Chapter V

Having taken leave of his brothers — parting from Bostar had been especially hard — Hanno had travelled to the western coast of Bruttium. In a tiny fishing village, he had found a crusty old sailor called Alcimos, in whose small boat he now found himself. Hannibal had ordered Hanno to make his journey as secret as possible, and his general didn’t have many ships at his disposal anyway. It was therefore best to arrive in Syracuse unannounced. There would be spies everywhere in the city; it was even possible that they’d try to kill Hanno before he met with Hippocrates and Epicydes. Making his own entrance, without any warning, gave him the best chance of success.

As Alcimos steered the little craft out to sea, Hanno stared at the coastline of Italy, and thought of his men and, most especially, Mutt. Their farewell had been far more difficult than Hanno had anticipated. The two had never shared that many secrets — it was only recently that Hanno had mentioned Aurelia to Mutt — but their experiences in combat had forged a strong bond between the two men.

‘You’re going then,’ Mutt had said.

‘Yes.’ Hanno had shifted from foot to foot, feeling awkward and stupid. ‘It’s time.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Look after the men.’

Mutt’s brows had lowered. ‘You know I’ll do that.’

‘Yes,’ Hanno had replied, too fast. ‘Take care.’

‘I will, sir. You too.’ Mutt’s eyes had met his for a moment, before they flickered away.

‘Gods damn it!’ Hanno had stepped forward and enveloped Mutt in a bear hug. After a slight hesitation, Mutt’s arms had come up to grip his back. ‘I’ll miss you,’ Hanno had muttered. ‘You’re an excellent officer.’

‘So are you, sir.’ Mutt had released his grip; quickly, Hanno had done the same. Mutt had gazed at him, without smiling, as was his way. ‘The gods protect you, sir. You’ll need it, where you’re going.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Fortune seems to favour you, that’s for sure, sir.’ Mutt’s excuse for a smile had appeared. ‘The gods grant it always be that way.’

‘And the same for you.’ Hanno had wanted to say more, but didn’t have the words.

Mutt’s eyes had been understanding. ‘Go on, sir.’

‘May we meet again.’

‘I hope so, sir. One day.’

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Hanno had walked away. When he’d glanced back, Mutt’s hand had been raised in farewell.

Tears stung Hanno’s eyes at the memory, and he was glad that Alcimos was looking the other way.

He studied the horizon, searching it for sails, but saw nothing. Hanno had been a little surprised to see signs of the war on the sea. A Roman liburnian, one of the fastest ocean-going craft, had rowed north the day that they’d set out. He’d had no idea what it was doing until Alcimos muttered something about ‘official messages’ being sent to the Senate in Rome. Hanno had fantasised about taking the liburnian, and its communications, to Hannibal, but even if it had been possible, this was not his mission. They had been passed several times by Roman triremes, powering south to join the fleet being assembled near Syracuse. On the first occasion, Hanno had been very nervous. From a distance, he looked the same as any other fisherman — deeply tanned and clad in only a loincloth — but the vessel was so tiny that there was really nowhere to conceal his gear. Even the most cursory of searches would find his gear and sword under a pile of netting.

The trireme hadn’t even slowed down. The lookout had seen them, and called down to the deck; Hanno had seen the captain at the helm raise a hand to his eyes and stare in their direction, but that had been it. Each of the other warships had treated them in the same manner. So too had the great transports, of which there had been many, lumbering empty down the coast to Rhegium where they would be used to ferry soldiers, equipment and supplies across the straits to Messana. Eventually, Hanno had grown more relaxed about the sight of a sail. Thanks to the number of Roman ships on the waves, pirates in these parts were now rare. The fact that he was soon to go ashore wrenched him back to stark reality. This part of Sicily was possibly in Roman hands — Hanno had no idea how the war here had been going of recent days — and from the moment his feet hit the beach, danger would beckon.

