A moment later, he was surprised to see his father hurrying to speak with Hannibal. When Malchus returned, he had a new air of calmness about him. Bostar squinted at the soldiers who were hurrying back along the column. He grabbed his father’s arm. ‘What’s going on?’
‘All is not lost,’ Malchus replied with a small smile. ‘You will see.’
Soon after, the soldiers returned, each man bent double under a pile of firewood. Load after load was carried past and set carefully around the base of the rock. When the timber had been piled high, Malchus ordered it lit. Still Bostar did not understand, but his father would answer no questions. Leaving his sons to observe with increasing curiosity, he returned to Hannibal’s side.
The soldiers who could see were also intrigued, but after the fire had been burning for more than an hour without any result, they grew bored. Grumbles about wasting the last of their wood began. For the first time since leaving New Carthage, Bostar did not immediately react. His own disillusionment was reaching critical levels. Whatever crackpot idea his father had had was not going to work. They might as well lie down and die now, because that was what would surely happen when night fell.
Bostar missed the construction of a wooden framework that allowed a man to stand over the top of the rock. It was only when the first amphorae were carried past that he looked up. Finally, his curiosity got the better of his despair. The clay vessels contained sour wine, the troops’ staple drink. Bostar saw his father gesturing excitedly as Hannibal watched. Quickly, two strapping scutarii climbed the frame. To combat the extreme heat now radiating from the rock, they had both soaked their clothes in water. The instant they had reached the top, the pair lowered ropes to the ground. Men below tied amphorae to the cables, which were hauled up. Without further ado, the scutarii cracked open the wax seals and poured the vessels’ contents all over the boulder. The liquid sizzled and spat, sending a powerful smell of hot wine into the faces of those watching. Realisation of what they were trying to do struck Bostar like a hammer blow. He turned to tell Sapho before biting his lip and saying nothing.
The empty containers were discarded and replaced by full ones, and the process was repeated. There was more loud bubbling as the wine boiled on the superheated rock, but nothing else happened. The scutarii looked uncertainly at Malchus. ‘Keep going! As fast as you can!’ he shouted. Hastily, they obeyed, upending two more amphorae. Then it was four. Still the rock sat there, immovable, immutable. Malchus roared at the soldiers who stood close by to add more fuel to the blaze. The flames licked up, threatening to consume the platform upon which the scutarii stood, but they were not allowed to climb down. Malchus moved to stand at the frame’s base, and exhorted the soldiers to even greater efforts. Another two amphorae were emptied over the boulder, to no avail. Bostar’s hopes began to ebb away.
A succession of explosive cracks suddenly drowned out all sound. Chunks of stone were hurled high into the air, and one of the scutarii collapsed as if poleaxed. His skull had been neatly staved in by a piece of rock no bigger than a hen’s egg. His panicked companion jumped to safety, and the soldiers who had been tending the fire all retreated at speed. More cracking sounds followed, and then the rock broke into several large parts. Parts that could be moved by men, or smashed into pieces by hammers. The cheering that followed rose to the very clouds. As word spread down the column, the noise increased in volume until it seemed that the mountains themselves were rejoicing.
Elated, Bostar and Sapho rushed separately to their father’s side. Joyfully, they embraced him one by one. They were joined by Hannibal, who greeted Malchus like a brother. ‘Our ordeal is nearly over,’ the general cried. ‘The path to Cisalpine Gaul lies open.’
The two friends’ first sight of the capital was formed by the immense Servian wall, which ringed the city and dwarfed Capua’s defences. ‘The fortifications are nearly two hundred years old,’ Quintus explained excitedly. ‘They were built after Rome was sacked by the Gauls.’
May Hannibal be the next to do so, Hanno prayed.
‘How does Carthage compare?’
‘Eh?’ said Hanno, coming back to reality. ‘Many of her defences are much more recent.’ They’re still far more spectacular, he thought.
‘And its size?’
Hanno wasn’t going to lie about that one. ‘Carthage is much bigger.’
Quintus did his best not to look disgruntled, and failed.
Hanno was surprised that within the walls, Carthage’s similarities with Rome grew. The streets were unpaved, and most were no more than ten paces across. After months of hot weather, their surfaces were little more than an iron-hard series of wheel ruts. ‘They’ll be a muddy morass come the winter,’ he said, pointing. ‘That’s what happens if it rains a lot at home.’
