‘Varsaco was the one who would have raped them,’ shouted the Egyptian. ‘I stopped him.’
‘How good of you,’ Malchus snarled. ‘You had no problem selling them, though, did you? Who bought them?’
‘A Latin. I didn’t get his name. He was going to take both to Capua. Sell them as gladiators. I don’t know any more.’ The Egyptian looked down at Sapho, and then towards Malchus. All he saw from both was an implacable hatred. ‘Give me a quick death, like Varsaco,’ he pleaded.
‘You expect me to keep my word after what you have done to two innocent boys? Those who engage in piracy merit the most terrible fate possible.’ Malchus’ voice dripped with contempt. He turned to the soldiers. ‘You’ve heard what these scum have done to my boy and his friend.’
An angry growl left the Libyans’ throats, and one stood forth. ‘What shall we do with them, sir?’
Malchus let his gaze linger on the four pirates, one by one. ‘Castrate them all, but cauterise the wounds so they do not bleed to death. Break their arms and legs, and then crucify them. When you’re done, find the rest of their crew and do the same to every last one.’
To a background of terrified protests, the spearman snapped off a salute. ‘Yes, sir.’
Malchus and Sapho watched impassively as the soldiers set about their task. Dividing into teams of three, they stripped the prisoners with grim purpose. Light flashed off knife blades as they rose and fell. The screaming soon grew so loud that it was impossible to talk, but the soldiers did not pause for breath. Blood ran down the pirates’ legs in great streams to congeal in sticky pools on the floor. Next, the stench of burning flesh filled the air as red-hot pokers were used to stem the flow from the prisoners’ gaping wounds. The pain of the castration and cautery was so severe that all the pirates passed out. Their respite was brief. A moment later, they were woken by the agony of their bones breaking beneath the blows of hammers. Low repetitive thuds mingled with their shrieks in a new, dreadful cacophony.
Malchus pressed his lips to Sapho’s ear. ‘I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.’
Even in the corridor outside, with the door closed, the din was incredible. Although it was now possible to talk, father and son looked at each other in silence for long moments.
Malchus spoke first. ‘He could still be alive. They both could.’ Rare tears glinted in his eyes.
Sapho felt bad for Hanno. Drowning was one thing, but fighting as a gladiator? He hardened his heart. ‘They won’t be for long. It’s a mercy in a way.’
Unaware of Sapho’s motivations, Malchus clenched his jaw. ‘You’re right. We can do no more than to hope that they died well. Let us join Hannibal Barca’s army in Iberia, and wage war on Rome. One day, we will bring ruination, fire and death to Capua. Then, vengeance will be ours.’
Sapho looked stunned. ‘Hannibal would invade Italy?’
‘Yes,’ replied Malchus. ‘That is his long-term plan. To defeat the enemy on their own soil. I am one of only a handful of men who know this. Now you are another.’
‘The secret is safe with me,’ whispered Sapho. Obviously, he and Bostar had not been party to all of the information carried by Hannibal’s messenger. Finally, he understood his father’s threat to raze Capua. ‘Our revenge will come one day,’ he muttered, thinking of the golden opportunities to prove his worth that would arise.
‘Speak after me,’ ordered Malchus. ‘Before Melqart, Baal Saphon and Baal Hammon, I make this vow. With all my might, I will support Hannibal Barca on his quest. I will find Hanno, or die avenging him.’
Slowly, Sapho repeated the words.
Satisfied, Malchus led the way outside.
The screaming continued unabated behind them.
Chapter VI: Servitude
Near Capua, Campania
HANNO TRUDGED DESPONDENTLY behind Agesandros’ mule, swallowing the clouds of dust sent up by those in front. Ahead of the Sicilian was the litter containing Atia and Aurelia, and beyond that, in the lead, were Fabricius and Quintus. It was the morning following his purchase by Quintus, and, after spending the night at Martialis’ house, the family was returning to their farm. During their short stay, Hanno had been left in the kitchen with the resident household slaves. Dazed, still unable to believe that he had been separated from Suniaton, he had simply slumped in a corner and wept. Other than placing a loincloth, a beaker of water and a plate of food beside him, no one had offered him any comfort. Hanno would remember their curious stares afterwards, however. No doubt it was something they had all seen countless times before: the new slave, who realises that his life will never be the same again. It had probably happened to most of them. Mercifully, sleep had finally found Hanno. His rest had been fitful, but it had provided him with an escape of sorts: the possibility of denying reality.
