People, which congregated once a year, by the order of the
suffetes
, in the Agora. During times of great crisis, it was permitted to gather spontaneously and debate the issues of the day. While its powers were limited, they included electing the
suffetes
, and the generals. Hanno was looking forward to the next meeting, which would be the first he’d attend as an adult, entitled to vote. Although Hannibal’s enormous public popularity guaranteed his reappointment as the commander-in-chief of Carthage’s armies in Iberia, Hanno wanted to show his support for the Barca clan. It was the only way he could at the moment. Despite his requests, Malchus would not let him join Hannibal’s army, as Sapho and Bostar had done after their mother’s death. Instead, he had to finish his education. Hanno did not fight his father on this: there was no point. Once Malchus had spoken, he never went back on a decision.

Following Carthaginian tradition, Hanno had continued to sleep at home from the age of fourteen, but he had largely fended for himself, working in the forge among other places. In this way, he’d earned enough to live on without committing any crimes or shameful acts. This was similar to, but not as harsh, as the Spartan way. He had also had taken classes in Greek, Iberian and Latin. Hanno did not especially enjoy languages, but he had come to accept that such a skill would prove useful among the polyglot of nationalities which formed the Carthaginian army. His people did not take naturally to war, so they hired mercenaries, or enlisted their subjects, to fight on their behalf. Libyans, Spaniards, Gauls and Balearic tribesmen each brought their own qualities to Carthage’s forces.

Naturally, Hanno’s favourite part of his instruction was that dedicated to military matters. Malchus himself taught him the history of war, from the battles of Xenophon and Thermopylae to the victories won by Alexander of Macedon. Central to his father’s lessons were the intricate details of tactics and planning. Particular attention was paid to Carthaginian defeats in the war with Rome, and the reasons for them. ‘We lost because of our leaders’ lack of determination. All they thought about was how to contain the conflict, not win it. How to minimise cost, not disregard it in the total pursuit of victory,’ Malchus thundered during one memorable
lesson. ‘The Romans are motherless curs, but by all the gods, they possess strength of purpose. Whenever they lost a battle, they did not give up. No, they recruited more men, and rebuilt their ships. When the public purse was empty, their leaders willingly spent their own wealth. Their damn Republic means everything to them. Yet who in Carthage offered to send us the supplies and soldiers we needed so badly in Sicily? My father, the Barcas, and a handful of others. No one else.’ He barked a short, angry laugh. ‘Why should I be surprised? Our ancestors were traders, not soldiers.’ He fixed his dark, deep-set eyes on Hanno. ‘To gain our rightful revenge, we must follow Hannibal. He’s a natural soldier, a born leader – as his father was. Carthage never gave Hamilcar the chance to beat Rome, but we can offer it to his son. When the time is right.’