Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

Chapter II: Quintus

Near Capua, Campania

Quintus woke soon after dawn, when the first rays of sunlight crept through the window. Never one to linger in bed, the sixteen-year-old threw off his blanket. Wearing only a licium, or linen undergarment, he padded to the small shrine in the far corner of his room. Excitement coursed through him. Today he would lead a bear hunt for the first time. It was not long until his birthday, and Fabricius, his father, wanted him to mark his transition to manhood in fitting fashion. ‘Assuming the toga is all well and good,’ he’d said the night before, ‘but you have Oscan blood in your veins too. What better way to prove one’s courage than by killing the biggest predator in Italy?’

Quintus knelt before the altar. Closing his eyes, he sent up his usual prayers requesting that he and his family remain healthy and prosperous. Then he added several more. That he would be able to find a bear’s trail, and not lose it. That his courage would not fail him when it came to confronting the beast. That his spear thrust would be swift and true.

‘Don’t worry, brother,’ came a voice from behind him. ‘Today will go well.’

Surprised, Quintus turned to regard his sister, who was peering around the half-open door. Aurelia was almost three years younger than he, and loved her sleep. ‘You’re up early,’ he said with an indulgent smile.

She yawned, running a hand through her dense black hair, a longer version of his own. Sharing straight noses, slightly pointed chins and grey eyes, they were clearly siblings. ‘I couldn’t sleep, thinking about your hunt.’

‘Are you worried for me?’ he teased, glad to be distracted from his own concerns.

Aurelia came a little further into the room. ‘Of course not. Well, a little. I’ve prayed to Diana, though. She will guide you,’ she declared solemnly.

‘I know,’ Quintus replied, expressing a confidence that he did not entirely feel. Bowing to the figures on the altar, he rose. Ducking his head into the bronze ewer that stood by the bed, he rubbed the water from his face and shoulders with a piece of linen. ‘I’ll tell you all about it this evening.’ He shrugged on a short-sleeved tunic, and then sat to lace up his sandals.

She frowned. ‘I want to see it for myself.’

‘Women don’t go hunting.’

‘It’s so unfair,’ she protested.

‘Many things are unfair,’ Quintus answered. ‘You have to accept that.’

‘But you taught me how to use a sling.’

‘Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea,’ Quintus muttered. Much to his surprise, Aurelia had proved to be a deadly shot, which had naturally re-doubled her desire to partake of forbidden activities. ‘We’ve managed to keep our secrets safe so far, but imagine Mother’s reaction if she found out.’

‘You’re on the brink of womanhood,’ said Aurelia, mimicking Atia, their mother. ‘Such behaviour does not befit a young lady. It must come to an immediate end.’

‘Precisely,’ Quintus replied, ignoring her scowl. ‘Never mind what she’d say if she knew you were riding a horse.’ He didn’t want to lose his favourite companion, but this matter was beyond his control. ‘That’s how life is for women.’

‘Cooking. Weaving. Taking care of the garden. Supervising the slaves. It’s so boring,’ Aurelia retorted hotly. ‘Not like hunting or learning to use a sword.’

‘It’s not as if you’re strong enough to wield something like a spear anyway.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Aurelia rolled up one sleeve of her nightdress and flexed her biceps. She smiled at his surprise. ‘I’ve been lifting stones like you do.’

‘Eh?’ Quintus’ jaw dropped further. Keen to get as fit as possible, he’d been doing extra training in the woods above the villa. He’d clearly failed to conceal his tracks. ‘You’ve been spying on me? And copying me?’

She grinned with delight. ‘Of course. Once my lessons and duties are over, it’s easy enough to slip away without being noticed.’

Quintus shook his head. ‘Determined, aren’t you?’ Persuading her to give it all up would be harder than he had thought. He was glad that the duty wouldn’t fall to him. Guiltily, Quintus remembered hearing his parents talking about how it would soon be time to find her a husband. He knew how Aurelia would take that announcement. Badly.

‘I know that it can’t go on for ever,’ she declared gloomily. ‘They’ll be looking to marry me off shortly, no doubt.’

Quintus hid his shock. Even if Aurelia hadn’t heard that particular conversation, it wasn’t surprising that she was aware of what would happen. Maybe he could help, then, rather than pretending it would never come to pass? ‘There’s a lot to be said for arranged marriages,’ he ventured. It was true. Most nobles arranged unions for their children that were mutually beneficial to both parties. It was how the country ran. ‘They can be very happy.’