Now, in the cold light of day, he had to face up to it.
He belonged to Quintus’ father, Fabricius. Like his family, Suni was gone for ever.
Hanno still didn’t know what to make of his master. Since a cursory examination when they had first returned to Martialis’ house, Fabricius had paid him little heed. He had accepted his son’s explanation that, because of his literacy and skill with languages, the Carthaginian was worth his high purchase price, the balance of which Quintus was paying anyway. ‘It’s your business the way you spend your money,’ he’d said. He seemed decent enough, thought Hanno, as did Quintus. Aurelia was but a child. Atia, Fabricius’ wife, was an unknown quantity. So far, she’d barely even looked at him, but Hanno hoped that she would prove a fair mistress.
It was strange to be considering people whom he’d always considered evil as normal, yet it was Agesandros whom Hanno was most concerned about. The Sicilian had taken a set against him from the beginning. For all his concerns, at least his own situation had a positive side to it, for which he felt immensely guilty. Suniaton’s fate still hung by a thread, and Hanno could only ask every god he knew to intercede on his friend’s behalf. At the worst, to let him die bravely.
Hearing the word ‘Saguntum’ mentioned, he pricked his ears. A Greek city in Iberia, allied to the Republic, it had been the focus of Hannibal’s attention for months. Indeed, it was where the war on Rome would start.
‘I thought that the Senate had decided there was no real threat to Saguntum?’ asked Quintus. ‘After the Saguntines had demanded recompense for the attacks on their lands, all Hannibal did was to send them a rudely worded reply.’
Hanno hid his smirk. He’d heard that insult several weeks before, at home. ‘Scabby, flea-bitten savages,’ Hannibal had called the city’s residents. As everyone in Carthage knew, the rebuttal presaged his real plan: an attack on Saguntum.
‘Politicians sometimes underestimate generals,’ said Fabricius heavily. ‘Hannibal has done far more than issue threats now. According to the latest news, Saguntum is surrounded by his army. They’ve started building fortifications. It’s going to be a siege. Carthage has finally regained its bite.’
Quintus threw an angry glance at Hanno, who looked down at once. ‘Can nothing be done?’
‘Not this campaigning season,’ Fabricius replied crossly. ‘Hannibal couldn’t have picked a better moment. Both the consular armies are committed to the East, and the threat there.’
‘You mean Demetrius of Pharos?’ asked Quintus.
‘Yes.’
‘Wasn’t he an ally of ours until recently?’
‘He was. Then the miserable dog decided that piracy is more profitable. Our entire eastern seaboard has been affected. He’s been threatening Illyrian cities under the Republic’s protection too. But the trouble should be over by the autumn. Demetrius’ forces have no chance against four legions and double that number of socii.’
Quintus couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘I’ll miss it all.’
‘Never fear. There’ll always be another war,’ said his father with an amused smile. ‘You’ll get your turn soon enough.’
Quintus was partly mollified. ‘Meanwhile, Saguntum jus
t gets left to hang in the wind?’
‘It’s not right, I know,’ his father replied. ‘But the main faction in the Senate has decided that this is the course we shall follow. The rest of us have to obey.’
So much for Roman fides, thought Hanno contemptuously.
Father and son rode in silence for a few moments.
‘What will the Senate do if Saguntum falls?’ probed Quintus.
‘Demand that the Carthaginians withdraw, I imagine. As well as hand over Hannibal.’
Quintus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Would they do that?’
Never, thought Hanno furiously.
‘I don’t think so,’ Fabricius replied. ‘Even the Carthaginians have their pride. Besides, their Council of Elders will have known about Hannibal’s plan to besiege Saguntum. They’re hardly going to offer their support on that only to withdraw it immediately afterwards.’
Unseen, Hanno spat on to the road. ‘Damn right they’re not,’ he whispered.
‘Then war is unavoidable,’ Quintus cried. ‘The Senate won’t take an insult like that lying down.’
Fabricius sighed. ‘No, it won’t, even though it’s partly to blame for the whole situation. The indemnities forced on Carthage at the end of the last war were ruinous, but the seizure of Sardinia soon after was even worse. There was no excuse for it.’