A sense of melancholy stole over him. If anything went wrong from hereon in, there would be no salvation. Mutt and his soldiers, his brothers and Hannibal were all a long way away. Until he gained the walls of Syracuse, everyone he met was likely to be an enemy. He threw up a prayer to Tanit, the goddess who protected Carthaginians and their homes, asking for her help, and clutched Hannibal’s ring through the fabric of his undergarment.

‘We’re nearing the shallows. I don’t want to linger,’ said Alcimos. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’ Hanno glanced over the side. The water was crystal clear, and the rocky bottom was no deeper than his height. The shore was only a hundred paces distant. He fumbled in the leather bag that contained his clothing, sword, dagger, money and food. He took a gold piece from his purse; it was worth far more than the cost of his passage, but he had been given plenty by Hannibal, and Alcimos was a good man. ‘Here.’ Sunlight glittered off the coin as he proffered it.

Alcimos’ eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Take it, and forget that you ever saw me.’

It disappeared into Alcimos’ gnarly hand and for the first time since they’d met, a broad smile creased his weather-beaten face. ‘I am blind to you, my Carthaginian friend.’ With the ease of long practice, he furled the small sail. At once the boat slowed in the water; only the slight swell kept it moving towards the beach. ‘It’s chest deep. In you go. I’ll pass you your bag.’

It would be so easy for Alcimos to sail away with his possessions, thought Hanno, but a man had to trust sometimes. There was no simple way to get in other than jump, so that’s what he did. Knowing that the water would be cold made little difference as he went in. It took Hanno’s breath away, and he was grateful that his feet soon touched the bottom. When he looked up, Alcimos was holding out his bag. Hanno felt ashamed that he had even considered him capable of treachery. ‘My thanks,’ he said, placing it on his head to keep it dry.

‘May your gods keep you from harm. With luck, you’ll make Syracuse before sunset.’

Hanno nodded gratefully. ‘Let your return voyage to Bruttium be swift.’

‘I’ll take that, and full nets too, if I can.’ Alcimos was raising the sail again.

By the time that Hanno had waded ashore, the fisherman and his boat were five score paces offshore and more. As if he were already fulfilling his promise to forget Hanno, Alcimos didn’t look back. Hanno blocked the feeling of loneliness that rose in his chest. His mission had begun. Hannibal was relying on him. A glance up and down revealed that the beach was still empty; apart from Alcimos’ craft, so too was the sea around. Hanno delved in his bag again. A few moments later, he had clad himself in a worn labourer’s chiton. A neck cloth covered the scar on his neck, and a thin strip of leather served as his belt, and to hold his dagger at his waist. His intention, as he walked towards Syracuse, was to look like just another homeless peasant, carrying his worldly possessions on his back. If he was stopped by a Roman patrol, well …

Don’t even think about it. It won’t happen.

Willing his hope to be true, Hanno struck inland, off the beach.

Hanno’s troubles began when he’d reached the Hexapyla gate, the main entrance on Syracuse’s northern wall. He’d arrived outside the city the evening before, having seen no Roman patrols. The sun had been right on the horizon when the Hexapyla had come into sight, however, and he’d heard the guards calling to each other as they began to close the great wooden doors. Travellers seeking entrance to a city at such a time were far more likely to fall under suspicion, even more so when there was a war on. Despite the fact that he carried Hannibal’s ring and letter of introduction, he looked like a ragged-arse peasant without an obol to his name. It wasn’t impossible that he would be accused of stealing the items, and his sword, but until he had the ear of a sympathetic or alert officer, it paid to be cautious. Frustrated and hungry, he had found a discreet spot under a tree some distance from the road, and there he had curled up in his woollen cloak.

After a poor night’s sleep, he had risen stiff and cold the following morning. Careful monitoring of the traffic on the road towards the city allowed him to approach the Hexapyla at the same time as a good number of others. The Romans might be near at hand, but people needed to enter and leave. Farmers and merchants had produce to sell, and labourers their time to offer. There were other travellers too, groups of soldiers returning from patrol, and conscripts from the surrounding countryside, answering Syracuse’s summons. Hanno tagged along behind a group of the latter, hoping that the guards wouldn’t pay him any heed.