‘As in Capua,’ agreed Quintus. He wrinkled his nose as they passed an alleyway used as a dung heap. The acrid odour of human faeces and urine hung heavy in the air. ‘Lucky it’s autumn and not the height of summer. The smell then is apparently unbearable.’
‘Do many buildings have sewerage systems?’
‘No.’
‘It’s not much different to parts of Carthage,’ Hanno replied. It was strange to feel homesick because of the smell of shit.
The fuggy atmosphere was aided by the fact that the closely built structures were two, three and even four storeys tall, creating a dimly lit, poorly ventilated environment on the street. Compared to the fresh air and open spaces of the Italian countryside, it was an alternative world. Most structures were open-fronted shops at ground level, with stairs at the side that snaked up to the flats above. Quintus was shocked by the filth of it all. ‘They’re where the majority of people live,’ he explained.
‘In Carthage, they’re mostly constructed from mud bricks.’
‘That sounds a lot safer. The cenaculae are built of wood. They’re disease-ridden, hard to heat and easy to destroy.’
‘Fire’s a big problem, then,’ said Hanno, imagining how easy it would be to burn down the city if it fell to Hannibal’s army.
Quintus grimaced. ‘Yes.’
Along with its sights and smells, the capital provided plenty of noise. The air was filled with the clamour of shopkeepers competing for business, the shrieks of playing children and the chatter of neighbours gossiping on the street corners. Beggars of every hue abounded, adding their cries for alms to the din. The clang of iron being pounded on anvils carried from smithies, and the sound of carpenters hammering echoed off the tall buildings. In the distance, cattle bellowed from the Forum Boarium.
Of course Rome was not their main destination: that was the port of Pisae, from which Publius and his army had set sail. Yet the temptation of visiting Rome had been too much for either of the friends to resist. They wandered through the streets for hours, drinking in the sights. When they were hungry, they filled their bellies with hot sausages and fresh bread bought from little stalls. Juicy plums and apples finished off their satisfying meal.
Inevitably, Quintus was drawn to the massive temple of Jupiter, high on the Capitoline Hill. He gaped at its roof of beaten gold, rows of columns the height of ten men and facade of brightly painted terracotta. He came to a halt by the immense statue of a bearded Jupiter, which stood in front of the complex, giving it a view over much of Rome.
Feeling resentful, Hanno also stopped.
‘This must be bigger than any of the shrines in Carthage,’ said Quintus with a questioning look.
‘There’s one which is as big,’ Hanno replied proudly. ‘It’s in honour of Eshmoun.’
‘What god is that?’ asked Quintus curiously.
‘He represents fertility, good health and well-being.’
Quintus’ eyebrows rose. ‘And is he the leading deity in Carthage?’
‘No.’
‘Why has his temple the most prominent position then?’
Hanno gave an awkward shrug. ‘I don’t know.’ He remembered his father saying that their people differed from the Romans
by being traders first and foremost. This temple complex proved that Quintus’ kind placed power and war before everything else. Thank all the gods that we have a real warrior in Hannibal Barca, he thought. If fools like Hostus were in charge, we would have no hope.
Quintus had come to his own conclusion. How could a race who gave pride of place to a fertility god’s temple ever defeat Rome? And when the inevitable happens, what will happen to Hanno? his conscience suddenly screamed. Where will he be? Quintus didn’t want to answer the question. ‘We’d better find a bed for the night,’ he suggested. ‘Before it gets dark.’
‘Good idea,’ replied Hanno, grateful for the change of subject.
Agesandros gave a tiny nod of thanks and turned to Aurelia. ‘I should have handled the matter far better. I wanted to apologise for it, and ask if we can make a new start.’
‘A new start?’ Aurelia snapped. ‘But you’re only a slave! What you think means nothing.’ She was pleased to see pain flare in his eyes.
‘Enough!’ Atia exclaimed. ‘Agesandros has served us loyally for more than twenty years. At the least, you should listen to what he has to say.’
Aurelia flushed, mortified at being reprimanded in front of a slave. She was damned if she’d just give in to her mother’s wishes. ‘Why would you bother apologising now?’ she muttered.
