‘Of course not.’
‘No, I don’t suppose Fabricius would be too pleased. I can only imagine what Atia’s reaction might be.’
‘Please don’t tell them,’ Aurelia begged. ‘Quintus would be in so much trouble.’
He watched her for a moment, before a wolfish smile crossed his lips. ‘Why would I say a word?’
Aurelia couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘No! It shows your Roman spirit, and it means that our sons will be warriors.’ Flaccus held up a warning finger. ‘Don’t expect that you can carry on using weapons when we’re married, however. Such behaviour is not acceptable in Rome.’
‘And riding?’ Aurelia whispered.
‘We’ll see,’ he said. He saw her face fall, and a strange look entered his eyes. ‘My estate outside the capital is very large. Unless I tell them, no one knows what goes on there.’
Overwhelmed by Flaccus’ reaction, Aurelia missed the silky emphasis he laid on the last seven words. Perhaps marriage would not be as bad as she’d thought. She took his arm. ‘It’s your turn to tell me about yourself now,’ she murmured.
He gave her a pleased look, and began.
Quintus found his father outside, supervising the loading of his baggage on to a train of mules.
Fabricius smiled as he emerged. ‘What was it that you wanted to tell me earlier?’
‘It was nothing important,’ Quintus demurred. He had decided to give Flaccus the benefit of the doubt. He cast a dubious eye over the pack animals, which were laden down with every piece of his father’s military equipment. ‘How long do you think this war will last? Flaccus seems certain that it will be over in a few months.’
Fabricius checked that no one was in earshot. ‘I think he’s a little overconfident. You know what politicians can be like.’
‘But Flaccus is talking about getting married in June.’
Fabricius winked. ‘He wanted to settle on a date. I obliged. What could be better than the most popular month of the year? And if it can’t take place because we’re still on campaign, the betrothal agreement ensures that it will happen at some stage.’
Quintus grinned at Fabricius’ guile. He thought for a moment, deciding that his father was more likely to be correct than Flaccus about the war’s duration. ‘I’m already old enough to enlist.’
Fabricius’ face turned serious. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘As well as keeping an eye on you, I have asked Martialis to enrol you in the local cavalry unit, alongside Gaius. In my absence, your mother is obviously responsible for Aurelia and the care of the farm, but you will have to help her in every way possible. Yet I see no reason why you should not also begin your training.’
Quintus’ eyes glittered with delight.
‘Don’t get any madcap ideas,’ his father warned. ‘There is no question of being called up in the immediate future. The horsemen supplied by Rome and its surrounding area will be more than enough for the moment.’
Quintus did his best not to look disappointed.
Fabricius took him by the shoulders. ‘Listen to me. War is not all valour and glory: far from it. It’s about blood, filth and fighting until you can barely grip a sword. You’ll see terrible things. Men bleeding to death for lack of a tourniquet. Comrades and friends dying in front of you, crying for their mothers.’
It was becoming more difficult to hold his father’s gaze.
‘You are a fine young man,’ said Fabricius proudly. ‘Your time to fight in the front line will come. Until then, gain every bit of experience you can. If that means you miss the war with Carthage, so be it. Those initial weeks of training are vital if you want to survive more than the first few moments of a battle.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Good,’ said Fabricius, looking satisfied. ‘May the gods keep you safe and well.’
‘And you also.’ Despite his best effort, Quintus’ voice wobbled.
Atia waited until Quintus had gone inside before emerging. ‘He’s almost a man,’ she said wistfully. ‘It only seems the blink of an eye since he was playing with his wooden toys.’
‘I know.’ Fabricius smiled. ‘The years fly by, don’t they? I can remember saying goodbye to you before leaving for Sicily as if it were yesterday. And here we are again, in much the same situation.’
Atia reached up to touch his face. ‘You have to come back to me, do you hear?’
‘I will do my best. Make sure that the altar is well stocked with offerings,’ he warned. The lares have to be kept happy.’
She pretended to look shocked. ‘You know I’ll do that every day.’
