Hannibal 03 - Clouds of War

  ‘Of course, sir.’ How could he have doubted Mutt? Hanno smiled as if he’d understood Hannibal’s meaning all along.

  ‘Come by my tent as soon as you’ve finished with your men.’

  ‘Very good, sir!’ Proud yet sad at what this meant, Hanno threw off a parade-ground salute.

  ‘As you were.’ Hannibal waved a hand in dismissal. Slipping up his hood, he walked off, just another ordinary soldier again.

  ‘So you two get special treatment while I have to stay in Italy.’ Sapho’s voice was sour.

  ‘You’re staying with the most important general in Carthage,’ retorted Hanno.

  ‘It’s as honourable to remain with Hannibal as it is to be sent overseas,’ added Bostar in a surprisingly conciliatory tone. ‘Hannibal values you. He’s said as much before.’

  ‘True,’ Sapho conceded, but the jealousy in his eyes gave the lie to his answer.

  Sapho wouldn’t be happy whatever the outcome, thought Hanno. He felt a whisper of relief that he would soon be far away from his oldest brother, yet that emotion was mixed with a contradictory sadness that he would be parted from not just Bostar, Mutt and his men, but Sapho too. There was every chance that they would never see each other again.

  ‘We’ll have to get together before any of us leave. Offer a sacrifice to Father’s memory.’ He paused. ‘And then get royally pissed.’

  Chapter II

  THE LIGHT WAS fading as Hanno arrived at Hannibal’s pavilion, his head full of thoughts of Sicily. Since losing the huge island in the first war with Rome, every Carthaginian had wanted it back. After all, much of it had been colonised by Carthage for nigh on two hundred years.

  Half a dozen scutarii were on duty outside his general’s tent. Hanno gave his name, which saw him ushered inside. A massive scutarius led the way.

  The rich interior made Hanno feel as if he were stepping inside the house of one of his father’s wealthy friends in Carthage. Fabric partitions divided the space up into rooms. Thick carpets covered the floors. In the larger chambers, bronze candelabras had been suspended from the rods that held up the roof. The hardwood furniture – chests, chairs and even couches – was heavy, and of good quality. They passed straight through the spacious meeting area where he and other officers sometimes received orders from Hannibal, and Hanno’s stomach twisted a little. The fact that he was being guided to his general’s private quarters was more proof that his mission was important.

  The scutarius halted at a final partition, before which stood a similarly large specimen, notable for the massive scar across his nose. This hulk eyed Hanno with open suspicion. ‘He’s here to see the boss. Hanno, commander of a Libyan phalanx,’ said the first soldier.

  Scarface gave Hanno a salute that did what it was supposed to but still managed to convey a level of contempt. Hanno just stared back. Everyone but the inner circle – men such as Maharbal – received the same treatment from Hannibal’s bodyguards. Scarface turned his head. ‘Sir?’ he called.

  From within came a familiar voice. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hanno, phalanx commander, is here, sir.’

  ‘Send him in.’

  ‘After you, sir,’ said Scarface to Hanno, with a trace more civility. He pulled aside the drape and waved him in. The first scutarius vanished back to the entrance.

  Self-conscious, for all that he had shaved, washed his hair and was wearing his finest tunic, Hanno stepped inside. Hannibal was sitting at a desk, with his back towards him. He half turned, smiled. ‘Come. Sit.’ He waved a hand at the chair that stood to one side of his table.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Nervously, Hanno obeyed.

  Hannibal’s one eye regarded him kindly. ‘Welcome. Wine?’

  ‘Please, sir.’

  ‘Sosian, do the necessary, will you?’

  Hanno took not a little pleasure from the way that Sosian – Scarface – hurried to obey, becoming the servant rather than the threatening bodyguard. When both of them had a full cup, Hannibal raised his towards Hanno. ‘To your father, Malchus. A brave heart and a loyal servant to Carthage.’

  Hanno swallowed the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. ‘To my father,’ he said.

  They drank. Hanno offered up a prayer to the gods, asking that they look after both of his parents.

  ‘To victory against the Romans,’ said Hannibal.

  ‘I’ll drink to that, sir,’ said Hanno eagerly.

  ‘May it come sooner rather than later.’