His tactic didn’t work. Most of the sentries were enjoying rude banter with the conscripts, but one eagle-eyed individual saw that Hanno was on his own. ‘You there!’ he barked in Greek.

Hanno considered running for it, into the city, but it seemed unwise. Ignorant of Syracuse’s layout, he risked immediate capture as a ‘spy’. The wise thing to do was to stay calm and see what happened. He should have nothing to fear. That knowledge didn’t stop his pulse from beating a pounding staccato at the base of his throat. He looked up, casually, vacantly. ‘Me, sir?’ he said, answering in the same tongue.

‘That’s right, fool.’ The guard’s thick black eyebrows met in a frown. ‘I’m not looking at anyone else, am I?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Come here. Quickly!’ A man in middle age, he wore a dented bronze cuirass and a Boeotian helmet in similarly poor condition. He was armed with a sword and a long thrusting spear. Hanno had seen his type before. Given a little bit of power, and without an officer present, the guard liked to act as if he were Zeus Soter himself. Prick him hard enough, and he’d deflate like a goatskin bladder of wine. For all that that appealed, Hanno wasn’t in a position to do so. Appease the cocksucker and get into Syracuse, he thought.

‘Now, I said!’

As fast as he could, Hanno threaded his way past a farmer in a mule-drawn wagon who had just been waved inside. ‘Sir?’ he asked, avoiding eye contact.

‘Name?’

Hanno’s mouth opened to say ‘Alcimos’, but Thick Eyebrows jabbed him in the chest with a finger. ‘Cat got your tongue, peasant?’

Furious, Hanno decided it was time to reveal who he was. ‘Hanno,’ he said, pitching his voice so that the people walking in behind him could not hear. Some could be Roman spies, and he had no wish for it to be known that a Carthaginian was entering Syracuse in disguise.

‘What’s that? Speak up!’

Hanno leaned forward. ‘My name is Hanno; I am a Carthaginian officer. I’ve been sent by Hannibal Barca, with messages for your generals, Hippocrates and Epicydes.’

Thick Eyebrows looked incredulous for a moment, then he laughed. ‘And I’m fucking Appius Claudius Pulcher, propraetor. What’s that on your back?’

‘My things. Clothing, food, a sword.’

‘A sword?’ Shoving Hanno backwards, Thick Eyebrows levelled his spear. ‘Alarm! I’ve got one with a weapon!’

Shouts of panic rose as the travellers around Hanno broke and ran, both into and out of the city. Within a few heartbeats, he was alone within a ring of grim-faced guards, all of whom were threatening him with spears. Hanno dropped his bag, threw his dagger down and raised his hands in the air. ‘I’m unarmed,’ he said loudly. Thick Eyebrows was shouting that they should kill him there and then; a good number of his comrades appeared to agree. Thankfully, the rest seemed fearful but indecisive. Beyond them, people were crowding in to see what was happening. ‘A spy! A spy!’ he heard a man say.

The circle of spear points wavered. Thick Eyebrows cursed and took a step towards Hanno.

Hanno fought to stay calm. ‘I need to speak to your commanding officer,’ he said, even louder than the previous time.

‘We’ll decide what to do with you, vermin,’ snarled a voice from behind him.

Hanno began to turn, but a heavy weight smashed into the back of his head, and he knew no more.

Hanno gasped as a bucket of water was emptied over his head. He came to, lying on his side, bound with ropes like a pig for the slaughter. A blinding headache beat an unpleasant rhythm inside his skull, and his mouth felt dry and sticky. Rolling on to his back, he found himself being regarded suspiciously by four men. One was Thick Eyebrows. Two others were also ordinary soldiers, but the last was an officer, clad in a polished breastplate and pteryges that protected his shoulders and groin. Hanno’s relief died away as the officer pointed at his neck. ‘You’re a slave?’