Fabricius chuckled. ‘I do. Just as you know that I’ll pray daily to Mars and Jupiter for their protection.’
Atia’s face became solemn. ‘Are you still sure that Flaccus is a good choice for Aurelia?’
His brows lowered. ‘Eh?’
‘Is he the right man?’
‘I thought he came across well last night,’ said Fabricius with a surprised look. ‘Arrogant, of course, but one expects that from someone of his rank. He was plainly taken with Aurelia too, which was good. He’s ambitious, presentable and wealthy.’ He eyed Atia. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
She pursed her lips.
‘Atia?’
‘I can’t put my finger on it,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t trust him.’
‘You need more than a vague idea, surely, for me to break off a betrothal with this potential?’ asked Fabricius, looking irritated. ‘Remember how much money we owe!’
‘I’m not saying that you should call off the arrangement,’ she said in a conciliatory tone.
‘What then?’
‘Just keep an eye on Flaccus when you’re in Rome. You’ll be spending plenty of time with him. That will give you a far better measure of the man than we could ever gain in one night.’ She caressed his arm. ‘That’s not too much to ask, is it?’
‘No,’ he murmured. A relenting smile twitched across his lips, and he bent to kiss her. ‘You do have a knack of sniffing out the rotten apple in the barrel. I’ll trust you one more time.’
‘Stop teasing me,’ she cried. ‘I’m serious.’
‘I know you are, my love. And I’ll do what you say.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Flaccus won’t have a clue, but I’ll be watching his every move.’
Atia’s expression lightened. ‘Thank you.’
Fabricius gave her backside an affectionate squeeze. ‘Now, why don’t we say goodbye properly?’
Atia’s look grew kittenish. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea.’ Taking his hand, she led him into the house.
An hour later, and a deathly quiet hung over the house. Promising a quick victory over the Carthaginians, Fabricius and Flaccus had departed for Rome. Feeling thoroughly depressed, Quintus sought out Hanno. There was little left to do in the way of household chores, and the Carthaginian could not refuse when Quintus asked him out into the courtyard.
An awkward silence fell the instant they were alone.
I’m not going to speak first, thought Hanno. He was still furious.
Quintus scuffed the toe of one sandal along the mosaic. ‘About last night,’ he began.
‘Yes?’ snapped Hanno. His voice, his manner was not that of a slave. At that moment, he didn’t care.
Quintus bit back his reflex, angry response. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said sharply. ‘I was drunk, and I didn’t mean what I said.’
Hanno looked in Quintus’ eyes and saw that, despite his tone, the apology was genuine. Immediately, he was on the defensive. This wasn’t what he had expected, and he wasn’t yet willing to back down himself. ‘I am a slave,’ he growled. ‘You can address me in whatever way you please.’
Quintus’ face grew pained. ‘First and foremost, you are my friend,’ he said. ‘And I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did last night.’
Hanno considered Quintus’ words in silence. Before being enslaved, any foreigner with the presumption to call him ‘gugga’
would have received a bloody nose, or worse. Here, he had to smile and accept it. Not for much longer, Hanno told himself furiously. Just keep up the pretence for now. He nodded in apparent acceptance. ‘Very well. I acknowledge your apology.’
Quintus grinned. ‘Thank you.’
Neither knew quite what to say next. Despite Quintus’ attempt to make amends, a distance now yawned between them. As a patriotic Roman citizen, Quintus would back his government’s decision to enter into conflict with Carthage to the hilt. Hanno, while unable to join Hannibal’s army, would do the same for his people. It drove a wedge deep into their friendship, and neither knew how to remove it.
Long moments dragged by, and still neither spoke. Quintus didn’t want to mention the impending war because both had such strong feelings about it. He wanted to suggest some weapons practice, but that also seemed like a bad idea: for all that he now trusted Hanno, it seemed too much like the impending combat between Roman and Carthaginian. Irritated, he waited for Hanno to speak first. Angry yet, and fearful of giving away something of his escape plan, Hanno kept his lips firmly shut.