Aurelia gave him a scornful look. ‘Do you expect me to believe that? Anyway, our parents married for love. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Their situation was unusual. It’s not likely to happen to you,’ he countered. ‘Besides, Father would keep your interests at heart, not just those of the family.’

‘Will I be happy, though?’

‘With the help of the gods, yes. Which is more than might happen to me,’ he added, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I could end up with an old hag who makes my life a misery!’ Quintus was glad, though, to be male. No doubt he would eventually wed, but there would be no unseemly rush to marry him off. Meanwhile, his adolescent libido was being satisfied by Elira, a striking slave girl from Illyricum. She was part of the household, and slept on the floor of the atrium, which facilitated sneaking her into his room at night. Quintus had been bedding her for two months, ever since he’d realised that her sultry looks were being directed at him. As far as he was aware, no one else had any idea of their relationship.

Finally, she smiled. ‘You’re far too handsome for that to happen.’

He laughed off her compliment. ‘Time for breakfast,’ he announced, continuing to move away from the awkward subject of marriage.

To his relief, Aurelia nodded. ‘You’ll need a decent meal to give you energy for the hunt.’

A knot of tension formed in Quintus’ belly, and what appetite he’d had vanished. He would have to eat something, though, even if it was only for appearance’s sake.

Leaving Aurelia chatting to Julius, the avuncular slave who ran the kitchen, Quintus sloped out of the door. He had barely eaten, and he hoped that Aurelia hadn’t noticed. A few steps into the peristyle, or courtyard, he met Elira. She was carrying a basket of vegetables and herbs from the villa’s garden. As usual, she gave him a look full of desire. It was wasted on Quintus this morning. He gave her a reflex smile and brushed past.

‘Quintus!’

He jumped. The voice was one of the most recognisable on the estate. Atia, his mother. Quintus could see no one, which meant that she was probably in the atrium, the family’s primary living space. He hurried past the pattering fountain in the centre of the colonnaded courtyard, and into the cool of the tablinum, the reception room that led to the atrium, and thence the hallway.

‘She’s a good-looking girl.’

Quintus spun to find his mother standing in the shadows by the doors, a good vantage point to look into the peristyle. ‘W-what?’ he stammered.

‘Nothing wrong with bedding a slave, of course,’ she said, approaching. As always, Quintus was struck by her immense poise and beauty. Oscan nobility through and through, Atia was short and slim and took great care with her appearance. A dusting of ochre reddened her high cheekbones. Her eyebrows and the rims of her eyelids had been finely marked out with ash. A dark red stola, or long tunic, belted at the waist, was complemented by a cream shawl. Her long raven-black hair was pinned back by ivory pins, and topped by a diadem. ‘But don’t make it so frequent. It gives them ideas above their station.’

Quintus’ face coloured. He’d never discussed sex with his mother, let alone had his activities commented upon. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that it was she who had brought it up, though, rather than his father. Fabricius was a soldier, but as he often liked to say, his wife had only been prevented from being one by virtue of her sex. Much of the time, Atia was sterner than he was. ‘How did you know?’

Her grey eyes fixed him to the spot. ‘I’ve heard you at night. One would have to be deaf not to.’

‘Oh,’ Quintus whispered. He didn’t know where to look. Mortified, he studied the richly patterned mosaic beneath his feet, wishing it would open up and swallow him. He’d thought they’d been so discreet.

‘Get over it. You’re not the first noble’s son to plough the furrow with a pretty slave girl.’

‘No, Mother.’

She waved her hands dismissively. ‘Your father did the same when he was younger. Everyone does.’

Quintus was stunned by his mother’s sudden openness. It must be part of becoming a man, he thought. ‘I see.’

‘You should be safe enough with Elira. She is clean,’ Atia announced briskly. ‘But choose new bed companions carefully. When visiting a brothel, make it an expensive one. It’s very easy to pick up disease.’

Quintus’ mouth opened and closed. He didn’t ask how his mother knew that Elira was clean. As Atia’s ornatrix, the Illyrian had to help dress her each morning. No doubt she’d been grilled as soon as Atia had become aware of her involvement with him. ‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Ready for the hunt?’