Hanno’s nerves jangled. He hadn’t noticed that they’d removed the protective piece of cloth, in the process revealing the ‘F’ mark that Pera had given him. ‘F’ stood for fugitivus. ‘No! I was captured by the Romans some time ago, and tortured. This was one of the results.’

‘A likely story,’ said the officer.

Yet it didn’t take long for Hanno’s story to appear more believable when he mentioned Hannibal’s ring and letter. They hadn’t been found when he had been searched. When they were produced — by stripping him naked — the officer scowled at his men. ‘How did you miss these?’ They hung their heads resentfully. Hanno ignored them, concentrating instead on speaking rapid, fluent Greek to the officer, telling him a little of his mission. The officer made to open the seal on the letter. ‘Do that at your own peril,’ warned Hanno. ‘It’s to be read by Hippocrates and Epicydes alone.’

The officer halted. As if to convince himself, he asked Hanno a couple of questions in hesitant Carthaginian. The speed of Hanno’s answers seemed to provide the last proof he needed. The officer had the grace to flush a little as he ordered Hanno to be freed and his clothing and possessions to be restored to him — apart from his weapons. ‘My apologies for the confusion. We have orders to be on the alert for Roman spies.’

‘I would hardly have made myself known, and as a Carthaginian, if I’d been sent by Marcellus,’ said Hanno sarcastically as he got dressed.

‘I know. I’m sorry. My men will be disciplined.’ Here, a scowl at Thick Eyebrows, who looked away. ‘I’ll take these to Hippocrates and Epicydes.’

Hanno eyed the ring and letter with some alarm. ‘I had thought to present them in person.’

‘I’m just doing my duty,’ replied the officer awkwardly. ‘It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, can I offer you food? Drink?’

‘Yes, thank you. A drop of something for the pain too, if you have it. My head is splitting.’ Hanno aimed a poisonous stare at Thick Eyebrows and his fellows.

‘Of course.’ The officer barked an order that sent the soldiers hurrying from the room. ‘I’ll return as soon as I can,’ he said with a friendly nod, before locking the door behind him.

Hanno swallowed down his anger. Being confined to a prison cell after being assaulted by Syracusan guards was not how he’d expected his visit to the city to begin. The fact that the officer believed him clearly wasn’t enough. He hoped that Hippocrates and Epicydes realised that his letter and the ring were genuine, or his stay in this bare, dank room might turn out to be permanent.

His spirits were lifted a little while later by the arrival of a slave bearing a platter of bread, olives and wine. A surgeon was next to enter. He tutted with disapproval when Hanno told him how he’d received the wound to the back of his head, but pronounced after an examination that it was not serious. Three drops of poppy juice in Hanno’s wine would dull the pain but not make him drowsy, he said, unstoppering a tiny glass vial.

Some time passed — in the windowless cell, with just an oil lamp as light, Hanno had no idea how long — before the officer reappeared. He was smiling. ‘I’m to convey you to the generals,’ he said. ‘Are you rested? Is your head any better?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. They read my letter?’

‘Yes. They want to meet you at once. I must apologise again for your treatment and this period of … detention. Twice, assassins have made attempts on Hippocrates’ and Epicydes’ lives.’

‘I understand.’ It made sense, thought Hanno, even if Thick Eyebrows was an imbecile. He smoothed down his chiton and smiled. ‘I’m ready.’

The officer half bowed. ‘If you could follow me, then.’

A pair of soldiers fell in behind them as they exited the cell. Hanno’s sword and dagger had not been returned to him either. The brothers’ trust only went so far.

The four walked down a long corridor lined with flagstones. The whimpering sounds from behind some of the doors on each side made Hanno’s skin crawl. He remembered Victumulae, and he reached in reflex under the cloth, to his scar.