Both wished that Aurelia were present. She would have laughed and dissipated the tension in a heartbeat. There was no sign of her, however.
This is pointless, thought Hanno at last. He took a step towards the kitchen. ‘I’d best get back to work.’
Irritated, Quintus moved out of his way. ‘Yes,’ he said stiffly.
As he walked away, Hanno was surprised to feel sadness rising in his chest. For all of his current resentment, he and Quintus shared a strong bond, forged by the incredible, random manner of his purchase, followed by the fight at the shepherd’s hut. Another thought struck Hanno. It must have taken a lot for Quintus to come and apologise, particularly because of their difference in status. Yet here he was, haughtily walking off as if he were the master, and not the slave. Hanno turned, an apology rising to his lips, but it was too late.
Quintus was gone.
Several weeks passed, and the weather grew warm and sunny. Encouraged by the officers, widespread rumours of Hannibal’s intentions had spread throughout the huge tented encampment outside the walls of New Carthage. It was all part of the general’s plan. Because of the vastness of his host, it was impossible to inform every soldier directly about what was going to happen. This way, the message could be put across rapidly. By the time Hannibal called for a meeting of his commanders, everyone knew that they would be heading for Italy.
The entire army assembled in formations before a wooden platform not far from the gates. The soldiers covered an enormous area of ground. There were thousands of Libyans and Numidians, and even greater numbers of Iberians from dozens of tribes. Roughly dressed men from the Balearic Islands waited alongside rows of proud, imperious Celtiberians. Hundreds of Ligurians and Gauls were also present, men who had left their lands and homes weeks before so that they could join the general who would wage war on Rome. A small proportion of the soldiers would be able to see and hear whoever stood before them, but interpreters had been positioned at regular intervals to relay the news to the rest. There would only be a short delay before everyone present heard Hannibal’s words.
Malchus, Sapho and Bostar stood proudly at the front of their Libyan spearmen, whose bronze helmets and shield bosses glittered in the morning sun. The trio knew exactly what was going to happen, but the same nervous excitement controlled them all. Since returning from their mission weeks before, Bostar and Sapho had put their differences aside to prepare for this moment. Now history was about to be made, in much the same fashion as when Alexander of Macedon had set forth on his extraordinary journey more than a hundred years previously. The greatest adventure of their lives was just beginning. With it, as their father said, came the chance of further revenge for Hanno. Although he didn’t voice it, Malchus treasured a tiny, deeply buried hope that he might actually be alive. So too did Bostar, but Sapho had given up trying to feel anything similar. He was still glad that Hanno was gone. Malchus gave Sapho more attention and praise now than he could ever remember receiving before. And Hannibal knew his name!
The army did not have to wait long. Followed by his brothers Hasdrubal and Mago, the cavalry commander Maharbal, and the senior infantry officer Hanno, Hannibal approached the platform and climbed into view. A group of trumpeters came last, and filed around in front of the general’s position, where they waited for their orders. Their leaders’ appearance caused spontaneous cheering to break out among the assembled troops. Even the officers joined in. The men whistled and shouted, stamped their feet on the ground and clashed their weapons off their shields. As those who could not see joined in, the clamour swelled immeasurably. On and on it went, louder and louder, in a dozen tongues. And, as he had done on similar occasions, Hannibal did nothing to stop it. Raising both his arms, he let his soldiers’ acclaim wash over him. This was his hour, which he had spent years preparing for, and moments like this boosted morale infinitely more than a host of minor victories.
Finally, Hannibal signalled to the musicians. Raising their instruments to their lips, the men blew a short set of notes. It was the call to arms, the same sound that alerted soldiers to the nearby presence of enemy forces. Immediately, the crescendo of sound died away, leaving in its place an expectant hush. Bostar excitedly nudged Sapho in the ribs, and received a similar dig in return. An admonitory look from Malchus had them both standing to attention as if on parade. This was no time for childish behaviour.
