‘Now, I said!’
As fast as he could, Hanno threaded his way past a farmer in a mule-drawn wagon who had just been waved inside. ‘Sir?’ he asked, avoiding eye contact.
‘Name?’
Hanno’s mouth opened to say ‘Alcimos’, but Thick Eyebrows jabbed him in the chest with a finger. ‘Cat got your tongue, peasant?’
Furious, Hanno decided it was time to reveal who he was. ‘Hanno,’ he said, pitching his voice so that the people walking in behind him could not hear. Some could be Roman spies, and he had no wish for it to be known that a Carthaginian was entering Syracuse in disguise.
‘What’s that? Speak up!’
Hanno leaned forward. ‘My name is Hanno; I am a Carthaginian officer. I’ve been sent by Hannibal Barca, with messages for your generals, Hippocrates and Epicydes.’
Thick Eyebrows looked incredulous for a moment, then he laughed. ‘And I’m fucking Appius Claudius Pulcher, propraetor. What’s that on your back?’
‘My things. Clothing, food, a sword.’
‘A sword?’ Shoving Hanno backwards, Thick Eyebrows levelled his spear. ‘Alarm! I’ve got one with a weapon!’
Shouts of panic rose as the travellers around Hanno broke and ran, both into and out of the city. Within a few heartbeats, he was alone within a ring of grim-faced guards, all of whom were threatening him with spears. Hanno dropped his bag, threw his dagger down and raised his hands in the air. ‘I’m unarmed,’ he said loudly. Thick Eyebrows was shouting that they should kill him there and then; a good number of his comrades appeared to agree. Thankfully, the rest seemed fearful but indecisive. Beyond them, people were crowding in to see what was happening. ‘A spy! A spy!’ he heard a man say.
The circle of spear points wavered. Thick Eyebrows cursed and took a step towards Hanno.
Hanno fought to stay calm. ‘I need to speak to your commanding officer,’ he said, even louder than the previous time.
‘We’ll decide what to do with you, vermin,’ snarled a voice from behind him.
Hanno began to turn, but a heavy weight smashed into the back of his head, and he knew no more.
Hanno gasped as a bucket of water was emptied over his head. He came to, lying on his side, bound with ropes like a pig for the slaughter. A blinding headache beat an unpleasant rhythm inside his skull, and his mouth felt dry and sticky. Rolling on to his back, he found himself being regarded suspiciously by four men. One was Thick Eyebrows. Two others were also ordinary soldiers, but the last was an officer, clad in a polished breastplate and pteryges that protected his shoulders and groin. Hanno’s relief died away as the officer pointed at his neck. ‘You’re a slave?’
Hanno’s nerves jangled. He hadn’t noticed that they’d removed the protective piece of cloth, in the process revealing the ‘F’ mark that Pera had given him. ‘F’ stood for fugitivus. ‘No! I was captured by the Romans some time ago, and tortured. This was one of the results.’
‘A likely story,’ said the officer.
Yet it didn’t take long for Hanno’s story to appear more believable when he mentioned Hannibal’s ring and letter. They hadn’t been found when he had been searched. When they were produced – by stripping him naked – the officer scowled at his men. ‘How did you miss these?’ They hung their heads resentfully. Hanno ignored them, concentrating instead on speaking rapid, fluent Greek to the officer, telling him a little of his mission. The officer made to open the seal on the letter. ‘Do that at your own peril,’ warned Hanno. ‘It’s to be read by Hippocrates and Epicydes alone.’
The officer halted. As if to convince himself, he asked Hanno a couple of questions in hesitant Carthaginian. The speed of Hanno’s answers seemed to provide the last proof he needed. The officer had the grace to flush a little as he ordered Hanno to be freed and his clothing and possessions to be restored to him – apart from his weapons. ‘My apologies for the confusion. We have orders to be on the alert for Roman spies.’
‘I would hardly have made myself known, and as a Carthaginian, if I’d been sent by Marcellus,’ said Hanno sarcastically as he got dressed.
‘I know. I’m sorry. My men will be disciplined.’ Here, a scowl at Thick Eyebrows, who looked away. ‘I’ll take these to Hippocrates and Epicydes.’