He twisted beneath her penetrating scrutiny, wondering if she could see his fear. ‘I think so.’

To his relief, his mother made no comment. ‘Have you prayed to the gods?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Let us do it again.’

They made their way into the atrium, which was lit by a rectangular hole in the ceiling. A downward-sloping roof allowed rainwater to fall into the centre of the room, where it landed in a specially built pool. The walls were painted in rich colours, depicting rows of columns that led on to other, imaginary chambers. The effect made the space seem even bigger. This was the central living area of the large villa, and off it were their bedrooms, Fabricius’ office, and a quartet of storerooms. A shrine was situated in one of the corners nearest to the garden.

There a small stone altar was decorated with statues of Jupiter, Mars, or Mamers as the Oscans called him, and Diana. Guttering flames issued from the flat, circular oil lamps sitting before each. Effigies of the family’s ancestors hung on the wall above. Most were Fabricius’ ancestors: Romans, the warlike people who had conquered Campania just over a century before, but, in a real testament to his father’s respect for his wife, some were Atia’s forebears: Oscan nobility who had lived in the area for many generations. Naturally, Quintus was fiercely proud of both heritages.

They knelt side by side in the dim light, each making their silent requests of the deities.

Quintus repeated the prayers he’d made in his room. They eased his fear somewhat, but could not dispel it. By the time he had finished, his embarrassment about Elira had subsided. He was still discomfited, however, to find his mother’s eyes upon him as he rose.

‘Your ancestors will be watching over you,’ she murmured. ‘To help with the hunt. To guide your spear. Do not forget that.’

She had seen his fear. Ashamed, Quintus nodded jerkily.

‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you.’ Fabricius came into the room from the hall. Short and compact, his close-cut hair was more grey now than brown. Clean-shaven, he had a ruddier complexion than Quintus, but possessed the same straight nose and strong jawline. He was already wearing his hunting clothes — an old tunic, a belt with an ivory-handled dagger, and heavy-duty leather sandals. Even in civilian dress, he managed to look soldier-like. ‘Made your devotions?’

Quintus nodded.

‘We had best get ready.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Quintus glanced at his mother.

‘Go on,’ Atia urged. ‘I will see you later.’

Quintus took heart. She must think I’ll succeed, he thought.

‘It’s time to choose your spear.’ Fabricius led the way to one of the storerooms, where his weapons and armour were stored. Quintus had only entered the chamber a handful of times, but it was his favourite place in the house. A ripple of excitement flowed through him as his father produced a small key and slipped it into the padlock. It opened with a quiet click. Undoing the latch, Fabricius pulled wide the door, allowing the daylight in.

A dim twilight still dominated the little room, but Quintus’ eyes were immediately drawn to a wooden stand upon which was perched a distinctively shaped, broad-brimmed Boeotian helmet. What made it stand out was its flowing red horsehair crest. Now faded by time, its effect was dramatic nonetheless. Quintus grinned, remembering the day his father had left the door ajar, and he’d illicitly tried the helmet on, imagining himself as a grown man, a cavalryman in one of Rome’s legions. He longed for the day when he’d possess one himself.

A pair of simple bronze greaves made from the same material lay on the floor beneath the helmet. A round cavalry shield, made from ox-hide, was propped up nearby. Leaning against it was a long, bone-handled sword in a leather scabbard bound with bronze fastenings: a gladius hispaniensis. According to his father, the weapon had been adopted by Rome after they had encountered it in the hands of Iberian mercenaries fighting for Carthage. Although it was unusual still for a cavalryman to bear one, virtually every legionary was now armed with a similar sword. Possessing a straight, double-edged blade nearly as long as a man’s arm, the gladius was lethal in the right hands.

Quintus watched in awe as Fabricius traced his fingers affectionately over the helmet, and touched the hilt of the sword. This evidence of his father’s former life fascinated him; he also yearned to learn the same martial skills. While Quintus was proficient at hunting, he had undergone little in the way of weapons training. Romans received this when they joined the army, and that couldn’t happen until he was seventeen. His lessons, which included military history and tactics, and hunting boar, would have to do. For now.

Finally, Fabricius moved to a weapons rack. ‘Take your pick.’

