Hannibal 03 - Clouds of War

  Pox Face’s head turned; he saw Kleitos. His gaze wandered to his other friends.

  Hanno seized his chance. Drawing his dagger, he nudged it against Pox Face’s belly. The prick brought Pox Face’s attention – fearful now – back to him at once. ‘There’s no need for trouble,’ he said softly. ‘We were just leaving. Sit back down and have a drink with your comrades, and we can forget that this ever happened.’

  Pox Face wasn’t without balls. ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I’ll bury this to the hilt in your guts. My friend will cut your mate’s throat. After that, we’ll sort out the others. Do as you wish. It’s your choice.’

  Pox Face studied him, as if memorising his features. Then, breathing heavily through his nose, he took a step backwards. ‘I need a drink,’ he announced.

  A wave of relief washed over Hanno. Kleitos was a hard man; he was no slouch either, but fights in places like this were always risky. It would have taken little for a mass brawl to start, and with drink on board, men grew vicious. Sliding a knife between someone’s ribs and slipping off into the confusion was easily done in such a crowded space.

  Kleitos released his man, and joined Hanno. Casting warning looks at the soldiers, they headed for the door with Aurelia between them.

  ‘Your woman’s no Sicilian, is she?’

  The question made Hanno turn. ‘What’s it to you?’ he demanded.

  ‘She’s not dark-skinned enough to be a Carthaginian either, like you,’ said Pox Face knowingly. ‘Where’s she from? I want to be able to ask for one like her in the whorehouse.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself!’

  The festival of Lenaia departed as quickly as it had arrived, although that didn’t stop Kleitos from telling Hanno about it for days afterwards. It seemed that he’d had the time of his life, with two women simultaneously, one a priestess and the other a local noblewoman. Hanno wasn’t sure he believed Kleitos, but it made a good story. Moreover, it seemed to have lifted Kleitos’ mood.

  In the weeks and months that followed, life inside the city returned to its peaceful ways. Lengthening days, buds on tree branches and warmer weather announced the arrival of spring. Hanno was glad to see the back of winter; after months of relative inactivity, he was chafing to get out of the city. Yet the knowledge that a new campaigning season would soon begin was not altogether welcome. Much of the time, it sat like a lead weight in his belly. If he and Aurelia weren’t to be parted for months on end, taking her with him was the only option, but to do so would expose her to all kinds of danger. It had been pure luck that she’d escaped harm among the camp followers accompanying Hippocrates’ patrol. In a vain hope that the issue would go away, he avoided mentioning it. Aurelia did not bring it up either, but it was clear from her ill humour that the prospect was also affecting her adversely. Ten days passed in this unhappy fashion, with neither caring to address the burning issue.

  Matters came to a head one afternoon, but not as either of them might have expected. Hanno had been out since before dawn, drilling his soldiers, but he’d returned earlier than his new norm. Aurelia wasn’t in their rooms; he assumed she was out shopping for the evening’s meal. She still hadn’t returned when he’d come back from a quick trip to the public baths. Unconcerned, for she had been befriended by a couple of women neighbours, he lay down on the bed for a short rest. Soon, he’d drifted off.

  He was dragged from the depths of an unpleasant dream by the sound of sobbing. Aurelia was standing inside the door that led to the landing, which in turn gave on to the stairs to the street. He was at her side in an instant. She fell into his arms, weeping. ‘Everything will be all right, my love,’ he murmured, sure that her upset was to do with the upcoming campaign. ‘I’ve been thinking. I’ll buy a male slave, a strapping type who can fight. He’ll travel with you, be your protector when I can’t be with you.’

  Her sobbing eased. She looked up, her tear-stained face full of confusion. ‘That’s not why I’m upset.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hanno, feeling worried and a little foolish. ‘What is it then?’

  ‘It was someone on the street, just now. Do you remember that soldier who accosted me that time in the Ox and Plough? The one—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I remember the cocksucker.’ Pox Face. He called you a whore. ‘You’ve seen him again?’

  ‘By chance, yes. I nearly walked into him as I came out of the baker’s down the street. He recognised me at once.’

  Hanno felt a white-hot rage pulse behind his eyes. ‘Did he touch you?’

  ‘He tried mauling me, but he seemed a little drunk. I managed to slap him off.’