Emerging into daylight, Hanno squinted. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that they were in a large courtyard, which was bordered by stables, barracks and workshops. Soldiers were everywhere, talking, cleaning gear, being chivvied by their officers. The cells were in a building that had been erected as part of the defensive wall, and the great limestone blocks he’d seen on his approach were just as impressive from the inside.

‘We’re in the east of the city. This is part of the garrison’s quarters,’ explained the officer. ‘Hippocrates and Epicydes live close by. It’ll be quickest to go there via the ramparts. No one will see you this way, and you’ll appreciate the view.’

Hanno’s interest grew as they climbed a stone staircase that ran up the side of the cell block to the top of the defences. A sentry guarding the last step saluted as the officer reached him. Nothing could have prepared Hanno for the magnificence of the sight that greeted him. A little gasp escaped his lips, and the officer chuckled. ‘Most react in the same manner.’

‘It reminds me of Carthage,’ said Hanno, feeling a little homesick. They were facing eastward, and the mid-afternoon sunlight had turned the sea into a blinding white mirror. That didn’t stop him from making out the shapes of dozens of ships in the anchorages far below, and the finger of land that edged out to meet a little fortified island. ‘That must be Ortygia.’

‘You’re well informed. It’s named after a quail, because of its shape. Here we overlook part of Achradina. The harbour that lies on this side of Ortygia is the small one. On the other side, out of sight, lies the great. It’s far more protected from the weather, and can hold hundreds of ships.’ He beckoned.

‘There must be a Roman blockade, surely?’ As he walked, Hanno scanned the sea, but the intensity of the reflection from its surface meant that he couldn’t see a thing.

‘Oh yes, they’re out there somewhere. Ten, twenty, sometimes more triremes. They never go away, but there aren’t enough of them to seal off the city completely, thank the gods. Your people have been very generous to us. They have sent regular convoys bearing supplies.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Hanno wondered about taking passage on a Carthaginian vessel, back to his home. Fleeting bitterness took him. There would be no family, and few friends of his there. His mother was dead, and most of his childhood companions would be in one or other of Carthage’s armies.

Reaching a broader section of wall, his attention was drawn to a twin-armed catapult positioned a few steps to the rear of the walkway. It wasn’t manned, but neat piles of large stones lay all around, and its mechanisms looked well oiled. The catapult was ready for use, that was plain. Another stood thirty paces on, and then a third and a fourth. More were visible beyond. He whistled. ‘How many of these are there?’

The officer looked pleased. ‘I’m not sure exactly. Hundreds, at the very least. They line the walls for their entire length, and that’s more than two hundred stadia. These are only the small ones. The larger ones have to be set at ground level. You’ll see one in a moment. If it hadn’t been for Archimedes, we wouldn’t have half the number that we do. He spent his time nagging Hiero about building more of them. I think Hiero had some built just to shut him up, but we’ll be damn glad of them soon.’

‘The Romans are coming?’

A short laugh. ‘Oh yes. Every so often, deserters make their way here. The word has it that it won’t be long before Marcellus moves his legions. It was inevitable, but at least the waiting will be over. We’ll be ready. These walls won’t fall in a decade of siege.’

‘The defences are truly impressive,’ agreed Hanno, thinking with pride of his own city, and its fortifications, which were even greater. It would never see a besieging army, though, as this one would. Hippocrates and Epicydes would hold Syracuse, and he’d play his part in helping to accomplish that. Armies would arrive from Carthage, and the tide of war on Sicily would flow in their favour.

A short distance further along the rampart, they were halted by a group of soldiers. These individuals were a different stamp to the guards such as Thick Eyebrows. Their equipment and weapons shone in the sunlight, and they carried themselves in the manner of men who knew their business. The lead one, a man of Hanno’s age, wore an old-fashioned pilos helmet topped with a fantastic five-spined crest. He saluted as he blocked the officer’s path and said politely, ‘Password, sir.’

‘Herakles.’

Pilos-wearer stood aside with a nod. ‘You and your guest may continue, sir, but your men stay here.’ His comrades parted in the middle, allowing Hanno and the officer to pass between them. More security, thought Hanno. The problems he’d had made more sense now, if even ordinary soldiers were not to be trusted.