  Hanno studied Hannibal’s face, trying to read his thoughts on that matter. He couldn’t discern a thing, and didn’t dare to ask. They drained their cups. Scarface moved in, refilled them both.

  ‘It’s to your taste?’ asked Hannibal.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s delicious.’

  ‘It comes from a little estate near Cannae, funnily enough. There’s not much of it left now. I keep it for special occasions.’

  Hanno’s nerves gnawed at him afresh. ‘I see, sir.’

  Hannibal chuckled. ‘Relax. I won’t bite you.’

  Hanno had felt the edge of Hannibal’s temper before. That’s not why he was here tonight, though. He nodded. ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘Tell me what you know of Sicily.’

  ‘It’s a rich island, sir. My father used to tell me that it was littered with large farms and prosperous towns.’

  Hannibal’s eye twinkled. ‘So did mine. The bread basket of Italy, he called it. What else?’

  ‘It is the stepping stone between Africa and Italy, sir. Supremacy there would make our task immeasurably easier. Reinforcements and supplies could be moved from Carthage to Italy with few problems. Our army could be fed with the island’s produce, meaning that we wouldn’t need to change camp so often. The problem is that Rome controls most of Sicily, and the rest belongs to Syracuse, which has been no friend of Carthage for many years. Syracuse’s ruler allied himself to the Republic before the first war between our states.’ Here Hanno faltered a little. He knew that Hiero, the tyrant of Syracuse for more than half a century, had died soon after Cannae, but not the exact details of the deals and counter-deals that had happened since. ‘Since Hiero’s death, I know that his grandson was briefly in power. I’ve heard in recent days that Hippocrates and Epicydes may be ruling the city, and that they favour Carthage. More than that I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘It’s not surprising that you’re unaware of the very latest news. I’ll explain. Hiero’s grandson Hieronymus was a youth of fifteen when he ascended the throne. I had high hopes for him, because he initially spurned Rome. Before long, though, it became clear he was both rash and impetuous. Having sought alliance first with me, he began communicating directly with the authorities in Carthage.’ Hannibal frowned. ‘Cheeky pup.’

  ‘You were quick to respond to his overture, sir. I remember the departure for Sicily of Hippocrates and Epicydes. So their efforts have finally borne fruit?’

  ‘Indeed. The rumour you heard is true. At first, it seemed that they wouldn’t achieve anything, and for more than a year, Syracuse’s ties with Rome remained unsevered despite Hieronymus’ overtures to us. Their chance came some months ago when Hieronymus was murdered by a faction of disaffected nobles; soon after that his successor, an uncle, was assassinated along with much of the royal family. The bloodshed left a power vacuum. Hippocrates and Epicydes lobbied hard for two of the most powerful magistracies in the city – positions that had been left vacant by the wave of killings – and managed to secure them. When I heard that, I hoped that they would take control of Syracuse. But many still regarded them as outsiders, and they couldn’t rally enough support. So, instead, they seized Leontini, a town some two hundred stadia north of Syracuse. Bit of an unwise move, because it attracted the immediate attention of Marcus Claudius Marcellus.’

  ‘That’s the commander of the Roman forces on the island, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Within weeks, Hippocrates and Epicydes were driven from their new fiefdom. Humiliation – and then, on the road back to Syracuse, th
e two of them ran into a strong force of local troops marching to Leontini’s aid. Things looked dire, but instead the pair’s fortunes completely reversed. It’s funny how, for no apparent reason, disasters can turn into triumph,’ Hannibal said, chuckling. ‘Truly the gods can be generous.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Hanno.

  ‘The soldiers leading the force were Cretan mercenary archers, who as fortune had it, were well disposed towards Hippocrates and Epicydes. Even that wouldn’t have been enough to take over the entire Syracusan force, however. So, undeterred, the brothers told the rest of the soldiers that Marcellus had massacred the population of Leontini – which was a downright lie. Yet it was believed. They succeeded in persuading the eight thousand men to drive off their Syracusan officers and to accept them as commanders. With this small army at their backs, Hippocrates and Epicydes marched on Syracuse where, against the odds once more, they managed to seize power.’ Hannibal banged his cup on the table. ‘So there you have it! A city of huge importance to Sicily, and therefore the whole war, is in the hands of two men who are no friends to Rome.’