  ‘The goat-fucking whoreson. I’ll teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.’ Hanno scooped up his cudgel. As an extra precaution, he strapped on a belt and dagger.

  ‘Hanno.’

  Her sombre tone refocused his attention. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I shouted at him, and he realised from my accent that I was a Roman. Then h-he …’ She hesitated for an instant. ‘… mentioned something about his commander recently having drinks with Hippocrates, who was bemoaning the loss of a female slave back in Syracuse. A Roman woman. “I thought of you when I heard it,” he said, smirking. “The whole thing’s probably a coincidence, but it’s worth carting you before Hippocrates to see if you’re his missing piece of meat.”’

  ‘Did he see you enter the house?’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t stop him from following me. I’m sorry, I was frightened.’ She began to cry again.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Despite his reassuring words, Hanno had broken out in a cold sweat. This changed everything. A beating was no longer sufficient. ‘Was he on his own?’

  ‘I think so.’

  That was some consolation at least. ‘Stay here. Bolt the door after me, and don’t open it to anyone but me or Kleitos.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

  ‘Sort it out,’ Hanno replied grimly. He went down the stairs two at a time, pushing past an errand boy, who dropped his basket of vegetables. Caution overtook Hanno at the entrance, and he peered out from the safety of a doorjamb. There was no one standing opposite, and his worry soared. Let him still be close by, please. The only people he could see to the left, however, were a couple of housewives chatting outside the baker’s. To the right, a builder and his apprentice were unloading a small cart full of bricks. Pox Face had vanished. The first trace of panic rippled in Hanno’s chest. If the soldier managed to speak with Hippocrates—

  He quelled the thought, taking a moment to deliberate. Would Pox Face continue drinking, perhaps in the company of his fellows, or would he want to find out immediately if his discovery would reap any reward? Or would he do something altogether different, such as find a brothel? His heart battered the inside of his ribcage as he vacillated. Baal Saphon, help me, please, he prayed. Guide me.

  When the answer came out of nowhere, it was so simple that he laughed out loud. He’d head for Hippocrates’ residence, which lay about five stadia away. If Pox Face was going in that direction, Hanno would soon catch him up. If he had sought out his comrades and more wine, however, there’d be a lag period that would grant Hanno the time to return from Hippocrates’ house and glance inside every hostelry for half a dozen streets around.

  That was the plan, anyway.

  He set off at a brisk pace, fighting his urge to run. It would be stupid to squander the only opportunity to silence Pox Face because his sandals’ iron hobs had given him away. There was no question of intimidating his quarry. To be sure Hippocrates heard nothing, he had to murder him. At any other time, Hanno would have avoided slaying someone who was in effect one of his own. With his and Aurelia’s survival at stake, he didn’t give it a second thought.

  At each alley or side street, Hanno slowed long enough to look for anyone with Pox Face’s slight build. On one occasion, he followed a man thirty paces into a narrow lane to find that he had wasted his time. Hoping that the delay wouldn’t cost him dearly, he
ran for a bit to regain the ground he’d lost. Eventually, Hippocrates’ house, a grand affair lent to him by one of the city’s leaders, drew near. Hanno had passed scores of people, male, female, young, old, rich and poor, without as much as a sign of Pox Face. His initial optimism began to fade, but he rallied his courage. Maybe Pox Face had gone into a tavern to boast about whom he’d seen?

  It was worth going right to Hippocrates’ gate, Hanno decided. If Pox Face had reached the entrance, he could still be there. A lowly soldier would not be admitted without some kind of delay. There might be a chance to distract him, to force him into an alleyway.

  The junction with the street upon which Hippocrates’ residence was situated was no more than a hundred paces away when Hanno spotted a slight figure in a military tunic ahead of him. His mouth went dry, and he began to walk faster, stealing through the other passers-by to within a dozen steps of the man. Frustration filled him. Even at this short distance, he couldn’t be sure from behind that it was Pox Face. Hanno ventured closer, his nerves taut as wire, wondering if he should act. But what if he killed the wrong man?

  The gods smiled on him then. A woman laughed from a first-floor balcony, and his quarry’s head turned, looking for the sound’s source. In the process, he revealed his cheek, covered in characteristic pockmarks. Hanno exulted, but he had to act quickly – the junction was less than fifty paces away. His eyes darted left and right, spotted an alley that ran between a derelict building and a block of apartments. He had no idea if it would be empty, but he’d run out of time. It would have to do.