Hanno could scarcely believe what he was hearing: a Roman express regret for what had been done to his people. Perhaps they weren’t all monsters? he wondered for the second time. His gut reaction weighed in at once. They are still the enemy.
‘That conflict was a generation ago,’ said Quintus, bridling. ‘This is now. Even if it comes late, Rome has to defend one of her allies who has been attacked without due cause.’
Fabricius inclined his head. ‘She does.’
‘So war with Carthage is coming, one way or another,’ said Quintus. He threw a further look at Hanno, who affected not to notice.
‘Probably,’ Fabricius replied. ‘Not this year perhaps, but next.’
‘I could be part of that!’ Quintus cried eagerly. ‘But I want to know how to use a sword properly first.’
‘You’re proficient with both bow and spear,’ admitted Fabricius. He paused, aware that Quintus was hanging on his every word. ‘Strictly speaking, of course, it’s not necessary for the cavalry, but I suppose a little instruction in the use of the gladius wouldn’t go amiss.’
Quintus’ grin stretched from ear to ear. ‘Thank you, Father.’ He raised a hand to his mouth. ‘Mother! Aurelia! Did you hear that? I am to become a swordsman.’
‘That’s good news indeed.’ Coming from the depths of the litter, Atia’s voice was muffled, but Quintus thought he detected a tinge of sadness in it.
Aurelia lifted the cloth and stuck her head outside. ‘How wonderful,’ she said, forcing a smile. Inside, she was consumed by jealousy.
‘We’ll start tomorrow,’ said Fabricius.
‘Excellent!’ Instantly, Quintus forgot both his mother and Aurelia’s reactions. His head was full of images of him and Gaius serving in the cavalry, winning glory for themselves and Rome.
Despite his guilt over Suniaton, Hanno’s spirits had also risen. While he had Agesandros to contend with, he was not destined to die as a gladiator. And, although he might not be able to take part, his people were about to take on Rome again, with Hannibal Barca to lead them. A man whom his father reckoned to be the finest leader Carthage had ever seen.
For the first time in days, a spark of hope lit in Hanno’s heart.
One summer morning, word came from the port that Malchus and Sapho had landed. Bostar shouted with delight at the news. As he hurried through the streets of New Carthage, the city founded by Hasdrubal nine years before, he couldn’t stop grinning. Catching a glimpse of the temple of Aesculapius, which stood on the large hill to the east of the walls, Bostar offered up a prayer of thanks to the god of medicine and his followers. If it hadn’t been for the injury to his sword arm, sustained in overexcited training with naked blades, he would have already set out for Saguntum with the rest of the army. Instead, on the orders of Alete, his commanding officer, Bostar had had to stay behind. ‘I’ve seen too many wounds like that turn bad,’ Alete had muttered. ‘Remain here, in the care of the priests, and join us when you’ve recovered. Saguntum isn’t going to fall in a day, or a month.’ At the time, Bostar had not been happy. Now, he was overjoyed.
It wasn’t long until he’d reached the port, which looked out over the calm gulf beyond New Carthage. The city’s location was second to none. Situated at the point of a natural, enclosed bay which was furthest from the Mediterranean, it was surrounded on all sides by water. To the east and south lay the sea, while to the north and west was a large, saltwater lagoon. The only connection with the mainland was a narrow, heavily fortified causeway, which made the city almost impregnable. It was no surprise that New Carthage had replaced Gades as the capital of Carthaginian Iberia.
Bostar sped past the ships nearest the quay. New arrivals would have to moor further away. As always, the place was extremely busy. The vast majority of the army might have left with Hannibal, but troops and supplies were still coming in daily. Javelins clattered off each other as they were laid in piles, and stacks of freshly made helmets glinted in the sun. There were wax-sealed amphorae of olive oil and wine, rolls of cloth and bags of nails. Wooden crates of glazed crockery stood beside bulging bags of nuts. Gossiping sailors coiled ropes and swept the decks of their unloaded vessels. Fishermen who had been out since before dawn sweated as they hauled their catch on to the dock.
‘Bostar!’
He craned his head, searching for his family among the dense forest of masts and rigging. Finally, Bostar spotted his father and Sapho on the deck of a trireme that was tied up two vessels from the quay. He vaulted on to the first craft’s deck and made his way to meet them. ‘Welcome!’