Quintus admired the various types of javelin and hoplite thrusting spears before him, but his needs that day were quite specific. Bringing down a charging bear was very different to taking on an enemy soldier. He needed far more stopping power. Instinctively, his fingers closed on the broad ash shaft of a spear that he had used before. It had a large, double-edged, leaf-shaped blade attached to the rest of the weapon by a long hollow shank. A thick iron spike projected from each side of the base of this. They were designed to prevent the quarry from reaching the person holding the spear. Him, in other words. ‘This one,’ he said, trying to keep his mind clear of such thoughts.

‘A wise choice,’ his father said, sounding relieved. He clapped Quintus on the shoulder. ‘What next?’

He was being given complete control of the hunt, Quintus realised with a thrill. The days and weeks he’d spent learning to track over the previous two years were over. He thought for a moment. ‘Six dogs should be enough. A slave to control each pair. Agesandros can come too: he’s a good hunter, and he can keep an eye on the slaves.’

‘Anything else?’

Quintus laughed. ‘Some food and water would be a good idea, I suppose.’

‘Very good,’ agreed his father. ‘I’ll go to the kitchen and organise those supplies. Why don’t you select the slaves and dogs you want?’

Still astonished by their role reversal, Quintus headed outside. For the first time he felt the full weight of responsibility on his shoulders. It was critical that he make the correct decisions. Bear hunting was extremely dangerous, and men’s lives would depend on him.

Not long after, the little party set off. In the lead was Quintus, with his father walking alongside. Both were unencumbered except for their spears and a water bag each. Next came Agesandros, a Sicilian Greek who had belonged to Fabricius for many years. Trusted by his master, he also carried a hunting spear. A pack hung from his back, containing bread, cheese, onions and a hunk of dried meat.

Through sheer hard work, Agesandros had worked his way up to become the vilicus, the most important slave on the farm. He had not been born into captivity, though. Like many of his people, Agesandros had fought alongside the Romans in the war against Carthage. Captured after a skirmish, he had been sold into slavery by the Carthaginians. It was ironic, thought Hanno, that the Sicilian had become the slave of a Roman. Yet Fabricius and Agesandros got on well. In fact, the overseer had a good relationship with the entire family. His genial manner and willingness to answer questions meant that he had been a favourite with Quintus and Aurelia since they were tiny children. Although he was now aged forty or more, the bandy-legged vilicus was in excellent physical shape, and ruled over the slaves with an iron grip.

Last came three sturdy Gauls, chosen by Quintus because of their affinity with the hunting dogs. One in particular, a squat, tattooed man with a broken nose, spent all his free time with the pack, teaching them new commands. Like the other slaves, the trio had been toiling in the fields under Agesandros’ supervision that morning. It was sowing time, when they had to work from dawn till dusk under the hot sun. The diversion of a bear hunt was therefore most welcome, and they chatted animatedly to each other in their own tongue as they walked. In front of each man ran a pair of large brindle dogs, straining at the leather leashes tied around their throats. With broad heads and heavily muscled bodies, they were the opposite of Fabricius’ smaller dogs, which had tufted ears and feathered flanks. The former were scent hounds, while the latter relied on sight.

The sun beat down from a cloudless sky as they left behind the fields of wheat that surrounded the villa. The sundial in the courtyard had told Quintus it was only just gone hora secunda. The characteristic whirring sound of cicadas was starting up, but the heat haze that hung in the air daily had not yet formed. He led the way along a narrow track that twisted and wound through the olive trees dotting the slopes above the farm.

Having traversed an area of cleared earth, they entered the mixed beech and oak woods that covered most of the surrounding countryside. Although the hills were much lower than the Apennines, which ran down Italy’s spine, they were home to an occasional bear. It was unlikely that he would find traces this near the farm, however. Solitary by nature, the large creatures avoided humans if at all possible. Quintus scanned the ground anyway, but seeing nothing, he picked up speed.

Like every other large town, Capua held its own ludi, or games, affording Quintus the opportunity to see a bear fight once before. It had not been a pretty sight. Terrified by the alien environment and baying crowds, the beast had had little chance against two trained hunters armed with spears. He had vivid memories, though, of the tremendous power in its strong jaws and slashing claws. Facing a bear in its own territory, alone, would be an entirely different prospect to the one-sided spectacle he’d witnessed in Capua. Quintus’ stomach clenched into a knot, but his pace did not slacken. Fabricius, like all Roman fathers, held the power of life and death over his son, and he had chosen the task. Quintus could not let down his mother either. It was his duty to succeed. By sunset, I’ll be a man, he thought proudly. Quintus couldn’t help imagining, however, that he might end his days bleeding to death on the forest floor.