  Hanno felt rising confusion. ‘I don’t understand how I can help, sir.’

  ‘I’ve picked you because you are loyal to me, heart and soul.’

  Hanno’s heart swelled at this unexpected recognition. ‘Aye, sir,’ he muttered thickly.

  ‘That’s more than I can say of Hippocrates and Epicydes. They only ever fought for me in the hope that I could one day help them to become the twin tyrants of Syracuse. They’ll side with Carthage while it suits them, but either one would slit my throat – or yours – if the price was right.’

  Hanno saw some of Hannibal’s intent now. ‘I am no spy, sir. I’m a simple soldier. Fighting is what I do. There must be other men you could send in my stead.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I have need of them here. That’s not to say that I don’t require you also,’ Hannibal added reassuringly, ‘but your second-in-command can fill your place for the moment. You’re an experienced officer, used to leading men and making decisions in a crisis. Hippocrates and Epicydes had the same opportunities as you, but neither ever made a particularly good leader. They have done well to achieve so much, but I worry for their future. You can help them. You’re intelligent and, even better, you are decisive. You showed that today.’

  The praise made Hanno’s cheeks flush with renewed pride. ‘Thank you, sir. So you want me to assist them, militarily?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’ Hannibal saw his indecision. ‘I won’t order you to go if you don’t want to. I’m asking you because I think you will do well.’ His eye burned with an intensity that held Hanno’s gaze.

  Hanno forgot Bostar and Sapho. Forgot Mutt and his men. ‘I’d be honoured to do it, sir.’

  A pleased nod. ‘I want you to be my eyes and ears in Syracuse. You will gather intelligence – about everything you can – and send word of it to me when possible. Hippocrates and Epicydes will be told that you’re to act as a military aide to their cause. You’re to win their trust if you can, and to help them carry the fight to Marcellus and his legions with all of your ability. When reinforcements arrive from Carthage – and within twelve months, they will – you are to try and ensure that relations between the two sets of leaders are cordial from the start. When the Romans are beaten on Sicily’ – here a wolfish smile – ‘you are to keep Hippocrates and Epicydes sweet. Once that happens, all Carthaginian forces on the island will need to be transferred to Italy, but I’ll want Hippocrates and Epicydes to provide us with soldiers and supplies as well.’ Hannibal finished and studied him in silence.

  Hanno’s heart thudded in his chest. Gods, he thought. This is massively important to our cause. To the war. Far more important than leading a phalanx. ‘I will do my best, sir, or die in the attempt.’

  ‘Good man!’ Hannibal clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let us hope that you succeed, and that you also survive to appreciate the fruits of your labours.’ He slipped a heavy ring off the index finger of his right hand and held it out. ‘I will give you letters of introduction of course, but this will act as proof that you are my man.’

  Awestruck, Hanno took the gold ring, the top of which was embossed with a lion: one of the symbols used by the Barcid family. He would never be able to show this to Sapho. ‘I …’ he began, ‘… thank you, sir.’

  ‘May the gods go with you to Sicily. We’ll talk again before you leave.’ Hannibal turned back to the parchment he’d been studying when Hanno entered.

  He was being dismissed. Gripping the ring tightly in his right fist, Hanno stood. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Wrapped up in his thoughts, with the ring burning a hole in his hand, Hanno wasn’t watching where he was going. Thump. His head collided with someone. ‘I’m sorry. That was my fault.’ Even as the words left his mouth, he was stunned and delighted to recognise Bomilcar.

  ‘Of all the men in the army to walk into!’ cried Bomilcar, rubbing his forehead and beaming at the same time. ‘It’s good to see you, Hanno. How long has it been – six months?’

  ‘That and more,’ replied Hanno ruefully. ‘The funny thing is, I was planning to seek you out this very evening.’

  ‘That’s what they all say!’ Bomilcar winked to show that he meant no offence. ‘Time just passes us by, eh? How are you keeping?’

  Hanno moved the hand holding the ring to his side. ‘I’m well. And you?’

  ‘Fine. Been to see the chief?’ Bomilcar jerked his head in the direction of Hannibal’s tent.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘You had that look that men have after talking to him. Pensive,’ came the shrewd reply.

  ‘He’s sending me to Sicily,’ Hanno confided.