Just beyond the sentry point, the walkway broadened out into a great square; it was the roof of a massive dwelling, even a palace. The whole surface had been decorated with swirling patterns of black and white mosaic tiles. Huge clay pots containing vines, lemon and fig trees had been arranged around the sides. Timbers had been set into the floor, their purpose to support a lattice framework that held some of the vines. The ingenious technique had created plenty of shady spots, and mimicked the appearance of a garden. There was even a fountain, the centrepiece of which was Poseidon astride a great dolphin. How the water reached this height, Hanno had no idea.

The officer saw his surprised look. ‘More of Archimedes’ work. A wheel with leather buckets set over a well carries the water aloft.’

‘He must be a man of great talent.’

‘You haven’t seen the half of it.’

A number of figures could be seen near the fountain. Two were reclining on couches. As they drew closer, Hanno saw that two of the party were manacled, and on their knees. Soldiers with drawn swords stood behind them. He could hear questions being asked. When one of the prisoners didn’t answer quickly enough, one of the soldiers kicked him in the back. He fell forward on to his face, moaning, and didn’t try to get up. A question was hurled at his companion, who flinched.

‘Our Carthaginian!’ called one of the men on the couches. ‘Bring him here, Kleitos.’

The officer ushered Hanno in front of him and together, they approached.

Hanno realised that the reclining men were Hippocrates and Epicydes. The brothers were as Hanno remembered seeing them at the time of Cannae, although he could not recall who was who. One had a beard, while the other did not, but that was the only discernible difference between them. Both had tousled black hair, and slender, almost feminine features. They were each clad in a richly embroidered himation, a mark of their status, and calf-high boots that reminded Hanno of those worn by Hannibal.

Ten paces from the couches, Kleitos touched him in the back. Hanno took the prompt and stopped. He bowed. ‘Greetings, O rulers of Syracuse.’

‘Rulers?’ said the bearded one with a chuckle. ‘We’re merely two of the generals who form the ruling council.’

Hanno glanced at Kleitos, but his face was a mask. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Hippocrates is jesting with you,’ said the clean-shaven man with a laugh. ‘It’s true that the other generals are our equals, but they tend to defer to our judgement.’ The emphasis on the word ‘defer’ was light, but the unpleasant gleam in his brother’s eyes suggested that the relationship wasn’t altogether cordial.

Hanno wondered if any of the other leaders enjoyed the pleasures of this rooftop garden, but he kept that to himself. ‘I am honoured to meet you, Generals. My name is Hanno of Carthage. I come from Hannibal Barca, as you will have read in my letter.’

‘I have it here.’ Epicydes flicked a hand at the low table before him, where Hannibal’s ring lay upon the unrolled parchment. ‘You are most welcome to our city. My apologies for the manner in which you were treated on your arrival. The guards on the gates can be a little jumpy.’

And stupid, thought Hanno. ‘I understand, General. These things happen.’

‘You bring no soldiers with you?’ asked Hippocrates in a truculent tone.

‘Regretfully, General, no. For the moment, Hannibal needs every man he has. With every passing season, the Romans raise new legions.’

Hippocrates made a phhhh of contempt, but Epicydes smiled. ‘We have sufficient numbers to defend the city, and a little more. When the armies that Hannibal speaks of arrive from Carthage, we shall sweep Marcellus’ forces into the sea!’

‘May it turn red, as the waters did at Trasimene,’ added Hippocrates.

‘I look forward to that day,’ said Hanno. ‘I will do my utmost to help you both achieve that end.’

‘Were you there, at the lake?’ asked Hippocrates, his eyes eager.

‘I was, General.’ Hannibal had absolved him and the other phalanx commanders of blame after their units had been punched open, allowing thousands of legionaries to escape the carnage, but Hanno still felt a trace of guilt.