They climbed steadily, leaving the deciduous woods behind. Now they were surrounded by pines, junipers and cypress trees. The air grew cooler and Quintus began to worry. He’d seen piles of dung, and treetrunks with distinctive claw marks scratched into the bark, in this area before. Today, he saw nothing that wasn’t weeks, even months, old. He kept going, praying to Diana, the goddess of the hunt, for a sign, but his request was in vain. Not a single bird called; no deer broke from cover. Finally, not knowing what else to do, he stopped, forcing everyone else to do the same. Acutely aware of his father at his back, Agesandros staring, and the Gauls giving each other knowing looks, Quintus racked his brains. He knew this ground like the back of his hand. Where was the best place to find a bear on such a warm day?

Quintus glanced at his father, who simply stared back at him. He would get no help.

Attempting to conceal his laughter, one of the Gauls coughed loudly. Quintus flushed with anger, but Fabricius did nothing. Nor did Agesandros. He looked at his father again, but Fabricius’ gaze was set. He would get no sympathy, and the Gaul no reprimand. Today of all days he had to earn the vilicus’ and the slaves’ respect. Again Quintus pondered. At last an idea popped into his mind.

‘Blackberries,’ he blurted. ‘They love blackberries.’ Higher up, in the clearings on the south-facing slopes, were sprawling bramble bushes, which fruited far earlier than those growing on slopes with a different orientation. Bears spent much of their life in search of food. It was as good a place to look as any.

Right on cue, the staccato sound of a woodpecker broke the silence. A moment later, the noise was repeated from a different location. His pulse racing, Quintus searched the trees, finally seeing not one, but two black woodpeckers. The elusive birds were sacred to Mars, the warrior god. Good omens. Turning on his heel, Quintus headed in an entirely different direction.

His smiling father was close behind, followed by Agesandros and the Gauls.

None was laughing now.

Not long after, Quintus’ prayers were answered in royal style. He’d checked several glades, with no luck. Finally, though, in the shade of a tall pine tree, he found a lump of fresh dung. Its shape, size and distinctive scent was unmistakable, and Quintus could have cheered at the sight. He stuck a finger into the dark brown mass. The centre had not grown completely cold, which meant that a bear had passed by in the recent past. There were also plenty of brambles nearby. Jerking his head at the tattooed man, Quintus pointed at the ground. The Gaul trotted up, and his two dogs instantly converged on the pile of evidence. Both began whining frantically, alternately sniffing the dung and the air. Quintus’ pulse quickened, and the Gaul gave him an enquiring look.

‘Let them loose,’ ordered Quintus. He glanced at the other slaves. ‘Those too.’

Aurelia’s foul mood crept up on her after Quintus and their father had left. The reason for her ill humour was simple. While her brother went hunting for a bear, she had to help her mother, who was supervising the slaves in the garden outside the villa. This was one of the busiest times of the year, when the plants were shooting up out of the ground. Lovage sat alongside mustard greens, coriander, sorrel, rue and parsley. The vegetables were even more numerous, and provided the family with food for most of the year. There were cucumbers, leeks, cabbages, root vegetables, as well as fennel and brassicas. Onions, a staple of any good recipe, were grown in huge numbers. Garlic, favoured for both its strong flavour and its medicinal properties, was also heavily cultivated.

Aurelia knew that she was being childish. A few weeks earlier, she had enjoyed setting the lines where the herbs and vegetables would grow, showing the slaves where to dig the holes and ensuring that they watered each with just the right amount of water. As usual, she had reserved the job of dropping the tiny seeds into place for herself. It was something she’d done since she was little. Today, with the plants growing well, the main tasks consisted of watering them and pulling any weeds that had sprouted up nearby. Aurelia couldn’t have cared less. As far as she was concerned, the whole garden could fall into rack and ruin. She stood sulkily off to one side, watching her mother direct operations. Even Elira, with whom she got on well, could not persuade her to join in.

Atia ignored her for a while, but eventually she had had enough. ‘Aurelia!’ she called. ‘Come over here.’