A moment later, they had been reunited. Bostar was shocked by the change in both. They were different men since he’d last seen them. Cold. Hard-faced. Ruthless. He bowed to Malchus, trying not to let his surprise show. ‘Father. It is wonderful to see you at last.’
Malchus’ severe expression softened briefly. ‘Bostar. What happened to your arm?’
‘It’s a scratch, nothing more. A stupid mistake during training,’ he replied. ‘Lucky it happened, though, because it’s the only reason I’m still here. I receive treatment daily at Aesculapius’ temple.’ He turned to Sapho, and was surprised to see that his brother looked downright angry. Bostar’s hopes for a reconciliation vanished. The rift caused by their argument over releasing Hanno and Suniaton was clearly still present. As if he didn’t feel guilty enough, thought Bostar sadly. Instead of an embrace, he saluted. ‘Brother.’
Stiffly, Sapho returned the gesture.
‘How was your journey?’
‘Pleasant enough,’ Malchus answered. ‘We saw no Roman triremes, which is a blessing.’ His face twisted with an unreadable emotion. ‘Enough of that. We have discovered what happened to Hanno.’
Bostar blinked with shock. ‘What?’
‘You heard,’ snapped Sapho. ‘He and Suni didn’t drown.’
Bostar’s mouth opened. ‘How do you know?’
Malchus took over. ‘Because I never lost faith in Melqart, and because I had eyes and ears in the port, who looked and listened out day and night for any clues.’ He smiled sourly at Bostar’s bafflement. ‘A couple of months ago, one of my spies struck gold. He overheard a conversation he thought might interest me. We took the men in for questioning.’
Bostar was riveted by his father’s story. Hearing that Hanno and Suniaton had been captured by pirates, he began to weep. Neither of the others did, which only increased his grief. His anguish grew deeper with the revelation of the pair’s sale into slavery. I thought it was a kind gesture to let them go fishing. How wrong I was! ‘That’s a worse fate than drowning. They could have been taken anywhere. Bought by anyone.’
‘I know,
’ Sapho snarled. ‘They were sold in Italy. Probably as gladiators.’
Bostar’s eyes filled with horror. ‘No!’
‘Yes,’ Sapho shot back venomously, ‘and it’s all your fault. If you had stopped them, Hanno would be standing here beside us today.’
Bostar swelled with indignation. ‘That’s rich coming from you!’
‘Stop it!’ Malchus’ voice cut in like a whiplash. ‘Sapho, you and Bostar came to the decision together, did you not?’
Sapho glowered. ‘Yes, Father.’
‘So you are both responsible, just as I am for not being easier on him.’ Malchus ignored his sons’ surprise at his admission of complicity. ‘Hanno is gone now, and fighting over his memory will serve none of us. I want no more of this. Our task now is to follow Hannibal, and take Saguntum. If we are lucky, the gods will grant us vengeance for Hanno afterwards, in the fight against Rome. We must put everything else from our minds. Clear?’
‘Yes, Father,’ the brothers mumbled, but neither looked at the other.
Bostar had to ask. ‘What did you do to the pirates?’
‘They were castrated, and then their limbs were broken. Lastly, the scum were crucified,’ Malchus replied in a flat tone. Without another word, he climbed up on to the dock and headed for the city’s centre.
Sapho held back until they were alone. ‘It was too good for them. We should have gouged out their eyes too,’ he added viciously. Despite his apparent enthusiasm, the horror of what he’d seen still lingered in his eyes. Sapho had thought that the punishments would stop him feeling relief at Hanno’s disappearance, but he’d been wrong. Seeing his younger brother again rammed that home. I will be the favourite! he thought savagely. ‘Just as well that you weren’t there. You wouldn’t have been up to any of it.’
Despite the implication about his courage, Bostar retained his composure. He wasn’t about to pull rank here, now. He was also uncertain what his own reaction might have been if he’d been placed in the same situation, handed the opportunity for revenge on those who had consigned Hanno to a certain death. Deep down, Bostar was glad that he had not been there. He doubted that either his father or Sapho would understand. Melqart, he prayed, I ask that my brother had a good death, and that you allow our family to put aside its differences. Bostar gained small consolation from the prayer, but it was all he had at that moment.