  Bomilcar’s eyebrows rose. ‘You’re moving up in the world.’

  ‘It seems so.’ Hanno felt a little disappointed that Bomilcar did not ask more. ‘Have you also been summoned?’

  A nod, then a whisper. ‘I’m to travel to Rome.’

  How the world changed, thought Hanno. All he’d known since joining Hannibal’s army was fighting and battles. Now everything seemed to be about espionage and subterfuge. ‘As a spy, I take it?’

  Bomilcar winked again. ‘I’m fair-skinned. Thanks to my years in captivity, I speak Latin like a native. Who better to venture into the wolf’s lair? There have been rumours of the enemy trying to force us down into the heel, or perhaps the toe of the peninsula. Hannibal wants me to find out if they’re true.’ Bomilcar cast a look at the sun. ‘Here, I’m late. Let’s share that cup of wine tonight. I’ll tell you more, and you can fill me in on your mission.’

  ‘I look forward to it,’ said Hanno, grinning.

  By the time that he, Mutt and Bomilcar had consumed the contents of two small amphorae of wine, the moon had risen high in the night sky and Hanno was feeling decidedly the worse for wear. A warm, fuzzy feeling encased him, and he felt goodwill towards all men. Well, not towards the Romans, he thought blearily, but even they weren’t as bad as some made them out to be. He had spent more than a year living with Quintus and his family, had he not? They hadn’t been any different to him and his own family. Not evil. Not perfect, but decent, hard-working people. It wasn’t possible that they were different from the rest of their race. No, Hanno decided, many Romans were all right. Pera, the officer who had tortured him at Victumulae was an exception, clearly. The rest, however, just happened to be the enemy. A damn stubborn enemy too. ‘Why couldn’t the fools have admitted that they were beaten after Cannae?’ he muttered.

  ‘We should have marched on Rome then,’ said Bomilcar. ‘They would have surrendered.’

  ‘Would they?’ asked Mutt, letting out a contemptuous fart. He waited until the chuckles had died down before continuing. ‘I don’t think so. The only thing that will make them surrender is when every city, every ally they have, deserts them. When they’re on their own, with their backs to the wall, they will sue for peace.’

  ‘For that to happen, we ne
ed to defeat the enemy in both Iberia and Sicily,’ said Hanno grimly, already feeling the pressure of his mission. ‘That would free up two armies of ours to travel to Italy. Once they arrived, Rome’s allies would desert them like rats escaping a sinking ship.’

  ‘Aye, that’s about right,’ replied Mutt, taking a big mouthful from his cup.

  When it hadn’t happened after Cannae, Hanno had begun to suspect that the path to total victory would be long and tortuous. Articulated now, the prospect of winning a war on three fronts sounded close to impossible. Stop thinking like that, he ordered himself. ‘We have to succeed, damn it!’

  ‘We will pray to the gods and do our best. A man can do no more, eh?’ Bomilcar held out his cup to Mutt for a refill.

  That did not sit well with Hanno. Failure – or, at best, satisfaction with one’s efforts – was not something that he ever wanted to feel comfortable with. It smacked of mediocrity. An image of Aurelia came into his mind then, as she had been that night outside her home near Capua. His groin throbbed and for a moment, he forgot about Sicily, and duty. Shame at not having tried to contact her after their last meeting scourged him. Yet there had seemed no point. She was to be married, and they were from opposite sides in the war. The most practical thing would have been to try and forget her, yet Hanno hadn’t. Couldn’t. A wave of memories surged back. Gods, but how good it had been to kiss her. Why had he not sent her messages? They would never have got through, but he should have tried. Impulse seized him. He nudged Bomilcar. ‘Will you pass through Capua on your way north?’

  ‘It’s the last friendly city before Rome, so yes, probably. Why?’

  Hanno didn’t answer immediately. He was being foolish, he thought sadly. Capua had come over to Hannibal some time since. Those who remained loyal to the Republic would have fled the city after that. He could not imagine Aurelia’s mother and father, and by extension, her husband, ever changing sides. She would not be in Capua. He let out a heavy sigh. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Bomilcar threw him a quizzical look, but said nothing. Mutt, on the other hand, chuckled knowingly. ‘It’ll be a woman. Mark my words.’