With dragging feet, she made her way to her mother’s side.

‘I thought you liked gardening,’ Atia said brightly.

‘I do,’ muttered Aurelia.

‘Why aren’t you helping?’

‘I don’t feel like it.’ She was acutely aware that every slave present was craning their neck to hear, and hated it.

Atia didn’t care who heard her. ‘Are you ill?’ she demanded.

‘No.’

‘What is it then?’

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Aurelia mumbled.

Atia’s eyebrows rose. ‘Really? Try me.’

‘It’s…’ Aurelia caught the nearest slave staring at her. Her furious glare succeeded in making him look away, but she got little satisfaction from this. Her mother was still waiting expectantly. ‘It’s Quintus,’ she admitted.

‘Have you had an argument?’

‘No.’ Aurelia shook her head. ‘Nothing like that.’

Tapping a foot, Atia waited for further clarification. A moment later, it was clear that it would not be forthcoming. Her nostrils flared. ‘Well?’

Aurelia could see that her mother’s patience would not last much longer. In that moment, however, she caught sight of a buzzard hanging overhead on the thermals. It was hunting. Like Quintus. Aurelia’s anger resurged and she forgot about their captive audience. ‘It’s not fair,’ she cried. ‘I’m stuck here, in the garden, while he gets to track down a bear.’

Atia did not look surprised. ‘I wondered if that was what this is about. So you would also hunt?’

Glowering, Aurelia nodded. ‘Like Diana, the huntress.’

Her mother frowned. ‘You’re not a goddess.’

‘I know, but…’ Aurelia half turned, so the slaves could not see the tears in her eyes.

Atia’s face softened. ‘Come now. You’re a young woman, or will be soon. A beautiful one too. Consequently, your path will be very different to that of your brother.’ She held up a finger to quell Aurelia’s protest. ‘That doesn’t mean your destiny is without value. Do you think I am worthless?’

Aurelia was aghast. ‘Of course not, Mother.’

Atia’s smile was broad, and reassuring. ‘Precisely. I may not fight or go to war, but my position is powerful nonetheless. Your father relies on me for a multitude of things — as your husband will one day. Maintaining the household is but one small part of it.’

‘But you and Father chose to marry each other,’ Aurelia protested. ‘For love!’

‘We were lucky in that respect,’ her mother acknowledged. ‘Yet we did so without the approval of either of our families. Because we refused to follow their wishes not to wed, they cut us off.’ Atia’s face grew sad. ‘It made life quite difficult for many years. I never saw my parents again, for example. They never met you or Quintus.’

Aurelia was flattered. She’d never heard any of this before. ‘Surely it was worth it?’ she pleaded.

There was a slow nod. ‘It may have been, but I would not want the same hard path for you.’

Aurelia bridled. ‘Better that, surely, than being married to some fat old man?’

‘That won’t happen to you. Your father and I are not monsters.’ Atia lowered her voice. ‘But realise this, young lady: we will arrange your betrothal to someone of our choice. Is that clear?’

Seeing the steel in her mother’s eyes, Aurelia gave in. ‘Yes.’

Atia sighed, glad that her misgivings had gone unnoticed. ‘We understand each other then.’ Seeing Aurelia’s apprehension, she paused. ‘Do not fear. You will have love in your marriage. It can develop over time. Ask Martialis, Father’s old friend. He and his wife were betrothed to each other by their families, and ended up devoted to one another.’ She held out her hand. ‘Now, it’s time to get stuck in. Life goes on regardless of how we feel, and our family relies on this garden.’

With a faint smile, Aurelia reached out to grasp her mother’s fingers. Maybe things weren’t as bad as she’d thought.

All the same, she couldn’t help glancing up at the buzzard, and thinking of Quintus.

Quintus had followed the pack for perhaps a quarter of an hour before there was any hint that the quarry had been found. Then a loud yelping bark rang out from the trees ahead. It quickly died away to a shrill, repetitive whine. With a racing heart, Quintus came to a halt. The dogs’ role was merely to bring the bear to bay, but there was always one more eager than its fellows. Its fate was unfortunate, but unavoidable. What mattered was that the bear had been found. In confirmation, a renewed succession of growls was met by a deep, threatening rumble.