‘As were we. I don’t recall your face.’ This in a slightly accusatory tone.

‘I was present, nonetheless,’ said Hanno, his temper rising a little. Hippocrates seemed argumentative, and impossible to please.

‘No one can remember one face out of many thousands! His word is enough. Hannibal states that you’re an experienced infantry officer,’ said Epicydes, his eyes appraising.

‘That’s true, General. I fought at the Trebia, Trasimene and Cannae, and most of the battles in between and since.’

‘It’s a mark of Hannibal’s esteem that he picked you for this mission, and that he gave you this.’ Epicydes picked up the ring and admired it. ‘Here.’ He tossed it to Hanno, earning a scowl from Hippocrates.

‘I was going to keep that.’

‘It’s not yours to keep, brother,’ said Epicydes.

‘My thanks, General,’ said Hanno, clenching the ring in his fist, and hiding his growing dislike of Hippocrates. ‘How can I be of service?’

Epicydes regarded Hippocrates. ‘What think you, brother? Shall we give him the command of a unit of infantry?’

‘I suppose,’ replied Hippocrates with poor grace. ‘But what damn difference one officer is going to make, I don’t know.’ He got up and walked to stand over the prisoner who was lying on the floor. ‘What have you to say?’

The only answer he got was a whimper.

‘Ignore him,’ said Epicydes to Hanno, meaning Hippocrates. ‘You can take charge of some of our less experienced foot soldiers. They’ll benefit from the training you can provide. If you could help other officers to do the same, I’d be grateful. When the siege begins, I’ll give you a section of wall to defend.’

‘It would be an honour, General.’ Hanno warmed towards Epicydes, who was courteous at least. He was unsure what useful intelligence would come his way when fulfilling that role, but there was little he could say.

‘Your role will come into its own when the promised forces from Carthage arrive. We’ll need an officer who speaks both Greek and Carthaginian, won’t we, brother?’

That’s more promising, thought Hanno.

‘Yes, yes,’ answered Hippocrates, sounding uninterested. He kicked the prisoner. ‘If you won’t give me any information, you’re no damn use to me.’ He glanced at the soldiers who were guarding the captives. ‘Throw him over the edge.’

Epicydes made a vaguely apologetic gesture to Hanno as the sobbing man was hauled by his arms to the battlements and without hesitation, flung to his death. A despairing cry carried to the garden for perhaps two heartbeats after he disappeared, before abruptly stopping.

Gods, what a way to die, thought Hanno. Keeping his expression neutral, he asked, ‘What had he done?’

‘Ha! Not told me what I wanted to hear, that’s what,’ replied Hippocrates, looking irritated.

‘He was a suspected traitor,’ said Epicydes. ‘So is his companion.’

‘Suspected?’ The question had left Hanno’s lips before he could stop it.

‘Correct.’ Epicydes’ voice had lost its friendly edge. Meanwhile, Hippocrates had ordered the second prisoner taken to the spot where his comrade had gone over, and was making all kinds of threats.

‘The other one will be more likely to talk now, I’d wager.’ Hanno laughed, as if he’d enjoy watching.

‘No doubt,’ said Epicydes, his good humour returning. ‘Hippocrates can be very persuasive.’ A moment later, the screams began, proving his point, but Epicydes made no acknowledgement of them. ‘Kleitos will find you rooms, weapons and equipment. We will meet again soon.’

Hanno knew when he had been dismissed. ‘Thank you, General. And my new unit?’

‘I’ll send a messenger with the details.’

Hanno bowed and muttered more platitudes. As he walked away with Kleitos, he couldn’t help but glance at Hippocrates. He wished he hadn’t. The prisoner had just had his ear sliced off. Hippocrates examined it for a moment before tossing that over the edge and remarking that if the man didn’t want to follow it, he’d better start talking.

Hannibal had been right, Hanno decided. Hippocrates was dangerous. For all of his friendliness, so too was Epicydes. He had been sent to live in a nest of vipers.

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