‘It’s simple. The master and Quintus may be gone for a long time. Who knows? It could be years. Perhaps you’ll have more of a hand with the running of the farm.’ Encouraged by Atia’s nod of acquiescence, he continued, ‘I want nothing more than to do my best for you and the mistress here.’ Agesandros made an almost plaintive gesture. ‘A good working relationship is essential if we are to succeed.’
‘He’s right,’ said Atia.
‘You owe me an explanation before I agree to anything,’ said Aurelia angrily.
The Sicilian sighed. ‘True. I did treat the gugga slave harshly.’
‘Harshly? Where do you get the gall?’ Aurelia cried. ‘You were going to sell a man to someone who would make him fight his best friend to the death!’
‘I have my reasons,’ Agesandros replied. A cloud passed across his face. ‘If I were to tell you that the Carthaginians tortured and murdered my entire family in Sicily, would you think differently of me?’
Aurelia’s mouth opened in horror.
‘They did what?’ demanded her mother.
‘I was away, fighting at the other end of the island, mistress. A surprise Carthaginian attack swept through the town, destroying all in its path.’ Agesandros swallowed. ‘They slaughtered everyone in the place: men, women, children. The old, the sick, even the dogs.’
Aurelia could scarcely breathe. ‘Why?’
‘It was punishment,’ the Sicilian replied. ‘Historically, we had sided with Carthage, but had switched to give our allegiance to Rome. Many settlements had done the same. Ours was the first to be captured. A message had to be delivered to the rest.’
Aurelia knew that terrible things happened in war. Men died, or were injured terribly, often in their thousands. But the massacre of civilians?
‘Go on,’ said Atia gently.
‘I had a wife and two children. A girl and a boy.’ For the first time, Agesandros’ voice cracked. ‘They were just babies. Three and two.’
Aurelia was stunned to see tears in his eyes. She had not thought the vilicus capable of such emotion. Incredibly, she felt sorry for him.
‘I found them some days later. They were dead. Butchered, in fact.’ Agesandros’ face twitched. ‘Have you ever seen what a spear blade can do to a little child? Or what a woman looks like after a dozen soldiers have violated her?’
‘Stop!’ Atia cried in distaste. ‘That’s quite enough.’
He hung his head.
Aurelia was reeling with horror. Her mind was filled with a series of terrifying images. It was no wonder, she thought, that Agesandros had treated Hanno as he had.
‘Finish your story,’ Atia commanded. ‘Quickly.’
‘I didn’t really want to live after that,’ said Agesandros obediently, ‘but the gods did not see fit to grant my wish of dying in battle. Instead, I was taken prisoner, and sold into slavery. I was taken to Italy, where the master bought me.’ He shrugged. ‘Here I have been ever since. That pair were some of the first guggas I had seen for two decades.’
‘Hanno is innocent of any crime towards your family,’ Aurelia hissed. ‘The war in Sicily took place before he had even been born!’
‘Let me deal with this,’ said her mother sharply. ‘Were you seeking revenge the first time that you attacked the Carthaginian?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘I understand. While it doesn’t excuse your actions, it explains them.’ Atia’s expression hardened. ‘Did you lie about finding the knife and purse among the slave’s belongings?’
‘No, mistress! As the gods are my witness, I told the truth,’ said the Sicilian earnestly.
Liar, thought Aurelia furiously, but she dared say nothing. Her mother was nodding in approval. A moment later, her worries materialised.
‘Agesandros is right,’ Atia declared. ‘Things will be hard enough in the months to come. Let us all make a new start.’ She stared expectantly at Aurelia. Agesandros’ expression was milder, but mirrored hers.
‘Very well,’ Aurelia whispered, feeling more isolated than ever.
Chapter XVII: Debate
HAVING FOUND A cheap bed for the night, the two friends hit the nearest tavern. Drinking seemed the adult thing to do, but of course there was a darker reason behind it: their thoughts about the outcome of the war. Both felt more awkward than they had since falling out during Flaccus’ visit. Aurelia was not there to mediate, so wine would have to do. Their tactic worked to some extent, and they chatted idly while eyeing the prostitutes who were working the room for customers.