The terrifying sound made a hot tide of acid surge up Quintus’ throat. Another piercing yelp told him that a second dog had been hurt, or killed. Ashamed of his fear, Quintus willed away his nausea. This was no time for holding back. The dogs were doing their job, and he must do his. Muttering more prayers to Diana, he pounded towards the din.

As he burst into a large clearing, Quintus frowned in recognition. He had often picked berries here with Aurelia. A sprawl of thorny brambles, taller than a man, ran across the floor of the glade, which was bathed in dappled sunlight. A stream pattered down the slope towards the valley below. Fallen boughs lay here and there amidst a profusion of wildflowers, but what drew Quintus’ eyes was the struggle going on in the shadow cast by a nearby lofty cypress. Four dogs had a bear cornered against the tree’s trunk. Growling with fury, the creature made frequent lunges at its tormentors, but the hounds dodged warily to and fro, just beyond reach. Each time the bear moved away from the tree, the dogs ran in to bite at its haunches or back legs. It was a stalemate — if the bear left the tree’s protection, the dogs swarmed in from all sides, but if the beast remained where it was, they could not overcome it.

Two motionless shapes lay outside the semicircle, the casualties Quintus had heard. A cursory glance told him that one dog might survive. It was bleeding badly from deep claw wounds on its ribcage, but he could see no other injuries. The second, on the other hand, would definitely not make it. Shallow movements of its chest told him it still lived, but half its face had been torn off, and shiny, jagged ends of freshly broken bone protruded from a terrible injury to its left foreleg, the result of a bite from the bear’s powerful jaws.

Quintus approached with care. Rushing in would carry a real risk of being knocked over, and the Gauls would soon be here. Once they called off the hounds, his task would begin in earnest. He studied the bear, eager for any clue that might help him kill it. Preoccupied with the snapping dogs, it paid him little notice. Its sheer size meant that it had to be a male. The creature’s dense fur was yellowish-brown, and it had a typical large, rounded head and small ears. Massive shoulders and a squat body at least three times bigger than his own reinforced Quintus’ awareness of just how dangerous his prey was. He could feel his pulse hammering in the hollow at the base of his throat, its speed reminding him that he was not in total control. Calm down, he thought. Breathe deeply. Concentrate.

‘Thinking of the berries was a good idea,’ said Fabricius from behind him. ‘You’ve found a big bear too. A worthy foe.’

Startled, Quintus turned his head. The others had arrived. All eyes were on him. ‘Yes,’ he replied, hoping that the growling and snarling a dozen steps away would hide the fear in his voice.

Fabricius moved closer. ‘Are you ready?’

Quintus quailed mentally. His father had seen his anxiety, and was prepared to step in. A fleeting look at Agesandros and the slaves was enough to see that they also understood the question’s double meaning. A trace of disappointment flashed across the Sicilian’s visage, and the Gauls slyly eyed each other. Damn them all, Quintus thought, his guts churning. Have they never been scared? ‘Of course,’ he replied loudly.

Fabricius gave him a measured stare. ‘Very well,’ he said, coming to a halt.

Quintus wasn’t sure that his worried father would obey. There was more at stake than his life now, though. Killing the bear would prove nothing if the Sicilian and the slaves thought he was a coward, who relied on Fabricius for back-up. ‘Do not interfere,’ he shouted. ‘This is my fight. I must do this on my own, whatever the outcome.’ He glanced at his father, who did not immediately respond.

‘Swear it!’

‘I swear,’ Fabricius said reluctantly, stepping back.

Quintus was satisfied to see the first signs of respect return to the others’ faces.

A dog howled as the bear caught it with a sweeping arm. It was thrown through the air by the powerful blow, landing with an ominous thud by Quintus’ feet. He squared his shoulders and prepared himself. Three hounds weren’t enough to contain the quarry. If he didn’t act at once, it had a chance of escaping. ‘Call them back,’ he shouted.

With shrill whistles, the Gauls obeyed. When the enraged dogs did not comply, the tattooed man ran in. Ignoring the bear, and using a leash as a whip, he beat them backwards, out of the way. His actions worked for two of the hounds, but the largest, its lips and teeth reddened with the bear’s blood, did not want to withdraw. Cursing, the Gaul half turned, trying to kick it out of the way. He missed, and it darted past him, intent on rejoining the fray.