‘Soldiers of Carthage,’ Hannibal began. ‘We stand on the brink of a great adventure. But there are those in Rome who would stop us from the outset.’ He held up a hand to quell his men’s angry response. ‘Would you hear the words of the latest Roman embassy to visit Carthage?’
A few moments went by as the interpreters did their work, and then an enormous cry of affirmation went up.
‘“The heinous and unwarranted attack on Saguntum cannot go unanswered. Deliver to us, in chains, the man they call Hannibal Barca, and all of his senior officers, and Rome will consider the matter closed. If Carthage does not comply with this request, it should consider itself at war with the Republic.”’ Hannibal paused, letting the translations sink in, and his soldiers’ fury build. He gestured dramatically at those behind him on the platform. ‘Should these men and I hand ourselves in to the nearest Roman ally so that justice can be done?’
Again, a short delay. But the roar of ‘NO!’ that followed exceeded the combined volume of all the cries that had gone before.
Hannibal smiled briefly. ‘I thank you for your loyalty,’ he said, sweeping his right arm from left to right, encompassing the entire host.
Another immense cheer shredded the air.
‘Instead of accepting Rome’s offer then, I would lead most of you to Italy. To carry the war to our enemies,’ Hannibal announced to more deafening acclaim. ‘Some must remain here, under the command of my brother Hasdrubal; your mission is to protect our Iberian territory. The rest will march with me. Because the Romans control the sea, we will travel overland and take them by surprise. You might imagine that we would be alone in Italy, and surrounded by hostile forces. But do not fear! Theirs is a fertile region, and ripe for the plunder. We will also have many allies. Rome controls less of the peninsula than you might think. The tribes in Cisalpine Gaul have promised to join us, and I have no doubt that the situation will be the same in the central and southern parts. It will not be an easy struggle, and I ask only those men who would freely accompany me to engage in this enterprise.’ Hannibal let his gaze wander from formation to formation, catching the eye of individual soldiers. ‘With all of your help,’ he continued, ‘the Republic will be torn asunder. Destroyed, so that it can no longer threaten Carthage!’ Calmly, he waited for his message to spread.
It did not take long.
The noise of over a hundred thousand men expressing their agreement resembled a rumbling, threatening thunder. Malchus, Sapho and Bostar trembled to hear it.
Hannibal ra
ised a clenched fist in the air. ‘Will you follow me to Italy?’
There was but one answer to his question. And, as every man in his army gave voice to the loudest cry of all, Hannibal Barca stood back and smiled.
In the weeks following their argument, Hanno and Quintus both made half-hearted attempts at reconciliation. None succeeded. Hurt by the other’s attitude, and full of youthful self-importance, neither would give way. Soon they had virtually stopped talking to one another. It was a vicious circle from which there was no escape. Aurelia did her best to mediate, but her efforts were in vain. Yet for all of his resentment, Hanno had realised that he could not now run away. Despite his feud with Quintus, he owed him and Aurelia too much. And so, growing increasingly morose, he remained, wary always of Agesandros’ menacing presence in the background. Quintus, meanwhile, threw himself into his cavalry training with the socii. He was often absent from the house for days at a time, which suited him fine. It meant that he didn’t even have to see Hanno, let alone speak to him.
Spring was well underway when a note from Fabricius arrived. Followed by an eager Aurelia, Atia took it to the courtyard, which was filled with watery sunshine. Quintus, who was outside with Agesandros, would have to hear the news later.
Aurelia watched excitedly as her mother opened the missive and began to read. ‘What does it say?’ she demanded after a moment.
Atia looked up. The disappointment on her face was clear. ‘It’s a typical man’s letter. Full of information about politics and what’s going on in Rome. There’s even a bit about some chariot race he went to the other day, but almost nothing about how he’s feeling.’ She traced a finger down the page. ‘He asks after me, obviously, and you and Quintus. He hopes that there are no problems on the farm.’ At last Atia smiled. ‘Flaccus has asked him to send you his warmest regards, and says that although your marriage will have to be postponed because of the war, he cannot wait until the day it comes to pass. Your father has given him permission to write to you directly, so you may receive a letter from him soon.’