Hanno eyed the ring and letter with some alarm. ‘I had thought to present them in person.’
‘I’m just doing my duty,’ replied the officer awkwardly. ‘It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, can I offer you food? Drink?’
‘Yes, thank you. A drop of something for the pain too, if you have it. My head is splitting.’ Hanno aimed a poisonous stare at Thick Eyebrows and his fellows.
‘Of course.’ The officer barked an order that sent the soldiers hurrying from the room. ‘I’ll return as soon as I can,’ he said with a friendly nod, before locking the door behind him.
Hanno swallowed down his anger. Being confined to a prison cell after being assaulted by Syracusan guards was not how he’d expected his visit to the city to begin. The fact that the officer believed him clearly wasn’t enough. He hoped that Hippocrates and Epicydes realised that his letter and the ring were genuine, or his stay in this bare, dank room might turn out to be permanent.
His spirits were lifted a little while later by the arrival of a slave bearing a platter of bread, olives and wine. A surgeon was next to enter. He tutted with disapproval when Hanno told him how he’d received the wound to the back of his head, but pronounced after an examination that it was not serious. Three drops of poppy juice in Hanno’s wine would dull the pain but not make him drowsy, he said, unstoppering a tiny glass vial.
Some time passed – in the windowless cell, with just an oil lamp as light, Hanno had no idea how long – before the officer reappeared. He was smiling. ‘I’m to convey you to the generals,’ he said. ‘Are you rested? Is your head any better?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. They read my letter?’
‘Yes. They want to meet you at once. I must apologise again for your treatment and this period of … detention. Twice, assassins have made attempts on Hippocrates’ and Epicydes’ lives.’
‘I understand.’ It made sense, thought Hanno, even if Thick Eyebrows was an imbecile. He smoothed down his chiton and smiled. ‘I’m ready.’
The officer half bowed. ‘If you could follow me, then.’
A pair of soldiers fell in behind them as they exited the cell. Hanno’s sword and dagger had not been returned to him either. The brothers’ trust only went so far.
The four walked down a long corridor lined with flagstones. The whimpering sounds from behind some of the doors on each side made Hanno’s skin crawl. He remembered Victumulae, and he reached in reflex under the cloth, to his scar.
Emerging into daylight, Hanno squinted. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that they were in a large courtyard, which was bordered by stables, barracks and workshops. Soldiers were everywhere, talking, cleaning gear, being chivvied by their officers. The cells were in a building that had been erected as part of the defensive wall, and the great limestone blocks he’d seen on his approach were just as impressive from the inside.
‘We’re in the east of the city. This is part of the garrison’s quarters,’ explained the officer. ‘Hippocrates and Epicydes live close by. It’ll be quickest to go there via the ramparts. No one will see you this way, and you’ll appreciate the view.’
Hanno’s interest grew as they climbed a stone staircase that ran up the side of the cell block to the top of the defences. A sentry guarding the last step saluted as the officer reached him. Nothing could have prepared Hanno for the magnificence of the sight that greeted him. A little gasp escaped his lips, and the officer chuckled. ‘Most react in the same manner.’
‘It reminds me of Carthage,’ said Hanno, feeling a little homesick. They were facing eastward, and the mid-afternoon sunlight had turned the sea into a blinding white mirror. That didn’t stop him from making out the shapes of dozens of ships in the anchorages far below, and the finge
r of land that edged out to meet a little fortified island. ‘That must be Ortygia.’
‘You’re well informed. It’s named after a quail, because of its shape. Here we overlook part of Achradina. The harbour that lies on this side of Ortygia is the small one. On the other side, out of sight, lies the great. It’s far more protected from the weather, and can hold hundreds of ships.’ He beckoned.
‘There must be a Roman blockade, surely?’ As he walked, Hanno scanned the sea, but the intensity of the reflection from its surface meant that he couldn’t see a thing.
‘Oh yes, they’re out there somewhere. Ten, twenty, sometimes more triremes. They never go away, but there aren’t enough of them to seal off the city completely, thank the gods. Your people have been very generous to us. They have sent regular convoys bearing supplies.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Hanno wondered about taking passage on a Carthaginian vessel, back to his home. Fleeting bitterness took him. There would be no family, and few friends of his there. His mother was dead, and most of his childhood companions would be in one or other of Carthage’s armies.