Aghast, Quintus watched as the dog jumped, sinking its teeth into the side of the bear’s face. Rearing up in pain, the bear lifted it right into the air. At once this allowed it to use its front legs, raking the dog’s body repeatedly with its claws. Far from releasing its grip, the hound clamped its jaws tighter than ever. It had been bred to endure pain, to hold on no matter what. Quintus had heard of such dogs having to be knocked unconscious before their mouths could be prised open. Yet this stubborn courage would not be enough: it needed help from its companions, which were now restrained. Or from him. The Gaul was in the way, though, screaming his anger and distress. He swung the useless leash across the bear’s head, once, twice, three times. It harmed the beast not at all, but would hopefully distract it from killing his favourite dog. That was the theory, anyway.

The Gaul’s plan failed. With the skin and hair on both sides of the hound’s abdomen ripped away, the bear eviscerated it with several powerful rakes of its claws. Slippery loops of pink bowel tumbled out into the air, only to be sheared off like so many fat sausages. Sensing the dog’s grip on its face weaken, the bear redoubled its efforts. Quintus felt his gorge rise as purple lumps of liver tissue cascaded to the ground. Finally a claw connected with a major blood vessel, tearing it asunder. Gouts of dark red blood sprayed from the ruin of the dog’s belly, and its jaws loosened.

A moment later, it dropped lifelessly away from the bear.

‘Get back!’ Quintus screamed, but the Gaul ignored him.

Instead, the wild-eyed slave launched another attack. The loss of his canine friend had driven him into battle rage, which Quintus had often heard of, but never seen. The Romans and Gauls were enemies of old and had fought numerous times. More than a hundred and seventy years before, Rome itself had been sacked by the fierce tribesmen. Just six years previously, more than seventy thousand of them had invaded northern Italy again. They had been defeated, but stories still abounded of berserker warriors who, fighting naked, threw themselves at oncoming legionaries with complete disregard for their own safety.

This man was no such enemy, however. He might be a slave, but his life was still worth saving. Quintus jumped forward, shoving his spear at the bear. To his horror, the animal moved at the last moment, and his blade ran deep into its side rather than its chest, as he had intended. His blow was not mortal, nor was it enough to stop the beast reaching up to seize the Gaul by the neck. A short choking cry left the man’s lips, and the bear shook him as a dog would a rat.

Not knowing what else to do, Quintus thrust his spear even deeper. The only reaction was an annoyed growl. In his haste, he’d stabbed into the creature’s abdomen. It was potentially a mortal wound, but not one that would stop it quickly. Satisfied that the Gaul was dead, the bear flung him to one side. Naturally, its gaze next fell upon Quintus, who panicked. Although his spear was buried in its flesh, the creature’s deep-set eyes showed no fear, just a searing anger. Bears normally avoided conflict with humans, but when aroused they became extremely aggressive. This individual was irate. It snapped at his spear shaft and splinters flew into the air.

There was nothing for it. Quintus took a deep breath and pulled his spear free. Roaring with pain, the bear revealed a genuinely fearsome set of teeth, the largest of which were as long as Quintus’ middle fingers. Its red, gaping mouth was big enough to fit his entire head inside, and was well capable of crushing his skull. Quintus wanted to move away, but his muscles were paralysed by terror.

The bear took a step towards him. Gripping his spear in both hands, Quintus aimed the point at its chest. Advance, he told himself. Go on the attack. Before he could move, the animal lunged at him. Catching the end of the spear, it swept the shaft to one side as though it were a twig. With nothing between them, they stared at each other for a breathless moment. In slow motion, Quintus saw its muscles tense in preparation to jump. He nearly lost control of his bladder. Hades was a whisker away, and he could do nothing about it.

For whatever reason, however, the bear did not leap at once, and Quintus was able to bring down his spear again.

His relief was momentary.

As Quintus moved to the attack, he slipped on a piece of intestine. Both of his feet went from under him, and he landed flat on his back. With a rush, all the air left his lungs, winding him. Quintus was vaguely aware of the butt of his spear catching in the dirt and wrenching itself free of his grasp. Frantically, he lifted his head. To his utter horror, he could see the bear not five paces away, just beyond his sandals. It roared again, and this time Quintus received the full force of its fetid breath. He blinked, knowing that death was at hand.

He had failed.