  Drawing his dagger and holding it unobtrusively by his side, he ran forward. Too late, Pox Face heard Hanno’s footsteps. His face registered first alarm, then recognition of Hanno, and last of all pure fear. He didn’t make a sound, though, because Hanno had an iron grip on his left shoulder and a blade jammed up against his liver. ‘Call for help, and you’re dead,’ Hanno muttered. ‘Disobey me, and you’re dead. Understand?’

  Pox Face nodded.

  ‘Left. Into the alley.’ They’d drawn level with its mouth.

  Pox Face hesitated, and Hanno jabbed the dagger’s tip into his flesh. ‘Move. I just want to talk to you.’

  In the depths of terror, men clutch at the shortest of straws. Pox Face ducked inside the darkened space, which was no more than four paces wide. Broken pottery crunched underfoot. The air was fetid, laced with the smell of human piss and shit, and the rotten food that had been flung from above. Hanno glanced up and was glad to see none of the apartments’ residents framed in the windows. He stopped Pox Face fifteen paces in. ‘That’s far enough.’

  ‘Don’t kill me, please.’ Pox Face turned his head a little to try and catch Hanno’s eye. ‘Please.’

  Hanno had been about to use his dagger, but at such close range, he’d cover himself in blood. That wouldn’t do. He had to be able to emerge from the alley and walk away without raising suspicion. ‘Shut up.’ Keep him thinking that he might live. ‘Where were you going?’

  ‘Nowhere. I—’

  Pox Face didn’t get a chance to continue his lie. Releasing his grip on the other’s shoulder, Hanno threw his left arm around Pox Face’s neck and squeezed as hard as he could. Pox Face made a horrible, choking sound and fought back like a man possessed. He tried kicking backwards, smacking Hanno painfully on the knee a couple of times. His hands reached back, pulling at Hanno’s hair, his ears, his arm. Tightening his grip, Hanno buried his face in Pox Face’s smelly tunic to avoid getting a finger in the eye. All the while, he kept the knife ready as a last resort.

  For a small man, Pox Face possessed considerable strength. Hanno had lost a few clumps of hair and had a bleeding ear before his opponent’s struggling weakened. At last, though, his arms fell to his sides. He went limp in Hanno’s grasp. Suddenly worried that there might be witnesses, Hanno glanced at the alley’s mouth. There was no one there. Dropping his dagger, he threw Pox Face to the ground and rolled him over. His victim’s eyes flickered and opened. Hanno met his gaze as he placed his hands around Pox Face’s neck and began to choke him again. Pox Face’s hands came up and pawed ineffectually at him.

  ‘Thought that you’d sell out my woman, did you?’ Hanno hissed, digging his thumbs right into Pox Face’s Adam’s apple. ‘You piece of filth!’

  He had killed many men, but never by strangling. It wasn’t pleasant, but Pox Face had to die silently. Hanno watched, unmoved, as the other’s face suffused with blood, as his engorged tongue poked out from between his lips. Pox Face’s reddened eyeballs bulged from their sockets. They stared at Hanno with a mad, pleading intensity. ‘Rot in hell,’ he grated, digging in with his thumbs. There was a low crunch as the cartilage in Pox Face’s throat gave way. His tongue retracted a little into his mouth, and the light went from his eyes. Hanno didn’t let up. He didn’t take his hands away until there had been no movement from his victim for another twenty heartbeats. Carefully, he felt for a pulse in Pox Face’s purpled neck, and again over his heart. Nothing. Hanno let out a long, slow breath. He had done it.

  The danger wasn’t over, however. Noises from the street reminded him that there were people very close by. Replacing his dagger in its sheath, he brushed back his hair, dabbed at his bloody ear, palmed the sweat from his face. Hanno waited until he was stepping into the street before adjusting his tunic in the manner of a man who has been emptying his bladder. A carpenter crouched over a half-sawn plank looked up, and then returned to his work. No one else appeared to notice. With a little luck, thought Hanno, Pox Face’s body wouldn’t be found for a few days. By then, the rats would have been at him; it would be a miracle if he could even be identified. Hippocrates would remain unaware of Aurelia’s presence in the city.