Reaching a broader section of wall, his attention was drawn to a twin-armed catapult positioned a few steps to the rear of the walkway. It wasn’t manned, but neat piles of large stones lay all around, and its mechanisms looked well oiled. The catapult was ready for use, that was plain. Another stood thirty paces on, and then a third and a fourth. More were visible beyond. He whistled. ‘How many of these are there?’
The officer looked pleased. ‘I’m not sure exactly. Hundreds, at the very least. They line the walls for their entire length, and that’s more than two hundred stadia. These are only the small ones. The larger ones have to be set at ground level. You’ll see one in a moment. If it hadn’t been for Archimedes, we wouldn’t have half the number that we do. He spent his time nagging Hiero about building more of them. I think Hiero had some built just to shut him up, but we’ll be damn glad of them soon.’
‘The Romans are coming?’
A short laugh. ‘Oh yes. Every so often, deserters make their way here. The word has it that it won’t be long before Marcellus moves his legions. It was inevitable, but at least the waiting will be over. We’ll be ready. These walls won’t fall in a decade of siege.’
‘The defences are truly impressive,’ agreed Hanno, thinking with pride of his own city, and its fortifications, which were even greater. It would never see a besieging army, though, as this one would. Hippocrates and Epicydes would hold Syracuse, and he’d play his part in helping to accomplish that. Armies would arrive from Carthage, and the tide of war on Sicily would flow in their favour.
A short distance further along the rampart, they were halted by a group of soldiers. These individuals were a different stamp to the guards such as Thick Eyebrows. Their equipment and weapons shone in the sunlight, and they carried themselves in the manner of men who knew their business. The lead one, a man of Hanno’s age, wore an old-fashioned pilos helmet topped with a fantastic five-spined crest. He saluted as he blocked the officer’s path and said politely, ‘Password, sir.’
‘Herakles.’
Pilos-wearer stood aside with a nod. ‘You and your guest may continue, sir, but your men stay here.’ His comrades parted in the middle, allowing Hanno and the officer to pass between them. More security, thought Hanno. The problems he’d had made more sense now, if even ordinary soldiers were not to be trusted.
Just beyond the sentry point, the walkway broadened out into a great square; it was the roof of a massive dwelling, even a palace. The whole surface had been decorated with swirling patterns of black and white mosaic tiles. Huge clay pots containing vines, lemon and fig trees had been arranged around the sides. Timbers had been set into the floor, their purpose to support a lattice framework that held some of the vines. The ingenious technique had created plenty of shady spots, and mimicked the appearance of a garden. There was even a fountain, the centrepiece of which was Poseidon astride a great dolphin. How the water reached this height, Hanno had no idea.
The officer saw his surprised look. ‘More of Archimedes’ work. A wheel with leather buckets set over a well carries the water aloft.’
‘He must be a man of great talent.’
‘You haven’t seen the half of it.’
A number of figures could be seen near the fountain. Two were reclining on couches. As they drew closer, Hanno saw that two of the party were manacled, and on their knees. Soldiers with drawn swords stood behind them. He could hear questions being asked. When one of the prisoners didn’t answer quickly enough, one of the soldiers kicked him in the back. He fell forward on to his face, moaning, and didn’t try to get up. A question was hurled at his companion, who flinched.
‘Our Carthaginian!’ called one of the men on the couches. ‘Bring him here, Kleitos.’
The officer ushered Hanno in front of him and together, they approached.
Hanno realised that the reclining men were Hippocrates and Epicydes. The brothers were as Hanno remembered seeing them at the time of Cannae, although he could not recall who was who. One had a beard, while the other did not, but that was the only discernible difference between them. Both had tousled black hair, and slender, almost feminine features. They were each clad in a richly embroidered himation, a mark of their status, and calf-high boots that reminded Hanno of those worn by Hannibal.
Ten paces from the couches, Kleitos touched him in the back. Hanno took the prompt and stopped. He bowed. ‘Greetings, O rulers of Syracuse.’
‘Rulers?’ said the bearded one with a chuckle. ‘We’re merely two of the generals who form the ruling council.’