It didn’t take long before the wine began to affect them both. Neither were used to drinking much. Fortunately, they grew merry rather than morose, and the evening became quite enjoyable. Encouraged by a hooting Hanno, Quintus even relaxed enough to take one of the whores on to his lap and fondle her bare breasts. He might have gone further, but then something happened that took all their attention away from wine and women. Important news didn’t take long to spread through cities and towns. People simply carried the word on foot, from shops to taverns, and market places to houses. Naturally, the accuracy of such gossip could not always be relied upon, but that did not mean there wasn’t some truth to it.
‘Hannibal is leading his army over the Alps!’ cried a voice from outside the inn. ‘When he falls upon Italy, we shall be murdered in our beds!’
As all conversation ceased, the two friends stared at each other, wide eyed. ‘Did you know about this?’ Quintus hissed.
‘I had no idea,’ Hanno replied truthfully. ‘Why else would I have agreed to travel with you to Iberia?’
A moment later, a middle-aged man with a red face and double chin entered. His grubby tunic and calloused hands pointed towards him being a shopkeeper of some kind. He smiled self-importantly at the barrage of questions that greeted him. ‘I have seen Publius the consul with my own eyes, not an hour since,’ he announced. ‘He has returned from Massilia with this terrible news.’
‘What else did you hear?’ shouted a voice. ‘Tell us!’
A roar of agreement went up from the other patrons.
The shopkeeper licked his lips. ‘Running through the streets is thirsty work. A cup of wine would wet my throat nicely.’
Hurriedly, the landlord filled a beaker to the brim. Scurrying over, he pressed it into the newcomer’s hand.
He took a deep swallow and smacked his lips with satisfaction. ‘Tasty.’
‘Tell us!’ Quintus cried.
The shopkeeper smiled again at his temporary power. ‘After landing at Massilia for supplies, Publius heard word that Hannibal might be in the area. He sent out a patrol, which stumbled upon the entire Carthaginian army.’ He
paused, letting the shocked cries of his audience fill the air, and draining his cup. The innkeeper refilled it at once. The man raised a hand. Instantly, silence fell. ‘When he heard, Publius led his army north with all speed, his aim to force the enemy into battle. But when they arrived, Hannibal had gone. Vanished. His only intention can be to cross the mountains and enter Cisalpine Gaul. Before invading Italy.’
Wails of terror met his final remark. The room descended into chaos as everyone screamed to be heard. Some customers even ran away, back to their houses. Quintus’ face bore an expression of total shock, while Hanno struggled to control his exhilaration. Who else could be so daring, other than Hannibal? He wondered if his father had known about this tactically brilliant plan, and said nothing? At one stroke, his priorities had been changed utterly.
Quintus had realised the same thing. ‘I suppose you’ll be leaving now,’ he said accusingly. ‘Why travel to Iberia now? Just head to Cisalpine Gaul.’
Feeling guilty for even entertaining the idea, Hanno flushed. ‘This changes nothing,’ he replied. ‘We are going to Iberia to find your father.’
Quintus looked Hanno in the eyes, and saw that he meant it. He hung his head. ‘I’m sorry for doubting your honour,’ he muttered. ‘It’s shocking to hear news like this.’
Their conversation was interrupted again. ‘Do you not want to know why the consul has returned?’ bellowed the messenger, who was already on his fourth cup of wine. He waited as the room grew quiet once more. ‘Publius has been recalled by the Senate because he sent his army on to Iberia rather than pursuing Hannibal. They say that the Minucii want him replaced with one of their own. Tomorrow, he will attend the Curia to explain his actions.’
All thoughts of leaving Rome at dawn vanished from the pair’s heads. What did it matter if they delayed their departure for a few hours to witness this drama unfold?
Whatever Publius’ reception in the Senate might be, he was still one of the Republic’s two consuls. At the walled gate that signalled the end of the Via Ostiensis, the road from Ostia, a fine litter borne by six strapping slaves awaited his arrival. He, Flaccus and Fabricius clambered aboard. A dozen lictores bearing fasces preceded the litter into the city. As soldiers under arms, Fabricius’ thirty cavalrymen had to remain outside but this did not delay the party’s progress. The lictores’ mere presence, wearing their magnificent red campaign cloaks rather than just their usual togas, and with the addition of axes to their fasces, was enough to clear the streets. All citizens, apart from Vestal Virgins or married women, were obliged to stand aside, or face the consequences. Only the strongest and tallest men were picked to join the lictores, and they had been taught to use their fasces at the slightest opportunity. If ordered to do so, they could even act as executioners.