  Hanno’s step was light as he strode down the street, but scarcely thirty paces later, a familiar voice cried, ‘Ho! Is that my Carthaginian officer I see?’

  Hanno felt sick. Of all the bad luck. He turned and saluted. ‘It is I, sir.’

  Hippocrates drew near, with several of his cavalry officers close behind. Their breastplates glistened; their helmets and scabbards had been polished. They were going somewhere important. ‘What are you doing here?’ Hippocrates gave him a disapproving glance. ‘And in such a state? You’re filthy – and your ear’s bleeding.’

  Hanno ignored the curling lips of the officers at Hippocrates’ back. ‘I was just taking a stroll, sir. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Tripped up, and landed on my head in the dirt.’ He gave silent thanks as Hippocrates all but ignored his reply. Evidently, the general hadn’t seen him until that very moment, had no idea of what he’d been up to.

  ‘Walk with me,’ Hippocrates ordered. ‘I was going to summon you later.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Hanno looked around for the carpenter, the only person to witness him leaving the alley. To his immense relief, the man had vanished. Where, it didn’t matter.

  ‘The year’s campaign is about to start.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘As I’d expect,’ came the sharp retort. ‘Recent intelligence suggests that the Roman legions encamped around Syracuse won’t be moving any time soon. Himilco and I intend to give them a nasty surprise.’

  ‘That sounds good, sir!’ Part of Hanno was delighted, part dismayed. He tried again not to worry about Aurelia.

  Hippocrates’ expression grew spiteful. ‘Sadly, you won’t be part of the attack.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Hanno, fighting a sudden feeling of dread.

  ‘My brother Epicydes must know of our plan, so that he can launch a simultaneous assault on the enemy. You will carry word to him inside the city.’

  Now, Hanno struggled to conceal his pleasure. Getting through the Roman lines would not be without danger, but if he could take Aurelia with him, this would be a way to remove her from the twin dangers of being a camp follower, and having her identity revealed for a second time. It was also a chance to get away from Hippocrates, and if he coul
d send word, Hannibal would be pleased to learn of this development.

  ‘Have you nothing to say?’

  ‘As ever, I will follow your orders to the last detail, sir,’ replied Hanno stolidly, praying that in his message Hippocrates wouldn’t try to poison Epicydes’ mind towards him.

  Hippocrates looked disappointed. ‘Entering Syracuse will prove risky,’ he warned. ‘The blockade is much tighter than when we broke out. Epicydes must receive my letter, so I will send a number of messengers. One of you will make it,’ he added with a touch more vitriol.

  ‘At least one of us, sir,’ said Hanno, giving thanks to the gods.

  And if I have anything to do with it, he thought, two will.

  Chapter XVIII

  QUINTUS WAS PACING. The section of fortification that he and his tent mates had to man measured approximately eight hundred paces. The hastati marched in four pairs, and each set had a quarter of the distance to cover. Two hundred paces, six stops. At each, a pause to scrutinise the ground that separated Roman-held terrain from the walls of Syracuse. Quintus and his comrades had been patrolling the same part of the rampart since returning from Enna the previous summer. They’d tramped up and down for the whole winter. Now, in early spring, all of them knew it like the back of their hands.

  Syracuse lay half a mile away, which meant safety from even the most powerful of Archimedes’ catapults. Before the siege, the no man’s land had been farmed, but the inhabitants had long since fled or been killed. Their grain had been reaped the previous autumn by the legionaries. No one had tilled the soil after that, or planted new crops, not on such dangerous territory. The harsh winter weather had rotted the stubble into the ground whence it came, leaving only mud.

  It was a pity that there would be no wheat to harvest in the summer, Quintus mused, but the lack of vegetation made the sentry’s job easy. Movement of any kind could be spotted at once. Not that the Syracusans ever ventured beyond the confines of their city. There hadn’t been an enemy patrol sighted in this area since the previous autumn. With their defences secure, the Syracusans had no need to assault the Roman fortifications. It was far wiser to stay behind the safety of their massive walls, Quintus thought sourly, warmed no doubt by the fires in the regular towers that decorated the parapets. There had been no Roman attacks either, since that horrendous first day, almost a year previously. Instead Marcellus had tightened the blockade around Syracuse as much as possible. Frustratingly, that didn’t stop the Carthaginians from running in regular supply convoys. In its current form, the siege would not end soon.