Hanno glanced at Kleitos, but his face was a mask. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Hippocrates is jesting with you,’ said the clean-shaven man with a laugh. ‘It’s true that the other generals are our equals, but they tend to defer to our judgement.’ The emphasis on the word ‘defer’ was light, but the unpleasant gleam in his brother’s eyes suggested that the relationship wasn’t altogether cordial.
Hanno wondered if any of the other leaders enjoyed the pleasures of this rooftop garden, but he kept that to himself. ‘I am honoured to meet you, Generals. My name is Hanno of Carthage. I come from Hannibal Barca, as you will have read in my letter.’
‘I have it here.’ Epicydes flicked a hand at the low table before him, where Hannibal’s ring lay upon the unrolled parchment. ‘You are most welcome to our city. My apologies for the manner in which you were treated on your arrival. The guards on the gates can be a little jumpy.’
And stupid, thought Hanno. ‘I understand, General. These things happen.’
‘You bring no soldiers with you?’ asked Hippocrates in a truculent tone.
‘Regretfully, General, no. For the moment, Hannibal needs every man he has. With every passing season, the Romans raise new legions.’
Hippocrates made a phhhh of contempt, but Epicydes smiled. ‘We have sufficient numbers to defend the city, and a little more. When the armies that Hannibal speaks of arrive from Carthage, we shall sweep Marcellus’ forces into the sea!’
‘May it turn red, as the waters did at Trasimene,’ added Hippocrates.
‘I look forward to that day,’ said Hanno. ‘I will do my utmost to help you both achieve that end.’
‘Were you there, at the lake?’ asked Hippocrates, his eyes eager.
‘I was, General.’ Hannibal had absolved him and the other phalanx commanders of blame after their units had been punched open, allowing thousands of legionaries to escape the carnage, but Hanno still felt a trace of guilt.
‘As were we. I don’t recall your face.’ This in a slightly accusatory tone.
‘I was present, nonetheless,’ said Hanno, his temper rising a little. Hippocrates seemed argumentative, and impossible to please.
‘No one can remember one face out of many thousands! His word is enough. Hannibal states that you’re an experienced infantry officer,’ said Epicydes, his eyes appraising. br />
‘That’s true, General. I fought at the Trebia, Trasimene and Cannae, and most of the battles in between and since.’
‘It’s a mark of Hannibal’s esteem that he picked you for this mission, and that he gave you this.’ Epicydes picked up the ring and admired it. ‘Here.’ He tossed it to Hanno, earning a scowl from Hippocrates.
‘I was going to keep that.’
‘It’s not yours to keep, brother,’ said Epicydes.
‘My thanks, General,’ said Hanno, clenching the ring in his fist, and hiding his growing dislike of Hippocrates. ‘How can I be of service?’
Epicydes regarded Hippocrates. ‘What think you, brother? Shall we give him the command of a unit of infantry?’
‘I suppose,’ replied Hippocrates with poor grace. ‘But what damn difference one officer is going to make, I don’t know.’ He got up and walked to stand over the prisoner who was lying on the floor. ‘What have you to say?’
The only answer he got was a whimper.
‘Ignore him,’ said Epicydes to Hanno, meaning Hippocrates. ‘You can take charge of some of our less experienced foot soldiers. They’ll benefit from the training you can provide. If you could help other officers to do the same, I’d be grateful. When the siege begins, I’ll give you a section of wall to defend.’
‘It would be an honour, General.’ Hanno warmed towards Epicydes, who was courteous at least. He was unsure what useful intelligence would come his way when fulfilling that role, but there was little he could say.
‘Your role will come into its own when the promised forces from Carthage arrive. We’ll need an officer who speaks both Greek and Carthaginian, won’t we, brother?’
That’s more promising, thought Hanno.
‘Yes, yes,’ answered Hippocrates, sounding uninterested. He kicked the prisoner. ‘If you won’t give me any information, you’re no damn use to me.’ He glanced at the soldiers who were guarding the captives. ‘Throw him over the edge.’
Epicydes made a vaguely apologetic gesture to Hanno as the sobbing man was hauled by his arms to the battlements and without hesitation, flung to his death. A despairing cry carried to the garden for perhaps two heartbeats after he disappeared, before abruptly stopping.